#in all seriousness though I can't blame her

[chuckeroo777]

Slay the Princess- Voice Rankings

Slay the Princess has been one of my fixations for a while, and for good reason. It is such a complex, well written, and funny game. So, why not rank all the voices? Maybe I'll do another one later with the princesses.

13. Voice of the Opportunist

God I hate this guy. Despite being involved in all three of my favorite routes (Razor, Thorn, Dragon), he is the worst. Seriously, despite his best attempts to butter everyone up, he only manages to make himself the most hate-able voice. He pretty much never misses an opportunity to betray everyone.

12. Void Narrator

This is the thing that gives narration whenever the Narrator vanishes. Might not be an actual voice. Honestly, I only included it so that Opportunist could be lower.

11. Voice of the Hunted

He's alright. Never exactly a bad voice to have around, he's mostly rated this low because he's boring. Between his soft voice and one-track mind, there isn't really much to say.

10. The Narrator

Ah, Mr. The Narrator, if that even is his real name. He's exactly the sort of guy you love to hate. His intentions are noble, if misguided. I ultimately believe he is in the wrong, though I can't exactly blame him. He's a lot of fun to mess with. Would probably be higher, but evidence points to him being a false voice, so he loses points for that.

9. Voice of the Skeptic

Skeptic seems like a really good voice to have to solve the mysteries of the construct. Until it turns out he isn't. Seriously, he is worse than the contrarian when it comes to making spiteful decisions. If the narrator says something, he immediately wants to do the opposite. He acts like a know-it-all, but really, he knows nothing.

8. Voice of the Cold

Similar to hunted, Cold is just a little boring sometimes. His calm collected manner is helpful sometimes, but really, he's just kinda there sometimes. He is particularly fun in the grey.

7. Voice of the Broken

A lot higher than I thought he would be. Broken is a simp and a whiner, but he is really funny sometimes. His performance in razor and fury are particularly entertaining.

6. Voice of the Cheated

Cheated is not a helpful voice. He's a salty gamer who would totally sling racial slurs at the narrator if he knew any. The reason he's so high is because he is really funny. Flinching? Never heard of him.

5. Voice of the Stubborn

The second horniest voice, stubborn knows exactly what he wants. He always brings a lot of passion, determination, and drive, though he can be a pain to deal with if you don't actually want to fight.

4. Voice of the Paranoid

Paranoid is a voice that might seem annoying at first, but he is probably the best voice to have your back. Better at deductions than skeptic, better at keeping you alive than hunted, pretty funny at times too, paranoid has it all.

3. Voice of the Smitten

As much as I kinda hate this guy, there is no denying that every word that comes out of smitten's mouth is pure gold. Would probably be number 1 is not for his... uncomfortable behavior in happily ever after, putting it lightly.

2. Voice of the Hero

Sometimes the straight man can be boring, but in hero's case, he is a delight throughout the whole game. Adorably innocent, abundantly reasonable, and always wanting to do the right thing, Hero is a steadfast companion, and is funny to boot.

Voice of the Contrarian

I just love this guy. Contrarian never takes anything seriously, but at the same time, is generally never a hindrance (except in razor, but no one was salvaging that one). He's just here to have a good time, and I love that about him. Only downside is how few routes he shows up in.

Honorable Mention: The Princess

She occasionally slips into the role of a voice in your head. But she is not you. She doesn't count, despite how much I love her.

[theobrowningfd]

Though the rest of his body hurt to move, thankfully his head and face did not. So when he joked about why he'd stay still to heal faster, he had to smirk about it. "I mean you can't really blame me, look at you," he nodded towards her, refraining from gesturing with his arm as it still hurt to lift his arm, "but yes. That and getting to hug the kids," he quipped, adding that for extra measure. Then shaking his head about her handing him a mug, "okay fine. But just know I hate it, hate being unable to help myself." He huffed lightly, his voice a mixture of sarcasm and seriousness as he really did not like to be an invalid. "That they do, and Luna's been through it all, she's even older than Riley," he replied as he gently stroked the gentle shepherd's head as she closed her eyes. "They're better than some people at sensing an another's mood," he nodded as Duke decided to join in on the party. "Just missing Nebula now," he added, as he had started taking a liking to the feline despite his allergies. "Exactly, plus I still think having your input could be beneficial," he turned to her before handing her the tablet, "this one looks promising. It looks nice and the price isn't so bad per month."

Tamara’s face contorted with amusement, chocolate eyes glistening as they rolled at Theo’s response. “Out of everything, that’s what’s going to encourage you to stay still?” Though she wasn’t really all that surprised, especially with how much they each used physical touch as their love language. “Oh, it’s the same thing!” A slight movement on her part for the ease of his? It was the least she could do. “Dogs have that extra sense. Not even just dogs — a lot of animals do. Nebula always curled up on my lap after a long day.” Tamara expressed adoringly, fingers reaching out to scratch behind Luna’s ear. Duke must have felt left out, because she felt his wet nose push against her arm as he tried to push his head in for a pet, which she happily provided with a giggle. Bringing her mug into her grasp shortly after, she rose it and swallowed the warm liquid, letting it glide down her throat soothingly. “Probably a good idea. At least you can have a look now to see if there’s anything that tickles your fancy,” she nodded, processing his predicament. “Yeah? Show me!”

[ddejavvu]

wait your new hotch blurb got me thinking what about they got secretly married and everyone knows that hotch is married they just don’t know it’s to bau!reader because he seemed very genuine in the wanting privacy so (after complaining) they respected that, and maybe one of the team members sees hotch and bau!reader kissing in the hallway of a hotel or something and confront him about cheating on his wife

"How could you cheat on your wife?"

Penelope's harsh, degrading accusation hits Aaron directly in the chest, through the layers of stoicism that he's come to forge over the years of working in criminal investigation and straight to his heart.

All Hotch can manage is a, "What?", and Penelope's eyes dim further.

"Don't do that, Hotch. I saw you. I saw you and Y/N kissing in your office. How could you do that to your wife?"

She looks so crestfallen that Aaron's chest actually aches, so unprepared to see the famously bubbly Penelope Garcia close to tears. Close to tears because of him, no less.

Aaron might have chosen his words more carefully if he hadn't been so startled by Penelope's unusual devastation, but his jumbled brain forgoes its job and his mouth takes over, uttering the thoughtless statement, "That's- that's what she's there for."

And in his mind, it's true, if not the complete truth. You are there for him to kiss, you're there to be kissed and loved and appreciated and cherished, but he's momentarily forgotten that Penelope doesn't know that you and his mystery wife are the same person, and his words so easily warp into possessiveness and disregard.

Her face contorts into a mixture of disgust and rage that could take out a serial killer, and he seriously considers recruiting her as Chief Lecturer of the BAU, "Hotch? How- how could you say that? That your wife is just- just some thing to wait on you while you run off with someone else? You- Aaron, I can't believe you, I thought you were better than that!"

She tries storming away, tears budding in her eyes but Aaron catches her elbow, ignoring the way she flails and squirms at his touch.

"Let go of me!" She tearily demands, but he grabs her by the other arm now, holding both of her shoulders.

"No, Penelope, listen-" He tries, reminding himself to send her to Derek later for a self-defense lesson, because the weak shoves that she's pushing at his chest with do very little.

"No! No, I'm tired of listening to men," She shrieks, "You were supposed to be better than that, Aaron! I trusted you, you were supposed to be the kind of man that I could admire, and- but you're not! You're just like the rest of them, you're some egotistical, possessive, heavy-handed, domineering son of a-!"

"Y/N is my wife." Aaron cuts her off, his voice slightly raised, but not harsh. Never harsh, not to the sniffling mess of ruffles and glitter in his arms that handed him her resume on pink stationary all those years ago.

She falls silent, finally, but her lips still tremble. Aaron squeezes her arms tighter, not rough but comforting, "Y/N is my wife. We married privately late last year. We kept it secret for safety reasons, but I'll admit we didn't need to hide it from all of you. I was not cheating on my wife, I would never-" He thinks momentarily of Haley, of the gut-wrenching sound of her cell phone ringing with a call she wasn't brave enough to answer in front of him, "I would never do that to Y/N."

It's a lot of new information to process, and Aaron grants Penelope all the time she needs to work through it. When her red-stained lips part again she breathes, "You married Y/N?"

"I did." Aaron nods, and though it's not the time to smile, he can't help that a ghostly one flits over his features at the mere thought of the day he'd married you, "I'll show you pictures when we're done here. Penelope, you can trust me. I don't blame you for accusing me- in fact, I'm glad that you did. I'm glad that your loyalty isn't blind. But Y/N is my wife, and that's why I kissed her."

A very wobbly, "Oh." Is all that Penelope can manage, and she sniffles again, staring at his tie rather than his face as he holds her steady in the hallway. He's glad that they've both shown up early for the day, but you're due to return with coffee for the three of you any minute now, and he offers her his pocket square to wipe beneath her eyes.

"You said-" She chokes out sheepishly, voice unsteady as she smears the tears off of her cheeks, "You said you have pictures?"

That's how you find them when you return, seated on the couch in his office peering down at his phone. You have to set the tray you'd been carrying down on Aaron's desktop before you can properly greet either of them, but you're immediately alarmed by the tears streaked over Garcia's cheeks when she stands to face you.

"You-" She starts, not giving you a second to speak, "-are a rat! You got married," She gushes, and Aaron chuckles deeply from beside her, standing and pocketing his phone.

"You got married to our boss, and you told me nothing," She hisses, but slumps so easily into your chest for a hug that you're more than willing to give her.

"I'm sorry, Penny," You gush, squeezing her tight, "We just- we were worried about safety. The more people we told, the more dangerous it would become, so we didn't share it with anyone. But- but we should have told the team, I know."

She sniffles and you draw back to pick up her drink from behind you, sugary and pink and topped with a thick layer of whipped cream, "I got you a drink. Forgive me?"

"Reluctantly," She tries scowling, but she's never been very good at it. She takes the drink from you huffily, jamming the straw inside and taking a drag at the thick liquid. It's barely nine in the morning, far too early for the concoction she's sipping, but she nods after she draws back from the straw.

"This is delicious," She decides, "And you two are traitors, and I'm telling everyone about this."

"You should," Aaron laughs, stepping up behind you to press his shoulder to your own. It's comforting just having him there, and you relax against him as Penelope takes her leave.

"I mean it," She warns, wiping another stray tear from her cheek and sipping at her strawberry drink, "I'm telling everyone. I'm- I'm gonna hire some guy to fly a plane over the city, and the banner is gonna say, 'Y//N Y/L/N and Aaron Hotchner got married without me'."

"That's fair," You nod, not bothering to bite back a grin as she lingers in the doorway of Aaron's office.

"And so help me god," She narrows her eyes at you, once more falling just short of intimidating, "If you try to take some extended-sick-leave time, and I find out you're hiding a pregnancy from me? No amount of frappuccinos in the world will make up for it!"

"Noted," You call out as she leaves, and Aaron's hand comes up to press against the near-indiscernible bulge of your belly before the door even clicks shut.

"She's good." Aaron observes, and you reach for your own non-caffeinated drink with a grin that's hard to drink through.

"Let's tell her about the baby at lunch," You propose, "I think she's more than earned a secret to keep."

[velvetypoets]

Mister pitch perfect

The perfect Gryffindor golden boy has gone off his rails to catch a Black daughter.

Warnings: James Potter x reader fanfic, James is down bad, I tagged marauders but no peter, Slytherin reader, Black family reader, reader is portrayed as she/her, reader centric, forbidden love trope, SFW, James perspective

havent done this in a while and this will be the first time im posting on this platform. im very sorry if its quite messy!

this was supposed to be a oneshot but i drag it too much. so it'll be some sort of a series oneshot? will also be posted on ao3 soon!

————————————————————————————————————————

It was never meant to be. James Fleamont Potter was basically molted into the perfect specimen of man and every soul who has ever walked Hogwarts knew. Sure he would cause trouble every then and again with his fellow mates. Yet of course, James would always dazzle his way out of it with a few charming smiles or reasonings to squeal his way out of being blamed.

He was confident, charismatic, spotless.

And when he meets eyes with you, it was set. James is sitting at his usual spot with the marauders at supper when the moment arrives. You were fixing your necklace to your neck at the Slytherin table, struggling with the clasps as your face scrunches in frustration. James almost walks the whole way over to you and offers his assistance right then and there.

"Stop undressing my cousin with your eyes, Prongs," Sirius brings James back to reality with a slap on the back of his head. He seems to still be having his feast so that was new of him to pick on James in that setting. Remus raises an eyebrow as he stares at the two, "Since when do you care about the other Blacks?"

"That was foul, Pads!" James yell as he rubs his head and glares at his mate, he's used to Sirius playfights but that slap seems to be sincere. He tries to focus on the conversation as he tries to find you again on the table across. You seemed to have moved next to Regulus as he helps you with your necklace. James lets out an involuntary sigh.

"She's different, Moony. She's on the edge too. Pretty sure she's going to find a way to run when she hits 18," Sirius lets out a scowl, "Heard she is to be arranged with Nott. Bloody brilliant that."

"Nott? That Nott? Surely you're joking. That bastard can't even keep his owl alive for a week! How's he going to keep a wife that young?!" Remus exclaims in disbelief. Whipping his head to take a good look at you now that you're a big deal. "I wish I was. I love you but seriously mate, don't. You're big enough trouble yourself," Warns Sirius with his fork right to to James face. A juicy piece of meat dangling right on it.

He bites it though. Sirius lets out a shrieking squeal of, "My meat!", erupting laughter at the Gryffindor table as James chews proudly with a sly smile across his face. The boisterous sound turns a few heads, including yours. Your brows raised at the sudden commotion, only to have the red of your cheeks creep in as you find one of your cousin being the center of it. He watches as you rub your cheeks to hide the tint.

James gulps the meat down. He's quite full himself but he must admit, it's nothing like he has ever had.

——————————————————————————

The next time he sees you, you are sitting by yourself writing in parchments on a patch of grass by the lake. James is in a broom practicing to catch the golden snitch on Hogwarts grounds. Quite foolish but he's gotten bored of the arena and its currently being used by the Hufflepuff team anyways.

He's worried about you sitting all alone in this breeze though. It's quite cold and you don't seem to be wearing enough layers. He keeps a distance near a tree so as not to scare you, although he is quite discontent with seeing just your figure by the lake.

You whipped your head to the skies behind you, "Reggie? Is that you?" You ask calmly, your eyes not missing the shadowy figure blatantly hiding behind a tree, "I saw you from the reflection. Very funny, Regs."

James cracked a smile at your sarcastic tone. He even finds your voice perfect. He fixes himself a little before he reveals himself off the shade and lands in front of you, "So I'll take it you find me quite funny?"

Your eyes widened as you process the man in front of you. Why would James Potter—the Gryffindor golden boy—be here? And why is he talking to you now?

"You're not Reggie." You said still in shock, almost sounding like a question. Your brows are raised as you try to study his demeanor. He's holding his broom awkwardly in his arms, you've always thought James Potter's confident composure was permanent.

"Well if your standards of humour is a certain Regulus Black, I'm sure I'd be comical, love," He cracks a small smile and a hand extended to you, "Potter. James Potter."

You look at James like you're Newt Scamander finding a newfound beast, "I know who you are. Everybody does," You said in disbelief, finding the whole situation suspicious. The breeze of wind moves his curly hair to his face, framing it gracefully, "What I want to know is why are you doing this? We're not exactly fit to be friends."

"Why that's quite bold of you, lovely. Who said I'd like to be friends?" He said as he leans closer. You never noticed it before but his glasses are rather clean today, his hazy eyes look at you with glimmer in them you've never seen on anyone before. You think to yourself if its one of the charisma of being James Potter.

You stood your ground, you would have never thought to ever be face to face with this dazzling man in front of you. You are a Black though, your legs won't give in even if you try, "Well that's settled then. Are you here to pick a fight?" You ask him plainly, crossing your arms upon your chest.

James finds it adorable, he knows full well of his effects on people and especially of course girls. What he doesn't understand is the effect you have on him. "The contrary, darling. I have a proposition for you."

You lift a brow and yet let him continue, "I heard you're in quite the predicament with Nott. Now I know a way to get you out," His claim makes your eyes open, you let him continue. Words dripping in confidence, "A date. With me."

This time, you can't help but let out a laugh–of which James can't help but take in the sight. He's completely enamoured.

'What? Huh– Hold on. You can't be serious," You looked at him as if he had gone mad, the thought of a Black and a Potter dating is out of this world, "I don't know what kind of prank you're up to, but do you seriously think I'll fall for that?"

"Wait, I am serious! Picture this, if Nott knows you're going out with me he'd be livid, enough to break off the arrangement. I mean have you seen the way that scum looks at me? It's like he has this permanent face of eating vomit flavoured Bertie Bott's Beans!" He rants as he joined in on the laughter with you.

You are smiling as the laughter reduces to giggles. As stupid as it is, it has a good chance of actually working. You pondered, there's still one thing on your mind, "What's in it for you? Would I have to do anything?"

James let out a smile, his palms are sweating like he's deep into a Quidditch game, "Well I get to see Nott lose his bride—" He pauses, confronting himself whether to tell you the real truth or not, "I mean I'll also get a beauty on my side."

You roll your eyes at that, "Don't you try to charm me, Potter. Give me the real reason or its off. I have a feeling you need this more than I do,"

She's right, James thought. He was about to play it off if you denied it straight away, he wasn't entirely sure you would actually take him seriously. He grasps the sight of you for a bit before closing his eyes tight, "Okay, how about I tell you the reason in a week— Maybe a month. You don't have to do anything, we'd just go out like normal couples do. Sounds good to you?" He said, he extends his arms to you for a handshake. His thoughts full of prayers to Merlin so you wouldn't notice the tremble in his arm.

You grin the same one James had seen a million times on Sirius's face, the Black's grin of content. You shake his hand firmly, his big ones almost encasing yours, "You've got yourself a deal, Potter."

James is using every atom on his magical being to control his ecstasy as he smiles widely at you. Once the handshake is done he reaches for his scarf over his neck and wears it on you, "Nice doing business with you, sweetcheeks. I do hope you start wearing warmer clothes though. No snogging will be done if you're in Pomfreys care."

She looks good in my color

Well technically so is the color of a quarter of the schools because of course its a Griffyndor scarf.

"You surely don't expect me to go back. To my dorm. Through the halls, the stairs and the common room. With this on?"

Oh I won't regret this one bit, James thought. He chuckles at your words dripped in such a sarcastic tone, "Of course not, darling. Do you think I'm mad?"

He extends his arms for you to hold, "We'll go back together. Through the halls, the stairs, even the common room. I heard you folks have lovely parties there."

You let out a chuckle as you circle your arms around his, "Oh, the best ones. Your Gryffindors ass is so not invited though."

"Well at least I do have a lovely one, don't I?"

"Oh shut it, Potter!"

——————————————————————————

Another storm of commotion is coursing through Hogwarts. A lot has played it off as a mere prank. James grins at the thought of it. He has only you on his mind lately, cherishing the bits of conversation you and him had.

He's on his way to charms class this morning, one that inconveniently does not have you in it, he checked. He checked your schedule last night sneaking through administration with the invisibility cloak.

Moony and Pads by his side as usual. Sirius seems to still haven't caught wind of it, his hair tousled from a good sleep. Apparently he was up all night helping Remus solve a 10k piece magic puzzle.

Won't be long with how loud the students are gossiping though. James let out a coherent sighs. He had an amount of grins with knowing looks from a couple male students and even a pat on the back by a random Slytherin, "Alright, what is going on?" Remus breaks first. Stopping the two boys right before the class door.

James crackles a laugh, "What's going on? Nothing's going on, mate! What?" Moony lets out a drawled scowl on him, one he makes when he pieces that they're in some kind of trouble, "Why is everybody on Hogwarts up your pants then, Prongs?!"

Sirius yawns as he hugs James by the side to lean his head on him, "Yeah... Saw that too even if my eyes were closed the entire walk. You can tell us mate, come on," He does notice the lack of scarf on his mate's neck though, none in this rapidly chilly morning? "Prongsie, where's your scarf? I could really use a pillow here–"

"Oh! Thank Merlin! One second late and I would've thrown this in the bin. Here, take this off me," There you are with James Potter red and yellow scarf on your hands, just coming out the door. All three boys were quite startled, "What? Wait. This isn't your class," said James. His eyes land on the presence of a Slytherin scarf wrapping your neck. James wishes he could take that one instead.

"Yeah... I'm sort of risking being late to Dark Arts for this but I can't take the whispering anymore. I might square the next person who even looks at me!" You told him, your grip on his scarf tightens and James wishes the fabric would stretch upon your nails.

Sirius is well awake now, his bagged eyes darting between you and James as if you're both insane, "Hold–Hold on! What is this? What is happening, Why do you have James's scarf?" He cuts, going between you and James to put a distance and blocks James view. Remus gives James a 'he did warned you, mate' face at the side.

James on the other hand, in too much of a thrill of seeing you this early in the morning, "You could also just admit ya didn't want me to get cold, love. Thanks for the thought there," He said almost shouting as he stands on his tips to try and see you from above Sirius's head.

You let out an annoyed grunt, "Ugh I don't have time for this. Here Siri, give this to that stupid friend of yours. I'd like to keep my Dark Arts seat next to Cissy and Malfoy's been eyeing it like the vulture he is," You throw James's scarf to your cousin's head not caring if it covers his vision, it earns a few chuckles from nearby students. He trashes to take it off and looks at you in betrayal.

You're about to run off to Dark Arts and leave your cousin and his foolish mates when your feet stop and turn you back, "If you still want that date to happen. Expect my owl, Potter. She's a snow named Emerald."

"Oh and it is lovely to meet you, Remus. Do take care of my sod cousin and my idiot boyfriend. Make sure they're out of trouble," You smiled sincerely at Remus, you actually do admire him a little. You love dark arts and your professor rants and rants about Remus's talents.

Remus seems taken aback, but that would make the three of them. You left after he reciprocated your smile and responded with a polite, "You too, (Y/N)."

And as such, you scurried off in a rush to go shoo away Lucius Malfoy from your seat and save Narcissa. Leaving behind a bewildered Remus, an angered Sirius, and a lovestruck James.

James keeps his eyes on you until you turn the corridor, a stupidly huge smile stays on his lips. He turns to find the reality of Sirius's wrath upon him. Remus is quite literally holding back Sirius with his whole body, it's quite an advantageous turn of events that Sirius hasn't had his proper sleep yet.

"Boyfriend! Boyfriend?! When did you even– How is this— Let me go, Moony! He's going to have an earful!"

He definitely will get that earful later. James grins an apologetic smile at Remus as he picks up his scarf that fell to the ground. He could already smell the sweet of your scent from a distance.

Remus lets out a huffed noise, "You really do always get what you want don't you?"

James doesn't reply. He wraps his own scarf on his neck, embracing the warmth it does to his skin. Your scent crashes onto him like tidal waves. A tint of rose blooms on the pale of his cheeks.

He smiles faintly at the open skies over the hall window. He wishes for an owl he hadn't even met for safe travels.

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

Spider-verse with a S/O that gets hurt often? Idk it this should be put as clumsy but really up to you. Thanks!

(Hello! Sure I can do here ya go!)

Taglist

Reader Who Gets Hurt a Lot

Miles Morales

Obviously he's worried about you

He's telling you over and over again to be careful

Most likely it is because you're clumsy

So he's watching you out of the corner of his eye almost everyday

See you trip over something?

He may shoot a web at you and pull you back up so you don't fall

But the times he doesn't get you and you do get hurt, he sighs and walks over to help you

He's always glad to help patch you up though

Just don't do anything dramatic like go up a tall building

He may actually have a heart attack

A stressed mother vibes

Earth 42!Miles Morales

He's scolding you more than the others

It's because he loves you and he's worried you may actually get hurt really bad one day

He doesn't want it to get to the point of you needing like, really bad medical attention

You've been to the hospital a few times due to like a broken finger or something similar

He was there those times when they happened and he can feel his heart drop

He may be a little like, annoyed, but more at your clumsiness but he's not blaming you

Sorta like

"Just be more careful, ma. You're gonna get hurt even worse if this keeps happening."

He's just worried and wants to make sure you're alright

Stop scaring him, man!

Gwen Stacy

Gwen may laugh under her breath

It's a reflex and she will help you though

Obviously, she's worried but she's more chill about it

Will help you up and bring you to help clean and bandage up your shit

Unless you are one to harm yourself to the point you need medical

Then she flips out and panics

She's worried, she loves you and wants you in good health

She sometimes can't focus on her health due to being Spider-Woman

So she does her absolute best to make sure you're okay

Will poke fun at you

Tease you and shit but it's from a good place

Will pat your newly acquired injury, kiss your cheek and be on y'all's way

Hobie Brown

He's worried but he hides it

He teases you about your clumsiness, especially if you get hurt because you're tripping and falling down all the time

"Falling for me now, are you?"

Sorta shit like that as he helps clean and bandage your wound

He actually likes helping take care of you

It gives him the feeling of something normal in your guys' lives

Even if it's because you accidentally hurt yourself

He's watching you every few glances and normally saves you from getting hurt

Has either w hand on your waist, holding your hand and it's to keep you up

Will pick you up when you fall

He's more calm, hides his worry and teases you a bit

It's from love though

Pavitr Prabhakar

You're both always getting hurt

You both spend so much time patching each other up

Someone when he tries to help you get up or help you when you get hurt, he gets the same exact injury

You guys match wounds and hospital trips a lot

It's something that now bonds you guys together

So much bandaids, so much disinfectant and so much time spent patching each other up

But he loves those moments oddly also

Especially if he has like scraps on his face and your holding his face and patching him up

He gets to do the same for you and you guys just love it

Obviously he's nervous about you getting seriously injured

But he's usually around to stop it

[kfaem]

Indulge || Sylus Qin L&DS

pairing: Sylus x MC genre: 16+, domestic cw: newly established relationship (MC is shy and clingy), bratty MC, sexual tension, morning after, marking (biting, scratching) note: i just know Sylus is WILD in bed

"Do you really think this is the proper way to get my attention?" Sylus hummed in his deep baritone, sending shivers down her spine. Still, she didn't let up, wiggling on his lap. A red and black wave surrounded her, freezing her mid-wiggle. "I already told you that I would indulge you when I was done with my reading. Stop acting like such a brat."

"Can you really blame me, Sy? You've barely spoken to me today." He sighed at her pouting, releasing her from the hold of his Evol and instead, placing his hands on her waist. "That's better." She snuggled into his chest, appreciating his hands around her body.

"Sweetheart, you know I can't continuously drop my work for you. We've talked about this far more times than I can count." MC raised her head from the comfort of his chest, eyes downturned at the seriousness in his voice. Though his eyes said something different. He didn't want her to move. "However...taking a quick break wouldn't halt any progress of mine."

Internally cheering with her victory, she planted a chaste kiss on his plump lips. "Should we watch a movie?" Sylus's red eyes had a mischievous glow to them, a glow she knew all too well. "Or... did you have something else in mind?" Her fingers trailed up his torso, stopping just before she reached the bare skin where his robe was unbuttoned.

"You're playing a dangerous game, dearest." His hands around her waist grew possessive, needy, urgent. "Are you sure you would like to continue?"

MC let her fingers run over his bare skin, causing his breath to hitch. She looked up, peering into his deep eyes. Suddenly lost for words, she breathed out one word. "Please."

7:24 AM

She woke up, rolling over to hide from the lights beaming in from outside the window. "Sylus?" Her hand felt around the bed, feeling his absence in the cold bedsheets and neatly tucked in blanket.

Her body ached and her throat was sore, hair tousled. The clothes she was wearing the night before now sit in the laundry bin, and now she was covered in a familiar black button up. The bathroom door then opened, a warm fog flowing out into the bedroom. Sylus emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist, still leaving very little to the imagination. Her face flushed deeply when she saw the markings that littered his body.

"Oh, you're awake," Sylus's mouth curved, eyes doing a quick once over seeing how she looked in his shirt. "I didn't want to wake you but it seems I failed, how do you feel?" He spoke so casually as he picked out a simple, stay-in kind of outfit for the day.

She cleared her throat to the best of her ability, flicking a stray piece of hair away from her face. She decided to answer honestly, "Sore." His eyebrow quirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. One could say it was confidence. "I-... I'm sorry for leaving so many..."

"What? Oh, these? Hm, no need to apologize sweetie." The towel dropped and he began to dress himself. "You should see yourself, you truly look ravishing."

Realizing she was still between the sheets, she quickly made her way to the mirror. A sharp gasp escaped her mouth as her eyes made their way head to toe.

Her body was covered in markings, from bite marks to bruises and the odd scratch. Sylus smirked, feeling pride in his work. "Sylus! I have to go to work today!"

"You didn't seem to care last night, don't you remember?"

She scrunched her nose, whacking his arm. "I swear, you're going to get me in trouble one day."

Sylus kissed the crown of her messy bedhead, "I love you too, sweetie."

[sommerbueckers]

𝐍𝐨 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

➪ 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭

______________________________________________________________

PAIGE MOVED QUICKLY to open my door, nearly tripping over her phone feet. I shook my head from behind her, covering my mouth with my hand as I got into the car. She flashed me a goofy smile before shutting my door, hurrying to the driver's side.

The night was warm and the tropical city of Orlando, Florida was buzzing with tourists all over. The car started up and Paige pulled into traffic, even the most frustrating situations seemed beautiful on vacation. I watched with big eyes at all the lights around the city; the fairy lights on the patios of restaurants, the taillights on cars, the bridge lights that illuminated the water below.

Everything was so perfect, including Paige.

She was dressed in a pair of white linen shorts with a pattern crochet button up, her blonde beach waves hanging down over her shoulders. As the night settled in, Paige removed her sunglasses from on top of her head and gently set them in the center console, her eyes briefly meeting mine for a moment before she looked away.

"What?" I raised my eyebrow, looking curiously.

"Nothing," she laughed, "I can't look at you?"

"You can," I shrugged, feeling a blush creeping onto my cheeks. If she asked, I'd blame the heat.

Paige smiled cheekily, biting her lip and looking out her window.

"You wanna get some ice cream?" she asked.

"Not ice cream...something cold though," I replied, thinking about an alternative.

"Frozen margaritas?"

"Yes! Holy shit," I breathed out, my eyes wide, "that sounds amazing right now."

"Calm down lil lady," Paige smirked.

"I can't," I said, "you just managed to make a perfect night even better, I didn't even think that was possible!"

"Tonight was perfect, huh?" she smiled warmly.

"Definitely. If you pulled out a ring right now, it'd be an automatic 'yes.'"

Gasping, Paige asked, "So it wasn't a 'yes' before the frozen margaritas?"

I shrugged, "A solid 'maybe.'"

"I'll remember that then," the blonde nodded.

"Remember what?"

"Your love for frozen margaritas," she said.

"Good."

After a beat of silence, I spoke again.

"But seriously, y'know i'll say 'yes' right?" I asked her.

"To?"

"To marrying you. I can't think of one reason why I wouldn't marry you, unless you've got like some deep dark secret that I don't know about," I explain.

"Hm," Paige nodded.

I frowned, "'Hm'? That's it?"

She laughed, but there was something off about it.

"What do you want me to say?" she smiled with furrowed eyebrows.

"I don't know...I just expected more than a 'hm' y'know?" I shrugged, mocking the way she said it.

She didn't respond at all that time, and when the car came to a stop at a red light, I slightly turned my body toward her. She raised her eyebrows expectantly, her eyes slowly looking me up and down before her tongue darted across her lips. I felt myself grow hot, the urge to relieve some tension building inside of me.

With a deep breath, I was able to clear my thoughts and refocus on the reason I had turned in the first place.

"You don't have anything else to say?" I asked.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she shrugged, "you said you'd marry me if I asked, what -- did you want me to do it now?"

"No," I tried to smile but the frown was obviously there as well, "I just thought you'd have something more to say, that's all."

"Well...I don't, i'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry, you don't have anything to say, it's okay," I reassured, staring back out the window.

Was I overreacting? How did I expect her to respond to that anyway? I suppose I was half hoping she had a ring on standby, and maybe when I realized she didn't, I got upset? We've only been together for three years, and this was our first vacation alone together, I think I just got too excited, and the many couple drinks I had didn't help.

I heard Paige sigh from beside me as the light turned green, and she reached her hand forward to turn the radio down. Now, it was my turn to stare expectantly.

"I've actually been meaning to talk to you about something," she admitted.

"Okay...what is it?"

"It's about us."

The look on her face was one that made my stomach drop, one that made me want to crawl in a hole and not come out. It was one you'd give your partner during a breakup, a 'it's not you, it's me' look. I blinked silently for a few moments, scanning her face. I wanted to burn every detail of it into my mind; her lips, her eyes, her perfect nose. I loved Paige, and in case this was the last of our time spent together, I wanted to savor her.

I swallowed the lump in my throat before I responded, "Sounds serious," I laughed dryly.

"It is...sort of," she nodded.

"I'm listening..."

"I love you, so much, and I know you know that. It's why I bring you everywhere with me, I show you off on my socials, to my friends, my family," she started, emphasizing the word 'family.'

Immediately I knew where this conversation was headed. It was one Paige and I had had countless times; she wanted to meet my family, and I had yet to introduce her. In the three wonderful years that we had been together, she did indeed bring me along with her to every family gathering that she had. I had gone for Thanksgiving, Christmas, a period of our spring break, she even brought me along when she went to surprise Drew for his birthday. But not once, during all of that, had she even seen my parents' faces.

It was wrong, I knew it was, I just couldn't bring myself to admit it, much less do anything to change it. It was better this way, and Paige just couldn't understand that. I don't think she even tried.

"-but I still haven't met yours."

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, half listening to her talk and half trying to ignore her.

"Why're we talking about this again?" I sighed.

"Because we need to talk about it," she said, "You say you wanna get married and start a family but you're not even working with the one you already have. If we're gonna take our relationship to the next level, I have to meet your family."

"Why though?"

"Because! You know everything about my family and I know nothing about yours. That isn't weird to you?" she asked, not even giving me a chance to respond before she continued. "I wanna know where you grew up, I wanna know who you get your humor from, I wanna meet the niece you mentioned a couple months ago and then never brought her up again."

I shook my head, "I don't wanna talk about this Paige."

"Too fuckin' bad, this is my car and we're talking about it."

"This isn't your car, this is a rental that I paid for," I argued.

"I don't give a damn! You don't get to control what things we talk about and when we talk about them without giving me a say, that's not fair."

"No, what isn't fair is the fact that you're bringing this up for the hundredth time after I've already told you how I feel about it. That's what's not fair!" I shouted.

"Okay. So what -- i'm just supposed to never meet your family? Is your plan for us to get married and just not invite them, or do they have to watch from a separate room that i'm not in?" Paige asked, completely shutting the radio off.

"Oh my God!" I laughed stiffly, "Why does it even matter if you meet them or not?!"

"Because it feels like you're hiding me!"

"I am not hiding you!"

"Then what the fuck is the problem?! You said they know you're gay, you said they don't care, so why can't I meet them?"

"Because I just don't fucking want you to! Why can't you respect that?!" I frowned.

"Why can't you respect the fact that i'm not marrying you until I meet your family?!" she yelled.

I sunk back in my seat, my lips screwed shut as I thought about her words. Keeping Paige separate from my family had been the best decision for me us, and it was one that I chose had to make on my own. I loved my family, but I had grown up with them and I was used to the way they acted, to the comments they'd make and the opinions they had. After coming out to them, despite their reassurance that they didn't care, I had made a promise to myself that whoever I married would never have to deal with them.

But now here I was, sitting next to the only person I had ever considered marrying with that very promise about to ruin everything. She didn't understand, and I wasn't sure she ever would. I wondered if there was someone out there that wouldn't mind not meeting my family, perhaps I could start over with someone else and make up some sob story about how I don't talk to them anymore. As I looked over at my girlfriend, at the only person who had ever made me feel loved even in the times where I didn't love myself, I couldn't even imagine trying to find someone else.

We were silent the whole way back to the airbnb, our desire for frozen margaritas long forgotten in the midst of our anger. Paige pulled into the driveway and I hopped out the car, storming back into the house. There was so much tension between us and I was wasn't sure I'd be able to handle it all night. We changed in the same room, and I hadn't even bothered to sneak a glance at her. We didn't brush our teeth together, we didn't reminisce on the day or share our excitement for tomorrow, we just stormed around in silence.

The familiar pair of curious blue eyes were missing as I did my face routine that night, and I tried and failed miserably to find peace doing it alone. With the door shut and the faucet running, I cried. I cried until I couldn't see the sink in front of me, I cried until I could feel how swollen my eyes had gotten, until my head ached so violently that I had to take a seat on the tub because I couldn't physically stand the pain in my chest. I loved Paige with my entire heart and I couldn't lose her, I wouldn't.

I didn't know how long I had been in there, but when I came out, I found the house to be empty. I poked my head into the living room hoping she'd be watching the NBA finals on tv, but she wasn't there and had seemingly abandoned the game during the fourth quarter. Our bed was empty, still neatly made from this morning when we had left for the day. She wasn't by the pool either and after walking around to the front of the house to check the driveway, I noticed the car was gone. I could feel my anger rising again, how could she just leave without saying anything?

We were mad at each other and we hadn't worked things out yet. What if something happened to her and I never got to tell her I was sorry, that if she truly wanted to meet my family then i'd do my best to make it happen. What if something happened to me? What if someone saw her leave and was now watching me stand there alone and vulnerable. I quickly turned on my heel, jogging to the backyard and reentering the house. I grabbed my phone to see if she had left me a message, she hadn't. It wasn't like her to up and leave like this, and she knew my rule about going to bed upset, so I stayed up.

I sat cross legged on the couch, watching the remainder of the game and making a mental note on who won. A shark movie came on afterward, and I leaned lazily against the back of the couch as the intro played. About fifteen minutes went by before I heard the garage door open and close, Paige emerging from the hall with a drink holder in her hand. She set it down on the counter and then looked at me. Her face softened quickly, and she grabbed one of the cups before pushing off of the counter to make her way over to the couch.

"Where did you go?" I asked quietly.

She sat down beside me and held out the cup, a straw was taped to the side of it.

"To get this," she answered.

"What is that?"

"Try it," she urged me, opening the straw and stabbing the top of the cup, "you''ll like it."

I pulled my knees to my chest and rested one arm against the top of the couch while I grabbed the cup with the other, carefully taking a sip. I bit back the radiant smile that fought its hardest to pull through.

A frozen margarita.

"I'm sorry," she sighed tiredly, "for yelling at you and for telling you that I wouldn't marry you until I met your family." I didn't respond because I knew there was more. "But you have to understand it from my perspective. I feel like i'm missing an entire part of you, your culture, your traditions, all your little habits and stuff, I wanna know where they come from. You never talk about your family, like sometimes I wonder if they even exist. Like maybe you were made in a lab or some shit," she said.

I shook my head with a small smirk.

"I just wanna know why."

I could tell Paige wasn't gonna drop this, and if I was being honest with myself, she did deserve a better reason other than me just not wanting her to meet them. I set the margarita down on the coffee table and scooted closer to her.

"I want you to meet my family, I do...it's just -- I don't want you to know them. They do know i'm gay and they said that it doesn't bother them but, I see otherwise on their faces. Whenever i'd bring it up or introduce my other girlfriends to them there'd be this weird tension in the room and I just knew it was because of me. They don't particularly care but they don't like it either."

Paige nodded, "So...they're homophobic?"

"Sort of. But not like 'kick me out the house' homophobic but..." my voice trailed off as I shrugged.

"More like 'don't acknowledge it and it'll go away' homophobic."

"Exactly," I nodded.

Paige leaned back against the couch and shut her eyes, blowing out a frustrated breath as she took everything in.

"Paige, my favorite thing to do is show you off, and I don't want you to think for a second that i'm hiding you from anybody, because i'm not. I just don't want you to have to sit through a -- a dinner or a family gathering and deal with the shit that I had to deal with growing up, it's not fun."

"I know, I know," she said, "and thank you for trying to protect me like that."

"But?" I raised an eyebrow.

"But, someone's gotta walk you down the aisle, right?" she smirked.

I gently hit her shoulder, "Paige! This is serious, you wanted to talk about this."

"Alright, alright!" she raised her hands in defense, and when our laughter died down she spoke again, "If you don't want me to meet your family then...I won't push you any further."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Okay," I breathed out, "thank you. I promise you will meet them, just not right now."

Paige smiled up at me, and I could see the faint hint of doubt that her eyes still held, but there was nothing I could do about it now. I wasn't ready for her to meet my family yet, and for right now she'd just have to be okay with that.

______________________________________________________________

A/N: here's a little smth cus im on vacation right now. this idea honestly came up because last night my brother said he wouldn't come on vacation anymore if i brought a girl with us and my mom js made a joke about the girl being paige and idk, made me kinda sad.

but thanks to them i conjured this up😏 so you're welcome!

[wayneskluv]

it’s possible she wants you back ¡! ❞ | n. romanoff

summary: your super cool assassin gf broke up with you but she wants you back sooo win win ig | pt 2 with fluff/smut?

word count: 711

pairing: natasha romanoff x gn!reader

warning: mentions of alc/nat being drunk, use of petnames “love” & “baby”

authors note: i would let her do anything to me but i'd also give her a hug and tell her everything's gonna be okay & the use of y/n, i had to for it to make sense, please forgive me 🙏

NATASHA thought breaking up with you would be for your own good, she didn’t deserve you. She was always late for date night due to her duties as an avenger, she had consistent nightmares that kept you awake and she was jealous of anyone who, well, looked at you—she couldn’t really blame them though.

“Baby..” Her whines echoed from behind your front door, from where a slightly intoxicated drunk as fuck Natasha was located. She was too drunk to be able to knock on the door, but you knew she was there, you knew her voice.

You take a deep breath, before you place a trembling hand on your door handle and gently pushing down as if it would break if you looked at it. "Jesus, Nat." A small sigh escapes you as you register her pathetic state, your hand instinctively reaching out to prop her upright. You haven't seen her this drunk in years, and she, most certainly, was not a lightweight.

"C'mon." You gently guide her into your living room, being as delicate as humanly possible. You sit her down on your couch, though as soon as you let go, she sprawls out lazily. "Gotta sit up, Nat. Don't wanna be sick.” You sound like a disappointed parent berating your child, because as much as you were mad at your ex, you loved her with your entire heart, and you still cared about her immensely.

You begin to rise to your feet, to go grab her a glass of water, before a pitiful hand drapes across your arm. "Please, Don't hiccup leave me." If it was anyone else, you'd have pushed them off immediately but you couldn't ignore her pleading eyes. "Yeah, 's okay. I'll stay. 'm not going anywhere."

As you speaks, the thick stench of liquor floods your senses and you feel ever-so-slightly ill. "Nat, love, what happened?" The breakup was fresh, the pet-name was a slip of the tongue, but you couldn't go back now—it’s not like she'd remember in the morning.

"Miss you. So, so, so much." The words roll off her tongue in a drunken slur, and you wouldn't have heard them if you weren't paying careful attention to her. You felt sorry for her, in all honesty-sure, she'd broken up with you without telling you why, and sure, she'd been acting distant, but she seemed genuinely upset.

"You still haven't told me why you broke up with me." You let out a dry chuckle, your shoulders untensing subtly as you notice her slowly regain colour to her face. “Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't tell y/n." The drunken hush she tries to add to her elevated tone is adorable and you have to stifle a grin as you nod, mock seriously. "| promise."

Once she gets your confirmation, she pauses for a few seconds as her head throbs harder, but then it slows and her eyes meet yours. "I was worried I wasn't good enough." Oh. That's not what you were expecting. You were expecting her to say it was something you did, like put an empty peanut butter jar back in the cupboard or anything, really, she has a bit of a temper.

"Really? So it's nothing I did?" Your voice goes up three octaves as you glance down at her, nervously biting down on your bottom lip. "What? 'Course not." It's clear the alcohol is taking a toll on her, and she looks as if she's going to vomit all over you.

You let out a slightly overdramatic sigh, “You take the bed, l'll the couch.” Your arm loops down around her waist, carefully pulling her up off the couch—if you weren't holding her so tightly, she'd had fallen head first into the ground.

The sound of hiccups echo your apartment as you both walk into your bedroom, something she was rather familiar with. You took no caution in letting her drop onto your bed, though you made sure she was in a proper sleeping position to avoid choking on her own vomit.

She falls asleep almost immediately and it's the first time since you've broken up you've seen her look so peaceful. You stand in the door for a few more moments before reluctantly dragging yourself toward the couch.

[thriftedtchotchkes]

keep it on the low

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: just because you and joel broke up doesn't mean you can't still (secretly) enjoy each other's company

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, hurt/angst, ex!joel, possessive!joel, pwp, smut, post-breakup sex, rough sex, mild exhibitionism

word count: 3k

a/n: all i can say is oops. blame sza, i guess. and of course, couch gif for obvious reasons. as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated!

Joel’s being obvious again. Discretion’s never been his strong suit, but he’s especially attuned to you today, and not in a good way. He’s not undressing you with his eyes, itching for the moment he can take you home like he usually is.

Nope, he just looks irritated as fuck. Way too angry for someone who just happens to be sitting in the same room as his ex. If he keeps this up, you’re going to get caught, and then what are you going to do? Fuck other people?

Like that’ll ever happen. You and Joel broke up almost three months ago and yet here you are, still hooking up like there’s no one else in this town to have sex with. But you have an agreement…sort of. You keep sleeping together, you don’t talk about it, and you definitely don’t tell anyone else. It’s high school-level dramatic and, honestly, you’re both way too old for this shit.

You know everyone’s gossiping about you behind your back, trying to figure out why you’re not together anymore. It was a bad breakup, probably the worst you’ve ever had and the biggest Jackson’s ever seen. The second this town hall is over, they’ll all be chatting amongst themselves, analyzing your behavior like it’s any of their business.

And Joel’s only giving them more to talk about. Seriously, why is he staring at you like that? If you can keep your eyes to yourself for an hour, surely he can at least pretend to be listening to what Maria’s saying, even though it’s boring as hell and doesn’t apply to either of you in the slightest. The winter dance next week really isn't your thing, no offense to her, but at least you're trying to look interested.

You shoot him a quick glare across the room, and he rolls his eyes, finally shifting his focus elsewhere. Apparently, that little interaction is all it takes to stir up the gossip mill because you can already hear a few of the worst offenders whispering to each other.

Fucking vultures. You’re pretty sure half of them are trying to make a move on Joel now that you’re over. Too bad he’s still busy spending his nights buried inside you.

The meeting ends pretty quickly after that, and everyone gets up from their seats, some staying to help put away folding chairs and others loitering around before they head to dinner. Somehow, Joel ends up next to you as you’re walking out, probably on purpose, and you take the opportunity to tell him off.

“Way to be fucking obvious, asshole,” you mumble, hoping no one else can hear you. “Did you have to stare at me like that? You made it seem like I spat in your fucking coffee this morning.”

He scoffs loudly, and you elbow him in the side, throwing him a warning glance. He’s acting like he wants everyone to know what you’re trying so hard to hide and it’s really starting to piss you off.

“Wasn’t lookin’ at you any sorta way, darlin’. You’re the one makin’ a fuss and gettin’ everyone’s attention,” he smirks. It’s not even fair how good he looks when he does that.

You feel a strong urge to slap it off his face, but that’s not really an option right now. An annoyingly intrusive thought tells you to save it for later when you’re alone, but you push it to the back of your mind. He’d probably enjoy that, anyways.

You quirk an eyebrow as subtly as you can. “…Are you kidding me? I wasn’t the one glaring at you the entire meeting.”

He looks around pointedly. “Ya think you’re not makin' it worse right now?”

You pause to take in your surroundings, and he’s right. You’re making a scene unnecessarily when you could’ve just ignored him and gone home like you’d planned. This is exactly why everyone thinks the breakup was your fault. Why they all think you're the villain in his story.

Joel knows just how to bring out the worst in you and you hate it. It’s one of the reasons you broke up in the first place. He pretends like everything’s fine and nothing’s ever his fault, and you’re constantly tricked into proving him right. But today he’s being purposely antagonistic and you can’t tell why.

“Oh, fuck you, Joel,” you grit through your teeth. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

He doesn’t.

Not even a few hours later, he’s at your back door—like always, so no one sees him come and go—eyeing you a little wildly. Hungrily. And suddenly, it all makes sense.

He's horny. Probably has been all day, judging by his behavior earlier. He doesn’t say anything, just lurches forward to kiss you, to get his hands on you, but your arms shoot out to stop him.

“Uhh, what are you doing? Pretty sure I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”

He’s already panting as if he ran all the way here, but the tent in his pants tells you otherwise. His heart is racing under your palms, and while you haven’t forgotten how furious you still are, the fact that he’s this desperate for you makes you want to.

"Yeah, but ya didn't mean it. Ya never mean it,” he says like he knows you so well. You hate that he does, but the last thing you’re going to do is admit it.

“Why the fuck would I say it if I didn't?" you scoff.

"'Cus it's more fun that way," he leans in again, but you jerk your head back. Is he serious? It’s not like you normally have a nice little chat before you fuck, but he usually has more patience than this.

“Joel, stop. Are you trying to get us caught?” you eye him incredulously. It’s dark out and, yeah, you’re not having this conversation on the porch where anyone can see you, but other people’s windows still face your yard. He’s acting ridiculous.

"Maybe I wanna get caught,” he replies smugly, crowding you against the door. “Maybe I want everyone to know who ya belong to.”

His eyes are unreadable, and you’re caught between shock and intense curiosity. But then, that familiar feeling of fury returns, and you allow that to win out. You reach behind you for the doorknob, twisting it open to back inside.

“No. Nope, that’s not happening today,” you say with finality, yanking him by the collar into the house. You shove his back against the door, slamming it shut, and your grip tightens on his shirt. He’s smirking again, and it somehow looks even better on his face now than it did earlier.

“There’s my girl,” he breathes out, his hands finding your waist to pull you closer. It sends an unwitting wave of heat through you, a gasp escaping your lips before you can stop it. Fuck. He hasn’t called you that since before the breakup. Because it hasn’t been true since then, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Only in here. Right, Joel?” He nods his head slowly, but his eyes betray him. He doesn’t believe that for one second.

“Sure, darlin’. Whatever you say.”

And, for now, that’s enough for you. You crash your lips into his hard enough to bruise and he groans into your mouth, rocking his hips into your belly so you can feel him straining in his jeans. It’s a little dizzying knowing just how much he wants you. How much he always wants you.

Flipping your positions to lead him backward, you reach down to unbutton his pants, your lips still moving languidly against his. Your fingertips purposely skim his bulge as you tug down his zipper, and he bucks into your hand, something soft and needy rumbling out of his chest.

More layers of clothing are stripped off and thrown haphazardly on the floor, leaving a trail from the kitchen to the living room, until the backs of his legs bump into the couch. All that's left now are his boxers, your underwear, and your bra. You make quick work of the latter yourself, dropping it to the floor, and then kick off your underwear, smirking at the look of sheer yearning on his face.

He reaches out to touch you, fingertips only managing to graze the side of your breast before you slap his hand away. He's not allowed to touch you until the playing field is even and he's as bare as you are. He already knows that.

His eyes are so dark, pupils dilated until that gentle brown has almost completely disappeared, and the way he's looking at you is reminiscent of a different time. You ignore it, focusing on all of the things you know he's about to do to your body instead. It'll help you forget whatever you just recognized in his gaze for a little while.

You tug on the waistband of his boxers, letting them snap back into his hips.

"Off," you tell him simply, giving him enough time to pull them down before you shove him onto the cushions. You climb into his lap, hands settling on his shoulders as you lower yourself down to drag your wet folds across his cock.

He hisses a breath through his teeth, his fingers digging into your hips to guide you, and you let him slick himself up against your pussy. He's so hard below you, looking painfully and almost angrily red at the tip. You sigh at the repeated friction on your clit and he twitches at the sound, dribbling precum that immediately mixes with your wetness.

"Need to be inside you. Now," he moans breathily, burying his face between your tits. He turns his head slightly to nip at the sensitive skin, and you tremble, trailing a hand up the side of his neck to bury in his soft curls. "You ready for me, darlin'?"

You nod quickly, chest heaving as you lift enough to reach down and wrap your fingers around him. Pumping him a few times, you drag the tip between your folds before lining him up with your entrance. He pants damply into your chest, more precum leaking out in anticipation.

And then you're dropping onto him, crying out loudly as you impale yourself on his cock. His hips shoot up off the couch, forcing himself deeper into your cunt, and he lets out a pained whoosh of air, adjusting to you as much as you are to him.

"Shit, that's—," he chokes out a moan as you start to move, "—tight. Fuckin' grippin' me, Christ."

You purposely squeeze him a little harder, exhaling sharply out your nose when his nails bite into your skin.

"Yeah, because you barely fucking fit," you tease breathily.

But it's more than that. You mold around him like you were made to take it, soft sighs leaving your lips as you ride him slowly. He fits perfectly, something that took precious time, his cock finding a home inside you over and over, reshaping your walls in his image. The lock to his key.

You bury that thought, too—with every swivel of your hips, every brush of your clit against his skin. He latches onto your breast, sucking a nipple into his mouth as you continue to work him.

His eyes flutter shut, hands beginning to guide you up and down a little faster as he swirls searing circles around the nub until it peaks. He tugs at it sharply with his teeth and you gasp, a spear of heat lancing through your spine as you gush around him.

It all feels so…fuck, he knows exactly how you like it. And both of you can hear how much you like it, feel how sticky you're making his lap. The slide around his cock is wet and easy, and your pussy's gripping him even tighter, but you need…god, you need—

"Joel, fuck me—come on, fuck me," you whimper, tugging him away from your tits by his hair, and he responds immediately. Taking over, he establishes a frantic, steady rhythm, lifting you until just the tip is inside, and forcing you back down.

But it's still not hard or fast enough to satisfy the way he needs you right now. He wraps his arms fully around your waist to hold you in place, pistoning his hips into you, forcing increasingly louder haahs out of your chest.

"That's it, darlin', take it…take it," he groans, head tilting back so he can observe every subtle change of expression as he gives you exactly you asked for. He leans up to capture your lips, but it's not so much a kiss as an exchange of breath, soft and humid as you pant heavily into each other mouths.

It quiets you for a brief moment—potentially the best possible moment, because out of nowhere, you hear faint voices passing by outside. They're way too close for comfort, and you realize belatedly that you made a huge mistake earlier.

"W-wait, the curtains—shit, the curtains…ngh…are still open," you barely manage to gasp out. "Fuck, the windows are open."

It doesn't deter him in the slightest and, instead, spurs him on. "S'alright, it's dark in here. They can't see us," he rasps, keeping up his merciless pace.

Ducking his head down, he sucks hard on a sensitive spot—your favorite spot—right above your collarbone, and you whimper much louder than you mean to.

"They can still fucking hear us," you all but growl, feeling your thighs start to quake despite your growing panic.

"Good, let 'em," he laughs almost cruelly, and he sounds so possessive that it stuns you momentarily. He takes the opportunity to abruptly tug you off his lap and toss you onto your back across the cushions, fucking back into you before you can even process the shift in position.

Now that he's on top of you, pressing down with his entire weight, his pelvis grinds into your already swollen clit with every single thrust, and you can't help the wail that escapes your parted lips.

He doesn't hesitate to pull you close, hugging your head to his neck as if he's trying to block out the rest of the world. Everything and everyone, but you and him.

"Always so loud for me. C'mon, darlin', lemme hear ya," he murmurs into your hair, hips snapping into yours. "I know you can be louder than that. Scream for me."

And you do. There's nothing else you could've done anyway, not with how he's dragging against everything just right. Your hips desperately swivel into his, chasing that hot, slick friction every time he connects with you.

The slap-slap-slap of your skin on his becomes a deep, wet thock-thock-thock the closer you get, your pussy dripping pathetically down his cock, fluttering with your impending release. He can feel it, you know he can, because he's moaning loud enough to rival even you now. He ruts greedily into you, hitting so much deeper than before.

"Christ…you're gonna make me cum," he warns, voice wrecked, his face still buried in your hair. "Jesus fuckin'…" You keen into his neck, still desperately chasing your own high, but it's not enough.

"J-Joel, I need—," you try to tell him, but he cuts you off.

"—'m fuckin' cummin'. Fuck," he grunts roughly, tumbling over the edge before you get the chance. His hips slow even as he continues to punch his cock as deep as it'll go, flooding your pussy.

No. Shit—no, no, no. He can't slow down, not now. You're almost there—so fucking close. He has to keep going. Just a little bit longer.

"No, Joel, no," you sob, legs kicking up around his waist as you grind up into him needily, increasing your speed. "Please, harder…please, please. Keep going for me—"

You feel rather than hear the groan rumble in his chest as he resumes his previous, unforgiving pace, ramming into you almost painfully.

"'m gonna. Don't'chu fuckin' worry."

At that, your orgasm quickly crashes over you, and you don't even realize you're slapping a hand into his side, still begging him not to stop as you wring him dry.

It's deafening what erupts from your chest when you finally cum. There's no doubt anyone outside can hear everything. Every squelch, every squeal, even the couch creaking, being pushed to its absolute limit.

Joel's name leaves your lips breathily, repeatedly like a prayer. You're shaking like a leaf underneath him, and he pulls back to brush your hair out of your face so he can kiss you, tender and open-mouthed.

This, too, feels gut-wrenchingly familiar but, for some reason, you don't want it to stop. Right now, you don't want to forget how it makes you feel.

He pulls out slowly, shoving two thick fingers inside you before your pussy can leak your combined releases all over the couch, and the sigh that escapes you sounds both content and despairing. He notices right away. Of course, he does.

Watching him leave you after nights like this hurts so much worse lately. Maybe it's nostalgia. Or maybe it's the unavoidable emotional connection you feel when he's inside you.

Even though months have passed since you decided you'd be better off without each other, something inexplicable keeps bringing you back together. It's not just the sex and you know it, no matter how much you choose to pretend otherwise.

He knows it, too. He tells you all the time—in the softness of his kiss, his desire to please you, and his eyes, still only ever focused on you.

And, now, in the possessiveness of his words and actions. Of his touch.

He gazes down at you knowingly, as if he can see every one of your troubled thoughts in the cloudiness of your eyes. He's always been annoyingly good at that.

"Y'know, I don't have to leave just yet," he murmurs, brushing his nose gently against your cheek. "Only in here, right? You're still mine as long as we're right here."

You let him wrap you up in his arms, nodding into his warm, beautifully scar-riddled chest.

"I'm yours."

thanks for reading! 💕

[imthepunchlord]

I think that the main problem with Marinette is that she always gets blamed for minor things, but her bigger mistakes are ignored.

She also gets blamed for things that aren't her fault. Like Reverser I blame Nathaniel and his extreme expectations, and Refleckdoll, it was Alya who was making things worse for Juleka while Marinette was trying to help. Gamer's another as she did play fair and square, and won fair and square.

But yeah, ML has an issue with priorities. With the mindset that ONLY Marinette can be at fault, which has her at fault for things that actually aren't her fault or are minor things when there are bigger faults with others; and that, for Marinette's actual faults and issues, they don't focus on the actual problems.

For one thing, Marinette is a perfectionist, in her work and responsibilities, and in how she helps people. This leads to her being meddling and controlling. With good intentions but she can take it far. She even has this idea that only she can be the solution, though more in an Atlas complex way than being egotistical.

Which I'll give the show this, by how it's set up, Adrien and Marinette kinda feed this bad aspect of their dynamic into each other. Adrien goofs around as a hero or doesn't take situations seriously with his flirting at bad times, so Marinette feels like she has to step up more as leader and responsible one, and Adrien doesn't get a chance to take things more seriously or be the leader as Marinette doesn't expect him to, which leads to his frustration of not being as valued as a partner like he wants and he acts out, and Marinette sees she can't rely on him as much and it just cycles.

I know the show sorta tries to address this with the insistence that Marinette can trust Alya and doesn't need to shoulder everything, which is great, if they didn't take it back right away validating Marinette in being right in not trusting Alya.

Which man, that's one of Marinette's actual big issues, and you address it, and then take two steps back and reverse and vindicate the flawful mindset.

Another big issue is her over involving herself in this she doesn't or shouldn't get involved with, meddling included. She could do to ease back, let others solve their own problems. Like, Darkblade comes to mind (though there may be a better example). I do think it was a good episode, but you got Marinette admitting she's already busy, and doesn't want to be class rep, but steps up as no one else is. This is just an added responsibility she doesn't need but does so because she's involving herself in others problems.

This also leads into the other issue: Marinette's tendency to overpile onto her plate. They even focused on this in Gamer 2.0 but instead of doing a lesson of learning to ease up, take a break, and have fun (which Adrien could've been great for, heck, could've had them bond over a busy lifestyle); but nope, she passes Max off to her parents and continue being busy.

And of course, there's the big issue of her crush.

Like, they're 13-14 yos dealing with first crushes, they're going to be cringe and crazy as they don't know how to handle this, but they just take it way too far. And the extremes it's taken isn't even funny but concerning.

Marinette having his schedule.

The hoard of pictures.

Jealousy that spirals to extremes.

And having rose colored view of Adrien, to thinking he can never do wrong and feeling like she needs to protect and assist him, even at the risk of herself (Collector).

Part of the worst part about this is that this exists for the writers' amusement, taking it to unlikable extremes and not portrayed as really bad flaws that need to be addressed or have lessons about; which leads me to question what's the exaggeration and what can be more accurate/reasonable for the cringey, dramatic crush. Some of which could've been fine issues to fault her for and for her to get called out and learn from, but we don't get that, all we get is unpleasantness.

Oh! You could also cover Marinette's lack of prioritizing herself, and may not knowing how to take a break and have fun. Cause I don't know if this girl knows how to relax. And she definitely doesn't behave like a kid, but much older. Could even delve into the friendship problems she has not really connecting with her friends as well because she doesn't know how to be a kid, how to mess around and goof off.

Marinette has a good number of issues and flaws that can be addressed and worked with, but they pick the wrong ones to focus on.

[the-fiction-witch]

We Must Do This

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aegon Targaryen Couple - Aegon X Reader Reader - Seara Targaryen (Aegons Wife) Rating - 12 Word Count - 1597

Aegon dashes down the steps away from the Sept desperate to escape,

But before he could even get across the courtyard, Aemond tackled to the ground mercilessly,

"Let me go!" Aegon shouts. "I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty, I'm not suited!" He shouts, turning around in his brother's arms.

"You'll get no argument from me..." Aemond sighed, holding Aegon tightly.

"Let me go, I will find a ship and sail away never to be found..." Aegon pleaded finding his feet, his tone urgent and desperate.

Aemond considers it for a moment his eye glaring at his older brother, considering this longer than he should. If Aegon was to leave Aemond would be crowned in his stead for a moment the taste of power truly was on his tounge

"Queen Regent is waiting." Ser Criston Cole spoke up breaking the boys apart,

Aemond let out a sigh as the feeling of power left him as his brother was forced from his arms,

Aegon screamed out as Ser Cristen forced him Inside a waiting royal carriage, "No! No please!" He begged as the door was locked from the outside, He looked around the carriage for another escape and found his wife.

Seara sat her hair in a braid. Wearing her nightgown and robe hung loosely, almost slipping down off her shoulder, it was obvious she had been forced from her bed for all this.

The carriage started to drive away, and Aegon huffed loudly, falling back in his seat. "Why did they have to wake you...?" He muttered.

"they hoped I'd know where you were." She admitted "And I think they had hopes I'd keep you from running too far"

"They know me well..." Aegon muttered, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "You look good... even though you've been woken up in the middle of the night..."

she knew his compliments were just his attempts to distract from what was happening,

"... I didn't blame you for running Aegon," she said her tone becoming more serious,

Aegon's smirk faded a little, at her more serious tone, and he let out a sigh. "I am not a King, I have no desire to sit on that Iron Throne... I don't want to rule, or lead, or sit and govern while others have all the glory and honour..." He mutters, avoiding eye contact.

"I'm well aware you don't want to," she said softly taking his hand "but like it or not, you are viserys firstborn son. And... Viserys is dead." She said sadly, "... You have little choice"

Aegon's hands wrapped around hers, as he slowly looked back at her. His gaze drifted to their clasped hands, and he gave hers a small squeeze. "I know... I just don't understand why Father would name me heir..." He said quietly. Another sigh escaped his lips, "I can't do this... I can't be a King, rule..." He whispers to her.

"... You will. In time. We will surround you with the best council, and head advice from our family." She explained "... I know this isn't what you want Aegon, but... It is happening and we can't escape it."

Aegon let out an annoyed sigh, a pout almost forming on his face. "But none of this is what I wanted..." He mumbled, almost sounding like a child whining, His hand gave hers a small squeeze. "I would ruin this realm..." he whispered, his gaze slowly trailing up to look at her.

"... Would you rather your brother sit upon it?" She asked,

"My brother is more suitable to rule than I..." he muttered, His brows furrowed, as he stared into her eyes. "At least Aemond would take ruling seriously, and knows how to act like a king... instead of a drunken idiot..." he said, his grip on her thigh tightening a little.

"... Your brother is cruel," she reminds

"My brother is no more crueller than I am..." Aegon replied, his gaze not moving from hers. "What would you rather, cruelty, or an idiot on the throne?" He asked, his hand slowly moving a little up her thigh, and his grip tightening again.

"... I don't know. But it doesn't matter what I want"

"Of course, your opinion matters..." Aegon mutters. "I care about your opinion... I know I don't act like I do, but I do..." he whispered.

"... You will be king. And as your wife, I will be your queen..." She said sadly she didn't want this but she had no choice "Tamsend will be your heir and... Mellimina a princess" she said almost crying "We have no choice Aegon. I wish we did. This is not a life I want for us nor for our children... But we don't get to make that decision"

Aegon could hear her sadness, he let out a sigh. "This is... not the life I wanted. It's not the life I hoped we could have for our children..." He whispered. A pang of guilt went through him, as he gently pulled her closer to him. His hands moved to grip her waist, and he pulled her to sit down on his lap, wrapping his arms around her. "I love you..." he muttered softly against her ear, pulling her even closer to his chest. "And I love our children... they are the only good things in my life, I never wanted to bring them into all of this..." He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his nose against her nape, breathing in her scent. His hands slowly moved around to her stomach, holding her against him, and he let out a small sigh. "I would rather run away with our children and you, instead of putting my name on that damned Iron Throne..."

"I know." She nodded "... The moment the crown is on your head there will be war."

Aegon closed his eyes, as he felt the guilt and fear build inside him. He hated everything about this. He didn't want the throne, didn't want the power. But he especially didn't want what war would bring. His arms slowly tightened around her stomach, his face burying further into her neck. "War is coming one way... or another..." he whispered.

"... Is this truly not what you want?" She whispered

A small laugh escaped Aegon's lips, but there was no humour behind it. "More than anything I didn't want the crown. I didn't want the throne, I didn't want any of it." He whispered in reply. His grip on her remained, holding her body close against his. "Why would I want any of it... when it's just more responsibilities, and I have you and our beautiful children. I don't want the throne, I want you..." he muttered.

she shivered for a moment before she whispered once more "... Your mother is preparing the coronation immediately. When we arrive at the red keep we are to dress and be taken there immediately. With the children... She's arranging the coronation to be inside the dragon pit" she explained

Aegon's grip on her waist tightened a little, as a shiver went down his spine. "The dragon pit...?" He muttered. His head slowly pulled away from the crook of her neck, to look at her face. His arms moved from around her stomach to rest on her hips again.

"... The dragon pit" she nodded "... Where our dragons rest." She said hoping he would see her plan

Aegon's eyes narrowed a little, as he stared at her face. His gaze slowly moving over her expression, before he felt realization slowly hit him as he saw what she was trying to say to him through hints. A smirk slowly started to appear on his face, and his grip on her hips tightened a little. "The dragon pit...." He muttered, as he slowly nodded. A quiet snicker escaped Aegon's lip, as he leaned a little closer to her. His smirk still lingering on his face, as he stared into her eyes. The dragon pit..." he repeated again, his voice more of a whisper now. His eyes moved down to her lips again, and he slowly moved his head forward, until his lips were barely centimetres from hers.

"... We would have to be quick, and we'd only have one chance. But we could slip away, take our dragons and escape... I'd have to ride with the children neither of their own dragons are big enough to carry them and even so, the children cannot fly them yet"

Aegon nodded his head a little, his face still only centimetres from hers. "This is the only way isn't it...?" He whispered.

"I fear it is..." She nodded "... We shall go. To dragonstone. To my mother and bend the knee. She believes she is still your father's heir and she will tear down any in her way, our only hope is to go to her, to go dragonstone pledge ourselves to her and hope she gives us and our children mercy"

Aegon slowly moved his fingers off her hips, letting his hands move up her body, until he was gently cupping her jaw, holding her head gently between his hands. He continued to stare at her lips, before bringing his gaze up to look into her eyes. "We can do this..." he whispered to her before slowly nodding his head. His grip on her jaw tightened a little, as he leaned his head down again to press his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as he pressed himself against her. "We must do this." He nodded,

Before the carriage stopped at the red keep both were forced out and taken to their chamber to be prepared for the coronation. 

[funnycreatortimetravel]

Whenever I rewatch the Madoka Magica episodes + the two recap movies, I always feel that the sentiment "Homura did nothing wrong," shines through the most here and less so Rebellion (I'll get into this later) even though ironically, the Rebellion movie is where that infamous saying was coined.

-Homura cannot DO any wrong when everything sort of already goes wrong no matter if she intervenes or not. Mami dies whether or not Homura intervenes (she goes crazy when she finds out that magical girls are all destined to turn into witches and then goes on a murder-suicide rampage, she's killed by Walpurgis, she gets caught off guard, etc.) All of these deaths happened on Mami's accord and not Homura's, so of course there's no wrongdoing to be had.

-Even if you argue that Homura could've been nicer to her, Mami automatically assumed that Homura had the worst intentions for Madoka and the others, so she never really gave her a chance even WHEN Homura went through the effort of finding a grief seed solely to befriend Mami (which Homura does in most timelines FYI.) The moment Homura isn't Mami's sweet little junior student anymore, Mami is automatically on defense and even calls her a loser just because she doesn't want Madoka to make a contract, and Mami just assumes that it's because Homura doesn't want competition (which makes no sense because Homura offered her a grief seed.)

-Mami does the same thing to Kyoko in the Different Story Manga; Once Kyoko's parents died and she became distraught, she didn't want to follow Mami's ideals anymore and this leads them into getting into a physical altercation (sound familiar?)

-Mami has never been a person you can just causally talk things through to. If she believes you don't share the same ideals on things, she can and will fight you. She doesn't fight Sayaka or Madoka because those two largely agree with her on everything, but Kyoko and Homura? They're free game if they so much as look at her sideways.

-Mami also says that making a wish should be something you seriously think about and not just dive in willy nilly, but then turns around and tells Madoka that she should wish for a cake if she still hasn't figured it out all because Mami doesn't want to be alone.

-I'm going to give Mami the benefit of the doubt and assume she wasn't being serious, but she knows how impressionable Madoka is and regardless of how serious or not she is, she's still fine with Madoka making a wish and becoming a magical girl just so she won't be lonely anymore.

-Homura tries her damn hardest to befriend Mami (she offers her a grief seed as I mentioned earlier, she listens when Mami tells her to go away without a fuss, and she warns Mami of the witch Charlotte only to be ignored and tied up) and the only thing she gets in return is Mami's unwarranted hostility. And once Homura is proven right and Mami is beheaded in front of Madoka and Sayaka, causing an insurmountable amount of trauma to them, she still quietly grieves for her even when all Mami did was assume the worst with no evidence.

-I don't necessarily blame Mami for assuming that Homura didn't have the best intentions since she's a veteran and I'm certain has had other negative run-ins with magical girls, but it's not like Homura even provided enough evidence that she would be like them. Mami was just being territorial due to force of habit (she's fine with other magical girls so long as they stay her juniors as evident in Rebellion when the moment Homura "turns different," she's highly suspicious and is ready to go guns blazing.) She doesn't even give Homura a chance to explain herself in either the show or the movie and that's one of her biggest flaws; she's so perfectionist that she can't even see what's in front of her sometimes.

-Despite this, Homura still values her as her old mentor and is hurt when the person who saved her all those timelines ago calls her a loser to her face. She even says that Mami has the softest heart of all and wishes she could forget how she trampled over her and other's feelings, (even though when you look back, Mami was the one who hurt her feelings rather than the other way around.)

And yet she still says this...

-"And it hurt me..." Homura admitting that shows just how much she cares. The fact that she's able to admit that it wasn't what Mami said that hurt her, but the fact that shattering Mami's optimistic viewpoint with the reality of the magical girl system was what hurt.

-Homura knows about Mami's tragic backstory with her parents and also knows that Mami, "doesn't have any other family to speak of," which shows she's been very close to Mami at one point, even seeing her vulnerable side just like Madoka did when Mami had that breakdown shortly before she died to Charlotte.

-She also "envies Mami" because Madoka states that she'll remember her even after she dies. Homura is obviously envying Mami because Madoka will forever see Mami in a good light in death while Madoka is afraid of her, but she could also just be envying Mami because, well, Mami died and left Madoka feeling attached to her while Homura thought she was going to die without ever being able to be close to Madoka as she once was. Context clues people, context clues.

-If you look at the different story manga, which I and many others consider canon, Homura clearly still has PTSD from Mami's murder-suicide attempt, which is the main reason why she tries to be gentle with her and listen to her when she's ordering Homura around.

-And she also notes that Mami never "held her hand," like that. Regardless of what Homura thinks, she clearly still wants or wanted that intimacy with Mami. She still saw her as an older sister figure and I know it crushed her heart when Mami said something so cruel to her.

-She also declines when Mami believes that Homura is going to kill her, even though her soul gem is stained and she technically is on her way to becoming a witch. Instead, Homura imparts some words to her.

-In the case of Sayaka...Whooo boy, it's like ten times worse than Mami. Sayaka is so caught up in her ideals that she hates anything too wild and selfish, but also weak and passive. She craps on Kyoko for being immoral and then also craps on Madoka AND Homura for not doing enough (she says that Madoka has a lot of potential but doesn't do anything with it and says Homura is too unskilled to fight effectively.) She views herself, or at least tries to, as the ultimate magical girl of justice who's moral, selfless, and most of all, strong. She doesn't view Homura, at least the one in the past timelines, as someone strong enough to be a proper magical girl.

-Sayaka holds everyone to the standard of Mami Tomoe, someone who's graceful, strong, and selfless, but she never gets the chance to realize that that version of Mami Tomoe isn't the real one and the standard she holds herself and others don't exist, which is why in every single timeline, she ALWAYS ends up witching out. It's also why in every timeline, she's antagonistic to Homura no matter if it was her timid self or the one hardened by trauma.

-She blames Homura in one timeline for attempting to warn them about Kyubey, accusing her of trying to split the group up, but then in Magia Record, when Homura DOESN'T tell them about Kyubey because she's seen how pointless it is, Sayaka gets on her case for not telling them sooner and accuses her of not telling because Homura "finds it funny." She literally can't win, no matter how quiet and out of the way she is.

-And it doesn't get better once Homura becomes "stronger" (or at the least the facade of becoming it) Sayaka just thinks that she's one of those magical girls who kills only for herself (and while Sayaka's not ALL the way wrong as she will kill solely for Madoka, she also doesn't understand that the system is designed to be like that and that's the fault of Kyubey and not Homura.)

-We're never actually shown Homura saving civilians, but we also don't see her sit idly by and let them get hurt either. Homura's viewpoint is that magical girls aren't morally obligated to be heroes and she's right; magical girls are cattle being harvested and the "good" they do is only delaying the inevitable once they witch out. No matter how noble and pure Sayaka was or wanted to be, she was eventually going to witch out and harm others, even if she wanted to save people.

-The nature of magical girls is equivalent exchange; whatever "good" is done, an equal amount of or even more bad is sure to come of it. Sayaka was going to keep killing innocent civilians as a witch until someone put her out of her misery, and that was what Homura was going to do. Sayaka doomed herself the moment she made a contract with Kyubey, and more importantly, she doomed innocent civilians, and she doomed her friends.

-Sayaka's witching out leads Mami to go crazy and attempt to kill everyone, Madoka making a contract in several timelines to save Sayaka from witching out (she does so in the Different Story Manga and Sayaka still ends up hurt) and Kyoko dying either from suicide during her confrontation with Octavia or dying from the wounds she sustains from the battle. Not to mention Sayaka witching out breaks Madoka's psyche, which is what Homura is trying to avoid.

-It would be one thing if Sayaka just died on her own accord, but she always brings others with her down her descent into despair, whether it's by killing civilians as a witch or being mean to Madoka and making her feel as though Sayaka's witching out was partly her fault.

-That's why Homura was in the right to "put her down" essentially, and even though she said she would, she couldn't bring herself to because somewhere deep down, she still cared for Sayaka. She apologizes for blowing up Sayaka in one of the first few timelines when she witches out and she blames herself for Sayaka making a contract in the TV series timeline, even saying that she should've protected Sayaka as much as Madoka even though Sayaka has never been anything BUT mean to her in the beginning. She takes responsibility for the girls' downfall even though it was inevitable.

-Another thing is her kinship with Kyoko. Because Kyoko and Homura both grew up in religious homes (Homura with catholic school and obliviously Kyoko's father being a preacher) they have the closest views on what it means to be magical girls. Note how I didn't say similar, but closest. Homura and Kyoko's wishes were for someone else, and as a result, they firmly believe that their wishes are for the sake of those people and won't pretend to be heroes or the like. The only difference is that Kyoko is much wilder and rougher because her wish directly led to the murder-suicide of her family (cough cough, like a big sister figure that killed her OTHER found family.)

-It's also the reason why Homura and Kyoko became so close in Rebellion. Kyoko was the only magical girl, apart from Madoka and even SHE sometimes didn't trust Homura, to kill Walpurgis. Kyoko agrees to fight with Homura and even though she is purely doing this for her benefit, she at least gives Homura a CHANCE and hears her out, even offering her a pocky stick. She was willing to team up with her and was also the first person that Homura felt comfortable talking to in Rebellion when she felt that something was up.

(I'll go into further specifics in another post since I ran out of image/video usage. Damn this app 😭.)

[peavhyshy]

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ - MORE THAN FRIENDS

ᯓᡣ𐭩 pairing ─ ୨୧ ─ Sarah Cameron x Bestfriend!Reader

ᯓᡣ𐭩 summary ─ ୨୧ ─ in which you and Sarah share a secret kiss while hanging out alone in your room, complicating both of your relationships with John B.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 warnings ─ ୨୧ ─ sarah cheats on john b with reader, explicit language, fluff, smut, secret relationship, friends to lovers, this is set after ward blew himself up, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, fingering, oral sex, grinding/tribbing, nipple play

ᯓᡣ𐭩 wc ─ ୨୧ ─ 2,617 

⋆˚✿˖° a/n ─ ୨୧ ─ guys is it bad to sleep with your best friend when your boyfriend is being a douche and didn't comfort you after you watched your dad die? but seriously there needs to be more sarah fics on here, y'all sleeping on her

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Outer Banks Masterlist ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Navigation ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The sun had just set over OBX, casting an orange glow across the sandy beaches. Inside the your families beach house, Sarah lay sprawled across your bed, half-watching some cheesy rom-com on the little TV in your room.

"Ugh, I can't watch this anymore," Sarah groaned, grabbing the remote and flicking through channels aimlessly. She was grateful for you trying to cheer her up after the traumatic events of the past few days, but she just wasn't in the mood for happy endings right now.

You glanced over from where you sat braiding friendship bracelets on the floor. "Yeah, I'm not really feeling it either," you said with a sympathetic smile. You tied off the bracelet and scooted up onto the bed next to Sarah.

Sarah clicked off the TV and flopped back onto the pile of pillows with a dramatic sigh. "I just keep replaying it all in my head, you know? Like maybe if I had done something differently…" Her voice trailed off as she stared up at the ceiling fan swirling above you guys.

You reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "It's not your fault, Sarah. There's nothing you could have done."

Sarah turned her head to look at you, her brown eyes glistening. In the soft glow of the bedside lamp, You looked so beautiful and comforting that Sarah suddenly felt the urge to kiss you. Before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned in and pressed her lips to yours.

Your eyes went wide in surprise before slowly closing as you kissed Sarah back tentatively. After a few seconds, you broke apart, blushing wildly.

"Um, wow," you breathed, biting your lip. "So that just happened."

Sarah let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, sorry, I guess I'm just feeling extra emotional and impulsive tonight. I've always thought you were really pretty though." She grinned sheepishly.

You laughed and playfully hit Sarah with a pillow. "Oh so that's how it is, huh? Taking advantage of me in my own bedroom?"

Sarah dramatically flipped her hair. "I mean, can you blame me? Have you seen this hair?"

You both dissolved into giggles, the tension instantly broken. No matter what else was going on in your lives, you always had each other. And maybe this was the beginning of something more.

“What about John B?” you asked, putting the bracelet on Sarah’s hand.

Sarah sighed, twisting the new bracelet around her wrist. "John B…I don't know. He's been so caught up in everything with his dad and the gold, it's like he doesn't even see me anymore. I miss how things used to be between us."

She looked up at you. "But then there's this…" she gestured between you guys. "This connection we have. I've never felt this way about another girl before."

You nodded, a worried crease forming between your brows. "I know what you mean. I care about John B, but I also care about you." you bit your lip. "Maybe we should keep this between us for now? At least until we figure things out.”

Sarah considered it for a moment then nodded slowly. “Yeah, you’re probably right. No need to complicate things even more.” She linked her pinky with yours. “This can be our little secret.”

You smiled, hooking your pinky with Sarah’s. “Our secret,” you repeated.

Sarah leaned in conspiratorially. “So should we pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted by your question?” you teased.

You giggled and closed the distance once more, your lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss.

Sarah lifts your shirt over your head, exposing your bare chest. She runs her hands up your sides, caressing your soft skin as she kisses down your neck. You let out a soft gasp, tangling your fingers in Sarah's blonde hair.

"Sarah…" you breathe out, your heart pounding as Sarah's hands continue to explore your body. You feel a growing heat between your legs, this new intimacy with Sarah awakening desires you never knew you had. Sarah kisses lower, trailing her lips down your collarbone, then takes a hard nipple into her mouth. You moan, arching your back off the bed at the sensation.

Sarah lifts her head to look into your eyes, her own darkened with lust. She reaches behind you to unclasp your bra, then tosses it aside. Sarah sits back on her knees to admire your naked form, a smirk playing on her kiss-swollen lips.

"You're so fucking beautiful," she says throatily before leaning down to capture your lips once more. As your tongues meet, Sarah reaches down to undo the button on your shorts, her hand slipping beneath the waistband. You gasp into Sarah's mouth at the intimate touch, your hips bucking involuntarily. You never felt more alive than in this moment with Sarah, every nerve-ending tingling with anticipation.

Sarah's fingers dip lower, finding slick heat that makes you cry out. She strokes slowly at first, learning what makes you whimper and moan.

As Sarah's fingers work between your legs, you feel pleasure building within your core. Your breathing comes faster, soft moans escaping with each circular stroke of Sarah's fingers over your slick, swollen clit. Your hips rock uncontrollably, pushing yourself against Sarah's hand as your arousal grows.

Sarah watches your face, taking in every flutter of your eyelids, every gasp and whimper. She slides two fingers lower, teasing your entrance before pushing them inside. You cry out at the penetration, panting Sarah's name over and over. Sarah thrusts her fingers slowly at first, then faster as your inner walls clench tight around them.

The coil of tension in your belly winds tighter and tighter until suddenly it snaps, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of euphoria. Your back arches off the bed, a string of curses and Sarah's name on your lips as you come undone.

Sarah pulls back slightly to look into your eyes, her own bright with exhilaration and desire. She runs her fingers through your tousled hair and grins, trailing her hand down your body. She slips her fingers beneath the waistband of your shorts again, raising an eyebrow in question.

You bit your lip and nodded, lifting your hips so Sarah can slide your shorts and underwear off. Sarah tosses them aside, then settles between your parted thighs, kissing a path up your inner leg. You shiver in anticipation, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch. When Sarah's mouth finally finds your pussy, you gasp, your head falling back against the pillows.

Sarah hums in satisfaction at your reaction, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through you. She uses her tongue to explore your slick folds, quickly finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you cry out and clutch at the sheets. Sarah focuses her attention there, alternating between broad laps of her tongue and tight circles around your clit.

Your soon panting and writhing beneath her. "Oh god, Sarah…feels so good…" you moan. The coil of tension winds tight once more until you shatter again with a sharp cry, your thighs clamping around Sarah's head as you come. Sarah works you through it with soft licks, not stopping until you go limp with satisfaction.

Your moans fill the room as straddles you and slips off her underwear, your bodies coming together in a tantalizing display of desire. The slickness of your wetness creates friction that sends shivers of pleasure through both of you. Sarah's core radiates heat, igniting a fire within you that can't be quenched.

Your hands greedily explore Sarah's sides, eager to feel every inch of her. You grab onto Sarah's ass, pulling her closer, urging her to grind harder against your throbbing clit. Sarah leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that leaves you both breathless. Your tongues dance and entwine, a passionate tango of desire. The taste of your shared arousal fill your mouths, fueling your hunger for each other.

Your hips move in perfect harmony, each thrust bringing you closer to the edge. Sarah's grinding against your clit, your clits rubbing together in a rhythm that drives you both wild. The wetness between your legs acts as a lubricant, allowing your movements to become even more intense, more intimate.

You arch your back, offering your breasts to Sarah's hungry mouth. Sarah eagerly takes the invitation, capturing a nipple between her lips, sucking and nipping at the sensitive flesh. The sensation shoots electric sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

With one final, powerful thrust, Sarah's body shudders with pleasure. She cries out, her climax washing over her in a wave of bliss that crashes through her entire being. Her walls clench around nothing but the air, her core pulsating with every release.

Your own release follows closely behind, your body convulsing in waves of pleasure. The intense sensations ripple through you, causing you to grip onto Sarah tightly, your bodies pressed together in an intimate embrace. You both ride out the waves of your orgasms together, matching each other's moans and gasps.

When you finally break apart your both are flushed and beaming. Sarah's fingers gently stroke your face as you kiss languidly, softly.

"Was that okay?" Sarah asks after a moment, suddenly shy.

You smile, pulling Sarah down for another lingering kiss. "More than okay," you assure her. Sarah grins, nuzzling into your neck.

Sarah smiles contentedly and lays her head on on your chest, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat as it returns to normal. She feels a sense of peace and belonging that she hasn't felt in a long time. Here with you, away from the chaos and tragedy of the outside world, Sarah can simply be. No expectations, no pretending - just two souls connecting on the most intimate level.

Sarah traces lazy circles on your bare stomach as you lay entwined. She thinks about how rapidly her feelings have shifted - from seeing you only as a friend, to suddenly being unable to resist her. It feels natural though, not scary or confusing like her past crushes on boys. With you it just feels…right.

Eventually your lips find each other again, the kisses growing heated once more. You roll yourselves over so you're the one on top, straddling Sarah's hips. You look down at Sarah with hungry eyes as you slowly grind against her. Sarah gasps at the delicious friction, gripping your hips.

"Now it's my turn," you say in a low voice that sends a jolt of arousal straight between Sarah's legs. You reach down and tugs at the hem of Sarah's shirt. "Take this off."

Sarah complies, pulling her shirt up over her head and tossing it aside. You make quick work of her bra too until Sarah is laid bare before her. Your admiring gaze roams over Sarah's body, making her shiver with anticipation, you capture one of Sarah's nipples between your lips.

Sarah cries out, arching up into your warm mouth. As you lavishes attention on her breasts, Sarah is reduced to a writhing, moaning mess beneath your ministrations. This is even better than she imagined as she lets you take full control. 

You kiss your way down Sarah's trembling body until your mouth replaces your fingers between Sarah's legs. Sarah closes her eyes, crying out your name as a slick tongue explores her slick folds. She reaches down to tangle her fingers in your hair, urgent moans spilling from her lips.

"Y/N, I'm close…" she pants out. The coil of tension winding tighter and tighter within her finally snaps as she comes undone under your tongue.

You take Sarah into your arms. You exchange soft, languid kisses as Sarah catches her breath.

"Wow…" is all Sarah can say, still reeling.

You grin, kissing the tip of her nose. "I'd say we're pretty good at this secret relationship thing so far."

Sarah laughs. "I'd say so too. But we should probably keep practicing, just to be sure." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

You smirk, pulling Sarah in for another deep kiss. "I like the way you think."

Your lips meet again, both of you giddy with the exciting newness of exploring each other. For now, you’re content to stay lost in your little bubble of bliss, putting your troubles aside for a stolen moment of passion and release.

Sarah sighs contentedly, her body still tingling from her intimacy with you. She strokes your hair softly as you lie tangled together on the bed.

After a few peaceful moments, Sarah props herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "Not that I want this to end, but won't your parents be back soon?" she asks.

You glance at the clock on your nightstand and grimaces. "Yeah, probably. As much as I'd love to keep going…" You trail a hand suggestively down Sarah's side.

Sarah shivers at your touch. "Later," she promises with a grin. She gives you one last lingering kiss before reluctantly climbing off the bed to gather her scattered clothes.

As Sarah gets dressed, you sit up and wrap the blanket around yourself. You watch Sarah wistfully, not quite ready to burst this intimate bubble you’ve created. But the approaching sound of a boat motor outside makes the decision for you.

"Coming?" Sarah asks from the bedroom doorway, now fully dressed. Her cheeks are still flushed, lips swollen from kisses.

You sigh. "Yeah, be right there." As Sarah disappears down the hall, you take a moment to collect yourself. You press her fingers to your lips, Sarah's taste still lingering. Your heart flutters thinking about what just transpired between you too.

With a giddy smile, you get up to get dressed. You rejoin Sarah in the living room just as the front door opens and your parents walk in, loaded down with gear from their fishing trip. If they notice your matching blushes and shy glances, they don't say anything.

"Are you staying for dinner, Sarah?" your mom asks as she heads for the kitchen. "I'll throw some fish on the grill."

Sarah catches your eye, an impish look on her face. "I'd love to," she says sweetly. Under the table, she squeezes your hand, your secret.

The you too sat close together on the worn couch in your living room after dinner, shoulders touching. Your parents had retreated outside to the back deck, giving you some privacy. Sarah turned to you, looking into your eyes. She still couldn't believe what had transpired between you too earlier that evening.

"So…that happened," Sarah said with a small smile, cheeks flushing pink.

You nodded, biting your lip. You reached over and gave Sarah's hand a gentle squeeze. "It did. And as crazy as it sounds, it felt…right."

Sarah let out a soft laugh, interlacing your fingers. "I know, I feel the same way! I mean, I never expected this, but being with you just feels so natural."

She glanced down bashfully. "I know things with John B are complicated right now. But he's been pulling away, and you've been there for me. You make me feel safe and happy even during the worst moments."

You lifted Sarah's hand to your lips, kissing it softly. "You deserve to feel safe and happy, Sarah. I'll always be here for you, no matter what happens with John B. And if this-" you gestured between you too "-is something you want to explore, I'm open to it."

Sarah's heart swelled with affection. She leaned in and captured your lips in a sweet, lingering kiss.

"Then let's explore," she murmured against your mouth. You smiled into the kiss, twining your arms around Sarah's neck to pull her closer. 

[herejusttosufferalong]

RIPPED FROM DISCORD - NO CHANGE

I don't think Nic and Luke have talked, seriously, since JF in NYC. I think there may have been a few check ins but nothing of note.

I think she was caught off guard by papgate and was PISSED, not just about the pics and the fallout, but about Luke's total lack of accountability in the situation.

He nor his team did much of anything while he was facing an obscene amount of backlash from the fan base.

They simply ignored the elephant in the room.

We first saw Nic's irritation with the passive aggressive post four days after the release and then ending with the SATC TT.

We know she helped his ass out with the Brazil pic to post after the JF interview. I think she said goodbye there.

She did more to help him than he was willing to do for himself or anyone else.

Things calmed down with Paris but then the games picked right back up in LA, it's the only way children know how to entertain themselves.

Nic was silently watching all of this while hanging out with JD.

July was a MESS all around because not only do you have the GQ event and Italy but then you have DM so far up Nic's ass she is covered in shit.

Luke and Nic never seemed further apart.

Biggest evidence for this was the July 16 post, a post marking their 5 year journey and Mr. bare minimum comes through with "Wowwww 🙏🏻"

She never liked the comment btw, can't blame her though.

Papgate 2.0 happens, sus AF.

A week or so later we get shade post about the paps from Nic disguised as a BDAY post for CW. I

It is between that post on Aug 10 and the Col/Pen post on Aug 22 where I believe Nic and Luke started talking again. What all was said, who fucking knows but must not have been good enough. Because we get the PAL post, clearly friendzoning Luke with an even more damning grid caption, "I thought I already shared this but I hadn't so here you go now it's all yours!"

There is a lot to unpack from that. This is clearly a photo taken 18 months prior and she had no relevant reason to post it. I think she was going through and clearing shit out. It's the "...here ya go now it's all yours!" that struck me odd. I know some have speculated that she was just referring to the photo. I believe she was referring to the man.

And I think she was talking to her number one fan. Who up until that point had been pretty quiet outside of her Aug 18th post, "Uncanny Valley of the Dolls."

Whatever Luke and Nic talked about, I think she gave him some things to think about. That coupled with the fact that something is/has been afoot with JD so she may not have been in a place of full availability for Luke, he decided to return to the mess he made.

I think the festival pics and the fact that Jake tagged along to Malta might be causing Luke to really start to think.

It ain't a great look when a 24 yr old man comes in, looking like he has his shit more together than you.

[yeyinde]

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him.  (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met. 

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really. 

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with. 

Stupid. 

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine. 

Because maybe you are, too. 

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent. 

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him. 

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you. 

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him. 

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married. 

And where does that leave you? 

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber. 

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both. 

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar. 

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet. 

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight. 

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush. 

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways. 

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape. 

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore. 

Moving on. Moving forward. 

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent. 

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness. 

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location. 

You send him your pin. 

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way. 

You met Kyle Garrick at university. 

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre. 

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met. 

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap. 

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care. 

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed. 

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth. 

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?" 

And that was that. 

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them. 

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him. 

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him. 

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain. 

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart. 

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square. 

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots. 

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring. 

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner. 

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots. 

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes. 

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest. 

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it." 

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you." 

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult. 

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes." 

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid." 

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it." 

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought. 

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot. 

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips. 

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain. 

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks. 

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all. 

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

Except—

It isn’t. 

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes. 

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know? 

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips. 

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him. 

He’d know, he said. 

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic. 

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around. 

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement. 

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken. 

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison. 

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat. 

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet. 

He seems to understand. 

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here." 

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance. 

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him. 

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it. 

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do. 

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area." 

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe." 

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—" 

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat. 

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame. 

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold? 

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish. 

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back. 

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy). 

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making. 

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away. 

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign. 

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now. 

Because you do. 

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too. 

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin. 

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences. 

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same. 

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam. 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing. 

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it. 

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it. 

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always. 

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him. 

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun. 

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. 

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free. 

Confessing goes like this: 

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears. 

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands. 

"...and that's basically it." 

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all. 

You want it. Want him. 

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam. 

But he isn't. 

He's here with you. Still. Still. 

"I just—," you say, or try to. 

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth. 

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated. 

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation. 

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence. 

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin. 

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain. 

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take. 

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air. 

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you. 

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind. 

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox. 

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke. 

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable. 

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames. 

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown. 

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home. 

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all. 

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it. 

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this. 

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration. 

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two. 

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food. 

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along. 

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling. 

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know? 

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

[neonovember]

hiiii

could you write carmy x reader where she’s a high school friend and carmy always had a crush on her (but he thought she had a crush on mikey) ???? like maybe richie brings her up, and that she’s still in town and SINGLE and carmy gets red like a tomato and ??? richie makes her visit the beef and candy almost has a heart attack?? idk give me some in love carmen !!

pretty pleaseee and thank u

so I got this request and I immediately thought of swim by chase atlantic, and specifically the line that goes;

“I’ve been drowning for a minute, your body keeps pulling me in” 

And holy shit if that isn’t Carmen in his denial-in-love with a long time friend era, I don't know what is. Carmen tries too hard to forget you, but you've marked permanently, you've ruined him for anyone else so can you blame him for waiting for you all this time?

Seriously though this request was so good! I got a bit carried away and turned into a 2 part series that may or may not have drabbles added to the universe…I really hope this isn't just a load of word vomit you don't want to read lmao. I just love their dynamic so much, and also FRIDAY DINNERS AT THE BEEF IS CANON OKAY.

Golden Boy

part one of 2

warnings: miscommunication (i know i'm sorry), friends to lovers, carmen and the reader have horrible communication skills and don't know how to call, angst, anxiety

a/n: part two will be up hopefully tomorrow so look out! it may or may not include a smut scene 😈

p.s, listen to swim whilst reading this you'll thank me later

You sat hunched in the tight enclosure of the classroom desk chairs, the once loud conversations fluttering across the huddled groups of classmates and friends that stood against tables and chairs now coming to a standstill.

The air of anxious trepidation falls across the atmosphere of the damp classroom, the windows that had been opened to let the air in felt thin as you and the rest of the students you had known for half a decade waited for that familiar ring of the bell.

The bell that would solidify your last day in this classroom, in these run down halls, in the school you had first stumbled into anxious and oblivious at thirteen. 

Your heart ached at the nostalgia of it, and you can't bear to cast your gaze to your friends who had begun to sniffle, like they were holding back tears, the grandfather clock your geography teacher insisted on keeping ticked on as it always did, and whilst you had spent years burning holes through the glass, willing for it to go faster, your one dying wish is for the seconds to tick by in minutes. 

You weren’t ready, it ran straight through you, all this time leading up, from when you had first learnt your desire to pursue architecture till the moment you finished that last sentence on your final exams, you felt you would be filled with joy at the sound of your true departure into adulthood and college.

And yet, you felt like a kid again, learning how to ride a bicycle without the training wheels, trying to reach the fifth monkey bar, falling headfirst into the dirt ground of the field when you had thought you were more flexible then you truly were. 

You didn’t want to leave, you didn't want to leave this place, this place of memories and friends and people you knew and loved. And it was as if God was listening, cause the resounding echo of the school bell rang through the halls and it was as if he said ‘fuck you anyway’.

You gather the haphazard books and papers laying across your desk, you had purposefully delayed packing in order to waste as much time in this memory as possible, before adulthood would take it away and make it something of the past. You hear your friends calling your name, and you tell them to go ahead as you make your way to your teachers desk.

“Hey Mr Jefferson” You say to your teacher has begun to bid goodbye to the leaving students

Your teacher looks up at you with a tight smile, sadness washes over the wrinkles and creases of her features, her auburn hair falling in short waves at her shoulder and her olive lipstick wearing down. You have to swallow to stop the tears from dropping. Your Geography teacher, whilst not teaching Art, had been the catapult to realizing your fascination with Architecture and design. She had even helped tell your parents, who had been set on the idea of you going into Law or Medicine or anything other than creative arts. 

“You’ll do amazing, I believe it because I see how hard you try. Don’t look back at this place, leave with the door wide open and come back only when you want to design me a house” Your Teacher replies with a grin, and before you can reply shes shuffling through her drawers, before pulling out a sketchbook that has been aged and stained with use over the years.

“What’s this?” You ask, twisting the book in your hand, it was good quality, despite being old, it felt like an heirloom.

“It’s one of my sketchbooks I had during college, maybe some of my late night sketches fuelled by coffee and donuts might inspire you”

“I couldn't possible-”

“Yes you could, hell whatever you create will probably be 10 x greater than whatever is in there” Your teacher cuts you off with a chuckle, and you hug the notebook tight against your chest before hugging her goodbye.

You step into the familiar walls of your high school hallways, crowds of seniors running to find their friends and hug them for possibly the last time, test papers and report cards left trampled on the ground, it's chaos, but you love it and the sight almost pulls tears down your waterline.

You walk towards your locker, before you recognize the familiar wisps of blond curls catch your eyesight. Carmen.  You considered him one of your closest friends, bonding together over a love of game** and your equal hatred of your Period 4 Calculus teacher.

Carmen didn't have much when I came to be friends, and after he met you, it didn't really get to him anymore, he had you now, and you were more than enough. Over the years you had gotten close to every part of Carmen's life, Mickey, Richie, Sugar, they were all people you regarded as family.

But there was something unsaid between the both of you, it was like there was something beyond friendship, but the embers had just gathered and had left unignited.

He’s gathering his things from his locker, shoving them into a bag in that messy way he is, and he slams the locker with a jolt.

You're standing stationary in the middle of the hallway, classmates and other seniors running by you in confusion, your friends calling your name annoyed, but it's all muffled, it all doesn't matter because it's Carm and god your heart aches so bad. 

You see Carmen and he sees you, stopping a few meters away from you, and a moment of recognition washes over him as he gazes with those cerulean blues. There's grief in the way you look at each other, tears streaming down your cheek as you try to smile at him, realising this might be the last time you see him, forever, off to an Art school in New York, leaving him behind. You feel like your heart is being ripped from your chest and he shakes his head, his eyebrows scrunching up as he steps closer so that he’s only a whisper from you.

He brings his hand up, brushing a strand and tucking in behind your ear, eyes strained as he wipes your tears away painfully. He moves closer, so that his breath is against your neck and whispers

“Thought you told me you'd punch me in the stomach if I cried on the last day” Carmen whispers into your eyes with a grin that breaks through the tears that cause his eyes to swirl in colour's of waves.

His words make you laugh and cry at the same time, and you shake your head as you reach for his arm, and playfully hit your stomach with it. Carmen rests it against your waist, looking up to you in a pained expression, his eyes shift to the notebook grasped tight in your hands

“New sketchbook? That..doesn't look new” Carmen says, turning his head to examine the old book more closely.

“One of Mrs Jefferson’s, her sketches are..their fucking amazing” You sigh, running your hand across the folded spine of the sketch book.

“Thought teachers weren't meant to have favourites” Carmen shoots out, a playful grin on his lips

“Hmm, well they aren't supposed to tell you exactly” You banter with a giggle, you flick through the pages of the book, half drawn sketches in grey lead and ballpoint, Carmen tracing his fingers gently across the ingrained lines and shades.

“God you're something, you know that?” Carmen says, all of a sudden, and when you look up you realise he’s been staring at you the entire time.

“Bear..” You breathe out.

“I don't know how I'm going to-, I, it's all so much” You exhale, waving your arms around this place that has held so many memories, so much of your past kept in the creaks and cracks of plastered walls and lockers

“You're the only person in this goddamn place that's going to make something out of themselves, I bet my entire life on it Bug. You're going to do amazing, in that big city, you’re going to show em’' Carmen replies, grasping you against his touch tight. You look up at him, trying to memorise every dip and curve of his features, the curl of his hair that shone honey in the sun, those eyes that were always searching, and the small cut on his forehead where he fell off his skateboard that one summer evening.

“Don’t say goodbye”

“Okay” Your tongue feels like deadweight in your mouth. what if i never see you again?

“You say goodbye and it's the end. Just..don’t” I can't breathe carmy.

You can’t stop yourself from wrapping your arms around him, pressing your nose into his shirt to smell the scent of patchouli and cigarettes he always carried, you want to tell him to come with you, to pack an overnight bag and run with you forever, but the words don’t taste right when you try to speak and you see yourself letting him go, and turning away with a shaky step.

Turn back Carmen whispers, so softly that only the gods above and the wind around him can hear it

You feel an urge to turn back, it speaks to you from within, and before you can stop yourself, your neck cranes, turning your body to get one last look at your golden boy before time would take him forever. 

Time would age him into a memory forever.

Carmen feels this tension leave his shoulders at the same time his heart shatters, you will find each other again, even if it was in another universe, where you're sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, going over groceries together with the afternoon light casting its glow across you. He will find you, he will find you and he won’t let go this time. 

*

“Honestly Ma, it’s fine, I’ll get the movers to come in a little early”. You groan into the phone pressed to your ear, papers and unresolved bills are left scattered across your dining room table and you have this itch that's begun to turn chronic somewhere you can’t reach.

You take a moment to look around your apartment, now barren of furniture, and filled instead with boxes of badly organised stuff you've accumulated over the years. This place, albeit small, had been your home ever since you stepped out of the yellow cabbed taxi on your first day in New York, and whilst it wasn't pretty, you felt a pang of guilt leaving it all behind. These walls had seen you through it all, the late night study cram’s, the breakdowns, the accomplishments, the one night stands. You'd miss her, but maybe you were just a nostalgic person.

You’ve made a life in New York, but you felt misplaced, like pieces of yourselves were scattered across the states. Chicago kept a part of you, and it was only when you had gotten the chance to move back home, did it click. You missed your city. And you had cut your lease and emptied out the last of your savings without a second thought.

Now all that was left was tying up loose ends and making the trip down. It was funny, in a way. You had run to New York to pursue architecture, and it brought you back to the very same place you had left, there was a certain trepidation when you thought of Chicago, it held so much of your past, in its city streets and evergreen trees, and you don’t know if you were quite ready to face those memories again.

*

It still smelled the same. You itch your nose, sniffling against the blooming scent of cocoa and caramel from the Chicago roads, all this time, and all that you can tell is how it still smelt like maple leaves and chocolate. It was comforting, and it felt like the warm embrace of a childhood friend that had stayed sitting on the corner of your suburban street corner all this time.

“Thank you Mae, really, I got the call last minute in New York to come back here and if it weren't for you, I’d be moving back into my old bedroom at my parents” You reply, gratitude filling every word. It was true, your friend had swooped in the second you called, fixing you up with a lease and an apartment with her realtor links. She came in a clutch, and she had made you promise to never leave her again in exchange.

“Oh shush doll, of course. This is probably payment for all the times I’ve crashed at yours anyway” Mae winks, the bracelets on her wrist clinking against each other. She didn't look like a typical realtor, more like a bohemian solo-traveller with her filly skirts and auburn red hair.

“I’m not going to let a degree transform my entire wardrobe, my clothes are antiques, their heirlooms, they tell a story” 

She had told you once, one late night on the rooftop of your New York apartment, sipping cheap wine and passing a blunt between you both. You wish you had known yourself as much as she did then.

She had visited you a couple times in New York, coming up for work and spending the time at yours instead of spending thousands on an Airbnb, but it had been a while since you've seen her, and all of a sudden you remember how much you missed her laugh.

“I’ve got some time to spend before it’s all hand on deck” You reply, placing the last of your boxes onto the empty wooden floor of the living room.

“Oh yeah? Can’t believe you’re gonna design a whole building on Michigan Av’, your a fucking inspiration Bug” Mae sighs in adoration, and you giggle, the feeling of embarrassment filling you at the mention of your reason back home.

You never got used to the praise and adoration you received over the years, despite your many accolades and awards, you still felt like that hopelessly broke architect student giving up lunch to pay rent. You didn’t remember when things started to change. When did things start to change?

“You know, if you’ve got time, you should check out the Farmers Market near River North” Mae replies, whilst flicking through her phone

“The one on Division Street?” You reply, you had a faint memory of the long strip of stalls filled with fresh produce, food and the rest of the little trinkets that were sold since you were born on the pleated table cloth of sheltered booths.

“That’s the one, this guy named Samson? Makes the best fucking bearclaw in the entire United States. Tell him you're a friend of mine and he'll hook you up…you know since you can't afford it” Mae replies playfully, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.

“Yeah yeah, you hook up with him or something?” You poke back, Mae had the tendency to know everyone in Chicago, from the mailman to the old woman you’d see feeding the bids on a park bench.

“Yeah, actually I did. Not like you could relate, how long has it been, hm?” Mae replies, stepping forward to whisper down at your pants.

“I’m so sorry she hasn't been taking care of you. What are you, mummify her?” Mae looks up from her crouched position with a raised eyebrow.

“Ugh, you know I've been too busy to think about that. She’s gonna have to be patient” You reply, you don’t want to think about how long it has actually been, since you've had any type of release. But the tension has begun to weigh on your shoulders as time went on and you fear it might become something you can’t ignore.

You begin to move some boxes into your bedroom, thanks to your planning your large furniture such as your bed and coach, had been moved into the apartment before the rest of the things had got here, so at least you wouldn't be sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Changing into a pair of dark jeans and a short sleeve top, you loop an embroidered handbag onto your shoulder.

“So, you coming?” You call to Mae, who’s begun to fill your fridge with the groceries she's swung by with.

“Sure would Bug, but got a call to come in. I’ll come by again later this evening though?” Mae replies, with a grunt as she lifts the 2 litre bottle of milk onto one of the drive shelves.

“Yes please, I’m dying for a glass of wine”

“And a blunt” Mae replies, snickering at the way you roll your eyes at her.

Mae offers to drop you off, but you wave her off, telling her you wanted to see a little more of your hometown. You needed some fresh air that wasn't the coffee and smoke scent of the New York streets.

The walk to the Farmers market was a short one, but you felt like you were wading through a current. By the way the memories of your past began to resurface as you passed the streets and shops. Every corner holds a part of you, and you have to rush by your old school to stop the pang of pain that surprises you. You weren't an emotional person, but god it was almost as if you were hanging by a thread the second you touched down on Chicago. 

What was causing this? You felt like you were holding your breath as you stepped through the fallen autumn leaves marking the sidewalk, the gentle sun on your back, what were you waiting for?

You tear yourself from your thoughts momentarily when you catch the looming buildings that had been built on ions ago, the infrastructure of Chicago still enamoured you, in a way that couldn't be beaten by even New York’s impossible skyscrapers.

There was a charm to it, each of the buildings felt like you were stepping into a different decade, they had been the stepping stones to a lot of the infrastructure and architecture that spread into other cities. You felt like you were at the start of it all every time your eyes trailed across the facade and arcades of the century old stone buildings.

Without realising, you had finally made it to the Farmers Market, the constant stream of people coming in and out with boxes of produce or hauling wooden antiques with very audible grunts. You can’t stop the smile stretching your face as you step through the embroidered banner at the front of the street.

Despite the many different stalls and food around you, you don't feel overstimulated. This was your home, you felt like you belonged, like a name scratched into wet cement, remaining ingrained for years no matter the seasons that came. 

You go over the haphazard list of things you wanted to look for in your mind, but you're caught off guard by a stall that seemed to be huddled by patrons. You step towards it, and as people move aside you see the blooming flowers and carefully wrapped banquets in woven wooden baskets to the side of the stall. A short woman with light brown curls is standing at the front, taking down orders with a grin, whilst a rather tall man behind her makes quick work to wrap delicate orders into soft brown parchment paper tied with string. 

And all of a sudden the need to buy pink tulips becomes your first priority. The woman at the front looks familiar, but you can't quite put your finger on where you've seen her, but as you walk up to the front her face morphs into familiar as she looks up at you in surprise.

“As I live and breathe” She says your name with a screech and it's her voice that pulls her name to your mouth. Adeline, a close friend from senior year who’d taught you how to crochet and pick a lock.

“Bug? How've you been? What brings you back to town?” Ade replies after telling the man behind her your order without you even saying a thing. 

“Tulips, pink ones right?” Ade grins, and you have to let out a chuckle at how you haven't changed even a little.

“Got invited to join in designing a new building on Michigan Avenue, so I'll be back for a while-”

“Michigan Avenue? Holy shit Bug! You’re making moves, knew you always were special” Adeline replies with a gushing smile and you rush to reply with the same adoration

“Are you kidding, look at this line” You motion to the increasing line of people forming at Adeline's stall.

“People love their flowers” Adeline replies with a shrug before you shake your head vehemently

“No, they love your flowers, and for good reason, look at these” You gush, pressing your face into the bundle of tulips that had been handed to you.

“They only look that good because Henry's so good at wrapping them” Adeline replies with a laugh, her eyes flicking to the brown haired man dressed in corduroy behind her. A look passes between them that tells you there was more than love between them.

“Henry huh?” You reply with a grin, and the man is quick to introduce himself, and you don’t ignore the cold press of an encrusted band on his ring finger as he shakes your hand with a soft smile.

And it's as if Adeline reads your mind and she slips her left hand in yours, looking up at you with a teary grin.

“Yes, yes I know, I should've called, and I’m so sorry-”

You press yourself against her, leaning over the stall to wrap your arms around her. You whisper words of congratulation, shutting down any words that hinted at you being mad at her.

It wasn't her fault, it should be you she's mad at, you hadn’t really made that much of an effort to keep in contact with your friends back at home, and the reality of it weighed on you heavy now, you had missed so many milestones of your loved ones, all to chase your own dreams in New York.

You felt like you were constantly playing catch up, and you couldn't lie when a strange feeling crept up at the thought of your friends moving on with life. You were so incredibly happy for Adeline, and you were even more elated when she had told you of the Wedding in April that you had to come to. 

But that didn't stop that same strange feeling of being behind everyone else, you had spent so long climbing the ladder to wear what you wear now, relationships and love weren't even a thought, you filled your nights with studying and drawing and the occasional fling, but nothing more. And now doubts had begun to creep in, had you missed out? 

Watching everyone around you get married and have kids whilst you were still drawing buildings in that same sketchbook your teacher had given you 8 years ago. You’re not looking as you walk past the many stalls of the Farmers market, and it is your thoughts again that causes you to accidentally stumble into the hard muscle of a man back. You feel yourself falling, before arm's reach out, grabbing you quickly to stop you from ending flat on your face. 

You breath out a sigh of relief, shaking a head at your clumsiness

“God, ‘m so sorry, I’ve just been in my head, I wasn’t looking where i was going-”

“Holy fuck” Your quick to spit an apologetic thanks, you haven't even looked up to see who you've dubbed into, and when the sound of surprise meets your ease you look up, only to be remain stone faced with your mouth left open.

“Richie?” You say, the shock of it is still in the air. You hadn't expected to see him in Chicago, or maybe you did and it was sooner than you thought.

“When did you get back? Holy shit, thought we wouldn't see you again” Richie replies with a smile

“Yeah uh, came down for some work for a little while. How, uh How are things” You reply with a squeak, you can’t bear to say what you're thinking and Richie nods, a look of acknowledgement in his face. Mickey’s death had shaken you, it had changed you in its own way, and you still grief him, it still hurts when Richie's face kinda falls and melts at the reminder of his best friend's death.

“After, uh, after Mickey, he had left the restaurant, you know, the Beef?” You nod in agreement, the hazy memory of the sandwich shop on the corner of Chicago's, busiest streets, you stomach rumbles at the thought of one of those sandwiches you'd down in less than a minute during your high school years.

“Yeah well, get this, he left it to Carmen. And honestly, I was hesitant at first, real hesitant, I love him, but god, he's a self centred ass coming in like he knew everything, spewing the bullshit CDC shit he learnt up in the big apple? He changed things, and you know how I feel about change, but he made it better, I can;t lie, and you better not tell him this, but the Beef actually..” Richie’s familiar rambles are muffled to your ears, the only thing you can hear is Carmen.

Everything zones out as you scrunch your eyebrows, wincing almost, at the pain and it shocks you, it shocks you how the very name of him still brings back those memories. You still hurt the same way you did the day you left him.

You must have looked out of it, as Richie shakes your shoulder, anchoring you back to the present, and you have to swallow back the bite of pain that bleeds through your chest.

“Did you hear what I said? The Beef’s holding a little family dinner tomorrow, shutting down the shop early, inviting only friends and family, it’ll be like a little reunion for you! You have to come” Richie replies, and you nod trying to seem present.

Carmen took over the Beef? He was in New York? What?

Your mind is scattered with the uproar of questions you have, the thought of Carmen, the memory of him is like a fresh wound. It un tethered and opens up a thread of thoughts and emotions you had thought you bottled up and threw deep into the ocean.

“You, you still talk to him right? Ya’ll were pretty close growing up, like fucking thieves attached to the hip if i can remember” Richie chuckles, fondly remembering the two of you.

You cough back, smiling up at him as you trying to reply coherently

“Yeah, uh sometimes you know” You lie

No. You haven't spoken to him since you left, and it feels like your tongue falls dead when you try to say his name again. You hadn't called and he hadn't picked up. Carmen told you not to say goodbye, but the truth was it had been the end of you even before you had both realised. 

You had spent years pretending like Carmen not calling you, not making an effort to see you after everything didn’t burn, but the reality of it had marked you in a way that felt eternal.

“So you're coming, yeah? You and Carmen can finally catch up” Richie replies with a smile, and look of something passes through his eyes before it leaves, and you have to smile back with a nod, like you and Carmen were still close, like you don't feel that he might turn you away or scream at you the second he saw you, like you weren't both irrevocably in love with each other.

Bear. You missed him, you are shocked by how much you do, you thought bottling up your memories and emotions about him and stuffing them so far back into your mind you forgot would actually change anything. There had always been this lingering thought, at the recesses of your mind, the last thing you imagined before you fell asleep, the feeling that filled you the second you came back to Chicago, it was all Carmen, it was all your golden boy.

And now you would have to see him, in less than a day you would  be in the same room as Carmen Berzatto, you don't want to say it, you don't want to speak it into acknowledgement but deep down, you wanted to see him again. 

Beyond it all, you both were bonded in friendship, sharing something you didn't even have with Adeline or Mae, and you had felt like a part of yourself was missing each day that went passed without hearing from him. Had he forgotten you? Had it been as hard for him to go on with life? He had been in New York for christ sake, he didn't even think to visit you, that thought alone made you want to run back home and never come out.

You couldn't bare the possibility of exposing yourself to such heartache, to the chance of being rejected by the very person who you forever longed for. You were always searching for him, looking through crowds to see the familiar curl of his brown hair, or the scent he carried, ears always leaning in, trying to see if it would catch his syrupy baritone voice.

The two of you were forever connected, like the roots of trees spanning miles under the Earth. The kind of companionship that transcended time and space, and god did you want to feel the sharp edge of his jaw between your hands.

You couldn't stop it now, Richie had opened something you kept locked and sunk for a reason, and now it felt like you would break if you didn't see Carmen. Even if it would break you, even if it was the one thing in this world that would destroy you, 

You had to see your golden boy.