#i hope you are doing well and taking care too!!!

[navybrat817]

hi navy!!! I might be too late, but I was hoping to send in a request for ficlet Friday with Bucky Barnes and the prompt "shoulders hunched over a chopping board, carefully dissecting fruit to deliver it to you in a bowl" and maybe avenger!bucky x avenger!reader if possible??

Thank you so much!!! <333

Hi, nonnie! I hope you like where I took this.

Better Tomorrow

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Female Reader

Summary: You get a small injury on a mission and it's part of the job, but Bucky still hates it.

Word Count: Over 950

Warnings: Established relationship, small injury, touch of angst, comfort, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You were careful to keep your breathing even when you got up from the couch. If Bucky heard you hiss or groan in pain, he’d rush to your side and demand to know why you got up. He’d also put you right back where you were sitting and remind you not to move. It was sweet when you thought about it and you adored that he wanted to coddle you for a bit, but there was no need.

A bullet grazed your arm on a mission earlier, a superficial wound. It wasn’t the first time that a mission ended with an injury nor was it a big deal. Deep down you felt that it didn’t make a difference to Bucky how artificial the wound was because you still got hurt. For a second you thought he’d kill the man who shot you, but he held back. And by holding back that bad guy would be spending some time in the hospital before he went to jail.

Tiptoeing toward the kitchen in the hopes that your boyfriend’s heightened hearing wouldn’t detect you, you froze when you spotted him behind the island. His hair down, wearing a white tank top, his shoulders hunched over as he carefully cut up pieces of fruit. The sight put a smile on your face and made your heart turn over.

Bucky was an Avenger. Both of you were. But this? Seeing your man in a domestic environment? It reminded you just how human you both were, that you could be vulnerable beneath the strength.

“You’re not resting,” he said, his eyes flickering to yours. He either heard you or he was that attuned to you. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve been resting and I’m fine,” you smiled. He had already given you something for the pain, your favorite blanket and a book, and you could only sit for so long. “I wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to continue the task with a look of indifference, but you knew better. He looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and that wasn’t fair.

“You’re not, Bucky,” you gently spoke, taking a step forward.

“No, I’m not. Because you got hurt and I couldn’t stop it,” he confessed, letting out a breath and confirming what you thought. It was nothing more than a whisper, but it felt like he screamed it from the depths of his soul.

Your heart broke for him. He took the blame into himself when it wasn’t his fault, punished himself for crimes he didn’t commit. You wouldn’t let him do that tonight. Not when he was a hero and your loving partner.

“We’re Avengers, Bucky. We help people. We may get hurt along the way and it’s a risk we take, but it isn’t your fault if one of us does,” you told him, seeing a swirl of emotions in his blue eyes. “The guy who chose to shoot at me is the one to blame, not you.”

“So why do I feel so terrible?” he whispered.

“Because you love me and you don’t want me in pain. Maybe you even thought for a moment that you’d lose me,” you answered, your heart contracting when he flinched. You understood that fear all too well when it came to him. “But I’m here and I’m okay.”

Bucky set the knife down and flexed his fingers, his eyes shutting for only a moment before he rounded the island to get to you. You moved forward on instinct and met him halfway so he could pull you into his arms. You fisted a hand in his tank top and wanted to burrow your face in his broad chest, your heart beating faster as you breathed each other in. He was safe, and so were you.

“I can’t lose you, baby. I can’t,” he said, his voice tight, careful not to squeeze your arm when he tightened his hold. He would never ask you to stop being an Avenger since he was out there doing the same thing, but injuries reminded him of the tough parts about being a hero.

“You won’t,” you said. You were both strong, capable. If you left the world tomorrow, you’d still be with him because your heart was his. You wouldn’t lose him either.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, kissing your forehead, your eyelids, your nose, and finally your lips. It’s so soft yet so passionate that you couldn’t stop the tears from burning behind your eyelids.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back, blinking the mist away. “Now will you come and rest with me? Maybe I’ll let you feed me that bowl of fruit.”

“You’d let me do that?” he smiled a little.

“I would,” you smiled back, gasping when he lifted you off your feet and was once again careful not to do anything to your arm. “Show off,” you teased, hanging on with your good arm.

“Just a little,” he said. Picking you up was no sweat to a super soldier. “Thank you,” he added in a whisper. Taking care of you was going to comfort him as much as it comforted you.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whispered back.

You had a feeling that Bucky wouldn’t sleep well tonight. He’d be too busy watching over you and making sure you were okay. If he did sleep there was a chance he’d have nightmares over the gunshot or a past injury. But in the morning he’d feel better knowing that you were really home with him, that you were okay, and that he didn’t lose you.

And if he really wanted to coddle and dote on you a bit longer, you wouldn’t stop him.

Love and thanks for participating! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[mandalhoerian]

SYZYGY PART I: PERIASTRON / PERIHELION ❥ caleb x reader x xavier | 24K | AO3

SUMMARY:

The summer of your life had a name — Caleb. He was August itself, a world of honey-drenched, cloudless afternoons and laughter of gold-saturated old days echoing through the years, clear as sunlight on water. Gravity, pulling you two together. You orbiting around each other, closer, brighter, almost, almost. Until, just like the dandelion puff of childhood dreams or the sudden drop of a swing going too high — he was gone. Then came Xavier. The quiet glow of the moon, silver constellations scattered against the abyss, not demanding your orbit. He was light without heat, steady and luminous, guiding you through the night Caleb had left behind, illuminating all the spaces where once there had been warmth and wonder instead of emptiness. But what happens when the sun rises again to chase away the moon and stars that endured without it? Can the sky hold them both? Can you? Or must one always eclipse the other?

WARNINGS: pseudocest im embarrassed do NOT look at me, this features an underage caleb getting a hard-on because of an underage reader for the first time. it's not sexualized or detailed, and there is no scene of masturbation. i tried to handle it with care and describe it as vaguely as possible and work around it, grieving/mourning, blood and injury, angst, fluff, the everpresent bittersweet undertones, backshots from xavier at the end. this is (going to be) a threesome fic, not a love triangle in which you choose one, so, proceed with caution.

A/N: yeah, uh. remember this post? i'm writing it now. before i knew it though it grew so much, so i had to separate it into two parts. this one is what i call "parallel lines", in which xavier's presence is heavily present in your life with caleb before they meet through you, and vice versa. this concept is like the gift that keeps giving, and i hope you like it as well. what do you want to happen in the next chapter? please don't be shy to interact and tell me what you think, and help me out by reblogging for the second part to come out faster! thank you so much! <33

For as long as Caleb had known himself, he had been jovially tethered to you, less a brother and more an ever-present guardian, orbiting your life like some self-appointed fairy godmother who had found his life’s purpose in watching over you.

When school was in session, his days began before the sun even thought about rising — dragging himself out of bed at an ungodly hour to help Gran with breakfast, shaking off sleep with the clatter of dishes and the smell of butter hitting a hot pan. The kitchen was always dimly lit, humming with the quiet sounds of the world waking up. He'd scrub down counters while eggs sizzled, sweep the floors before the coffee had finished brewing, steal bites of toast in between flipping pancakes.

And then — your lunch. He always made it just how you liked. If you wanted peanut butter, he spread it thick. If you swore off carrots for the week, he swapped them out for something else, slipping in a treat when Gran wasn’t looking.

Breakfast was always a battlefield. You, groggy and barely functional, glaring at the sight of anything green on your plate, and him, sighing, coaxing, bribing, bending over backwards just to get you to take a single bite of something that wasn’t sugar-coated.

And then, of course, the walk to school.

You always complained, swearing you didn’t need him to take you, that you could find your way just fine. And yet, without fail, you were right there beside him every morning, rubbing sleep from your eyes, shuffling along in whatever oversized hoodie you’d thrown on that day, your shoelaces untied, the imprint of your pillow still faint against your cheek.

The moment you arrived at the school gates, the dynamic shifted. Caleb wasn’t just your gege anymore — he was Caleb Xia, the local celebrity.

Kids greeted him like he was some hometown hero, flocking together in the distance just to get a look at him, either scattering when he noticed them or waving at him if they were brave enough. Teachers nodded at him in approval, a dependable, responsible older brother. And you? You just rolled your eyes, huffing, tugging at his sleeve like you’re embarrassing me, can you leave already? as he lingered in conversation, half-smirking at your impatience.

The highlights of his school day weren’t the classes or the fleeting moments of downtime between them — it was lunch breaks spent calling you, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he unwrapped whatever quick meal he’d grabbed from the cafeteria. "Did you eat yet?" was always his first question, followed immediately by, "Did you like it?" as if your opinion on the food he packed for you was the most crucial piece of intel of his day. He could practically hear you rolling your eyes through the speaker, mumbling something through a mouthful of rice or bread. It didn’t matter — he just needed to hear it, to know.

After that, his mind switched gears. Physical training, drills fine-tuned for DAA hopefuls, routines meant to push his endurance to the next level. His uniform stuck to his back, sweat beading along his brow, but he relished the burn, the ache in his muscles a steady reminder of why he was doing this. When training ended, he sprawled out on the bleachers, water bottle pressed against his overheated neck, scrolling through footage of aerospace battleships on his phone. Each sleek design, each launch, every maneuver—it reminded him why he worked so hard. Why he wanted this so badly.

But none of that mattered when late afternoon rolled around.

His friends ribbed him for it, tossing casual jabs his way as they packed up their things. "Ditching us again for babysitting duty?" someone teased. Caleb only smiled from ear to ear and didn't pay any mind to it, pretending the subtle condescension thrown your way didn’t needle under his skin. They didn’t get it. They never did.

Because for him, the best part of the day wasn’t the grind, wasn’t the push toward his future. It was the moment the last bell rang at your school, and he was already there, stationed by the gate, feet bouncing slightly on the pavement, waiting to see you emerge from the crowd.

Nothing compared to that anticipation. The way his breath would hitch for half a second as he spotted you — bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder, uniform slightly wrinkled, the sleeves of your cardigan pushed up because you always ran too warm. The moment your eyes met his, and that immediate, effortless way you gravitated toward him, your first words never hi but something offbeat, something small and inconsequential.

Like it was a given. Like, of course, he’d be here. Of course, you’d find him first.

And as he fell into step beside you, listening to whatever was on your mind that day, the earlier teasing, the exhaustion, the ache of his training—all of it faded into something background, something irrelevant.

Some days, your hand in his felt wrong. Too loose, like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful, or too tight, like you were holding on for something unspoken. Those were the days when your usual chatter dwindled, when your feet dragged instead of skipping along the sidewalk, when your eyes darted past him instead of meeting his.

Caleb never asked outright — he knew just what to do, adjusting, seamlessly redirecting your path before you could even notice, with slight nudge at your shoulder, an easy pivot at the next turn, suddenly you weren’t heading straight home anymore.

The little grocery store on the corner, the one with the faded awning and the soft chime at the door, became your unspoken secret place. The scent of paper and ink mingled with something sweet the moment you stepped inside — an inviting warmth that settled between the shelves lined with pastel notebooks, glittering pens, and delicate origami sets among a handful of aisles, lined with neatly stacked boxes of biscuits, rows of colorful trinkets in plastic bins, glass jars of fruit jellies that caught the light just right.

But it wasn’t just the stationery that did it. It was the back garden, where clusters of hydrangeas bloomed in careful bursts of lavender and blue, their petals shifting with the breeze. It was the way the sun liquidized through the narrow windows, turning the space golden in the late afternoon, a place stitched into memory as a guarantee: no matter how heavy your day had been, you would leave here lighter.

It was the colorful bins of imported candies, the tiny glass jars of trinkets shaped like animals and tiny constellations, the slow rhythm of browsing through things neither of you needed but always wanted. And most of all, it was you, little by little, softening again, your fingers grazing the spines of journals, your lips quirking upward when he held up some ridiculous eraser shaped like a cat with sunglasses.

Someone else might’ve called it a routine. Caleb knew better.

It wasn’t a habit. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. It was instinct, written into his bones, an unshakable part of him. Taking care of you wasn’t something he did — it was something he was.

Caleb dropping to one knee, his uniform pants already scuffed and dirt-streaked from basketball practice, to wordlessly tie your undone shoelaces, his fingers moving with muscle memory before you could even notice they were loose. The sting of fresh scrapes and bruises on his skin ignored in favor of making sure you wouldn’t trip.

Caleb at the kitchen table, the sharp scent of freshly peeled apples mixing with the smell of open textbooks, carving them into little bunny shapes while you scrawled through your homework, utterly absorbed. You never asked him to, but when he placed them next to your notebook, you’d pick them up one by one without looking, popping them into your mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Caleb picking out the tomatoes from your sandwiches, his hands moving with an unthinking efficiency, discarding them onto his own plate before sliding your food back to you. Gran had insisted he leave them in, but he never listened. You never ate them, anyway.

Caleb slinging both your backpacks over his shoulder at the end of a long day, even when you huffed about being a big girl now. Even when you swatted at him in protest. He carried them anyway, adjusting the straps like it was second nature, making it look effortless despite the weight pressing against his shoulders.

Caleb pressing the cool mouth of his water bottle against your arm, nudging it toward you because some quiet alarm in his brain had gone off, warning him that you hadn’t had a sip of water all day. No words exchanged — just the expectant arch of his brow, the silent order in his gaze.

Caleb swiping a thumb across your cheek, brushing away the stray crumbs from whatever snack you had been stuffing into your mouth mid-conversation. His touch was brief, casual, like a passing thought, but it lingered — just for a second — before he pulled away, already moving on to something else.

It was nothing, all of it. Small, everyday things. Thoughtless, maybe, to him. But to everyone else — adults looking on with indulgent smiles, other boys his age shaking their heads with exaggerated groans — it was something more. "God, Caleb, you’re setting the bar too high. You know most guys would trade their little sisters for a corn chip, right?"

Caleb’s instinct to look after you didn’t end at the school gates. Even with the separation of campuses forcing distance between you, his presence lingered in ways you never noticed — woven into the small, seemingly inconsequential moments of your day.

It wasn’t about dictation. You hated being told what to do, slipping through the cracks of authority like water through cupped hands. So instead, Caleb nudged. Shifted. Steered.

A casual mention of someone’s cool Lumiere pencil case turned into you borrowing their markers, which turned into sitting beside them in art class. A passing remark about a classmate’s awesome Lumiere trading card collection suddenly had you talking to them at recess. The kids who shared their snacks without hesitation, who pulled out chairs without asking, who held their ground when pettiness soured the lunch table — those were the ones Caleb quietly nudged you toward.

It never felt unnatural. That was the key. He didn’t force anything, never shoved you in any particular direction. He just made it easy.

A suggestion to invite someone over, tossed out so casually it barely felt like a suggestion at all. A last-minute reminder that some kid — one he had already vetted in the background of his mind — liked the same ridiculous show as you, ensuring you had something to bond over.

And if certain kids seemed off — if their teasing had an edge to it, if they tested boundaries in a way that felt just a little too familiar to Caleb’s instincts—he never said a word. He didn’t have to. He simply didn't encourage those interactions, didn't make space for them, let them wither naturally while something better took root.

You never noticed the quiet maneuvering and how he even knew the information about those classmates despite being an upperclassman. You never realized how your world had been subtly, deliberately arranged in a way that kept you surrounded by good people. People Caleb knew would look out for you when he wasn't there.

And that was the point.

No one had questioned it thus far. Neither had he. There was nothing to be questioned.

Until today.

It was hot. The kind of thick, sweltering summer heat that made the air shimmer and the pavement burn. The wooden porch steps beneath him radiated warmth, baked through by the afternoon sun, carrying the scent of dry wood and dust. Cicadas droned in the distance, their unrelenting hum pressing in from every direction, blending with the tinny sound of the (probably-not-appropriate) streamer’s voice coming from his phone.

You were sprawled beside him, popsiclle stick half-forgotten in your fingers, red syrup trailing down your wrist in slow, sticky rivulets. Caleb’s eyes flicked to it absently, knowing you wouldn’t notice until it reached your elbow. Your bare feet were pressed against his leg, leeching his shade like some smug little barnacle. He groaned, giving your ankle a lazy shove, but it was more for show than any real effort to get you to move.

Every so often, you’d lean against him, cheek brushing his shoulder, the heat from your skin seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt. The scent of artificial cherry clung to your breath, mixing with the toasty cotton and the faintest trace of his own shampoo. It was too hot for this. Too hot for you to be all over him, only to wiggle restlessly a second later, squirming back into place like you had no idea what you were doing to him.

He could’ve moved. Should’ve, probably. But he didn’t. Just huffed like it was an inconvenience, like he wasn’t fighting the stupid grin pulling at his mouth, like he wasn’t waiting for you to settle against him again.

And then the screen door creaked open, and the heavy scent of heat-crisped fabric softener drifted out as Gran stepped onto the porch, hands settling firmly on her hips, and said it.

"You're getting too big to be stuck to Caleb all the time, dear. You're not a baby anymore."

It wasn’t meant to be sharp, wasn’t meant to sting, but the comment lodged in Caleb’s chest like a stone dropped into deep water, sinking fast, heavy and cold.

Not a baby anymore.

Obvious. So obvious it should’ve bounced right off him. He was nearly a grown-up, already edging taller than some of the older boys, his limbs stretching out of last year’s clothes. His tank top, once loose, clung to him now, damp with sweat at the collar. His shorts were scuffed at the knees from a summer spent biking too fast, landing too hard. He was supposed to be out on the blacktop, running plays with the high schoolers, scraping his elbows on asphalt, staying out past the first flicker of streetlights without a second thought, doing something — anything — that didn’t involve a permanent shadow trailing at his heels that would get the upperclassmen laughing. And you…

What were you supposed to be doing? Not hanging off of him, apparently. Not pressing your warmed skin against his in the heat of the day, not reaching for his hand out of instinct, not tilting your head toward him when you laughed, as if his reactions still mattered most.

The stick of his finished popsicle rested on his tongue, sticky-sweet, a lingering taste of artificial apple that felt almost mocking now. His fingers flexed, restless, drumming once against his knee before stilling.

His eyes flicked toward you — kicking your legs lazily against the porch steps.

"Then what is he?" You wrinkled your nose, squinting up at Gran as if the answer should have been obvious. "Just big?"

Gran chuckled, shifting her weight as she leaned against the doorframe, a soft amusement ushering her voice. "Big enough to start weaning you off a little."

And just like that, the rock pressing against Caleb’s ribs sank deeper, like someone had tied it there, pulling everything inside him tight and wrung out.

Weaning you off.

The thought made something in his chest ache, like a muscle being stretched too far, too fast. The thought of you — apart from him, orbiting somewhere beyond his reach — felt foreign, wrong. Not turning to him first? Not following his lead? Where would you even go? And worse — who would you go to?

"That’s dumb," you declared, licking the last of the syrup from your fingers with a casual finality that almost soothed the raw edges of his nerves. "Why would he do that?"

You sounded so sure. So utterly certain, like it was a fact of the universe. Caleb clung to that certainty, let it settle in his chest, tried to believe in it as much as you did. But then Gran hummed, low and knowing, like she had seen this all before, like she was watching something inevitable play out in real time.

She turned to Caleb, fixing him with a look that sat too heavy on his shoulders. "Caleb won’t want you tagging along forever."

Something lurched inside him.

His heart, steady just a moment ago, suddenly pounded too hard against his ribs. The space between his shoulders burned. He parted his lips to argue, but no words came, his throat tight, thoughts tangled.

"No," you huffed, scrunching your face, clear unhappiness bleeding into your voice. "He’s my gege."

Yes. Exactly.

Then why did Gran sound like that? Why did she act like this was some inevitable truth, like he would want you to stop trailing after him, like he would ever just let you go? He didn’t mind it — of course he didn’t.

A flash of heat rolled down his spine, unsettling and sudden, a strange pressure creeping under his skin. His body tensed against it, a shudder running straight through his core before he could stop it.

No. He liked when you followed him. He wanted you there, always half a step behind, always reaching for his sleeve, always seeking him first. That wasn’t weird, was it?

Gran knew exactly what she was doing. The amused curve of her lips, the way she adjusted her stance, arms folded loosely, her gaze warm but knowing—it was the look of someone who had already seen the ending of a story before anyone else even knew it had begun. But she was kind enough not to say it aloud.

"All right," she conceded, her voice easy, lilting, teasing but patient. "If you really think you're okay with being tied to him for life—"

"I am," you declared, not even letting her finish. Not missing a single beat.

It hit Caleb like a struck match to dry air — instant combustion. His pulse faltered, then surged, something white-hot and golden unfurling in his chest. A triumphant, yes, a relief so fierce it made his head spin, his body hum with something too wild to name from you sayingit like it was the most given thing in the world.

But Gran wasn’t done.

"But what if he isn't?" she pressed. "What about when he finds his special someone?"

The concept was an anathema lodged into the gears of his mind. Special someone.

A vague, faceless figure materialized in the space next to him, spectral and wrong. Another girl, maybe. Someone else at his side, standing too close, reaching for his sleeve the way you did now, calling his name with too much familiarity. Someone who would take up space that should be yours — laughing with him over dumb inside jokes, stealing food from his plate, tugging on his hand in crowded spaces without thinking.

Taking care of her. Looking out for her. Ruffling her hair when she did well on a test, cooking for her, walking her home, bringing her gifts without needing a reason—

His stomach twisted sharply, his insides wrung tight like a dishcloth, and suddenly, the popsicle stick in his grip felt foreign, sharp. Slowly, he became aware of the way his fingers had curled around it, tight enough that splinters had bitten into his palm. Too tight.

The porch creaked as you shifted closer, knees bumping against his, your oversized t-shirt — his, actually, stolen ages ago — hanging off one shoulder, damp with summer sweat. You tilted your head, strands of sticky hair clinging to your forehead, blinking up at him with that wide, guileless stare. Your eyes, bright and searching, caught the light, reflecting flecks of gold.

"Caleb…"

There was concern there, nestled between the syllables of his name. An innocent plea, a tug at something deep inside him that he wasn’t ready to name.

His skin prickled.

"Gran’s being silly, pip-squeak," shot out too fast, too forced, but he grinned through it anyway, stretching his face into an easygoing mirror of comfort. With every fiber of his being, he shoved everything back down — buried it under the warmth of the day, under the scent of melting sugar in the air, under the sound of your breathing, steady and trusting beside him. His fingers flexed, then relaxed just enough to let him flick the splintered popsicle stick onto the porch steps. "There’s no way I’m ditching you! Come on, are we finishing the episode or what? We’ve got a lot to catch up on."

He slung an arm around you, dragging you back against his side like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the only thing grounding him in that moment. Your skin was warm, sun-drenched and soft, the scent of your shampoo still clinging to the damp strands of your hair. You leaned into him without hesitation, fitting against him the way you always had.

And yet.

Something inside him stirred, curled its fingers around his ribs, squeezed tight.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

The sky shifted, brilliant blue bleeding into orange, then purple, the air growing thicker as the heat of the day slowly receded. Gran’s voice filtered out from the kitchen window, something about dinner, but Caleb wasn’t listening. He wasn’t here anymore. His thoughts drifted somewhere further, somewhere he didn’t want to go — somewhere you couldn’t follow.

His thumb rubbed absently at the crook of your elbow, tracing slow circles over the softest part of your skin, a mindless habit meant to soothe — himself, that is.

The thought clung to him, a persistent dog at his heels, refusing to be shaken loose. It trailed him through the evening, barking at him nonstop as he moved through the small rituals of routine.

It was there when he set the table, watching you from the corner of his eye as you padded barefoot across the linoleum, the oversized sleeves of your pajama top slipping past your wrists. It was there when you tugged at his sleeve, your voice soft but insistent, grabbing his attention just as he pulled the dish from the oven. Feed me, your eyes seemed to say, mouth already open, waiting. And, like always, he gave in — pressing the edge of a still-hot bite against your lips after he blew on it, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched as you chewed.

It was there when you curled up beside him later, your body slack with sleep, limbs tangled in the throw blanket you’d stolen from his lap. Your breath tickled against his arm, warm and steady, stirring something deep in his chest that he didn’t want to name. The scent of your shampoo — faint now, laced with the salt of dried sweat from a long summer day — lingered between you. He told himself he wasn’t listening to the soft, rhythmic exhales, wasn’t matching his breathing to yours.

And then, it was there when he tucked you into bed. Just like always.

You blinked up at him sleepily, covers pulled high, cheek squished against your pillow. Your room smelled like you — faintly sweet, warm, something nostalgic he couldn’t describe but had known all his life. His fingers brushed the edge of your blanket as he lingered by your side.

It was normal.

It was always normal.

And yet, the thought, the one he had spent the entire day trying to drown out, pressed against the back of his mind like an uninvited whisper.

He couldn’t imagine not wanting you by his side for the rest of his life.

Years later, Caleb would pinpoint this summer, the summer of his fourteenth year, as the day something shifted irreversibly. The death of whatever childhood innocence had once dressed itself as sibling love.

An apple blossom plucked before its time, its petals discarded in favor of a fruit too heavy, too low-hanging, too wrong to belong among the delicate branches of the family tree.

Xavier never saw you cry at the funeral.

You had stood still, wrapped in black, hands curled into the fabric at your sides, nails pressing half-moon indentations into your palms. The air had smelled like freshly turned earth and incense, the whispers of condolences processed with you nodding along when spoken to, shaking hands, murmuring words that felt rehearsed, felt expected beneath the weight of something heavier, something unsaid. Your face was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the two caskets, one of which was empty, beyond the faces of mourners, beyond here.

He didn’t see you cry when you returned to what was left of home, either. Not when you stood at the threshold of devastation, the scent of charred wood and melted plastic still thick, mingling with the metallic tang of exposed steel. Not when you traced the edge of a broken picture frame with trembling fingers, or when the wind rattled through the skeletal remains of walls that had once held your precious family safe. If grief lived in you then, it had no tongue, lurking behind you like a ghost waiting to be acknowledged.

No, the first time you let him see you cry was months later.

It didn’t loom like an impending storm, didn’t announce itself with thunder and lightning. One moment, the world was steady. The next, the floodgates had opened.

His kitchen was warm, steeped in the golden hues of a sun too lazy to set just yet, its light stretching long across the counter where you sat. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other swinging idly, the heel of your sock skimming against the cabinet with soft, rhythmic taps. The room smelled of burnt sauce — nose-stinging, acrid, clinging to the air like a mistake neither of you wanted to acknowledge, and the pan sat abandoned on the stove, its contents an unappetizing mess of charred edges and failed ambition, but for once, you hadn’t laughed at him yet. That was the first sign.

Xavier leaned against the counter across from you, arms folded, waiting for the inevitable teasing. But it never came.

Instead — your breath caught.

A small thing. Barely there. An inhale cut short, like something had snagged on the way down.

His eyes flickered toward you just as your thumb hovered over your phone screen, frozen in place. The glow of it bathed your face in cold white light, so at odds with the warmth spilling in through the window. You weren’t looking at him. Weren’t looking at anything, really — just staring at the screen, your face blank.

And then, without sound, without warning, you folded into yourself.

Like something inside you held too tightly for too long had given way.

He knew this kind of breaking. Intimately.

It didn’t strike like lightning, didn’t split a person open in a single, violent moment. No, it settled, burrowed deep into the marrow, rewrote the shape of the bones it took root in. He had felt it before, held it before — in another life, in another ending. When your body had gone too still against his. When your breath had slipped against his neck, not with fear, not with struggle, but with something soft. A shaky exhale. A barely-there smile. A release so quiet, it had broken him more than any scream ever could.

He knew how grief hollowed a person out.

How it made ghosts out of the living, how it made you ache for someone even when they were right there, breathing the same air, sitting just an arm’s reach away.

And still — watching you now — it hurt.

You swiped at your face, impatient. Like you could erase the tears before they even had a chance to fully exist. But your hands betrayed you. They shook.

Xavier turned off the burner, the flame vanishing with a quiet click.

Gently, he pried the device from your grip. You let him. No resistance, no glance upward. Just the smallest movement, turning into him, pressing your forehead into his shoulder as if you could fold yourself into the fabric of his shirt, disappear into the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The screen dimmed in his palm, but the voice still filtered through the speaker, sunny and youthful, threaded with a teasing affection that made Xavier’s throat tighten.

"I’ll be back soon. Be good, okay? Or you’ll be doin’ the cooking this time and I won’t lift a finger to help you."

A promise. A joke. A lie, but not an intentional one.

Then — a sound.

Small. Fractured. Barely more than an exhale, but enough to hit like a wound splitting open.

Xavier didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

Instead, he shifted, lowering his chin against the crown of your head, his arms curling around you in a hold that wasn’t tight, but anchoring. Until the light from the window cooled into that dusky shade of evening, casting long shadows, making the edges of both of yours melt into one.

The same summer that had been the genesis of Caleb’s anxieties about growing apart, you wouldn’t shut up about the summer camp he was sure Gran had sent you to just to put space between the two of you. Much to his chagrin, you had returned beaming, spirits fiery, smelling like lake water and pine sap, and carrying an entire new world in your hands.

Not that he minded — not really. He had always liked listening to you, always liked the way you told stories with your whole body, hands gesturing wildly, feet kicking the air, voice rising and falling like you were spinning some grand epic instead of just talking about canoe races and bonfire singalongs.

But this time, the stories weren’t about him.

They weren’t about things you had done together.

Instead, they were about them.

Lian. Cass. Milo. Names that meant nothing to him but tumbled so effortlessly from your lips, light and familiar, flung at him like paper planes, each one carrying a piece of you away. Lian said this, Cass did that, Milo was so funny when—

Your laughter filled the space between you, unguarded and bright, the kind that made your whole body move with it — shoulders shaking, hands bracing against your knees as if you needed to physically steady yourself from the force of the memory. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, your oversized academy hoodie bunching at your elbows, the hem riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin above your pajama shorts.

Caleb watched, his own smile engaging, practiced — the kind he knew was expected in moments like these. He leaned back against the armrest, stretching his legs out beneath the coffee table, socked feet grazing against yours without thought. Yeah? What’d he say? The words left his mouth before he could register them, autopilot kicking in where his thoughts strayed.

You inhaled sharply, hands flailing slightly as you tried to contain your excitement. "Okay, so we were in the mess hall, and Cass dared Milo to chug this absolutely vile shake we made by spinning this random online wheel, right? Like, I’m talking — smelled like feet and regret. Anyway, Milo, being the overachiever that he is, actually considers it, and then — Lian, oh my god — just looks at him and goes, ‘I hope your digestive system is strong enough for this betrayal because in spirit, you aren’t.’"

You barely got the last words out before dissolving into another fit of laughter, head tilting back, eyes squeezed shut in delight, hands clapping together like a little cymbal monkey, and the sound wrapped around him like the softest parts of childhood.

Caleb nodded, fingers curling slightly against his knee. "Yeah. That’s — uh, that’s funny."

It wasn’t.

The words felt hollow in his mouth, like biting into a fruit that looked ripe but tasted wrong.

This Lian guy — what was his deal? A little too self-aware, wasn’t he? Try-hard humor, the kind that made people laugh at things instead of with them. The type of jokes even Zayne would roll his eyes at.

“You have to hear about this too! One night during campfire stories, Lian started messing with the group by making up these ridiculous prophecies. You had to be there, but trust me, it was so good. He told Milo that he was doomed to trip over a tree root before the week was out and Milo actually did trip! It was insane. So obviously, we decided that Lian was our new oracle and now he gives everyone fake fortunes, like ‘beware the wrath of the cafeteria lady,’ or ‘your socks will mysteriously disappear in the night.’ And honestly? They’ve all come true. It’s freaky. So, everyone thought with his powers, we should overthrow the entire camp and take over as co-rulers, and honestly, I think we could do it."

At one poing, Caleb had turned around, elbow braced against the couch arm, fingers curled loosely against his temple, and giving you that look, the one that said he was listening, that you had his full attention — but if you peered in closer, you’d see the way his gaze had dulled just slightly, like the glimmer behind his pupils had been quietly snuffed out.

"Oh yeah?" His voice came out smooth, too smooth, an autopilot response. "Where’d this revolution come from, exactly?”

"Okay, okay!" You beamed, sitting up straighter, knees bouncing with the effort of holding in your excitement. "So it all started when we got caught sneaking extra marshmallows from the mess hall. Lian was like, ‘This is tyranny, and we must rise up!’ So obviously, we started plotting this whole elaborate scheme to recruit our bunkmates and take control of the schedule board. If we changed the wake-up calls and sneaked into the admin office, we could make it so we got an extra hour of free time every day—”

Your hands waved wildly as you talked, nearly smacking him in the face at one point. Caleb barely blinked, smile thinning out a bit as you continued, oblivious.

"—and then Lian said that if we were in charge, we’d have unlimited access to the snack stash and, Caleb—imagine—unlimited s’mores!"

You looked at him then, eyes wide, expectant, your lips still parted from your last sentence like you were waiting for him to get it, to light up the way you did, to jump in and tell you it was brilliant.

Instead, Caleb nodded slowly, lips pressing together in that familiar, measured way, the one that meant he was choosing his words carefully. "Sounds… revolutionary."

"Right?!" You beamed. "Lian even made a fake list of camp rules with ridiculous demands, like mandatory nap time and designated hammock hours. And you know what? I think he'd make a great leader.”

"Well, I mean, I thought you were supposed to be co-rulers?"

"Oh, we are," you said quickly, leaning back against the couch with a dreamy sigh. "But sometimes I feel like Lian just naturally takes charge, you know? He always has these ideas, and everyone just listens to him. It’s kinda amazing."

“Yeah. Amazing.”

"And Cass invited me to a sleepover this weekend," you announced, dropping the words like a meteor in still water. "Her parents are hosting, please, please, please! Can I go?"

Caleb barely had time to process before his stomach knotted, a visceral, immediate reaction.

No.

The word was right there, balanced on the tip of his tongue, begging to spill out before he could even think. No explanation. No reason. Just no.

His fingers curled tighter around the book in his lap, the spine pressing into his palm, though he hadn't turned a page in over ten minutes.

He didn’t know this Cass. Had never met her, had never had a say in whether or not she was someone you should be spending time with. Hadn’t chosen her for you.

You were watching him, chin propped on your hands, your knees tucked to your chest where you sat at the other end of the couch. Expectant. Like you were sure he would say yes and asking for the sake of asking.

Something in his chest twisted, sharp and unrelenting.

He wanted to be selfish. Wanted to say no because it wasn’t normal for things to be changing like this. Wanted to tell you to stay home, to keep things exactly the way they had always been. That sleepovers weren’t necessary, that you didn’t need to be anywhere else.

But he wasn’t your parent.

He wasn’t your guardian.

But he was your gege. Wasn’t he?

His breath came a little too tight, but he forced himself to smile anyway, reaching out to ruffle your hair the way he always did. The way he should. The way that meant nothing had changed.

"Yeah," he said, swallowing down the frog in his throat. "Have fun."

Your whole face lit up, legs kicking excitedly against the cushions. "I will!"

He forced out a chuckle, the sound barely reaching his ears. "Don't forget to give Gran her parents' contact numbers, okay? I'll drop you off."

That night, long after you had gone to bed, Caleb found himself standing outside your room, barefoot on the floor, staring at the thin ribbon of light seeping out from beneath your door, pale and flickering as your shadow moved beyond it, listening to the soft rustle of fabric the quiet scrape of a zipper, the muffled shuffling as you rearranged the contents of your overnight bag.

He had done this before. Stood in this exact spot, staring at the door separating him from you, listening to the quiet sounds of you existing on the other side. When you were younger, it had been different — he used to do it just to check, just to make sure you were still breathing. A habit formed in childhood, lingering into habit, into routine.

But this time?

The space between him and that door felt vast, like he was standing on one side of a canyon that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t checking in. He was watching something slip through his fingers, something skittering out of reach.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

He could knock. He could find an excuse — ask if you needed an extra charger even though it was you who usually came asking for one, joke about how you were probably overpacking for just one night, tease you about stuffing half your closet into your bag.

He could say something.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, letting the seconds stretch long and thin between you.

And then, with a quiet exhale, he turned away, and turned in for the night.

Caleb lay in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he wasn’t really seeing it. The shadows cast by the faint glow of his bedside clock stretched long and distorted as the numbers ticked forward, marking the slow crawl of time. Sleep never came. He didn’t expect it to.

His mind wasn’t drifting — it was pulling, unearthing something he hadn’t allowed himself to think about in years. A memory, worn at the edges but still sharp where it mattered.

The stories you used to tell.

Before camp. Before Gran. Before normalcy wrapped itself around your lives like an ill-fitting skin. Before you both learned how to live outside the sterile, white-washed walls where childhood had been something to endure rather than experience.

Back then, in the cold fluorescence of a place that smelled of antiseptic and something metallic beneath it, you had been the light.

The dreamer.

The one who could take four walls and turn them into something else entirely.

"I don’t belong here, my home is up here in the stars," you had whispered to him once, curled up on the too-thin mattress beside him, your voice hushed like the walls themselves had ears. "But it’s okay. He’s coming any day now."

"Who?" he had asked, because he knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it.

"My knight."

You had said it with absolute certainty, with a conviction so fierce that it almost made Caleb believe it too. "He promised he’d come back for me. But I won’t leave you here. He can take us far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere we don’t have to be afraid anymore."

Somewhere beyond the reach of men in white coats.

Back then, your world had been built on make-believe. On whispered prophecies and stories woven in the dark, each one an attempt to carve hope from the letters making up despair. And Caleb —

Caleb had never put stock in fairy tales, never believed in heroes riding in on white horses, or in distant kingdoms built on wishes and fate. But he had believed in you.

He had believed in the way your voice could soften the sharp edges of reality, the way you could take something cold and sterile and fill it with warmth, make it bearable. He had listened — really listened — memorized every inflection of your whispered stories in the dark, every frantic hope you clung to with tiny, desperate hands. He let you weave the illusion, let you pull him into that world where escape was possible, where you weren’t just waiting for whatever came next, helpless.

Then Gran took you in.

The men in white coats disappeared — gone, dead, buried beneath layers of the Chronorift Catastrophe and things nobody in this household ever talked about again. Life rearranged itself into something resembling normal, into the quiet rhythm of home-cooked meals and school bells and summer nights spent sprawled on the porch. And the stories?

They vanished.

The experiments had left fractures in your memory, gaps where entire years had been pried apart and left disassembled. Somewhere along the way, the knight from the stars had slipped through those cracks. Swallowed by time, forgotten, unspoken, lost to the void.

But Caleb never forgot.

The words still lived in the back of his mind, tucked away in the places he never let himself visit. He could still hear your voice, younger, softer, whispering of a promise made long before you ever met him. He promised he’d come back for me.

For years, that story — your story — had been his greatest nightmare. Not the experiments, not the men in white coats, not the ghosts of the past, but the idea that the princely knight you had once spoken of so fervently would come after all.

Caleb had spent endless nights staring at the ceiling, waiting, listening, dreading. He had imagined it too vividly — some older, stronger man arriving in the dead of night, welcoming himself back into your world, with a voice manlier than his to turn your head and hands steady enough to pull you away from him. He had pictured the way you might look at someone like that — wide-eyed, breathless, smitten — so enamored that you wouldn’t even glance back.

But in the end, there was no celestial rescuer.

No dramatic abduction. No grand, sweeping moment where someone took you from his grasp.

Just this.

Just time. Just life. Just the quiet, inevitable turning point of you growing, changing, stepping further and further outside the world the two of you had built. Not running, not even intentionally leaving him behind — just moving forward in a way that felt naturally inevitable, while he remained standing in place, watching your back drift further away.

He swallowed hard and turned onto his side, the sheets cool against his skin, but the heat in his chest refused to settle. His fingers curled into the fabric, gripping nothing, holding onto air.

The knight from the stars was never real.

But the fear of losing you had always been.

Xavier’s apartment smelled like burnt toast.

Which was impressive, considering toast wasn’t even part of the meal.

Xavier’s second attempt at breakfast was going about as well as the first, which was to say: disastrous. The air purifier was whirring uselessly, struggling to clear out the acrid smoke curling into the walls, your clothes, your hair. The sink had already claimed several casualties — half-peeled vegetables, a cracked egg that never made it to the pan, and a bowl of rice that had turned a color rice should never be.

The only thing that had survived unscathed was the jar of honey.

And even that, apparently, was proving to be a challenge.

You sat at the counter, chin propped up on your hand, watching as Xavier wrestled with the lid and not even lifting a finger to help to see how long he could hold on until he wanted to recruit your help with that rare pleading face of his.

His long fingers, pale and deft, curled around the glass, his knuckles pressing white with effort. The lamplight pooled over the sharp angles of his wrists, catching on the fine bones of his hands, the faint veins trailing up the smooth expanse of his forearms. His skin, impossibly fair, seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. He was all silken precision, all effortless control — except for the slight crinkle kissed between his brows, the faint crease of concentration on his otherwise perfectly composed face.

He twisted the lid one way, then the other, then braced it against his hip with the air of someone prepared for battle. The muscles in his forearm tensed beneath the pale stretch of skin, lean and corded, a whisper of restrained strength. His silver lashes lowered, his lips pressed into a flat, determined line.

It was an absurdly regal effort.

And then—

POP.

The lid exploded off like a gunshot.

Honey burst from the jar in a gilded arc, catching the light as it splattered across the counter, his hands, and, most notably, his face.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

A dollop of honey traced a viscous, lazy path down his cheek, catching at the delicate edge of his jaw, slipping past the curve of his mouth. His lips, soft and finely shaped, parted slightly in what could have been a sigh, or maybe just exasperation. The strands of silver hair that framed his face were damp with syrup, sticking to the flawless cut of his cheekbones, glinting like strands of moonlight caught in amber.

And still, his expression remained blank. Like he didn’t quite register what had happened yet.

You were the first to break.

It started as a tremor, something caught in the back of your throat. A choked, strangled sound that barely registered as your own.

Xavier turned to you, silver lake blue eyes impassive.

“Is something funny?” he asked with a pout he was trying to hold back.

It wasn’t.

It wasn’t.

Except—

It was.

The laugh broke free before you could stop it, shaking loose from your chest, raw and unfamiliar. Your shoulders shook. Your head tipped back. It wasn’t just a chuckle, not just a small exhale through your nose — it was real laughter, the kind that knocked the breath from your lungs, the kind that you hadn’t felt in so long it almost startled you.

Xavier did not react.

Did not wipe the honey from his cheek.

Did not reach for a towel.

He simply stood there, deep pink dusting his ears, regarding you with an expression that was entirely too resentful. As if you were the strange one. As if he hadn’t just declared war on a honey jar and lost spectacularly.

You doubled over, forehead pressing to the counter as your fingers curled against the cool surface, struggling to breathe, to ground yourself. And yet, the laughter only came harder.

And then—

Then it hit you.

There were tears in your eyes.

Your breath stuttered, laughter fracturing into something quieter, something softer. Something more fragile. The sound wavered, teetering between joy and grief at laughing in the kitchen with someone else at another time, until it settled somewhere in between.

Xavier didn’t say anything.

He just reached for a napkin and, with surgical precision, wiped the substance from his face, and only managed to smear it around more.

You hiccupped, breath still uneven, as he casually put the jar down on the counter, closing a palm on top of it.

“Well, we’ve got honey at least,” he said, leaning in and turning his soiled cheek closer to you. “Do you want it?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you raised a finger and brushed along his cheekbone, collecting honey in a sticky trail as he kept his quiet-twinkled stare on you. As you pulled back your hand, he turned and licked his tongue over it, taking a taste as he contemplated the flavor thoughtfully.

"Good quality," he noted approvingly, his tone matter-of-fact.

His skin was soft. Soft enough that despite the sugar clinging to him, the warmth and tenderness beneath made you lean forward and kiss him where you touched. Just lightly. Bare lips pressed against his cheek, soft and fleeting before pulling away. You tasted honey and sunshine when you licked your lips, bright like liquid gold melting on your tongue, spreading like butter in your veins.

You looked up just in time to catch his double blink of surprise, eyebrows rising delicately to his hairline as his cheeks flushed deeper rose under all the sticky mess. A moment passed between you in silence — a private eternity.

Avoiding you when he was the one who made the move, Xavier immediately just went on to clean — like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just unknowingly cracked something open inside you. And you sat there, fingers trembling as you wiped your eyes, pretending you weren’t still smiling.

Falling in love had never felt like this before.

It had never crept in through the cracks, never been this quiet, this steady.

But now, as you watched him move through the kitchen in search of something to put in front of you to eat, all awkward grace and quiet embarrassment, you realized—

Maybe it had been happening all along.

The first time you saw Lumiere, you were too young to understand much of anything beyond the debilitating terror.

The world had cracked apart, splitting open at the seams, spilling its horrors into the streets like a wound that would never close. Sirens screamed through the chaos, their wailing voices swallowed by the greater, more inhuman sounds of the city tearing itself apart. The sky was wrong — a giant hole torn into the middle of it, unnatural and seething, pulsing like something alive.

Buildings didn’t just fall, they folded, twisting in on themselves, steel beams curling like dying fingers reaching for something they would never grasp. The ground trembled beneath your feet, a violent, groaning thing, the earth itself recoiling from the carnage. Wanderers moved through the ruins, warping the space around them, turning the air to something heavy and impossible. They weren’t just there — they were everywhere, shifting, flickering, bending reality like a cruel trick.

People ran. A panicked, mindless stampede, scattering like birds in the wake of a predator as smoke rolled thick through the streets, pressing its fingers against your lungs, squeezing. The streets had become graveyards. Cars sat abandoned, doors flung open in frozen panic, some crushed beneath fallen debris, others twisted into shapes that no longer resembled vehicles at all. Glass littered the asphalt, catching the firelight in fractured glints, like the last remnants of fallen stars.

In mere hours, the city had unraveled into something unrecognizable, like the world was really ending.

And in the middle of it all—

A spectral shimmer against the bruised expanse of the sky, carving through the ruins like a streak of molten silver, like a shooting star descended down to earth. He moved with the force of a video game character come to life, graceful, otherworldly, his blade carving arcs of light through beasts too vast, too nightmarish to fall to mere guns made by men.

You remembered the moment gloved hands — gentle, strong — had pulled you from the wreckage, lifting you out of the chaos as if you weighed nothing at all. The world around you was still crumbling, still breaking apart in ways too enormous for your small mind to comprehend, but in that instant, none of it reached you. His arms curled around you protectively, familiar in a way, shielding you from the twisted bodies of cars, from the distant screams, from the flickering, impossible reality of the Wanderers.

Your tiny hands had clung to his sleeve on instinct, desperate for something solid, something real, and even now, you could remember the way it felt beneath your fingertips — not coarse, not burned, but impossibly luxurious, like something that didn’t belong in this world at all. His white coat, unblemished despite the wreckage, didn’t seem to absorb the destruction the way everything else had, it should have been ruined, torn by shrapnel, dirtied by smoke and fire, but it wasn’t. It was perfect. As if nothing — not the crumbling city, not the collapsing buildings, not the monsters warping the air — could touch him.

He had only looked down at you once, but that was all it took.

Those eyes — deep blue, so calm it felt unreal, like water untouched by wind— had met yours, not with pity, but certainty. His hair, the lightest shade of white gold, caught the glow of the firelight, making it near impossible to tell where the light ended and he began. It was almost holy, a glow that made him seem less like a person and more like something from a fairy tale. A savior carved from light and distance.

And then, without a word, he had pulled you closer and lifted off the ground.

The city fell away beneath you, the fires and spiraling smoke blurring into streaks as the wind roared past your ears, the world that had just moments ago tried to swallow you whole becoming nothing but a smear of color beneath your feet. Up here — wrapped in the warmth of his power, cradled in the cocoon of safety — you were untouchable. Weightless as light itself.

You had never been this high before. Never seen the world like this. Never felt like this.

For a moment, in the middle of catastrophe, it was a dream.

And just as suddenly, it was over.

He descended with effortless precision, the wind dying around you as your feet met the ground, his arms the last thing you let go of. Gran’s trembling hands were there in the next breath, pulling you into a desperate embrace outside the shelter, voice cracking with relief.

You turned to look for him.

But he was already gone.

Not a word, not a trace. As if he had never been there at all.

And that was all it took. You were obsessed.

As you got older, fascination twisted into obsession. The internet sleuth in you wasn’t held back by being fourteen, hunting for everything, books, articles, classified reports that had leaked onto obscure message boards, desperate for any scrap of information on Lumiere. Your search history became a shrine to him, spiraling down a rabbit hole of half-truths and speculation that even explaining porn to Gran would be easier.

You scoured forums where people spoke about him in fanatic reverence in endless threads filled with theories and fragmented testimonies. Some claimed to have seen him in the flesh, accounts breathless and disjointed, warped by awe and that phenomenon where one couldn’t exactly convey what they had gone through in perfect storytelling. Others swore he was nothing but a myth conjured by higher-ups to give birth to hope in the chaos of Linkon’s Catastrophe, possibly a constructed hero for the screens, the latter of which you knew better to entertain at all.

You watched every second of available footage, even the grainy, unstable clips filmed on trembling phones, taken from rooftops, from shattered streets, from whatever vantage point people could find before fleeing for their lives. You rewound, paused, analyzed, frames gone over with meticulous care one by one for anything you could find to get closer to his identity.

How he moved, fluid and precise, inhuman even with evol-user standards, the world around him bent in subtle ways as if the reality itself wasn't sure how to hold him, light distorting at the edges of his body.

You traced backtracked his path through the city, cross-referencing footage with satellite images, tracking where he had been, where he had vanished, where the destruction had ended in his wake, taking scraps of information jotted in the margins of notebooks, highlighted documents saved on your drive, timelines reconstructed in frantic detail.

You tried to reconstruct your own memories, too, for anything related to his face, but they slipped through your grasp like sand through clenched fingers — there for a moment, vivid and raw, before scattering into something blurred and incomplete. Time and trauma had eroded the edges, distorting the details, leaving you with fragments instead of a whole.

You remembered the feeling more than anything.

The glow of his energy swimming around him, a halo of sentient light, illuminating the space between you. It wasn't warm like fire, nor cold like electricity, but something else entirely, brushing against your skin like a cat bumping its forehead into your hand, threading through your bones like a current that recognized you.

You knew, deep in your bones, that you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. And that fact shaped you in ways you couldn’t explain.

Caleb thought it was hilarious.

“You could’ve picked literally anything else,” he teased, arms crossed as he watched you rearrange your Lumiere fanart posters for what had to be the third time that week, but there was an undeniable awe in the way his eyes swept over the sheer dedication on display. You would roll on the floor and kick your limbs just not to do your assigned chores, but the organization skills invested in Lumiere was nothing short of neat.

You barely glanced at him, too focused on making sure the edges of the posters were perfectly aligned. “And you still would be making fun of me.”

He snorted. “Listen, I support you, but you’ve turned this into a lifestyle.”

His gaze flicked around your room, taking in the full extent of your devotion. The shelves were packed — action figures still pristine in their boxes, rare collector’s items standing proudly on display, books and magazines carefully arranged like artifacts in a museum. A limited-edition Lumiere print, framed in glass, hung on the wall like it belonged in a gallery.

He reached over and flicked the head of a small Lumiere figurine on your desk, watching as it wobbled slightly before settling. Then he gestured toward the obscenely priced framed poster you had nearly cried over when it arrived in the mail.

“How much of your allowance have you blown on this guy?”

You turned to him, entirely unrepentant, eyes gleaming with conviction. “Every cent has been worth it.”

Caleb let out a long, dramatic sigh before collapsing onto your bed, bouncing slightly against the mattress as he folded his hands behind his head. His eyes flicked between you and the sheer shrine of Lumiere memorabilia covering your walls, his under-eye puffs creasing somewhere between amusement and mild exasperation.

"You know," he mused, stretching out like he had all the time in the world, "if you ever put this much dedication into something productive, you'd probably rule the world by now."

So much dad-talk with this guy.

"You’re just mad I’m putting my energy into Lumiere and not boosting your ego twenty-four-seven," you shot back, rolling your eyes as you took a step back to assess your latest Tetris-like rearrangement of posters. No visible surface of the wall underneath. Perfect.

Caleb hummed thoughtfully, still watching you with the kind of lazy, calculated interest that always meant trouble. Then, after a beat of silence, his lips curled into a slow, knowing grin.

"Actually," he drawled, tilting his head just slightly, "I bet you have some secret Lumiere fanfic account somewhere, don’t you?"

Your heart nearly stopped. "What—"

“Oh, you totally do.” Caleb was grinning now, wide and victorious, like a cat that had just batted its prey into a corner and was taking its time.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him with everything you had. He dodged effortlessly, laughing as it thudded uselessly against the floor.

“Shut up, Caleb!”

“I’m right, though. I knew it.” He sat up, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought, the way he talked dipping into that slow, calculating tone that made your stomach drop. “Now the question is — what exactly do you write? Reader-insert? OCs? Ooh, or is it those tragic longing glances across the battlefield type deals?”

You peeked through your fingers, glaring from behind your hands. “How do you even know all of this?! You’re — You’re not supposed to know things like this! You’re a guy!”

“Wow. Gender stereotyping? In this day and age? For your information, I listen when people talk. Unlike someone.”

“I never talked about writing!” you shriek cracked in sheer betrayal.

“Please. You definitely have a secret account. Probably one of those edgy usernames, like ‘EclipsedSoul94’ or something.” He snapped his fingers. “Or wait — maybe something romantic. Like… ‘Lightbearer’s Muse.’”

Your entire body locked up.

Caleb’s eyes went wide, and in the split second of silence that followed, you knew you were doomed.

“No. Way.” His voice practically beamed with glee as he shot forward, bracing himself on his hands and knees like he was about to pounce. “Did I actually get close?!"

You scrambled back, heart hammering. "Shut up!"

He was laughing now, leaning into every bit of your suffering. "Wow, this is even better than I imagined. Really though, what do you write? Self-insert where you get rescued by him again? Maybe a little strangers-to-lovers? C’mon pip-squeak, you can share it with me… Oh, wait — do you make him suffer? Tragic backstory rewrite? I’m thinking angst. Big, dramatic, heart-wrenching—”

"Get out of my room!"

This time, you launched the pillow with actual intent to maim. He caught it effortlessly, barely even flinching, his grin unaffected.

“Oh, I’m going to find it,” he declared, tossing the pillow back onto your bed as he stood. “It’s only a matter of time.” He pointed two fingers at his own eyes, then turned them toward you. “Just remember — you can’t hide from me forever.”

And with that, he was gone.

The second the door clicked shut, you collapsed onto your bed, burying your face into the nearest pillow and screamed.

You were so screwed.

Despite the relentless teasing, the smug grins, the knowing looks whenever you so much as mentioned Lumiere’s name, Caleb never actually tried to talk you out of your obsession. Never scoffed and told you to get over it, never dismissed the endless streams of theories and analysis spilling from your mouth. If anything, he made it worse.

Because instead of shutting you down, he fed into it.

Where everyone else might have tuned you out, offering half-hearted nods and vague hums of acknowledgment, Caleb locked in. Not just humoring you—engaging. Matching your energy in a way that no one else ever had.

Somewhere along the way, he had started picking things up. Not just the basics — anyone who spent enough time around you would eventually know Lumiere’s name, his signature abilities, his role in the Catastrophe. But Caleb went further. He started stockpiling trivia, hoarding it like ammunition, waiting for the right moment to use it against you.

And he did. Mercilessly.

"You know, technically, Lumiere’s first recorded appearance after the Catastrophe is actually three years later, he’s not entirely gone," he had dropped casually over breakfast one morning, flipping through his phone like he wasn’t watching your reaction out of the corner of his eye. "A witness in South End reported seeing a guy with light-based powers interfering in a protocore smuggling ring. No solid proof, but some people think—"

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Or the time you were mid-rant about power scaling inconsistencies in an old debate, only for Caleb to lazily stretch his arms and yawn, "Yeah, but Lumiere’s light refraction abilities could inherently be tied to gravitational fields, so if you think about it, it actually makes sense that his speed varies depending on—"

You had thrown a book at him.

He acted like it was effortless, like this knowledge had just naturally embedded itself into his brain, but you knew. He had researched this. Had studied. Absorbed every ridiculous tidbit just for the sole purpose of catching you off guard, slipping it into conversation like he had always been an expert.

And whenever you found out about a rare Lumiere event — an exhibit, a convention panel, a last-minute pop-up experience — Caleb always somehow made time for it. No matter how busy he was, no matter how much he acted like he had better things to do, he never let you go alone.

He was the one dragging you out the door before you could overthink it, nudging you along when your nerves made you hesitate, handing over your ticket with a long-suffering sigh like this was somehow his responsibility. And yet, despite all his grumbling, he never actually looked reluctant.

He took you to Lumiere-themed pop-up cafés, sitting across from you in a booth that was entirely too colorful for his tastes, making some sarcastic remark about how even the food was branded. And yet, when the latte art arrived, he took the picture before you could even reach for your phone, angling it just right to catch the aesthetic lighting.

He cringed at the massive life-sized Lumiere cardboard cutouts at events but still held your bag when you ran up to one, grinning like an idiot as you posed beside it. And then, when you weren’t paying attention, he took actual good pictures, ones where you didn’t look stiff or awkward, capturing the moment exactly as it was — your excitement, your enthusiasm, the way your entire face lit up.

He even tagged along to convention panels, sitting through debates over Lumiere’s greatest heroic moments like he had a stake in them. You expected him to zone out, maybe nap through the more obscure discussions, but he never did, if anything, he leaned into the arguments with the investment of a man lingering before a soap opera he told his partner he wasn’t interested in, standing up with hands on hips.

And when you shot him a look, silently accusing him of enjoying this way more than he let on, he just shrugged.

"Hey, I’ve been forced into this fandom. Might as well commit."

You wanted to argue, call him out on the fact that he was the one feeding into your obsession, not the other way around. But the moment you turned to say something, he was already flipping through the event schedule.

"Alright," he would lock in. "Where’s the merch booth?"

Caleb had made your love for Lumiere feel valid, important — even if he never let you live it down.

One year, on your birthday, Caleb somehow managed to track down the holy grail of Lumiere merchandise—an original, limited-edition plushie from an exclusive release, the kind of thing that had vanished off the market almost as soon as it had dropped. You had spent so much searching for it, scouring secondhand listings, watching auctions climb into absurd price ranges before vanishing altogether and appearing right back in someone else's hands to be auctioned once more, hands in your hair agonizing over the relic of the fandom hardcore collectors would have sold their souls for.

And Caleb, of all people, had found it.

You still remembered the moment you unwrapped it — the weight of the box in your lap, the crinkle of carefully folded tissue paper giving way beneath your fingertips, the instant recognition as soon as you caught a glimpse of soft, familiar fabric. Your breath had hitched, hands going still, heart skittering in the hollow of your throat like jostled dice as the realization sank in.

This wasn’t some replica. This wasn’t just a well-kept version of the later reprints. This was the original.

You lifted it with something close to reverence, fingers ghosting over the embroidered details, the slightly worn tag still attached to its side. It looked untouched, preserved like a piece of history, but you knew better. You knew how old it was, how impossible it should have been to get something like this in such pristine condition.

You had screamed and made him jump, nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug, your hands shaking as you clutched it close to your chest, running your fingers over the embroidered insignia and the carefully-stitched details. "No. No way. NO WAY! Where—how—? Caleb!"

He ruffled your hair in that annoyingly familiar way, his touch light but lingering just a second longer than usual. “It wasn’t even that hard to get.”

You pulled back, still clutching the plushie to your chest, blinking at him in disbelief. “What do you mean it wasn’t hard? Caleb, this thing has been sold out for years. People would kill for it. I would’ve killed for it.”

He just shrugged, all nonchalance, like he hadn’t just gifted you something nearly impossible to find. “Luckily, you don’t need to, because I know people.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You do not know Lumiere merch scalpers.”

“I might.”

You gawked at him. “Wait. Wait. Did you actually—”

Caleb waved you off, leaning back in his chair like the conversation was already over. The birthday cake remnants still sat on the table nearby, plates half-empty. “Just be grateful, gremlin.”

You stared at him, still overwhelmed, your heart all over the place from equal parts excitement and the dawning realization that he had to have gone above and beyond to get this. And he wasn’t even rubbing it in your face like he normally would. Just looking content with himself. 

The warmth of the stove lights flickered against his face, highlighting the soft grin playing at his lips, but beneath all the teasing, there was the unbearable smother of honeyed fondness that made your breath catch for just a heartbeat.

You hugged the plushie tighter, still clutching it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Caleb.”

He cracked an eye open, raising a brow. “Hmm?”

You didn’t even know what to say. Thank you didn’t seem enough. But you also knew he’d never let you dwell on it too long. He was always like this — giving, caring, yours, in a way that was so deeply ingrained in your life you sometimes forgot to acknowledge it.

Choked up, you nudged his leg beneath the table with your foot. Caleb, ever the instigator, nudged back, his grin widening as your little game escalated into a full-blown under-the-table foot war. The plates and empty glasses clinked slightly as your shins bumped, his movements slow and infuriatingly confident, while you tried to gain the upper hand.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered instead, trying to mask the sudden warmth creeping up your neck.

Caleb, predictably, took the bait, his grin widening as he leaned back, stretching his legs out to trap yours in place. “You love me,” he shot back, effortlessly smug, not expecting anything more from you.

And maybe that was what made it so easy to say what you did next, words slipping out before you could think twice. “I’d probably be miserable without you.”

His foot froze against yours.

You didn’t notice, too focused on reclaiming your space in the ongoing foot war, pushing against his shin again with renewed determination. But across the table, Caleb had gone completely still, his smile faltering just slightly before he recovered, clearing his throat.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, shaking his head, but his ears were red, his voice softer than before.

Another time, he had stayed up with you all night, camping out in a virtual queue just to secure tickets to a Lumiere-themed convention. You had woken up that morning to a confirmation email and Caleb sprawled on your couch, half-asleep with his phone still in his hand.

You had launched yourself at him, tackling him in joy, and even though he had groaned about being used as a human pillow, he had never once pushed you away.

Looking back, you wondered if you had ever truly understood that these memories weren’t just tied to Lumiere. They were wrapped by the safety and happiness of Caleb always making space for your hyperfixations, in the laughter over something only he would ever indulge.

The things you treasured most had never belonged to Lumiere. They had always belonged to Caleb.

The old town, infested with Wanderers and long abandoned by warmth, was colder than expected — not the kind of cold that settled, but the kind that moved, restless and alive, carried on the wind like an unseen force threading through the empty streets, it was something biting, something electric, like static before a lightning strike, like unseen teeth grazing exposed skin.

You had felt it before Xavier did.

Even before the wind cut sharper, before the first true gust sent loose debris skittering across the road, you had known, drawn in on yourself instinctively, chin tucked, shoulders hunched, fighting the chill that threaded through your coat as if the layers meant nothing, arms locked tight around your body, gloved fingers curling against your sleeves, as if bracing for something just beyond the horizon.

And then, you had stopped talking somewhere along the walk back, words trailing off until there was nothing but the sound of your footsteps, picking up pace, pressing forward.

Xavier hadn't noticed — not at first.

Not in the way he should have.

He had just assumed you were cold, that you, like him, simply didn’t want to be caught outside when the storm hit. Had brushed it off as something normal — the logical reaction to impending bad weather.

The place they had taken for the night barely deserved to be called a shelter. It was a husk of a room, abandoned to time, walls bruised with damp stains that crept like ivy, smelling of old concrete and rusted metal. The single window rattled in protest against the wind, its warped frame allowing the night to slip through in cold, sharp breaths, laced with the damp tang of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

The heater struggled against the chill, wheezing out uneven bursts of warmth that never reached past the center of the room. Its hum was a frail thing, swallowed by the rising howl of wind that curled through the alleyways outside, hissing and whistling through unseen cracks in the foundation.

They had a plan — keep watch in shifts, take turns standing guard. But plans meant nothing when he felt safe enough and wooziness had already sunk its fangs deep, wrapping around his limbs, tugging him down like stones in water.

Sleep took him fast.

Swift. Unfought. Unnoticed.

At some undefined hour of the night, he surfaced from sleep — not to cold, but to warmth.

His mind waded through the haze of exhaustion, sluggish and unwilling, thoughts tangled in the remnants of whatever half-formed dreams had been unraveling in his head. Instinct kept his body still, his muscles coiled, tight, waiting. The room was silent except for the distant hush of wind through the cracks, the faint coughing of the heater struggling against the damp chill.

And then, awareness seeped in.

Something soft. Comfy. Pressed against him.

The warmth wasn’t from the heater.

It was you.

The realization was a breath held too long, burning his lungs. You had curled into him in sleep, your body drawn close as if seeking something — comfort, heat, him.

Even without seeing your face, he felt it in the way you clung, your fingers curled tight in the fabric of his shirt, gripping like something in you needed to hold on. Your knuckles pressed into his ribs, your breath ghosting across his skin in shallow, uneven pulls, whisper-soft, as if shaped from the same air that carried his secrets.

And you were trembling.

Not violently, not enough to wake, but enough that he noticed. Enough that something deep in his chest cavity wilted at the thought of whatever had driven you to this.

Outside, the storm had come in full.

Lightning split the sky in flashing white veins, illuminating the window for a fractured instant before plunging them back into darkness, wind howled through the streets, carrying the sharp, sudden crack of thunder. You flinched in your sleep, whining softly.

And suddenly, Xavier understood.

His body moved before his thoughts could catch up, a quiet, instinctual response written into muscle memory. He shifted — not abruptly, not enough to jostle you awake, but with a frictionless glide as if settling deeper into water without disturbing the surface.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight, adjusting to the subtle pull of your body against his. He could feel the way you fit against him, the way you curled inward, seeking warmth, seeking him. The fabric of his shirt tightened under your grip, your fingers still balling the material as if you weren’t ready to let go, even in sleep.

He could have woken you. Should have.

A gentle shake of your shoulder, a quiet murmur — It’s just a storm. It will pass.

But inexplicably, he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed.

Let you burrow closer, let your breath even out against his collarbone, let the fragile rhythm of sleep attempt to reclaim you, no matter how restless it was. The scent of you — faint traces of perfume and the lingering damp chill from the air outside — mixed with the slow burn of body heat between you, wrapping the moment in something neither of you would acknowledge in the morning.

He told himself he was only waiting. Just for a little while. Just until you settled.

What came next was barely a sound. A breath, a whisper, something fragile enough to be mistaken for the wind rattling through the walls.

“Caleb.”

Xavier froze.

A slow, twisting sickness thrashed in his gut, bitter and ugly, something he had no right to feel.

Outside, the city howled. Wind rushed through the skeletal remains of forgotten buildings, rain lashing against the rattling windowpane in fits of fury. Thunder cracked, deep and rolling, a sound that did not settle — it shuddered through the bones of the earth, rattled the air, tried to shake loose whatever it could.

But inside?

Inside, there was only this.

The press of your body against his. The shape of you molded against his side, fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt as if you meant to hold onto him. As if he was the gravity keeping you from drifting. As if you were reaching for him — not just in sleep, not just in the thick haze of exhaustion — but truly, blindly, instinctively.

And yet—

It wasn’t his name you whispered.

Xavier’s jaw locked, his breath shallow. He could have let you go. Could have moved away, broken the moment, shaken you gently awake and told you to take the bed. Could have reminded you, in some quiet, necessary way, that he was not the one you were calling for.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He let you stay there, let himself absorb the warmth of you, the weight of you. Let himself pretend, for just a moment, that this meant nothing. That it was only an exhaustion-born slip of the tongue, a dream clawing through the grave, something fleeting that would dissolve with the dawn.

The storm prowled in late, a hulking beast dragging its belly across the sky, smothering the moon beneath a thick, churning mass, its swollen clouds rolling like restless beasts. Lightning flickered in their depths, a pulse beneath thick, churning skin, illuminating the world in fractured glimpses — a flash of the windowpane, rain-streaked and rattling, a brief glint of an airplane model on the nightstand, the sharp angles of shadows clawing across the ceiling. Then darkness again. The first distant growls of thunder were rolling in low, stretching their echoes across the night.

Caleb barely noticed.

The flickering blue light of the TV played over his face, his body sprawled across the bed in an easy sprawl, one arm slung over his eyes. The hum of voices from the screen blended into the static haze of his thoughts, their weightless chatter filling the space without asking anything of him. A small comfort.

A bolt of lightning ripped the sky in half, flooding the room with a bone-white flash.

CRACK!

A thunderclap like a gunshot split the air, slamming into the apartment with a force that rattled the windowpanes, making the lights flicker, and Caleb flinched, breath caught mid-inhale. And just like that, awareness returned to him.

You were afraid of storms.

It had been years since you’d last crawled into his bed on a night like this, but fear didn’t just disappear — it wore new faces.

Just like life.

Once, fear had been the thunder outside your window. Now, it was subtler, more intangible, abstract. Time itself, pulling you both in opposite directions like a tide too strong to fight.

His world had grown far beyond the childhood walls that once felt endless. The cracked pavement of your old street had given way to stadium lights, the sharp echo of a basketball on concrete replaced with the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on polished hardwood. Grueling practices stole his evenings, high-stakes games consumed his weekends, and the weight of expectation had begun bearing down on his shoulders like a physical thing. Coaches, teammates, strangers — each of them had carved their own demands into him, shaping him into something more than just the boy you used to know.

A name. A talent. A future.

And yet, all of it — every late-night practice, every exhausting sprint, every sacrifice— had been a decision made in the quiet of his own mind.

For your sake.

Because while his world had stretched wide and far, you had remained at the center of it. Home was still in your shadow.

Had it been too much to expect for it to be the same for you?

You were no longer just the kid who used to chase after him, feet barely keeping up, breathless and laughing, wide-eyed and weightless and trusting in the way only children could be.

Your hands had once been so small, always grasping, always finding his wrist, his sleeve, the hem of his shirt—any part of him that anchored you. In crowded hallways, you used to press into his side as if the press of bodies and the rush of voices would swallow you whole if he wasn’t there to hold you tight, fingers curled tight in the fabric of his jacket like you thought he was going to leave you behind.

It was in the way you spoke now. No more sidelong glances in his direction, no more pausing to gauge his reaction before deciding whether to commit to a thought. The kind of confidence that wasn’t borrowed from him but built on your own ground.

It was in the spaces you carved out, the ones where his presence had become optional instead of assumed. The text chains he wasn’t part of, filled with names and inside jokes he didn’t recognize. The weekend plans you no longer ran by him first, the group outings where he wasn’t automatically included. People who had their own memories with you — memories he wasn’t in. Once, your world had overlapped so completely with his that he never questioned whether he had a place in it. Now, it was expanding, growing branches he hadn’t been there to water.

The signs were everywhere, in details so small they almost felt petty to notice — almost. The way you’d tilt your phone away when typing, in the existence of private social media accounts he didn’t have access to. The way you ordered for yourself at restaurants without giving him that familiar look, the unspoken “you know what I like” that used to pass between you. The way your late-night talks had dwindled, from every time something went wrong to only when it was serious.

Once, you would have knocked on his door in a heartbeat — over a bad test grade, a ruined outfit, a stubbed toe. Now, days passed before he even realized something had happened, and by the time he asked, you had already handled it. Solved it. Moved on.

And he told himself it was good. Healthy. A natural part of growing up.

But needing him less was one thing.

Needing him not at all — that was something else entirely.

And then there were the looks — the ones he hadn’t noticed at first, or maybe just refused to.

The first time he really saw it — not just noticed in passing, not just brushed off — was on the court at seventeen, the burn of the game still fresh in his muscles, sweat rolling down his spine in slow, sticky beads. His heart was hammering from the last play, his breath still unsteady, but none of that mattered the second his gaze flicked toward the sidelines.

You were there, exactly where you always were, standing just beyond the edge of the gym floor, your voice still ringing from whatever cheer you’d thrown his way. But he was there too — some near-graduate with too much ego and too little sense, stretching lazily near the bench like he wasn’t watching you, when he very much was.

Caleb saw it in the slow drag of his gaze, the way it traced over you like a hand, the up-and-down appraisal that made his stomach fold in on itself hot and tight.

This fossil wasn’t some kid on the playground getting red-faced and tongue-tied, some middle school idiot stammering through a crush while Caleb loomed over him, effortlessly making himself an immovable wall between you and them.

Back then, it had been easy. He never had to try. A single glance, a well-placed hand on your shoulder, a casual, dismissive she’s busy or oh, she’s not dating yet or she’s got a curfew or we’ve got family plans tonight was all it took to send whatever unfortunate boy packing. Those little guys were no real threat — not to him, not to you. They were children. Awkward, unsure, easily intimidated.

But this?

This was a whole different game.

Fourteen. His baby pip-squeak was fourteen. And that guy was nearly eighteen. A senior. Already filling out college applications. Already halfway out the door with a look that said I know exactly what I want, and I think I can take it.

Caleb felt the arrival of the crunch time before he fully processed it. The way his body tensed. The slow, curling heat that started in his chest, burned its way up the back of his neck and set his entire head on fire. His pulse had just begun to settle, but now it was climbing again for a different reason.

Of course, he didn’t throw a punch. Didn’t snap, didn’t bare his teeth, didn’t let the heat curling in his gut explode into something reckless.

Instead, he did what he always did — smiled.

That same easy, sunlit grin that made people relax. That made them believe he was nothing but warmth, nothing but laughter and good-natured charm. He slung an arm over his teammate’s shoulder, casual as ever, fingers pressing just a little too firmly into the guy’s back — friendly, but firm. A little too much weight in the gesture. A little too much control.

Like a predator playing with its food.

“Oh, man,” he laughed, loud enough to carry, his voice bright and effortless, even as something cold settled beneath it. “You think you can handle her? I live with her. Believe me, you do not want that smoke. She still holds a grudge over a game of Kitty Cards from, like, five years ago.”

His teammate chuckled, but it wavered with the subtle knowledge thrown his way about Caleb’s relation to you. A half-second too slow, a fraction too stiff. Caleb felt it — the subtle crack in his posture, the moment of hesitation.

Good.

Caleb clapped him on the back, kept his grip just strong enough, let the force of it push the guy a step forward, off balance. His grin never slipped, easy and golden, smooth as ever.

“Nah,” he added, shaking his head with a laugh. “You don’t want to stoop to her level and be a child with her. Trust me.”

And that was it.

That was the cut. You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.

It wasn’t the thunder that rolled overhead yanked him away from the memories but the knock. Barely more than a dull tap compared to the pelting rain.

A flicker of intent, and his evol pulsed through the air, slipping unseen into the metal of the lock. It gave without resistance, the faintest click swallowed by the storm’.

The door eased open, and there you were.

You stood at the threshold, wrapped in the dim glow spilling from the hallway, shadows pooling at your feet. Your sweater, probably stolen from his closet, if he had to guess, enveloped you like a hug, sleeves too long, hands swallowed in soft fabric, the hem skimming the tops of your bare thighs, and for a moment, he didn’t know if it was the storm making the room feel colder or the sight of you standing there, small and uncertain, like something fragile carried in by the wind. our hair clung to your cheeks, still damp from the shower, no matter how many times he’d told you to dry it properly. The Lumiere plushie — faded from years of love, seams slightly frayed — was clutched tight to your chest, its little embroidered eyes peeking out between your fingers.

For a second, you didn’t move. Just hovered there, framed by the doorway, uncertain. The flickering light from the hallway cast uneven shapes across your face, catching on the tension in your brow, the way your lips pressed together like you were still debating this. Still deciding whether to step forward or turn back.

The storm cracked overhead, a sudden burst of white against the night.

You flinched.

That was all it took.

Before he could say anything, you moved.

A blur of of warmth and familiarity as you darted forward, slipping beneath the blankets in a single, fluid motion, your body curling against his, urgent and instinctive, like you were a mole that could burrow deep enough to escape the storm itself.

The scent of shower clung to you, damp and cooled, mixing with the lingering sweetness of whatever tea you must have abandoned in the kitchen. Your skin, still chilled from the hallway, met the steady heat of his side, and the contrast sent a shiver through you — a quiet tremor he felt before he heard your voice.

“I hate this.”

The words came muffled, half-buried in the plush fabric of Lumière, your cheek pressed into the space between his shoulder and chest. Your fingers tightened around the stuffed toy, nails pressing into worn seams, but your body had already melted against his. Seeking. Settling. Staying.

“It’s too loud.”

He exhaled, measured and steady, adjusting the blankets in a practiced motion. Tucking you in. Smoothing the covers over your shoulder, pulling them snug around you both, layering warmth like a shield against the chaos outside.

But his hands lingered.

Half a second too long. Fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, feeling the shape of your wrist beneath.

Just a hesitation. Just a moment.

Then he let go.

Outside, the storm raged on. Inside, in the dim hush of the room, you had already begun to relax — breath evening out, shoulders losing their tension. Your weight, solid and real, grounding him in ways you probably didn’t realize.

He swallowed, tilting his head slightly, watching the way your lashes fluttered.

“Didn’t you say you’d be fine since Lumiere would protect you?” he teased with the kind of question meant to earn an indignant huff, a half-hearted rebuttal.

You just sighed instead, pressing in closer, tucking yourself into the space between his arm and his chest like you belonged there. Maybe you did.

“Lumiere can protect me in here, as well.”

Caleb let out a short, breathy snort, shaking his head, but didn’t push the moment further. The teasing remark on the tip of his tongue faded before it could form, swallowed by the quiet rhythm of your breathing against him. Instead, he let his focus drift back to the television, the glow of the screen flickering in shades of blue and white, the sound barely more than a murmur beneath the rain. His eyes tracked the movement, but none of it stuck — just colors, light, a meaningless blur against the weight of you snugly close beside him.

He could feel your heartbeat, a tad bit too fast and off-kilter, just beneath the layers of fabric between you. The rise and fall of your breath matched his own, an unconscious sync that had existed for as long as he could remember. The plush weight of Lumière was still crushed between you, your fingers lax around its worn edges. The storm continued, but none of the chaos reached you here. You were safe. You had always been safe with him.

That was the way it had always been.

Since you were small, since the first time a storm had driven you to his room, since the night you’d climbed into his bed without a word and dived beneath his blankets. Caleb had gotten used to it — used to the way you always found your way back to him when you were afraid, as if his presence alone was enough to ward off the things that scared you.

But something was different this time.

It wasn’t the first time you had curled up against him like this. Wasn’t the first time his bed had become your refuge against thunder and lightning. But it was the first time he was aware of it—so painfully, keenly aware.

Of the way your weight settled against him.

Of the way your warmth seeped through his clothes, into his skin.

Of the way his own breath felt suddenly too shallow, on the verge of shaking.

The first time in what felt like forever that he wasn’t just letting you exist beside him, wasn’t just offering quiet comfort out of habit.

It blindsided him, sharp and sudden, like stepping off a curb he hadn’t seen coming. His pulse stuttered — missed a couple beats, even — before picking up again, faster this time, uneven and unsteady. His breath caught, a fraction too shallow, barely making it past his throat.

Heat bloomed low in his stomach, curling, spreading, wrong. A rush of something hot and electric, sharp in its intensity, unwelcome in its timing. The front of his shorts grew uncomfortably tight, and panic — raw, visceral, boiling — shot through him before his brain could even fully register why.

His arm, draped around your shoulders in what had always been an easy, thoughtless gesture, suddenly felt rigid. His fingers twitched where they rested against the soft knit of your sweater, a tremor he hoped you wouldn’t notice. You were pressed so close, body warm and trusting, the scent of your shampoo curling into the space between you, something faintly sweet, familiar. The steady rhythm of your breathing ghosted against his collarbone, peaceful, unaware, safe.

Safe with him.

(You’re too grown for her, don’t even think about it.)

His stomach twisted, shame lashing through him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw locking tight, willing it away. Not now. Not here, not like this.

But it didn’t go away.

If anything, it sank deeper, worse.

Like an itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch, like a wire pulled too tight, like something recalibrating inside him in a way he wasn’t sure he knew how to stop.

One of your arms had somehow found its way under his shirt in the process of shifting closer, your fingers curled loosely against his ribs, barely brushing. The touch was a simple point of contact, yet it may as well have been a live wire pressed against him.

The stuffed Lumière had been shoved between you at some point, an afterthought, its worn fabric smushed and doing absolutely nothing to create any real distance. Your bare leg had tangled with his under the blanket, knee slotted against his in a way that should have been familiar, routine, but wasn’t — not anymore.

You had melted into his side the moment you felt safe, your body losing all tension like a sigh exhaled straight into him. He had felt it happen. The moment your fingers twitched once, twice, then stilled. The way your breathing deepened, evened out, slow and unguarded. The tiny, involuntary nuzzle as you nestled closer, like instinct, like trust.

It was the kind of thing he would have laughed at, should have laughed at — how absurdly fast you had knocked out, how easily you had settled into sleep as if the storm outside had never existed.

But he couldn’t laugh.

Because while you were perfectly at ease, he was staring at the ceiling, pulse jackhammering, dick rigid with something too messy to name and had him going completely, utterly insane.

This can't be happening.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

Shouldn’t be feeling like this.

Every rational part of him screamed it, pounded it into his skull like a warning siren. This was you — the same person who he had been sheltering even from his own eyes, the same person who had never thought twice before crawling into his space, his bed, his arms, whenever you needed comfort. And right now — right now — you were trusting him to be nothing but safe.

But safe was the last thing he felt.

His skin was too tight, heat licking up his spine, an uncomfortable, cloying pressure settling in the pit of his stomach that refused to ease no matter how many slow breaths he forced past his lips. The sheets felt too warm, the press of your body against his too much.

Then came the thought — the one he didn’t mean to have, the one he tried to shove down the moment it clawed its way into his brain.

It would be so easy to press your hand down firmer.

He crushed it before it could fully form, but the damage was already done.

Not just because of what he was feeling, but because of what he wasn’t feeling. No alarm, no disgust, no immediate, sharp-edged denial cutting through the fog about being your older brother — having to be your older brother. Just this. The slow, creeping horror of understanding that something had shifted long before this moment, that it had been shifting for years, and that he had been pretending not to notice.

The worst part wasn’t that it was happening.

The worst part was that he had spent so long convincing himself it never could.

That he had been so certain he had outgrown it. That he had locked it away, buried it, desensitized himself into something safe, into something good, into the person you needed and wanted him to be.

And yet—

And yet.

Here he was, feeling like this, every nerve in his body betraying him, his own self-control slipping through his fingers like sand.

Like he had never locked those feelings away at all.

Like they had only been waiting.

Touch had always been natural between you, something woven so seamlessly into the fabric of his life that he never stopped to think about it. It had been there since childhood, an unconscious language of familiarity, of belonging. You’d always looped your arm through his without a second thought, fingers hooking around his sleeve as you walked beside him, grounding yourself in his presence. Slipped your hands into his jacket pockets when the wind bit too sharply at your fingertips. Draped yourself over his back with a huff when you were too lazy to move, trusting him to hold your weight like it was nothing.

He could still feel the way you used to pull at the hem of his shirt when you wanted his attention, a silent, wordless request that he never needed to question. The way your forehead would press against his shoulder when exhaustion hit, your body sinking against his like it was second nature. The absentminded way you toyed with the ends of his hair when he was distracted, your fingers twisting through the strands in quiet loops. He had been used to it. To the gentle, fleeting pressure of your foot nudging his under the dinner table. To the way you never seemed to notice how close you sat, legs pressing together without hesitation. To the weight of your head against his chest when the world felt too loud and you needed silence wrapped in the steadiness of him.

It had always been that way. It had always been fine.

But lately — lately, things weren't quite right.

Not in the way you acted. You were the same. Still wrapping your arms around him after games, still slipping beneath his arm when you needed comfort. Still pressing into his side without hesitation, warm and familiar, never second-guessing the space you took up in his life.

But he felt it differently now.

It crept up on him in moments that should have been nothing — the way your warmth seeped through his clothes, the slow drag of your fingertips on the flushed skin of his ribs, the faint pressure of your breath against his skin when you leaned in close. A quiet, unbearable awareness.

You weren’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t your gege anymore.

Too much. Too much. Too much that he could collapse into a black hole right here, right now.

He needed to create space between you before he did something stupid.

But when he stirred slightly, you only sighed in your sleep, nuzzling further into him. The plushie that was basically a barrier between you slipped, letting him feel the press of the plush of your chest against him, your leg sliding firmly between his. He froze, every muscle in his body locking up, sweat beading along his hairline and face absolutely on fire.

No.

He pried your hand from underneath his shirt, the drag lingering on a loop inside his head even after he let go. His hands trembled, barely steady enough to nudge the stupid plushie out of the way, pushing it aside like it had been the thing keeping him pinned in place instead of you.

Slowly, he lifted himself from the mattress, moving inch by inch, muscles taut with the effort of keeping his movements smooth, controlled. Every cell in his body felt raw, hyper-aware of every rustle of fabric, every shuffle of weight. The mattress dipped as he pulled away, but you didn’t stir beyond a faint murmur, too deeply gone into blissed dreamland to notice his absence.

His pulse hammered in his throat as he hovered there, hesitating — watching the way you curled into the space he left behind, seeking warmth, unconsciously reaching for something that was no longer there.

He let out a slow, shaky breath before carefully sliding his pillow into your arms instead. It was an old thing, worn soft at the edges, still faintly carrying his scent. The moment it settled against you, you hummed — a barely-there sound, sleepy and content — as you pulled it close, nuzzling into the fluffy fabric, tucking your face into it the way you had done to him only moments ago.

You didn’t wake. Because as far as you were concerned, nothing had changed.

But Caleb sat there for a moment longer, watching you, fingers curling into loose fists uselessly at his sides, his breathing uneven in his own chest. The covers rose and fell with each peaceful breath you took, oblivious to the way his world had tilted on its axis.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, and reached to pull the blanket higher over your shoulder. Smoothed it down, lingering where it shouldn’t.

Then, without another sound, he slipped out of the room and spent the next hour standing beneath the icy spray of the shower.

The protofield and the Wanderer had vanished. Help was en route.

Xavier’s leg wound that he’d gotten while protecting you, while not fatal, was severe enough that crimson seeped through his dark pants and pulled between your quivering fingers as you applied pressure.

And the insufferable bastard just huffed through his nose, as if this were just another routine mission, another insignificant injury in a never-ending string of perilous nights with barely a flinch crossing his features, the sight of his own blood seemingly less concerning to him than it was to you.

“It’s not as bad it looks,” he repeated, for the tenth time.

The words only worked to ignite an infuriated coil inside, molten and barbed.

Your hands tightened, pushing down harder than you needed to. He barely reacted. Just watched you, lovable and doe-eyed, his body slack in a comfortable way against the broken wall behind him. The dimness of the failing streetlamps trying to reach into the alley you two were in cast his silver hair in eerie light, making him look even more ghostly than usual.

“Stop saying that,” you said, shakier than a house of cards in a storm, accusing.

His breathing was deep. Slower than it should be. Your brain was running too fast, trying to calculate blood loss, survival rates, anything to make sense of what was in front of you. But all you could see was him, pale under the glow, blurred because of the saltwater pooling in your eyes, fading like smoke. Like if you blinked, he might vanish completely with the teardrops.

You started digging through your pack, yanking out the field kit with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. You needed to stop the bleeding. You needed to make sure he stayed. Stayed with you.

Not again.

The med kit slipped through your fingers, scattering across the pavement. Your ears rung with the loud noise the metal case made, subconscious plunging you back in that day. 

Not again.

You re-experienced the force of the explosion that had thrown you to the ground, had ripped the breath from your body. The world burned. Heat, suffocating, picking at your skin like a vulture, searing your lungs.

Fire, ash, the splintered ruins of what had once been home. And you, crawling through the rubble, reaching for something, anything. Your fingers had closed around metal — small, cool despite the heat — the necklace you'd gifted Caleb, half-buried in dust and debris. What remained of him, worn but still legible, pressed into your palm. It was all that was left.

Not again.

Nausea gripped your stomach as your blood-stained hands hovered in the air, fingers twitching with clumsiness of desperation. But this time was different. You weren't grasping for ghosts, sifting through the ashes of an irreparable past. Could still do something. had to do something.

Reaching for the scattered supplies, your wrist was suddenly caught in Xavier's gentle grip, stapling you to the present moment.

“You’re panicking,” he commented.

Yanking your hand away, you retorted sharply, "Of course I'm panicking. You're bleeding out, Xavier."

He studied you intently, head tilted in that familiar, contemplative manner, searching for the traces of what that had pulled this state out of you. Then, with a hint of misplaced levity, he remarked, "This is nothing. A quick nap will fix me."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Your throat tightened. The world swayed for half a second, the ill-timed attempt at reassurance in his words reduced to a cup of water tossed onto a wildfire.

You thought of all the times before, of wounds that hadn’t healed, of a love confession whispered too late. Too late, after the funeral, when you stood before the empty grave, the one filled with nothing but dirt and a marker with his name. There had been no body to bury, no hand to touch one last time, no real goodbye to be had. Just you, alone, the cold night bleeding your life force, the whisper of your own voice breaking as you knelt, fingers digging into the soil, telling him the words you should have said when he was still there to hear them.

"Please, stop being like that, I can't—" Your voice cracked as you ducked your head, hiding your face from him, palm pressing against your mouth to stifle the words threatening to spill out. I can't do this again.

Xavier let out a fast breath, his posture stiffening in the kind of regret that made people avert their eyes. The joke had fallen flat, misplaced at a time like this, and he knew it. Another inhale, slower this time, he flexed his fingers against his thigh, then stilled, hovering on the edge of movement, caught between reaching for you and holding himself back.

His gloved hand moved, brushing lightly against your cheek.

He was warm. He was still warm.

Your breath caught. The fear squeezed you dry.

You had waited too long with Caleb, naively believing he'd always be there for you just like he promised, naively believing he was invincible just as he was in your childhood self's adoring eyes.

And now, here, with Xavier bleeding in front of you, you refused to wait again.

You didn’t think. You just kissed him.

It was sudden, too quick, too desperate. He stiffened under your touch, startled — but he didn’t pull away, didn’t break the contact, just let you take and take and take because you were drowning and he was the only thing keeping you above the surface.

Your fingers twisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer like you could hold him together, like you could keep him here. Your hands were still slick with his blood, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything except the way his breath hitched, the way he stayed perfectly still for a fraction of a second before his hands moved.

One to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The other against your waist, grounding. He kissed you back with a cautious intensity, uncertain at first, but growing decisive, nothing like the way you kissed him. Like he was learning you, like he was mapping out every shaky breath, every fractured sound you made.

When your kiss began to tremble, he seamlessly took control, molding his mouth to yours as if this dance were one he had practiced countless times before.

Slow, gentle, soothing. He chased the taste of salt on your lips, breathing the shuddering sound you made down like it was sustenance. He tasted like earth and ozone, clean in ways that reminded you of starlight, of open skies and safe nights. This moment felt small, private, contained — his body curved into yours, warm, solid, a shelter where you could fall apart and still be held together. His scent washed over you, crisp, like fresh air after a storm, dizzying — reminding you exactly whose mouth was against yours, exactly whose hands were touching you right now, exactly where you were.

Everything ached. It hurt too much, it wasn't enough. You wanted him closer. Always closer. Until all you could breathe, until all you could taste was the shape of his name on the roof of your mouth.

You pulled away, gasping against his parted lips, head spinning.

Before you could apologize — for losing control, for being selfish, for needing someone so desperately you didn't stop to consider whether or not that was what they wanted too, or the shape they were in — he tugged you into the curve of his shoulder, resting his cheek against the top of your head. Fingertips grazed along your arm, tracing your scar tissue like braille. His heart thrummed against your ear, strong, steady. Loud.

"It'll be okay," he said. "I'll be okay. I promise."

The words were hushed. Reassuring. Absolute.

Somehow, you believed him.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the panic drained away. Your muscles uncoiled, nerves steadying. The ringing in your ears faded. Slowly, slowly, everything sharpened back into focus.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

"You better be," you said, shaky as a leaf in winter, brittle, thin, the syllables weak against the night. "You can't make me fall for you only to just die like this."

These words had never left your heart before. Swelled there for years, growing too big, but never leaving, never finding their way out into the cold. They had belonged to Caleb once. Caleb, who smiled wide as a sky at sunset and ran faster than a starship and wore his kindness like armor. But now the words meant something new. Now you didn't have to keep them locked up inside of you, guarded and afraid of what would happen if you let them loose. The shape of them still fit. Differently, maybe, but they weren't lost, weren't strangled or broken. It felt like letting a bird free from its cage after years of watching its wings grow frail in confinement.

The wind sighed softly through the trees. A stray cat hissed. Little glowing spots began floating around like dust particles.

Xavier pulled back abruptly. Stared at you, unblinking, the ink blue of his eyes shining. Evenly. Silent. Still holding you.

For a moment, nothing happened. For a moment, everything stopped. Time slowed around you, caught between one breath and the next. And then—

Light.

Xavier began to glow. Silvery-white, like a miniature star, brilliant enough that he illuminated the entire alley. The color bled outward, pouring down his shoulders in rivulets, streaming over his arms, dripping off his fingertips. He seemed to fold in on himself, bowing his head in embarrassment — but all you could do was watch, transfixed, mesmerized.

Something warm flared within your chest, unfamiliar. Like you could feel Xavier through your heart, humming just beneath your sternum, some part of him pressed close against your pulse point. He wasn't bright enough to blind you, just enough to bathe your surroundings in starlit brilliance, seeping into the cracks in the crumbling pavement, the shadows cast by overgrown hedges, the empty shell of a playground down the street.

"Xavier..."

"Sorry," he mumbled, covering his face with the back of his hand like he could hide somehow, shield himself from his own radiance. His ears were red. "This is... not what I meant to do."

You reached out toward him without thinking, fingertips brushing against the fabric of his glove. He froze. Noticing yourself, you hesitated, realizing exactly what you were about to do — touch a star, an impossible thing, a dream — but then his hand twitched, settling firmly into yours in a way that you were almost convinced it was always meant to belong there. His fingers laced through yours, warm and secure, like he'd done this a thousand times. His grip loosened. Tightened. Loosened. Reassuring both you and himself that this was real. This was happening. Neither of you would drift apart and dissolve like morning fog beneath the light of the sun. You wouldn't blink, and he wouldn't be gone.

Gentle warmth wrapped around you. Comfort. Steadfast support. Starlight in the darkness, chasing away the shadows.

"I love you, Xavier," you told him, echoing the words again, wanting him to hear, wanting him to understand. You placed the shape of them into his upturned palms you pulled down to his lap to see his face clearer, and his grip tightened. "I'm in love with you."

The light emanating from him intensified. A shimmering aura that shone around him like a corona. It pulsated once, twice, before seeming to catch on something and expanding like a burst of fireworks. White orbs of light poured from nowhere, dancing through the empty space between your bodies, suspended in mid-fall. A few fluttered down to land against the backs of your hands covering his.

"Would you be mad if I said that... I must be on the brink of death to imagine hearing these words?" Xavier's confession tumbled from his lips hesitantly. In the starlight, his face looked youthful, vulnerable, younger than you had ever seen before. "Even if this is my brain playing tricks on me before it fails, I'm happy."

Emergency lights flashed against the houses lining the street, probably using Xavier glowing like a midnight sun as a beacon, faint red and blue lights cutting into your vision. Xavier heard it too, since he drew you tighter against him and buried his face against your shoulder. One hand released yours to curl protectively around your head. Even though this embrace didn't smother his shine, Xavier used it like a cocoon to encapsulate you. To guard you, like you were the wounded one in need of protection, and not him.

The ambulance doors opened with a hydraulic whirring sound. Footsteps approached quickly. At least two pairs, judging by the sound. Voiceless words spilled into the alley from the paramedics' radios. The static intermittently cracked between the garbled syllables, distorting some of them into incomprehensibility.

All at once the starlight winked out, plunging the street back into the dark.

"Tell me again once we are home." The words brushed past your ear, carrying an intimacy that made you swallow against the dryness of your throat, made you bury your face more deeply against his shoulder. Home. "Please. So I know I haven't dreamed this up."

The air down in Linkon carried that early autumn crispness that rose from real soil Skyhaven didn’t have — cool enough to sharpen the senses, not quite enough to bite. The first traces of fallen leaves clung to the pavement, the scent of rain in the cracks of the sidewalks. Caleb adjusted the strap of his duffel bag as he stepped off the tram, stretching his shoulders as he took in the city around him. It was familiar, the building-rich skyline cutting pointy shapes against the evening sky, the low hum of traffic filling the streets, but something about it felt...

He had been away too long.

Skyhaven had pulled him into its orbit the moment he arrived, swallowing whole whatever life had come before. Days blurred together in cycles of training, flight simulations, and coursework that left little room for anything beyond forward motion. Every morning began the same: drills before sunrise, sweat stinging his eyes, muscles burning as he pushed himself further, faster. Afternoons were a relentless stream of lectures, technical briefings, theory stacked upon theory until the numbers and flight paths blurred in his mind. Even the nights were accounted for — hours spent in the simulator pods, perfecting maneuvers until the glowing interface was burned into the backs of his eyelids.

There was no room for spontaneity at Skyhaven. No empty spaces to fill with last-minute plans or lazy afternoons. His world had been compressed into systems — routine, structure, efficiency. He knew exactly when to eat, when to train, when to sleep. Knew the weight of his rations down to the last calorie, the time it took to shave a fraction of a second off a flight sequence, the precise moment his body would demand rest before pushing past it anyway.

It was such a whiplash to be home, all things considered.

His room at Gran’s place wasn’t really his anymore. It had the same walls, the same furniture, but it felt more like a museum exhibit than a lived-in space — a carefully preserved snapshot of someone he used to be.

The bookshelves were still lined with old textbooks, pages stiff from time, filled with equations and flight theories he once poured over like scripture. The model airplanes he built by hand sat untouched on his desk, their delicate structures gathering dust, frozen mid-flight. Posters, faded from years of sunlight creeping through the blinds, hung at odd angles where the adhesive had begun to peel. It was all still there, exactly as he had left it.

And yet, it didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore.

It was more of a storage closet for the past, a collection of objects tied to a version of himself that no longer fit, as if waiting for a version of him that no longer existed to return. But it had a way of creeping in when he least expected it.

Your favorite song playing in the campus coffee shop, breaking through the rigid structure of his day like you’d just knocked on his door, the scent of something familiar drifting through the halls, pulling him back to late nights in Gran’s kitchen, you sitting cross-legged on the counter as he tried to study, chattering about whatever new fixation had taken over your brain that week.

Now, the closest thing he had to those endless summers with you were the five-minute breaks between classes, when he’d glance at his phone and see your name lighting up the screen. A meme, a quick update, a half-formed thought sent without context — small things, fleeting things, but still enough to remind him that you were there.

Sometimes, it was just a single reaction picture in response to something he had said hours ago. Other times, it was a wall of text, a full-fledged rant about something that had clearly gotten under your skin — another debate with some idiot online, a disastrous group project that made you question about how those people had gotten into college at all, an overanalysis of the show you’d decided to watch together. And every so often, it was something quieter. A late-night message, typed out but never sent until morning that meant, “I miss you,” in your language.

You ever think about how weird it is that we don’t live in the same city anymore? Like, I can’t just show up at your room and annoy you :(

He always answered, even if it took him hours to find the time.

Because no matter how much distance stretched between you now, the messages kept him tethered to you like the string did to a kite.

He pulled out his phone, glancing at the last message and location you had sent him: Meet me at the plaza. We’re hunting.

A small, fond smile tugged at his lips.

The “Find Lumiere” campaign had taken the city by storm. A massive scavenger hunt dedicated to the legend himself, the hero who had saved mankind during the Chronorift Catastrophe ten years ago. Clues were scattered across major landmarks, leading participants on a chase to uncover fragments of his legacy, with tickets to the first screening of the new movie they were making about Lumiere promised to the winners.

Of course you were obsessed with it.

Caleb had never said it out loud, but for the longest time, he had been jealous of Lumiere. Or, rather, what Lumiere meant to you.

It was irrational, of course. Lumiere wasn’t real — not in the way that mattered. And yet, Caleb had spent years competing with the idea of him, feeling that strange, sour feeling whenever he saw you fawning over an image of a man who had saved you in more ways than one when Caleb wasn't there to do so. 

Because, at every age, he wanted to be the one you looked at like that. He wanted to be the one you admired, the one who made your eyes sparkle the way they did whenever you spoke about Lumiere. He had been your person for so long, the one you relied on, the one you trusted — but even as kids, there had always been that distance, that unreachable part of you that belonged to a random dude you wrote RPF about.

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way to the plaza.

You were already at your rendezvous point, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet as you checked your phone, your expression focused. Your jacket was too thin for the weather, but you never cared about things like that when you were excited. Caleb took a moment to just look at you, to take in the way you had changed — taller, more sure of yourself, your hair styled differently than he remembered.

“Didn’t even let me settle in before dragging me around the city?” he teased, stepping up beside you.

Your head snapped up, and the moment your eyes met his, a wide grin split across your face. “Obviously. This is a once-in-a-lifetime event, Caleb. You should be honored I’m making you my partner for it.”

He scoffed but couldn’t help the warmth that spread in his chest. “Yeah, yeah. So what’s the plan?”

You immediately launched into an explanation, showing him the map on your phone, outlining all the locations where the next clue could be. Caleb listened, but mostly, he just watched you, letting the familiar rhythm of your excitement wash over him.

Maybe you had grown apart. Maybe life had taken you in different directions. But right now, in this moment, it didn’t feel that way. It felt like no time had passed at all.

He would never get tired of watching your face light up when you were truly invested in something. The way it always seemed to catch people off guard, how utterly genuine and open you were whenever you felt strongly about something. It was honest; it was you.

So it wasn't entirely out of character for him to notice how lovely you looked today that he could just lean down and capture your lips with his own. Just the imagination got his mouth dry, throat working hard to swallow as he averted his eyes.

The first clue was hidden near the old Chronorift Memorial, a massive glass sculpture in the heart of the city that stood as a tribute to the devastation. Caleb watched as you practically bounced in place, your breath fogging in the chilly air as you scanned the area for anything that looked out of place.

“Oh! Over there!” You grabbed his arm before he could react, tugging him toward the base of the monument.

Caleb let himself be dragged along, ignoring the way his skin heated at the contact. The crowd gathered around the sculpture was thick, blocking whatever sign you were pointing at. All Caleb could see was you, the shine staining your eyes, your sparkling excitement.

God, he'd missed this. Missed you.

Without thinking, his fingers curled around your wrist, brushing the soft skin beneath. Your pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips, beating fast with energy and excitement, and he let himself savor the feeling. He missed seeing you this happy.

"Look!" you cried, reaching up on your tiptoes for balance. "I think I spotted something there."

Caleb followed your line of sight up toward the top of the monument — and sure enough, just below the highest peak of glass sat a tiny object, glinting in the sun.

"Think I can climb up?" you asked aloud, frowning at the structure as you examined the potential footholds. The memorial's glass surface was polished smooth, with no apparent way of scaling the towering mass, though that didn't stop you from trying.

Caleb reached out a hand though to pluck it easily out of the sky, and the object flew towards him. He waved it back and forth over your head. "How 'bout you just ask for it like normal people?"

Your mouth dropped into a dramatic frown. "Rude. If this was a proper game, you would've given me the illusion of a fighting chance before stealing my loot from under my nose."

"I'll make it up to you," he laughed, spinning the prize between his fingers. “You know, I think I’m a little offended. I saved your life, like, a million times growin' up, and you never obsessed over me like this.”

You snorted, rolling your shoulders back in a casual shrug. "Never crossed my mind. Besides, Lumiere wasn’t an asshat."

It was Caleb's turn to scoff. You motioned with your palm held upright like a customer waving down service.

"Please. Sire. Kind sire." He shook his head at your antics but gave you the small golden thing anyway. Your face lit up as you took it carefully between your fingers. "Thank you, kind sire. May good fortune bless you upon our next meeting."

It was actually a puzzle, which he guessed would contain a clue leading to the next location.

After solving the puzzle, you gleefully tapped at the digital interface attached to your wrist, navigating the device expertly until the next coordinates appeared onscreen. "Found it. Not far from here actually... should only take us a few minutes to walk there."

And so you continued your treasure hunt together.

Time drifted like clouds across the sky, lazy and aimless, broken by quick bursts of purpose. A stroll turned to weaving through foot traffic, hustling in fits and starts as you hunted down your destination and discovered the next hint in line. The setting changed — crowds grew thicker, colors bolder, lights brighter — and yet the pace stayed the same: slow, steady, unhurried. Caleb thought you would have wanted to hurry, but instead, you lingered. Stopping to buy two cups of warming tea along the way. To exchange an old bill for shiny coins. To listen to the music pouring from the doors of a small cafe as passersby filtered in and out.

It was nice.

Really nice, actually.

For a while, Caleb forgot everything beyond the edges of the bubble surrounding you, letting the sounds fade into nothing but white noise.

At one point, when you reached the endpoint, a question suddenly rose to his tongue, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

"Why me?" he asked without meaning to. "I'm not exactly an obvious choice to play tag with."

You lifted an eyebrow at him, glancing over at your map again. "You kidding? Who else would I invite?"

Caleb shrugged, the cold breeze grazing his shoulders, making him fold them in just a little bit closer.

"A friend?" He shot you a playful grin that came easier than he thought possible, earning himself a shove. "I don't think we've done this in ages. What makes today special?"

His stomach did a somersault when you hooked your arm around his elbow, holding onto his sleeve tightly.

"What about spending time with Caleb is so horrible to you? We haven't seen each other much these days. I'd love some quality time before you leave again." You nudged his side gently. Sincerity disguised as banter. He caught your tone of affection rather well, so well he couldn't help but feel giddy from your proximity. How warm your hand was wrapped around his elbow.

Even with the light atmosphere, it struck him like lightning how much he had been craving such small intimacy with you.

And right there, right then, the urge to tell you how he felt nearly consumed his entire being. Like he would crumble from the inside out if he kept pretending to be your brother for a minute longer. Yet, as much as he was dying to let it all out — because that is how bad he had it for you — there was also the more likely scenario of you finding him repulsive.

Just the idea of a life without you by his side made him sick and dizzy.

No, not today. Not anytime soon. He'd rather be by your side until the end of his days and wear the mask of gege than be hated by you.

So he swallowed down those three words, locking them tight in a chest bound by iron chains within the deepest recesses of his heart. And, ignoring the dull ache that remained in their wake, forced himself to brush off the truth like the joke he wished it were.

"You could write me letters if you miss me that much, pip-squeak," he teased, nudging your shoulder with his.

You leaned against him easily, swaying with the motion as you bumped into his side. "Pssh."

Then your hand slid down his forearm, curling around the crook of his elbow as you rested your chin on his shoulder. From here, you looked up at him through lashes streaked in amber sunlight, a happy, contented smile touching the corner of your lips.

Something expanded inside Caleb's heart — hot and painful and aching. He felt suddenly like he might cry, walking down the sidewalk through the throng of people going about their day as the wind ruffled through your hair, the heat of your palm seeping through the sleeve of his jacket, warm and solid where you held onto him.

If he closed his mind to everything else, if he ignored the way you smelled like home, if he could make himself pretend that the shape of your body against his was sister-shaped, just maybe — maybe — he could convince himself that this was enough. It had to be enough. Because even if Caleb wasn't quite certain when his feelings toward you began, or when they evolved beyond the bounds of familial ties — even if he knew you would never see him that way and loved him when he was your gege, that you would never know this small sliver of reality — he still had you. Right now, in this moment, the person most precious in the world to him stood next to him with your head resting on his shoulder. Smiling, trusting, safe.

And that was more important than any label he could slap on it.

Xavier hadn’t meant to stay the night.

He wasn’t even sure when he had fallen asleep.

One minute, they had been sitting on her couch, drinking tea from mismatched mugs, the only sound between them the low hum of the TV and the soft, lazy crackling of rain against the window. It had been late — too late — and you had been curled up beside him, half-draped in a blanket, the fabric of your sweater slipping just past your fingertips as as you scrolled idly through your phone.

Xavier had been reading, an old paperback you had lying around just for his enjoyment, the spine creased from years of use. He never asked where you got them — books with pages instead of screens — but he liked the way they smelled, the quiet permanence of ink pressed to paper.

The next thing he knew, the morning light was slipping in through the curtains, cool and blue, and you were gone.

He blinked, exhaling slowly as he sat up. The couch creaked under his weight.

He wasn’t alarmed — he never was — but his first instinct was to check for you anyway, a quiet, habitual concern that never quite left him. His ears picked up the faint noise of water running. The shower.

He leaned back against the couch, rubbing his fingers over his eyes, then glanced at the time.

6:42 AM.

Too early. But he should go.

He pushed himself to his feet, rolling his shoulders, then went to grab his jacket from where he had tossed it over the chair. He reached for it — then paused.

The bookshelf beside the chair caught his attention.

Not because he had never seen it before — he had been in your place countless times by now, had run his fingers over the neat stacks of old holotapes and datapads, the figurines and the framed pictures —but because one of a drawer, just beneath the shelf, slightly open. A few inches, maybe less.

It hadn’t been that way last night. He was sure of it.

Xavier never pried. He had spent too many years keeping his own secrets to go looking for anyone else’s. But something about that space, about the way the papers inside were just barely visible, about the way they had been tucked away yet left ajar, made his fingers pause against the zipper of his jacket.

Paper.

Not anything digital. Not an emitter. Handwritten pages.

Xavier frowned slightly, spine going ramrod straight. His fingers twitched once against his sides, tingling at the tips.

He should walk away.

Instead, he reached down and pulled the drawer open.

The pages inside were stacked haphazardly, some folded, others crinkled at the edges like they had been handled too many times, as if they had been written, held, then discarded — kept, but never sent. The ink had bled into the fibers of the pages in places where the pressure had been too much.

He pulled out the topmost one, smoothing it with his fingers. Your handwriting. He knew it instantly. A little rushed, pressed into the paper as though you had been writing quickly, too quickly.

Then he saw the name.

Caleb.

His grip on the paper tightened.

The words on the page blurred for a moment, but he forced himself to focus. He forced himself to read.

Caleb, I don’t know how to start this, or even why I’m writing it. Maybe because I don’t know how else to reach you. Maybe because if I put it down on paper, it might cleanse me like one of those full body detox things that I would no longer feel so bloated anymore with this poison I’m trying my hardest to hide from him. I still wake up expecting you to be one call away. I still reach for my phone thinking I can send you a voice message while I wait for my takeout to arrive, tell you something ridiculous that happened, or send you a picture of something stupid just because I know you’d call me to laugh about it. But you’re not here, and I’m talking to an empty space where you used to be. You were always the one I counted on. The one who knew me better than anyone. I could say a single word, and you would know exactly what I meant, what I was feeling, what I needed even when I didn't want to say it out loud. And now, months later, without you, I still feel like I’m missing a part of myself. Like something vital has been cut away, and I am expected to keep going like I don’t notice the absence. But I do. Every second, I do. I should have told you. I should have told you a long time ago.

Xavier’s shallow breaths were loud in his ears.

If I had, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I wouldn’t be here, writing this, trying to hold onto something that has already slipped through my fingers. Maybe if I had been braver, if I hadn’t been so afraid of gran and ruining what we had, you would have known just how much you meant to me. To this day, I don’t know how to move on. Everyone thinks I have. That time is the best medicine there is, after all. But how can I, when so much of me is still tangled in you? When every step I take feels like I’m walking further and further away from you, and I’m terrified that one day I’ll look back and realize you’ve faded from my memory, that I won’t remember the sound of your voice, or the way you laughed, or the exact shade of your eyes in the sunlight. But it’s more than that now. It’s not just the fear of forgetting, it’s the guilt of moving on. Of letting someone else hold me, kiss me, love me in the ways I never got to lov I wonder if you would even care. If it would matter to you at all knowing there’s someone in my life now. Would you look at me the way you always did, like a little sister, someone to protect, to guide, and still feel responsible for even in your big age? Would it even cross your mind that I waited and it’s my biggest regret? But I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I love him. I didn’t wait to tell him until after I was forced to lose him. Confessing before it was too late was the best decision I’ve ever made. And I don’t know what to do with that. Because when I’m with him, there are moments, just flickers, tiny fractures in time, where I forget. And then, all at once, it comes back. The missing piece. You. If you were here, if you could read this, I don’t even know what I’d want you to say. I just know that I’d give anything to hear you call me pip-squeak one more time. I need you to tell me it’s okay. That I’m not leaving you behind. That I can love him and still carry you with me. But you’re not. And I have to live with that.

The ink trailed off there.

There was a crease in the page, like you had pressed the pen too hard until you changed your mind.

Xavier stared at it.

The paper felt fragile between his fingers, like it might tear apart if he held it for too long.

Slowly, he put it back, and pressed the drawer shut.

He turned. His feet carried him soundlessly across the floor, toward the hallway, to where he could hear the steady drumming of water against the bathroom tiles, to where you stood facing the shower wall, head bent, your hair falling in thick wet clumps around your shoulders.

You heard his footsteps — of course you did — and lifted your head as he entered. Water cascaded down your back, collecting briefly at the base of your spine before disappearing. Your skin shone, faintly, the steam curling off the glass, settling in a soft cloud around your body, clinging to the planes and curves of it. You seemed to glow in that tiny space, a radiant centerpiece amongst white tile. You gave him a tired smile as he approached — inviting, questioning.

"Sorry! Did I wake you?" you asked instead, your face flushed pink from the heat, strands of wet hair stuck against your damp neck and collarbones. Your tongue darted over your lips as you moved beneath the spray of water again, turning away from him to put away the shampoo bottle on the built-in soap tray.

Xavier's hand landed against the frosted glass door. The hinges groaned softly in protest when he swung it fully open. Your eyebrows rose high onto your forehead when he stepped inside without asking, closing the space between you in three strides, boxing you in against the marble wall. The shock of hot water bearing down on him didn't quite register through the dead focus he had on you.

Your lips parted, breath catching. In surprise? In interest? He wasn’t sure, and right now he didn't care. Something childish tugged at him. Something that didn't care he was fully clothed, the black turtleneck sticking uncomfortably to his skin, jeans tightening with water. All he could think about was how soft you looked despite everything. How good you smelled, flowery and clean, how your wet skin practically sparkled beneath the fluorescent light of the bathroom.

How badly he wanted to etch himself into you, to have his name spill from your lips like fresh ink, blotting out the ghost of a dead man already written in your past.

Water droplets clung to your eyelashes. On impulse, he reached up to brush them away gently, and they fluttered against his knuckles.

"Xavier, what—"

"I had a nightmare," Xavier cut in smoothly, feeling more like himself, sounding far calmer than he really was. "Will you comfort me?"

"Oh..." The word came out somewhere between surprise and concern, tinted with something sympathetic. Xavier had to be looking half out of his mind, or too pathetic, standing here as soaked as a drowned rat in front of you while you were naked. He was worrying you. The idea snapped him back to reality like a splash of hot oil, and he immediately wanted to turn tail and leave before you demanded he elaborate. He couldn’t. Couldn't admit this was his version of needing affection. You frowned, reaching out to rest your hand over the side of his neck to draw him closer. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Xavier replied without missing a beat, leaning down to bump his nose against yours. Gingerly, like he wasn't quite sure if this would be welcomed, he rested his hands lightly on either side of your waist, the water sluicing down his back, warm, comfortable despite the situation. His throat bobbed once, twice, and he dipped his head down, unable to keep himself from admitting what he wanted most from you.

Your touch relaxed. It slid behind the back of his neck, fingers curling inward. He felt grounded again with your palms tracing a path down to his back, one palm pressed flat and firm between his shoulder blades while the other ghosted along his nape. It made goosebumps rise on his flesh, a pleasant sensation only you could provide. And when he bowed forward, your frame folded to accommodate, molding against his broader shoulders perfectly, bringing him into a sweet embrace. One that burned into his memory, warming him to the bone in more ways than just physical.

"Okay... Okay. Let's get you out of these wet clothes first," you cooed sympathetically and kissed him right below his ear. That tender, understanding gesture made Xavier's heart squeeze in his chest painfully. He thought about the letters hidden away in the drawer, if you had done anything like this at all with Caleb, but he quickly banished it from his thoughts and focused on the solid feeling of your body slotting so easily into his, like you were always meant to be there. Where no one else was allowed. "Then tell me how I can help, okay? Whatever you need."

Fifteen minutes later, Xavier had your front pressed into the condensation-dripping wall of the shower after he'd stripped off all his clothes and joined you.

You were flattened against the chilly surface as your nails clawed helplessly against the slick tiles, eyes were glazed over, lips swollen. One arm looped securely around your midsection, cupping one breast possessively, while the other braced a forearm beside your head and against the wall, trapping you effectively between Xavier and the marble barrier, each thrust pushing you upward on your tiptoes as he grinded insistently against you from behind. His grunts tickling the shell of your ear amidst his deep, staccato breaths as he buried himself up to the hilt, bottoming out deep within your pulsating core, piercing the misty veil surrounding them in an intimate halo.

Everything felt too intense. Too intimate. It shouldn't have been so overwhelming — this wasn't even a new position or angle. But something about it today made Xavier feel like the world was collapsing around him, and the only thing he could hold onto was your body, writhing beautifully between him and the smooth stonework. And maybe that was exactly what it was, he mused vaguely between driving into you from behind while relishing how hot and wet and tight you were around his cock — a sort of catharsis, releasing emotions he never voiced aloud, able to purge the anxieties he normally swallowed down just from hearing you chant his name incessantly, each moan like honey trickling down his throat and pooling warm in his belly.

You were practically keening underneath him now, rocking backwards as best you could to meet every roll of his hips with matching fervor. Your face angled toward him, seeking a kiss which he eagerly acquiesced, both of you moaning brokenly into one another's mouths at the perfect slide of his tongue against yours, tangling almost lazily in comparison to the frantic rhythm building between you two. Xavier reveled in the sweetness of your taste, licking deeper past your lips with unashamed greediness while enjoying your muffled gasp and subsequent whimpers vibrating on his palate.

There wasn't anywhere else in the universe Xavier would rather be than inside this shower cubicle fucking you senseless until the only thing remaining on your tongue were prayers begging for release and praise echoing throughout the enclosed space, resonating clearly through his ears and straight into his pounding chest.

"Call out my name more," Xavier uttered hoarsely, punctuating each word with a hard slam of his hips that made you choke on your cries of ecstasy. You complied beautifully without question, moans spilling unrestrained from those perfect, kiss-swollen lips alongside declarations of love that had the tempo of his hips speeding up, becoming faster, harder, rougher. "Who's here with you right now?"

"Y—Xavier!"

At this rate, Xavier might end up blowing his load first before being able to feel you tighten around him one last time. The sound of his name in that husky, breathless tone made his balls tingle warningly, pleasure threatening to spill over at any moment. "Again," He growled darkly as his pelvis connected audibly with the supple flesh of your ass. "Who's making you feel good? Who is making you forget your own name right now, hm?"

Your reply came out in between pants. "You, Xavier! Oh god, Xavier! Only you!"

"Yes... Me," he crooned triumphantly, sinking his teeth firmly enough into the meat of your shoulder so you would remember the shape of his mark, leaving red marks that resembled brands branded into your soft flesh. "Only I can give you what you need, isn't that right? No one else. Nobody else will ever do... I'm the one here... Now..."

[ghost-proofbaby]

I love the idea of Eddie having an especially grueling day at work his friend (they have mutual feelings but nothing has been said) offers to give him a massage. Eddie is genuinely grateful but also vv flustered by the end!!

listen. LISTEN. i know this got out of hand. i know i said these were going to stay short n sweet. i know what i said and promised. but. listen. you can't hand me a prompt that is just so delicious, with so much potential to sprinkle in a light dusting of angst, and to give me the chance to garnish with a beautiful open ending full of promise, and not expect a monster of a product to come from it. you just can't. i'm sorry. i hope you enjoy this, regardless. even if it's not quite bite-sized.

warnings: seemingly unrequited love that turns into clearly idiots in love. eddie gets shirtless. that's all.

wc: 4.4k+ yikes

It had started off as an innocent, well-intentioned offer. You swear it did. 

When Eddie had called you right after pulling a double at the garage, begging to come over and simply relax at your apartment, you’d set up to allow him to do just that. You’d cleaned up a little bit, lit a candle that normally gave you a headache if it burned too long but that Eddie loved, prepped a selection of movies for him to choose from, pulled out the menu for your favorite take-out – you’d gone the whole nine yards for your best friend. 

Someone might even point out it wasn’t just best friend behavior at this point. Steve and Robin alike had certainly called out your behavior at times, coining it as “girlfriend behavior on a best friend salary”.

You didn’t care. You were well aware of what you were doing, and you didn’t care. 

You’d spend the rest of your life on the best friend salary, as the two dinguses had so lovingly called it, for the look of sheer peace on Eddie’s face right now. 

He’s leaning back on the opposite end of your couch from you, knees spread and chin facing the ceiling as he sighs in bliss. Take-out containers are scattered about the coffee table, and his movie of choice of Return of the Jedi is about halfway over on your TV. 

You both had already chosen a second movie – The Lost Boys. The plans for the night were set in stone.

You tuck both knees up beneath your chin, side-glancing your best friend for a second and ignoring the flutter of your chest as you watch him sink deeper into the cushions, “We can talk about it, y’know.” 

“Hm?” 

“Your day,” you adjust a bit, turning your body to face him fully, “If you wanna talk about it, I’m all ears. We’ve already seen enough Jabba the Hutt to last a lifetime.”

That earns a smile from him, slowly crackling over his cheeks as he rolls his head towards you, “I dunno. Is there such thing as enough Jabba the Hutt?” 

You toss a piece of your sour watermelon candy at him, and despite it landing on his shirt, he still grabs it to pop it into his mouth. 

You try not to think too hard about how that shirt had been sitting in your drawers, clean and neatly folded, occupying space as if that might be normal. As if everyone has some of their best friend’s clothes at their apartment that they can change into after a long day at work. 

As if everyone has occasionally used said shirt as pajamas on nights they particularly miss the scent of their best friend’s cologne.

“Shut up,” you finally snicker, dropping your knees from your chin, sitting criss-cross now, “We don’t have to talk about your day if you don’t feel like it. By all means, if you wanna keep drooling over an alien slug, be my guest-”

At your teasing, Eddie moves quickly to grab one of your ankles, pulling your feet towards his lap before you can register what he’s doing. You gasp a little, and it’s definitely not because of the feeling of his warm palms wrapped around your bare skin. Totally not at the rush of warmth that travels up your body, head to toe, when you feel his rings pressing into you so eagerly. 

Absolutely not. You gasp, because anybody would gasp in this scenario. Because you’re just best friends. And best friends do stuff like that. 

“I am not drooling over a slug,” he chastises, grinning recklessly as he wiggles his fingers menacingly, mere inches from the bottom of your foot, “Take it back, or pay the price, baby.” 

Has he ever called you baby before? 

Certainly not, if your roaring heart has anything to say about it. 

“Don’t you dare,” you squeal – genuinely squeal – as you try and tug your legs out of his grasp. It’s a useless effort; he’s too strong, even after his long day, and your body isn’t even sure if it approves of taking his hands off of you. “Edward Munson, I swear to God-” 

It’s a mess of flailing limbs, painful laughter, and high-pitched screams from there. Squeaks from your own mouth, and a few from Eddie, mocking you all in good fun as he continues to persist for you to take it back. For just a moment, it feels like this is the normal – you’re living in a space where Eddie comes home from every day, grueling or effortless, to you. Where the two of you always end up on the couch together, bodies touching in any way they can. Where there’s always background noise on the TV as his focus is solely on you, smiling foolishly at his antics that were really just a simple effort to hear your laughter. Where your laughter is the only thing he really wants to hear at the end of the night, and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. 

A world where he tells you as much. 

A world where after this, he’s reaching the knob of your shared bedroom door rather than the front door of your lonesome apartment. 

A world where you aren’t existing on a best friend salary.

“Had enough yet, sweetheart?” he quips, just as breathless as you are from the struggle. This time, the nickname he uses is normal. It took you off guard during the first few months of friendship, but now? Your weary heart could handle it, cherish it even, and not let your stupid little crush get in the way of appreciating it. “All you have to say are the magic words.” 

“Are the magic words, you’re a dickhead?”

“Hm,” he pretends to ponder thoughtfully for just a second before shaking his hand, “‘Fraid not. Try again?” 

Instead of verbally replying, you give him a gentle kick in the stomach. Not the magic words he had in mind, but they sure do the trick. 

He lets out a soft oomph, one arm cradling his midsection as though you actually hurt him. You take it as your cue to remove your legs – his dramatics quickly come to a halt to prevent just that.

It’s probably meant to be subtle, the way both his arms fall down over your calves and keep your feet in his lap, but it has the capability to implode your entire world. 

“I can’t believe you’re being mean to me after the day I’ve had,” he whines, and all you can focus on is the way his thumb is rhythmically stroking the ball of your ankle now, “Me, your best friend, has had the most awful day and you-”

“Now you wanna talk about it?” you laugh a little, rolling your eyes at him.

“Absolutely.” 

“After you’ve just tortured me?” 

“Well, yeah. When else would I talk about it?” 

“I’m rescinding my offer to listen,” you continue to joke, making one more good faith offer to slip your legs from his lap. And, once more, he won’t allow it. 

He whines out a long, drawn out no, starting to lay his entire body across your legs this time. More direct, more to the point. Subtleties have been forgotten, you suppose. 

You don’t know if it’s more for you, or for him. You just know you like it. You like existing within a sneak preview of a girlfriend salary.

“You never answered me, drama queen,” you murmur as the joking lean across your legs becomes a bit more heavy, and Eddie is more genuinely collapsing his figure into your lap. He doesn’t even have to ask, or gesture – your fingers find home within his hair, and you can feel his hum of content against your thigh as you scratch along his scalp, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

All joking pretenses slip away from him as he mumbles out a muffled, “Not really.”

And you can work with that. You swear, you can. 

If you’d been so ready to lend a listening ear, then you can offer him this peace and quiet. A simple head massage as he leans into you, cheeks pressed to the top of your thigh as you think he returns to watching Return of the Jedi. 

His eyes might be closed, if his heavy breaths are anything to go off of. You’re just not sure. 

You just keep up your massage, sluggish strokes, clement scratches, deep breaths to match his own- 

And then, an idea hits you.

“Eds,” you whisper, your hand in his hair traveling to his shoulders, shaking him a bit, “Eddie.”

Only a grunt in response.

“Eddie, seriously, get up,” you stress, overeager, “I have an idea.”

“The apartment better be on fire,” he grumbles as he finally raises his head, face imprinted with the lines of your shorts in rolling hills of soft indents. 

Definitely was sleeping. Definitely wasn’t watching Star Wars. 

But even with his shoulders wrapped with dreary slumber, you’re still excited about your idea, motioning him to sit up fully. You let him take his time, of course, only after he swats your hands away sluggishly a few times. 

Once his back is straight, you lift one finger in the air, and draw a circle – motioning for him to turn his back to you without saying a word. 

His eyes narrow to slits at you, “Are you about to pull a prank on me? Because-”

“I’m not,” you assure him, reaching for his shoulders, nearly turning him yourself, “Scout’s honor.” 

He listens to you. Despite it all, despite his seeming mistrust, he turns his back to you. More specifically, he turns his shoulders to you. 

He’s still mumbling on about how you better not make his day worse, getting a little bit snappier when you gather his hair up to lay out of your way and claiming his scalp was extra sensitive today.

You pay his attitude no mind. He’s just grumpy. It doesn’t particularly phase you after years of close friendship.

“Listen, I know you like braiding my hair, but-” he continues with his protests as you grin behind him, shaking your head as you settle yourself closer to him. Knees bumping his hips, back straight for the time being. “I’d rather just nap right now. And I was really comfy, and really getting my rocks off to that damn alien slug-” 

All his words cut off when you finally put your plan into action. Your palms fall atop his shoulders, fingers curling around the tense skin, and he’s melting before you’ve even begun. 

“I- Oh,” he jumps a little at the first squeeze, but quickly returns to being pliant in your hold, “Oh… That’s…. That’s nice.” 

You continue your massage, gently squeezing, thumbs and fingers digging into any knots you find to work them away as you jeer, “Is it now?”

He nods, the smallest of movements as to not interrupt your work, “It is. ‘S real nice.” 

His head rolls with each pinch of your fingers, posture loosening as he leans back into your touch further. 

You take it a step further, biting back nerves when you slip your hands beneath the collar of his old t-shirt. You feel the shiver begin before it races down his spine at the press of your skin directly on his now. 

Your warm hands work dutifully, determined to bring as much relaxation to your best friend as possible. Definitely not enjoying yourself a bit too much at his smooth skin under your palms. Definitely not enjoying yourself just as much as he is. Certainly not. 

The shirt constricts you, though. Prevents your hands from traveling fully over sore spots you can feel the edges of. Catching your wrists, limiting the full potential of your movements. 

You’re glad he can’t see you as you suddenly request, “Take your shirt off.” 

“Hm?” he can’t form a proper word at first, not startled but simply sunken too deep in his relaxation, “What was that?” 

“I need your shirt off, Munson.” 

You try to sound brave, nonchalant, as you repeat yourself. You don’t want him to hear the fluttering of your heart – you don’t want him to hear the shake of your hands as you remove them from him.

You only want him to hear the totally reasonable request from a friend, who is simply trying to offer the best massage possible to their best friend who’s had a bad day. 

“Oh?” he looks over his shoulder, and you can see the edges of his raised brows through messy bangs, “Damn, sweetheart. If you wanted me naked, you just had to ask.” 

Can ribs break from a heart beating too fast? Is that even possible? 

“I did ask,” your voice is flat as a trade off to avoid any quivering to filtrate it, lips pressing tightly together as you swallow your heart, “So get to it.”

He leans forward, putting a bit of distance between you two before he reaches back to grab the center of his shirt. The fabric comes off with a flourish, and all you’re left face to face with is the bare expanse of his back.

You silently beg him not to look back over his shoulder, if only for just a second. 

You’ve seen Eddie shirtless plenty of times. At pool parties with the entire group, on rare lake days that always ended sun drunk and giddy, that one time he’d answered his door right after a quick shower and you’d seen a lot more than you’d bargained for. He was your friend. After a while, it would have been weirder to not have seen Eddie shirtless at least once. 

Something about this time feels different. 

He has freckles – not nearly as much as Steve or Robin, but they still exist. Small markings across skin glowing warmly in the dim light of your living room lamp, spattered without rhyme or reason. One on the back of his left shoulder, another slightly off-centered at the base of his neck. He has a light scar towards the bottom of his right shoulder blade – a memory from his childhood he told you once when you’d first seen it at the lake. Everyone else was out splashing about the ten-degrees-too-cool water, and he’d joined your side on the shore. Laid on his stomach as you laid on your back, offering you conversation in the form of stories about every blemish across his skin. The intentional tattoos, the unintentional scars. Everything. 

Even that day doesn’t quite compare to the intimacy of him being here now, being shirtless in your apartment, just the two of you. 

Maybe there was something extra in your coffee this morning, making you feel so delusional. 

“I don’t have any lotion or oils,” you finally clear your throat, trying to joke about as the two of you had been before, “But that doesn’t matter. You ready for the best damn massage of your life, Munson?” 

“Yes, please,” he groans, and something deep in your stomach clenches at the sound, “Want me to lay down or something?” 

Your brain short-circuits for a second, because you know where that leads. 

If he lays down, there’s only one way to continue to comfortably give him the massage. If he lays down, you’re about to bite off more than you could chew on a best friend salary. 

“Sure,” you choke out, damning yourself in the process. 

It’s all robotic mechanics as you two shift to assume the position; you stand up, and he sprawls out. And you swear, in the process, you catch a smothering of pink slow creeping across his chest and neck. 

“Can I…” you start to question, finally growing a bit shy as you stare down at the dip of his lower back. Two dimples on either side of his spine, looking so inviting and yet daunting. 

He finishes the sentence for you, saving you the embarrassment, “Sit on me? Yeah, go for it, babe.” 

There it is again. An unfamiliar nickname that falls so effortlessly off the lips for him. Another pet name to send you into a tailspin as your breath catches and your heart races, as though needing to catch up after the fleeting endearment.

“Thanks,” you whisper out. 

You’re starting to regret all your choices, but it’s too late to back down now. You just want to help him relax – that’s all this is. 

Stop making this more than it is. 

You’re exceptionally careful as you crawl over Eddie, placing a knee on either side of him, hovering for just a second as you take deep breaths to hype yourself up to do the inevitable. 

He twists a bit, startling you enough for you to balance yourself with a palm on each shoulder blade, “C’mon now, you’re not going to crush me. You should know this by now,” his eyes glitter, and you know he’s referring to that time you two made a bet he couldn’t carry you bridal style while drunk. He could, “Sit your pretty ass down and get to work, Masseuse.” 

You weren’t imagining the pink across his chest and neck. It’s climbed up now, tendrils tickling his cheeks. The bridge of his nose nearly looks sunburnt from this angle. 

It’s a good look on him. 

“Masseuse?” you snort as you shove him to be fully laying down once more, needing to get his eyes off of you for just a second, “That’s an awfully big word. You been reading without me or something? Becoming a secret genius?” 

Fall back into the normal flow of things. Try not to think about the heat of him between your legs as you sit half your weight down. 

“That is not a big word,” he chides. 

“Spell it, then.” 

“I-” he cuts off as your hands smooth back over his skin, no more restrictions. 

He never finishes his sentence, never complies with your request. All that falls from his lips are soft sighs as you begin the massage again. 

There’s an occasional twitch below his muscles as you knead away, slowly but surely becoming more comfortable with it all. Becoming more mesmerized as you can now see his skin moving with you, occasionally letting up when you skirt past freckles and scars alike, fingertips merely tracing them as he shivers under your delicate touch. 

You do exactly as you set out to do – you relax him. And then some.

You’ve never really gotten into the art of massages, something about it always feeling a bit too intimate. You’d never consider yourself a professional at it by any means – if anything, you’ve been on the receiving end rather than the giving end more often than not. And even those occurrences were rare. 

But when it came to Eddie, it seemingly came naturally. 

Not all of your movements are conventional. You pass back and forth between the usual squeezes of skin you’ve witnessed on TV and from others, and gentle tracing of your fingertips. Drawing shapes, painting pictures that vanish without ever having existed in the first place. Words, sentences, secret messages for just you two. 

When you trace out the endearment of idiot, Eddie seems to catch on, lazy grin peeking up past his curtain of hair covering the cheek almost facing you. 

In another place, where you make that coveted girlfriend salary, you’d trace out three little words on the tip of your tongue. 

You almost do it, too. It’s when you trace out idiot, in fact. You start, entirely subconsciously, with the i. A long pause, a space between words. 

And then you trace an l. One long line down the center of his spine. 

Your finger is already rotating for the o, ready to trace it in the center as the other two letters had been, a signalling it wasn’t a part of that last simple line. 

And then you divert. And you rush to finish out with the i, the o, the t. He laughs a little, the rush of air felt below you as he lets it out soundlessly, and you catch sight of his smile.

A seeming endearment to Eddie, a hidden scolding for yourself. 

Maybe one day you can find the nerve to properly trace it out – or better yet, say it. Speak your truth outloud and handle whatever consequences come from it. Because you do – you really, really do mean it – and those feelings for Eddie can’t seem to change. Something carved into your very soul, unchanging as the years pass. If anything, the carving only digs deeper into you with each month you spend with him. 

One day. But not today, not when Eddie’s had a bad day. It should be a good day when you say it, lessening the blow of rejection, hopefully. 

You almost lose your balance a few times. Each time having to adjust your position of sitting on him, shifting his hips right along with yours. And each time, you notice the catch in his sighs. The way they almost transform into moans, tense noises that seemingly tear from his throat, only dampened by poor attempts to conceal them. Even the back of his neck has grown flushed now, the tips of his ears vibrant when you see them poke through his hair. 

Sometimes, you lose your balance from his shifting, even. 

The air is sticky with tension as you finally finish up. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour – you weren’t keeping score, more focused on continuing on until Eddie’s entire body has gone boneless beneath you. 

Pretty, and pink, and pliant. Entirely slackened beneath your touches. 

It takes more to encourage yourself to climb off of him than it did to climb on originally. Your body protests entirely, knees not caring for the ache forming, inner thighs happy to be bracketing his hips. But you do it. Because you’re just a friend, a best friend, helping your friend relax. 

You stand, towering over him, looking down to find him hiding his face just a bit. “Well?” 

“Well, what?” his voice is entirely muffled by his mouthful of couch cushion, and you furrow your brows. 

“How was it?” 

He lifts his face strategically. He probably hopes you don’t notice, but you do, “Oh! Oh, it was, uh- It was fucking great, sweetheart. I… I swear, your hands are fucking magic.” 

Why is he tripping over his words like that? 

He can’t even look you in the eyes, line of sight darting anywhere but you.

Why is he flushed, head to toe? 

“Yeah?” you cross your arms, and subtly lean to block the TV now displaying credits that Eddie found terribly interesting, “Would you consider it the best massage you’ve ever had?” 

He nods, and you catch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows before squeaking out, “Oh, yeah! The absolute best I’ve ever had,” his eyes widen at his words, as if he’s made a terrible choice that you’re unaware of, “I mean, you know, I just- you should really consider becoming an actual masseuse.”

That’s when it hits you; Eddie is absolutely refusing to sit up. To remove his hips from your couch. 

He’s blushing, and he’s stuttering, and he’s definitely hiding something. 

There’s a twist in your gut that you can’t reveal. A satisfaction you know better than to celebrate right now. 

Instead, you decide to play with him just a little bit more. 

“Good,” you nod, stepping towards the end of the couch you’d originally occupied. Where Eddie’s knees are stiff against. “Maybe I will consider a career change. But for now – move, Munson. I’m just exhausted.” 

“What?” he looks at you, frightened, only moving his neck to keep his hips flush and hidden away. 

“Get your legs out of my seat,” you laugh a little, leveling him with a daring stare. 

You know what he’s hiding. You’re a bit proud of it, too. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says slowly, and you can see him going over his options in his head. A million excuses he’s probably conjuring, a hundred different escape plans he’s grasping at. “Yeah, of course.” 

And, just as you’d suspected, he doesn’t go with a single one to save his dignity. 

He moves quickly. Tucking his legs up and twisting himself into an upright position in the blink of an eye, and immediately grabbing one of your throw pillows that two of you had tossed off into the floor amidst the original movie night plans. 

He’s fast, you’ll give him that. But not fast enough for you to not catch sight of the tent in his pants. 

You don’t let your eyes linger too long. Swallow down any drooling threatening to begin. Tamper down any desire flaring in your chest and between your hips. 

Best friend salary, you remind yourself even as you grin a tad bit too salaciously for your current cover. Best friend salary, not girlfriend salary. 

You plop down on the seat still warm from Eddie’s legs, sinking back in self-satisfaction. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe it doesn’t have to be another time, or place, or Universe to get what you want. Maybe all your delusion, that wild imagination of yours, wasn’t so misplaced after all. 

Best friend salary, your mind whispers. For now.

Eddie makes himself comfortable right along with you, still seeming in a much better condition than when he’d first arrived, even if his cheeks had bloomed into a rose garden. He presses that throw pillow of yours protectively over his crotch, and once more focuses on the screen in front of you two. 

“Say, Eddie,” you drawl, almost radiant with your grin. A fire now lit inside both of you. “Think you could be a doll and pop in the next movie for me?” 

It’s a little evil, you’ll admit. But he kind of deserves it for underpaying you over the years, when it’s so clear you’re due for a promotion. Sometime soon, you hope. 

Both your heads turn to each other at the same time, wildly different speeds. Eddie’s neck snaps in disbelief, while you take your time to make eye contact.

All it takes is one knowing look exchanged, and the illusion fumbles on its stilts. 

“I…” his embarrassment, all that flush, slowly morphs as he catches the truth behind your intentions. The hand pressing down on the throw pillow alleviates just a bit, stiff shoulders relaxing as they should have been after your massage as he reflects back just as evil of a glint in his eyes as you had, “Sure thing, baby.”

It’s probably going to be a long night. Surely, the promotion of best friend to girlfriend is going to involve some paperwork. Or an interview, to prove your capability and experience first hand, of course.

But, well, he never did put his shirt back on, did he?

[ambiguouspuzuma]

One thing not really mentioned here (and in other replies I've seen) is that from my memory Legends & Lattes did have high stakes!

This wasn't just about a business failing and plunging the protagonist into bankruptcy. There was the ex-colleague spellcaster out to get her, as well as the local mob closing in. There were threats to life and death as well as turnover.

For me it's more that they were resolved relatively easily. Our protagonist was strong and capable and the plot was largely just a procession of people turning up to offer their help. It felt too easy and predictable. Problems were introduced but then easily brushed aside. They didn't feel real. There was alleged danger, but no tension.

As a contrast, A Rival Most Vial takes a similar premise, and arguably lower stakes, but makes the tension really work by having two protagonists playing off against each other. We're taught to want two things which are in direct contradiction. Suddenly we have a problem where we can't see the easy solution. It's the tension of a tragedy, where we can see both points of view but know they can't both win.

Legends & Lattes didn't work for me because it didn't feel real. As noted above in its favour, it was a list of tasks to be done, and they were all completed in order. It never made me think, and it never really gave me a character to care for. But A Rival Most Vial proves that this is not a limitation of the genre, and nothing to do with the height of the stakes.

Low stakes stories can have plenty of narrative tension and have you fretting and pulling out your hair. The internal stakes just need to be clear, making you understand why the character cares about their goal, and they need to face plausible obstacles - which, in the absence of credible external threats, can be other people. You can write a gripping story based entirely on interpersonal drama, with no higher stakes than hurt feelings and botched relationships. You just need to actually sell that.

Cosy fantasy does work. But it's not just writing a fantasy story, dialling down the setting, and hoping that what's left is enough. It isn't just high-fantasy-light, watering down the dungeons and dragons with something more domestic. If you're removing the epic quest, you need to replace that plot with something else - characters and a premise that would have worked fine as a story in a non-fantasy setting.

It can be a romance, a coming-of-age story, whatever, but it needs to be a plot that could stand on its own feet without the fantasy trappings, and you're just setting it in a fantasy world. I don't feel like Legends & Lattes does that - it seems to start with the fantasy world, and tell a half-hearted story which nobody would want to read otherwise. But I think the core characters and relationships of A Rival Most Vial are compelling in any world, and the fun worldbuilding of their setting is just the frosting on the top.

Cozy Fantasy and Why It Doesn't Work

I think I am among many who feel like they should love cozy fantasy and have found it an incredibly lacking genre.

This newly branded "cozy fantasy" genre that has taken readers by storm since 2020 and while it is new that books are now marketed as cozy, the genre itself isn't new. Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones is a great example of the genre before it was labeled and also how to make it work.

Cozy fantasy is defined by many as fantasy with low stakes. Fantasy aesthetic but less sword fights. On paper, it sounds great. But the execution has been less than stellar for readers like me. The lack of physical stakes has also impacted the emotional stakes of these books, creating forgettable characters with boring problems. As a romance reader, I find this frustrating. Romance is known for being a predictable and formulaic genre, the now defunct Romance Writers of America defined romances as needing happy endings, a term romances have continued to follow. Yet these romance texts manage to have low physical stakes (how to date your neighbor, how to confront your toxic friends, etc) while still maintaining high personal stakes that keep readers invested and begging for more. So I was initially confused why cozy fantasy authors struggle to write texts that connect to readers like me.

I think I have found the answer which is the genre is just here for vibes. It is all about aesthetic, not even worldbuilding that fantasy is known for as most cozy fantasy I read have so many problems as soon as you ask one question. It is hard to acknowledge that a genre that is pitched to work for readers like me doesn't work for many of us. Especially because occasionally there is one that works beautifully to my taste.

I often say my favorite cozy fantasies that are more contemporary are short and visual, which I plays into the idea of the genre being an aesthetic. The Bakery Dragon by Devin Elle Kurtz is a good example because it is a simple story that is given the perfect amount of pages and gorgeous visuals without dragging on when the message is very clear and easy to understand. Books like The Phoenix Keeper and Legends and Lattes have absolutely nothing for me, their very clear message hitting the reader over and over so the readers don't miss it and focusing on the aesthetic of worldbuilding rather than the reality of the fantastic elements within the world.

I guess my point is. . . I realize this genre isn't for me since I have realized it is more of an aesthetic than anything. .. .but I want it to be. Should I let it go and put my efforts elsewhere? Or should I keep exploring this new trend and find the hidden gems?

[moonstruckme]

hiiiii mae. I was re-reading thawing out and I'm curious if you've ever considered writing about Sirius & reader getting Remus back out on the ice again? I feel like it has real cute and fluffy potential. love all that you do! <3

Thank you for requesting! I've been looking forward to this milestone for them for so long :')

Read the Thawing Out series here

cw: modern au, chronic pain references, some anxiety caused by traumatic events

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

It was your idea to do this outside of the rink. You notice things that Sirius doesn’t, and you’d noticed that as much as Remus feels at home with the boards and the bleachers and hum of the Zamboni, they intimidate him too. So, you’re taking advantage of a cold Saturday to utilize the outdoors. 

Sirius frowns, spinning an idle circle on his blade. “This ice is shit.” 

“You’re just spoiled,” you counter, still lacing up your skates with Remus. You’ve slowed your pace to match him, whereas Sirius had laced up quick as always and gone out into the small rink without a second thought. Another way you’re simply better than him. 

To his credit, Remus doesn’t seem to be stalling. He tried talking you both out of this on a couple of occasions, saying that it wasn’t worth your time, you were giving it more importance than it was due, etc., but now that he’s here he simply seems to be taking a methodical pace. Preparing himself. Sirius can grant him this, considering he hasn’t had skates on his feet since his injury nearly three years ago. 

“Would you call a swimmer picky for wanting a properly chlorinated pool?” 

“Yes.” 

Remus glances over at you, that particular smile he reserves for your obstinance gracing his lips. Sirius’ heart melts a little. 

“Then fine. I’m picky. Just be careful, both of you. I’m telling you, this ice is truly—” 

“I know how to skate on unsmoothed ice.” You cut him off with a look. There’s fondness buried beneath it, and Sirius narrows his eyes back playfully as you knot your laces and stand up. “So does Remus.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Remus jokes. He stands with you, though, letting you onto the ice first. 

Sirius can see the hesitance in your boyfriend now. That bit of nervousness Remus is trying to ignore. The awareness of it balls up tight and uncomfortable in his chest. 

“Awe,” Sirius croons with overdone patronage, skating to a stop a few feet away from the entrance, “are we not sure? We’ll do it like with the littles then, darling.” He bends and pats his knees, making a show of it. “Come on, come to me.” 

Remus snorts and sets one foot on the ice. “Piss off.” 

That one foot is all it takes. Remus pushes off with practiced ease, gliding into the rink. Sirius beams. 

You look equally as awestruck, your eyes so brimming with love and joy they almost hurt to look at. 

“Well, would you look at that,” Sirius says, “he does know how to skate on shit ice. Give us a spin, handsome.” 

“I’m not your show pony,” Remus says, but spins nonetheless. It’s simple, and yet so incredibly graceful. So obviously second nature. 

“Remus.” You seem to have given up any hope of trying to play it cool, your voice shining with barely repressed glee. “That was so perfect.” 

Remus is doing a similarly poor job of repressing his own smile, though he only tsks. “If either of you did a spin like that, I’d make you redo it three times and then add a jump so you didn’t embarrass yourselves.” 

Sirius crosses his arms, nodding. “Go on, then.” 

It’s clear that Remus is happy to do it. He’s cautious for a while, testing his own limits as he adds complexities and small jumps and tries out different variations. Ordinarily Sirius might worry for his hip, but Remus has been especially diligent in his stretching in preparation for just this; and whenever he seemed inclined to skip it, you or Sirius were there to pester him (lovingly, of course).

Sirius’ heart swells to the point of bursting at how beautiful Remus looks. His posture shifts to accommodate the new range of movement, his arms coming out almost unconsciously, with a dancer’s grace. Sirius is well used to the symphony of skates on ice, but Remus’ have their own melody, their own beat and cadence. Even his face changes, the tension fading from his expression until it’s at once relaxed and utterly present. Remus was made for this. 

You and Sirius don’t do anything but watch, rapt. After a while, Remus seems to get sick of his audience, coming to a reluctant stop. His cheeks are pink from the cold and exertion—Sirius wants to cover them with both hands and kiss him dizzy—but Remus’ expression shifts when he looks at you. 

He lets out a breathy, nervous chuckle. “Sweetheart…?” 

Sirius turns, and your lips are pressed together, your eyes bright. “Sorry,” you say, giving a wobbly smile, “you’re just—Remus, you’re so lovely.” 

“Oh, you sop.” Sirius curls an arm around you, kissing your head. “Stop that.” 

“I’m sorry.” You laugh at yourself. Swipe away a tear that manages to escape. 

Sirius tuts. “Look what you’ve done,” he says to Remus, who appears caught between shock and fondness, his mouth hanging slightly open. “She’s completely right, you know. You’re too lovely; it’s torment for us both.” 

“You…” Remus shakes his head. He’s delightfully flushed now, nearly to the tips of his ears. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea to do this, though.” 

“No, but you sure do seem to be enjoying yourself now, don’t you? Come here.” 

To his surprise, Remus actually comes. Sirius is elated; rarely does he get to be this demanding with such gratifying results. 

He lets you go to take both of Remus' pink, hot cheeks in his hands, and plants a firm kiss on his lips. 

“Thank you,” he says, grinning. “Now, stop our poor girl’s crying by skating with her, please.” 

It’s not done before several kisses, but soon you and Remus are in the center of the rink, twining around each other like snowflakes in the wind. You and Sirius take turns teaching Remus the sorts of lifts and jumps he wouldn’t have learned in his solo career. Sirius can’t decide which he likes best; the up-close view of Remus’ face as the world whirls around them and Remus’ hand folds warmly around his, or getting to admire the two of you from the edge of the rink. He thinks more practice will be necessary to determine this. Much, much more practice. 

Sirius’ nose is near frozen by the time you decide to call it a day. Remus teases Sirius for his pinkened cheeks as though he’s not exactly the same, and you insist on buying hot chocolates for all three of you on the way home as though they’re going to let you. You walk out of the park with breaths puffing cold in front of you, three skating bags hanging from your shoulders.

[p1nkshield]

Very Nice Very Good

Sorry I disappeared off the face of the earth school has been destroying me.

Danny continued to cough bitterly on his side, garnering enough strength to somehow open his eyes. He felt awful. Where was he? His half-lidded gaze surveyed the room then halted at the contents that came up with his hacking.

"-an-"

Green Blackish sludge.

"Da- can yo-?"

It faintly glowed.

"Daniel?" Bruce's voice could only reach him superficially.

He'd been found out. He needs to run.

He tried to turn intangible but it burned, forcing a hoarse yelp from his throat. His invisibility flickered as another round of coughs started to rise from his lungs.

"That's new! You okay man?" Tim's voice had an air of forced composure as he ushered his head back to his pillow, propping him up as he did so.

All Danny could really do was keep coughing as his position was changed.

A washcloth swam into view as Bruce gently mopped the sweat at his brow. It sizzled causticly as he drew it away.

His brain felt as much like jello as his arms did but it still attempted to race.

Jason was ashen, sitting across from him on another medical bed, staring at him with a bit of gauze and medical tape on his arm.

Damian was at the foot of his bed with quiet concern on his face.

Tim was returning to the room with a bucket.

That was all Danny could manage to take in before he began to shiver. This prompted everyone surrounding him to prepare to move, as if they were bracing for him to do more than shudder. He stopped and everyone deflated.

"His vitals are still below average but they're holding stable sir."

"Considering what just happened that might be closer to his normal."

"Also the fact that he's this lucid after being in a coma for three days."

"I told you that our stray sibling is tougher than you think."

"You were worried sick like all of us gremlin."

"Kids."

Bruce silenced the chatter and gently addressed Danny.

"Do you think you can handle some water?"

What?

They saw him. They saw him and they didn't care? Stray sibling? Had they always known? Was his throat always this dry?

Danny nodded as emphatically as his sluggish muscles could allow.

"Damian?"

"On it father."

"Tim, could you let your siblings know that Daniel is awake?"

Tim was about to crack a joke about whether or not that included Babs and Steph but was interrupted by a shredded interjection.

"Please- Please don't call me that!"

That stunt was rewarded with a litany of coughs.

"Danny, then." Bruce said apologetically

Danny schooled his coughing fit with the best glass of water he'd ever had.

Alfred's chides for him to go slower were ignored as he downed the glass.

By the time his thirst was slaked he was hit with a wall of exhaustion. Perhaps he was safe. His poison addled sense of danger seemed to think so. Well, if he wasn't he'd have to burn that bridge when he got there. After a nap though. A nap sounds nice. He settled into his pillows with a labored sigh.

"Tired?" someone in the room asked with fondness.

Danny nodded as his mind drifted. He could feel his core thrum with concerning weakness. He was too warm. His entire body ached like he was hit by a truck. Even that small nod made the room spin. Was this how Danielle felt when she was dangerously low on ecto?

wait.

DANIELLE!

Danny propped himself up with a start as he hacked into the crook of his elbow.

"What?! What's wrong?" Jason was the first at his side to brace him this time.

"m- My ph-phone! pl-"

If Vlad had found him there was a good chance he found her too. The whole reason he ran away in the first place was to protect her! To keep the rest of that horrible prophecy from unfolding! So she'd never have to meet him.

Acrid tears streamed down his cheeks as he fumbled his way to his contacts.

He ignored so many of her calls, now he's sitting here hoping desperately that she'll pick up.

Prompt idea: Danny has been attending Wayne family dinners for weeks now and he truly doesn’t know how he got this far

Danny has been without a home or a means to get food for a while because of either identity reveal gone bad or Dan timeline shenanigans. Either way he needs to eat. As a last ditch attempt Danny tries to attend/infiltrate a Wayne family dinner. He’s seen the Wayne kids around Gotham and he’s sure that he could look and act the part enough to get in the door and out with some bread rolls at least.

Was it his best idea? No.

But he sure as sugar ain’t firing on all cylinders rn.

And Bruce already has a gaggle of blue eyed, black haired children.

What’s one more?

Batfam of course notices immediately when a whole new kid shows up, grabs some miscellaneous pieces of food and then prattles off some excuse about “not being that hungry.” (Clearly a bald faced lie) And that they were “Going to the library to study for finals, bye Dad!”

1. No one skips out on family dinners. Even Jason was here.

2. Alfred sets the table for everyone ahead of time and the kid had no place to sit.

3. Nobody in this house studies anything beyond case files.

4. Nobody in this house calls Bruce Dad.

Danny thinks he is suffering from success. No matter where he is in Gotham someone picks him up and insists he’ll be late for family dinner which is unacceptable.

Alfred just wants to feed the boy.

The batkids are amused by his efforts to look as though he’s been here all along.

Bruce is drafting adoption papers as we speak.

[coatree]

For the past few days I've been learning to make Minecraft skins since it's something I've wanted to learn.

Recently, I had asked my friend Maruu if I could use the reference sheets they had for their thesis so I could make some skins out of them, as a sort of learning tool. The designs were simple enough, yet unique enough too that it would still be a bit of a challenge to try and translate them and keep their original looks.

Skins made for @liloinkoink @kitsuneisi @cherrifire @hopepetal @applestruda @localwheel

Credits to @xmaruu11 for the art used!

In order: Maruu, Lew, Doody, Cherri, Zera, Bee, Local

If you want a more in depth explanation/want to read my thought process and struggles with each one it'll just be under the cut!

(Off topic if you want to commission me, I have emergency commissions open and if you like the skins I've made here and want me to make one for you, shoot me a DM I'd be happy to negotiate a price!)

Maruu

Maruu’s was the first I did and it was mostly because I wanted to try to experiment with hoodies and similar colours. It’s a lot of yellow tones which made a lot of the shading and lighting on it decently fun because of how careful I had to be with the colours.

Maruu also had a different hairstyle than anything I had done before so experimenting with multicoloured hair and the second layer on the head was very interesting.

Initially I wanted to make it so Maruu could take the hoodie off but I find it better this way mostly because of how baggy the hoodie is itself which didn’t look natural when it was all on the second layer

Lew

Lew was the second one and I had decent enough problems with them. A collared shirt was my first struggle, since I knew I wanted the jacket on the second layer, so figuring out that shading problem was nice.

Lew is also very monochromatic, with red being the only real colour, even with the white/black being shades of red. As such it was a lot of tricky maneuvering in order to try and figure out how to make each colour stand out while keeping it semi in line. Lew also has this particular aesthetic that I tried to nail which I think I did well

The hair was my biggest challenge, white is notoriously difficult for beginner artists to shade and even with me doing art for a while I have difficulty keeping the white colour while shading. Despite that, I think I did a decent enough job on it to give it some shading while keeping it white

Doody

Doody was up next and I was terrified LMAO, Doody has an outfit that is unique enough that I was worried going into it that I just wouldn’t be able to do it. Along with Bee, Doody took me the longest to do because of it

I knew I wanted the green part of Doody to be removable, which actually helped me out more than I was expecting it to. Having the entire green part be removable let me experiment more with the rest of the outfit which was a nice surprise

Along with Lew, I had a similar problem of “oh my damn god, there is so much dark colours here”, but they were all different shades of dark colours which just made it more difficult when I tried to shade. It was also, again, another unique outfit that gave me some trouble since I couldn’t do the pants the same way I usually do them.

The hair was the main challenge, I wanted to make sure it looked like Doody’s hair was the same poofy curly texture it is in the reference which I think I did well? I hope I did well. The dual tone was another scary thing since it was similar colours so I was worried my shading would just be bad, but I think it looks fine

Cherri

If I thought I had trouble with Lew’s red, I was not emotionally prepared for Cherri. Cherri was like a master class in trying to manipulate the colour red in too many different ways. Every single colour on Cherri is a shade of red, every single one.

It wasn’t just red too, it was dark red, which meant the combination of my anguish with dark colours and my anguish with monochromatic red just absolutely beat me over the head.

Thankfully though, the colours were just the main hard part. The outfit was actually pretty simple and gave me a nice break after struggling for like thirty minutes on Doody’s skin. Simple jacket and clothes which made it so much easier on my feeble soul

The bow was fun, this was the first time I had done a hair accessory, and I definitely think the experience with Maruu helped a lot.

This was the first time I had to actively check to make sure the skin was fine because I kept missing spots because there was so much red. Anyways a lot of that red is shaded with purple which I think is absolutely hilarious on my part. If you can’t make yourself laugh you’re not funny as I always say

Zera

Zera was a nice little reprieve, with a hoodie design similar to Maruu’s but not too baggy and pants similar to the ones I gave myself with the designs on them and the baggy pants I gave to my friend Middy, it was mostly a lot of touch ups.

The main issue was actually the face. I’ve been trying to match everyone’s eyes to their skins because I’m not just gonna make the skins and not let them use them, so I wanted to at least match the eyes to how they usually had them on their skins so it didn’t look too jarring. The thing was, I had never looked at Zera’s skin long enough to notice how the glasses were. It was a lot of switching between blockbench and name MC that’s for sure

Besides that, Zera was chill, insanely fun to do, desperately needed after back to back Doody and Cherri

Bee

I think I aged fifteen years trying to do this skin

Being honest, Bee was the main one I was worried about. The skirt was my main fear because, well, never did a skirt before. I think this skin was the one I just kept coming back to because something always seemed wrong about it. Even when I was working on Local’s I just kept coming back to change things because nothing ever looked right.

It wasn’t too difficult to do otherwise, the colours being more brown made it semi difficult as I had to manipulate lighting usage to make sure the browns didn’t muddle together, but really my main difficulty here was the skirt.

After that was done I was fine, I had to actually close the skin because I just kept coming back to it and I knew I’d never be satisfied with it if I couldn’t even focus on a completely different skin LMAO.

I am glad i did it though! Now I can say I have some skirt experience under my belt

Local

I’m so glad I ended with Local because oh my god I needed this after Bee.

Local was very simple, t-shirt and ripped jeans, very baby simple. Because of this I don’t really have any notes on him. Also I was doing this skin by like 11:30 after doing the other ones since like 5 so I desperately needed that break.

I think the thing that messed with me the most was both the hair and the shoes. Obviously sandals are very different from regular shoes and I would change them again but honestly I’m fine with how they turned out.

The hair I just had to adjust the colours a bit off of reference because it was MORE RED, but I think the way I did the shading there is fine enough for what it needs to be

I saw that Local sometimes just didn’t have the jacket so I made it able to be toggled which was fun, basically worked on two layers of skin

[imsofreakingtired]

your fics are ✨️✨️✨️ ! So.. a fluff one of comforting Sevika on her period, you know she's in pain, but she refuses to tell that, but you find her in the fetal position almost crying of cramps on the bed

hope u doing well ! xoxo

- 🧸

oh my god thank you sm for giving me the chance to take care of our sevi 😭🙏 i'm honestly dying on my period rn so this req was perfect 💙

and i'll make a cup of coffee

content warning(s): none, fluff and hurt/comfort...soft sevika <33

don't stay awake for too long don't go to bed i'll make a cup of coffee for your head i'll get you up and going out of bed

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This is the thing about Sevika: she will rather subject herself to torture than admit that, like many other human beings on this tired green planet cursed with a uterus they have no use for, she gets period cramps. 

You’d think anyone else blessed with a wife as caring and gentle as you would melt willingly into their arms, milk the pain of their period for all it’s worth. You’re certain Sevika knows that you’d fly off at the drop of a hat to get her anything she needed if she just gave the word. Chocolate, tea, a hot water bottle, hell, an oversized teddy bear. But no. Not this woman. It’s like she considers the limitations of her body a personal challenge from mother nature. 

So you’ve grown attuned to the smallest signs.

“You got your period, didn’t you?” you say. 

Sevika looks at you, grey eyes widened in surprise. “No.” 

The morning is overcast, the sky promises rain; you see the clouds gathering outside the kitchen window. 

“Liar.” You pour the boiling water over the coffee grounds, breathing in the aroma of the dark blend. “I can see it plainly.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You move out the filter, reach for the jar of sugar. “You feeling okay? Maybe you should take off work today.” 

“I’m fine,” she grunts. 

Fine, my ass. She had been irritable and sluggish all week. Every time she snapped at you peevishly, or grumbled she was too tired for sex, you’d mentally marked down the days until she finally got her period. The woman’s cycle was like clockwork. 

“You’re due for a day off anyway. You haven’t used any of your sick days.” 

“I can’t take off,” she says shortly. “There’s a meeting I can’t miss today.” As she takes the mug you hold out to her, you see a wince cross her face, and she bends over slightly so the coffee sloshes around in the cup. 

“I saw that, missy,” you tell her. 

She snorts at the pet name. “You saw nothing.” 

She leaves the coffee on the counter and walks out of the kitchen. 

You assume she went to change, but when some ten minutes go by without any sound from her, you grow suspicious. 

“Vika?” You call. “You headed to work or what?” 

No answer. 

“Vika?” 

You go into the bedroom, where you see her clothes strewn out on the dresser, as if she got as far as choosing them and laying them out, then gave up at the stage of putting them on. Sevika herself is curled up at the edge of the bed, still in her shorts and tank top. For a second, you feel a flash of panic. 

“Fuck. Sevika. What’s wrong?” You’re at her side in a heartbeat, brushing her hair out of her eyes, feeling her forehead. “Are you sick? Where does it hurt?” 

She pulls her head away from you and you notice now that she’s clutching her abdomen. Burying her face into the pillows, she says in a muffled voice, “it’s not…usually this bad.” 

Then it dawns on you. “Cramps?”

She lets out a defeated groan. 

“Poor baby,” you murmur, rubbing her back. “What do you need? I’ll get you a hot water bottle.” 

“No,” she says into the pillow. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay, just…give me a second.”

You sigh impatiently. “You’re on the verge of tears, you think you can fool me with that?” 

“I’m not.” She tries to straighten out her body to prove her point, but gives up and pulls you closer to her by the waist instead.

“What—” 

Even bent double from cramps, Sevika has the physical strength to pull you down into a sitting position onto the bed beside her. Before long you understand what she wants you to do. 

Shaking your head, you lie down with your back to her and let her spoon you with her warm body. She hums in contentment against your shoulder. 

“This is better than a shitty water bottle,” Sevika mumbles. 

“I’m assuming you’re taking the day off, then?” 

“’Slong as you don’t get up.”

“I’m always here, Vika,” you promise, kissing her forearm. “You know that.” 

The rain patters gently against the window as Sevika’s breathing slows and she drifts off to sleep, holding you tightly. In the kitchen, the coffee grows cold. It's alright, you think.

You can always make her another cup.

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notes: ugh i just want to take care of her the world is sick and mean :(

[rafayelxsylusho]

Hey love, your LADs fics are 🥵🔥🫠.

If you are accepting requests, could you pls write a College AU with the LADS men?

A study sesh leads to smut (can include love confession if not in established relationship).

Have a lovely day/night~ 💖

I hope I did it right. Enjoy!

College AU with the LADS men 🎓

Part 1: Zaynexreader

TW: SMUT

**Both reader and Zayne are Med students**

Zayne looks up from his textbook, his eyes meeting yours as you walk into his dorm room. His room is tidy, almost clinically so, really different from your own chaotic space down the hall. Zayne has always been the organized one, the responsible one, while you...well, you were something else.

"Your room is still a disaster zone, I take it?" he asks, arching an eyebrow. When you smile and nod, he laughs softly and shakes his head. "I don't know how you manage to live in such chaos."

Zayne's gaze drifts over your textbooks stacked in your arms, his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in your appearance, noting the dark circles under your eyes and the way you seem to be running on pure adrenaline. He sets his textbook aside and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Tell me you got some sleep last night," he says, there is concern in his voice. "You look exhausted, y/n. I know this semester has been tough on you." he looks at you like a parent waiting for their child to confess to staying up too late. "And your test?" he asks when you don't immediately answer. "How did it go?" Zayne knows you had an important test this morning. He's been quietly supportive, offering to quiz you or just listening as you vented about the material leading up to it.

"I survived," you sigh, as you flop down on the bed across from Zayne's desk. "But I don't think I did as well as I needed to. I swear, every time I think I've got it, I realize there's a whole other layer to learn."

You groan, burying your face in one of his pillows for a moment before sitting back up to look at him "I don't know how you do it Zayne. Don't you ever just want to give up?"

He stands and walks over to his mini fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. "Here, drink this. You look dehydrated." Zayne gives you the bottle before sitting on the edge of his bed next to you. His brow furrows with concern as he watches you drink deeply from the water bottle, his eyes searching yours.

"Y/n, how many hours of sleep did you actually get last night?"

"Two," you say quietly. " Maybe a little more". His expression softens as he listens to you. He knew you were pushing yourself too hard, but hearing the confirmation of just how little sleep you'd gotten hits him like a punch to the gut.

"Lay down for a bit. I'll wake you up in two hours, and we can continue with your study session then." There's a gentle authority in his voice, Zayne's not going to let you talk your way out of this one. He knows you need the rest, and will make sure you get it.

As you hesitate, he reaches out to take the now empty water bottle from your hands, setting it aside on the nightstand. His fingers linger on yours for just a moment, a silent plea for you to listen to him.

"Please," he murmurs, his eyes holding yours. "You can't keep doing this. You need to take care of yourself if you want to make it through this program." His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly over the dark circle beneath your eye. It's a tender gesture, full of care and concern. He's not just your study partner and best friend, he's the one person who truly sees you, exhaustion and all.

"Fineeeee, whatever you say Dr Zayne"

He watches as you lay down on the bed, your head coming to rest on the pillow. He feels a bit of concern seeing you so drained, but also a sense of relief that he convinced you to get some much needed rest. Almost as soon as your head touches the pillow, your eyelids flutter shut and your breathing evens out.

You startle awake, your heart racing. You're not used to sleeping so deeply, especially not in the middle of the day. As you blink the sleep from your eyes, you become aware of a warm, solid presence next to you on the bed. Turning your head slowly, you find yourself face to face with Zayne, his body next to yours. He must have dozed off while you were sleeping, still clutching his textbook in his hands, now lying open and forgotten. Soft snores escape his slightly parted lips, a light frown etched between his eyebrows as if even in sleep, he's focused on the complex medical diagrams. He looks almost boyish in sleep, the hard lines of his face softening, a lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, and there's a vulnerability to his stillness that makes your heart clench. For a moment, you just watch him, taking in the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the long lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks. Then, carefully, you reach out and pluck the textbook from him setting it aside. Zayne stirs slightly at the loss of the book, but doesn't wake. In sleep, his hand finds yours, as he settles closer to you. Your fingers intertwine instinctively, and you feel a rush of warmth spread through you at the contact.

You feel the heat of Zayne's breath ghosting over your face. Even in sleep, he seems drawn to you, his hand tightening around yours as if he's afraid you might disappear if he lets go. A soft blush rises to your cheeks at the intimacy of the moment, at the way Zayne's face is inches from your own. Your heart starts to race for a different reason now, a fluttering sensation that has nothing to do with the sudden awakening and everything to do with the man next to you.

You've shared countless study sessions, late night talks, and inside jokes with Zayne, but this...this feels different. More intimate. More charged with a tension you've never dared to acknowledge before. His eyelids flutter, and for a moment you think he might wake. You hold your breath, but he doesn't wake. Instead, he just sighs softly, his breath fanning over your lips. You know you should pull away, give him space, but you find yourself rooted to the spot. Captivated. Your free hand comes up to brush a lock of hair from Zayne's forehead, your fingertips lingering on the soft skin. He's so warm. So real. So...inviting.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry despite the water Zayne had given you earlier. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and you see Zayne's eyes flutter open at the movement. For a moment, you're frozen, caught in the hazel gaze that seems to see right through you. Then, slowly, Zayne's eyes focus on you. Confusion clouds them for a moment before a flicker of something else, something hotter, sparks in their depths. His grip on your hand tightens.

"You're awake," he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep. His gaze drops to your mouth, stays there for a long, charged moment. You feel your heart pounding against your ribs, your breath coming faster. The air between you feels thick, heavy with a tension you've never dared to put a name to before. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a sensual caress that sends a shiver up your spine. "How are you feeling?" he asks, but there's something else to his question, a double meaning that makes your cheeks flush hotter. And you know you should answer, should break this moment with a silly comment or a joke but you can't seem to find your voice. You're too busy drowning in the heat of Zayne's eyes too busy wanting...wanting more. Wanting to close the small distance between you and feel his lips on yours, wanting to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him closer until there's no space left between your bodies.

But you don't. You can't. Because this is Zayne. Your best friend, the one person you trust above all others. The one person you can't afford to mess this up with, so instead of giving in to the temptation, you take a deep, shuddering breath and try to gather your composure. You wet your dry lips again, your voice a bit husky as you manage to choke out an answer.

"I...I feel better," you whisper, your eyes still locked with his. "Thank you for...for letting me sleep." It's a clumsy reply, but it's the best you can manage in this moment.

Zayne's eyes search yours for a moment, as if trying to find the true meaning behind your words. Then, slowly, he nods and starts to sit up, his hand sliding from yours and leaving you feeling suddenly cold. "I'm glad, you needed the rest." He glances at the clock on the wall and frowns slightly. "I'm afraid I may have let you sleep a little longer than we intended though."

He starts to gather up the scattered pages of his textbook, his movements a little stiff, a little self-conscious. It's clear that he's feeling the shift in the atmosphere as much as you are. "We should probably get back to studying," he says, not meeting your gaze as he stacks the pages neatly. "You've got that big test coming up, and you need to be ready." He says it lightly, but there's a tightness to his voice that wasn't there before. A tension that has nothing to do with the impending test.

You nod slowly, sitting up as well and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You feel a little unsteady, a little off-balance. And it's not from the sudden awakening.

"Yeah," you agree softly. "You're right. I should get back to it."

You stand up, stretching slightly to work the kinks out of your muscles. As you do, you catch Zayne watching you from the corner of your eye, his gaze intense and unreadable. A shiver runs down your spine at the weight of it, and you quickly busy yourself with straightening out the rumpled blanket on the bed, avoiding his stare. "I'll just...I'll just go freshen up real quick" You say, hurrying towards the bathroom, needing to put some space between you, to collect your racing thoughts and calm the frantic pounding of your heart.

Once you are in the bathroom you splash water on your face, and take a few deep breaths, trying to will the blush from your cheeks. But no matter how much cold water you use, you can't seem to banish the memory of Zayne's sleep-roughened voice, the heat of his breath on your face, the way his hand felt curled around yours.

You shake your head sharply, pushing the thoughts away. You can't afford to think like that, not about Zayne. He's your rock, your constant, the one person you know you can always count on. You can't risk destroying that.

Squaring your shoulders, you take one last deep breath and step back out into the bedroom. Zayne is sitting on the bed, his textbooks spread out in front of him, his glasses perched on his nose as he scans the pages intently. For a moment, he looks like a picture of concentration, the very image of the dedicated medical student. As you approach, he glances up, and you see the flicker of something else in his eyes. Something warmer. Something that makes your heart stutter in your chest. "Is everything all right?" he asks softly, a note of genuine concern in his voice. He stands up, taking a step towards you, and you find yourself looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

"I...yes," you manage to say, your voice a little steadier than before. "Everything is fine.

"Good," he says, and there's a quiet satisfaction in his voice. He gestures to the bed, "It will be good for us to review the material together," Zayne continues, his voice warm and encouraging. "We can go over the key points and make sure you've got a solid grasp of everything before the test"

He steps closer to you, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of your back as he guides you towards the bed. The touch is innocent, a gesture of friendship and support "Sit down," his breath stirring the hair at your temple. "Let's get to work."

Zayne watches as you chew thoughtfully on a grape, your eyes scanning the medical text. Hours have passed, and despite the late hour, you're both still engrossed in the material, determined to ensure you're fully prepared for the upcoming test. As Zayne sits in his chair, he flips to a new page in his textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he glances up at you, ready to ask a question, he notices a small, glistening droplet of grape juice on your lower lip.

For a moment, he's distracted, his focus torn between the anatomical diagram on the page and the tempting sight before him. He clears his throat softly, trying to regain his train of thought.

"Y/n," he begins, his voice a little rougher than before. "What are the primary symptoms of acute kidney injury?"

As he waits for your response, Zayne finds himself leaning forward slightly, his gaze still fixed on your mouth. The drop of juice on your lip, threatening to drip down at any moment.

He swallows hard, his heart beating a little faster in his chest. He knows he should look away, should focus on the important task at hand. But he can't seem to tear his gaze away from the mesmerizing sight of you.

Finally, as if sensing his stare, you glance up from the textbook. Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, time seems to slow. Zayne's breath catches in his throat as he realizes he's been caught staring, his pulse jumping at the realization.

"The primary symptoms are...decreased urine output, blood in the urine, swelling in the legs or ankles, nausea, and fatigue." You begin, your voice clear and confident despite the late hour.

As you speak, he watches, as the grape juice slowly slides down the curve of your lip. It leaves a glistening trail in its wake, a path that draws his eye like a magnet.

"And then there's the secondary symptoms," you say, unaware of the effect you are having on him "Hematuria, azotemia, electrolyte imbalances..."

As you speak, he feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to close the distance between you, to lean in and catch that glistening drop of grape juice with his tongue.

When the thought hits him it leaves him momentarily breathless. In this moment, with the late hour and the intensity of your study session, he finds himself fighting with a desire he's long suppressed.

As you wrap up your explanation, Zayne quickly looks down at his textbook, needing a moment to collect himself. He clears his throat, trying to will away the sudden tightness in his pants and the heat rising in his cheeks.

"That's...that's correct, y/n," he manages to say, his voice a little rougher than intended. "You've got a solid grasp of the material. That's impressive."

You smile at Zayne's praise, feeling a surge of pride and accomplishment. The late-night study session had been intense, but seeing the approval in his eyes made it all worthwhile. As your smile widened, the droplet of grape juice that had been perched on the curve of your lower lip began its descent.

Zayne, already on edge and distracted by his sudden surge of desire, doesn't hesitate. Acting on pure instinct, he reaches out and across the short distance between you, his thumb outstretched. In a soft gesture, he brushes his thumb along your chin, catching the errant drop of juice before it can fall any further. The touch is brief but electric, sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, Zayne's thumb trails upwards, coming to rest gently on the plush, soft skin of your lower lip. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and in that moment, the air between you feels charged with a new energy. His gaze is intense, his eyes searching yours as his thumb lightly traces the curve of your lower lip. He's waiting for a reaction, for any sign that you feel it too this sudden, undeniable spark of attraction that's impossible to ignore.

His voice is a low murmur, almost a whisper, when he finally speaks. "You had a little... grape juice," he explains unnecessarily, his thumb still resting on your lip. "I just... I couldn't let it go to waste."

He feels his breath hitch in his throat as your small, pink tongue darts out and laps at the remnants of the grape juice on his thumb. The sensation of your wet, warm tongue against his skin sends a jolt of electricity straight through him, settling heavily in his lower abdomen.

"Now it won't," you say softly

As you hold his gaze, Zayne feels the last of his restraint slipping away. The walls he's built to keep his feelings locked away, crumble like sandcastles against a tide.

Slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, Zayne leans in closer. His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, his long fingers splaying gently against the warm, smooth skin. He tilts your chin up slightly, angling your face towards his.

"I've wanted to do this for so long, y/n," he confesses. The scent of his words is tinged with the faint aroma of the grapes you were eating, a heady and intoxicating combination. His eyes flick down to your lips, now glistening and parted slightly from your earlier actions.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his voice strained with tension. "Tell me you don't feel this too, and I'll stop. But god, I need to know if you want this as much as I do."

Your heart races as you feel Zayne's breath mingling with yours, his lips now centimeters away from your own. The heat of his skin, the intensity of his gaze, it's all so overwhelming and intoxicating.

"Don't stop," you breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper. It's all you manage to say before you close the final centimeter of space between you, your lips pressing softly against his. The moment your mouths meet, it's like a spark igniting a wildfire. Zayne's lips are soft and firm against your own, molding to the contours of your mouth as if he was made to fit there.

You hear a low groan escape from the back of his throat as you deepen the kiss. His fingers tighten slightly on your cheek, his thumb brushing over the apple of your cheekbone. You press closer, your hand coming up to tangle in the short, dark hair at the nape of his neck. Your fingers thread through the silky strands, anchoring him to you as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth moving against your own.

Zayne pulls back from the kiss just enough to hook his hands under your armpits. With a gentle but insistent pressure, he lifts you up and out of the bed, bringing your body flush against his own. As his lips claim yours again, his hands slide from your armpits down to your waist. He grips you firmly, his long fingers splaying across the small of your back as he pulls your curves snugly against the hard planes of his own body.

Still lost in the intensity of the kiss, he starts to walk you backwards, his body pressed against yours, until the soft give of a wall meets your back. He breaks the kiss just briefly as your back hits the wall, long enough to flash you a look that's equal parts hunger and desperation. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide with desire, and his chest heaves with each breath he takes.

"You drive me crazy," he rasps, his voice strained and rough with want. "If I take you to bed now, I won't be able to hold back. I'll lose control, and I don't want to rush this."

You close the distance once again and your teeth graze his bottom lip "Please Zayne" you whisper.

Unable to resist your urging, Zayne gives in to your demand. He leans into you, allowing you to tug his shirt upwards and expose the toned, muscular chest beneath. His abs are defined, each muscle group carved by years of dedicated discipline. As his shirt clears his head, Zayne captures your wrists in his hands, pinning them gently but firmly against the wall on either side of your head. He looms over you, his larger frame caging you in, his eyes roaming hungrily over your face and body.

"Please, what? Tell me what you want, y/n. I need to hear you say it."

His hips press against yours, the hard, thick length of him evident even through the fabric of his pants. He grinds slowly against you, letting you feel every inch of his desire. His hand releases one of your wrists to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your swollen bottom lip. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the rough, desperate edge in his voice.

"Tell me," he demands, his gaze intense and unwavering. "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you. I'll give you everything."

"Zayne," you breathe out, your voice trembling with desire. "I need you, all of you" You feel his hands grip the backs of your thighs, his long fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he hoists you up. He lifts you effortlessly, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he pins you against the wall with his hips. Once he feels your legs secure around him, Zayne's hands slide up, his palms skimming over your thighs and coming to rest on your hips. He squeezes gently, his fingers digging into your curves as he holds you in place. Sensing your movements, Zayne leans back just enough to allow you to remove your shirt. As the fabric falls away, revealing your bare skin and the delicate lace of your bra, his breath catches in his throat.

"Fuck" he breathes out, his gaze hungry as it roams over your exposed flesh. Unable to resist, Zayne leans down and starts to place open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His lips and tongue map out the delicate skin, tasting you, teasing you, as his hands slide up your sides. They come to rest just below the band of your bra, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He looks up at you, his eyes dark and filled with promise, silently asking for your permission to continue.

You reach back, fingers unhooking the clasp of your bra. The lace falls away, baring you completely to his hungry gaze. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, your chest heaving with each breath, your nipples pebbled in the cool air of the room.

"Perfect," Zayne murmurs, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "Absolutely perfect."

He lowers his head and draws one straining peak into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud, teasing it, before he suckles hard. His other hand kneads the soft weight of your other breast, rolling and plucking at the neglected nipple. Zayne's hips press harder against yours, the thick ridge of his arousal grinding against your core.

"Zayne," you gasp, your head falling back against the wall as pleasure courses through you. "Please, I need more." Your hands fist in his hair, anchoring him to you as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, silently begging him to take you.

Zayne releases your breast with a wet pop, his lips moving to your other breast to give it the same treatment. He suckles and nips, his teeth grazing your skin, marking you. His mouth never leaves your breasts as he carries you towards the bed, his lips and tongue continuing their relentless assault on your sensitive flesh. He walks backwards and as the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Zayne sits down, allowing you both to tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. He rolls you over, positioning you beneath him. Zayne's hands roam your body, caressing every curve and dip, as if committing your form to memory.

Still focused on your breasts, he kisses and licks, suckles and nips, until your back arches off the bed and your fingers tangle almost painfully in his hair. Your nipples are reddened and swollen, glistening with his saliva, and aching for more of his touch. Zayne pauses in his ministrations, glancing up at you with a playful smirk as he slowly unzips your skirt. As he removes it he takes in the sight of your blue panties adorned with a tiny snowman.

"I wasn't exactly planning on seducing you tonight," you admit with an embarrassed blush, biting your lower lip. "I didn't think we'd end up like this."

Zayne's eyes soften as he takes in the pretty blush coloring your cheeks and the swell of your breasts. He finds your embarrassment endearing, charming even. It's a rare sight, given how composed and put together you usually are.

Zayne shakes his head and smirks "I'm glad you didn't plan this," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "Because if you had, you might not have chosen such...cute underwear"

He glances down at the snowman grinning up at him, then back to your blushing face, his smirk widening into a genuine, boyish grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart. They're perfect. Just like you, but let's get rid of them, shall we?" he whispers, his voice low and seductive "I want to see all of you."

Zayne takes his time peeling your panties down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin. As the fabric slips past your knees, he tosses them carelessly aside, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

When you instinctively close your legs, Zayne pauses, his hands resting on your thighs. "Open them for me, pretty girl," his voice filled with desire. His hands start to slowly push your thighs apart, his thumbs brushing over your inner thighs and sending sparks of pleasure racing through you, and when your legs part for him, his gaze drops to your exposed sex, his eyes darkening with hunger and need.

"Fuck, love," he breathes out, his voice strained. "You're so beautiful. I could look at you for hours." He leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh, making you shudder in anticipation. He inhales deeply, taking in your scent, before placing a soft, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips and tongue work their way slowly up your inner thigh. He places kisses to your skin, occasionally grazing it with his teeth, sending jolts of pleasure and pain straight to your core. He takes his time, savoring your taste and scent, drawing out your anticipation and desperation. The closer he gets to your aching, empty sex, the more your hips squirm and cant upwards, seeking his touch.

"Zayne, please," you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to urge him on. He nips at the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your sex, making you gasp and your hips jerk involuntarily. He places another kiss, higher this time, his lips brushing against your lower lips. At the same time, he pushes your thighs further apart, opening you up to him completely.

"Tell me what you want," he urges, his breath hot against your cunt. "Tell me how you want me to touch you."

"Please, I need your mouth on me. I need your tongue, your fingers, something."

Without warning, he dives in, his mouth latching onto your sex with a hunger that steals your breath away.He kisses and sucks, his lips moving against your sensitive flesh as he explores every inch of you. His tongue delves between your folds, stroking along your slit and dipping teasingly inside you.

"Mmm, you taste even better than I imagined," Zayne rumbles, his words muffled against your sex. He looks up at you, his eyes glinting as he holds your gaze. "I could feast on this sweet cunt for hours, my love."

He then seals his mouth over your clit, suckling hard as he slides two long fingers deep inside you. He pumps them slowly, curling and twisting, stroking that spot that makes you moan his name. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, your head thrown back in ecstasy. Suddenly he pauses, looking up at you with a playful glint in his eye. He smirks, his fingers still buried deep inside your throbbing sex. "How about we make this interesting, love? We can practice what you've learned today."

He starts to withdraw his fingers slowly, his thumb brushing over your clit and making you gasp. "Let's start with a simple one. What's the medical term for the heart?" He watches your face, his fingers poised at your entrance, waiting for your response.

"Fuck, it's c-cardio," you stutter out, your voice breathless and shaky with desire.

"Good girl," Zayne purrs, rewarding you with a slow lick along your slit. "What's the primary function of the kidneys?" His fingers dip back inside you, pumping shallowly, teasing you as he waits for your answer. Your hips twitch, trying to pull him deeper, but you force yourself to focus.

"F-filtration and secretion," you manage to say, your words coming out in a rush.

"That's right," Zayne murmurs, placing another lingering lick on your clit before suckling gently, rewarding your correct answer. "The liver's main function?"

"Nghh, m-metabolism and detoxification," you gasp, your head falling back as pleasure courses through you.

"Mmm, excellent. The brain's primary function?"

"I can't....Zayne please..." you pant, your fingers gripping the sheets as you fight the urge to grind yourself against Zayne's face. "I...its controlling and coordinating actions and..and ...activities,"

He wraps his lips around your clit and gently sucks it, his fingers pump faster, curling to stroke that special spot inside you with each thrust. You can feel your release building, your walls starting to flutter around his fingers.

"Lungs' primary function?" Zayne asks, his voice a low rumble against your sex.

"Res...respiration," you cry, your hips bucking up to meet his hand as your climax fast approaches.

"That's my clever girl," Zayne praises, sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking gently once again.

Zayne feels your walls fluttering and clenching around his fingers, knowing you are teetering on the brink of your climax. He looks up at you with intense eyes, his voice low and urgent.

"This is the most important question, my love. How many chambers does the heart have?"

His fingers pump faster, stroking that sensitive spot deep inside you with each thrust. His thumb rubs firm circles over your clit, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

"Four!" you scream, your voice breaking and cracking with the intensity of your impending climax. At your desperate scream of the correct answer, Zayne dives back in, his mouth latching onto your sex with renewed hunger. His tongue circles your clit exactly four times, each rotation perfectly measured and deliberate.

As he completes the fourth rotation, you finally shatter. Your body convulses as your orgasm crashes over you like, your sex clenching and fluttering wildly around his fingers.

Zayne groans, feeling your release gush over his tongue and fingers. He works you through it, his mouth and hands never stopping their assault, drawing out your pleasure until you collapse back onto the bed, boneless and spent.

Zayne crawls up your body, his eyes filled with satisfaction and pride. He cups your face, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath away. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it only makes you feel more desired.

"Good girl," Zayne praises. "You did so well, my love. I'm so proud of you."

You try to sit up, but Zayne gently but firmly presses you back down onto the bed, his hands resting on your shoulders. He shakes his head, giving you a playful smirk as he tucks you in snugly under the covers, pulling them up to your chin.

"Where do you think you're going, love? You need to rest now," Zayne says softly, his voice filled with a tender warmth that makes your heart flutter. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering to caress your cheek.

"You've had a long day. I want you to sleep now, sweetheart. Let your body recover and recharge." He settles in next to you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and pulling you close, spooning you from behind. He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair as he holds you possessively, protectively.

His hand rests on your stomach, his thumb rubbing gentle circles, a comforting, lulling motion. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back and the soothing sound of his voice soon has you both drifting off into a peaceful sleep. Unaware that once you both become respected doctors in your respective fields, you find yourself transported back to this day every time someone mentions the four chambers of the heart.

It could be during a lecture, a patient consultation, or even a casual conversation with a colleague. The moment the words "four chambers" leave their lips, you're instantly transported back to that bedroom, with Zayne's head between your legs, his tongue circling your clit in perfect, deliberate rotations as you screamed out the answer that brought you to the most intense orgasm of your life.

You'll feel a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you'll have to bite back a smile, glancing over at Zayne to see if he was also transported to that moment. More often than not, you catch him looking at you with a knowing, smoldering gaze, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. You know he's thinking about the same thing.

I

[purinfelix]

winning is my trademark!! ˎˊ˗

──────── aka your 'strategy' to getting with enhypen boys || fluff, headcanons, ft: all members

a/n: had this idea rattling around in my brain recently since I've been listening to stragey by twice a lot (meghan thee stallion i would die for you) and i thought it was really cute to write !! so i hope you guys think the same <333

✶⋆.˚ lee heeseung : praise him

Heeseung is a pretty reserved guy - but especially when he's around someone he likes

He'll get so shy that he's hyper-aware of showing off because he doesn't want to come off as cocky!

Even normally, his talents go unacknowledged so whenever you get the choice be sure to point them out and compliment him!

"Heeseung, your singing voice is so nice, could I hear it again?"

"Wow, you're pretty much good at everything, huh?"

Do it in a way that shows that not only do you notice him, but you're also impressed by him

At first, it might fluster him because he isn't used to such straightforward praises but if you let him know you find it cool he'll definitely show off a little

And who knows, if you're lucky enough you might even get to see a little bit of his cocky side if he gets confident enough

✶⋆.˚ park jongseong : look after him

It's no surprise to pretty much anyone who knows Jay that he's a really observant person who likes to take care of other people a lot

So, a sure-fire way to his heart is to make sure he gets taken care of in return!

It doesn't happen a lot, so even something as small as buying him snacks you know he likes or asking him if he's eating regularly is sure to give him butterflies

He definitely won't outright acknowledge it - mostly because he's afraid of taking your kind acts as something they're not, but the more you do them the more he'll catch on

Once you get closer try out small caring touches like tucking his hair away from his face when he's eating, or gently moving him out of the way of things

It tells him that, even if you might not say it directly, you're looking out for him in the same way he does for others - it makes him feel appreciated !! :((

Oh and if he ever gets sick be sure to insist on sticking by his side (almost annoyingly so) and maybe even cook him up a meal or two to seal the deal

✶⋆.˚ sim jake : cling to him (or let him cling to you)

It's pretty obvious that Jake is a clingy person with anyone from his closest friends to people he's just me - but if he likes you he'll definitely feel the need to stick around you even more than usual

The only issue is that he'll become even more conscious of how this might annoy you or be too much if he's constantly trailing around you :((

So you need to let him know it's okay!

Invite him to do things with you, even if they're small errands like just getting your groceries because it tells him that you enjoy his company no matter what!

Pulling on his shirt to get his attention or holding onto his arm to keep him close works well too - physical touch is defs his love language

And don't ever try to stop him from following you around or sitting too close

✶⋆.˚ park sunghoon : depend on him

It's no secret that Sunghoon is a man of little words, especially when he likes someone and is a little too shy to say it

His love language is definitely acts of service, and he wants so badly to do things for you, but poor boy is afraid of seeming like too much or coming across as pushy

So call on him whenever you need help - even if its something as small as getting him to open snacks for you, or helping you out with a question

Even if it's something you could probably do faster yourself, letting him know that you're willing to accept his help regardless will melt his heart

It also tells him that you see him as someone reliable and trustworthy which definitely boosts his confidence to talk and get to know you

He likes feeling useful and showing his affection by doing things for you, so if you give him the opportunity to, he'll definitely take it happily

✶⋆.˚ kim sunoo : agree with him

Having conversations with Sunoo is something that probably comes easily to the two of you given how talkative he is

However, the way to step it up is to agree with him whenever possible and bond over things you guys have in common

He's pretty opinionated about things - even topics like your favourite kind of weather or ice cream flavour can actually mean a lot to him!

It isn't that you have to mindlessly go along with everything he says or agree with every tiny point he makes

It's more that understanding his point of view on things is really touching, and helps him feel seen and heard!

And if you disagree make it an effort to hear him out on his reasoning and maybe even promise to give his recommendations a go

✶⋆.˚ yang jungwon : tease him

Just like a cat, Jungwon's love can be a little hard to win over especially since it's difficult to walk the line between friendship and more with him

One way to make it clear how you feel though, is to tease him in a way that borders on flirtation just enough to make him question it

This will keep you in his thoughts, and keep him curious for more

Mock him lightly or disagree with him for the sake of light-hearted bickering

If you get the chance challenge him to silly competitions ("Bet I can finish my rice faster than you.")

It's this kind of competitive yet playful tension that tugs at his heartstrings in an intriguing way - and will make sure he doesn't think of you as just a friend

✶⋆.˚ nishimura riki: listen to him

Despite his attempts at seeming mysterious and nonchalant, Niki's really a big softie inside - but he isn't going to just let you in easily

You have to show him that you really want to get to know him

If you're in a group make it clear that you're listening to him, eye contact and body language is the key, plus he's really good at reading it too!

Lean towards him, raise your brows to urge him to continue

Remember things he mentions to ask him about again later, hear him out and ask him questions to keep him talking

Before either of you realise it he's had an entire conversation with you about something he didn't even realise was bothering him

But realising that you're someone he can really trust and finds easy to talk to is the way to Niki's heart!

[occamstfs]

Perfect Teeth

Josh is not at all concerned with his appearance, save one minor detail. Presented with the ability to get a new set of chompers, one wonders how far he will go in pursuit of a truly perfect smile.

I did it everyone, an actual shorter story than usual! Hope you enjoy this quest for whiter teeth, a brighter smile and, of course, the growing body to match! -Occam

He just wanted perfect teeth. His smile was not too unsightly or anything, his incisors had a small gap, canines were a tad asymmetrical, they weren’t stained but didn’t shine milky white. All in all they looked normal, human. But much like Hawthorne’s Birth-Mark, the pursuit of perfection is not at all rational. It’s not something that can be achieved, at least it cannot be achieved while maintaining one’s sense of self.

Still, when this impossible technology was put before him, there was nothing on Josh’s mind besides sating this anxiety. The acquaintance who told him of this strange, seemingly inhuman technology hiding in a back-alley advised that he keep something small in mind. Though he refused to say what he ended up using it for himself. Josh doesn’t care too much, he’s confident in his appearance otherwise, it’s just his smile. What could be smaller than teeth right? 

Entering the cold mechanical room he’s greeted by a shining screen on which there are six words flashing: What Can We Do For You? Easy, putting his hands on the keyboard he suspiciously looks over his shoulder and hopes this isn’t some stupid Sci-Fi prank show. It’s not like he knows the man who sent him here all that well. Putting aside hesitancies that his greatest anxiety will be mocked, Josh types his response. “I would like Perfect Teeth.” Pausing for a moment he tacks on a “Please.” assuming pleasantries couldn’t hurt.

Then there’s whirring and some flashes from the machine he’s typing on. If his eyes were focused on anything but the screen perhaps he would see something small fly from it towards himself, perhaps he would feel it prick him and enter. Instead he stares at a newly appeared loading bar, slowly filling up. And then he feels his teeth changing. 

His hands go to his face and his eyes widen with fear as he realizes this is the real deal. Trying to steady himself when he feels the bone of his jaw rearranging, itchy and uncomfortable. Josh worries his teeth are going to fall out entirely to be replaced with newer stock. And yet he can’t help but look. Angling to see inside his mouth on some polished metal he gasps as he sees his instead of that horror, his individual teeth are changing, growing, whitening. He gags as he watches them shift and move, their roots jutting out awkwardly under his gums as they realign. 

And then whatever’s happening is done. Shifting his expression he feels his cheeks wet the new polished teeth. They feel too large in his mouth, but when he smiles he can see their pristine shine in the dark monitor, “I can’t believe it fucking worked.” He moves over them with his tongue, feeling it smoothly glide over new enamel. Gnashing them against each-other to feel how they perfectly sit together. He’ll get used to how they push against his lips, his cheeks, how his tongue seems to have less space. Little price to pay for perfection. 

Josh laughs to himself and pumps a fist into the air before he looks down to see the loading bar stalled out at 99%. As soon as he takes notice another prompt appears, Further Pursuit Of Perfection Will Require Reality Alteration. Do You Consent Joshua Graham. Perhaps he should wonder how it got his name, but given what it just did to his molars and canines that’s of little concern. Nor, as he stares at the bar one digit away from true perfection, is he concerned about whatever reality alteration means. 

“I consent.” Not a thought flows through his mind as he types the two words. Worry does begin to tinge his thoughts when there is a much louder whirring from the machine surrounding him. The room seemingly heats up from whatever processes are going on and unlike the previous slightly numbed changes in his mouth, Josh begins to feel pain. He grunts as he feels his jaw crack and clenches at it, in his grasp he feels it widen. His chin pointing further as his mandible hardens and squares. He tries to protest but is unable to speak as his mouth reforms.

Lips grow thicker and form into a smile that he is absolutely not choosing to emote. Then he notices the hand that touched his jaw beginning to craft and shift as well, fingers lengthening while his palm expands. Its pale skin darkening and already seeping into his wrist. Almost instinctively he goes to touch it, to push it away with his unchanged hand before thinking better of it and instead grabbing for his phone. Perhaps one would call for help, but as he sees his forearm growing the veins of his hand trailing across it before they begin their work on his bicep, he needs to see his face.

And so he opens his front facing camera to see a face changed. Teeth bleached white, a smile wider than comfortable, clearly at home on a face that continues to change. Looking in his own eyes he can’t help but wonder if they’ve always been that color? But for the life of him he couldn’t say what color they should be. He stares as his hair begins to restyle itself, retracting and sticking up in a carefully constructed cowlick, framing his strong face and even stronger jaw as his neck begins to thicken. The pencil thin stick grows into a perfect pillar before it’s graced by bulky traps that will only elevate his handsome face while highlighting his strength, always bulging above his soon-to-be massive chest.

Staring at his smiling face he can’t help but wonder why he was worried for a second! Did he not wish to look, to be perfect? His lopsided, now longer, arm falls to his side and his smile twitches as the changes spread to his torso. His spine lengthens as he stands there gawking at himself. His heavy hand tears off his top so he can observe the new muscle beginning to pack onto his chest. 

Moving from right to left he sees individual cells of strength beginning to bulk and bulge, following the tan seeping across him as his skin darkens to a uniform, clearly manicured brown. Freckles and moles fade into the alluring brown as his small nipples grow to perfectly point from pecs that hang heavy above tightly packed abs. The few hairs around them and in the center of his chest don’t so much recede as they instead simply disappear. It would be unbecoming for a man such as himself to have such a blemish as body hair.

The cracking of bones and rubbery sound of stretching skin continues to echo through the room as his lats jut larger as his other arm finally catches up to the changes. Below his bulging abs his lower body begins to shift as well, almost as if it were an after thought. Quickly do his hips widen enough to send the tight belt flying, allowing his pants to fall to his feet as they too expand to hold a man of his prodigious stature. 

Glistening with sweat and oil, Josh’s thighs bulk larger with every second. Calves bulge with muscle larger than baseballs as his legs rapidly form to be the perfect trunk for an upper body of such size and mass. Individual chunks of muscle flex and twitch with the strength of a stallion as he delights in the feeling of growth. 

      His briefs seem to look much more like a posing strap than underwear as they fall in between the crack of ass cheeks amassing to an ungodly size. On the opposite end his cock similarly strains the pouch at the front, but when Josh’s ever-smiling face looks down the bulky balls and hardening cock do little to affect him, as if sexual gratification held no place in his new mind. Instead he feels compelled to further strengthen his perfect form. He’s filled with a desire to empower others, help everyone discover how they too can be perfect.

The still growing titan steps out of his discarded pants, freeing feet from tattered shoes he didn't even notice shredding. Standing on metal warmed from whatever intense effort the machine enacted on him, Josh takes notice of the bar finally ticking over to 100%. His smile inches ever so slightly wider as the monitor plays a kitschy confetti animation. Filled with excess energy and excitement Josh begins posing like the lifelong bodybuilder he apparently is.

With each movement the flexing of his new muscles feels more familiar, memories of modelling and contests fill his head as instincts to do anything but hone his form and maintain his perfection are simply erased. Seeing his smiling face in the screen he can’t help but hone in on how well his teeth fit on his face. Truly perfect. His eyes are too focused on consuming his own appearance to read the text hiding behind his reflection, Thank You For Visiting With Us Today. We Hope You Enjoy Your Perfect Teeth. Please Spread The Word So That We May Help Anyone In Need.

Though he doesn’t consciously read the words, his body promptly turns and begins to head out of the room. His mission is clear, and what better use of his new perfect form than ensuring that everyone knows the path towards joining him. And after seeing one look of his smiling face, who could resist.

[traveler-at-heart]

Average

Summary: Natasha and you make an unlikely pair.

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

“Describe yourself in one word”

Boring.

No, not boring. You’ve traveled, even if it was to the places everyone goes to when they’re backpacking through Europe.

You have friends, go out to the movies, you love concerts.

Like everyone else. You are like everyobody else.

Average.

“Y/N?” Holly insists, making you snap out of your thoughts.

Right, this is about her dating profile, not an existencial crisis inducing question for you.

You can focus on that while you take your Thursday bath.

“Curious” you offer.

“Like the monkey”

“Adventurous”

“So a harlot?”

“Oh, my God! Difficult, the word you are looking for is difficult” you sigh, crashing against your desk. Your friend laughs, going back to her phone.

“I’m writing down sexy”

—

The question sticks with you as you go back home.

Average height, average hair color. Regular clothes. 9 to 5 job. You’re smart, but not particularly good at anything.

There’s nothing outstanding about your small, normal family life as well.

And honestly? You like it, but if you were to go out with someone tomorrow, would you even know what to talk about?

It’s one of those days, where you aren’t sure if you’re stuck in your comfort zone or happy and fulfilled with what you have.

While you prepare dinner for one and eat in front of the tv, you can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be out of the ordinary.

—

Careful what you wish for.

Flying aliens across New York are definitely out of the ordinary.

When you wished for an exciting day, you kinda hoped to spot a celebrity, or eat something nice out. Not be a first hand witness of the end of the world.

People are running in every direction, screaming terrified. You’re ready to join the mass hysteria, but something makes you look around the street.

There’s a woman trapped under some metal, struggling to free herself.

Aliens blast around you, and you’re torn.

Run.

And you do, except that against all logic, it’s towards the woman.

“You need to evacuate” she says, waving her hand. “Someone come in, damn it”

Judging by her outfit, and the way she places her fingers over her ear, she must be an agent in the field.

The woman probably knows how to protect herself. Maybe she could easily get out of it. Or it’s her job to die to protect others.

Either way, it’s unacceptable for you to leave her behind.

“Come on” you use a piece of a spaceship for leverage, lifting the heavy object that’s trapping her.

“Careful” when she looks up, she sees one of the aliens throwing something at you. Pushing you out of the way, you both stumble down the destroyed street until a tall man comes to the rescue.

“Took your sweet time” the woman complains.

“Sorry. Who are you?”

“A citizen. Take her to safety”

“Wait” you plead, but he’s already carrying you to the evacuation zone.

“I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Steve Rogers”

Oh, well, getting carried by Captain America definitely doesn’t happen to you every day.

Wish granted.

—

It’s been a week and the city is slowly getting rebuilt. It’s not like they have another choice. New York can’t stop, not even for an alien invasion.

So, life goes back to being the same.

9 to 5, cooking, old movies.

Meeting with friends, who were eager to hear your story about being rescued by Captain America. In a few days, they’d forget.

You seem to have a problem with that, because you can’t forget that beautiful woman and her red hair, striking green eyes looking at you while you helped her.

It’s stupid, really. You don’t even know her name.

But as days go by, you remember more things that seemed to be lost in the moment.

That cute little nose, her full lips.

She’s the most beautiful…

“Excuse me”

It takes you a moment to understand someone’s speaking to you. As you turn around, you find the woman, staring at you with a smile.

“Hi” you say, a little too loudly.

“Hello. Glad to see you made it out safely”

“Yes, well, Captain America made sure of that” you nod, fidgeting with your hands.

Now that there’s no aliens or an imminent threat, her attention is on you and nothing else, which makes you squirm a little.

“Can I… buy you a coffee? To thank you for saving my life”

“No need to thank me” you say, hoping she asks again because you’re eager to spend time with her.

“I insist” she says with a smile.

That’s all it takes for you to agree.

She let’s you choose the place, a small café close to where you live.

You finally learn her name when the barista takes her coffee order.

Natasha.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N” she says when you get your own drink, and she pays for the both of you. “Wanna sit down for a bit?”

Of course, you want to know everything you can about Natasha. So you nod, and let her pick a table for you to sit.

“I’m really grateful”

“It’s what anyone…”

“Most people were running away from danger, not towards it. Especially for a stranger” she says, smiling.

You decide that you really like her smile.

“Well, most of my friends wouldn’t believe me if I told them it happened. I’m a pretty average person”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah” you shrug your shoulders.

“Tell me your favorite song” she asks suddenly and you roll your eyes. “What?”

“That’s such a generic question! I have tons of them, it depends on my mood”

“Favorite song to dance to while cleaning” Natasha asks again and this time you nod, thinking about it.

“The Piña Colada song” you say, trying not to laugh. “You?”

“Uhm… Bad Reputation” she confesses.

“Yeah, you look like a Joan Jett kind of girl”

“Is that good or bad?” Natasha arches her eyebrows, intrigued.

“It means you’re a badass and cool. I think, don’t take my word for it”

“No; I think I will”

You sip your drink, feeling intimidated by her intense stare.

“How did you find me?” you ask, remembering she only knew what you look like.

“It’s kind of my job to find people. What’s yours?”

“Something far less interesting” you deflect the question, but Natasha keeps looking at you. “Data analysis”

“Sounds important”

“It isn’t” you say, smiling. “Not as much as saving the world, at least”

You keep talking for a bit, until Natasha gets a call. That’s fine, you know how to take a hint.

While she’s talking, you go up to the counter and ask for another coffee and a sandwich.

“Are you still hungry? We can get something to eat” Natasha says, concerned. You find it endearing.

“No, it’s fine. Thanks for the coffee”

“I don’t think it’s enough to thank you”

“You really don’t have to”

“Let’s go to the movies another time. Would you like that?” Natasha says, smiling as you bite your lip.

“Yeah, ok”

“I think I should get your number, just in case”

You agree with a smile.

And after the short walk home, you hear your phone ping.

Natasha: Wednesday at 7?

Y/N: See you then :)

—

It’s strange, to develop a friendship with someone whose life is the opposite of yours.

Natasha always asks you things about yourself, things that you think are irrelevant. But maybe she does it because her work is all about secrets, and there’s not much to share on anything else.

“Did you go to prom?” she asks one night as you’re walking back to your apartment.

“Yeah, with my gay best friend. We were each other’s beards”

That makes Natasha laugh, but for some reason she tenses a second later, standing in front of you.

“Hey, Y/N” a man says, and you recognise the voice instantly. Your hand goes around Natasha’s wrist, sliding all the way to hold her hand. You squeeze once to let her know it’s ok, and the man in front of you is not a threat.

“Homer, hi” you greet the man who is usually living in abandoned buildings. “Did you get the clothes I left for you?”

“I did and I shared them with Pop, we’re nice and warm now”

“Alright, I’ll stop by later in the week with some food, ok?”

“Much appreciated. Have a good one, ladies”

He’s pretty harmless, but you understand that Natasha has to be on guard all the time.

“I’m sorry” she says, still holding your hand. “I tend to think the worst of people”

“From everyone? Including me?”

“Never you” she shakes her head. “You’re too kind”

“I’m just an average person” you repeat, the same way you’ve done your whole life.

“You’re wrong” Natasha says.

She doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the walk.

—

It’s been a few months since you started hanging out with Natasha. There are times when she’s away for days, or weeks, and you just know she’ll show up after the mission.

You’re always home and you’re always there to welcome her back.

A part of you is still playing dumb, but you know those lingering stares and small touches are becoming a problem. Each time, your heart beats faster, and you find that you spend more and more time wondering what it would be like to kiss her.

There’s gotta be a way to stop these foolish dreams, because Natasha is an agent, a trained spy, and a hero. You are a girl from the midwest, who moved to a big city and still gets lost in the subway from time to time.

Maybe spending less time together could be the solution, but it’s impossible for you to say no to her.

Which is why you’re waiting outside of the theater. You don’t really like ballet, or rather, it’s a little too sophisticated for your simple mind, but Natasha insisted on taking you, and buying you some fancy clothes.

It all sounds very nice, except she’s not here and you’re freezing, refusing to head inside until you see her.

Natasha’s phone is dead too.

After an hour, you convince yourself to head home, and call a cab. It’s too far away to walk with these heels that were also not your idea.

You stop by the café that you and Natasha like, ordering a hot cocoa for you and coffee and a sandwich for another woman who is usually sleeping in the streets.

“Looking like a million dollars” she says, accepting the food with a smile. “Did you have a good time?”

“No, not really. My friend didn’t show” you sigh.

“Is it the girl that follows you around everywhere like a lost puppy?”

You laugh at that. There’s no way the Black Widow acts like a lost puppy around you.

“You mean my friend Natasha? Yeah, she was probably busy with work”

“Her loss” the woman tsks.

“Well, here” you notice the air is cold and the woman’s gloves are basically shreds of fabric. “These will help”

“You’re a doll”

Another hour goes by and just as you’re about to leave and look for Natasha, she rushes to your door, knocking frantically.

“I’m sorry, mission ran long”

Of course you step aside to let her in, because you can never be mad at her for being busy saving the world. But still, you stay silent as you walk to the kitchen, knowing she’ll be right behind you.

“You’re mad at me, aren’t you? Of course, you have every right to be. I made you dress up and then stood you up…”

“Nat” you interrupt her, frowning. “I don’t care about that. I’m a big girl, I could have gone inside and enjoyed the show. I just…”

“What? What is it?”

“Well, I was really scared about you” you confess, turning your back to her. “I know enough about your job to understand it’s dangerous, and I just kept fearing the worst. Would it have been so difficult to text me to let me know you were ok?”

You finish your rant with a huff, crossing your arms and turning to look at her.

And Natasha is smiling.

“This isn’t funny”

“No, it’s not. You’re just cute even when you’re angry”

“Not the time to joke”

“Who said I’m joking?” she gets in your way when you try to leave the kitchen, thinking she’s being impossible.

“What are you doing?” you say when she leans forward, placing her hands on your arms.

“Just let me show you” she asks, and then you feel her lips on yours, kissing you slowly. Only when you place your hands on her neck, does she pull you by the waist and deepens the kiss.

“Why…”

“I don’t know if you know this, but I’m in love with you” she confesses when you break apart.

“But I’m just av…”

“Don’t say it” she pulls you against her, your noses inches apart. “The world can be a very bad place sometimes. And you have no idea how hard it is to find someone as kind as you”

“It’s nothing”

“It’s everything” she smiles, kissing you again. “Can I make it up to you for missing our date?”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach when she calls it a date. You nod, smiling.

“Same old dinner and movie plan?”

“Sounds perfect to me”

[strwberri-milk]

Good Day dear and I hope this message finds you well; Let me first thank you for the Fanfics and time you dedicated to each one, trust that I read most of your content and feel very grateful for it.

I hope you get to have times of ample rests, roof over your head, heartiest of meals and warm kind-hearted souls come your way.

I am not one to boldly ask but for this once I shall; May you perhaps write and angst for the love and deepspace boys about a reader who has died in line of duty as Tara presents them a burial flag from the Hunter’s Association?

I read your terms prior requesting and hope I was able to abide by it; You may decline should you find it distasteful, if it does make the cut please take your time crafting it should it pique your fancy.

🥹🥹 I love you dear and hope for your best wellbeing.

thank you!! im glad you like mt stuff that much <333 very flattered

He will never forgive himself. Even if he knows logically (Rafayel, Sylus, Zayne) there was nothing he could have done to save you from your death just the fact that he wasn't there will always haunt him. Xavier takes your death hard as well, constantly replaying the day over and over in his mind.

When a flag is presented at his door, Tara's face tearstreaked as she mumbles the softest apology she can manage he definitely feels his knees go weak. He doesn't say anything at all at first, simply staring at the fabric that was meant to be some poor facsimile for you before looking back up at Tara in sheer disbelief.

Denial hits him hard. He can't help plan your funeral or even acknowledge the fact that you've died. Instead, he stays in your bed all day and tries to rationalise the hell he's living in, convincing himself that this is all just a bad dream. The funeral itself is awful for him. He doesn't really respond, staring despondently as they lower your casket into the ground. He can barely speak as people try to offer him their condolences, focused more on just how...cold he feels.

Xavier and Rafayel respond with anger. Xavier shuts down even more, becoming incredibly anti-social and honestly, might just quit being a formal Hunter totally. He doesn't need the team to achieve his goal after all and now he's basically waiting out his days until his body gives in to the strain of life. He hunts Wanderers with a vengeance, totally AWOL as he tries to honour your memory through sweeps of his blade.

Rafayel has always been cold and aloof but after your death even more so. Thomas can't talk to him, people can't even enter his exhibitions - he stops hosting them. He'll just waste away in his home, painting your likeness over and over as he tells Thomas to just leave him alone. He fully isolates himself, devoting his entire being to his goal of saving Lemuria because thinking of you hurts far too much. He almost acts like you've never existed but it's a lie - his entire being burns with need for you and every time he looks at his chest he sobs with the memory that his bond will never light up again.

Zayne and Sylus will never stop mourning. Zayne throws himself back into work, doing nothing but research and surgeries. He casually pulls 72 hour days, not bothering to sleep because whenever he closes his eyes, all he sees is your body being lowered. He seems calm and collected on the outside but his normally immaculate office is a mess, papers strewn about as various pills and drinks meant to help him stay away litter every surface.

Sylus gets more brutal with his means, not caring what people say or do. There's no more begging for his forgiveness or asking if he'll go easy on you. Nothing in his life matters anymore because you aren't there to hold his hand. He's cold and callous, and nothing is spared from the sadness that leeches his entire being. The N109 Zone is more terrified than ever, knowing that there's nothing sparing anybody from certain death if they come face to face with Sylus.

[lqveharrington]

Valentine’s Day | D.M.

summary: you and draco got a little too carried away before valentine’s day dinner.

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

includes: fluff, kissing, cursing, all the good valentine’s day things, mentions of pregnancy

a/n: sorry this came out two days late! i got really busy! happy v-day!

There were multiple things Draco Malfoy detested in life. One thing he hated the most was Valentine’s Day. The entire holiday was far too pink for his liking and baby cupid freaked him out. In his opinion, if one needed a holiday created to simply show love to their partner, they were doing something wrong in the relationship.

Of course, Draco knew to love and cherish you—but he didn't need a stupid holiday to tell him that. He would love you everyday. Fortunately, he lucked out when he found out you weren't one to want flashy declarations of love and decorations of the stupid holiday.

The only thing you did want was his everlasting love.

“What’re you staring at, Dray?” You ask when you catch him staring through the bathroom mirror, his body leaning against the door frame.

You narrowed your eyes when he approached you—his warm hands snaked around your midsection and pulled you flush against him, his lips coming down to kiss the back of your neck. You hummed at the feeling and finish applying your red lipstick, touching up the edges.

“You.” He murmured and thumbed circles through the fabric of your dress, repeatedly kissing different areas of your neck until you squeezed his hand to stop. “You look delicious, darling.”

You grin brightly at the compliment, snapping your lipstick shut and meeting his eyes through the mirror once more. His grey eyes reflected nothing but pure love and devotion—your heart beating faster with each second he spent merely watching you.

“Thank you.” You finally say after clearing your throat and spun around the space to face him properly. Dusting off invisible specks of dirt from Draco’s suit, you tilt your head up and gently pull him down by his tie. “You look quite handsome yourself, my love.”

Draco’s lips curved into his signature smirk when his hand resting on the curve of your hip pulled you flush against his chest. “Only the best for you.”

“Flattery will get you no where, Malfoy.” You whisper and press a soft kiss to his lips before whisking yourself away toward the bedroom—Draco following suit with a dazed expression.

He had made a reservation to one of the most prestigious restaurants known to both the wizarding world and the muggle world many months ago—for this exact date—hoping to surprise you with the opportunity. You were indeed surprised, but you were more shocked by the fact that he would rather drive to the restaurant than simply apparate at a nearby safety spot.

“Are we ready to go?” You ask as Nova slips underneath your outstretched hand, purring when you scratch the top of her head.

Draco adjusted his collar and glanced down at his watch. As usual, you both ran earlier than expected. He nodded and moved to your side, allowing Nova to slip under his hand as well. Her black fur matched Draco’s suit and your dress—which felt odd to wear on Valentine’s day, but neither you nor Draco cared for the stupid holiday theme.

You smile when Nova went to curl around Draco’s arm, her purrs becoming softer with all the attention he was giving her. Changing your attention toward the bedroom, you tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear and looked at the top of the dresser.

“Have you seen my clutch?” You peel open one of the closet doors, the rows of clutches and purses lined up with all their elegance but none of them fitting.

Draco stuck his hand out, the chain of your clutch resting on his two fingers. “Right here.”

You let out a breath of relief and took the leather from him, kissing his check. He always knew what was going through your mind and you were more than welcome to let him take care of you sometimes.

“Thank you.” You lace a hand with his and move to leave, only to be stopped by him the second your hand found the silver handle of the door. “What?”

You watched as he brought a finger to his lips, tapping them as if they were begging for something.

Draco’s free hand snuck across to your waist, “One more for the road?”

You squinted at him before putting your index finger up—indicating the number one. “Fine, but only one.”

Pansy checked the clock hanging on the wall before stomping up the stairs of Malfoy Manor—Talos, the black newfoundland dog you and Draco adopted, following closely behind. She knew what time your reservation was at, and if you drove now, you would be cutting it close to being late.

Blaise followed Pansy and Talos up the stairs, rolling his eyes at his girlfriend’s peeved expression. No matter what occasion or event, she would always be the same punctual person she was back at Hogwarts. Everything had to be absolutely perfect—even if she had nothing to do with it.

“Hey! You guys are gonna be late!” She knocked on the master bedroom door, Talos joining in and pawing at the door. Pansy grinned at the dog before repeating the action, voice becoming louder and louder until Blaise covered her mouth. “Hey—!”

“Don’t be vexatious, Pans.”

“Don’t call me annoying!” She pulled away from Blaise and glared at the wooden door—almost taunting her as the time ticked by. Pansy banged on the door with more aggression, “Hello—!”

Before she could even knock for the hundredth time, you yanked the door open and stumbled back at the sudden sight of her fist. You blinked before stepping around her, Talos jumping up at the sight of his parents. Draco caught the dog’s paws and narrowed his eyes at the suddenly amused duo, unaware of how stupid he looked.

You gave them a weak grin, smoothing your hand over your dress and running your fingers through your hair. You did everything you can to avoid eye contact with them as you tried making it down the manor’s stairs.

You forgot that Blaise and Pansy were even over. They offered to watch Talos and Nova while you and Draco were out to dinner, but you didn’t know that Pansy was going to practically knock your door down after you both strayed from the meticulous schedule she had conjured up in her mind.

It wasn’t your fault you were going to be late to the reservation—no—it was Draco’s fault.

Obviously.

Pansy caught your shoulder and handed you a makeup wipe, pursing her lips to prevent her from laughing at your reddened face.

It was clear to the other couple what you were up to before exiting the bedroom. Your lipstick stained Draco's lips and jaw—honestly, they were more surprised that the two of you had it in you still. It had been years—two years to be exact—since they had caught the two of you doing something as scandalous as this.

Blaise clapped Draco on the back while snorting at the sight, earning a glare from the blonde himself. It looked like Draco was a child learning about his mother’s makeup for the first time.

“I take it you enjoyed snogging the wife, yeah?”

Draco wrinkled his nose at Blaise’s terrible idea of a joke, taking the wipe from you to free himself from your stained kisses—unfortunately. “You won’t miss your prick of a boyfriend, will you Parkinson?”

“By all means, take him away.” She waved a dismissive hand toward the two men before holding a mirror out and helping you reapply a fresh coat of lipstick.

Unfazed by the threat, Blaise still grinned like an idiot. If being friends with Draco taught him anything, the only real threats to worry about were the ones that involved the use of Draco’s wand.

By the time you finished reapplying your makeup, your face was still burning hot with embarrassment and Blaise wasn’t helping with his stupid face. Seeing your discomfort, Pansy dragged Blaise back downstairs and scolded him like a mother would to her son.

Draco continued to glare at the other man as he descended the stairs, his head leaning close to yours that his lips brushed against your ear. “Is it too late for me to unfriend him?”

You tilt your head up and shoot him a small smile, nodding when he kissed the side of your head. “I think so.”

He huffed but hid a smile that wanted to present its way onto his face. There was no way for the both of you to get rid of Pansy or Blaise—they were so crucial to your life. Removing one of them would be like destroying the structure of perfectly beautiful building.

Besides, who else would babysit for free?

As you and Draco made the trek down the stairs—his hand warm against your back—Talos and Nova weaved around the both of you, knowing that you were both to leave them alone with their aunt and uncle for a while. You scratched Talos’ ears when you made it to the landing, kissing him on the head and promising to be back as soon as possible.

Both animals pawed at you and Draco before rushing off to god knows where. You shook your head at them before lacing a hand with Draco’s, smiling softly at the two of them. Little did Talos and Nova know that there would soon be another Malfoy running around with them.

You sighed softly and looked over at Pansy—who now looked ticked at her boyfriend for acting childish at the age of twenty-two. “We’re leaving you two in charge. No funny business in our home.”

“Me? Never.” Blaise says with faux-delight, once again earning a smack to the chest by his beloved. “Bye, you two! Have fun!”

Ignoring him, Draco nodded toward Pansy before grabbing the car keys and letting you say your own goodbyes toward the duo. Well—just Pansy.

“Call the restaurant if something happens, we’ve yet to figure out our own cellphones.” You clarify and glance at Draco who merely shrugged. You two were so behind the times, you weren’t sure how to even work a muggle cellphone. “Either way, just call. I’ll see you later, Pansy. Love you!”

She nodded and watched you leave the manor before she yanked the door open and called out to you, “Don’t have too much red wine! You’ll flush your cheeks out! Bye!”

Your eyes widened and embarrassment flooded your cheeks again, your hand subconsciously slipping over your lower stomach. Her intention was pure but without context, your mind automatically went to the tiny tiny baby growing in you.

“Maybe we’ve been friends with them for too long.” You mumble and enter the passenger side as Draco moved to the right hand side, the engine humming as he started the car.

He grinned at your comment, left hand coming down to rest on your leg. “I told you.”

You tilt your head toward him, catching his grey eyes before he could start driving. You had to admit, seeing Draco do something as mundane as driving made your heart race a little more.

“Without them, we would’ve never met, my love.” You smile lovingly toward him.

“Best thing that’s ever come out of being friends with them.” Draco whispered before leaning over the console to give your a quick kiss to the lips. “I love you.”

Your smile brightens as you separate from him, taking the time to wipe the lipstick off his lips. “I love you too, Dray.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[wendichester]

I’m slowly going through your stories - I love every single one of them, they’re amazingly written. And I was wondering if you could write one about Dean teaching Sam’s partner drive? She’s Sam’s age and claims that she doesn’t need to know when she has the two of them.

Thank you so much 🩷🩷🩷

⋆｡° ✮ stick shift,

summary. dean teaches you how to drive!

pairing. dean winchester x sam's gf!reader

wordcount. 501

notes. i was actually meaning to write dean teaching reader to drive, so this one came in handy ehe hope you like bubs! 🩷

“You realize this is unnecessary, right?” you say, arms crossed as you lean against the Impala. “I have two perfectly capable chauffeurs.”

Dean scoffs, tossing you the keys. “Yeah, and one day, Sam and I might not be around to drive your ass.”

Your stomach tightens at that, but you mask it with an eye roll. “Not exactly a vote of confidence, Winchester.”

“Get in the car.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you slide into the driver’s seat. The leather is warm under your fingers as you grip the wheel, the scent of whiskey, motor oil, and Dean's cologne lingering in the air.

Dean settles into the passenger seat, stretching out like he owns the place—because, well, he does. He taps the dashboard. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s start with the basics. Foot on the brake, turn the key.”

You do as you’re told, and the Impala rumbles to life beneath you. It sends a thrill through your chest—not that you’d admit it.

Dean watches you like a hawk. “Now shift into drive—slowly—and ease off the brake.”

You move the shifter, hesitant but determined. The car lurches forward, and you instinctively slam the brake, jerking both of you in your seats.

Dean lets out a dry laugh. “Jesus. You tryna kill me before we even hit the road?”

“Sorry!” you wince. “She’s touchy.”

“She’s a ‘67 Chevy, not a goddamn Prius.” Dean gestures forward. “Try again, nice and easy.”

This time, you press the gas more carefully, and the car rolls forward smoothly. A grin tugs at your lips. “Okay, that wasn’t awful.”

“There ya go,” Dean says, sounding almost proud. “Now, let’s take her out.”

You pull onto the road, gripping the wheel like your life depends on it. Dean watches you, surprisingly patient, arms folded across his chest.

For a few minutes, it’s fine. You’re actually doing it, driving the damn Impala. Then—

“Shit, stop sign!”

You panic, foot slamming the brake too hard. The Impala screeches to a halt, and Dean lets out a grunt as he’s thrown forward.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, rubbing his chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

“I did!”

“Well, maybe don’t scream at me!”

Dean levels you with a look, then sighs. “Alright, alright. Look, you’re doing fine, but let’s try not to give me whiplash, huh?”

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I don’t know why I’m even doing this.”

Dean tilts his head. “Because one day, you might have to get behind the wheel. Maybe Sam’s hurt, or we’re in trouble, and you gotta get outta Dodge.” His voice is softer now. “You need to be able to take care of yourself.”

You chew your lip. That’s the real reason, isn’t it? Not because Dean thinks you’re helpless, but because he refuses to let you be.

“…Fine,” you grumble. “But if I wreck your car, that’s on you.”

Dean grins. “Don't test my patience, sweetheart. Go on,”

You roll your eyes and press the gas, this time a little more confident.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @img14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @aerinu ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ⋆ @chi_raz

[iz-belljolie]

“𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞”

dilf!art donaldson x reader

authors note- hope you guys like! This is a little different from what I usually write but I think I'm gonna start a series of this!

cw: daddy kink, age gap, and ofc sexual conent.

You met him at the club. He was sitting alone, and you felt bad. You ditched your friends and went over to him and started talking. You guys really clicked; the conversation never became boring. But you started pushing him. "Do you have a girlfriend...or maybe a wife?", "how old are you?", "do you live around here?". When you asked if he's ever been with a younger girl, he decided that it was enough. He chuckled and shook his head. "I think we should part ways."

"I didn't scare you, did I?" You smirked at him, picking up your drink and putting the straw in your mouth and sucking, all while keeping your eyes focused on him, and his nervous expression.

Art's too lonely...he couldn't keep putting on the facade that he didn't want you. So that's why you ended up in his car, your feet up on the leather seat, your head turned towards him, smiling as you felt the wind blowing through your hair.

"Stop driving like a grandpa, go faster Art." You shouted over the sound of the wind. You felt him speed up. He glanced at you and smiled before putting more pressure on the accelerator, the mph going from 45 to 75, then 80. For the first time in forever, Art felt adrenaline pumping in his body, like drugs.

You stuck your head out the window and grinned as the wind crashed into your face. After a moment you brought your head back in and looked at Art.

"So, how'd you afford a car like this?" You asked, closing the window.

"I was a tennis player. And uh I guess I still have perks from that being my career." He replied.

You hummed. "Wow, tennis. That pretty cool." You stared at the side of his face, admiring his features. He glanced at you and gave you a small smile.

"I guess." He said coldly.

"Tennis is fucking sexy. The way players moan when they hit the ball, the way they can move their body, It's all so intense. Like, it's something completely different than a sport."

Art hummed. "I guess." He said again.

"And they put so much into it...physical training, mental training... it's a lot." You murmured, putting your hand on his thigh, keeping your eyes on him the whole time.

"Yeah...it- it really is a lot." He sighed.

"What do you do?" He asked.

"Little ol' me?" You smiled. "I'm in college."

He took in a sharp breath, his body tensing up.

"Fuck, you're younger than I thought."

You laughed. "God you're acting like I'm in high school. I'm almost 20."

He scoffed. "You might as well be in fucking high school y/n, Jesus Christ."

At this point you guys were driving through a neighborhood of mansions. Art clicked a button that was on the sun visor and the gates of an upcoming house opened. He pulled into the driveway slowly, the gate closing behind the car.

You let out a scoffed laugh. "Holy fuck, this is your house?"

"Yeah."

He put the car into park, then turned it off before exhaling sharply. You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned in closer to him.

"I don't care about your age Art. You seem like a really good guy, you're hot, respectful, and everything I've dreamed of."

He turned his head to look at you. His eyes had this glassy look, like he was about to cry.

"Are you sure?" His voice a whisper.

"Yes." You whispered.

His house is fucking huge, and just beautiful. The decorations, furnishings, just the whole aesthetic.

He poured you a glass of wine while he lit a cigarette for himself.

"I though tennis players weren't supposed to smoke."

He laughed, which caused him to choke on the smoke and cough.

"I'm not a tennis player anymore sweetie."

"Right." You smiled, taking a sip of the expensive wine.

"You're so interesting Art; I could talk to you for hours." You sighed contently.

"You're fucking drunk y/n." He laughed.

You shook your head. "No, no, you're like so complex, it's amazing, no guy my age is like that."

"You seem really smart. You shouldn't be hanging out with someone like me." He said, his voice light and breathy.

"I want to..." You murmured, walking up to him, your faces inches from each other.

He put out his cigarette on the ash tray that was placed on the marble island in the middle of the kitchen. He lifted his hand and stroked your cheek with his knuckles, his eyes observing your face intensely. You grabbed his wrist softly, guiding his hand so his fingers were near your lips. He took the hint and stroked your lips with his pointer figure, before pushing it through your pillowy lips. You suck gently on the tip of his finger, licking around it, soaking it with your spit. His breathing increased, and the next thing you knew he ripped his finger out of your mouth.

"We can't do this." He said.

"Please..." You whispered, looking up at him through your lashes, tears glassing over your eyes, attempting to both make him feel bad and seduce him.

"I can be a good girl...daddy." You whispered.

He gasped softly. "don't fucking say that." He scolded. Although the bulge in his slacks hardened.

"I'll do whatever you say Mr. Donaldson..."

"How do you know my last name?" His eyebrows furrowed.

"I know all about you Artie...I'm a big fan..."

"You're sick." He whispered.

You laughed. "Then why are you so fucking hard?" You tilted your head and cupped his bulge.

He moaned softly. "W-what are you doing to me?" He murmured under his breath.

"I wanna worship you." You murmured, setting your glass down before running your hands up and down his strong arms.

You ended up in his king size bed, laid out on his silky bed sheets. He ripped your clothes off effortlessly, and treated you like you weighed nothing.

You fucked into you like you were a sex doll, your legs over his shoulders, your hands gripped onto his arms, which were holding him up above you. You were so wet you could hear the squelching of his cock thrusting in and out of your hole.

"You were just so thirsty for my cock huh? You can't help it, you just need to be filled by your daddy, right baby?" He gritted out, moaning from pleasure immediately after speaking.

"Yes, yes yes daddy, I need you." You blabbed in between desperate, punched out moans.

"You-you're so big, it's stretching me apart daddy." You whined, your eyes squeezed shut.

"It's okay princess, you'll get used to it." He panted.

He kept slamming himself into your abused pussy, the wet white ring around his base causing him to moan as soon as his saw it.

"I'm gonna cum" You whimpered, gasping for air, your grip on his arms getting tighter.

A moment later, your mouth opened in a silent scream as your orgasm rushed through you.

"Fuck!" You gasped, letting out a cry, your legs squirming.

He moved onto his knees and wrapped his arms around your thighs, going even faster.

"So close baby, m' almost there." He panted, his voice a pitch higher. His hair was soaked with sweat, and all messed up, facing every direction.

You cried out. "too much-s' too much Art!"

A second later he groaned and gripped your thighs so tight you were sure they would bruise. You felt spurts of his seed surround your walls. He gasped for air as he pulled out and gripped his cock, stroking your puffy red pussy, mixing his release with yours. You eyes were shut and your body was like dough in his hands. He left your sensitive cunt alone and flopped down next to you with a huff.

"You okay?" He murmured.

You smiled to yourself.

"Perfect." And the only reason you were so perfect is because you knew you fucked with him good, and now Art Donaldson was wrapped around your little finger.