#ignore what you don’t like kind of thing

[lemonsdietcoke]

“Carrion” - Player 230

Dark!Thanos/Choi Su-bong x Fem!Reader

Warnings: This fic contains themes of drug abuse, toxic relationships, emotional and physical abuse, violence, NON CON sexual content, trauma, and self-destruction. It’s a dark, heavy read with little to no comfort. Please proceed with caution.

Summary: “My feel for you, boy, is decaying in front of me Like the carrion of a murdered prey” You thought you could save him. But Su-bong was never looking to be saved — he was always chasing something…darker. based on Carrion-Fiona apple

MINORS DNI!

A/n: so I spent all night writing this and let me just say this is a wild ride. I don’t know what came over me lol but grab your tissue and a snack and lmk if y’all fw it. Also this is set before the games.

…..

You thought you could handle it.

That’s what you told yourself in the beginning.

When you met Su-bong, he was magnetic. The kind of person who could walk into a room and command everyone’s attention without even trying. He was funny, reckless, charming in that careless way that makes people think he doesn’t care what anyone thinks — but secretly, you know he cares more than anyone.

You met him through Ji-hye, a mutual friend. You two were out drinking at a shitty bar in Itaewon, the kind with sticky floors and flickering neon signs, when she waved him over to your table.

“Su-bong! Over here!”

He turned, cigarette dangling from his lips, and when his eyes landed on you, you swore you stopped breathing.

He made you feel special.

That was the thing about him. From the moment he sat down, all his attention was on you.

You didn’t even notice the red flags at first — the way his hands shook slightly when he lit another cigarette, the faint twitch in his jaw when he reached for his drink. You were too busy drowning in his attention, his laughter, the way he leaned in close when he talked, like he couldn’t bear to be too far away from you.

He made you feel seen.

Later that night, when Ji-hye pulled you aside and whispered, “He’s trouble, you know,” you just laughed it off.

“I can handle trouble,” you said.

And at the time, you believed it.

The first few weeks were a whirlwind.

Late-night phone calls, long walks through the city, kisses stolen under flickering streetlights. He was softer back then. He’d show up at your door with a crooked smile and a bottle of soju, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there.

He told you stories about his childhood, about how he hated his hometown, how he moved to Seoul to start over.

“I want more than that small-town life,” he’d say. “I want everything.”

You loved that about him.

His ambition. His hunger.

It wasn’t until later that you realized he wasn’t just hungry for success.

You thought he only did it on weekends.

That’s what you told yourself at first. It’s just recreational. Everyone does it once in a while, right? It’s not a big deal.

But when you took a closer look, you started noticing things.

The way he always had an excuse to disappear.

The way his hands shook in the mornings.

The way his pupils stayed blown wide, even in the middle of the day.

It wasn’t just weekends.

It wasn’t just recreational.

The first time you confronted him about it, he laughed.

“What? This?” he said, pulling out a small bag of powder from his jacket pocket. “It’s nothing.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, unsure whether you were angry or scared or both. “You said you were going to stop.”

He shrugged, already pulling out a cigarette. “I will. It’s just… it helps me focus.”

You hated how calm he sounded. How casual.

But you let it go.

Because you wanted to believe him.

Because you loved him.

That’s how it started.

With small compromises.

You told yourself it wasn’t that bad.

You told yourself you could manage it.

You told yourself he would change.

But he didn’t.

The cracks started to show slowly, like hairline fractures in glass. You didn’t notice them right away. Or maybe you did, but you ignored them. You told yourself it was fine, because you wanted it to be fine.

You wanted him to be the man he was when you first met.

The man who made you laugh until your ribs ached.

The man who kissed you like he couldn’t get enough.

The man who whispered, “You’re the only one who really understands me.”

You didn’t want to see the other side of him.

The side that disappeared for days at a time.

The side that came back high, twitchy, eyes glassy and distant.

The side that couldn’t stop.

You loved him.

But it wasn’t enough.

The first time he really scared you was on a rainy night in November.

He showed up at your apartment soaked to the bone, trembling, eyes wild.

“Let me in,” he said, voice low and frantic. “Please.”

You didn’t hesitate. You unlocked the door, pulling him inside, wrapping a towel around his shoulders as he slumped onto your couch. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You knelt in front of him, brushing his wet hair out of his face. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

He just reached for you, pulling you into his lap, burying his face in your neck.

“I just need you,” he whispered. “I just need this.”

And you let him.

Because you loved him.

Because you thought you could save him.

But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams open at 2:48 AM.

You know the time because you’ve been staring at the clock for the past four hours, watching the minutes crawl by, waiting for him to come home.

The waiting is always the worst part. The silence. The dread. The way your stomach twists tighter with each passing hour, until it feels like you’re going to snap in half from the tension.

He’s late.

Later than usual.

And when the door finally swings open, you know something’s wrong.

He stumbles inside, slamming the door shut behind him with more force than necessary. His hand lingers on the handle for a moment, like he needs the support to stay upright.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

His head is down, his shoulders tense. His breathing is ragged, too loud in the quiet apartment.

You stay where you are, curled up on the couch, watching him with a knot of unease tightening in your chest. You’re already bracing yourself.

This isn’t Su-bong coming home drunk from a night out.

This is worse.

He takes a few unsteady steps forward, his movements jerky and disjointed, before slumping against the wall. His head tilts back, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

You can see the tremor in his hands.

The sweat clinging to his neck.

The way his pupils are blown wide.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice is soft, careful. Testing the waters.

He doesn’t answer.

He just tilts his head to the side, blinking slowly, like he’s trying to focus on you but can’t quite manage it. His lips twitch into a lazy, lopsided grin.

“Hey, baby.”

And that’s when you know for sure.

He’s high.

Not just drunk.

High as hell on something stronger.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The question comes out sharper than you intended. You hate the way your voice shakes, the way your hands clench into fists at your sides.

He doesn’t answer.

He just pushes off the wall, staggering toward you with that same careless grin.

“Miss me?”

You want to slap him.

You want to scream.

Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep yourself together.

“What the fuck are you on?”

He laughs.

Soft. Slurred. Distant.

“What’s it matter?”

“It matters.” Your voice is rising now, cracking under the weight of your frustration. “Look at yourself. You can barely stand.”

He shrugs, grabbing the back of the couch for support. His fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I’m fine. We’re fine…”

“You’re not fine.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with tension. He just stares at you, that stupid grin still plastered on his face.

And then, slowly, he starts to sway.

His knees buckle.

“Su-bong—”

Before you can reach him, he collapses onto the floor.

For a long moment, you just stand there, staring down at him.

He’s out cold. His head is tilted to the side, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His hair falls into his eyes, damp with sweat.

You should help him.

You should shake him awake, drag him to bed, clean him up.

But you don’t move.

Because you’re tired.

So fucking tired.

Instead, you start searching.

You move on instinct, heading straight for his jacket. Your hands are shaking, your chest tight, but you can’t stop.

You dig through the pockets, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a lighter, loose change. And then —

A bag of powder.

Fuck.

Your stomach twists, but you keep going. You can’t stop now.

You move to his bag next, unzipping it with trembling fingers. More powder. Pills, tucked into a side pocket. A tiny syringe, wrapped in tissue.

It’s worse than you thought.

So much worse.

You finally check the place you know he most definitely has drugs. That damn cross necklace. He wears it everywhere, everyday, all the time. Even when he’s sleeping. Even when your fucking.

The only exception being when he showers.

Your heart began to beat out of your chest as if you had just completely a six mile run. Staring at his passed out form on the cheap carpet of your shared apartment.

What if he woke up and caught you.

You tip toed up to him, the floors betraying you as it creaked with every step.

You took a deep breath unintentionally holding your breath as your shaky hands toyed with his chunky necklace struggling to open it.

He didn’t move though.

In fact the only thing moving on him was his chest falling up and down as he fell deeper into sleep.

But you continue to toy with the necklace until it eventually popped open unevenly, causing colorful pills to fly every which way, and click across the floor.

Fuck.

Why does everything have to be so loud right now?!

You got on your hands a knees scooping up the candy colored pills and probably some dirt with them. Before quickly dropping them into your pocket as Su-Bong lied still on the floor.

Your chest heaves as you gather everything up, cradling it in your hands like you’re carrying a corpse.

You don’t think.

You just move.

The bathroom light flickers on.

The toilet lid creaks as you lift it.

And one by one, you throw everything in.

The powder.

The pills.

The syringe.

Every. fucking. thing.

The water ripples, murky and disgusting, but you don’t hesitate. You flush it all away.

Like it never existed.

When it’s done, you stand there for a long time, staring down at the empty toilet bowl.

Your reflection stares back at you from the water.

Red-rimmed eyes.

Trembling hands.

A stranger.

You press your palms to the sink, breathing hard. Your chest feels tight, your throat raw.

What are you even doing?

But you know the answer.

You’re trying to save him.

Even though he doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You hear him before you see him.

The sharp bang of a drawer slamming shut.

Then another.

And another.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The noise is jarring — too loud in the early morning quiet, rattling through the apartment like gunshots.

For a moment, you just lie there in bed, heart pounding, staring up at the ceiling. The air feels too thick. Your throat is tight. You already know what he’s doing.

He’s looking for them.

Fuck.

You sit up slowly, moving on instinct. Your bare feet hit the floor, and the cold bites at your skin. You don’t bother with a sweater. You barely notice the chill.

All you can hear is the sound of drawers being ripped open, items clattering to the floor, Su-bong’s frustrated muttering.

You step into the hallway, moving toward the living room like you’re walking into a minefield. Every step feels heavier than the last, each breath dragging in your lungs.

The apartment is a fucking mess. Drawers pulled out their hinges. Glass shattered on the floor. your shared belongings scattered across the floor such as, mail, silver wear, books, wires and more. He even emptied his fucking ashtray on the carpet staining it with dark powdery ashes creating a fucking smudge. Who the fuck hides drugs in an ashtray?!

When you see him, your stomach drops.

He’s on his knees in front of the dresser, tearing through the drawers like a man possessed. His hair is sticking up in every direction, sweat clinging to his neck and temples. His shoulders are tense, his hands trembling as he yanks out clothes, papers, random shit — anything that might be hiding what he’s looking for.

You watch in silence for a long moment, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

This is worse than you expected.

He’s worse than you expected.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice comes out softer than you intended — a whisper, almost cautious.

He doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t stop.

He just slams another drawer shut, cursing under his breath.

“Where the fuck are they?” he mutters. His voice is low, rough — shaking with barely-contained rage. “Where the fuck are they?”

Your stomach twists.

You take a shaky breath.

“What are you looking for?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

This time, he freezes.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, he turns to look at you.

His eyes are dark, bloodshot. His pupils are blown wide, so black they almost swallow the brown. His lips are cracked, the corners pulled down in a sneer.

And in that moment, you feel it —

The fear.

The dread.

You’ve never seen him like this before.

“You know what,” he says, voice low and venomous. “Where the fuck are they?”

Your mind races.

Your palms start to sweat.

Think. Think. Think.

You can feel the anger radiating off of him — simmering just under the surface, threatening to boil over. And you know what happens when he reaches his limit.

You’ve seen it before.

The broken bottles.

The slammed doors.

The bruises on his knuckles after a night out, when he came back bloodied and laughing, saying, ‘You should see the other guy.’

You swallow hard. Your throat feels raw.

“I don’t know,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “Maybe you left it at the club. Or with Ji-hye. You’ve been out all night—”

“Bullshit.”

He stands up slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans as he takes a step toward you.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Your back hits the wall.

Fuck.

“I’m not lying.” Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. “I don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

He doesn’t believe you.

You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to grab something — to throw something.

You think about the last time you saw him like this.

The broken lamp. The smashed picture frame. The bruise on your wrist that took a week to fade.

“I’m serious, Su-bong.” Your voice is shaky now, pleading. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tears through the dresser again, frantic.

Each drawer pulled out with a sharp crack, each item tossed aside without care.

Your heart pounds.

Your breath comes faster.

And then, the drawer slams shut.

He turns to you again, and you can see it — the realization sinking in.

You.

It had to be you.

It was the only logical answer. Though he was thinking far from logically right now.

“You fucking took them.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a statement.

A terrifying sentence.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

But the way you flinch — the way your body stiffens, your lips press together — it’s enough.

He explodes.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He grabs the nearest object — a book, heavy and solid — and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a loud thud, just inches from your head.

You gasp, pressing yourself tighter against the wall.

“You hid them?” His voice is rising now, loud and furious, filling the apartment, making the walls shake. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You need help!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them. “You’re killing yourself, Su-bong! I’m trying to help you!”

He laughs.

A sharp, bitter sound.

“Help me? You think this is helping me?”

“Yes! Because I love you, and I can’t fucking watch you do this to yourself anymore!”

“Where are they?” He spits out through his teeth anger radiating off of him as he stared at you through narrowed fiery eyes. His hand slightly raised. Almost like threat. “Where the fuck are they?!”

That was all he had to say? Really?

You’re crying now — sobbing, desperate, the words tumbling out like a flood. “I threw it all out. I flushed everything. I couldn’t—”

He grabs another object — a picture frame — and throws it, shattering it against the floor.

You cover your face with your hands, trying to hold yourself together, but the tears won’t stop.

“I’m trying to save you,” you whisper through sobs. “Why won’t you let me save you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because you both know the truth.

You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~

The apartment is dead silent.

It’s been like that all day.

You’ve been cleaning for hours, but the mess never seems to get any smaller. There’s glass on the floor, torn-up drawers, clothes and papers scattered everywhere. His cigarette ashes that stained the carpet, a dark smudge you can’t scrub out no matter how hard you try.

And Su-bong hasn’t said a word.

He’s been on the couch since morning.

Since you screamed at him. Since he threw things at you.

He hasn’t moved.

He hasn’t looked at you.

The sunlight has shifted across the room, cutting through the blinds in harsh slants. Afternoon light. Late afternoon. Time has passed in that slow, suffocating way it does after a fight — heavy, dragging, relentless.

And all you can feel is the weight of his silence.

You sweep broken glass into the dustpan, your hands shaking, your breath shallow.

You can feel the tension hanging in the air — sharp, brittle, ready to shatter.

Your stomach twists painfully.

You want him to say something.

But at the same time, you’re terrified he will.

Because when Su-bong speaks, it’s never gentle anymore.

You dump the dustpan into the trash, brushing your hands on your jeans. Your palms are sweaty. Your chest feels tight.

He’s still sitting there, legs spread wide, one arm draped over the backrest, his cigarette burning down to ash.

He hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t looked at you once.

Fuck.

You glance toward the shattered picture frame on the floor.

He threw that at you this morning.

You think about the sound of it hitting the wall, the way it shattered into pieces. The way he looked at you — cold, furious, distant.

Your throat tightens.

Your hands start to tremble again.

Why are you still here?

You pick up the broom again, brushing up some paper that was planted on the floor.

Your mind is racing, filled with what-ifs and regrets.

What if he explodes again?

What if you say the wrong thing?

What if this is the time he doesn’t stop?

You swallow hard, trying to push the thoughts away.

But they stay.

Lurking. Whispering.

“I flushed everything.”

You can still hear yourself saying it — the way your voice cracked, the way his face twisted with rage.

He hasn’t forgiven you for that.

You don’t think he ever will.

You set the broom aside, pressing your palms to your thighs to steady your shaking hands.

You have to say something.

The silence is suffocating.

And you can’t take it anymore.

But your chest aches with dread. Your stomach is in knots. You feel like you’re walking into a trap.

You wipe your hands on your jeans again, more out of habit than anything. Your fingers are clammy, trembling.

Finally, you take a shaky breath and step toward the couch.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice comes out softer than you intended.

Tentative.

Small.

He doesn’t respond.

He just takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling into the air between you, twisting and fading before it reaches the ceiling.

Your pulse kicks up, your nerves buzzing like static.

You wipe your hands on your jeans again, fidgeting.

He’s ignoring you.

You take another step closer, your knees unsteady. The sunlight cuts across his face, making the dark circles under his eyes look deeper.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

But you see the way his jaw tightens.

The way his fingers twitch, clenched around the cigarette.

He’s listening.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep going. Your voice shakes.

“I just…” You trail off, unsure what to say.

Unsure if it even matters.

The words feel too heavy, too fragile.

Like they’ll shatter in the air.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Finally, he moves.

He leans forward slowly, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray with a soft hiss.

And then, he looks up.

His eyes lock on yours.

Dark. Bloodshot.

And completely unreadable.

“You didn’t know what else to do?” he echoes, voice low, rough.

You flinch at the sound of it.

The tone.

The quiet anger simmering underneath.

“You didn’t have to do shit.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

Your hands won’t stop trembling.

“I was scared,” you say softly, desperate now. “I was scared for you.”

His lips twitch into something bitter.

“Scared for me?” He laughs, but it’s not a kind sound. It’s sharp. Cold. Empty.

“Mmm.” He nods sarcastic as if you were telling some kind of joke.

You step closer, kneeling beside him now.

Your heart is pounding.

Your head feels light, like you’re on the edge of something dangerous.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Nothing.

“I love you,” you say again, voice cracking.

Because you need him to hear it.

Because you need it to be true.

Finally, he looks at you.

And there’s nothing soft in his gaze.

Just anger. Disgust. Exhaustion.

“Then why the fuck are you still here?”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You feel it — the sting of them, the weight of them, pressing down on your chest.

You want to say something.

You want to scream, to cry, to tell him that you’re here because you love him, because you want to save him, because you can’t imagine your life without him.

But before you can speak, he grabs your wrist.

His grip is too tight. Too rough.

As he’s pulling you into his lap, his hands already moving to your hips, digging in hard enough to bruise.

“You said you love me.”

His voice is low, soft, dangerous.

“Show me.”

His hands don’t feel the way they used to.

There’s no softness in them anymore.

No warmth.

Just frustration. Impatience. Roughness.

You lie there, your body pinned beneath his weight, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands trembling against his shoulders.

You wanted this to be different.

You wanted this to be soft.

Forgiving.

But it’s not.

His lips press against your neck, messy and forceful. His teeth graze your skin, biting down hard enough to sting. You flinch, but he doesn’t stop.

His hands move to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He’s yanking your clothes off, rough and unrelenting.

There’s no tenderness in the way he touches you.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s not love.

It’s control.

You try to touch him.

Your hands tremble as you reach for his face, hoping to ground him — to bring him back.

But he grabs your wrist, pinning it down.

“Don’t.”

His voice is low, rough, filled with something you can’t quite place. Anger. Frustration. Exhaustion.

“Just let me.”

Your chest tightens.

Your stomach twists painfully.

You don’t want this.

Not like this.

“Su-bong—”

He cuts you off with a sharp tug of your jeans, dragging them down your legs, his hands trembling slightly.

He’s impatient. Frustrated.

“I said, don’t.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You close your eyes for a moment, tears burning behind your eyelids.

This isn’t right.

This isn’t what you wanted.

“Wait.”

The word slips out softly, almost a whisper.

Tentative. Hesitant.

He doesn’t stop.

His hands are still moving — grabbing at your thighs, pulling you closer, positioning you the way he wants.

You press your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

“Wait.”

Still, nothing.

You swallow hard, your voice shaking now.

“Su-bong, stop.”

He freezes.

For a moment, you think he’s going to listen.

You think he’s going to stop.

But when he looks at you, his gaze is dark, bloodshot, distant.

“I need this,” he mutters. “Just… shut up and let me.”

And then he moves again.

You go still beneath him.

Frozen. Paralyzed.

Your heart is pounding, loud and insistent, telling you to get up, to run, to scream.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because you love him.

Because you keep telling yourself it’s just a moment.

Because you’re still trying to make excuses.

His frustration only grows.

His touch gets rougher, more impatient.

He grabs your thighs, spreading them apart with more force than necessary.

His hands are shaking slightly, but he doesn’t slow down.

He doesn’t stop.

You try to speak again, but he cuts you off with a sharp kiss — more teeth than lips, more bite than kiss.

“Just stop talking,” he says, his voice low and strained. “Please.”

The desperation in his voice makes your chest ache.

But this isn’t desperation for you.

It’s desperation for something else.

Something he could find in a bag or a bottle.

And he’s using you to chase it.

It hurts.

Every touch is too rough.

Every kiss is too hard.

His grip is too tight.

You close your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks.

You tell yourself it’s almost over.

Just a moment.

He’s just angry.

He’s just high.

But deep down, you know that’s not true.

When it’s over, he pulls away without a word.

He doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

He just rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling too, your body aching, your skin burning, your heart hollowed out.

And when you finally get up, your legs are shaky, your hands trembling, your mind screaming at you to leave.

But you don’t.

You walk to the bathroom instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The water is scalding.

It hits your skin like needles, burning, stinging.

But you don’t turn it down.

You want it to hurt.

You stand under the spray, scrubbing your skin until it’s raw, until it stings, until you feel like you’ve peeled away every trace of him.

But you can still feel his hands on you.

You can still feel the bruises forming under your fingertips.

The water doesn’t wash it away.

Nothing does.

You press your hands against the tile, your chest heaving with quiet sobs.

Why are you still here?

The question echoes in your mind, over and over.

But you don’t have an answer.

You tell yourself you love him.

You tell yourself he didn’t mean it.

But deep down, you know the truth.

He won’t stop.

He won’t change.

And still —

You stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you step out of the shower, your skin is red and raw, aching with every step.

You wrap a towel around yourself, but it doesn’t cover the bruises.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror —

Wide eyes. Red-rimmed. Lips trembling.

A distant stranger.

You take a shaky breath, running your fingers through your damp hair.

And then, you step back into the bedroom.

Su-bong is sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

When he hears you, his head snaps up.

For a moment, you think you see concern in his eyes.

His gaze flickers to the bruises on your thighs, to the dark mark on your neck where he bit you.

“You’re hurt.”

The words are soft.

Almost tender.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll run.

And you flinch.

His hand, halfway to your arm, pauses in midair.

For a moment, neither of you move. The space between you feels too wide, too tense, too fragile — like a thread pulled tight, ready to snap.

“Come here.”

His voice is soft now.

Quiet. Careful.

Like he’s trying to make up for what he did without actually saying the words.

You stay where you are.

You want to run.

You want to scream.

You want to shove him away.

But you don’t.

Because you’re tired.

So fucking tired.

And you just want it to stop.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are soft.

Almost fragile.

He steps closer, and this time, you don’t flinch.

You don’t move.

You’re too tired.

His fingers brush against the bruises on your arm.

Light. Careful.

Like he’s trying to be gentle now.

Like he’s trying to erase the marks he left behind.

But they won’t fade.

And you both know it.

“I just… I need you.”

The words slip out of him quietly, almost a whisper. His lips brush against your shoulder, pressing soft kisses over the bruises he left.

“I need you to stay.”

You close your eyes.

Tears slip down your cheeks.

You crawl into bed with him, your body aching, your mind screaming at you to leave — but your heart refusing to listen.

His arms wrap around you, warm and heavy, pulling you against his chest.

And you cry quietly into his shirt, trying not to let him hear.

But he does.

He always does.

And still —

You stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It starts small.

It always does.

A comment.

A glance.

A flicker of something in his eyes — that dark, volatile thing lurking just beneath the surface.

You’ve been walking on eggshells for days.

Ever since the fight.

Ever since the picture frame shattered against the wall.

Ever since you flushed his drugs.

Ever since you cried in his arms after he didn’t stop.

Things have been too quiet.

Too tense.

And deep down, you know it’s coming.

He’s been distant.

Quiet, brooding, his mood shifting like storm clouds rolling in.

You should leave.

You know you should.

But instead, you stay.

You cook him dinner.

You clean the apartment.

You try to make things normal.

But there’s nothing normal about this.

It’s late when he comes home.

Way too late.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, your fingers wrapped around a cup of cold tea, staring at the door like it’s about to explode off its hinges.

When you hear the click of the lock turning, your heart jumps into your throat.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Su-bong.

His hair is a mess.

His eyes are bloodshot.

There’s a bruise on his knuckles, dark and fresh.

And when his gaze lands on you, everything inside you tightens.

This is it.

The storm has finally arrived.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, cutting through the silence.

He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with more force than necessary.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

He just stands there, swaying slightly, his hands twitching at his sides.

And then —

He laughs.

Low. Bitter.

The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your grip tightens on the mug, your knuckles turning white.

“You don’t need to explain yourself?”

Your voice shakes.

You hate it.

You hate the way he makes you feel small, like you’re the one who’s wrong.

Like you’re the one who needs to apologize.

“You’ve been gone all day,” you say, standing up slowly, your legs unsteady.

“All day, Su-bong. And now you’re just going to walk in here like nothing happened?”

He shrugs.

Shrugs.

Like he doesn’t care.

Like you don’t matter.

“I made dinner.”

The words sound pathetic as they leave your mouth.

You hate yourself for saying them.

For wanting to fix this.

But he doesn’t even look at you.

He just walks past you, heading toward the bedroom.

“I’m not hungry.”

Something snaps inside you.

The fragile thread holding you together finally breaks.

“No.”

Your voice is sharp.

Louder than it’s been in weeks.

He stops in his tracks.

Slowly, he turns to look at you.

And you can feel it —

The shift.

The crackle of tension in the air.

The storm about to break.

“What did you say?”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

But you’re not backing down. Not this time.

“I said no.”

Your heart is pounding.

You’re scared.

You should be.

But you’ve been scared for so long —

and you’re so fucking tired of it.

“You don’t get to do this anymore.”

The words tumble out, fast and desperate.

“You don’t get to disappear for days and come back like nothing happened. You don’t get to treat me like shit. You don’t get to use me, hurt me, and act like it’s my fault.”

His jaw clenches.

You see the flicker of anger in his eyes.

But you keep going.

“I’ve been here for you through everything. I’ve cleaned up your messes. I’ve lied for you. I’ve loved you, even when you made it impossible.”

Your voice cracks.

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t stop.

“And I can’t do it anymore, Su-bong.”

Silence.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The air feels too heavy.

The tension is thick, suffocating.

And then —

He laughs.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

The words hit you hard.

He throws them like a punch —

bitter, angry, exhausted.

“You want me to change? You want me to be something I’m not?”

His voice rises.

“You want me to stop? for you? You want me to be better?”

He steps closer, his hands shaking.

“I’m not better.

“I’m not fucking better.”

Your chest tightens.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and burning.

“I just want you to try.”

The words come out soft, broken.

“I love you, Su-bong.”

He freezes.

For a split second, something flickers in his eyes —

something raw.

And then —

“That’s your fucking x problem.”

The slap comes out of nowhere.

Hard. Fast.

It knocks you to the floor.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Your cheek stings.

Your ears ring.

Your whole body feels like it’s been shattered.

And when you finally look up, he’s staring down at you.

His chest heaves.

His hands shake.

And for a split second —

He looks scared.

“You’re right.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not better.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

And this time —

You believe him.

You push yourself up slowly, your whole body trembling.

“I loved you.”

Your voice is soft.

Broken.

“But you killed it.”

He doesn’t stop you as you walk toward the door.

But his voice follows you.

Soft. Bitter. Full of regret.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You pause.

And for a moment —

You almost turn around.

But you don’t.

You keep walking.

And as you step outside, tears streaming down your face, your heart breaking into pieces —

You know you’ll never be free.

Because he’ll always haunt you.

Like carrion.

Rotting.

Decaying.

[esote-rika]

not a mask, but a reflection | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!Reader Category: idk hurt/comfort?? flangst? something like that, I'm sorry I truly don't know how to categorize this Summary: The BAU ladies insist on a makeover for Spencer, so you decide to indulge them by promising to take him shopping. It doesn't go as either of you expected, but it allows a chance for the two of you to form a deeper bond. Content: reader’s outfit is described, reader is based on Blair Waldorf in background, and personality– so you're rich!! and fashionable!! And snarky, but in a ride or die sunshine x sunshine protector kind of way, early season 2 glasses!Spencer crushing on reader, implied autistic Spencer, brief mention of his bullying, lots of dialogue!!! especially about fashion advice (PSA to wear whatever you want!!) Word count: 2.8k A/N: I'm back on my Blair Waldorf-reader agenda. I'm mainly writing these because of my own crackship, but I tried very hard not to describe any specific appearance stuff for the reader (aside from what ur wearing) so it’s as immersive and universal as possible! Styling in film and TV fascinates me and I wanted to explore Spencer’s character through clothes. ALSO! I incorporate a Blair Waldorf quote into the conversation that goes “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be.” pls know I didn't come up with it, the Gossip Girl writers did. It's from S4E13 specifically.

Saturdays are usually meant for curling up on his couch to read his favorite books, or marathon obscure foreign films. Alone, always alone, Spencer Reid has grown used to the feeling; accepted it, enjoyed it, even. He wouldn’t have survived all these years if he didn't appreciate his own company, after all. 

However, today is different. He’s expecting company, which is unusual enough, but he’s expecting you of all people. And it’s for such a silly thing too— a makeover. Something straight out of a cliche high school movie. It had started at work, during a case, a passing comment made by one of the people being interviewed. Something about looking like he’s playing dress up, spoken so softly he’d been willing to pretend to ignore it. 

But you heard it, had snapped at the man in annoyance about respect and propriety. At the jet, you had snapped at him about wearing clothes that fit better, and of course Morgan and JJ had to get involved, and Garcia squealed about a makeover over the phone. He hadn’t expected you to accept; when you did, he considered several ways to get out of it: pretend to have a date (implausible), pretend to get sick, just don’t show up. But then you said you’ll meet him at his apartment and his world seemed to come crashing down.

“I need to see what I'm working with before I dive headfirst into this,” was your reply when he protested. It makes sense, of course, but he's not happy about accepting you into his space. It's curated for him and his comfort, and he dreads the idea of casting your shrewd, critical gaze over his design choices. If he's less of a coward, he would admit that a small part of him desires your approval. Craves it, needs it, so much it makes his skin crawl.

So that’s why his Saturday morning is spent cleaning; straightening books, hiding the case files strewn about. He doesn’t want to give you any ammunition to tease him with. Having to undergo a makeover is embarrassing enough.

It reeks of bleach when he opens the door for you. The wrinkle of your nose has no business being so cute when it's obviously done to express disgust.

“What is that smell?”

“Hello to you too,” he can't keep the sarcasm from his tone as he steps aside. 

You saunter in heels even though this is meant to be a casual get together. They click against his hardwood floors until you reach his rug, the thick fabric dulling out the noise. “Did you bleach your entire place?” 

His expression is sheepish as he closes the door, “I figured I'd clean.”

“You sure you're not hiding a murdered body in here?” you walk straight into the middle of his apartment and look around. He winces as he waits for your verdict.

“I’m not, I just - you’re so -”

“I’m so?”

“Particular.” I don’t want to disappoint you, but he clamps his mouth shut before the words escape. Having you come in for a makeover already isn’t doing anything for his confidence. In fact, it just confirms his suspicions. Something is wrong with him, despite all the attempts at propriety and flattery otherwise. The BAU sees it, you see it, and you’re here to fix it. He swallows the lump in his throat, and with it, his pride and the tiny hint of resentment. 

You are trying to help, he reminds himself. 

Maybe it’s his hopeless optimism, maybe it’s desperation to seem normal for once, but it’s enough to surrender to your knowledgeable hands. 

He lets his eyes take you in, allows himself a moment to linger on the details of your ensemble. The picture of coordination, as usual; shoes and bag the same shade of rich brown, the barrettes in your hair matching the pale blue trimming along the edges of the sundress you’re wearing. This is you dressed down, he knows, but somehow you manage to outdress him. 

“I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that,” your eyes roll, before landing to one of the doors in his apartment, “Where’s your bedroom?”

He sputters, “My - uh, why?”

“I’m assuming that’s where you keep your clothes?” You look at him like he’s dumb, and he turns bright pink. “I told you, I can’t take you shopping before I see what you already own.”

He can’t believe he fully didn’t realize it meant letting you into his bedroom. But then again, his brain has the tendency to turn to mush when he’s speaking with you. “Right,” he nods, scrambling to his bedroom. All of his anxieties about his living room and the overwhelming amount of books seem distant now; you hadn’t even commented on them. Instead, this new one arises, bubbles in his stomach. Showing you his bedroom is so much more intimate. The space he sleeps in, where he’s most vulnerable.

A space no other woman has ever even seen. 

He feels your presence behind him, smells the distinct loveliness of the perfume you like to call your signature scent. Of course you don’t ask for permission. He’s found quickly that you’re used to taking and having what you want, used to the world yielding to you instead of the other way around. 

Your heels make sharp taps against the floor. Combined with your perfume, it’s already obvious that you’re making your mark in his room, his haven. He imagines the fragrance will linger when you leave, and it makes his ears burn with a longing that knocks the wind from his chest. The door remains open, and he’s thankful that he isn’t completely caged in his bedroom with you. 

“Here’s my, uh, where I keep my clothes.” he hastily opens his closet, relief flooding his body as he sees it’s not that messy. Everything is ironed and pressed, although some of his sweaters are haphazardly piled together. He hopes he won’t have to show you the mess that is his sock drawer. 

You step up beside him, bare arm brushing against his. Brows furrowed in concentration as you rifle through his clothes. He steps back to give you more room to work with, although it’s more for his sake than yours. Your proximity is making him a little dizzy. He finds himself slumping on his bed, watching your movements. You’re approaching the task at hand with the same meticulous acuity as you would in a crime scene. Focused. Detail oriented, even when doing something so insignificant.

He’s not sure what to expect. He’s bought his clothes based on what he sees other men wear, relying on his observation skills, and the clothing guidelines given by HR to deduce what is considered appropriate. His father wore dress shirts a lot, back when his family was still intact. Hotch and Morgan wear suits, but those have always felt too formal to use on a daily basis. He opts for cardigans and sweater vests to keep him warm instead, because they’re softer, less restrictive. They remind him of Diana, the things she would wear back when she could still teach. He hopes you don’t make him get rid of them.

“You wear a lot of light browns,” your voice lifts him out of his anxious stupor, “You have to give that up.” 

He frowns in confusion, “What’s wrong with wearing light brown?”

“You’re too pale, they make you look even more sickly. But if you must wear brown, lean into this shade instead,” you hold up a dark brown blazer that he actually really likes. He smiles, happy that it got your seal of approval. You turn to him, eyes narrowed, “And your dress shirts are too big, look at where the shoulder seam falls.” 

He blinks in surprise as your hand comes to touch an inch past the edge of his shoulder, pinching the fabric, “It should be up here. You’re too slim for an oversized look, it just swamps your frame. If you’re going to be wearing them, they have to fit you better.” 

He nods, feeling a little out of his depth, “How do you know all of this?”

“Years of consuming Cosmopolitan and Vogue.” You turn back to the closet, he frowns slightly. The words mean nothing to him, and he flinches when he hears you sigh.

“Fashion magazines?” you prompt, glancing back over your shoulder.

“Ah,” He nods, lips pursed, “I can't say those are on my reading lists.”

“Obviously not, otherwise you'd know not to wear,” You gesture at his entire ensemble, nose wrinkling once again, “This.”

It doesn’t really occur to him what the problem is as he looks down at his checked button down. “It’s a nice shirt.” he says, although he can see your point now; it’s too big. 

“Reid, you look like you’re about to start proselytizing about our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.” you say, stepping away from his wardrobe and stopping in front of him. 

Your teasing makes his cheeks burn. Or maybe it’s your sudden closeness, your hands at his buttons, “Um, what–” he’s stiff, memories rushing of being held down, clothes forcibly ripped—

“Relax,” you step back after undoing the top button. The annoyed scoff surprisingly gives him some comfort, reminds him it’s you, he’s here with you, “There, that’s better. Don’t button it up all the way.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, it makes you look like you’re cosplaying a minister.” He shifts under your gaze, feeling exposed, even though he’s fully dressed. But that’s exactly what you’re judging, after all, his clothes. There’s nowhere to hide. “Why are you so tense, Reid? It’s not going to make you look like a fool, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Why? Where does he even begin? The fact that he’s never had a woman in his room before, and it’s making him feel like he’s about to implode? His memories of being stripped naked for all the school to see, humiliated, fueling the irrational fear of letting go of his clothes, the things he’s comfortable wearing. And for what? In order to be fashionable? To seem normal, to be fixed? 

He settles for a half truth, the words mumbled and embarrassed, “I like my clothes.”

To his surprise, your eyes soften, “Okay. And?”

“I like how I dress.”

“You don’t want to change your style?”

He looks down and shakes his head, feeling a little silly. How can he explain it to someone like you, who probably would have been one of his tormentors when he was back in school? It’s sick, this desire to be close to you, to be accepted by you as though being in your orbit would lessen his eccentricity. He thought he’d left it behind in high school, had grown out of it, but it’s there, recognizable and refusing to let him rest. 

“You know you didn’t have to say yes to this,” the bed dips as you sit beside him, “It was a silly thing the girls and I thought would be fun, but if it’s making you uncomfortable, I’ll stop and we could just, I dunno, go for ice cream instead.”

“No, I - I do, I just… don’t want to change completely.” It's almost pathetic how something as simple as clothes is making him spiral, “I like how I dress, even if you guys make fun of it. It’s comfortable. I get really cold hands, and the sweaters help, and - and the satchel is convenient even if you say it clashes with my outfits or whatever.”

Your hand rests on his forearm, and his rambling halts immediately.

“Then I won’t stop you from wearing grandpa-chic,” the lightness in your voice makes him smile, “This is why I wanted to see what you had. I wasn’t about to start from scratch, and there’s obviously a reason you gravitated towards these pieces. I wouldn’t force you into something you hate, that sort of defeats my fashion philosophy.”

“Your fashion philosophy?” He's smiling now as he listens to you.

“I believe that the whole point of fashion and clothing is to help reflect what you are on the inside, not mask it.” You reply, hand finding his own. He allows it, finding something warm and soothing in the touch of your hand, silencing the usual urge to pull away in fear of germs. “And, anyway, I think your clothes make you look really intellectual, so if you like them, you have the pieces in your closet already, it’s just a matter of styling them better.” 

You squeeze his hand, but he could have sworn you did it to his actual heart. 

He watches as you return to his closet again, rummaging through the clothes. You hold up a white button down and a navy blue cardigan, head tilted to the side, teeth worrying the plushness of your lower lip, “Like this; this is a nice combination, and it’ll work better with your complexion. Try it on.” they’re tossed over to him, landing on his lap.

You’re turning away from him, still going through his clothes—allowing him privacy. He appreciates that. He scrambles out of his current clothes, his skin prickling as he thinks about the fact that he’s in a room with a woman alone, getting undressed. No. You’re a friend and a coworker doing him a favor, he should get his head out of the gutter. Hurriedly, he puts the suggested ensemble on.

“Uh, it’s — you can turn around.”

He holds his breath as your eyes rove over his figure, still with the same sharpness he’s used to, but blunted by the small smile playing across your lips. “Yeah, that’s better. Navy’s a great color for you.” you have a stack of his shirts in your hand, all of them patterned and printed, “I’m sorry, but these… have to go. Or at least don’t wear them to work. The prints are ugly, no offense.”

He chuckles, taking the shirts from you, “Not wearing ugly prints to work anymore, got it.”

“Yeah, keep the funky patterns on your ties.” you reach up, brushing lint and dust off the cardigan, “Your shirts should remain plain, solid colors; you have a lot of nice sweater vests and cardigans, it’ll be easier to match them together if your shirts are in more basic colors.” 

Committing your words to memory is easy enough. Rules. He likes rules, but they need to make sense to him, otherwise their arbitrariness will simply frustrate him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

So far, you’re being so receptive to his questions, it might actually make him cry. It’s a new feeling, being the one who’s floundering. Not being the smartest, most knowledgeable person. How exciting, he decides, getting to learn in an area he’s never been able to fully understand on his own. He clarifies, “Why can’t I match the cardigans and sweaters to, uh, colorful shirts?” 

It’s a while before you answer, moving around to wind a tie across his neck. Your words are thoughtful when you speak, “It’s a visual balance. Too many colors and patterns can look heavy and distracting— which is okay, you know, but time and place is always something to consider when you’re dressing up. And you’re going to work, so it’s better to err on the side of caution and wear things that are more… sleek.” Your hands are deft as they tighten the tie, tucking it into the cardigan. “So now that I know what sorts of clothes you like to wear, it’s a matter of finding the right color combinations and cuts that fit your body. Here, see for yourself.”

You push him forward until he’s in front of his mirror, and indeed he does look… better. Still himself, still familiar, but the contrast of the navy cardigan against his pale skin somehow brings out more warmth from his cheeks and makes his hair seem less dull. Visual balance, you said. “Like art,” he murmurs.

“Exactly,” your smile is proud, peeking from behind his shoulder, “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be… and this is showing the world that you’re one attractive nerd.”

He laughs at that. There’s a lightness in his chest as he realizes he doesn’t have to change everything. “I think I get it.” he replies, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Of course you do, you’re a genius.” A slap on the back, one filled with warm intimacy, “Now, I did promise the team a makeover, so now that I know what sort of stuff you need, we can finally go shopping… and we need to do something with your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” he asks, but he’s smiling and so are you.

THERE WILL BE A PART TWO! Also, tagging everyone who expressed interest in Waldorf!Reader @mggslover @libraprincessfairy @lillaberry @lokisswiftie

[ghouljams]

The Church of the Broken God (chapter 2)

Words: 5k Tags: Eventual John Price x reader, public masturbation, brainwashing, doublespeak, indoctrination, f!reader, passively suicidal ideation, self destructive habits, horrible bosses, depressed!reader, Cult Leader!Price Summary: Your life has been on a downward spiral for months. It's hard to find a real reason to keep going when everything you do seems to backfire. That is, until you get a flier for a meditation seminar that promises to fix all your problems.

<- prev chapter | next chapter ->

These women are… super nice. You don’t know why it puts you on edge. They’re not doing anything wrong. They buy each other drinks, compliment each other, they’re attentive listeners and laugh at every joke you make. You offer to buy a round, the same as they’ve been doing for you, and you’re not met with a rush to stop you. They look pleased, shoot off thanks and smile the same as they did for the other women. You feel like you’re doing the right thing, you don’t know why it makes your stomach squirm. Maybe you’re just not used to people doing nice things for you.

“You ok?” Nina asks, leaning over the table to frown at you, “you’ve gone all quiet.”

“Yeah, uh, I guess I’m just not used to crowds anymore.” You attempt to cover.

“It’s the compliments isn’t it?” Cassie jumps in, Nina waves her off.

“No, no!” You hold up your hands to defend yourself, “Those are really nice, you’re all really nice! I’m just not-”

“Used to it?” Nina finishes with a wince, “I wasn’t either, it was super awkward the first time I came out for drinks, you remember?”

“Oh my God so awkward, you were like a robot.” Cassie laughs, it takes some of the weight off your shoulders.

“But you get what you put out into the world, y’know? You give kindness, you get it in return, that’s what John says.” Nina nods, she crosses her arms and leans back against the booth. She feels serious, her jaw set and her brows drawn. “I was in a really dark place when I first took John’s class, it felt like I was living a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. My friends were drifting away, my fiance was cheating on me-” She shakes her head, you wince at how closely your situation matches, “-I was so bitter and it made me mean, I get why no one wanted to be around me.”

“Nina-” Cassie sighs, her sympathy obvious. Nina waves her off again, sitting forward to grab her drink.

“Whatever, it’s in the past now.” Nina mutters, your heart aches for her. You set a hand on her shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. She smiles at you. It feels… good. You can see yourself in her, your pain and suffering. It’s a weight that she carries the same as you. “Kyle really helped me a lot, Christ I owe him a whole bakery.”

“Nina!” Cassie squeals, shoving at her. Nina’s shoulder bumps against you, warm. Camaraderie. Did you forget what it was like to have friends? When was the last time you saw your own? The last time they laughed with each other, with you? “You’re so bad,” Cassie laughs.

“What? He’s hot!” Nina laughs back. You feel a little left out. Your stomach clenches.

“Sorry, who’s Kyle?” You ask, “Your boyfriend?”

“She wishes,” Cassie snorts into her drink. Nina shoves at her.

“He’s a counselor, life coach sort of guy.” Nina explains, “He has a class at the rec center on Wednesdays-” Claire’s phone pings “-honestly it’s worth going just to see him, God I wanna make a sandwich out of that man.”

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” Claire announces. You glance at the other women at the table. None of them move. Weird, you would have thought women this close would be biting at the bit to accompany her. You always used the buddy system with your friends. Especially at bars. In fact the other women at the table seem to ignore her, only acknowledging her enough to move out of the way. 

You guess there’s a black sheep in every friend group. You know the feeling. You tap your fingers against the table watching her retreat to the bathroom. You don’t have a good feeling about letting her go alone. Nina’s insistence on “putting kindness into the world” or whatever is running through your head and you just… you can’t let her be on the outskirts of the friend group alone. You’re not even really part of it, but everyone is being so nice- you won’t be the reason this girl is left out.

“Oh um, I’m gonna ask the bartender something,” You tell the girl on your left, shit what was her name “can you-?

“Sure!” She pushes herself out of the booth to let you out, quickly cozying up next to Nina when you vacate the spot. You glance at the table over your shoulder as you make your way towards the bar, then make a hard turn towards the bathrooms. No one’s paying attention to you, that’s good.

You push the bathroom door open, trying to be quiet in case Claire’s shy. You’ll just, uh, wash your hands and pretend you’re fixing your outfit when she comes out. Nothing weird about that. Totally normal thing that people do, and not like you’re waiting for her to come out of the stall so you can- What? Commiserate about being left out? Ugh, you don’t know why you even-

There’s a distinct, wet, noise coming from one of the stalls. A ‘shlick, shlick’ sound that you recognize all too easily. You catch the bathroom door to keep it from slamming and cover your mouth. Fingers sliding against a wet slit, a soft huff of a stifled moan, and the quiet low rumble of a man’s voice. Deep and throaty, she’s on the phone with someone, or listening to something. You can’t tell which, what you can tell is that Claire --the girl who had seemed almost too shy to ask you to join them--  is masturbating in a public bathroom. And you’re standing there listening. You’re not sure which is worse. It squirms like bile in your stomach, you’re intruding, you’re being a creep. Your own cunt clenches. 

A quiet whimper leaves Claire’s mouth and you rush back out of the bathroom. You catch the door a second time to make sure she doesn’t hear it slam, then you press yourself against it. You fan your face, try to get your breathing right, fix your face. Fix your damn face! You press your hands to your cheeks, and squeeze your eyes shut. Oh my God.

You make your way back to the table, doing your best to avoid looking at anyone. The girl who moved for you initially lights up when she sees you, hopping out of the booth and ushering you in. You feel a little awkward sliding into the middle with Nina, but you don’t want to cause a fuss with so many people watching you. Good lord do they all have to look at you? 

“Did the bartender have what you were looking for?” Nina asks. Your eyes dart to her.

“The- oh, uh, no. I was wondering if he had a phone charger.” You cover quickly.

“I have a power bank you can use,” Cassie offers. You open your mouth to turn her down before remembering that would blow your story out of the water.

“Sure.” You relent, forcing a smile onto your face. 

“No problem,” Cassie chirps, digging through her purse to tug a power bank and two different chargers free, “it feels good to do nice things for people, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” you agree absentmindedly, fussing with the charger and plugging your phone in. An alert for a non-branded charger pops up and you quickly dismiss it. 

The conversation moves on to other topics, but you hardly pay attention. Your eyes are glued to the bathroom door, waiting for Claire. When she does finally exit she looks the same as when she left. No ruddy cheeks, no guilty glances around, no rumpled shirt or anything that would give away what she was doing in the bathroom. You try not to narrow your eyes as they flick over her body. You don’t want to look like you’re checking her out, you just want proof that you heard what you heard.

“Welcome back,” Someone says, and Claire beams at them.

“Who’s buying the next round?” Claire asks.

You drift in and out of conversation. Someone offers to split an uber with you, apparently they live in the same building. You wonder how you never noticed them before, but they hug you before you get off the elevator.

“It was nice to connect with you,” She hums, “it feels nice being part of something, doesn’t it?”

You don’t get a chance to answer before the doors close.

-

Wednesday, you think, flipping through your phone while you brush your teeth. Nina said her life coach guy was on wednesdays right? Curious, you check the rec center’s website.

“For the Whole You!” The site banner reads in friendly font. You scroll down to their calendar. There’s a lot of pictures of people smiling, a pie chart of something, testimonials, blah blah blah. The calendar is easy to read at least. And packed. It looks like meditations happen every three days, you spot John’s name easily. Price, huh, that’s a cool last name. Wednesdays… 

You click on the only Kyle you see, and a page pops up with- Christ- one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. Kyle Garrick, life coach with a masters in psychology. That doesn’t sound too bad. You thought life coaches were just con men in ripped jeans, but this guy seems like he might actually know what he’s talking about. John’s name pops up again, a short anecdote from Kyle about serving with him. Huh. That’s kind of interesting you guess. 

You think back on the meditation lesson you’d attended, the power that John seemed to carry in simple actions, the musculature, the way he’d pinned you in place with a single tilt of his head. Military fits you guess. You click on his class and tap your fingers against the side of your phone as you think. The class has a helpful registration counter at the side, letting you know there’s one spot left for the wednesday evening class. It’s not like you have anything else going on, and it’ll fill your usual therapy slot. It’s twenty for a single class. That’s not too bad, less than therapy co-pays. You make an account on the site, begrudgingly signing up for their email list, and send twenty dollars into the void. 

You get an email from Kyle about an hour later as you’re scrolling through instagram, avoiding looking at the time. It feels pretty standard, welcoming a new person, attaching a survey on what you want to work on. You type out a few quick words promising you’ll get to it in the morning. Your email pings a few minutes later.

“You must be an insomniac, just tackle it now.” You narrow your eyes at the screen, “Might help you sleep to accomplish a task before bed.” 

What sort of weird logic- fine. You squint at the questionnaire, typing out your answers as best you can. Honest enough to get some advice but not honest enough to get sent to the hospital has always been your MO with these things. This one is sort of weird, but you’re exhausted, too sleep-addled to pay proper attention.

Are you lonely? Do you ever feel out of place? Do you have dreams where you act as someone else? Have you heard of the law of attraction? When someone says they feel “connected” to you, how does that make you feel?

Do you ever feel talked over?

Do you ever feel pushed out of conversations? Do you find it hard to accept yourself?

Are you on the path you want to be?

You rub your eyes, typing as best you can. 

Where do you see improvement for yourself?

Describe yourself in one negative word.

You type, and type. It feels never ending. Worse than the insomnia that keeps you up. It’s nearly two hours later when you finish. You send it off to Kyle without another thought, and snuggle down into your blankets. You’re so tired.

Your phone buzzes. You roll over to check it. Another email from Kyle.

“Thanks, this looks great! :)” You sigh. At least your work checks out. That’s good, you’re sure it’s just an auto-response, but you appreciate it nonetheless. Another message pops up. Your email alerting you to a new response in the chain.

“How long have you had trouble sleeping? I know a few good remedies.” You sigh, the screen hurts your eyes. You don’t know what inspires you to reply, why you don’t simply roll over to sleep. The attention is nice, you suppose.

“A few months. What’s your miracle cure?” You stare at your phone, let the blue light laser its way over your eyes. The screen dims, you tap it to keep your phone awake. To keep you awake. 

“Have you heard of sleep restriction therapy?”

-

Your morning has never felt more miserable. You barely slept and you had to upgrade your usual tea to an instant coffee. You’re nursing the brown sludge that you managed to scrape together from the break room’s limited stores when your least favorite manager swings by your cubicle.

“Did you finish the reports I asked for?” Kevin asks. You do your best to keep your face neutral as you sip your scalding caffeine.

“I told you they’d take me until the end of the day.” You remind him, “It’s nine in the morning.” Nevermind that he’s swinging into the office a full hour late, but you know for a fact that you promised the updated numbers by five today. You have the email to prove it.

“Oh,” Kevin makes a face, his teeth grit as he exhales through them, “I was really hoping you’d work on them last night.”

“Outside of work hours.” You confirm, trying not to sound too much like you’re questioning his less than sound judgement.

Kevin sighs your name with a shake of his head, “You know you’re not going to get very far in this company if you don’t care about your work.”

You take a deep breath through your nose, inhaling as much coffee vapor as you can stomach. It does nothing to calm you down. You can’t be expected to deal with this level of bullshit on practically zero sleep. Maybe you should look into that sleep therapy Kyle sent you, you really can’t keep living like this.

“I care about my work Kevin,” You tell him with as much of a smile as you can manage, “I’ll have the reports to you as soon as possible.”

“Atta-girl,” Kevin praises, snapping his finger to hit you with a nauseating pair of finger guns before moseying back to his office.

If you thought reporting him to HR would do anything you might consider it. As it stands you’ve already tried that twice and gotten nowhere. It just made him more dedicated to making your work life hell. Crazy how they always talk about retaliation in the “Hostile work environment” training videos, but no one seems to give a shit about it when it’s happening to you.

You spend the next two hours swearing at the mess of spreadsheets that Kevin emailed you yesterday. If he’d bothered to clean any of the sheets up it would’ve made your life a hell of a lot easier. You don’t even want to think about how many cells could’ve been saved if he knew how to use just one function. You can feel the start of a migraine pressing against the back of your eyes by the time your stomach is starting to growl at you about lunch.

You glance away from your monitor to rub your eyes, try to get some of the blurry tilt out of them. Your bag sits on the desk next to you, deliriously empty. Fuck.

Fuck that’s right, you’d decided to skip packing a lunch this morning because you were running late for your train. 

With a heavy sigh you check your lunch options just as your phone pings.

It’s an unknown number, weird.

You swipe the message open to delete it and pause.

“Hey, it’s Nina! I saw you work near me and was wondering if you’d want to grab lunch?”

You blink at your phone screen. How the hell would she know where you work?

Your sluggish brain clicks away as your stomach churns nervously. You guess Cassie works at the rec center, she’d see applications that come through, membership stuff. Maybe Cassie gave it to her? Nina was the one who suggested you sign up for Kyle’s class, maybe Cassie wanted to, you don’t know, spread the good news of your signing up?

Your head throbs.

You’re not really operating at 100% right now, you’re not sure you want to interact with someone who seems to have their life together.

“My treat?” Nina double texts you.

Alright, you can pretend to be a human being for free lunch.

You’re almost relieved to see Nina has a little darkness under her eyes, purple sleeplessness that she’s tried to hide with concealer. It makes you feel a little better for your own sluggish brain to think that she might be tired too. 

“I know this is probably totally weird,” She laughs when you greet her with a raised hand, “You’re probably like, oh my god this bitch is a stalker, how does she know where I work?”

“I figure Cassie gave it to you, because I signed up for your favorite class.” You yawn, as she nods.

“That’s smart,” She says nothing about your second yawn, “wouldn’t have been my first thought.” You hum, before deciding a verbal answer is friendlier.

“Yeah, I mean it seemed sort of weird, but you don’t strike me as the stalker type.”

“Tell my ex-fiance that,” Nina says with an eye roll, “ask to share your location one time- of course I was right to be a stalker but…”

You snort and she positively beams at you. You have to squint to avoid blinding yourself in the sunshine of it. She links her arm with yours and tugs you along to walk with her. You do your best not to tug your arm out from her hold, not used to being touched so casually.

“So what are you in the mood for?” She asks, leading you down the street.

“I’m not picky,” You tell her, trying to be easy. You could really go for something warm right now, you think you might be coming down with something.

“You look exhausted,” Nina coos sympathetically, “Maybe you should go home instead. Rest.”

You rub your eye with the heel of your hand and shake your head. “I’ve got a lot to get done today.”

“Surely your boss won’t mind you taking some sick time?” She sounds so sincere, you feel bad when you bark out a laugh. Nina frowns, “One of those, huh?” You sigh, letting yourself feel the heaviness in your limbs like a sick indulgence.

“Just a few more hours,” You assure her, “Then I can go home and sleep.”

“Let’s get something good in you before then.” Nina nods to herself.

Nina orders for you and sets a steaming bowl of rice and saucy vegetables in front of you. It smells heavenly, like ginger and coconut, and there’s little crispy bits of something sprinkled on top. She has a salad, and shakes it vigorously in front of her while you mix up the yellow curry and rice. Even just the thought of the food’s warm steam settling in your stomach energizes you. You glance at Nina and she’s got her head bowed. 

You-

Pause. 

A little awkward in the face of what must be prayer. You’re not quite sure if you’re supposed to start without her, or if that’s rude. You don’t know the protocol for this. After a moment she raises her head and blinks at you.

“Oh my gosh, were you waiting for me?” She asks, scandalized. You nod, unsure what to do with your hands. You settle on spooning a heap of curry and rice into your mouth. You figure that’s fine since she’s done. “That’s really sweet of you,” She smiles. She doesn’t give you any indication if this was the right thing to do. You stare at your bowl and chew.

“I was going to invite you to hang at the rec center after work,” Nina starts, waving her fork with a sigh, “but I don’t want you to push yourself if you’re exhausted.”

“Do people hang out at the rec center?” You question, trying to remember if you saw other people there when you went yesterday. It had seemed fairly empty, almost abandoned, but maybe you’d been too focused on getting to your class to notice anything else. The class was full, so there must have been other people hanging around.

“Of course,” Nina gives you a look like you’re crazy for asking, “like all the time. It’s a nice spot just to chill and see people. John doesn’t mind us hanging around.”

John. That was the meditation instructor’s name, wasn’t it? It’s pretty common, you doubt it’s the same guy. Why would an instructor mind if people hung around anyway? Cassie had pointed you towards a lounge area last night so there must be more of those to steal for chatting.

“The meditation instructor?” You ask dumbly. It’s not the question you want to ask, but it’s the only thing that sticks on your tongue. Nina hums her assent.

“He runs the place.” She explains, “he’s super nice, really cares about bringing people together, building community, connections.”

She says the word like it means something: connections. It sticks in your sluggish mind, but doesn’t raise any red flags.

“Sounds like a good guy.” You shove another bite into your mouth.

“He is.” Nina tells you. Tells you, like she’s demanding you try and disagree with her.

You blink. There’s a coldness to her face, there and gone. She smiles, and tucks into her salad.

Maybe she’s got a thing for him. You make a note not to say anything bad about him to her.

He seemed nice, good looking, she could do worse.

You suppress a shiver at the memory of his hands on you, pushing you forward and pulling you back like it was the most natural thing in the world. His touch is the first you’ve had in a long time that didn’t make you cringe and want to squirm away. Actually his class was the most relaxed you’ve been in, well, ever and the short nap you’d taken was probably the best sleep you’d had in months. You’d almost be willing to give up on going straight home after work if you knew John was going to be at the rec center, maybe you could slip in another meditation workshop?

You want to ask Nina about it, but you also don’t want to give her the wrong idea. If she does have a crush on the guy, it’s probably not great to ask too many questions about John if you want to stay in her good graces. 

“Right,” You try, “yeah his class was great, and I’m, uh, looking forward to Kyle’s class too.” Not your best subject change, but Kyle’s name makes Nina light up.

“Oh yeah, you’re going to love it!” She assures you.

“Yeah, I- yeah,” The attitude shift has you a little stunned, your molasses thoughts stick to your tongue as you try to collect them, “He sent me this huge questionnaire last night, it was really, um, in depth?” You try to remember one of the questions but wading through your mind is difficult with so little sleep.

“Well,” Nina stabs her fork into her salad, you flinch at each punctuating crunch of lettuce, “he has to get to know you, silly, so he can help you.” You stir your curry in jerking motions, for something to occupy your hands. “You can’t pull yourself out of a hole,” Nina tells you with a blank smile, “someone has to throw you a rope.”

-

You were almost happy to get back to work. Kevin chewed you out about taking too long a lunch, and you were probably going to get an ulcer from all the tylenol you took, but you were happy getting away from Nina. She’d chatted your ear off about Kyle and somehow didn’t answer a single one of your questions about him. Not that you had any chance to get a word in edgewise. You couldn’t handle the perky tone in her voice by the time your lunch ended. At least you didn’t have to pay for your own food.

You manage to get Kevin his spreadsheets before five. You still leave the office late and thankless.

You doze on the train home, your head tugging at your neck each time the doors opened, and you barely make it into your house before you’re collapsing on the couch. 

Yeah, you couldn’t have made it to the rec center like this.

You startle awake when your ass starts vibrating. You blearily fumble for your phone  and swipe at the screen, turning off your “call Baby” alarm. You should really delete that.

You toss your phone on the coffee table with a sigh and turn onto your back to stare at the ceiling fan. Ten. You slept for a good couple hours. You’re starving.

And you’re not going to be able to sleep tonight because of this nap.

Great.

-

You consider canceling your registration for Kyle’s class as you sit on the train heading to the rec center. You could just go home. You sort of want to go home, but Cassie had called you this afternoon to confirm your registration and she’d sounded so sad when you’d asked about canceling that you just couldn’t. Also you were pretty sure it was too late to get your money back. So here you were.

At least the rec center is busier than Monday. Cassie had told you the Wednesday meditation was full, maybe this is their busy day. You see people coming in and out, and look for a familiar face in the crowd. You’re hoping to see one of the women you met Monday, but instead your eyes lock on slightly less familiar icy blues.

John smiles at you across the street, and glances both ways before jogging across. You paint on a smile for him, and try not to look like you were avoiding going inside.

“Waiting for someone?” He asks in lieu of greeting. You keep your eyes on his, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepen a little as you stare. 

“No, just-” You search for a normal time killing activity, “-people watching.” John hums and steps to stand beside you. The space he takes up feels enormous, like a black hole sucking up your attention, despite the way he crosses his arms over his chest. You peek at the bulge of his bicep against the dark shirt he’s wearing, the stiff fabric stretching to accommodate more man that it was made for. You would’ve expected him in the same comfortable yoga clothes as he was wearing Monday, but this feels more formal. He’s wearing slacks. And oxfords. 

“It’s intimidating,” He tells you out of the blue after a moment of silence. Your eyes dart to his face, and your confusion must be all too clear because he chuckles. The deep throaty noise of it makes your stomach clench. “Letting people help,�� He fills in, “choosing peace.”

You make a face.

And John touches you.

His hand slides, big and warm, over your back. His fingers spread wide and he leans into your space like he might pull you closer, except you suddenly feel rooted in place. Fear shoots through you, anxiety punctuating your breaths unnecessarily. You fix your face quickly, tamp down the surge of adrenaline that makes you want to run. John isn’t doing anything but looking at you, his smile the same placid thing even as his brows twitch in concern.

“Sorry,” You find yourself apologizing, trying to unlock some of the stiffness in your shoulders, “I’m not used to people touching me.”

“It’s a natural response,” John doesn’t move his hand, his thumb rubs against your back and you feel the unnatural drag of your shirt against your skin like sandpaper, “You’re trying to protect yourself. Silly little thing that people have gotten into their heads these days, that everyone’s out to get them.” He tips his head, and you’re hit with a wave of claustrophobia, the open air seems to sink into you until you’re a single focus point in a tiny void. “Doesn’t that feel awful?” 

His words feel like they’re sinking into you, echoing every thought that bounces through your tensed musculature. It feels awful, you feel like a cornered gazelle, like a lame wildebeest, like a fly trapped in a spider’s net. 

You feel almost pleading the way you must be looking at him. Humiliated to react like this to something so simple.

He smiles brighter and his hand leaves you, you suck in a breath and feel your lungs ache, “That’s why it’s so important to pick apart that distrust, humans are social creatures, made to be connected to each other. All from the same warm pool, yeah?”

You nod. John nods his head towards the rec center.

“Let me walk you in, you’re here for Gaz’s class right?”

“No, um, Kyle’s.” You correct.

“Ah,” John laughs, his hand reappears on the small of your back, pushing you forward, “old habit, that’s what we called him in the SAS. You’ll like him, not as touchy as me.” He pulls his hand away with a small apologetic smile, “force of habit.”

“It’s fine,” it’s not, “Everyone around here is so friendly, I just have to get used to it.”

John hums, “Already untangling the web, good girl.”

Your stomach clenches pleasantly. You can see why Nina likes him.

[00hpink]

⊱   ﹑ THE LOOK OF LOVE .    ⌣ 

𝗌yn. how do they look at you?

featuring ⎯⎯͟͟౨ৎ gojo, nanami, geto, sukuna, megumi, toji, choso x reader. cw ⊹ slightly ooc because i can. fluff!! likes and reblogs are appreciated!

╰ note. inspired by an edit of this that i found in youtube. sukuna being different because he's a cool bitch kid. more under the cuts . . .ᐟᅟ

GOJO SATORU

he gazes at you lovingly. it's a pause in the chaos where his usual joviality takes on an air of tranquility, and you catch him staring. initially, you think it's his usual teasing expression, but there's aa deeper meaning to it, a sincerity that makes your heart flutter.

his ice-blue eyes, usually sparkling with playful intent, now shimmer with something deeper, warmer. they hold a gentleness that feels like a secret shared only between you two.he remains silent at first; he lets his gaze linger, as if trying to remember every detail of your face, from the curve of your lips to the way your hair frames your face.

then, he inches closer, his chin resting on his hand, his other hand reaching out casually to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. his fingers remain a moment longer, as if not wanting to pull away. "you know," he murmurs, his voice deep and unusually tender, "i don’t think you realize how beautiful you are."

there's no trace of his usual sarcasm or theatrics — just pure, unguarded adoration. his eyes never leave yours, as if he's scared that looking away will shatter the stillness. and in that moment, it feels like time has frozen, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of quiet affection.

NANAMI KENTO

imagine nanami kento standing before you, his serious demeanor melting as he gazes at you. his eyes, usually sharp and precise, now carry warmth and something deeper— affection. his gaze is unwavering, yet there's a quiet tenderness, as if he's savoring every second spent with you.

the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes signals quiet happiness, a happiness that comes from simply being with you. his lips curl into a genuine, small smile, the kind that only appears when he's truly comfortable. his gaze carries a gentle intensity, as if he's committing every detail of your face to memory, holding onto the moment as though time might fade away.

you can feel the warmth of his trust, like a quiet promise in the night. his gaze, soft but steady, says more than words ever could. it's not just love that lingers there, but something deeper, like you’re the anchor in his storm, the calm in his chaos. and when his eyes meet yours, it's like he's telling you, 'i see you, and i'm right here, every part of me, with you.'

GETO SUGURU

geto suguru's gaze combines calmness and intensity in a way that’s all his own. when he looks at you with a loving stare, it's as if he's studying you, but not in the detached, distant way he might with others. instead, there's a quiet fascination in his eyes, like you're the center of his world, and he's taking in every detail. his dark eyes are sharp, but beneath them lies something softer, almost tender — a protective warmth.

when his gaze finally meets yours, there’s a flicker of something dangerous and possessive beneath the surface- but not in a way that feels threatening — instead, it's the look of someone who knows exactly what they want and has no intention of letting it slip away. his lips curve into a smirk, playful yet sharp — like he knows something you don't, as if he has all the time in the world to make you see things his way.

even with that smirk, there's a warmth in his eyes that's impossible to ignore, but it's not the kind that comforts you. it's a warmth that pulls you into his world, a world where things are done according to his rules. his gaze doesn't just look at you; it feels like it draws you in, commanding your attention, urging you to stay and be a part of his chaos.

in that moment, his love isn't soft or gentle. it's fierce, possessive, and almost obsessive. you can tell from the way he looks at you that he wants all of you, and he won't let go — not without a fight. his gaze holds a powerful magnetism, dark and captivating, like a spell you can't escape, even if you tried.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

those eyes hold a dark, dangerous allure, drawing you in despite the unsettling chill they deliver. his eyes are sharp, predatory, locking onto you with a wicked intensity that feels almost amused. there's a cold, calculating edge in his stare, as if he's seeing through every wall you've put up — your thoughts, your fears, your desires. when his eyes meet yours, it feels like you're being examined in a way that's both unsettling and strangely magnetic.

his lips curve into a knowing smirk, just enough to expose a glimpse of his teeth, and the air around him grows heavier. his eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if amused by your reaction, yet beneath it, there's a deeper understanding — a sense of dominance, a quiet realization that he controls this moment. it's not affection in the typical way, but there's something intoxicating in the way he watches you, a possessive and almost mocking interest that lingers in every second.

and yet, hidden behind his cold demeanor, there's a magnetic pull — an allure that tugs at you, even though danger is woven into every one of his movements. his gaze demands attention, respect, and a form of surrender you can't quite comprehend but find yourself trapped in.

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

when megumi looks at you, his eyes are sharp and calculating, but there's a steady, quiet intensity that you can't ignore he doesn't show his emotions often, but in that moment, when his gaze meets yours, there's a subtle vulnerability that lingers beneath his calm façade.

his gaze doesn't overwhelm you, but there's a quiet intensity to it. when his eyes meet yours, there's a fleeting tenderness, though it's quickly masked by his usual cool demeanor. he doesn't need words; his look says it all—'i'm here here, i see you.'

there's a quiet protection in his gaze, even when he doesn't speak, as if he's silently watching over you, but in a way that doesn't draw attention. his affection isn't in-your-face, but the way his gaze stays on you just a bit longer tells you everything you need to know. it's a quiet expression of love, one he's unsure how to vocalize, but trusts you to recognize.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

toji's affection is far from conventional, and it certainly doesn't come with flowery words or gentle touches. but when it's you he's looking at, there’s something different in the way he watches you — something deeper beneath the hardened, rough exterior. his gaze, though often sharp and calculating, softens just for you, though only just enough for you to catch a glimpse of it. it's a rare thing, something you'II only see when he feels you're truly his, and when it matters most.

his familiar smirk still lingers, but now there's a change in it, a softness that replaces the cruelty, and something more protective, more invested. his eyes remain fixed on yours, holding the connection with an intensity that seems to savor every second. he's never been one for grand displays, but in the way he looks at you, you can feel the deep, quiet devotion he holds just for you.

words aren't necessary for toji. his feelings are subtle, but when his eyes rest on you, it's unmistakable — he's not leaving.

CHOSO KAMO

choso's gaze is intense and heavy, never giving you a full glimpse into his mind. his dark, calculating eyes lock onto you, and the weight of his attention is clear. he doesn't say much, but his stare carries an unspoken tension, as though he's analyzing every part of you, observing more than you realize. there's a quiet sharpness in his eyes, a focus that suggests he's not easily distracted or moved.

while his expression stays mostly neutral, there's a subtle gentleness in the way he looks at you — something that reveals a side of him not often seen. it’s barely perceptible, but if you look closely, you can catch a glimpse of something deeper beneath the surface, something he doesn't often show. his gaze is both protective and calculating, as if he's silently acknowledging a bond he can't quite name, but one that's undeniable.

his gaze rarely softens, but when it does, it's not the gentle tenderness you might anticipate. it's a deep, quiet admiration, like a rare peek into his raw, unguarded soul, still cautious but filled with connection and perhaps a hint of longing. he doesn't usually reveal this side of him, but in that moment, you know he cares deeply in his own intense way.

YUUJI ITADORI

yuuji's eyes lock with yours, full of unfiltered affection, soft light shining through his eyes. it's not intense, but sincere, the kind of look that makes you feel like you're the only one who matters in that moment.

his look is filled with quiet admiration, as if he cherishes all that you are. his eyes linger just a moment longer, always warm, always fixed on you. no words are needed; his gaze tells it all. it's obvious how deeply he values and cares for you. it's as though he's trying to memorize every little thing — how you talk, how you smile, how you move. there's a quietness to it, but his eyes hold undeniable sincerity.

his love is uncomplicated and genuine, shown in the way his eyes soften when they meet yours. with nothing to hide, his gaze exudes an honesty that you can fully rely on. yuuji’s love overflows with life and joy, and his gaze reflects that energy — bright and filled with hope. his look speaks of a love that reassures, 'i'm here, always,' and you feel its truth in your heart.

꒰♱꒱ ©00hpink all right reserved. majority of these dividers are not mine, so credits to the rightful owners. do NOT copy, heavily inspire, plagiarize, repost and translate my work.

[nelle-y]

pt2 to the diluc voice line story PLEASE!! I LOVED IT SOOO MUCH

A love story told through voicelines (II)

C/W: slow-burn, Diluc x gn!reader, reader works at the flower shop in Mondstadt, a few Wicked and Epic: the musical references (let’s see if you can catch them <; ), fluff, angst slight comfort

Note: I’m so glad a lot of you guys liked part 1! Part 3 is here as well<3

(You) About Diluc: New impressions

I think I’m starting to understand him better now. Beneath that stoic exterior, he’s just someone doing his best to protect the world he cares about. It’s kind of sad, though… how so many people overlook that. He deserves more credit than he gives himself. I wonder how he manages to carry all that weight on his shoulders alone.

(Diluc) About you: New impressions

I’d be lying if I said they didn’t bring a little light to my days. Ahem—they’re a dependable friend, of course. Their boldness and genuity are rare qualities, and somehow, they always seem to find the right words. It’s reassuring to have someone like that around. I wonder if I should make their favorite drink in case they come by today…

(You) About Diluc: A growing bond

He can be funny at times, but I don’t think he knows it. Like, he once told me he doesn’t like wine, so I pointed out that he owns a winery, and he just looked at me, dead serious, and said, “Is the hunter expected to eat raw meat?” Hahaha! The way he said it was so deadpan, I couldn’t stop laughing!

The more time I spend with him, the more I notice the little things—the way he always makes an effort to listen, even though he doesn’t know what to say; or how, when he opens up, his perspective is always so mature, so layered. I noticed that every time I come to the tavern now, my favorite drink is always prepared beforehand, even when Charles is behind the bar. He may not say it out loud, but I can tell he cares.

(Diluc) About you: A growing bond

Beneath their lightheartedness, there’s a quiet strength, a sincerity that’s rare to come across. I never expected to find myself looking forward to our conversations. It’s almost as if I’ve started depending on those moments. I’ve been manning the bar more frequently, secretly hoping they’d stop by—even for a short while. How did this happen?

(You) About Diluc: What is this feeling?

I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I’ve been thinking about him wayyyy too often—more than I should. It’s like my day revolves around him now. I wake up wondering if he’ll pass by the flower shop again. When I’m at work, I catch myself picking out flowers I think he’d like, just in case I see him. And don’t even get me started on lunch breaks—I’ve been stopping by the tavern more than I’d like to admit.

And the worst part? I’m starting to wonder if I’m imagining things. He’s so… reserved. It’s hard to tell if he even enjoys spending time with me or if he’s just being polite. What if I’m reading too much into it? What if this is all one-sided, and I’m just setting myself up for disappointment?

It’s frustrating—why can’t I just stop thinking about him?! He’s so serious, so closed-off, but every once in a while, I see these small moments where he softens, where he lets his guard down just a little… and I can’t help but be drawn in. Ugh, what am I doing? Falling for him? No, that’s ridiculous. We’re just… friends.

I don’t even understand why he’s so guarded in the first place. I mean, it’s not like he has anything to hide… right?

(Diluc) About you: What is this feeling?

I can’t focus on my work lately. I keep hearing their voice in the back of my mind, or catching myself wondering if they’ll stop by the tavern for lunch. When I think about them, my head starts reeling, and my pulse rushes. It’s strange. I’ve been this way for days now. Adelinde has noticed, and it’s been difficult to hide. I thought it would go away—this feeling of unease when they’re not around. But it’s not fading. The more I think about them, the more it becomes impossible to ignore.

It’s starting to affect me. I’ve always prided myself on keeping control, but now, I’m beginning to feel like I’m losing it. This attraction… it’s dangerous. What if I can’t protect them the way I want to? What if my responsibilities get in the way? Maybe I should keep a distance now. I don’t know how to reconcile what I feel with my duty as the Darknight Hero—ah, another reason to stay wary. But the thought of pushing them away… I don’t want to.

(You) About Diluc: Worries

Is it just me or does that man have too much on his plate? For the past few days, I noticed how distracted he was during our conversations. It’s like there’s always something on his mind, something that adds to the weight on his shoulders. He’s speaking a lot less now, as well, much like when we first met… always keeping his answers short. His eyes look tired, his frame is getting lighter… and if you look closer, you’ll see his rare smile is torn. I’ve tried asking if he’s okay, but he brushes it off with that calm, distant demeanor of his, then suddenly dismissing himself because ‘something came up.’ No, I don’t have time to think about how I feel, right now. Something’s up.

I guess I worry about him a lot. What if things aren’t going well at the winery? What if he doesn’t come back to wherever he’s running off to? What could he be keeping inside that makes him act like this? Hm, it could be just all in my head, but… whatever it is, I hope he knows he doesn’t have to face it alone. Even if he thinks he does.

(Diluc) About you: Worries

Why? Has something happened to them?—Ah… apologies. I’ve been on edge these past few days. It’s difficult to explain, but I can’t seem to shake this instinct to protect them. I’ve been watching the crowds more carefully, scanning for any sign of danger, and keeping an ear out for anything that might threaten their safety.

I fear they’ve noticed how distracted I’ve been during our conversations. I tried to keep my distance, to ensure they’re not caught up in anything dangerous because of me, but it’s… not easy. The more I try to step back, the more I find myself thinking about them. Have they noticed the change in my demeanor? Do they suspect the reason behind it?

I only hope they understand that my distance isn’t because of them… but because of the risks that follow me. If anything were to happen to them because of me… I don’t think I could forgive myself. Yet, even knowing this, I still feel drawn to them. It’s a dangerous contradiction.

(You) About Diluc: Distance

I’m starting to realize that Diluc might be more closed off than I thought. Every time I try to reach him, it feels like I hit a wall. Why does he keep pushing me away? Doesn’t he see that I just want to help?

Every time he dismisses me with that calm mask of his, I can’t help but feel like I’m losing him. Maybe I should give him space, maybe he needs it, but I just don’t want him to shut me out forever. I don’t know how much longer I can watch him bear the weight of his responsibilities alone.

If words won’t reach him, then maybe I’ll try something else… something to remind him he doesn’t have to do this by himself.

(Diluc) About you: Distance

There’s a part of me that wants to tell them everything—about my past, my duties, the dangers that follow me. But I can’t. Not yet. If they knew, would they still look at me the same? Would they still want to be near me? I’ve been keeping my distance for their sake, but the more I avoid them, the more I feel the ache of their absence. *sigh* I don’t deserve to rely on them this way.

(You) About Diluc: Flowers

Since asking him directly isn’t getting me anywhere, I decided to try a different approach to maybe let him open up. I heard Small Lamp Grass flowers were his favorite, so I decided to get some and leave them in the tavern for him. I even left a note, hehe. Considering what’s going on between us, though… do you think he would appreciate it?

(Diluc) About you: Flowers

“For when nights are long, and the weight feels heavy—may these remind you that you’re not alone.” That was their note, marked with a little heart at the end. I thought it was a mistake, at first—that the flowers were for someone else. But as I recognized their handwriting… something in me softened.

Honestly, it’s silly. Such a simple gesture, yet I find myself reading their note over and over again. I placed them in my office. Their glow brings a warmth in the room, and whenever I look at them, I’m reminded of their smile. Hah… Everyday, it gets harder to draw myself away from them. Maybe I can allow myself this one sliver of respite. Just this once.

—

[insidekatmind]

Bet in Madrid pt.3~Jude Bellingham

Pt.2

Plot: While on holiday in Madrid with your friends, you notice Jude Bellingham, Vinícius Jr, Rodrygo and Mbappé in a bar. Your friends challenge you: you have to ask Jude for a kiss, or you will pay for dinner.

You stare at Jude for a moment, evaluating his words. His smile is confident, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, as if he’s waiting to truly understand who you are and how far you’re willing to go. You set your glass down on the counter, tilting your head slightly.

“That depends,” you whisper, your voice seductive. “If this place is really as interesting as you say.”

Jude smirks, clearly pleased with your response. He straightens slightly, slipping one hand into his pocket while the other rests casually on the counter. “I won’t disappoint you, doll. Promise.”

“Oh, really?” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “I hope you always keep your promises, Jude.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I’m not the kind of guy who leaves things unfinished, trust me. Shall we go?”

You slide off the stool, grabbing your purse and shooting him a quick glance. “Lead the way, then.”

Jude steps back, motioning for you to follow. He guides you out of the bar, where the night air is cool and speckled with the city’s lights. He turns toward you as you walk, his stride confident yet unhurried. “So, doll, where are you from? I get the feeling you’re not from around here.”

“What makes you think that?” you reply, smiling with a hint of challenge.

“The way you carry yourself, the way you talk,” he says, casting a sideways glance at you. “You don’t seem like someone who gets lost in places like this.”

You chuckle softly, appreciating his attempt to read you. “Maybe you don’t know me well enough to say that.”

Jude grins, slowing his pace. “You’re right. And that’s exactly why I want to get to know you better.”

You both stop in front of an elegantly parked car along the curb. He opens the door for you, a gesture that seems effortless for him. “Don’t worry, it’s not far,” he says, noticing your curious glance.

You settle into the seat, and Jude closes the door behind you, walking around to get into the driver’s side. As he starts the engine, a faint smile plays on his lips. “If I disappoint you, I promise I’ll bring you back here immediately.”

“I hope you live up to the expectations, Jude,” you reply, holding his gaze with an intriguing smile.

The drive is short, and soon you find yourselves in front of a small lounge bar illuminated by soft lights. There’s no crowd, just an intimate atmosphere that seems tailor-made for personal conversations.

“Here we are. This is one of my favorite spots,” Jude says, opening the door for you again.

He leads you inside, and you pick a secluded corner. The music is soft, almost a whisper, and the warm lighting accentuates his features in a way that’s hard to ignore.

“So,” he begins, leaning against the table, his eyes studying you closely. “Tell me something about yourself. Something no one else here could ever guess.”

You smile at him, tilting your head. “What kind of question is that?”

“One that reveals who you really are,” he answers without hesitation. “And I want to know who you are, doll.”

You bite your lip, considering his request. Maybe, for once, it’s worth taking the risk and letting a small part of your mask fall away.

Jude looks at you carefully, smiling. “So will you answer my question?” he whispers making you smirk

His question takes you by surprise, and for a moment, you just stare back at him, not entirely sure how to respond. “That’s a pretty personal question, don’t you think?”You respond with a smile, trying to maintain a sense of mystery. But his intense stare makes it hard to keep up your guard.

Jude grins slightly at your comment, leaning closer.“Yeah, it is. But that’s the point. I want to get to know you. The real you.”

He reaches for a strand of your hair, gently twirling it around his finger as he looks at you, his gaze intent and curious.

Your heart skips a beat as he touches your hair, the sudden intimacy of the gesture catching you off guard. But you don’t pull away, curious about where this is going.“And you think asking me to reveal something no one else knows is the best way to do that?”

He smiles at your response, moving even closer, his leg brushing against yours under the table. His hand now rests lightly on your arm, the warmth of his touch leaving a pleasant shiver down your spine.“Maybe it’s not the best way, but it’s definitely the most direct. And I like to get straight to the point.”He seems genuinely interested in your answer, his eyes not once faltering from your face.

You take a deep breath, feeling more exposed than you thought you would. His proximity and undivided attention has you on edge, but in a good way. “Fine. But it’s nothing too exciting. Just a silly little childhood dream.”

You pause for a moment, wondering if you should really tell him this. But something about the look in his eyes makes you decide to let your walls down, at least a little bit.

Jude gives you an encouraging smile, his fingers tracing soft patterns on your arm as if to say, ‘go on.’

“A childhood dream? Now you’ve got me curious.”He seems genuinely captivated by your every word, patiently waiting for you to continue.

The feeling of his fingers on your arm makes it hard for you to concentrate, but you do your best to ignore the sensation and focus on your story.“When I was younger, I used to love drawing. I would spend hours sketching and painting, dreaming of becoming an artist. But my parents had other plans, and they convinced me to study something more practical, something that would ‘secure my future.’”

You pause, wondering if you’ve shared enough. But Jude doesn’t look away, waiting for you to continue.

He smiles softly, clearly intrigued by your story. “They wanted you to be safe. Understandable, I guess.”He considers your words for a moment before adding,

“But not everyone has to listen to their parents, doll. Why didn’t you continue drawing anyway? Follow your passion?”

You let out a soft sigh, a bit surprised by his question. It’s something you’ve asked yourself countless times before.“It’s not that easy, you know? They were so convincing, and I was so young. I thought they knew better. And then college happened, and my life took a different path.”You pause, a pang of regret in your voice.

“I still draw sometimes, as a hobby. But I never did pursue it as a career.”

Jude listens intently, his eyes fixed on yours, a mix of understanding and curiosity in his gaze. He seems to mull over your words for a moment before speaking again.“But deep down, I bet you still wish you had, right?”His question isn’t an accusation, just a gentle poke to the part of your heart that still yearns for that long-forgotten dream.

His words hit a nerve, and you can’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the truth behind them.“Sometimes, yeah. Late at night, when I can’t sleep, I find myself wondering, what if?”You look down at the table, tracing invisible patterns on the wood as you continue.

“But I guess it’s too late now. I’ve built a life I’m comfortable with, and it’s too late to change it all.”

Jude reaches for your chin, gently guiding your gaze back to his. His touch is soft, almost comforting.“It’s never too late, doll. Never.”He looks at you intently, his eyes reflecting a mixture of understanding and something else – encouragement? Inspiration?

His words ignite a small flame of hope in your heart. But you’re still hesitant, doubtful.

“It’s just a dream, Jude. And dreams rarely come true, right?”You force a weak smile, trying to cover up the fact that his words have struck a deep chord within you.

Jude’s eyes don’t leave yours, his expression serious but still gentle.“That’s where you’re wrong. Dreams do come true, you just have to chase them, fight for them.”He pauses, his fingers still lightly holding your chin, his gaze unwavering. “And if you want something badly enough, no one should stop you from getting it. Not even yourself, doll.”

His words hit you harder than you expected. The sincerity in his voice, the confidence in his tone, it’s all so different from what you’re used to hearing. You feel a flicker of inspiration, a small spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s right.“You make it sound so easy.”You say it lightly, almost jokingly, trying to mask your sudden vulnerability.

Jude chuckles gently, releasing your chin but letting his hand rest lightly on your arm again. “I’m not saying it’s not difficult. But anything worth having, anything worth fighting for, is never easy, right?”His eyes search yours, as if trying to see past the barriers you’ve built around yourself.

You can’t deny the truth in his words. But the practical, logical part of your brain is still struggling against the idea, trying to find ways to shoot it down.“But what if I fail? What if I’m just a bad artist, a lost dream?”The doubt and worry are visible in your eyes, despite your efforts to hide them.

Jude just smiles at your retort, his hand moving down from your arm to rest on your thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. “Then you fail. And you pick yourself up, dust off, and try again. And again. And again. Until you make it. Or die trying.”His voice is firm, but his eyes are warm, filled with a genuine belief in you that you’re not used to.

You smile nodding "thank you". He returns your smile, his hand still gently resting on your thigh, the touch sending a wave of comfort through your body.

“No need to thank me, doll. Just saying the truth.”He looks at you in silence for a moment, his gaze soft but intense, as if he’s trying to read your thoughts.

Your heart skips a beat under his intense gaze, your mind swirling with a mix of emotions. The confidence in his voice, the passion behind his words, it’s all so different from the usual people you interact with. “You sound so sure, so certain,” you murmur, your voice soft and laced with a tinge of awe.

He smiles, a hint of something else lurking in his eyes – pride, perhaps? Or is it satisfaction at having sparked a slight flicker of hope within you? “Because I am. I’ve seen people chase their dreams, and the ones who succeed – they all share one thing. Determination, doll. A will so strong, nothing can break it.”He gently squeezes your thigh again, his touch firm yet reassuring.

you smile and look at him softly, placing your hand on his hand that was resting on your thigh. He watches as you place your hand on his, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then a soft smile as he interlocks your fingers.

“That’s the spirit.”He tightens his grip on your hand, the heat of his skin against yours sending a thrilling shudder down your spine.

The gesture is small, but it feels intensely intimate in the dimly lit room. You can feel your breath quickening as his gaze remains on yours, his eyes now slightly darkened with something you can’t quite place.“You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?”You try to keep your voice light, but it betrays you, sounding slightly huskier than usual.

His smile widens at your reaction, clearly enjoying the effect he’s having on you. He moves slightly closer, his hand never leaving yours, now resting on your intertwined fingers laying against your thigh.“Only when it comes to things that matter, doll.”He looks down at your thigh, before looking back up into your eyes, the intensity in his gaze almost too much to handle.

You felt your heart racing and you began to look at him with pure intensity. He seems to visibly react to your stare, his gaze now almost predatory, his grip on your hand tightening subtly, yet enough to make you realize he’s just as affected by this moment as you are.

“Careful there, doll. A look like that can get you into trouble.”His voice is now lower, a hint of huskiness there that sends a pleasant shiver down your back.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ homecoming

chapter summary: While giving a guest lecture at your alma mater, you run into two people you never expected to meet.

word count: 9.4k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: the ending of this is kind of the set up for every other chapter; you'll see what i mean when you read it :)

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, shy!reader, mention of absent parents, oral (f!receiving) fluff, slight angst

series masterlist - chapter 2 → chapter 4

“When two particles interact, they become linked, no matter how far apart they are. Changing one affects the other instantaneously, faster than light…”

Your voice faltered as you glanced at Logan, who sat at one of the desks, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with a small, amused smile. He wasn’t even trying to hide how much he adored you. You could practically feel it radiating off of him.

You froze mid-step, letting out a soft sigh. “This isn’t going to work,” you said, taking off your glasses and rubbing the bridge of your nose.

Logan raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “What’s not gonna work, sweetheart?”

“This,” you gestured toward him, exasperated but fond. “You’re looking at me like my husband, not a bored college student who probably only showed up because there’s free food after the lecture. How am I supposed to practice if you’re just… swooning at me?”

Logan leaned back in his chair, chuckling. “Swooning, huh? Don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that before.”

You crossed your arms, trying to appear stern, but the warmth in his gaze made it impossible. “I’m serious, Logan. I need honest feedback, not… whatever this is.”

Pushing himself up from the chair, Logan walked toward you, his hands finding your waist as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Alright, darlin’. Give me fifteen minutes. I’ll make it more realistic for you.”

“Logan—” you started to protest, but he was already heading toward the door, a sly grin on his face.

When he returned, you were taken aback. Logan had enlisted some of the younger students—Rogue, Bobby, and Kitty, among others—and had them seated in the classroom. To keep things authentic, he had provided them with snacks and, you suspected, strict instructions to act as uninterested and distracted as possible. Rogue was already doodling on her notebook, Kitty was whispering something to Bobby, and Jubilee was tapping her pen loudly on the desk.

You frowned, looking at Logan as he leaned casually against the wall near the door. “You know I already teach them, right? This isn’t exactly a new audience.”

Logan shrugged, that trademark smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah, but they’re good at actin’ like they don’t care. Go on. You’ve got this.”

Rolling your eyes, you adjusted your glasses and turned back to face the room. The students quieted down a little, though their expressions remained deliberately bored. With a deep breath, you launched back into your explanation, this time ignoring Logan’s soft chuckles in the background.

---

Later that evening, after the impromptu lecture had ended and Logan had dismissed the students, you found yourself in the library, curled up in one of the oversized chairs with a book. Logan entered quietly, his presence impossible to miss as he sat down on the arm of your chair.

“You did great, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and warm.

You glanced up at him, a small smile on your lips. “You think so?”

He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I know so. You’re brilliant. Just had to make sure you believed it.”

Feeling a little less shy, you reached up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Thank you, Logan. For always believing in me.”

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “Always, darlin’.”

For a moment, the world seemed to still, and it was just the two of you, together in the quiet.

---

“Well, if there are no more questions…” Robert, one of the faculty at Stanford, looked out into the audience, giving a polite nod toward the murmuring crowd. “Alright, thank you, Mrs. Howlett, for coming all this way for us.”

The room began to stir as students shuffled in their seats, gathering their belongings. A few polite claps echoed, mingling with the hushed sounds of conversation. “There are some food and drinks out in the hall if you’d—ah, no point,” Robert trailed off as half the students ignored him, funneling toward the exit.

You stood by the podium, your heart still racing slightly from the presentation. Public speaking wasn’t your forte, but Stanford was your alma mater, and you’d been determined to deliver a polished talk. From your vantage point, you spotted Logan lingering near the back, his arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t bother to hide the pride in his expression.

As the room emptied, Logan made his way toward you. His heavy boots echoed in the quieting auditorium, his presence grounding as always. “Told ya it’d go fine,” he said as he stopped in front of you.

You smiled, still a little flustered. “Yeah, well… you’re biased.”

Logan snorted. “Sure. But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a surprising gentleness. “Proud of you, darlin’. Bet half of them couldn’t keep up, but that’s their loss.”

Rolling your eyes, you adjusted your glasses. “Thanks, Logan. That was—”

“—adorable? Endearing? Downright brilliant?” he offered, smirking.

“Not what I was going to say,” you replied with a laugh, shoving his arm lightly. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

He stepped aside to let you lead the way, trailing comfortably behind you. Once outside, you were both met with the sharp, sunny California afternoon, a stark contrast to the cool Westchester climate you were used to. The warmth in the air was matched by your mood—light, content, maybe a little relieved.

But before either of you could make it to the parking lot, a voice called from behind.

“Excuse me! Y/N?”

You froze mid-step, the hair on your arms standing on end. Logan instantly noticed your shift, his body tensing as he placed a steadying hand on your lower back. Turning slowly, you were met with the sight of an older couple, a man and a woman in their late fifties or early sixties. The man wore a sharp suit, the woman a tasteful blazer, though they both looked somewhat uncertain, hesitant.

The woman took a step forward. “Hi… I—I know this is sudden, but…” Her gaze searched yours for recognition, but there was none. Her voice softened. “We’re your parents.”

Your stomach dropped.

The words hung in the air like they weren’t real, their weight pressing down on your chest. Your first instinct was to laugh, to brush it off as some cruel joke, but their expressions didn’t shift. They were hopeful. Nervous.

Logan’s hand tightened ever so slightly against your back, a subtle reminder that he was there. You swallowed hard, taking a shaky breath as your mind struggled to catch up.

“I—I don’t…” you stammered. “Why now?”

The man, your supposed father, winced. “That’s a fair question. We—well, we’ve always regretted not reaching out sooner.”

“Sooner?” The word caught in your throat as you tried to process. “I’ve been alive for twenty-seven years. You could’ve called. Written. Literally anything. But you didn’t. And now, suddenly—”

“We’re sorry,” the woman interrupted softly, her eyes glossy. “We want to get to know you, if you’ll let us. Maybe… dinner? Tonight?”

You flinched at the suggestion, glancing at Logan. His jaw was tight, his gaze scrutinizing, but he didn’t speak, letting you handle this at your own pace. For a moment, you wanted him to step in, to tell them off for their audacity. But you shook the thought away, taking another deep breath.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally managed, your voice flat. “Can I… get back to you?”

They nodded quickly, a mixture of relief and sadness flickering across their faces. “Of course,” your father said. “Here—” He handed over a business card, the expensive stock and minimalist design further underlining the contrast between their lives and the one you’d known.

After a few more polite murmurs, they walked away, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.

---

Back at the hotel, you paced the room restlessly while Logan sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with a mix of concern and quiet protectiveness. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Darlin’,” he said gently, “you don’t owe them anything.”

You stopped, turning to face him. “But what if I do? They’re my parents, Logan. My parents. And I don’t even know why they gave me up. What if it was something… unavoidable? What if they’ve changed?” You ran a hand through your hair, your glasses slipping slightly down your nose. “What if I’m just being a coward by not hearing them out?”

Logan stood, crossing the room in two strides to stand in front of you. His hands rested on your shoulders, grounding you. “Coward? No. You’re not that. But you don’t gotta torture yourself trying to fix somethin’ that ain’t your fault.”

His words soothed a little of the storm inside you, but they didn’t erase it entirely. “I know,” you murmured, leaning into his touch. “But if I don’t go, I’ll always wonder. I just…” You hesitated, looking up at him. “I don’t want to do it alone.”

His expression softened instantly. “You think I’d let you?” he said, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “If you decide to meet ‘em, I’ll be there. No question. Always.”

The weight in your chest lifted slightly. With Logan, it didn’t feel as scary. You nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it. Dinner.”

Logan pressed a light kiss to your forehead. “Alright, sweetheart. But just say the word, and we’re outta there.”

---

You fiddled with the edge of your dress, keeping your gaze down from your ‘parents’ across the small restaurant table. The world around you was warm and inviting—the soft clatter of plates, the low hum of conversation—but it might as well have been silent. Your parents, the very people who had abandoned you as a child, now sat across from you, smiling as though they’d earned this moment.

Logan, ever your anchor, sat beside you, his hand resting lightly on your knee under the table. The subtle pressure was calming, a wordless reminder that he was here, that you weren’t alone in this. You took a steadying breath and finally looked up to meet their gazes.

“So,” your mother began, her tone almost too casual, as though she were trying to bridge a lifetime of absence with small talk. “How long have you and Logan been together?”

You hesitated, glancing at Logan. He gave you an encouraging nod, his expression unreadable to anyone but you. “About a year and a half,” you said finally. “We got married six months ago.”

“Married already?” your father said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s… fast, isn’t it?”

“Not when you know it’s right,” Logan said smoothly, his voice low and steady. He leaned back in his chair, his arm now draped along the back of yours. Though he appeared relaxed, you could sense the subtle tension in his posture. He was watching them, every word and movement, like a hawk.

Your mother smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And where do you work now? Still at Stanford?”

“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “I teach physics at a school in New York.”

“Physics,” your father repeated, his tone carrying a trace of surprise. “That’s impressive. Your grandmother always did say you were smart.” He sipped his wine, glancing briefly at Logan. “And Logan? What do you do?”

“I’m a teacher too,” Logan said simply, his gaze unwavering.

Your mother tilted her head, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh? What subject?”

“History,” Logan replied. His tone was polite enough, but you could tell he was tiring of the scrutiny.

You shifted uncomfortably, eager to steer the conversation away from Logan. “What made you decide to reach out now?” you asked, your voice quieter than you intended but firm.

Your parents exchanged a quick look, and your mother’s smile faltered. “Well,” she began, folding her hands in her lap, “we’ve been thinking about you for a long time. And after your grandfather passed recently…” She trailed off, her expression turning somber.

Your chest tightened at the mention of your grandfather. Though your grandparents had divorced long before you were born, you’d had a close relationship with him growing up. Although, it had fizzled out when she died, he still made sure to send you letters every holiday.

Your father cleared his throat, his voice gentler now. “He left something for you in his will. A substantial inheritance. We thought it was important that we deliver the news personally.”

You blinked, stunned. “What?”

“He wanted you to have it,” your mother added quickly, as if that somehow justified their sudden reappearance in your life. “He left… quite a bit of money. Enough to make a difference.”

The words hung in the air like a lead weight. You glanced at him, and his jaw was set, his eyes sharp as they flicked between your parents.

“So, let me get this straight,” Logan said, his voice low and cutting. “You didn’t want her. Didn’t care enough to reach out for twenty-seven years. But now that there’s money involved, you’re here playin’ happy family?”

Your father bristled, his gaze hardening. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Logan shot back, his tone daring him to argue. “Sounds pretty accurate to me.”

Your mother opened her mouth to respond, but the ringing of Logan’s phone cut through the tension. He pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. “It’s Jean,” he muttered to you, standing. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

As Logan stepped away, your parents exchanged another look before your father let out a quiet scoff. “That’s who you married?” he said under his breath, though he didn’t bother to lower his voice enough for you to miss it.

Something in you snapped.

“That’s who I married,” you said sharply, your voice louder than you intended. Both of them turned to look at you, startled. “The man who’s been there for me every single day. Who loves me, supports me, and makes me feel like I matter. Unlike the two of you, who couldn’t even be bothered to stick around when I needed you.”

Your mother’s eyes widened. “We—”

“No,” you interrupted, standing now, your hands trembling. “You don’t get to explain. You don’t get to waltz into my life after nearly three decades and act like you care. You gave me up. You made that choice. And you don’t get to make me feel guilty for not wanting to play along with whatever this is.”

The restaurant was quiet now, other diners casting wary glances your way, but you didn’t care. You grabbed your bag, your heart pounding. “If Grandpa wanted me to have the money, fine. But don’t pretend you’re here for me. You’re here because you know you have no claim to it, and you’re hoping I’ll feel sorry enough for you to share.”

Your father’s face hardened, but your mother looked close to tears. As you turned to leave, you caught sight of Logan standing just outside the restaurant’s glass door, his expression unreadable. You knew he’d heard every word, his enhanced hearing ensuring he hadn’t missed a thing.

When you stepped outside, his arms were around you instantly, pulling you close. “You okay, darlin’?” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

You nodded against his chest, the weight of the confrontation beginning to lift. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I am now.”

Logan pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his grip tightening slightly. “Proud of you,” he said simply, and those three words meant more than anything else in that moment.

As you walked away from the restaurant together, hand in hand, you felt lighter. Logan was your family now, and with him, you had everything you needed.

---

Logan paced quietly near the small dresser in the hotel room, the dim light catching on the hard line of his jaw. You sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing your dress over your knees, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the space. The weight of the confrontation had lifted slightly, replaced by a strange, bittersweet relief.

“Feel okay?” Logan asked, his voice soft, breaking the silence. He stopped pacing, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed as he looked at you.

You nodded, offering a small smile. “I think I do. It’s like… I finally said everything I’ve wanted to say for years. I’m not sure I even care about the inheritance. It’s just nice to have it out.”

Logan stepped closer, his movements measured, his eyes searching yours. “You were incredible back there,” he said. “I meant it when I said I was proud of you. Standing up for yourself, for us—it wasn’t easy, but you didn’t back down.”

His words sent a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the room. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You felt the bed dip slightly as he sat down beside you, his arm coming to rest around your shoulders. He didn’t rush you, just sat there, his presence solid and grounding.

“You sure you’re fine?” he asked again, his fingers brushing against your shoulder in a light, comforting touch.

You tilted your head to look at him, your glasses slipping slightly down your nose. “I’m sure,” you said firmly this time, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Especially with you here.”

Logan’s eyes softened, a small smirk forming as he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “You’re stronger than you think, sweetheart.”

His hand slid from your shoulder to the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your dress. The touch was subtle, almost absentminded, but it sent a shiver down your spine. You leaned into him, your breath catching as his lips found the corner of your mouth.

“Logan,” you murmured, a hint of hesitation in your voice.

“Hmm?” His lips moved along your jaw, slow and deliberate, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re good, right? Tell me to stop if you need to.”

You shook your head, your hands finding his chest. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That was all he needed to hear. Logan’s lips claimed yours fully, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. The kiss was slow but deep, his tongue teasing against yours, drawing a quiet moan from your throat. His other hand slid lower, skimming the edge of your dress before tugging it slightly higher, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your thigh.

“You’re wearing this damn thing to kill me, aren’t you?” he muttered against your lips, his voice rough with need.

You flushed, a soft laugh escaping. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s more than just a dress,” Logan said, his hand gripping your thigh, pulling you closer. His lips moved to your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there. “It’s you in it.”

Your breath hitched as his teeth grazed your pulse point, your hands clutching at his shirt. “Logan…”

"Let me take care of you, darlin’," Logan murmured, his voice low and intimate. Before you could respond, he was guiding you back onto the bed, his hands sliding up your legs, pushing the fabric of your dress higher. His touch was firm yet deliberate, each movement precise and confident, like he already knew exactly what you needed.

The hem of your dress bunched at your hips as Logan settled between your legs, his rough hands warm against your thighs. His eyes met yours, the intensity there enough to send your heart racing. "Still okay?" he asked softly, his voice steady, but his grip tightened slightly, grounding you.

You nodded, breath hitching slightly. "I’m fine, Logan. Really."

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Good. ‘Cause I’m not stoppin’ unless you tell me to."

His hands pressed your thighs open further, his gaze locked on the spot where your panties were already damp. He hooked his thumbs into the fabric and dragged it down slowly, the rough pads of his fingers grazing your skin and making you shiver. The cool air of the room hit you, but Logan’s warm breath soon replaced it, and you squirmed in anticipation.

"Patience," he muttered, his tone edged with teasing as his hands slid back up your legs, spreading them wider. His lips pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, leaving a trail of kisses that grew closer and closer to where you ached for him most.

"Logan," you whispered, your voice barely audible. It wasn’t a plea—it was a need, a longing you couldn’t contain.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I know," he murmured, his breath hot against you. Then his mouth was on you, his tongue moving with slow, deliberate strokes that had your hands clutching at the sheets. Logan worked with a practiced precision, the rough scrape of his stubble against your skin contrasting perfectly with the soft heat of his tongue.

Your head fell back against the pillows as a quiet gasp escaped your lips. The tension in your body began to melt away, replaced by a wave of warmth and pleasure that only he could give. His hands gripped your thighs firmly, keeping you in place as he delved deeper, his tongue exploring every sensitive spot with maddening care.

"You taste so fuckin’ good," he said against you, his voice a low growl that sent a fresh surge of heat through your body. He glanced up briefly, his lips glistening. "Could stay here all damn night."

You bit your lip, your hands reaching down to thread through his hair, the soft strands catching between your fingers. "Logan," you whispered again, more insistently this time. The sound of his name seemed to spur him on, his tongue circling that sensitive bundle of nerves before sucking gently, drawing a shuddering moan from you.

His hands tightened on your thighs, holding you steady as your hips jerked reflexively against his mouth. Logan groaned low in his throat, the vibrations sending another jolt of pleasure through you. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just kept up the steady rhythm that had your body trembling beneath him.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he muttered against your skin, his voice rough, his lips brushing the slick heat between your thighs. "Love hearing those sounds you make."

You swallowed hard, your breaths coming in shallow gasps. "Logan... please," you murmured, your fingers curling tighter in his hair, urging him closer.

"Please what?" he rasped, his lips pressing kisses along your inner thigh before returning to where you needed him most. His tongue flicked over your clit again, and you nearly cried out, your back arching off the bed.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. "Don’t stop."

Logan smirked against you, his hands shifting to grip your hips, pulling you closer to his mouth. "Didn’t plan on it, darlin’."

He was relentless, his tongue teasing and stroking in ways that made your head spin. The sensation built steadily, your body tightening as the heat coiled low in your belly. You couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel as he worked you over, his stubble rough against your skin and his tongue unyielding.

"Oh- Logan," you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders. He hummed in response, the sound low and guttural, his hands flexing against your hips.

The tension inside you snapped suddenly, and your entire body arched as a wave of heat and pleasure crashed over you. You cried out, your fingers tugging at his hair as you rode out the aftershocks, your thighs quivering in his grasp. Logan didn’t stop until you were squirming, pushing weakly at his shoulders as the sensation became too much.

He finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening as he looked up at you with a satisfied grin. "There’s my girl," he murmured, his voice soft but edged with pride.

You let out a shaky breath, your head falling back against the pillow as you tried to steady your racing heart. Logan moved up the bed, settling beside you, his hand brushing against your arm as he leaned in to press a kiss to your temple.

"You good?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost tender.

You nodded, your breath still uneven. "Yeah. I’m good."

Logan stretched out beside you, pulling you close until your head rested against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding you. His hand rubbed slow circles on your back, his other arm draped over your waist.

"Meant what I said earlier," he murmured, breaking the comfortable silence. "You were amazing tonight. Stood your ground, didn’t take any crap. Made me proud, sweetheart."

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you tilted your head to look at him. "Thank you," you said softly, your voice steady now.

Logan leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You don’t gotta thank me for telling the truth."

You settled back against him, your body relaxing completely for the first time all evening. Logan’s hand stayed firm on your back, his thumb tracing idle patterns against your skin as the quiet settled between you.

In that moment, there was no past, no lingering tension from the confrontation earlier. Just you and Logan, tangled together on the bed, his presence steady and unshakable.

---

You walked into the kitchen, the scent of freshly baked cookies still wafting in the air. Your eyes immediately caught Logan, mid-action, reaching for one of the chocolate chip cookies you and Jean had finished less than 30 minutes ago.

Before he could take a bite, you hurried over, grabbing his wrist. "Wait! I wanted that one!"

Logan looked down at you, raising an eyebrow in mild amusement. "There’s more right here, darlin’," he said, nodding toward the plate piled high with cookies on the counter.

You shook your head stubbornly, crossing your arms while keeping your hand on his wrist. "But I don’t want those," you said. "I want that one."

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "They’re all the same, sweetheart," he teased, holding the cookie just out of reach and starting to lift it toward his mouth. "Bet you wouldn’t even know the difference."

"I would," you shot back quickly. "That’s the one I want, Logan."

He smirked, his lips curling around the edges of the cookie as if to bite into it anyway, just to prove a point. Your eyes narrowed, and you acted on pure instinct.

Leaning in quickly, you pressed your lips to his, a fleeting but deliberate kiss. The move startled him just enough to loosen his grip, giving you the perfect opportunity to snag the cookie out of his hand.

"Ha!" you exclaimed triumphantly, taking a step back and holding the cookie aloft like it was a trophy.

Logan blinked, recovering from the surprise, and his smirk deepened into a full grin. "Did you just—" he started, shaking his head as his laughter spilled out. "That’s dirty play, darlin’. Using a kiss to steal it? You’re lucky you’re cute."

You bit into the cookie with an exaggeratedly smug expression, savoring the sweet, warm taste. "Lucky has nothing to do with it," you replied between bites.

He stepped toward you, a playful gleam in his eyes. "You know that’s not gonna fly, right? No one steals from me and gets away with it."

You tried to dart around the island, but Logan was too quick. He caught you easily, one arm looping around your waist to pull you close. You squealed, half-laughing, holding the half-eaten cookie out of his reach.

"Let me finish it!" you said, your voice muffled by laughter.

"Not a chance," Logan murmured, his nose brushing against your cheek. "Not after that stunt."

"Logan!" You wiggled in his grip, still laughing, trying not to crumble what remained of the cookie.

He dipped his head closer, murmuring low against your ear, "Fine. You win. This time." Then, with one swift motion, he stole a bite of the cookie you were holding, his smirk more self-satisfied than ever as he pulled back.

"Hey!"

"What? Just evening the score," he said, popping the stolen bite into his mouth.

The playful bickering turned to more laughter as you stayed in the kitchen, Logan’s hold never loosening entirely. Jean walked in a moment later, glancing between the two of you, her hands on her hips.

"You two do realize there’s a whole plate of cookies, right?" she asked, her tone laced with amusement.

"It’s not about the cookie, Jean," Logan replied smoothly, casting you a wink that made your cheeks heat. "It’s the principle of the thing."

Jean rolled her eyes. "You two are ridiculous. But at least now I know who I should’ve made extra for."

Still tucked against Logan’s side, you shot her a sheepish grin. "It’s his fault," you said, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Jean just shook her head, smirking. "Sure it is," she said before grabbing a cookie and walking out of the kitchen, leaving the two of you tangled together in the aftermath of your very serious cookie standoff.

Logan’s grip stayed firm as he kissed your temple, murmuring, "You’re somethin’ else, you know that?"

"Is that a bad thing?" you teased, nibbling at the remaining bite of your cookie.

"Not even close," he said with a warm grin, his thumb tracing a slow, reassuring pattern against your waist.

---

Logan grumbled at his desk, glaring at the stack of papers in front of him like they owed him money. Being the history teacher wasn’t exactly his dream job, and grading exams just reinforced how much he hated it.

"How the hell do you mess up World War II?" he muttered under his breath, flipping through yet another exam where half the essay was about Napoleon. "Wrong war, wrong damn century."

Arms came around his neck from behind, your soft sleep shirt brushing against his skin. “You’re gonna tear that paper from how hard you’re grippin’ it.”

Logan’s scowl softened as your voice cut through his frustration, and the stiff set of his shoulders relaxed just a little. He glanced over at you, leaning against him with sleepy eyes and tousled hair, clearly fresh from bed. You were wrapped up in one of his old flannel shirts, sleeves hanging past your hands, paired with soft, fuzzy sleep pants. The sight alone made him feel warmer.

“Kid deserved it,” he muttered, though his tone had lost its bite. He held up the offending exam. “Wrote about Napoleon in World War II. Napoleon. You believe that?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, lips brushing against the edge of his ear as you leaned closer. “Maybe they figured he’d make a comeback.”

“Yeah, well, if he did, he’d still lose.” He dropped the paper onto the growing pile with a grunt and tilted his head back to look up at you. “What’re you doin’ up? Thought you were out cold.”

“I was,” you murmured, fingers absentmindedly tracing the line of his jaw. “You weren’t there.”

Logan stilled for a moment, his sharp gaze catching yours even upside down. That quiet admission—so simple, so soft—always hit him deeper than he cared to admit. He reached up, catching your hand in his larger one, and brought it down to rest against his chest.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said, voice lower now, rough around the edges like it always was when he spoke to you. “Go back to bed. I’ll join you in a bit.”

You stayed still, your other arm still looped around his neck as you leaned more of your weight against him. “You’ve been at this for hours,” you said softly, glancing at the remaining stack of exams. “You’ll fall asleep right here at the desk.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Logan said with a slight smirk, but when you didn’t let go, he sighed. “You don’t quit, do ya?”

“Not when it comes to you,” you answered with an ease that made his chest tighten.

A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he turned in his chair, his hands landing lightly on your waist to steady you. “Alright, darlin’. You win.” He stood, forcing you to step back slightly, though he kept one hand on your hip as if afraid you’d float away otherwise. “But if I see Napoleon showin’ up in another World War II exam, I’m quittin’ this job.”

You grinned, taking his hand as you tugged him toward the bed. “I’ll talk to Scott. Maybe he’ll give you a raise.”

Logan scoffed. “Yeah, I’ll hold my breath.”

The bedroom was dimly lit, moonlight spilling through the partially open curtains. You crawled back onto the bed first, curling up under the comforter as you waited for him. Logan, meanwhile, paused just long enough to strip off his shirt, leaving him in just his sweats before he settled in beside you. The bed dipped under his weight as he pulled you close, his arm sliding under your head to tuck you against his chest.

You melted into him easily, your cheek pressed to his bare skin as you sighed contentedly. “See? Isn’t this better than failing kids for Napoleon?”

“I wasn’t failin’ him,” Logan murmured, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Gave him a mercy D.”

You couldn’t help but giggle quietly, and Logan felt the sound reverberate against him. “Mercy D,” you repeated. “You’re such a softie.”

“Watch it,” he warned, but there was no heat in it. His fingers absentmindedly traced patterns along your back through the flannel, and for a while, the room settled into silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of blankets and the steady rhythm of your breathing.

You broke the quiet first, your voice soft and muffled against his chest. “Why do you still do it?”

Logan blinked, looking down at you. “Do what?”

“Teach history.” You tilted your head slightly, “you don’t seem to like it much.”

He exhaled slowly, his hand stilling on your back. “Someone’s gotta do it. Better me than some idiot who doesn’t know the difference between Normandy and Napoleon.”

You smiled faintly at that. “Fair point.”

Logan’s voice softened as he continued. “Most of these kids—hell, they don’t know half of what happened before they were born. I figure if they’re gonna learn somethin’ about the past, it might as well be from someone who’s lived a lot of it.”

You looked up at him then, your gaze searching his face in the dim light. Logan didn’t look away, but there was something guarded in his expression, like he wasn’t sure why he’d admitted that much.

“You’re a good teacher,” you said softly, your fingers brushing against his chest.

Logan snorted. “Yeah. Tell that to the kid who thinks Napoleon was stormin’ the beaches at Normandy.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest before settling back down. “Well, I think you’re great.”

Logan didn’t respond right away, but his arm tightened slightly around you, pulling you closer as he pressed a kiss to your hair. “Get some sleep, darlin’,” he murmured. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smiled against his skin, letting his warmth lull you back to sleep. Logan stayed awake a little longer, though, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as his fingers traced absent patterns against your back again. He didn’t say it out loud, but moments like this—the quiet, the warmth of you beside him—were the reason he stuck around at all.

For someone who’d lived lifetimes, this was the only one that mattered.

---

As you were walking from your classroom to your office, Jean called out your name telepathically, “someone’s at the front door for you.”

You frowned and made your way over to where a man in casual clothing stood outside. “Hello?” You asked, Jean holding the door only halfway open.

“Are you Y/N Howlett?”

“Yes.” You responded, moving slightly closer to Jean for comfort.

The man held out an envelope, “you’ve been served.”

You stared at him, stomach dropping at the words. Slowly, you reached out and took the envelope, the weight of it far heavier than just paper. Your fingers barely curled around it before the man turned and walked away without another word, leaving you and Jean standing in the doorway.

Jean looked at you, her brows furrowed in concern. "Are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice carefully even.

You didn’t respond immediately, your eyes still on the envelope as if opening it might explode your entire life apart. "I..." You glanced at Jean, trying to ground yourself in her steady presence. "I don’t know."

“Come inside.” She placed a hand on your back and guided you gently through the door.

Once inside, she closed it behind you and walked you to one of the couches in the main hall. Her calm, methodical movements gave you enough time to focus. "Do you want me to stay while you open it?"

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Yeah. Please."

You tore open the envelope, unfolding the crisp papers inside. The legal jargon was an immediate headache, but the gist hit you quickly enough.

Your parents—parents you’d met just once at Stanford, a month ago—were contesting the will of your grandfather. You skimmed the words, anger brewing beneath the shock. The lawsuit wasn’t about you. It was about the inheritance your grandfather had left to you. Money you hadn’t touched—didn’t want to touch. Money your mother and father were determined to get their hands on.

“What is it?” she asked gently, leaning over a bit.

You sighed, lowering the papers slightly. “They’re suing me for the money my grandfather left. The same money they showed up to tell me about last time.” You shook your head, blinking furiously to keep your frustration and embarrassment in check. “I told them I didn’t want it. I never even filed anything to claim it.”

Jean frowned, her gaze hardening in sympathy as she processed what you said. “That’s awful, Y/N. I mean… that’s your family.”

“Not really.” You laughed bitterly, though the sound lacked humor.

Jean put her hand on your knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Hey, we’ll figure this out. Do you want to talk to someone about this? Scott can—"

"Logan," you cut in, almost reflexively.

Jean paused but nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Okay. Do you want me to get him, or—?”

"I’ll go." You stood abruptly, still clutching the papers. “Thanks, Jean. For… sticking with me through that.”

“Always.” Jean watched you head out before leaning back on the couch with a worried sigh.

---

Logan was in the garage, predictably half under his motorcycle. He was wiping his hands with an oil-streaked rag when he heard you approach. As he sat up, he took one look at your face and tossed the rag aside.

“What happened?” he asked immediately, his voice rough but threaded with concern.

You held up the papers wordlessly, struggling to hold his sharp gaze. He took them from your hands, skimming through quickly, his brow furrowing as he absorbed the contents.

“Christ,” he muttered after a long moment, his fist tightening slightly around the edges of the papers. “They’re suin’ you? For money that’s yours?”

“Money I didn’t even want,” you added, sitting heavily on the bench by the wall. Your hands tangled together in your lap, a nervous habit you couldn’t quite break.

He looked at you, anger darkening his expression, but it wasn’t directed at you. It never was. “They think you’re some kid they can push around,” he growled, folding the papers and setting them down before crouching in front of you. His large hands found yours, prying them apart gently. “But you’re not. You’re a hell of a lot stronger than they give you credit for, sweetheart.”

Your chest tightened at the way he spoke to you, so firm yet so gentle all at once. “I don’t want to deal with this,” you admitted, your voice small. “I don’t want the money, Logan. I never did.”

“You won’t have to.” His grip on your hands firmed, grounding you. “We’ll fight this. They ain’t takin’ a damn thing from you.”

You nodded slowly, letting his words soothe you, though doubt still nagged at the edges of your thoughts. “What if they win?”

Logan’s jaw flexed, his sharp features hardening with resolve. “They won’t.”

“Logan, I—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, his voice low but insistent. He pulled you forward slightly so that your knees brushed his shoulders. “Trust me, Y/N. This’ll get sorted. I ain’t lettin’ them screw you over, okay?”

You searched his eyes for any trace of uncertainty but found none. Logan, as always, was unwavering.

“Okay,” you said softly, exhaling as you leaned your forehead against his.

The moment stretched quietly before he broke it, pulling back just far enough to press a kiss to your temple. “C’mon. Let’s get this over to Chuck. He’ll know what to do.”

You hesitated, though his calm tone bolstered you. "You don’t think it’s… embarrassing?"

Logan leaned back on his heels slightly, cocking an eyebrow at you. “Embarrassing? Dealin’ with greedy parents? Not even close.” His smirk softened into something fonder. “You ain’t gotta hide stuff like this from me, darlin’. Or from the team. We’ve all got somethin’ messy in our pasts. Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

His reassurance worked its way past your anxiety, easing the knot in your stomach a bit more. "Okay," you whispered again, squeezing his hands. “Let’s talk to Charles.”

Logan stood and pulled you with him, his arm immediately going around your shoulders as he guided you inside. Whatever fight lay ahead, you knew you weren’t facing it alone.

---

Logan leaned against the dresser, shaking his head. “No.”

You gave a mock pout, holding up the pastel blue sweater that matched your sundress. “C’mon, Logan. It’s just for today.”

Logan crossed his arms, leaning against the dresser with a look of pure defiance. “No way. Not wearin’ that.”

“It’s Easter,” you reasoned, trying not to laugh at the sheer stubbornness etched onto his face. “The kids are excited, and it’s a pastel color. You’ll look festive. Besides,” you added with a teasing tilt of your head, “it matches my dress.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Festive? Darlin’, I ain’t the ‘festive’ type.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” came Jean’s voice from the doorway. She leaned against the frame with a smirk, her arms crossed. “I think you’d look great in it, Logan. Adds some softness to your usual gruffness.”

Logan shot her a glare that only made her smirk widen. “Nobody asked you, Jeannie.”

You hid your smile behind the sweater, trying to keep the peace. “Jean, don’t make it worse,” you murmured, though your tone was light.

“I’m just saying,” Jean replied with a playful shrug before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you alone with Logan again.

“See? Even Jean agrees,” you said, holding the sweater out to him again. “Come on, Logan. Just for a little while?”

He huffed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re not gonna let this go, are ya?”

You shook your head, your smile growing. “Nope.”

Logan stared at you for a long moment, his expression softening despite his obvious resistance. It wasn’t the sweater he was giving in to—it was you. With a grumble, he snatched it out of your hands. “Fine. But if anyone takes a picture, I’m burnin’ it.”

You bit back a laugh as he pulled the sweater on over his usual white undershirt. The pastel blue clashed hilariously with his rugged demeanor, but you had to admit, it looked... sweet on him. The way it matched your dress only made it better.

“There,” Logan said, tugging at the hem like it might suffocate him. “Happy?”

“Very,” you said with a warm smile, stepping closer to adjust the sweater’s collar. “You look good.”

He grumbled something under his breath but didn’t stop you. Instead, his hands found your waist, pulling you close enough that you had to crane your neck to look up at him. “You owe me for this,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his tone.

“Oh, do I?” you teased, resting your hands on his chest. “What do I owe you?”

Logan leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’ll find out later,” he said, his voice low enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Your cheeks flushed, but you managed to keep your composure. “Well, let’s see if you make it through the egg hunt first.”

He groaned, pulling back enough to look at you. “Wait. Do I gotta do that, too?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, laughing when his head fell back in exaggerated defeat. “The kids will love it. And you look adorable.”

Logan shot you a flat look. “Adorable?”

You grinned, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Yup. Now come on, let’s go before Rogue eats all the candy.”

Logan shook his head, muttering something about how he’d never live this down, but the small smile tugging at his lips told you he didn’t really mind. Not as long as it was for you.

---

You and Logan sat across from the lawyer Charles had recommended. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of papers as the lawyer flipped through the documents. Logan leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, a scowl set deep on his face. You sat with your hands folded tightly in your lap, your glasses slipping slightly down your nose as you watched the lawyer with a mixture of apprehension and exhaustion.

“Well,” the lawyer finally said, setting the papers down on the desk in front of him. He adjusted his own glasses, his expression professional but sympathetic. “The good news is that the will is clear. Your grandfather left the inheritance to you and only you. Your parents’ claim has very little legal ground.”

Your shoulders sagged slightly, but the tension in your chest didn’t fully ease. “But they can still drag this out, can’t they?” you asked quietly. “Even if the claim isn’t strong?”

The lawyer nodded. “Yes, they can file motions, request hearings, and essentially make this as difficult as possible for you. It’s not uncommon in cases like this.”

Logan growled low in his throat, his impatience bubbling to the surface. “So what do we do to shut this down for good?”

The lawyer glanced at him, unfazed by Logan’s tone. “There are a few options. You can contest the claim in court, which could take time but would likely result in a ruling in your favor. Or,” he paused, looking at you, “you can choose to forfeit the inheritance entirely. That would require specific legal filings, but it would end the dispute.”

You blinked, the weight of the decision settling heavily on your shoulders. “I don’t want the money,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I never wanted it. I didn’t even know about it until my parents showed up at Stanford.”

Logan’s hand slid over yours, grounding you. “You don’t have to decide now,” he said, his voice softer than before.

The lawyer cleared his throat, his expression cautious. “There is one other matter to consider. If you choose to forfeit the inheritance, it wouldn’t simply revert to your parents. According to the terms of the will, the funds would be held in trust for any future heirs—your children, specifically.”

Your head snapped up, and you stared at the lawyer in disbelief. “Future children?”

He nodded. “Yes. It’s an unusual clause, but your grandfather was quite specific. If you don’t claim the inheritance, it remains part of the family estate and will be managed until it can be passed down to your descendants.”

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, and you glanced at him, your cheeks warming at the faint surprise in his expression. You hadn’t explicitly talked about children with him yet, though the thought had crossed your mind more than once.

“That’s… a lot to process,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t even know he thought about me that way. We weren’t close at the… end.”

The lawyer offered a small, understanding smile. “It’s not uncommon for people to make decisions like this in their wills, even if they weren’t directly involved in someone’s life. He may have wanted to ensure you were cared for in some way.”

You nodded slowly, your thoughts swirling. Logan leaned forward, his gruff voice breaking the silence. “Let’s say she forfeits. What’s to stop her parents from tryin’ to get their hands on the money anyway?”

“There are legal safeguards in place,” the lawyer replied. “The trust would be managed independently, and your parents wouldn’t have access to it. It’s airtight.”

Logan grunted, seemingly satisfied with that answer, but his focus shifted back to you. “What do you wanna do, sweetheart?”

You hesitated, your gaze dropping to where his hand still covered yours. “I don’t want to go to court,” you said softly. “I don’t want the money, and I don’t want to fight with them. If it can go to… someone else, to the future, then maybe that’s the right thing to do.”

Logan’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, his voice steady. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

The lawyer nodded. “I’ll start drafting the necessary documents. It’ll take a little time, but once it’s filed, your parents won’t have a legal leg to stand on.”

“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

As the meeting wrapped up and the lawyer left the room, Logan turned to you, his expression softening. “You okay?”

You nodded, though your chest still felt heavy. “Yeah. It’s just… a lot.”

He pulled you into his arms without hesitation, holding you close against his chest. “You did good, darlin’,” he murmured against your hair. “Don’t let this mess get to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his embrace chase away the lingering tension. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“For what?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look down at you.

“For being here,” you said, your gaze meeting his. “For always being here.”

Logan’s lips quirked into a small, crooked smile. “Where else would I be?”

You laughed softly, the sound shaky but genuine, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead before leading you out of the room.

As the two of you walked into the kitchen, Logan pulled out a bottle of mango juice from the fridge and poured you a glass. His movements were calm and deliberate, a quiet reassurance that everything was going to be okay. He set the glass down in front of you, leaning against the counter as you took a sip.

"You doin' alright now, sweetheart?" he asked, his gaze steady on you.

You nodded, holding the cool glass in your hands. “I think so. I just hate that it had to come to this.”

Logan reached over, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Ain’t your fault. They made their choice, and you made yours. That’s all that matters.”

You managed a small smile, his support giving you the courage to push forward. But the lawyer’s earlier words lingered in your mind, and after a moment of hesitation, you decided to voice the thought that had been nagging at you.

“Logan,” you said, your voice soft, “did it… bother you? What he said about the inheritance going to future kids?”

Logan arched a brow, folding his arms across his chest as he watched you. “Bother me?” he repeated, his tone questioning.

“Yeah.” You looked down at the mango juice in your hands. “We’ve never really talked about that, and I just—”

His hand was under your chin before you could finish, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “Does it bother you?” he asked, his tone gentle but intent.

You bit your lip, feeling your cheeks warm. “I don’t think so,” you admitted. “I mean, I’ve thought about it before, but I didn’t want to push. I wasn’t sure if that was something you…” You trailed off, unsure how to phrase it.

Logan’s lips curved into a small smirk, his gaze softening in a way that was meant just for you. “Darlin’, I’ve thought about it plenty. Didn’t bring it up ‘cause I didn’t know if you were ready for that kinda talk.”

A soft laugh escaped you, nervous but sweet. “Guess we’re both good at overthinking things.”

Logan’s hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer until your hips bumped against the counter. “I’m not the kind to plan much of anything,” he said, his voice dropping to that rough, affectionate tone that always made your heart flutter. “But you… you make me wanna think about things like that.”

Your chest tightened with a mixture of nervousness and joy as you briefly rolled your bottom lip between your teeth. Logan’s other hand brushed against your cheek, his thumb sliding lightly across your skin, grounding you in a way only he could.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, his voice low and filled with warmth, “you don’t gotta look so nervous. We’re on the same page.”

You let out a soft, shaky laugh. “I know. It’s just... I didn’t think this conversation would come up like this.”

“Didn’t exactly expect it over lawyer talk,” Logan admitted with a small smirk. His hand cupped your cheek, pulling you just a bit closer. “But you think too much sometimes. There’s no rush, no pressure—none of that. But if you’re askin’ if I see it... yeah. I see it, sweetheart.”

Your gaze flicked up to his, caught in the sincerity of his words and the steady way he was looking at you. His eyes, weathered from lifetimes of heartbreak and battle, were now soft and filled with something you could only describe as hope.

You smiled, this time more genuine, a warmth spreading through you. “Me too,” you murmured.

His lips quirked into that crooked grin you’d come to love, and his hand slid to the back of your neck, tugging you forward until your lips met. The kiss was slow and unhurried, a promise sealed in silence. When he pulled back, he kept you close, his forehead pressed against yours.

“No better time to start than now,” he rumbled, the faintest hint of a playful edge slipping into his tone.

Your breath caught, your cheeks instantly flushing. “Logan,” you whispered, voice laced with equal parts shock and anticipation.

He chuckled, that deep, throaty sound sending shivers down your spine. In a swift, effortless move, he lifted you off the ground, one arm supporting your back while the other braced under your knees. You gasped, your hands instinctively wrapping around his neck.

“Logan!” you squeaked, your heart racing as he carried you like you weighed nothing.

“What?” he teased, his smirk widening as he began walking out of the kitchen. “Thought we were on the same page.”

You buried your face against his neck, laughing softly. “We are,” you admitted, your voice muffled against his skin. “You just caught me off guard.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple.

As the two of you reached the bedroom, the door creaked as Logan kicked it open, a certain ease in his movements that you envied sometimes. He set you down gently on the bed, leaning over you with a wolfish grin that made your heart do a somersault.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice suddenly softer again, no teasing this time. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the edge of your glasses like it was instinctive for him to touch you this way.

The love in his voice and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world—stole whatever doubt you might have had. You nodded, your hand curling around his wrist to keep his touch against your skin.

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling. “I’m sure.”

Logan kissed you again, deeper this time, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go. And for that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.

this is still 2005! next chapter is also going to be 2005 and then after every chapter will be spanning 1 year!

(although i am now realizing that my timeline is a bit off but just roll with it)

[silent-stories]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Series summary: After years of building your band’s reputation as one of the most influential in the metal scene, you and your bandmates move to Los Angeles. What you don't expect, however, is that your new neighbors are none other than Bad Omens, and that Noah is a huge fan of your band.

Series masterlist

The warm Los Angeles air embraced you, filling your lungs with that distinct mix of ocean breeze and the city’s characteristic hum. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across your new neighborhood. You, along with your band, had finally arrived at the new place—a house in one of the most iconic cities in the world.

The kind of house that looked like it belonged to your band already, with plenty of stuff scattered around the front yard, half-empty pizza boxes on the porch (Jake wanted a food break at some point), and a van parked crookedly on the driveway.

The familiar chaos felt already like home.

The city felt alive, electric even, when you crossed it to reach the quiet neighborhood you had chosen. It had been a dream for so long, and now, as you unloaded the van with the rest of your bandmates, it felt surreal. Los Angeles had that charm that made everything feel possible.

You tapped your boot on the concrete as you looked at all the unloaded stuff still in the van.

Your band had been at the top of the metalcore scene for a couple of years, with sold-out shows and albums that had dominated charts. You were proud of what you had accomplished, but there was always more to chase, more to create, more to prove.

“Alright, alright, let’s get this done!” Jake, the drummer, shouted over the hum of the van’s engine, already hoisting an amp on his shoulder. His energy was always over the top, even when you were all still half-dead from the long drive.

He was wearing a white tanktop that showed off all the tattoos spread across his arms and when it went up slightly as he mived around, also the ones on his stomach.

His black hair, a mix of soft waves and a short mullet, bounced as he moved and when he didn't have a cigarette in his mouth, he was shouting or eating, he was playing with one of his lip piercings with his tongue. No matter how tired he was, Jake always had that huge grin plastered on his face. He was loud, confident, and always ready to make a joke or prank, and today was no different.

“You can’t seriously be trying to carry that whole thing yourself,” you shouted back, one hand on your hip as you took in the sight of him struggling with a speaker nearly as big as he was.

“Oh, I’ve got it!” Jake grinned, making a show of wobbling dramatically before shifting the speaker with his legs and tossing it toward the garage. “This is nothing!”

“Yeah, well, maybe try to not break anything this time, yeah?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. It wasn’t the first time Jake had managed to destroy something valuable, though, thankfully, his reputation for destroying gear had mostly been exaggerated by your bandmates. Mostly.

“Shut up,” Jake huffed, his usual smile still in place. “Just because I’ve dropped a few things doesn’t mean I’m clumsy.” He gave you a wink, already heading back to the van to grab another piece of equipment.

“Clumsy? Is that what we’re calling breaking everything you even only look at, now?” Alex, the guitarist, chimed in, his voice low but sharp, carrying just the right amount of bite.

Alex wasn’t loud like Jake, but when he spoke, you couldn’t ignore it. His blonde hair was short and his bright green eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, even if his demeanor was usually calm. But when Jake was involved, Alex’s sarcasm could cut through concrete. They were best friends, of course they teased each other at every opportunity.

“Hey, you don’t get to talk, Mr. ‘I only speak in soft tones,’” Jake shot back. “You know, for someone who loves to read poetry and other shit so much, you sure know how to throw out the best insults.”

Alex smirked and shook his head. “It’s called being subtle, Jake. Something you wouldn’t understand.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound mixing with the warm Los Angeles air, as you set down the mic stand you’d been carrying. “Honestly, it’s like moving in with a family full of idiots,” you teased, shaking your head at the two of them.

“Hey, scream queen,” Jake joked, winking at you as he grabbed another box. “Watch it.”

You rolled your eyes but laughed. “Scream queen, huh? I almost like it.”

“I mean, hey, it works, doesn’t it?” Jake chuckled, clearly pleased with the nickname he’d just given you. “You scream like a pro. People pay good money to hear that sound.”

"Oh trust me, I know. But people pay good money to see all of us on stage."

The last year had been a whirlwind of success for your band. It felt like everything had fallen perfectly into place, each moment more incredible than the last. You remembered the European tour and the US dates you added to it like it was yesterday—sold-out shows in cities you had only dreamed of playing before. Every venue was packed with fans who knew every word, every scream, every riff, as if they were part of the band themselves. It was surreal, the way the energy of a crowd could electrify the air, transforming a simple stage into something far grander, far more powerful.

The crowds had been so loud, you could barely hear your own voice as you screamed into the mic, but the connection with the audience was undeniable. You thrived in that chaos, that passion. It felt like you were channeling something bigger than yourself every night. Each show was different, but the thrill was always the same. The feeling of being alive, of creating music that people didn’t just listen to but felt.

Merch had also been a huge hit. The new t-shirts and hoodies had taken off almost immediately, and fans couldn’t get enough of them.

You loved the ravens on them, the moths attracted by the light, the snakes biting their tales as a nod to the endless cycles of life, and the skulls, that well, represented the inevitable truth: we all come and go. But in between, we leave something behind, something that would be remembered. You and William, who designed each art, had poured your heart and soul into every piece of the merch, from the graphic details to the overall vision.

The designs weren’t just logos; they were pieces of art, reflecting the soul of the music. Each one was a tribute to the themes that ran through your lyrics—life, death, loss, love, hope.

There was something surreal about seeing your merch at every show, people wearing t-shirts with the name of your band written on it, white on black: Dark Waves.

"Yeah, this year's been a blast." Jake agreed, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts.

The weight of the box wasn’t as heavy when you were surrounded by this kind of energy, the laughter and teasing making it all feel a little lighter, even if your muscles screamed from the effort.

William, the bassist, had already moved inside, probably escaping all the noise you were already making.

You could see him coming back from the house with an armful of cables, his long, straight dark hair hung over his eyes as he moved with practiced calm. “You guys done talking about how cool you think you are yet?” he asked dryly, raising an eyebrow as he watched you all.

“Uh, no. I don’t think we ever will be,” Jake replied, shrugging and passing him another speaker. “I mean, we are Dark Waves! We are all cool here. Have you seen yourself? You’re basically a walking horror movie.” He said pointing to the bassist's completely black outfit.

William gave him a deadpan look, then tilted his head to you. "I'm not the one who screams like a banshee on stage.”

“Exactly,” Jake said with a grin, turning back to you. “Scream queen, right?”

You snorted, pretending to gag. “I swear, I’m going to strangle you both in your sleep.”

William just shrugged, smirking as he continued on his way inside.

There was a moment of silence as you all worked, the rhythm of the unloading matching the pace of a song you knew all too well. The house slowly started to take shape, equipment scattered around, ready to be set up.

You didn’t just live for the music; you lived for the moments like this. The friends you have made thanks to it, the jokes, the way your band clicked—it was what kept everything grounded in the chaos of your world.

“Alright,” you said, taking a moment to stretch your back. “That’s everything, right? No more boxes? No more amps?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex said, grinning as he brushed his hands together. “We’re done here. Now let’s figure out where the hell we’re putting all of this.”

“You guys are fucking terrible at packing,” you teased as you walked toward the front door. “You should’ve seen the van. It looked like a hurricane hit it. Half the stuff was jammed in there, and the other half was just thrown in."

“Oh please, it’s called ‘rock star packing,’” Jake quipped with a wink. “It’s a talent.”

“Yeah, sure,” Alex said with a sarcastic laugh.

With that, the last of the boxes had been brought inside, and as the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting the world in a warm orange hue, you stood in your new home, surrounded by your bandmates. It was finally real.

The noise, the energy, the chaos—it was all yours. There was no better feeling than being here, together, in LA, where you could live with your best friends.

And you had a feeling things were about to get a whole lot more interesting from here on out.

"Los Angeles, Dark Waves has arrived in the city!" Jake shouted, his voice booming and causing an eruption of cheers and laughter from the band. "And we are here to make some fucking noise!"

"Yes, in the soundproof room at the end of the corridor." You said, making the others laugh.

"And didn't we decide that after the last tour we would take a break?" William asked.

"That's what we said, yeah. But I'm sure that in two days Y/N will already be starting to jot down ideas for one of our next songs. And one of you will be coming up with some new cool tunes. Dark Waves never rests, baby."

This was only the start.

Noah was sitting cross-legged on his bed, the glow from his laptop screen illuminating his face as he was fully immersed in whatever he was doing. His long hair, was tucked under the hood of his oversized hoodie, the loose fabric almost swallowing him up. The room around him was a bit of a mess—empty coffee cups scattered across the desk, a few guitars the corner, and the soft hum of music playing through his headphones.

He didn’t notice Jolly walk into the room at first, the only sign of his presence being the faint creak of the door that Noah couldn’t hear.

“Noah, man,” Jolly called, breaking the silence.

Noah didn’t move at first. He was too absorbed in what was happening on his screen.

"Noah!” he said again, louder this time.

With a heavy sigh, Noah pulled off his headphones, the sound cutting abruptly, and looked up. His brown hair fell across his face as he removed the headphones from his ears and gave Jolly an amused glance, his eyes still half-lidded.

“What’s up?” He asked.

“You have no idea who our new neighbors are, dude,” Jolly said with a grin as he leaned against the doorframe.

Noah raised an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued now. “Who?”

Jolly’s grin widened. “The guys from Dark Waves.”

Noah opened his mouth to reply but he found himself speechless for a moment. Dark Waves? He’d been following them for years—since their early days, back when their sound was raw and unfiltered but still heavy as hell. He had all their albums, listened to every song they dropped, and followed their social media account religiously.

But he’d never had the chance to see them live or collab with them in any way. He never got the opportunity to speak to them, to thank them for the music, for the voice that was capable of making him feel like someone was opening his chest up and putting new emotions inside, that had been the soundtrack to his own struggles too.

His mind was racing. “Wait, you’re kidding me.” He couldn’t believe it. “Like... the Dark Waves? Like, Y/N's band? You sure?"

Jolly nodded. “Nope, not kidding. The very same. Our new neighbors are Dark Waves. The Dark Waves you always sing in the shower. It seems like we're not the only band living on this street anymore."

Noah blinked, still processing it.

“No way... c'mon, you’re messing with me,” Noah said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I said I’m not messing with you, man. Come see it yourself.”

Noah stood up, still not entirely convinced. “I’m not believing this until I see it.”

“Trust me, you’ll see,” Jolly said, winking as he gestured for Noah to follow him.

They made their way out of the room and down the stairs, with Jolly leading the way. As they stepped outside into the fading light of the evening, Boo and Harper, followed them along, clearly happy to join in on whatever was going on.

Noah couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight. He bent down briefly to pet the dogs, momentarily distracted by the little creatures who lived with them and he loved so much. But he quickly regained his focus as they made their way out the house and into the garden.

And there you were, on the other side of the fence that divided his house from the one next door. Your house.

Standing with Alex Reed, the tall, blonde guitarist of Dark Waves, laughing and talking casually. Noah recognized you immediately. He had seen you in interviews, on your band’s social media, in live performance videos. But seeing you in person was something else entirely.

You were even more stunning in real life than in any video or interview he’d ever seen, even when simply wearing one of your band t-shirts and a long black skirt.

That was the first moment he heard the sound of your laughter in real life and he felt a strange feeling in his stomach. It made him want to smile too, and be the only man who made you laugh like that, even if he wasn't sure why.

He felt like a fucking fanboy.

Jolly leaned in, whispering with a grin, “Told you. You’re totally staring at her, man.”

Noah flushed, suddenly aware that his gaze had lingered a little too long. He cleared his throat, trying to act cool, but the excitement in his voice betrayed him. “No... I mean... What? I’m not—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking away for a moment. “Jesus, she’s... she’s-"

Jolly raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying Noah’s reaction. “I'm sure twelve year old girls looked at One Direction the same way. You’re basically drooling.”

Noah rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the goofy grin that spread across his face. “This is crazy,” he muttered.

Jolly chuckled. “It’s about to get real interesting around here, man. Come on, let's go say hello.”

Noah followed Jolly out their garden.

"Hey!" Jolly called out.

You and Alex turned around at the same moment, and the sight of Noah standing there, with Jolly beside him, caught your attention. Your eyes widened in surprise as a bright smile spread across your face.

“No way!” you exclaimed, your voice filled with the same excitement Noah was feeling. You took a step toward them, a spark of recognition lighting up your eyes as you looked at the two of them.

Noah’s heart skipped a beat.

“Don’t make this awkward, fangirl." Jolly whispered as you and your bandmate made your way toward them.

Noah hesitated for a split second before stepping forward, extending his hand toward you. “Hi, I’m Noah,” he said, his voice suddenly sounding much smaller than it had before.

You smiled warmly, and when you shook his hand, he couldn’t help but feel like time had slowed down just a little. That brief contact—your hand, much smaller than Noah’s, in his—was enough to send a rush of electricity through his veins. He hoped that moment would last forever.

"Y/N." You said as you proceeded to shake Jolly's hand too. Alex did the same.

“It’s an honor to be neighbors with Bad Omens, my god!" He said.

Noah chuckled. “No, it’s an honor for us to be neighbors with Dark Waves, actually."

"I had no idea you guys lived here." You commented before raising your voice slightly, your eyes scanning the yard. “William, Jake!” you called out. “Come see who’s here!”

Moments later, the door to the house next door opened, and a tall guy with dark hair that Noah immediately recognized as William stepped outside, followed by Jake, the drummer. As soon as Jake saw you standing there with Noah and Jolly, his eyes widened, and for a split second, it looked like he might actually jump with excitement.

He took a few quick steps toward them, clearly trying to keep his cool, but his grin was so wide, it was impossible to miss. “No way! This is insane!” Jake said, his voice filled with pure joy. He turned to Noah, a bit out of breath from his excitement. “Yo, is this really happening? Bad Omens is our neighbor? Am i dreaming? What the hell?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I think we’ve all lost our minds.”

Noah laughed too, shaking their hands.

"Where's Folio? Where's the little guy? I wanna know Folio!" Jake asked looking around.

"He's not here right now." Jolly chuckled.

"Damn it! I really wanna know Folio. I love that guy."

"I'll let him know." Noah laughed. Jake was probably the most enthusiastic person he had ever met.

"He really loves other drummers." You commented.

"Especially Folio." Alex added looking at your bandmate with an amused expression.

"Yeah, I definitely see that."

You turned back to Noah with a kind smile. “It’s really nice to know we’ll be neighbors. It can be hard to move to a new city without knowing anyone and I know I don't really know you guys, but I'm glad we're neighbors.”

Noah nodded, still grinning like an idiot. “Yeah, same here. And don’t worry, you’ll meet the rest of the band soon. They're just not here right now, but they’re always around, especially since we all live so close. Our tour manager Matt should be here soon.”

“I’d love that. It’ll be great to get to know everyone.”

There was something so genuine about the way you said it that Noah felt his heart do a little flip in his chest.

The conversation continued for a few more moments, joking about the fact that you all should ask other bands to move there and make it Los Angeles' Band Street.

Then you noticed that it was getting late and you still hadn't finished settling the essential things to spend your first night there, so you said your goodbyes.

When Noah came back into the house, he still had that stupid smile on his face.

Noah and Jolly had settled inside, in the living room, casually talking, when suddenly Noah felt a nudge against his leg. Looking down, he saw Harper, looking up at him with those big, dark eyes.

"Hey, Harper," Noah said, smiling as he reached down to pet the dog. "Where’s Boo?" He looked around the room, his smile faltering when he didn’t see the other dog anywhere.

Harper wagged his tail, but there was no sign of Boo. Noah frowned, trying to recall when he had last seen him. He stood up and walked around the room, calling out, but the house remained eerily quiet.

"Hey, Jolly," Noah said, walking back toward his friend. "I haven't seen Boo. He's not here. You seen him?"

Jolly looked up from where he was sprawled on the couch. "Huh. Nope, haven’t seen him for a while."

Noah’s eyes scanned the room one more time. "He’s usually always hanging around. Where the hell is he?" he muttered, more to himself than to Jolly. His heart skipped a beat as he realized something. "Wait… was he outside with us earlier? When we went to talk to Y/N?"

"Oh shit, you’re right," he said, standing up quickly. "I saw him follow us in the garden."

"No way," Noah said, running a hand through his long hair. "He must've slipped out when we were outside, while we were too busy talking to notice."

"Let’s go check the yard," Jolly suggested, grabbing his jacket.

Noah nodded and quickly grabbed his shoes.

The two of them hurried outside into the darkening evening, the shadows of night already stretching across the yard. Harper trotted beside them, seemingly aware something was off and glad to join the search.

This time, they closed the gate behind her.

Noah called out into the cold air. "Boo! Come on, buddy!" His voice echoed in the quiet street, but there was no response.

"If Matt comes back and Boo is not here, I'm a dead man." He whispered to himself.

They kept calling Boo’s name, voices rising in the growing dark, but the street remained still, silent.

With each passing moment, Noah's anxiety grew more and more. He couldn't have gone that far, could he?

As Noah turned on the flashlight on his phone, hoping it would help him find the dog, a voice cut through the silence of the night and he almost jumped.

"Who's Boo?" Noah saw you come out of your backyard and walk towards him on the sidewalk as Jolly disappeared into the street behind yours.

You were wearing a black t-shirt of your band, with a raven drawn on it and a large unzipped sweatshirt over it to protect you from the cool night air. Noah thought that outfit made you look even cuter.

Noah explained, "He's a small, brown dog," he explained. "About this big," he gestured with his hand to indicate Boo's size, "and he’s got a blue collar. I can't find him anywhere... He must have slipped out when we weren’t paying attention."

His voice was filled with anxiety, and it was clear he was upset about the puppy being missing.

“I’ll help you look for him.”

Noah shook his head, hesitant. “No, really, it’s fine. It’s getting late, and you’ve probably had a long day. You don’t need to help.”

But you insisted, "No, I don’t mind at all. Let’s find him."

He hesitated for a moment longer before nodding. “Alright, if you’re sure. Thanks.”

You both started walking down the block, the cool night air surrounding you as you scanned the streets for any sign of Boo. The conversation flowed naturally as you walked.

Noah glanced over at you, his voice soft but sincere. "By the way, I really adore your music. Your voice is amazing. We listen to you guys pretty often."

You smiled at the compliment. "Thank you, that means a lot. Honestly, Bad Omens has been a huge inspiration for some of our songs, so it’s pretty surreal hearing that from you."

Noah's cheeks flushed slightly, but in the dark, you couldn't see it. He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. “Well, I’m glad we could inspire you. Your band’s music is incredible.”

Noah and you continued walking through the quiet neighborhood, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the silence. The faint light from your phone illuminated your path as you searched for the dog, but your minds weren't entirely on the search anymore.

“I’m really glad I moved here,” you said, looking up at the streetlights above. “This city has a certain magic to it. Makes me want to start writing again, even though I promised myself I’d take a break after the move.”

Noah glanced over at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I get that. I always do the same thing. I say I’m going to take a break—spend the day doing nothing, maybe watch some anime—and then the next day, I’m already working on something new.”

You laughed, nodding in agreement. “Exactly! It’s like you can’t stop the creativity from coming. I’ll tell myself I need a rest, and the next thing I know, I’m scribbling down new lyrics or ideas.”

Noah chuckled. “Yeah, creativity doesn’t care about breaks. It just hits when it hits.”

After a moment of silence, you spoke again. “So, you’re into anime?”

"What?"

"You said you like anime."

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I like anime."

"What did you watch?" You asked.

"Oh, a lot of stuff. But my favorites are probably Tokyo Ghoul and Attack on Titan.”

“Tokyo Ghoul? I adore that one! You have no idea how long I've been telling the guys about Ayato. Jake probably hates me at this point. They don't watch that stuff. But I’ve never seen Attack on Titan. Is it good?”

Noah grinned, clearly excited to share his interests. “Oh, you have to watch it! It’s intense, but so worth it. The plot is crazy, and the action scenes are insane."

You chuckled.

"What?" Noah asked.

"Nothing. I just like when people talk about something they love. It's cute."

"Well, I- mh..."

Damn it, Noah, say something with a meaning. You have about five seconds before you completely embarrass yourself.

"Hey, did you hear that?"

"What?"

Whatever you heard saved Noah from embarrassing himself even more because you quickened your pace and turned the corner to disappear behind a big light blue house. The word 'cute' somehow associated with him, when it came out of your mouth, made him smile like a stupid.

Again, damn it.

"Hey, wait!" When Noah followed you and turned the corner you disappeared behind, he found you with Boo in your arms licking your face, the scene bathed in the soft, yellow glow of a dim streetlamp.

Noah's heart immediately lifted at the sight of Boo in your arms, the little dog’s tail wagging furiously as he showered you with affectionate licks. Noah couldn’t help but laugh, his anxiety melting away in an instant. Matt was not going to kill him, after all.

"Oh my God, you found him!" he exclaimed, rushing over to you.

You looked up at him, smiling brightly. "I think he just wanted some attention from the new neighbors," you said, as Boo wriggled in your arms, clearly thrilled to see Noah again. "He’s adorable."

Noah chuckled, his breath finally steadying. "Thanks so much for helping me look for him. You just saved me a whole lot of stress."

"No problem at all," you said, handing him Boo with a grin. "Glad I could help."

Noah took the dog into his arms, scratching his head for a moment. "Don't do something like that again." He told him.

You walked in comfortable silence to your homes as Noah sent Jolly a text, saying you found the dog. Then, you parted ways.

“Well, you can tell Matt that Dark Waves helped find his dog.” You smiled.

"Oh, I'm not even telling him that he ran aw- wait. I never told you the dog was Matt's."

You chuckled. "You still think you're the only fan here? I've spent nights watching your live streams."

"You... you- wait, you watch my-"

"Goodnight, Noah!" You said with a huge grin on your lips as you entered your house, waving goodbye and closing the door behind you.

Noah was left speechless, standing there in the silence of the night for a few moments.

"Wow," He muttered as he started walking to the door, a little smile growing on his mouth, "what a day, Boo. What a day."

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog

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[hitlikehammers]

💫FINALLY✨ The One Where Wayne Munson Has to Carefully Try Not To Eavesdrop 100% COMMIT TO THE EAVESDROPPING When 💕HIS NEPHEW'S BOYFRIEND💕 Comes By To FACE THE MUSIC Reveal What That Coffee Date ☕ Was REALLY All About

(well: at least Wayne's just a willful fool about all this, rather than a witless one) ——(3/3)

<<< part two

~or~

<<< back to the beginning

Wayne’s the one who lets Steve in the next morning.

It’s his day off, and he only managed to get to bed for a couple hours anyway, so he’s just shaking off sleep when the knock comes.

And of course Steve’s as polite as ever, takes his shoes off like the upper crust kid he’ll always be but not with any of the snootiness Wayne’d expected in the beginning, just an ingrained—and eventually, grew to be downright upsetting—need to not be obtrusive, to step on no possible toes. Wayne’d been wishing for a while he’d go ahead and stomp on whatever toes he’d like to, save that today—

Today’s-Steve looks about ready to blow a gasket, and goddamn but Wayne hurts for him. He hurts more for his own boy, if what he fears despite his own good sense is what’s about to happen. But at the very same time he can’t wholly ignore the equal truth that Steve?

Steve’s grown to be his boy, too.

Wayne offers a cup from the coffee he’s about to brew but Steve turns him down with a tight smile, barely even worth being called such, which is telling for itself and more for rejecting the coffee—Steve only really does that when something’s wrong.

But Steve’s barely got to craning his neck around to look for Eddie when the man himself pops out from his room, all dimples and the kind of joy you can feel fill a room. Wayne aches for how it might be lookin’ to get dimmed, sniffed out at worst, if things are about to go sideways.

But Steve, who’s looked like he was ‘bout to be ill since he came in, takes a full breath and sheds the slightest sliver of the tension in him, just for meeting Eddie’s eyes across the way, and then Eddie’s closing the gap, arms out wide and grabbing Steve in tight and Steve’s grabbing right back, and they look for all intents like they’re trying real hard to pull so close they’ll break bones and mesh into one person, and Wayne tries to find comfort in the way people don’t do that sorta thing if they’re lookin’ to hurt one another.

They might well do that sorta thing as a kind of goodbye, though.

Eddie’s pulling them to the couch as Wayne stews over the thoughts he’s got, all at odds with each other and his own gut feeling too at that, because he’s up against the evidence he has against it turning out alright, versus the way he does believe he knows Steve to be a good man; the coffee’s burbling and draws his attention as a kindness until he hears voices from the living room:

“Eds,” and Steve’s leaning in to Eddie on the sofa and Wayne has to strain to hear and that alone should be enough to stop him. To make the more’n obvious point that he’s in the mess he’s in at all because he didn’t keep his ears to himself.

He don’t know if it makes it better or worse, that he’s not a witless fool, just a wilful one, to hold still where he’s got the dishes in hand to dry in the kitchen, so he can have a clean cup for his coffee. When he should move to the porch, have a smoke, take a walk.

“I gotta talk to you,” and Steve sounds grave with it, and Wayne tenses—he wants so bad to be wrong, because he can’t believe that Steve would do the things all the little clues add up to so easy. Not that sweet boy beat around by circumstance beneath the surface; and not done to his boy, neither.

Because Steve looks at his Eddie not so different from the moony cow-eyes his nephew don’t even try to tame.

But it’s…he sounds like there’s a death in the family he’s come to convey. He sounds like the world’s maybe ending.

Wayne don’t know if he holds his breath just to hear better, or because everything feels fragile. Maybe both things at once.

“What’s up, Stevie?” Eddie speaks so low, so sweet like he cherishes so damn much. “Are you okay, is everything—”

“Everything’s fine,” and Steve, hell: he sounds just the same, like there’s love coming out his ears. “Good, even, great, possibly,” but that sounds stilted, or maybe anxious, and Wayne don’t quite know what to make of it; “if you…”

And even Wayne can hear the labor in the breathe Steve’s taking, so he ain’t surprised when Eddie goes in all gentle and half whispers to his boy:

“Hey, Stevie.”

And Wayne don’t look, he’s pouring his coffee now, can’t take the chance of burnin’ himself and risk missing out hours for it, ‘course that’s why.

He don’t look, but he hears exactly what Ed’s words do to Steve when the reply comes out with the kind of relief you can feel with a weight in it, for what it sloughs off and makes light again:

“Hey.”

He can catch the way Eddie rubs hands up Steve’s arms, back and forth and back, foreheads leaned in together, and they sit there long enough for Wayne to lean in comfortable enough against the counter and test the heat of his drink.

“Whatcha got to talk to me about?” And it’s Eddie who broaches the elephant in the room, the soured thing at the base of Wayne’s throat churning for the past day and change. Wayne expects Steve to hold off, tiptoe a little.

He doesn’t, though; not even a little.

“I got the job.”

And that…that ain’t what Wayne was fearing at all, is it.

“Steve,” and Eddie does sound like it’s a good thing, a great thing, truly he does; “baby, that’s amazing!” And then the springs of the couch are creaking and Steve’s making a punched-out sorta sound that means only one thing: Eddie’s tackled him whole-body to the other side of the sofa.

“Fuck I’m so proud of you, sweetheart, holy shit,” Ed’s sayin’ a little breathy, punctuated by loud wet kissy sounds that Wayne usually takes as his cue to skedaddle but…he needs a minute to reconcile what he’d been thinking without believing it could be true, and the reality that it seems he’d been right deep-down about who Steve Harrington was.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Steve’s protesting through laughter, but once they both seem to catch back their breaths he likewise leans back to something serious, and Wayne sees into the living room how Eddie’s stretched on top of Steve, with Steve reaching up and holding him by the cheeks:

“I won’t take it if you,” and Steve’s clearin’ his throat, something Wayne’s noticed is like a squaring of shoulders, whether that part’s there at the same time or not; “I won’t take it, not if it means,” and it’s a painful thing the way Steve swallows, the click of it somethin’ Wayne can hear all the way in to kitchen:

“I won’t take it, and not be with you.”

And that…that Wayne don’t quite get, and he feels wrong-footed for more than just listening in, as if that weren’t enough on its own, plus the cause of the problems he’d been wrestling to start, but then: “What?”

Ed seems just as puzzled, which makes Wayne feel a little less bamboozled, but still not…still not settled with whatever’s causin’ any of it, because now that Wayne’s got real context, he thinks back a-ways, to how Steve had mentioned a promotion, but was then looking at something better all around, regional-sort of stuff; now that he’s got context, he thinks back to the morning-last, and tries to pick apart what he’d heard without an invitation, if it weren’t about the lady friend. Steve had still been so worried, with the banging of the head on the table—and how could he think Eddie’d be anything but as thrilled as he clearly is right now for his boy? Wayne’s never seen Eddie as proud of anyone or anything, so much as he is for Steve just breathing in the world at all—and damn it all if the sentiment hasn’t rubbed off a little, and sure Wayne knows Steve’s history’s made him gun-shy to celebrate the bright spots but…

“It’s in Indy,” Steve’s spelling out, and Wayne remembers that being tossed about, and well: regional. That’d make sense.

“And you,” Steve pauses, and the breath he takes in next is a shaky-echoing thing; “for now you’re here, but not for long, because you want to go and try doing music, right, and that means New York or L.A. or somewhere big, not the armpit of fucking Indiana, and—”

“Breathe, Stevie,” Eddie cuts in quick, adoring; coaches with such patience, the care in it—the love in it a tangible thing; “in, and out,” and all of a sudden from nowhere, save from everywhere and every moment leading into this—

Suddenly Wayne blinks, and out the clear blue he’s witnessing the man Eddie’s grown into.

Talk about bein’ proud.

“One more,” Eddie coaxes a gentle, and Steve listens, Wayne hears as he gulps in the air carefully and deep, sees them move in the corner of his eye as Eddie sits up proper now and folds forward into Steve’s chest where he muffles what he says, less for hiding and more maybe to press it firm into Steve’s chest so it can’t be denied, because it’ll be on the inside and settled there sure:

“Fuck, I love you.”

And Wayne has that feelin’ again like he ain’t supposed to be party to the particular degree of intimacy in the moment; maybe he lets the plates on the counter clank a little more’n necessary to remind them casually that they ain’t alone.

But discretion’s not what follows, more like the wet slip of mouths against each other and oh, well then: if the boys don’t seem to view Wayne’s presence in the next room as a deterrent then Wayne’s just gonna keep at feelin’ embarrassed, rather’n guilty to boot.

“Steve,” and Ed’s voice goes warm and low and Wayne tries to not feel bad for hearing, more focuses on bein’ happy, and grateful, for this thing his boy found in maybe the most unlikely of places, through the hardest round out of hell he could have met: he gets a thing here that Wayne wasn’t sure he still believed could even be, not with so much hate in the world as there is.

“Me and the boys, we’re good, but we’re not,” and Eddie huffs, a light thing that feels gentle and almost joyful, like he’s celebratin’ a thing that’s not inside the same words he speaks at all:

“We’re not that good.”

“Bullshit,” Steve’s quick to counter, like it means more than it reads on the label somehow, too, and still it’s said with his whole throat, at that: and at that, Wayne can’t help but grin a little himself.

He knew he wasn’t wrong about the heart of Steve Harrington. About how much this young man loves his boy.

“Steve,” and Wayne watches, don’t even make a secret of it now: watches over the lip of his mug because he’d only dared to hope for this kinda thing idly, and always feeling foolish for it, for his Eddie to find something even a smidgen close to what he’s got here; what they’ve got here as Ed reaches and tips Steve chin just a touch.

“I don’t want to waste years trying to fit a mold even by being a freak, trying to sell my brand of weird and hoping people get it,” Eddie tells him, clear-eyed like Wayne’s not sure he’s ever heard him. “I don’t want to put that much of my life into a maybe,” and then he’s tracing Steve’s jaw with a tenderness he was never taught, so it’s just something natural and pure inside him, brought out just so by this one man in his arms as he whispers so soft-hearted and with more love than feels possible even just to watch:

“Not when I’ve got what my whole heart wants most.”

And Wayne sees Steve’s jaw work under Eddie’s touch as he asks so low, and far too timid for a man Wayne’s seen live up to the monster-slaying he’s heard tell of.

“More than music?”

And it’s asked like he could never believe it; like he couldn’t expect it.

But Eddie’s back to the clear-eyed sureness, then. He has no doubts.

“More than fame,” is what he answers, flipping hands through Steve’s hair as he leans just to whisper:

“You’re the music,” and Wayne watches Steve still, his face scrunch like it does when he thinks he feels too much; “my music,” and Steve would be embarrassed to know Wayne hears the tiny little whimper that he gives when Eddie presses a kiss to the space between his eyebrows, and there’s part of him that’s embarrassed for himself in it, to have heard what’s not his, but if he’s honest he’s still stuck in that gratitude, that relief for this way it’s all shaken out, not to mention how Wayne’s little family that he never intended to start’s now feeling complete where he didn’t think there was anything left to add, to grow.

“And I have music with you as much as anywhere,” Eddie’s explaining with a wobbly little grin; “plus with you, even the music’s sweeter.”

Then he’s cupping Steve cheeks again and pressing forehead into forehead so that Wayne can only hear the barest whisper:

“Lead the way, baby, and I’ll follow with fucking bells on.”

And Steve, he’s quiet, leans back into the cushions a little and Wayne watches unabashed about it now as Steve studies Eddie, takes him in less like he’s weighing anything and more like he’s committing to memory a moment worth knowing everything about in full, and then he’s the one framing Eddie’s face in his hands and asking with a certainty he didn’t have before, and that fits him so much better:

“Move in with me? Leave here, and leave all the shit they say and the way they look at you and how they fucking treat you,” Steve damn near growls and Wayne feels all the more why he trusts Steve Harrington, and should never have even considered doubting, no matter if the mere suggestion was something he knew was pressing up against his better judgement from the start, because this is the man who loves his boy enough to take on the world, and tear it to shreds when the need rears its ugly head.

“Come with me?”

And that’s maybe a little more of the hesitance, and again, it sounds wrong as a rule, but Eddie’s quick as anything:

“It’ll take me less than a hour to pack.”

And he’s on his feet in a second and Wayne has to bite back a snort because that’ll give him away more’n anything else, but Steve’s pulling Eddie back to the sofa again in a heartbeat:

“Not that fast,” he laughs, a breathy little chuckle that’s got so much more to it even to Wayne’s ears, that’s disbelief and a little wondering joy and everything this boy deserves and has done his whole goddamn life, and heaven help his parents if Wayne ever sees them again face to face for all they ever did to make their son feel less; “got a couple months, I’ll drive up for training while the other guy’s wrapping up, then,” and he shrugs, Wayne hears it shuffle against the upholstery, then he sees Steve looking up from guarded lashes, just that little bit of uncertainty left—

“Then,” Eddie prods, meets him in that moment of waffling, of fear in trusting to feel all that they do, so visible you don’t even have to search it out. It just shines through, couldn’t deny it if you tried, and sure as hell not for how giddy, how overfull Eddie sounds then with…promise.

Ain’t no other word for it.

Ain’t no other thing Steve could latch to like he does, wholehearted and unfettered where before he was still fighting old chains.

Not no more.

“There’s a record store that needs a new manager,” Steve starts off; “a tattoo shop that’s taking apprentices, and they also need someone to watch the books,” and it’s a list, he’s listing opportunities, he’s counting out the promise; “a music store, like for instruments and stuff, that needs someone who can work but also maybe teach, because they want to start giving lessons, apparently people keep asking for them, and then there’s—”

Steve’s cut clear off, and Wayne don’t have to be in the room to know it’s for being kissed within an inch of his life.

“I love you,” Eddie’s saying again because it’s more’n a given, but it’s sounding like it’s shaping into something a little different, a little deeper, somehow a something that’s more.

“I love you so much, Steve Harrington,” and Eddie’s voice is rough with it, and Wayne ain’t gonna lie to himself that his eyes sting to hear it, even if no one can see and hold him to bein’ honest about it.

“You looked for jobs for me?” Eddie asks small, the first thing here that’s maybe overwhelmed him good and true, and in the best of all ways.

“Yeah?” Steve says it like it’s obvious, then goes back bashful nearly:

“For if you said yes.”

And then the springs of the couch are doin’ the heavy lifting again as Steve huffs and Eddie pounces.

“I fucking,” and there a pause that sounds a lot like more kissin’, which tracks along right, yeah: “I fuckin’ love you.”

And Steve chuckles, and Wayne just shakes his head, smiles down at his coffee while Eddie’s tone sobers, while he asks a little small:

“You thought there was a chance in hell that I’d say no?”

“I,” and Steve sounds chagrined, in that way that Wayne’s come to recognize means there’s an old hurt he’s covering, but one that might have a shot at makin’ a scab finally to close for good. “Robin thought I was being dumb, but I,” and he blows out a long breath, and Wayne glances to watch Eddie rub up and down Steve’s arms, waiting and being right there and oh, true as anything.

That’s the man his boy’s grown into.

“People don’t really,” Steve says slow, but measured, like he’s planning every letter out to land just so: ”people haven’t…stuck around, y’know?”

And Wayne can’t help but look to see how Eddie’s hands stop at Steve’s wrists, grounding and holding and keeping, sort of, or not sort of: absolutely that without room to misinterpret or think any bit less; same as Wayne won’t try to pretend away the bitterness at the back of his own throat that a boy as good as the one he’s learned Steve Harrington to be could think that of himself not just in passing, but as a preordained thing, an inflexible rule for always.

Makes him sick; makes him angrier than he tries to ever be these days, but good goddamn if this don’t warrant it.

“So asking someone to come with, to not just not leave but to chose to go, with m—”

And Steve’s saying things, and Eddie lets him but only to a point, and Wayne doesn’t see how he stops him, but he knows full well he’d stop still in the middle of a sound himself if the tone that comes out his boy were leveled his way: unshakable. Granite-strong, diamond-hard.

“Listen to me,” and oh, but for all the way it lands intense, the love in it’s a thing to behold and marvel at just to hear; he feels like it could undo a man to be under the gaze that tone comes alone with it, like Steve has to be sitting just now: “listen to me so fucking close right now.”

And maybe Wayne leans in, too, whether it’s meant for him or not:

“I will choose, with my whole goddamn chest, with every piece of me there is in the whole fucking world,” Eddie says, puts emphasis and feeling on each and every word; “to go anywhere, if it’s with you.”

And it’s silent for a minute, but then Wayne only just hears the sound of mouths parting and sharp intakes of breath ringing through the sill and Eddie hisses, a little hoarse, a little broken, entirely with all that he is, just like he said:

“Always.”

Then the couch goes about protestin’ again, but it’s Eddie who Wayne makes out for groaning on impact, and it makes sense that it’s Steve’s voice now breathing harsh through the vow of what comes next:

“Love you,” and there’s the kissing again; “love you so goddamn much.”

And Wayne figures he’s had more’n enough of overhearing what’s not quite his to hear, but here’s the thing.

These boys are gonna be at this for a bit, he reckons, and the coffee’s already half-gone and lukewarm besides. They’ve got money to be a little indulgent with these days, courtesy of Uncle Sam, plus Mary at the plant said the rhododendrons actually like coffee anyway.

So he figures he can justify brewing another pot, if for no other reason than to start the day off better than he’d been expecting by one helluva country mile and then some.

♥️

✨also on ao3

For @thefreakandthehair, who requested 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST

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divider credit here

[rhiannonsknife]

Thinking about boss!rhiannon and secretary!r where Rhiannon isn't used to this kind of power and wants to keep it professional so badly... But it's not her fault that you're just so sweet, and your cheerful compliance just does things to her... And before she knows it, she's keeping you around in the office longer than usual, she's finding excuses to call you in to talk to her when it's not needed, she's even distracted watching you move about the office, doing little tasks...

So she calls you in again, making sure your progress report lasts a little over work hours, and that's when things get interesting...

-🔆

— BOSS!RHIANNON & SECRETARY!READER

— summary: boss!rhiannon & secretary!reader hcs

— warnings: coworkers(?) to lovers. fem!reader. nsfw content. mdni.

rhiannon who’s new to this whole “being the boss” thing…

…and determined to prove herself by keeping things strictly professional. when she first meets you though, she’s completely unprepared for just how sweet you are. you’re efficient, and always one step ahead too, which should technically make her life easier, but instead, it leaves her flustered. she’s so not used to someone anticipating her needs that it is unnerving. obviously, she resolves to keep things strictly business, but the way you cheerfully ask, “is there anything else i can do for you, ms. lewis?” makes her heart skip every single time.

at first, rhiannon keeps your interactions short and professional.

she sticks to emails and curtly worded requests, but every time you pop into her office with a stack of papers or a fresh cup of coffee, she can’t help her gaze from lingering. there’s a subtle warmth to your presence that she can’t seem to ignore. whether it’s the way you organize her desk without being asked or how you always knock softly before entering her office, rhiannon starts to notice all the little things about you that make her day just a bit better.

but soon enough, rhiannon can’t help herself anymore…

…it starts innocently enough: she finds herself lingering on your emails longer than she should, rereading them even when they don’t need a reply. she catches herself looking forward to hearing your voice when you call to confirm her appointments or when you enter her office to hand her her coffee order.

she starts finding excuses to interact with you more often: a task that could easily be emailed becomes a reason to call you into her office. a question that isn’t urgent becomes an opportunity to stop by your desk. the first time she catches herself staring at you, really staring, while you’re bent over her desk explaining a report, she jolts back like she’s been burned.

your first late night with rhiannon…

…happens by accident. she’s so caught up in work she doesn’t realize you’ve stayed back to help. when she glances up and sees you at your desk, she’s surprised to find that you’ve stayed back to help. “you didn’t have to stay,” rhiannon says, leaning against the doorway to your office. “i didn’t mind, ms. lewis,” you assure, tugging a strand of hair behind your ear.

from this point forward, every week, there’s a new reason for you to stay late. whether it’s a ‘last-minute report’ or ‘urgent filing,’ she keeps you in her orbit well past office hours. rhiannon even goes as far as inventing tasks that don’t really need to be done, like asking you to reorganize a cabinet she just had you sort the day before or pretending she needs a second opinion on a document she’s already reviewed. she schedules unnecessary one-on-one meetings that drag on far longer than they should, and halfway through, she’ll forget what the meeting was even about because she’s too distracted by how intently you’re listening to her.

rhiannon, who eventually reaches her breaking point.

it happens late one evening, during another of her so-called ‘progress report’ meetings. you’re sitting across from her, flipping through a file as you explain the details of a project. she isn’t even pretending to listen anymore, her gaze glued to you.

when you glance up and catch her staring, your brows furrow. “ms. lewis? are you okay?” she inhales sharply at your question, barely managing a clipped, “i’m fine. keep going!” you hesitate before continuing, but the tension in the room is palpable now. her hands clench into fists on her desk, and her eyes flicker to your lips every time you pause.

finally, when you finish your report and move to leave, rhiannon’s voice stops you: “wait!” she blurts. you turn back, confused. “is there something else?” she stands abruptly, her chair forcefully scraping against the floor, and rounds her desk, coming to stand just a foot away from you. “you need to stop being so…” she trails off, visibly struggling.

“so what…?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, heart pounding. her hands twitch at her sides and she crosses her arms over her chest in a sudden movement as she looks for the right words. “so…kind. so sweet. so…you!”

you blink at her, stunned. “i- i don’t understand. did i do something wrong?”

“no,” she says quickly, almost desperately. then, quieter: “you didn’t do anything wrong. that’s the problem…” there’s a beat of silence where neither of you moves, the tension in the air so thick it’s suffocating. then, rhiannon steps closer, her hand reaching out but hovering just shy of touching your arm.

“we shouldn’t…” she murmurs, more to herself than to you.

“shouldn’t what?”

rhiannon finally looks into your eyes, and whatever restraint she had left shatters. before you can respond, she closes the distance, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s equal parts desperate and hesitant, as though she’s still testing the waters despite the need to have you. for a moment, you freeze, too shocked to even react. when her hands finally settle on your waist, pulling you closer, you melt into her touch, your own hands finding their way to her shoulders.

when she finally pulls away, her breathing is ragged. “we should not have done that,” she pants, reaching out to fix her hair. “i know,” you reply, your voice equally unsteady. neither of you moves to step away. her thumb brushes against your side absentmindedly as she adds, “i can’t- i’m your boss!”

“then why did you kiss me?” you demand softly.

“i couldn’t not kiss you anymore!” rhiannon reasons breathlessly.

rhiannon, who tries (and fails) to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

every time she sees you, her mind instantly flashes back to the memories of that night you fucked in her office kissed and she has to bite her lip to keep from smiling like an idiot. from this point forward, she’s touchier with you. she puts her hand on your thigh underneath the table, or rubs your back in passing. rhiannon starts leaving little notes for you on your desk as well, seemingly about work tasks, but the messages always end with something personal like: ‘you look amazing from where i’m sitting. just saying! xx’

you, giddy from the moment you read her note, obviously play along and send her your responses via email. ‘should i put ‘amazing’ in the subject line for future progress reports?’

rhiannon who starts calling you into her office more frequently.

things spiral fast after that first night together. “i just need you to clarify something in this report,” rhiannon tells you one afternoon. yet when you step inside and close the door behind you, she’s already standing, her hands reaching for you as the report lies forgotten on her desk.

“you’re a terrible liar,” you tease, wrapping your arms around the back of her neck as she pulls you close. “shut up,” rhiannon mutters playfully as her lips find yours. you both learn exactly how to rile the other up in a short time, even in the most inconvenient moments.

rhiannon who loves the secrecy.

there’s something so thrilling to her about the stolen moments in the office, the hurried, desperate kisses behind closed doors, the way she sneaks glances at you during meetings when no one else is watching you, knowing she’ll have you bent over this very desk later. still, rhiannon struggles with the power dynamic between you, often worrying that she’s taking advantage of her position.

“i don’t want you to feel like you have to-” she starts one night, but you interrupt immediately: “i don’t feel like i ‘have to do’ or anything,” you assure, your hand resting gently on her cheek. “i’m here because i want to be!”

rhiannon who somehow knows exactly what she’s doing.

you’re not sure how many women she’s slept with before, but she’s a natural either way. her touch is better than anything you’ve ever known, her fingers confident in the way they flick over your clit in one of the many hurried office hour escapades. she’ll sit you down on the edge of her desk, the door shut and locked securely, spread you wide open for her, and then put her head between your legs.

and she enjoys it!! she might not get any physical pleasure from it herself but -god- does she love the taste of you on her tongue, eating you out like a woman starved every single time.

“you taste so good,” she whispers against your pussy, her eyes darting up to look at you, her tongue flicking your clit simultaneously. you have to sink your teeth into your bottom lip until you can taste blood to avoid screaming through the entire office and give yourself away.

rhiannon who uses you as her personal stress relief, rather than a secretary.

whether it is subconscious or not, after every single stressful meeting or business call that has tested her patience, rhiannon calls you into her office to blow off some steam. you’re not even sure if she’s aware and you’d never tell, but you love it when she gets like that: when she bends you over her table without another word, pulls down your panties from beneath your skirt, and pounds her fingers into you relentlessly. she’ll just go on and on about how terrible everything went and how incompetent some of her colleagues are while fucking you dumb from behind until your knees give out.

rhiannon who wears a strap to work.

when you first spot the slight bulge in her trousers, you convince yourself that you’re just seeing things. surely, there’s no way your boss would show up wearing a strap-on in the office, right?

yet, when she brushes up against you from behind, rhiannon makes sure you feel the silicone pressing against your center through your clothes. you can hear the way her lips curl up in a satisfied smile when she catches your surprised gasp. “come on,” she whispers, already pulling you along by the wrist.

rhiannon, who loves to watch you ride her in her chair.

whether it is during office hours, where she has to cover your mouth so you won’t be too loud, or after everyone has left and it is just the two of you, she loves to just sit back and watch you work for it. “look at me,” she gently instructs, tilting your head so you’re holding her gaze as you bounce on it. “that’s it,” rhiannon praises, reaching between your legs to rub your stiff clit simultaneously.

sometimes, she doesn’t stop after making you cum for the first time. she only maneuvers you so you’re sitting on the edge of the table, and she can fuck you with your legs wrapped around her waist. and rhiannon is relentless, not letting up despite your ragged moans against the crook of her neck.

also, after you’ve come down from your height and she’s slumped back into her chair, she’ll spread her legs so you can see the way the toy is glistening with your release.

“clean it up,” she urges. you hardly have any time to recover at all, immediately falling to your knees before her to suck her clean until you’re gagging on it.

rhiannon who loves to have you all over the place after all your coworkers have gone home.

whether you’re bent over her rhiannon’s desk, pressed against the window at night, or in that one colleague’s chair who’s been trying to flirt with you for the past weeks…she just wants to claim you in all these different spots. you love it though: you love becoming your boss’s personal fuck toy over time. you love it when rhiannon fucks you -hard and fast-when she makes you cry out her name in pleasure.

rhiannon, who knows that your relationship is not sustainable.

and she knows that you’re aware of it too. you tell her one night, as you’re sitting on her lap, facing her. rhiannon’s hand gently caresses your back, tracing the outline of your spine when you speak: “you know this isn’t sustainable, right?” you murmur against the side of her neck.

“mhm i know,” rhiannon murmurs. “let’s just…not think about that right now, okay?”

you nod, your fingers finding her free hand as you sit together in the quiet.

[mioakem]

the tubbo and dream stream breakdown

tubbo asks about why he didn’t apologize for the r slur in the original stream

-dream responds saying emotions were high and he kind of apologized in around the middle of the stream. then talks about nicholas cantù and saying that he did not think that because cantù said it he could as well but more that he was mad that cantù could say it without backlash and he couldn’t. says he’s not a hypocrite and that he’s always stood by that you shouldn’t say slurs

-tubbo says he wishes he said that to begin with

-dream agrees and starts saying that he’s very impulsive and is working on getting better on

tubbo talks about the clips used of him in dreams video and criticizes him for only using clips of tubbo agreeing with him and putting the clips in before he even plays tommy’s video. says that it makes it sound like dream is trying to make tommy see ridiculous

-dream says that tommy didn’t mention the grooming stuff in the video and said that he wanted to mention it at first because that was his big issue with the whole situation. also admits to not watching tubbos streams fully

-dream says he’s not trying to ignore tubbos points but rather that he was responding to tommy and not focusing on tubbo in the video- says he’s a trustworthy source and he wanted to put an unbiased perspective at the beginning

-tubbo asks again why he chose to do that at the start before tommy said anything (the original question)

-dream talks about how he edits videos in chronological order and how before tommy made his video tommy and his friends have been joking about him being a pedo. admits to crashing out over it

-tubbo says that it paints an impression that makes it seem like tommy is insane cause even his own friends don’t agree with him

-dream asks how he recommends to change it

-tubbo says to present the argument your countering before presenting your point

-says if he included tommy’s video then it would be repeating what he said at the beginning since dream addressed the r slur at the beginning of his video

tubbo asks why dream didn’t mention the 3 hour stream he did in the video

-dream says he mentioned it once when he was talking about praising tommy for the smp. he said that the video was condensing what he said on his stream in a more consumable way so he didn’t feel the need to talk about the stream

tubbo questions why dream asks about context for sexism and mentions how tom brought up george and caiti

-dream says that he separates them, says that he talked about the reaction to caiti and then says that him and his friends were sexist behind the scenes

-tubbo says that it’s the same thing and says that he’s calling dream sexist because of the caiti situation

-dream says tommy is talking about behind the scenes

-tubbo yet again says that it relates and also says that the behind the scenes also refers to calling both ludwig and robbo’s friends whores

-dream says he knows nothing about ludwig’s friend and talks about what ludwig talked about on his stream the other day. says he asked ludwig to elaborate and who it was and then says how he talked about Robbo. says that robbos claims that he called a girl a whore and got slapped was a lie and robbo blew it out of proportion. then goes back to ludwig and said that ludwig didn’t wanna say who it was and that makes it hard for dream to figure out how to navigate the situation. says that ludwig said that he called a friend of his a whore outside a club when he was drunk and dream says that the only time he has ever used that word is jokingly in private to his good friends

-tubbo asks if that’s the case then how come two separate people on two separate accounts are making those claims

-dream says robbo’s claims was during the cantù situation and it’s all lies and doesn’t matter and should be thrown out because robbo was supporting cantù. he reiterates how he only says it in private to friends and how after cantu he doesn’t say it anymore and how he can’t imagine himself saying that word so it’s hard to believe that he called the girl a whore. he said that he tried to talk to the girl but again, ludwig wanted to keep her info private. dream says that it’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s not

-tubbo reels it back to the original context of “what’s the context”

-says that tommy provided no context

-tubbo says the context was what happened with george and caiti

-dream said that it’s two separate parts of the video (bro just talk about caiti she’s not gonna bite). says that it’s two different claims and that he’s talking about the internets reaction to caiti was sexist

-tubbo says he thinks to continue saying they’re two separate things when they’re complaint about the same issue is strange because it’s not difficult to assume that the negative reaction to caiti came from dream and george’s community

-dream again asks what he did that was sexist

-tubbo says that it’s the fact that he did nothing during the caiti situation and let his community attack her

-dream said he’s had multiple discussions about it. he said it’s not in his video because it says “the internets reaction” and also because it’s not a situation he’s hiding from and he’s talked about it before and how tommy is opening old wounds and making it into a personal attack when it’s a very complex situation. says it’s not a him and tommy thing. he says that he wouldn’t be friends with sexist people

-tubbo again brings it back and asks if he doesn’t want to talk about caiti since it’s old then how come he brings up so many old clips

-dream says it’s different because it involves himself. he says again that he wanted to stick to him and tommy

-tubbo says that how come since he has involved himself in the caiti and george situation then how come he didn’t include it

-dream says that his personal feelings don’t matter in the situation compared to george and caiti’s feelings. again says the video is about him and tommy

-tubbo says it’s weird to say he wasn’t involved when he was

-dream says that since tommy said the internets reaction

-tubbo says that the internets response comes directly from his response to it. he says that his initial involvement felt sexist. he says that dream getting involved with the knowledge about how dreams community is can lead to people believing dream is sexist due to his community (it gets weird at this part dream keeps talking over him)

-dream says it’s not a situation you can discuss in full. he says that he was there so he felt like he had input regarding the situation. he says he doesn’t support and harassment or hate and again says it’s very complex. says that there was a large part of the internet on both sides

-tubbo brings up the transcript which directly corresponds dreams groups reaction to the caiti situation with sexism

okay never mind in done with this summary dream is pissing me off i hate this sexist piece of shit fuck this man

[rafes-juno]

My Brother's Best Friends; Slim Pickins

Pairing: Brother's Best Friend! Rafe x Brat! Female Oc

Summary: What happens when Rafe returns from college and turns Isla's life upside down? Will Isla be able to handle her brother's best friends? Are Rafe and Isla overcoming their rivalry this summer, or are their feelings brewing ready to explode? Secrets will come out testing Isla and her brother's relationship.

Contains: Enemies to Lovers, Brother's Best Friend, Harsh Language, Sexual Content, Drinking, Harassment, Mentions Of Blood. (18+ ,minors do not interact!)

WC: 3.905

Previous Chapter: 1

“So… you never kissed?” Rosie asks as she sips her drink, her eyes drifting between me and our best friend, Sunny.

I shake my head, just as disappointed as them. “No. Rafe came in and ruined it all, too. He talked about how I needed to stay away from Alex and said he was just looking out for me. " My eyes roll as I sip on my straw, watching the girls share a knowing glance.

Rosie and Sunny have been my best friends since elementary school. I don’t think there’s been a full day in my life where I haven’t seen at least one of them. We’re inseparable.

“Maybe we need to ask the cards?” Rosie suggests as Sunny digs through her bag to find her tarot deck.

When she drops the deck onto the table, I slump back. “Guys, I don’t want to do it if the cards are going to tell me something I don’t want to know.”

Truthfully, I think I’ve started to develop a crush on Alex. He’s been here a day, and I already can’t stop thinking about him like I’m a teenager again. Rafe’s words keep swirling around in my head, though. I don’t want to step on anybody’s toes and ruin any friendships– but at the same time, Theo and Alex don’t seem that close.

“Maybe they’ll confirm that he wants you–”

I laugh, reaching for my drink. “I don’t need the cards to confirm that.”

Sunny starts to shuffle the deck, and I sit up straight, watching how quickly her hands move. Cards fly out of the deck and land on the table; some even land on the ground, but Rosie quickly picks them up and hands them back to the witch. Sunny hums and turns over the cards, her eyes full of mischief.

I notice the time on my phone and sigh, “I only have five minutes before Rafe is coming to pick me up–”

“Oh, Rafe, again?” Rosie teases, her eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Rafe again,” I mumble. “We’re shopping to pick up some stuff for Theo’s birthday party tonight. Only me and him seem to give a shit. I don’t see you two offering–”

Sunny cuts me off, “Okay, so you have the fool card first. New beginnings– a new chapter in your life.”

I smirk, “Does the new chapter begin with an ‘A’ and end in ‘lex’?”

Sunny ignores my words and stares back down at the cards. “Death card. Is Alex a Scorpio?”

I shrug, “No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. I don’t think I know any Scorpio’s either.”

Sunny hums as she taps her long nails against the card. “Okay, so, a transformation of some kind. It could be during Scorpio season… or maybe he is a Scorpio.”

I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off and moves on to the next card. “The lovers. Self-explanatory.”

When we were fourteen, we entered a new store on the island. They sold all kinds of things, one of them being tarot cards. Sunny bought them and taught herself how to read them. Ever since we’ve relied on the cards for advice and guidance. Only recently has she started reading astrology, too. I rely on her to tell me when to invest in something new is a bad time. I swear, it feels like there's always something in retrograde or whatever.

“These are good cards,” Rosie comments. “Sounds like things could happen between you and Alex.”

Sunny pulls back her bottom lip, her head tilted. “Well– yeah. Maybe. I have a feeling it isn’t Alex, though.”

I laugh, lifting my drink to my mouth. “Well, who else could it be?”

Sunny shrugs. “I don’t know. We’ll see, I guess.”

She taps her finger against the next card. “Two of cups. Partnerships, relationships. Someone is coming in. I don’t know who, though. We need to find out Alex’s star sign.”

“I’ll ask at the party,” I say, sliding my chair out from the table and grabbing my phone. My screen lights up, and I see Rafe's missed texts telling me to hurry up and that I’m late. When I glance over my shoulder, I can see his car in the parking lot and his pissed-off face glaring through the open window.

We all watch as he opens his car door and climbs out. He rounds the car and crosses his arms, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Wow, has he been working out?” Rosie asks, her straw hanging loose in her mouth as she leans back in her seat.

I shrug, taking my time to grab all of my stuff as I keep my eyes on his. “I think so.”

It’s evident that he has been because of his black shirt. The material is clinging to his arms, chest, and toned stomach, and with the sweat dotted across his forehead, it looks as though he’s just got back from the gym.

“Hurry up, Isla! I don’t have all fucking day!” he yells over at me as I sling my bag over my shoulder.

“Calm down, Rafe. It’s not that serious.” I roll my eyes and turn to the girls, “I’ve never seen someone so eager to pick up a birthday cake.”

“I can hear you,” he says, opening the passenger side door as I wave goodbye to the girls and hop down the steps to the parking lot. I walk over to him with a cheesy grin.

I climb into his car, watching him slam my door shut with a low grunt. He walks around to the driver's side and clambers in, slamming his door as loud as he did mine. He merely glances in my direction as I pull the seatbelt over my body and click it into place.

He pulls out of the parking lot quickly, making me fall forward before falling back into my seat harshly. “Shit, Rafe. What’s the rush?”

“I have shit to do. Not that you’d give a fuck anyway, you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

I scoff, my eyes widening as I stare over at him. “What’s your problem?”

“It’s too hot, and I don’t want to go to the store and–”

“Maybe you wouldn’t feel so hot if you weren’t wearing all black. It’s like a million degrees outside.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Isla.”

“Don’t be a dick, Rafe,” I bite back with a smile on my lips. “Let’s just go to the store, and then you can drop me off at home.”

“Home?” he asks. “I thought you were helping me put up all the party stuff on the druthers?”

I sigh, throwing my arms down to my sides in defeat. “Fine! If you want to hang out with me that bad, all you have to do is ask, Rafe.”

He doesn’t say a word; he keeps his eyes on the road, and his jaw clenches. I settle into my seat with a satisfied smile, knowing I won this time.

He never used to be so mean and hostile toward me. I’ll never understand what changed.

He used to be kind. He would talk to me with respect.

I don’t think he’ll ever tell me what changed. I don’t think I want to know, either. If he hates me, then so be it. I’m not here to have a friendship with him, and I certainly don’t want any validation from him.

If he’s happy for us to act like this, fine.

I couldn't care less.

“Oh my god, Rafe! Look!” I exclaimed, pulling a string of fairy lights with plastic strawberries from the self. “Strawberry lights!”

He snatches the box from me and stares at the picture on the front. “I don’t get it.”

I snatch them back and throw them into the shopping cart, “They’re just cute.”

“They’re a waste of money. That’s what they are.”

I grab another three and throw them into the cart with a thud. “Fine, I’ll buy them with my money.”

He pushes the cart slowly up the aisle with his veiny forearms resting on the handlebars. His shoulders are slumped, and I can tell he’s bored out of his mind, so I plan to spend as much time here as possible.

“Do you think we need party hats?” I ask, picking up a plastic box full of them. “I think we do.” he looks at me from the side, his eyes rolling.

“No, we don’t. There are just a couple of us on the boat. All we need is cake, balloons, and two banners,” he says, taking the box from my hands and throwing it back onto the shelf.

I cross my arms in defiance before reaching for the same box and throwing it into the cart. “You aren’t the only one using your daddy’s money today, Rafe. He paid me a hundred dollars just for tutoring your sister for an hour yesterday. We’re getting the hats.”

I spot a pack of party whistles and pick them up with a grin, “Oh, and these. We definitely need these.”

He sighs, standing up straight as he rolls his broad shoulders back. “Whatever. I don’t care anymore.”

I throw the whistles in and eye the fully stocked shelves for something that would really piss him off. I thought the whistles would send him over the edge, but apparently not. Although, I can’t imagine him using the whistle at the party.

His attitude is starting to piss me off. I understand he doesn’t want to be here; he only told me that four times on the way here. I knew I should’ve asked Alex to tag along. At least then, I’d have someone fun to talk to.

I watch him pull his phone out from his black shorts, and his fingers scroll on the screen for a few seconds before he clears his throat. “Okay, so we need–”

“Can we get these feather boas?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, Rafe!” I sing, pulling the hot pink boa from the rack. “It’s fluffy.” I step toward him and drape it around his neck.

He tries to pull it off, but I hold my hand, keeping the material in place. “Wow, pink is your color. It brings out your eyes.”

“Oh, yeah?” he steps closer to me, pulling a yellow-colored boa from the rack. He drapes it around my neck and flicks up the side so it’s danging over my eyes, obscuring my vision. “This compliments your outfit.” For the first time today, there’s a hint of playfulness in his eyes as he reaches onto the shelf and hands me a pair of oversized sunflower glasses. “These will complete the ensemble.”

I hum, pushing the glasses onto my face. “Wow, is that a smile I can see, Rafe? Are you finally having fun?”

He scoffs, throwing his feather boa into the cart as his faint smile fades. “No.”

“Liar,” I sing, using the end of my feather boa to tickle his sun-kissed face. “You’re having so much fun with me.” He swats my hand and the feather away with a low growl.

I notice the pink pinata on the top shelf, shaped like a unicorn, and my eyes light up like a kid at a candy store. “Okay, we have to get that.” I tap Rafe’s shoulder and motion to the thing I need most. “Pick me up, I wanna grab it,”

“Pick you up?” his eyebrows are furrowed, and his forehead creased.

I nod, “You won’t be able to reach the one at the very back that’s probably in the best condition. Pick me up so I can grab it.”

He sighs, moving the cart out of the way as I stand before him. He hesitates briefly before grasping the curve of my waist with his big hands, causing my already-cropped t-shirt to rise. I feel the warmth of his touch bleed through my skin as he lifts me effortlessly.

He really has been working out.

“I can’t see,” I complain. “I need to get up higher!”

He groans in annoyance and hoists me onto his broad shoulder, holding me up there as I peer over the shelf to the pinata at the back, the most perfect unicorn calling my name. I feel one of his hands settle onto my thigh while the other grips my waist tighter, being sure I don’t fall as I reach across to grab my newest prized possession– which will be smashed to pieces by the end of the night.

“Got it,” I tell him as he pulls me back. I look at him with a smile as he carefully lowers me back to the ground, his hands still on my waist. “You're so helpful,” I coo, reaching up to place a kiss on his cheek.

Just as I pull my lips back with a smile plastered on my face, an elderly lady passes by us, her head tilted as she smiles at us. “Oh, aren’t you two just so sweet.”

The look on Rafe’s face says it all as he steps away from me, his head shaking. Before he can say anything, I slip my arm through his and smile at the lady. “Oh, thank you so much,” I look up at Rafe and drape the end of my feathered boa around his neck, pulling him closer to me.

“We’re just buying party supplies for our… son.”

The lady’s eyes widen, “Son? You two look awfully young–”

I grip my fingers around his upper arm, feeling his muscles tense under the fabric of his shirt as I rest my head on his chest. “I know, but age doesn’t matter when you’re in love. Isn’t that right, Rafey?” I look up at him, flashing a knowing look as he glimpses down at me.

He eventually lifts his gaze back to the lady and forces a smile. “That’s right.”

The lady presses her hand to her heart and pouts. “How sweet. You remind me of my husband and I when we were kids.” she takes a moment, releasing a deep sigh before facing us again, her smile gentle. “I hope your son–”

“Tiger,” I tell her the name of our imaginary son with a sheepish grin. “Well, his name is Prince Tiger, but we usually just call him Tiger.”

Rafe nods, pulling me closer to his side as he lifts his arm and wraps it around me, pulling me into him. I try to ignore the fact that I can feel his strong arms tightening around me and the fact that his cologne is intoxicating.

“Oh, that’s a… lovely name,” the lady says, clearly uncomfortable now.

Rafe’s lips curve into a half-smile. “Thanks. It’s just a shame that I recently found out I'm not his biological father,” he looks at me with a challenge in his eyes. “Turns out my girlfriend likes to fuck other guys behind my back.”

The lady is pale now, her eyebrows raised and her mouth open. I’m mirroring her expression as I turn to face her once more. I clear my throat as I rush to find something to say to make Rafe seem like the bad guy.

I know it's over when my mind goes blank, and the lady scurries off down the aisle with her cart full of supplies, her feet moving faster than the cart.

I untangle myself from Rafe’s arm and shake my head. “You’re evil! You scared that woman away!”

He shrugs, grabbing the cart again, “I think you scared her away when you told her our imaginary son was named Prince Tiger.”

“Would you have rathered him be named after his daddy?”

Rafe turns the corner and the wheels of the cart screech against the hard ground. “I’m not his Dad, remember.”

“I hope you’re happy with yourself, Rafe.”

He smiles at me, the first genuine smile I’ve seen in months. “I’m happy, thank you.”

I follow him around the store for the rest of the shopping trip before we go to the register to pay. Even when I try to pull out my phone to pay for the items, Rafe beats me to it and puts it all on his card. I scoff, “I thought all this was a waste of money.”

He ignores me and hands me the heaviest bag with a smile. “This is all the stuff you picked up. I hope it isn’t too heavy for you,” he flashes the cashier a smile before picking up the cake and a few lighter bags. “Come on, we gotta start decorating.”

I sigh, feeling the bag's weight pull me down as I follow behind him, my fingers aching and my arms falling weak. It’s too hot outside to be carrying a bag as heavy as this.

“It’s heavy,” I complain as we walk through the parking lot toward his car.

“Not my problem,” he replies, walking faster.

I groan, my head falling back as I pick up my pace to catch up with him. When I reach him and the car, my arms feel like jello. I drop the bag to the ground and let out a heavy sigh as I watch Rafe load the bags into the car.

I reach down, searching the top of the bag for the water bottle Rafe so generously bought me. As I bend over, I hear a car honk behind me, startling me to stand straight again. I turn around, watching a guy I don’t recognize wolf-whistle at me. There’s a cigarette hanging from his lips. He laughs, “Give me a twirl, sweetheart.” There’s a sleazy smile on his lips when he says, “Want me to give you a ride?”

I ignore him, turning my back to him and his truck as Rafe lifts his head from the trunk of the car, his eyes darting between me and the truck.

“Fucking bitch,” the guy calls from the truck, throwing the remainder of his cigarette in my direction.

I turn to face the truck again, ready to tell him what I think, but as I do, I see Rafe storming with his fists at his sides. I watch wide eyes as Rafe grabs the guy from inside the car by his collar, pulling him from his seat. “What did you call her?”

I release a breath, my stomach churning from anticipation. “Jesus, Rafe–”

“Say it to me. Say it to my fucking face,” Rafe urges the guy, who’s now a sickly pale color. His mouth moves, but no words come out when Rafe aggressively throws him back into his seat. “Call me a bitch, do it.”

“I didn’t realize she was your girl, man. I’m sorry–”

Rafe takes a step back from the guy's truck, and I think it’s all over when he walks back to me. “Rafe–” he cuts me off by reaching into his vehicle and grabbing one of his golf clubs. My eyes are bulging at this point, and there isn’t a thing I can do to stop him because before I can fathom what’s happening, he’s knocking the guy’s brake lights out with the club.

“What the fuck!” the guy yells as Rafe rounds the front of the car, knocking off the side mirrors. There’s glass everywhere, and I notice how shards hit Rafe’s bare legs, grazing his skin.

People are watching with wide eyes, and the elderly lady from early is on the verge of a heart attack as she watches Rafe wreck the guy’s car.

Rafe walks around to the guy’s open window and points the club at him with his head tilted. “If you fucking look at her again, I’ll do a lot worse, alright.”

The guy nods profusely as Rafe pulls the club out and gives the car door one harsh hit, denting the metal with the club. Rafe walks away, his hands white around the club as he approaches me. “Get in the car.”

I do as I’m told and climb into my seat, my hands shaking as he throws the club into the trunk and climbs in after me, barely giving me a chance to put my seatbelt on as he vaults out of the parking lot.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, his crazed eyes darting between me and the road ahead of us as he picks up the speed.

“I’m fine,” my voice is shaky as I buckle into my seat and lean back, resting my head on the headrest. “Are you okay?” I ask him, noticing the blood dripping from his knee. “You’re bleeding.”

He nods, but his fingers are pale white, and he grips the steering wheel. “I’m fine. We just need to get to the druthers and set up. That’s all. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

“Are we going to get arrested?” I ask, gulping harshly. “My dad will kill me–”

Rafe faces me, his hands shaking as sweat builds on his forehead. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“But–”

“Nothing will happen. It’s fine. I’ll figure this out. That guy–” he points to the store that’s probably miles behind us now, “All of that was his fault. He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

I exhale a shaky breath, nodding in agreement. “I agree, but that was extreme, Rafe.”

He laughs manically, his head falling back against his seat. “It could have been worse.”

“Could it?!” I exclaim. “You nearly blinded him with the glass shards!”

Rafe glances over to me, a smile on his face as he laughs harder. “Okay, well, at least our son– Tiger, wasn’t in the car. The therapy would be crazy expensive.”

“Are you serious right now?” I hide my laugh by facing the half-opened window, feeling the cool airflow through the car.

I feel the sudden warmth of his hand meet my exposed thigh, and it’s like a bolt of electricity runs through me. I turn to face him, and the feeling runs straight to my heart, suffocating me as it takes all the air from my lungs. His eyes are on mine when I feel his fingers tighten on my skin, “It’ll be okay.”

There’s a quiet moment between us where nothing needs to be said. His palm is still on my leg, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was warming up to me again. Of course, when I think about it, his phone rings, and Theo’s name pops up on the car screen. It’s a searing reminder of what we’re actually doing here and why we’re working together. We’re not here to be friends. We’re here to set up for my brother’s birthday. His best friend’s birthday.

Rafe pulls away from me quickly and hits the answer button as Theo’s booming voice sounds through the car’s speakers. “Hey, man. Where are you?”

“Uh, I’m just– out.”

“Out? Where? Are you with Sofia?”

Ah.

Rafe shakes his head as if Theo can see him before replying, “Uh, no,” he clears his throat and shifts in his seat as I sink into mine, wishing for this car journey to be over so I can go home and get ready for the night. To see Alex.

Rafe changes the subject, “Are you still coming tonight? On the boat?”

“Yeah. Can I invite some people?” I know my brother well enough to know ‘some people’ actually means a dozen.

Rafe nods, “Sure. Just not too many, alright?”

I can hear the smirk in Theo’s voice when he answers, “Alright.”

🪽 Chapter Two of Brother's Best Friends as promised! Like, Comment & Reblogs are highly appreciated !!

🪽 Author: Matilda , Theme: Evelyn

🪽 Credits for dividers ( here & here )

[mattsobvimyfav]

American wedding (Matthew Sturniiolo)

one shot -

The hotel room was extravagant, with sweeping windows that framed the glittering city skyline. It was the kind of place y/n's parents wouldn’t question when it showed up on their credit card bill—they’d assume it was another innocent dinner or a shopping spree. But y/n was sprawled across the king-sized bed in nothing but a black lace bra and underwear, her laughter echoing through the room.

Matt stood near the window, his old-fashioned camera in hand. He looked at her with that rare, unguarded grin that made him seem younger, softer—like a completely different version of the boy everyone thought they knew.

“Stop moving,” he teased, his tone lazy but full of affection. “You’re ruining the lighting.”

Y/n threw a pillow at him, laughing as she shifted her pose. She stretched out on the bed, her hair spilling over the edge, her arms outstretched like a queen on her throne. “You’re lucky I’m letting you take these pictures at all, Matthew,” she shot back, her eyes sparkling.

“And you’re lucky I’m an artist,” he countered, lifting the camera and snapping another photo.

The camera clicked, the flash illuminating her skin. He stepped closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed now, his knee brushing against hers as he adjusted the focus. She watched him, her heart beating faster under his gaze.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost too quietly, like the words had escaped before he could stop them.

Y/n’s cheeks flushed, and she reached out, cupping his face and pulling him toward her. His lips found hers, soft and urgent, tasting faintly of Coke and the faint bitterness of cigarettes. Her fingers tangled in his hair as his hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

He pulled back suddenly, his light eyes searching hers. “We should do it,” he said, his voice steady but filled with a kind of reckless excitement.

She blinked at him, breathless. “Do what?”

“Get married,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “First thing tomorrow. Let’s go to the courthouse and make it official.”

For a moment, the words hung between them, and then y/n’s face broke into a wide, incredulous grin. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Matt said, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You and me. No one else. Just like it has been.”

Without thinking, y/n shot up from the bed, bouncing on the mattress like an overexcited kid. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” she shouted, throwing her arms in the air.

Matt laughed, reaching up and grabbing her arm to pull her back down. She collapsed onto the bed beside him, her laughter bubbling up again as he hovered over her, his lips brushing against her cheek, her nose, her forehead—every inch of her face.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with more emotion than he usually let himself show.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, her hands gripping his shirt like she never wanted to let go.

And in that moment, with the city lights glowing around them and the world outside feeling miles away, it was just the two of them, completely untouchable.

"I had a hell of a summer," I say, my lips curving into that smile Matt’s always said he can’t get enough of. "So, baby, don’t take this hard, but... maybe we should get an annulment before this goes way too far."

The words hang in the air, and for a second, all I can hear is the faint hum of the Mustang’s engine. Matt’s hands are still on the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the black leather. He doesn’t look at me, not at first. He just stares straight ahead like if he ignores me long enough, maybe the words will evaporate.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"Are you kidding me?" His voice is low, tight, like he’s trying to hold it together and barely succeeding.

"Matt—"

He cuts me off with a sharp laugh, shaking his head as he puts the car in reverse and backs out of the illegal parking faster than he should. “No, don’t ‘Matt’ me right now. You seriously thought this was the best time to drop that on me?”

I bite my lip, guilt gnawing at the edges of my resolve. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that—”

“But it did,” he snaps, shifting gears and peeling out of the back of the school. “It came out exactly like that.”

I sink into the passenger seat, watching the scenery blur past as he speeds through town. Matt doesn’t say anything else, but the tension in the car is suffocating. He’s gripping the wheel so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t snap it in half, and his jaw is clenched tight enough to crack a tooth.

When he finally slows down, I realize where he’s heading before we even get there. The hotel. Our hotel. The place where everything started.

He pulls into the side lot, parking in the shadow of the building like we always did to avoid being seen. He kills the engine, the silence roaring in my ears as he turns to me, his light eyes flashing with anger and hurt.

“You really wanna do this here?” he asks, his voice cold and sharp, cutting through me like a knife.

I cross my arms, trying to steady myself. “I didn’t pick this place—you did.”

“Yeah, because I’m not the one throwing away everything we’ve built like it’s nothing,” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You wanna tell me what the fuck changed? Because two months ago, you couldn’t wait to be my wife. You were literally jumping on the bed screaming yes, remember that?”

“Of course, I remember!” I snap, my voice breaking. “How could I forget? But that was summer, Matt. It was... it was perfect. And now we’re back, and it’s like reality is crashing down on us. My parents don’t even know. We’re eighteen! We’re kids playing house, and it’s not real.”

“It felt real to me,” he says, his voice quieter now, but somehow that makes it worse.

“It was real,” I say, my throat tight. “It’s not about that. It’s about... it’s about what happens next. What happens when my parents find out? When college starts? When we have to figure out how to actually be married? We didn’t think this through, Matt.”

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I thought it through. I thought about it every damn day. You think I don’t know it’s not gonna be easy? You think I care?”

I don’t have an answer for that, and the silence stretches between us, heavy and unbearable.

Matt finally looks at me, his eyes searching mine. “So, what? That’s it? We’re just done? You’re done?”

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat almost choking me. “I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just know... this isn’t what I imagined. I’m scared, Matt.”

“Yeah, well, so am I,” he says, leaning back in his seat, his voice hollow. “But I thought we were supposed to figure it out together. Isn’t that the whole point?”

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. He’s right, of course he’s right. But that only makes this hurt worse.

Matt leans back in his seat, his head resting against the edge of the headrest, and then his gaze drops to his hand. His thumb brushes over the tattooed wedding band inked onto his skin—a decision he called impulsive but never regretted.

“Got a wedding band on I just might die with,” he mutters, his voice thick with pain, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Without you? I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

I stare at him, my chest tightening like there’s a weight pressing on it. I never meant for this to hurt him like this, but watching him now, I realize there’s no way it couldn’t.

“Matt...” I start, my voice trembling. “I love you. God, I love you so much. But this—what if we’re just setting ourselves up to crash and burn? What if we’re not ready?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just sits there, staring at his hand, his jaw tightening. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, edged with something raw.

“Jesus Christ, don’t break my heart,” he says, his voice cracking on the last word. “This wedding ring? It won’t ever wipe off. But if you stay... fuck, you’ll probably leave anyway, won’t you?”

His words hit me like a slap, and I feel my eyes sting with tears I’ve been trying to hold back. I reach for him, grabbing his hand and holding it between both of mine. “Matt, that’s not fair,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I just—I don’t know if I can be enough for you. You’re all in, and I feel like I’m barely holding on. What if I let you down?”

“You won’t,” he says instantly, his eyes finally locking on mine. “You think I don’t see how scared you are? I’m scared too. But y/n, I’d rather do this scared with you than spend one more second without you.”

Tears spill over, and I choke out a laugh, shaking my head. 'You make it so damn hard to walk away, you know that?'

'Good,' he says, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. 'Because I’m not letting you walk away without a fight.'

I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling heavy in my chest. 'But your parents don’t even know,' I murmur, my voice trembling. 'Your brothers don’t know. No one at school even knows we’re... we’re a thing. What are we going to do, just drop this bomb on everyone?'

He hesitates, his brow furrowing as his gaze flickers down to my hands. His jaw tightens, and the smile slips from his face. 'You’re not wearing it,' he says, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

I follow his gaze, my stomach knotting when I see my bare ring finger. The space where my wedding ring should be, feels as exposed as if I were standing there without my skin.

'I... I didn’t think it was a good idea,' I stammer, my pulse quickening.

His eyes snap back up to mine, searching, questioning. 'Didn’t think it was a good idea or didn’t want people to know?'

The question hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. I feel the burn of fresh tears threatening to spill and look away, unable to face the hurt I know is there. 'It’s not that simple,' I whisper.

"'Then make it simple,' he says. 'Do you want people to know or not? Do you want this—want us—or are you already walking away without even telling me?'

His words slice through me, and for a moment, all I can do is sit there, drowning in the ache of his voice and the unspoken fear that he might be right.

'It’s not about what I want,' I finally manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

'Then what is it about?' he presses, his gaze piercing.

I hesitate, my hands twisting together nervously. 'I just... it’s complicated. You know that.'

His jaw tightens, and he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. 'What’s complicated? The fact that I don’t fit into your perfect little world?'

I flinch, the unspoken truth of his words cutting deep. 'That’s not fair,' I murmur, avoiding his eyes.

'Isn’t it?' he challenges, 'Look at you, like you’re ashamed to even be seen with me. You think I don’t notice the way you look over your shoulder, like you’re scared someone’s going to find out?'

I swallow hard, guilt twisting in my stomach. 'That’s not... I just don’t want to make things harder for either of us,' I say, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.

He studies me for a moment, his eyes dark with something I can’t quite name. 'Do you hear yourself right now? You’re so worried about what everyone else thinks, but have you even stopped to think about what we want? What I want?'

I look down, unable to meet his gaze. My silence hangs between us like a confession.

He sighs, shaking his head. 'I get it,' he says softly, his voice laced with hurt. 'You’re the golden girl, the one who’s supposed to have it all together. And me... well, I’m just the guy everyone’s already written off.'

'That’s not true,' I say quickly, finally looking up at him. But the way his lips press into a thin line tells me he doesn’t believe me.

'Isn’t it?' he asks again, his tone quieter now, almost resigned. 'I just need to know, right here, right now—if I fight for this, for us, are you going to fight too? Or are you already looking for the nearest exit?'

His words hang in the air, heavy and raw, and I feel the tears sting my eyes again. I want to answer, to give him the reassurance he deserves, but the truth is, I don’t know if I have the strength to tear down the walls I’ve spent so long building.

a/n- for fun ig

[caelivir]

Um um.....Miya atsumu Long way 2 go -- Casie

And and trope- enemies to lovers??

Also I love your writing👾👾

now playing: long way 2 go by casie

atsumu? this song? enemies to lovers? i think you just sent me to heaven. i don't think you understand how hard i'm geeking right now. i keep whisper screaming "YOU'RE A GENIUS". and thank you!

content. rich boy!miya atsumu x fem!reader, atsumu’s lowkey a downbad loser, tension (at least i hope it is) | wc. 905

atsumu thinks he's hot shit. you know of plenty of guys his type. how could you not? your school is full of them. they think their good looks and endless pockets let them get away with anything. there’s so many of them, but out of all of them, the one you despise the most is atsumu.

you’ve never met someone with an ego so inflated that it rivaled the size of earth. there’s no one who makes you want to tear out your own nerves out more than him.

atsumu is well-aware that you loathe him. he hates you just as much, but instead of ignoring you like a normal person does, he discovers new ways to tick you off. he's like a bacteria who's always finding a way to invade your system.

and now you’re stuck with this damn vermin in a tight, janitorial closet, and it’s his fault.

“be honest. are you an imbecile? like were you dropped as a baby? how do you miss the sign that said, ‘lock broken. leave door open if inside.’?” you fume in the dark.

“do ya ever shut yer mouth?” you don’t need to see atsumu to visualize the harsh glare he has. you can hear his hands fumbling around, searching for any kind of light switch.

you scoff. “oh that’s loaded coming for you. thanks to you, we’re missing class right now!”

at that moment, you hear a click, and a warm light fills the room. you never realized how close atsumu actually was. his body is nearly pressed against yours, his arm hanging above from when he pulled the cord of the light bulb down.

atsumu’s eyes are just as wide as yours, and he backs up, even if it’s only a mere step before his back crashes into a shelf of cleaning supplies that clatter upon contact.

you wince. “do i repulse you that much?”

atsumu doesn’t give you the grace of responding, narrowing his eyes at you as straightens his back, rolling back his shoulders in the limited space he has. when he loosens the tie of his school uniform, you stare at the hand tugging it down, veins prominent on his skin.

the action was… hot… to say the least. your hand twitches like it wants to slap you for ever thinking that.

“you don’t.”

“what?”

atsumu looks annoyed at the fact that he has to repeat himself but he does anyway. “you don’t… repulse me.”

“not true. you actively try to make my life hell every single day. no sane person does that unless they absolutely despise someone.” you correct, chuckling without humor.

“i…” the sentence crumbles in his throat. you see a blush creep up on his neck. the rosy pink reaches the tips of his ears. he turns his head away as if he were ashamed.

you laugh. now this is a sight, miya atsumu actually being embarrassed. you want to push this, see how far you can go.

“what is it, miya?” you tease, taking a step closer to invade his space. “cat got your tongue?”

atsumu backs up even further into the shelves. you’re sure it’s digging into his back. he gulps at the sight of you.

“do i make you nervous?” you trail your finger on his tie. atsumu follows the motion until it leads his back up to your eyes.

he burns a brighter red. “like hell i do.”

it hits you then.

oh.

oh.

“you hate me.” you breathe out in a whisper. “and you like me.”

atsumu tenses like you just caught him in an act, like you just announced it to the entire freaking world. you wrap your hand around his loose tie. once. twice.

“you’re so pathetic.”

it’s the last thing you utter before you’re tugging him by his tie, pressing your lips to his. atsumu’s reaction is immediate, resting his hands on your hips, bunching up the skirt of your uniform.

he wants more. you can sense it by the way his hands are slipping down to your thighs, and because of it, you pull away. atsumu chases after your lips, but you slightly pull your head back. you see the annoyance in his eyes.

you pull him again by his tie again, this time bringing his ear by your mouth. “don’t get it twisted, miya. you still piss me off, but i’m a firm believer of thinking that things can change. you want me? work for it. earn it. ‘cause the way you are now you’re still a long way from having me.”

the door to the closet swings open suddenly, flooding the room with a light brighter than the one shining over your heads.

“damn kids,” the janitor grumbles. “what the hell are you doing in here? you’re here at best school in the country and don’t know how to read, even skipping class. unbelievable.”

you smile, unraveling your hand from atsumu’s tie. “sorry for the inconvenience, sir. my friend here will pay you for the trouble we caused. consider it a token of appreciation for keeping our prestigious school so clean and beautiful, if you know what i mean.”

the janitor is practically bubbling with joy the moment he comprehends the meaning behind your words. atsumu glares at you like you’re unbelievable. you only wink, waving goodbye and blowing a kiss as you saunter down the hall, the fire of atsumu’s lips still lingering on yours.

[4vanaa]

WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING, rafe cameron, 14

summary: y/n left the outer banks years ago, determined to build a life far from the memories of her childhood love, rafe cameron. now a botanist, she's moved on-though a quiet part of her still clings to the past. when an event brings her back to OBX, she's forced to confront the one person she never truly forgot.

cw: none | masterlist | 13 | 15 |

rafeupdates 13h

liked by cameronstan and 54,000 others

rafeupdates rafe talking about going to therapy, working on himself, and fixing his relationship with his dad... idk if i'm crying or what 🥺 i attached the clip transcript from the interview!!

#sunshinepromo #rafeupdates

user men who go to therapy>>

user who could he be talking about?? 👀

user probably the same girl he’s been talking about in all his songs

view all 2,350 comments

You stare at the chalkboard menu, your eyes scanning the options but not really reading them. The familiar hum of The Wreck—the quiet buzz of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the clink of silverware—feels strangely distant, like you’re in a bubble of your own making. You take a deep breath, trying to shake the weight in your chest.

“Still staring at the shrimp basket like it’s some life-changing decision.”

Your stomach drops before you even turn your head. You don’t need to look to know who it is.

“Rafe,” you mutter, a sharp exhale escaping your lips as you glance over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He’s standing there, hands shoved into his pockets, his blue eyes trained on you like you’re the only person in the room. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times, and he’s wearing that same infuriating half-smirk that used to make you weak in the knees.

“Getting dinner,” he says casually, gesturing around the room. “Same as you, I guess.”

Your jaw tightens. “Then order and leave me alone.”

His smirk falters, his eyes softening. He takes a step closer, ignoring the clear dismissal in your tone. “I saw you sitting here, and… I don’t know. I thought maybe we could talk.”

You turn back to the menu, gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s a lot to talk about,” he counters quietly, his voice threading with a kind of desperation that makes your chest ache.

Your resolve cracks, and you spin around to face him fully, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “God, why do you do that? It’s been years, Rafe. Years. Why can’t you just move on?”

He flinches, his jaw tightening as he looks at you. “You think I haven’t tried?”

“Try harder,” you shoot back, your voice sharp but trembling. “This isn’t fair. Not to you, not to me. I have a life now, Rafe—a good one. Stop showing up like this and pretending like we can just pick up where we left off.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. ��I’m just… I don’t know how to not want you, okay?”

Your breath catches, and for a second, the fight drains out of you. You look away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay. “You’re the one who ended it, Rafe. You made your choice. And I had to live with it. You don’t get to come back now and act like I’m still… like I’m still yours.”

Rafe lets out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you keep saying that. You’ve moved on. You’ve got your perfect little life now, right? But me? I—” He stops himself, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

Your voice softens, but you keep your resolve firm. “Rafe, I’m happy. That’s what matters. You should want that for me.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes searching your face like he’s trying to find something he’s lost. “I do. Of course, I do. I just… I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you again.”

Your heart twists painfully, but you don’t let him see it. “That’s not my problem anymore.”

He stares at you, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, he looks completely lost. “You’re right. It’s not. I just… I miss you, Sunshine. God, I miss you so much.”

“Rafe,” you sigh, your voice softer now. “You can’t keep doing this to me. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

His shoulders sag, and he lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to stop. Not when it’s you.”

You swallow hard, your fingers trembling as you grip your phone. You force yourself to stand your ground, even as your heart begs you to give in. “You have to. For both of us.”

Rafe nods slowly, like he knows you’re right but can’t bring himself to accept it. “I hope he makes you happy,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blink, your throat tightening. “He does.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on you one last time before he steps back. “You deserve that.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Your chest feels tight, your heart aching in a way you haven’t felt in years. You blink back tears and force yourself to focus on the menu, even as the world around you blurs.

a/n: going to therapy, so you can get your girl back?!!! i was unfamiliar with your game rafe 😏 also how much angst is too much angst 🫣

🏷️: @xoxo-ada @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @sleepiibunniiii @urbrunettebombshell @sideboobrry11 @acidfeens @marleymarleymarleymarley @hadids-world @ursogorgeous1313 @louxmcl @cyberkitty1 @pogueprincesa

[ikkyfics]

Hii sorry to bother 🥲🫶🏻

But If I can, I'd like to request Dave maybe with an insecure reader that used to be bullied back in school days and stuff.

Please decline or ignore this if you don't feel like writing or simply don't want to! I love your writings they're so comfy and sweet (If that makes sense?)!

Ty and stay safe and healthy !😽😽

I’m here. I’ll always be here

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: "Hey," he called once he was close enough, his voice soft, but full of concern. You stopped, raising your eyes to him, and what Dave saw was enough to make his chest tighten. Your eyes were shining in a way he knew meant tears were close, and there was something fragile about your expression, like a single word could make everything crumble.

Warnings: mention of bullying, anxiety, sensitive content - a bit of well-deserved revenge

A/N: ooh you are so sweet, thank you so much for the nice words. and you certainly don't bother, my dear. I hope you can enjoy it, and please stay safe and healthy too <333

Masterlist

The day was calm on campus, with students scattered across the lawn and the muffled sound of laughter and conversations in the background. You had just left the library a few minutes ago, balancing the books against your chest as you tried not to think about how busy the campus seemed at that time. You were planning to take a shortcut to the place you knew Dave would be. Just a few more minutes, and the comfort of his presence would dissipate any discomfort you felt.

But then it happened.

It was a quick bump, the kind of thing that could go unnoticed on a normal day. The impact was light, but it made one of your books slip and fall to the ground. You automatically bent down to pick it up, mumbling a hasty apology without even looking at the person.

"Ah, sorry," you started to say, but the voice that responded made the blood freeze in your veins.

"Well, look who’s here."

The voice was sweet, almost musical, but tinged with a note of malice you instantly recognized. That unmistakable tone that made your stomach churn. You slowly lifted your head, as if you could delay the inevitable.

It was her.

The nickname came to your mind before you could process the face in front of you. Sugar. That’s what she was known as, but the nickname never reflected her true nature. She wasn’t sweet. Not really. She was cruel in an almost elegant way, capable of turning insults into something that sounded like a compliment to anyone not paying attention.

Her smile widened when she saw your expression.

"Well, this is unexpected. You, here? Never imagined that... well, you know, that you’d be the type to actually make it somewhere."

Your heart began pounding in your chest. You tried to smile, to act as if it were any other encounter, as if her face wasn’t dragging up memories of every moment you wished you could disappear. You tried to walk past her, to keep going, but her hand lightly touched your arm, just enough to stop your steps.

"What’s the matter? Not even going to say 'hi' to an old friend?"

"I have to go," you murmured, your voice weak, barely audible. But she didn’t step back.

"Oh, don’t be like that! I mean, look at you!" She gestured dramatically, her eyes sliding over you as if she were evaluating a defective piece of art. "You’re so... different. Not that it’s bad, you know? But I can still tell, I guess. The same vibe, that... how can I put it? That insecure little thing. You can feel it from a distance, you know?"

You tried again, took a step back, but she followed the movement, leaning in slightly, like a predator sensing vulnerable prey.

"It’s funny, because I remember you always seemed so... out of place. I mean, I never thought you’d survive high school, let alone get here. It’s like a miracle, don’t you think?"

Her voice seemed to echo louder than it should have, drowning out the sounds of the campus around you. Each word seemed to pierce your mind directly, bringing images, voices, and laughter from the past you tried to bury.

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words just wouldn’t come. The air felt heavy, like the simple act of breathing required effort.

She laughed, a low, almost conspiratorial sound, as if sharing a secret with you. "Oh, don’t get so tense. I’m just joking, you know? That’s what I always liked about you, that... sensitivity. Makes you so easy to hit. Isn’t it fun? You get all nervous, like you’re about to explode any second."

You wanted to run. To escape. But your legs felt glued to the ground, and all you could do was press the books harder against your chest, as if that could create some kind of barrier between you.

"Well, I won’t bother you anymore with your... busy day or whatever you call your routine," she said, finally stepping away, but not without giving one last evaluative glance. "Just thought it was funny seeing you. Almost didn’t recognize you. But, you know, some things never change, huh?"

She walked away then, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and poisonous words in the air. And you stood there, paralyzed, trying to process what had just happened.

The weight of Sugar’s words still seemed to press against your chest as you finally forced your feet to move. The world around you was just a blurred smear of colors and muffled sounds, everything secondary to the echo of the memories crashing in like a violent wave.

The hallways of high school. The judgmental stares. The laughs that always seemed to follow you, even when you didn’t quite know what they were laughing at. The feeling of being small, invisible, and at the same time, far too exposed. It was a whirlwind you thought you’d overcome, but now it was back with full force, as if time had stood still.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep it together. Trying to remind yourself that that was the past, that you weren’t that person anymore. But the memories didn’t let up, and before you knew it, your eyes were misting over.

When you finally spotted Dave, he was standing near one of the campus benches, with Todd and Marty. They were laughing about something, and just seeing him there, in his relaxed and cheerful posture, made the weight on your shoulders lighten a little. Dave was the anchor that kept you steady, but even now, he seemed as distant as the rest of the world.

Dave noticed you before you could get too close, and his smile faded the moment he saw you. Something was wrong. He knew every detail about you — the way you walked, the slight curve of your shoulders when you were distracted, the way your lips curled into a nearly imperceptible smile when something pleased you. But now, each of those traits seemed erased.

Your steps were hesitant, almost staggered, as if you were carrying something far heavier than the books pressed against your chest. Your shoulders were stiff, and the way you avoided looking around said more than words ever could.

"I’ll be right back," Dave murmured to Todd and Marty, but didn’t wait for their response before heading straight toward you. He didn’t need to think, didn’t need to plan. He just knew he had to get to you.

"Hey," he called once he was close enough, his voice soft, but full of concern. You stopped, raising your eyes to him, and what Dave saw was enough to make his chest tighten. Your eyes were shining in a way he knew meant tears were close, and there was something fragile about your expression, like a single word could make everything crumble.

"Hey, what happened?" He took another step forward, reaching for your hand, but you shook your head, gripping the books tighter.

"It’s nothing," you said, your voice low, almost faded. It wasn’t how you normally spoke. It wasn’t you.

"It doesn’t sound like 'nothing,'" Dave replied, his voice firmer now. He put a hand on your shoulder, a light touch, but full of intention. "Please, talk to me. What happened?"

For a moment, you stayed silent, as if deciding what to do. And then, finally, you murmured, "I ran into someone... from high school."

The words hit him hard. Dave knew enough about your past to understand the weight that came with that. He didn’t know all the details — you still couldn’t talk about some things — but he knew enough to feel a quiet anger rise inside him.

"Who?" The question came quickly, almost automatically, before he could stop it. He needed to know.

"It doesn’t matter." Your answer came fast, and you looked away. "I just want to forget."

Dave took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. He knew pushing you would only make things worse. But seeing you like this, so vulnerable, so distant from yourself, was unbearable.

"Okay," he said, softening his tone. "Okay. But let me help, at least. Let’s sit, alright? Just for a minute."

You hesitated, but eventually nodded, and Dave wasted no time. He found a bench a little farther away and guided you there. As soon as you sat down, he took one of your hands, interlacing his fingers with yours. It was a simple gesture, but it held so much meaning.

"If you want to talk, I’m here," he said, looking directly at you. "And if you don’t, that’s okay too. But just... let me stay with you now, okay?"

Dave kept his eyes fixed on you, feeling the weight of your silence like a wave about to crash. You were always so good at hiding what you felt, at masking the pain with small smiles or words that deflected attention. But now, there was no shield. It was just you, vulnerable and desperately trying to hold it together, even as everything around you seemed to crumble.

He squeezed your hand lightly, a silent reminder that he was there, that you didn’t have to carry that weight alone. "You don’t have to pretend with me," he said softly, his tone gentle, with no trace of judgment. "I’m here. Just let it happen."

You swallowed hard, your lips trembling as you tried to form a response that wouldn’t come. You didn’t want to break down, not there, not now. But his eyes were so warm, so full of love and understanding, that the knot in your throat became impossible to ignore.

"Dave..." Your voice finally came out, but it was almost a whisper, as fragile as you felt.

He didn’t say anything, just shook his head slightly, as if he wanted to tell you that you didn’t need to speak unless you wanted to. And that was what broke down your defenses. All the effort to keep the tears at bay disappeared, and before you knew it, they were slipping freely down your face.

Dave moved in the same instant, leaning in to wrap you in a tight embrace. It was firm, protective, but in a way that spoke more than words ever could. He wanted you to feel safe, as if nothing and no one could hurt you while he was there.

"Shh... it’s okay," he murmured against the top of your head, his fingers gently brushing your back. "I’m here. I’ll always be here."

You clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in a crumbling world. Sobs came in waves, each one bringing to the surface pieces of the pain you had been repressing for so long. And Dave... he just held you, as if he could carry the weight of it all.

As he held you, Dave felt a silent anger growing in his chest. He rarely thought about the times he wore the Kick-Ass suit— it had been years since he hung up the mask, choosing to leave that chapter behind. But in that moment, he considered going back. Just for one night. Just long enough to find whoever had done this to you and make sure they understood what it felt like to experience fear, shame, and helplessness.

But at the same time, he knew that wouldn’t fix everything. What you needed now wasn’t vengeance. It was comfort. It was knowing that someone was there to hold you in the tough moments.

"You don’t have to carry this alone," he said, his voice still low but filled with conviction. He pulled back just enough to look at you, holding your face with both hands. "I know I can’t erase what happened, but I can help you move forward. We can do this together, okay?"

You looked at him, your eyes still glistening with tears, but there was something different now. A spark of relief, of hope. Dave saw it and felt his chest tighten in a different way—not with anger or sadness, but with love. Because that’s what he felt for you, so intense it sometimes felt impossible to put into words.

He gently wiped away a tear that slid down your cheek with his thumb, offering a small smile full of tenderness. "No matter what happened before, what matters is that now you have someone who isn’t going anywhere. Someone who believes in you."

Dave kept his thumb resting lightly against your cheek as his eyes remained locked on yours. It was as if he was trying to convey everything he felt—every bit of love, security, and certainty that you would never be alone again.

He leaned in a little more, their breaths nearly mingling. Then, with the utmost gentleness, he pressed his lips to your cheek where a tear still glimmered. It was a kiss as soft as a silent promise.

"This is to chase away what’s left of the bad," he said, a small smile, but full of sincerity, appearing at the corner of his lips.

You blinked a few times, surprised by the gesture, and although tears still threatened to fall, a faint smile began to form on your lips.

"You’re impossible, you know?" you murmured, your voice choked but with a hint of affection.

"I prefer ‘irresistible,’" Dave replied, tilting his head slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But I’ll take ‘impossible’ if that makes you smile."

He repeated the gesture, this time kissing another tear that slid slowly down the other side of your cheek. "One more, just to be sure," he added, feigning seriousness, but with a hidden smile in his voice.

A soft laugh escaped your lips, almost timid, as if you weren’t sure it was allowed to feel anything beyond pain in that moment. But to Dave, that sound was everything.

"Ah, there it is," he said, his smile now more evident. "The laugh I was waiting for. That’s what I was talking about."

You shook your head, a little incredulous, but the tension in your body began to ease. There was still a weight there, he could see, but the way your shoulders relaxed just a bit, how your eyes weren’t as watery anymore, made the world feel a little lighter for him too.

"Why do you do this?" you asked, your voice firmer now, but still filled with emotion. "Why do you... look at me like I’m the most important thing in the world?"

Dave shrugged, but his smile was so genuine it almost stole the breath from him. He held your face again with both hands, leaning in until your foreheads almost touched.

"Because you are," he replied simply, without hesitation for even a second.

The weight of those words felt like a comforting hug in your heart. You felt tears welling up again, but this time not from pain, but from relief, from the certainty that you were safe, that you were with someone who saw you exactly as you were—and loved you for it.

Dave chuckled softly at the return of your tears, but he didn’t mind. Instead, he continued his small ritual, kissing yet another tear that threatened to escape. "And this one’s just to remind you of that," he said, his voice as soft as a whisper.

"Dave..." you began, but he shook his head, cutting you off.

"Without ‘but,’ no doubts," he said, looking directly into your eyes. "You’re amazing. And I’ll spend the rest of my life reminding you of that, even if you don’t believe it now. Especially if you don’t believe it now."

The smile that formed on your face was different this time. It was more genuine, more complete, and Dave felt his chest fill with warmth he couldn’t describe. To him, seeing you smile that way was like finally breathing after holding his breath for a long time.

He grasped your hands in his, holding them firmly but gently. "So, how about we head home? I’ll make popcorn, you pick the movie, and we’ll turn this day into a good memory. Sound good?"

You nodded slowly, the smile still on your face, and Dave felt that, even if the day had started in a storm, now the sun began to shine again.

A few days had passed since that moment when Dave had hugged you, and although the signs of sadness hadn’t completely disappeared, he could see how things were improving. Time, patience, and care were finally bringing back that version of you he had always admired—a lighter, freer, more you version.

But, like anyone with a good sense of justice running through their veins, Dave felt that something needed to be done. That silent anger still burned in his chest, and the desire to protect you from anything that could hurt you consumed him. So, he came up with an idea—a plan that made him reminisce about the old days.

And, of course, who better to help him with this than Mindy?

"I know I’m retired, but... I need your help with something," Dave said to her, trying to hide the anxiety in his voice. He was more nervous than he’d like to admit.

Mindy looked at him with suspicion, raising an eyebrow. "What do you want?"

"I just need your help finding the people who, well, did some... unpleasant things to my girlfriend. I want to teach them a lesson."

Mindy raised her eyebrows, a look on her face that clearly said ‘seriously?’ and let out an ironic laugh. "You want revenge? Because I’ve got a few things you’ll find pretty interesting."

"No deaths or dismemberment," Dave argued quickly. "Just something that sends a clear message to them. That they should stay away from her. Forever."

Mindy scoffed but couldn’t help smiling. "Fine. But you’re missing out on the chance to create something epic."

With her help, the mission was executed—nothing too flashy, but a clear and direct message, with a very Mindy touch. She was good at making things feel... uncomfortable, but no real harm was done. Dave had no doubt the message had been delivered.

When he finally got to the apartment he shared with you, he was exhausted but satisfied. The mission was complete. He leaned back on the couch with a satisfied smile, a look that mixed exhaustion with an almost childlike happiness.

You entered the room, immediately noticing the gleam in his eyes, the strange smile on his lips, as if he had just conquered something.

"Why are you smiling like that?" you asked, walking towards him. There was something mysterious in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite place. "You look... happier than usual."

Dave stretched out his hand, an even wider smile on his face, and gently pulled you onto his lap, sitting you between his legs. He was visibly excited, almost like a kid who had just discovered something fun, and his arms wrapped around you, holding you warmly. His lips met yours in a soft kiss, but the intensity of the gesture was clear—he was happy, more than usual, and it showed in every movement.

You, still smiling, but now a little more curious, placed your hands on his face, stopping the kiss for a moment. Your eyes met, and the tone of your question was gentle, but with a hint of concern that didn’t go unnoticed.

"Dave..." you began. "What happened? What were you doing?"

"I was just taking care of some things," he replied softly, a smile on his lips.