#it's a bit too cold to go out and all today

[szatears]

Could you do a sinners story. That’s a Stack x Mary x Black!reader set now. Where they slowly fall in love with reader who’s baddie and include some jealousy.

three's trouble, stack & mary.

summary: stack had always had a thing for you. you never thought much of it because he was a huge flirt like that and also because of the other girl he was always entertaining. but maybe, just maybe, you could have a bit of fun with that?

pairings: stack x blackfem!reader, stack x mary, mary x blackfem!reader.

warnings: slight smut (one day i'll go the whole way), some descriptions of reader, mary being jealous of reader.

notes: this one is kinda long! i'm a smoke girly through and through but this request may have bumped stack up my ratings a little 😛 also by 'set now' i'm assuming you mean in today's era but if that's not what you meant then i wholeheartedly apologise 😭

It started off as a joke. When Smoke and Stack opened up their juke joint, you had originally gone there with a couple of your girls, until it became a routine place for you guys to meet up and debrief, letting loose as the night's events would take you away.

It wasn't until the fourth time you went there that you met Mary. You were on the dance floor with your girls when she almost bumped into you, turning around with an apologetic face. She hovered over her words as she spoke to you, taking in your face and that gorgeous two piece you had on you.

Something clicked in her head in that moment, it was all fuzzy, not quite connected, but she just knew she'd be seeing more of you.

And that she did.

It became a weekly thing, going to the joint. The first time you met Stack was no accident; it seems he had actually sought you out from the crowd. He wanted to know what it was about this girl that Mary kept going on about.

Mary wasn't infatuated to say, she was more... interested. There was something about you that drew her in, the way you laughed at her jokes, how effortlessly your body moved to the rhythm of the music as you both danced, the intense eye contact... It really drew her in.

Stack wasn't really what you expected. Perhaps you just thought he'd be like his brother, Smoke. Cold, tough, not interested in anything that doesn't benefit him in a way, or at least that's what you gathered from all that you heard.

But he wasn't like Smoke, at least not entirely. Stack was clearly the more chilled of the two, the one open to having a bit of fun.

The joke itself was based on how much of a liking Mary and Stack took to you. You'd be told that they didn't always tolerate people outside of their immediate circle, that there was just something special about you.

When Stack began to call you his girl, or when Mary started to affectionately show you off to anyone who would listen, you started to think there was more to your relationship with them than you suspected.

That being said, you weren't surprised when Stack greeted you with an arm thrown over your shoulders, pulling you into him every time he saw you since the say you met.

"There's my favourite girl," he'd drawl out with a huge smile, an icy pink drink in his hand waiting for you.

"Hey, Stack," you'd kiss his cheek, taking the drink from him and allowing him to take your hand in his, leading you to the section of the joint him and Smoke fixed up nice and neat for them and their special guests.

You felt the eyes on you as you walked behind him, albeit he was moving at a fast pace through bodies that parted so he could pass. He was respected like that.

"Where's Mary?" You asked when he sat you down right next to him, one of your legs resting over his lap as his arm lay low around your waist, holding you to him.

You had to lean up close to his ear to ask over the loud blues that was being played on the stage, presumably Sammie. Your new 613 styled hair tickled his face a little when he leaned closer to you to answer.

"She's around, I ain't too sure where," he waved you off, almost like it irritated him to answer. You came to the conclusion that Stack and Mary had a complicated relationship, it was pretty obvious to anyone who watched them for more than a moment.

At times you got caught up in the middle of their arguments or tiffs, where Mary would complain to you about Stack being Stack, and Stack would tell you to tell her to "ease off a lil'". It was always something with those two.

You stayed in his company like that for most of the night, mainly because Stack wouldn't exactly let you get up. You were a catch, he knew that and you did too.

He saw the eyes you'd get from every guy here and then, but none of them would make a move whilst you were with him. They'd wait until after, but even then, the fear of messing with Stack's girl would keep them away.

"Damn, Stack, save some girls for the rest of us," Melo laughed as he dapped him up. Melo was one of the guys that Smoke and Stack tolerated, for more reasons than just the fact that he was a funny guy. You thought it had something to do with the 'business' that they handled, and you were probably right.

Stack smirked, his hand subtly rubbing your ass over the skirt you wore. "Man, gone on," he gestured to Melo.

"Nah, real shit though, where Mary at?"

"I'on know, does it look like I got her on a leash? She's wherever she's at." He snapped. You frowned at that, coming to the conclusion that they had definitely gotten into it before you arrived.

Melo held his hands up in surrender, walking away to the bar. It was like he could feel you judging him, because when Stack looked down at you after reaching into his pocked for a prerolled blunt, he shook his head. "Don't you start on me too, ma" he mumbled, fumbling in his pockets for a lighter.

"Hm," was all you said. "I'm gonna go look for her."

He didn't stop you, try to make you stay. He let you go after her.

Mary was on the other side of the joint, laughing it up with some girls you'd never seen before. She spotted you just as you spotted her, her face brightening up at the sight of yours.

"Hey, there is she is right now! Look girls, this is the fine lil' lady I was talking to y'all about earlier," she held your hand as she brought you to the group. You smiled at them all, trying to fight away any awkwardness.

"You look good," Mary brought her arms to rest around your neck, intertwining them together. Yours rested loosely around her waist, the two of you almost flush together.

"Thanks, doll," you made a kissy face at her, not expecting her to actually kiss your lips. It was a short kiss, and she pulled away with a huge smile. Poor girl was gone. "What's up with you and Stack though? Y'all fighting again?"

Mary rolled her eyes, removing a hand from around your neck to pull her dress down a little. You recognised the dress, it was one you helped her pick out on the many shopping trips the two of you took together with Stack's money. It was a deep red, came up to her mid thighs and exposed her back at the behind.

"That man ain't shit," she groaned. "Talking 'bout I get on his nerves and don't know how to leave him alone. Maybe don't send mixed signals then?!"

You nodded as she ranted, her friends now dispersing across the joint to leave you two alone. This was nothing you haven't heard before, Mary and Stack always got into it about something along the same lines as their last argument.

"Maybe I should just have you be my new thing instead of him," Mary frowned, leaning her body on yours. You smiled at her words.

"I wouldn't mind that."

*

A couple days later, you assumed they'd be on good terms again but it seemed not. You were hanging around in your apartment when you heard the door open, confusing taking over your face because no one else had a key. Before you even had a chance to grab something incase you needed to defend yourself, you heard a voice call out for you.

"Where you at, baby?" Stack asked, taking his shoes off by the door.

"Elias, I told you to stop picking my damn doors," you kissed your teeth, exhaling a much needed sigh of relief after that small scare.

"Then start answering your phone," he said like it was the most obvious response. He kissed your lips briefly, mumbling a "hey" before he made his way to your kitchen, coming back to you with a bottle of water.

"What brings you here?" you asked, settling down on the sofa.

He didn't reply straight away, instead he took the time to admire you as he drank. You weren't wearing anything too special, a small, white spaghetti strapped tank top with light grey joggers that belonged to a lounge set. You looked good. You always did. Hell, you could be wearing the most basic thing ever and Stack would find you drop dead gorgeous.

A small smirk made its way to his face as his thoughts trailed off to other things, making you tilt your head at him.

"Hello?" you nudged him.

"Sorry, darling," he finally snapped out of his trance. "You got me a lil' distracted there."

You smiled, like you always did when he flirted with you. He put the cap back on his bottle, placing it down on the coffee table in front of him before his arms reached out for you, pulling you into him.

You let him guide you over his laps, straddling him with your palms resting flat against his chest. Stack's hands rubbed over your ass as he leaned further into the sofa, his eyes staring right into yours.

"You didn't answer my question," you looked back at him.

"I can't pay you a visit no more? Damn," he sighed, squeezing at your hip.

"I didn't say all that," you rolled your eyes. "You and Mary keep getting into it and then dragging me in your mess."

The day before, Mary had come over to yours. Originally she planned to convince you to come out with her, but you had had enough of partying for a couple of days. So she stayed in with you.

What started off as you two watching movies and making dinner turned into her hands caressing gently over your body, your lips on hers and a whole lotta noise.

"That ain't nothing new," He said.

"Yeah? Maybe that's a sign, I don't know..."

"A sign for what?"

"A sign that—" you were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing, a puzzled expression on your face as you removed yourself from Stack's lap to answer it. There was nothing that annoyed you more than unexpected guests, but two? This was a new record now.

You opened the door, eyes widening at the sight of Mary.

"Hey, girl," she smiled at you. She looked down behind you for a brief moment, her eyes landing on Stack's shoes. She look back at you, eyes narrowed before she moved past you and inside.

"Yeah, come right in. No, I'm not too busy at the moment," you mumbled to yourself. It wasn't long before you were hearing raised voices and all sorts of cuss words being thrown.

"Really?! So you can be here, around her, but you can't be bothered to come see me?"

"Mary, calm the fuck down and watch who you talking to," Stack ran a hand down his face, his mood completely soured as he reached for a blunt in his pocket.

"No! Because you're such a fucking liar! I swear to God," she laughed bitterly, turning to face you now. "And when were you gonna tell me about this. Huh? After I slept with you again?"

Stack's brows piqued up at that, turning to you too.

"Mary, you knew Stack's been coming up here, I literally told you that—"

"What, y'all got something goin' on too?" She scoffed. It was insane to her how she was the one who introduced you two yet felt completely left out of the loop.

"I mean, shit, if you want," Stack smirked, clearly unfazed by the situation in front of him.

"Shut the hell up," you and Mary both said.

Sighing, you walked towards her. You could see the pout on her face, the crease in her brow that only appeared when she frowned. "You like him more than me or somethin'?" She asked you.

"No. I like you both. I also think you're both irritating as fuck," you spoke honestly, tucking a standing of your hair behind your ear that had fallen out of the ponytail you put it in before they both came.

Stack blew smoke out of his mouth from where he sat, watching you both. You wrapped your arms around Mary's waist, inching your face closer to hers. Her eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes, waiting for you to make the first move.

You broke your gaze away from her face to look at Stack, his eyes focused on you and what you would do next. A smile graced your lips, your attention back on Mary. You leaned in, feeling the softness of her lips welcome yours.

"Damn," Stack mumbled.

Mary kissed you back, a small moan escaping her lips as she did. When you parted your lips, her tongue didn't waste any time, exploring your mouth as you moaned shamelessly.

You broke away from the kiss, leaning your head on Mary's shoulder as you looked at Stack. "There are more ways to solve this lil' issue, you know."

Stack smiled, putting his blunt in the ashtray. You pulled away from Mary, pushing her gently towards Stack, who took her into his arms. He kissed her, slow and gentle.

"You know I love you," he mumbled against her lips.

"Yeah. I love you too," Mary sighed, glad she was finally being shown some attention by him.

They turned to look at you, Mary patting the spot on the other side of Stack. "And we love you too. Guess we'll just have to learn to share," she smirked.

You sat down, and it wasn't long before Stack's lips were on yours, his hand around your throat, pulling you closer. Mary watched on, her lip tucked in between her teeth. Why didn't she ever think of this before.

She kissed down Stack's neck, nipping and biting, letting up when you started to kiss her. Her hands grabbed at your top, breaking away from the messy kiss to pull it off of you. Stack took his top off too, his toned body on display. You almost drooled, you couldn't believe this was actually happening, or rather, that it was happening so late.

Stack leaned towards your neck, sucking and kissing wherever he could as you groaned, tilting your head back slightly. Mary was still on you, kissing you from cheek to cheek before she was back on your lips. You were overwhelmed a little, but the good type of overwhelmed.

Stack pulled away, his eyes lustful and full of want as he looked at both his girls. "I think we should take this upstairs."

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[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Part Three ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, southern charm still thick as molasses in the middle of a snowstorm, Mark starts tweakin’ a lil’ bit on the low LMAO

Word Count: 2,449

Synopsis: Mark shows up to school early only to be immediately wrecked by you, who’s handing out muffins & heartache. Mark finds himself caught between charm, jealousy, and the slow realization that he is already in waaay too deep.

a/n: thank you for the feedback on the poll but y’all are just as torn on the direction to go with this thing as I am ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ i really don’t want to drag this series out too longgg cause i feel like y’all will get sick of her, but there is so much fun potential with them!! so when i do wrap it up i definitely still plan to do random drabbles/blrubs/headcannons. so if you have a particular scenario you want to see played out with these two let me knowww

read part two ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

The next day, Mark got to first period a full fifteen minutes early.

He wasn’t trying to be extra—he just, y’know, happened to wake up earlier than usual. Showered for an extra minutes. Stared into his closet for even longer.

It was row after row of sweaters.

Gray sweater. Navy sweater. Slightly-different-gray sweater. The exact same maroon one he wore yesterday, and probably twice last week.

“Why do I own so many sweaters,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s not even cold.”

He glanced at the clock. He had exactly twelve minutes to leave the house if he wanted to be on time. But today wasn’t about being on time.

Today was about impressing the southern goddess who fed him homemade pie and called him sugar like it didn’t wreck his entire nervous system.

He yanked the maroon sweater off its hanger and immediately dropped it again. “No. You wore that when you met her. You can’t wear a sweater twice in a row, she’ll think you’re... sweater guy.”

He reached deeper. Somewhere in the back—past the knit graveyard—and he found an old, forgotten denim button-up he hadn’t worn in ages.

“…Okay. Alright.” He held it up, inspecting it like it might bite. “It’s not not cool. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

By the time he was out the door, he was buttoned up, hair freshly styled, smelling faintly like his dad’s aftershave (too much? was it too much?), and on track to arrive at school earlier than any teenager had ever willingly arrived before.

He passed one of the janitors on the way in. The guy looked at him weird.

Mark nodded like a man with a mission. “Big day.”

The janitor grimaced and went back to mopping.

Mark made it to class so early the lights weren’t even fully on yet.

He sat down, tried to play it cool, tapped his pen like he wasn’t losing his mind.

And then—you walked in.

Suddenly the semi-lit classroom felt too bright.

You were wearing another one of those flowy dresses—soft blue this time, with little white daisies scattered all over like a watercolor painting. Your hair was curled again, bouncing around your shoulders, and there was a tiny yellow bow tucked just behind your ear.

You were smiling, too. Big and bright, like it wasn’t still technically dark outside.

Mark forgot what breathing was.

“Good mornin’, sugar!” you chirped, dropping into the desk beside him in a way that almost made the hard plastic seem comfortable. “Ain’t it just the prettiest day?”

Mark looked outside.

It was overcast. Kinda windy. A bird hit the window and flopped off.

“…Yeah,” he croaked. “Gorgeous.”

You opened your notebook with a little hum, pulling out a pen that had a fuzzy pink pom-pom on the end. Different from your rhinestone student pencil from yesterday. Of course you had a whole arsenal of beautiful writing utensils.

Mark stared at it like it held all the answers to the universe.

“I brought peach muffins today,” you said, casual as ever. “Meemaw said I should bring a whole batch with me ‘cause they were too good not to share. I figured I’d bring you one.”

Mark’s felt like a fist had closed around his heart. “I’d die for a muffin.”

You laughed, light and lovely, not even fazed. “Well shoot, I don’t want you dyin’ for one. You just wait ‘til lunch and I’ll hand it over easy, no crime involved.”

Mark stared at you, helpless.

You turned your face to the window with a little sigh, completely unaware you’d just accidentally ruined him for every other girl on planet Earth.

The bell rang.

Mark didn’t even notice.

He was too busy falling deeper in love with the girl who brought sunshine and muffins into first period like it was nothing.

He was still riding the high of being called sugar and getting a personal smile when the classroom started to fill in.

You were already sitting beside him, scribbling little daisies in the margins of your notes and humming to yourself like you were the only one immune to Tuesday energy. You pulled a small zip-lock pouch from your tote and opened it to reveal a cluster of wrapped muffins, all neat and warm and clearly made with care.

“Good morning, sweetheart!” you said brightly—to the teacher.

Mark watched with stars in his eyes as you stood, walked to the front desk, and handed the teacher a muffin with both hands and a smile. “Mama always says nobody should have to start their day without a little somethin’ sweet.”

The teacher blinked, clearly caught off guard, then smiled back. “Well... thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

Mark practically swooned. Look at her, he thought. She’s so thoughtful. She’s so considerate. She’s like a vintage greeting card but better. An actual saint.

You turned around, still holding one more muffin in your hand��and then you walked right past Mark’s desk.

He froze. Wait. No muffin for him?

But then—worse—you stopped beside Brian.

Brian. The kid with glasses thicker than bulletproof glass. The one who wore suspenders without irony. Who once gave a ten-minute speech in class about his favorite graphing calculator.

You handed him a muffin.

“There ya go, sugar,” you said sweetly. “You always look so focused in here—I figure you deserve a treat.”

Brian turned bright red. “Oh! Uh! Thanks! That’s, um—wow. Thank you.”

Mark, from two desks away, silently short-circuited.

Brian?? He liked Brian! Brian was harmless! Brian was also now the luckiest man alive and probably didn’t even know it!!

Mark stared blankly at his own desk. The jealousy was illogical. He knew that. You were just being friendly. It was who you were. That was why he liked you so much.

Still.

He looked down at his empty hands, then at Brian, who was carefully placing his muffin into a Ziploc bag like it was a museum artifact.

Mark was still trying to pretend he didn’t feel weird about the whole Brian Situation™ when you turned back to him with your usual sunny grin—muffin bag in hand.

He straightened in his seat like a dog hearing the treat bag rustle.

“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” you said, tapping the top of the bag like it held gold. “I got your muffin all safe and sound for lunch.”

Mark blinked. “Oh—cool. Thank you.”

“But,” you added, eyes twinkling, “you look like you could use a little somethin’ sweet right now.”

His heart started to race. “I—I mean I—uh—”

You reached into the bottom of the muffin bag, broke off a little piece of golden, peach-flecked heaven, and held it out to him between your fingers.

“Open up.”

Mark’s soul left his body.

He opened his mouth automatically, like he was under some kind of southern-fried spell, and you gently popped the bite in—still smiling, totally casual, like this was just what people did.

The muffin was warm and soft and ridiculous. A spiritual experience.

You went right back to your notes like nothing had happened.

Mark sat there in stunned silence, chewing slowly, eyes wide like a soldier returning from war.

LATER THAT DAY — LUNCH.

Mark was already outside when you arrived—waiting under the tree like a man on a mission, trying to act like he hadn’t sprinted there the second the bell rang.

You showed up, bright as ever, holding that pastel lunchbox like it was the Holy Grail.

“Well hey, handsome,” you greeted, sitting gracefully beside him. “Hope you saved some room. I brought you the biggest one.”

He smiled—more like grinned—more like beamed. “Yeah, totally. Been thinking about it all day. Like… not in a weird way. Just. Y’know.”

You laughed, pulling out your container.

Then, completely oblivious to the emotional avalanche you were about to cause, you added: “Oh! And where’s your little friend? The one from yesterday? I brought extra for him too!” You took another cheerful bite of your muffin and glanced around the courtyard.

Mark froze mid-chew.

“William?” he asked, already knowing where this was going.

You nodded, casual as ever. “Mmhmm. I could’ve sworn he was in line for those lil’ curly fries they serve.” You pulled the spare muffin from your bag, holding it up delicately in its wax paper like it was a peace offering. “Wouldn’t feel right eatin’ this one without givin’ it to him. Poor thing’ll think I forgot about him!”

Mark’s smile was pained. “Oh. Yeah. That’s… thoughtful.”

You grinned, totally oblivious to the internal meltdown you’d just triggered. “I’m pretty sure he’s still in there honey. Go get him!”

He blinked. “What?”

You laughed gently, like he was being shy. “Go on, darlin’! Tell him I saved one just for him. He can come sit with us.”

Mark’s brain:

💔 This was our thing. 💔 Our spot. 💔 Our tree. 💔 Our muffin moment. 💔 Our marriage announcement was going to go here.

But all he said was, “…Right. Be right back.”

He stood up slowly, like he was going to the guillotine. “You sure you don’t wanna… I don’t know… surprise him later?”

You laughed again and shook your head. “Now don’t be silly. Ain’t no sense lettin’ this thing go cold!”

He nodded, a broken man. “Right. Of course. Warm muffins. That makes sense.”

You waved him off with a sweet little, “Tell him I said hurry, before I eat it myself!”

As he turned toward the cafeteria, he muttered under his breath, “…I was gonna marry her.”

Mark all but slammed through the cafeteria doors, eyes scanning the room like he was hunting prey.

There. At the far table. William, munching on curly fries like it was just another day, chatting with some guy from math class like the fate of Mark’s entire romantic future wasn’t on the line.

Mark rushed over, practically skidding to a stop in front of him. “Will,” he hissed, out of breath, eyes intense. “Please don’t ruin this.”

William blinked. “Ruin what? What’s happening? Are we being hunted?”

Mark leaned in, voice urgent. “She sent me to come get you. You. Personally. She has a muffin for you.”

William raised both brows. “...Oh. So this is about Muffin Girl.”

Mark looked around, already twitching. “She’s waiting under the tree. Our—my—spot. Please, please, I’m begging you, don’t linger. Just take the muffin, say thank you, maybe one polite compliment on her dress if you have to, and leave.”

William paused, chewing slowly, savoring the moment like it was his own muffin.

“Wow,” he said. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m in hell,” Mark whispered. “I am in hell and she’s passing out baked goods like this is a church potluck. I need this.”

William popped one last curly fry in his mouth and stood. “Alright, alright. Don’t rupture anything. I’ll be cool.”

“You won’t be,” Mark muttered, following him out. “I know you. You’re gonna make this weird.”

William grinned over his shoulder. “Buddy, you brought me a muffin invitation like it was a golden ticket. This is weird.”

Mark groaned.

You spotted them before they even made it halfway across the lawn.

Mark looked like he was dragging William toward you by the soul. William, on the other hand, looked entirely unbothered—curly fry in one hand, mild mischief in his eyes.

“Well there he is!” you called out, waving that sweet little wave that made Mark’s knees go weak. “I was just about to send a search party.”

William grinned as they approached. “Sorry, ma’am. He tracked me down like a bloodhound. Said I was urgently needed.”

Mark muttered, “I did not say urgently.”

You patted the blanket beside you without hesitation. “Well come on, then! I don’t wanna be handin’ out muffins while they’re all cold and sad.”

Mark shot William a look. One that screamed: Don’t you dare.

William, of course, ignored it completely and sat down like he’d been invited to a five-star brunch. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, stretching out a little. “Beautiful day, huh?”

Mark stood awkwardly beside the blanket, hovering like he wasn’t sure if this was now a group event or if he should go lay down in traffic.

“It is!” You agreed with another beaming smile before handing William the wrapped muffin “Now these are peach flavored—my favorite,” you said, then added with a wink, “but I’m biased.”

William opened it like a kid on Christmas. “Man, you bake and you’ve got charm? Mark wasn’t kidding.”

Mark snapped his head around so fast it nearly detached. “What.”

William bit into the muffin like it was the last joy on Earth and moaned dramatically. “Holy crap. You trying to kill us with kindness? These are so good!”

You giggled. “Well shoot, if I knew y’all were this easy to impress I’d’ve brought somethin’ fancier!”

Mark finally sat down, a little stiff, very tense, watching William like a hawk. He took a bite of his muffin (a big one), and tried to look normal.

He did not look normal.

William, fully aware, turned to you. “So, how’d you learn to bake like this? You go to some kind of southern baking academy, or is this just genetic perfection?”

You laughed, delighted. “Lord, no! My grandma just taught me when I was little. Said a lady should always know how to whip up a good peach pie and a sharp comeback.”

Mark, halfway through his muffin and very much not chewing like a normal person, tried to chime in. "That's really cool," he said, muffled through a mouthful.

William glanced sideways at him with a smirk that had way too much knowing in it. "Didn’t know you were so into peaches, man."

Mark nearly choked. "I’m not—I mean, I am. I like muffins. Just—these muffins. Or... muffins in general."

You looked between the two of them, brows raised ever so slightly, and let out the softest little laugh. “Y’all city boys sure are funny,” you said, sipping your drink with a smile like this was all just playful nonsense.

Mark practically melted. God, she’s sweet, he thought. She doesn’t even know what she does to people. She’s literally just—

His eyes flicked sideways—and immediately caught William staring straight at him with a smirk that said everything.

Mark’s brain screeched back to reality like a record scratch. He cleared his throat, sat up straighter, took another too-casual bite of muffin.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, “uh… yeah. School’s wild, right?”

William didn’t say anything. Just took another bite of his own muffin, eyes full of judgment and joy.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗪𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡? - part seven max verstappen x reader ( angst ) series summary . . . when he wants to be normal, he can count on you, stranger.

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The McLaren hospitality sliding doors shut behind you with a soft click as you walked down the stairs into the paddock, but your heartbeat thundered in your ears like a red-flag restart. You weren’t expecting it. You weren’t ready. And yet—

“Y/n.”

His voice. Your name. Cut through the Monaco mist like a red light breaking dawn. You didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t face it. Not today. Not after everything.

You turned on instinct, feet ready to run. But Max caught your wrist before you could vanish.

“Wait—please—just—don’t go,” he whispered.

His grip wasn’t tight. Wasn’t cruel. It trembled, soft and shaking like his voice, like the way his blue eyes were oceans you weren’t ready to drown in. He pulled you, gently but firmly, into the narrow alley behind the motorhomes where no one could see. Just the two of you and the rain sneaking in sideways.

“Why are you ignoring me?” Max asked, voice cracking on the syllables. “Why did you block me, Y/n?”

You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t see the hurt on his face without unraveling. The ache in your throat built like a crash on replay.

“I miss you,” he whispered. “I’ve been trying. Every day. You just… disappeared.”

You pulled your wrist free, slow, careful. The way you'd untangle a necklace that meant too much.

“I just wanted Amilian,” you said. “My friend. Not—” you gestured at him, at all of this, at him. “Not you. Not Max Verstappen.”

Silence. Then—

“That’s why I created him, Y/n,” Max said, voice thick. “Because no one knows how to be friends with Max. They know how to talk to the brand, not the person. But you—you treated me like a person. You made me feel sane.”

He stepped closer, took your hand again. Desperate. Sad. His other hand brushed your elbow like he was scared you’d vanish.

“You made me happy, La. I could always go to you. When I was losing my mind. When I hated being me.” His voice dropped, bare and broken. “I love you.”

You choked on your own breath.

“What?”

“I love you,” he said again. “I fucking love you, Y/n.”

You shook your head, wild with confusion, with stormy disbelief. “But I’m me, Max. I’m—me,” you gestured again, hands helpless.

“You wouldn’t have told that to Amilian.” He grumbled under his breath, stepping forward until the gap between you shrank into breathless tension.

“Well, Amilian never was,” you say.

“But I am. I was. And we’re here now. You can’t fall in love with someone you met online, huh?” he said, mocking softly, but it was aimed at himself.

You placed your palm on his chest. A boundary. A warning. A truth you didn’t want to admit: You’d already done it.

You’d loved Amilian, who didn’t exist. You’d fallen in love with a lie.

“But I did,” you said quietly. “That’s the problem. I fell for someone who was never real.”

Max’s hand found your other wrist. “Then let’s be real,” he begged. “Right now. Because I need you, Y/n.”

His voice cracked like thunder splitting the sky.

“Every day, I dreamed of killing Amilian. After that night, after you stayed in my apartment—he wasn’t enough. He was stealing you from me. I had to let him go so I could be with you.”

He kissed you.

Soft and fierce, like he’d been holding it in for years. You froze, lips against his for just a moment. One second of shattering warmth before you pulled away.

Max bit his lip. Tried again, leaning in, eyes so full of need they were almost glowing. You flinched back.

“I need space,” you whispered, voice trembling.

His expression collapsed. “But I need you.”

You took a step back. “I’m sorry, Max. But I can’t be Ajla with you anymore.”

Your username burned in your mouth like salt. Like something holy you had to abandon.

You slipped out of his hands.

Rain fell harder, cold and loud, and he stood frozen in it—just another man in Austria, heartbroken behind the paddock, drenched in everything he couldn’t say.

“Y/n—please,” he tried once more, voice so raw you almost turned around.

But he didn’t follow.

He couldn’t.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Max Verstappen stood still . . . and let her go.

[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 23)

Synopsis: As the final day of the campaign winds down, old tensions and buried feelings rise to the surface in unexpected ways. In a night of laughter, chaos, and quiet confessions, some walls crack—but not everything broken can be so easily mended.

Word count: 7.1 K

Warnings: Subtle angst, Lingering tension, Unresolved emotions, Mentions of alcohol consumption, Mild language

You barely slept. 

You’d like to pretend it was just the hard day yesterday—the sun, the fertilizer sacks, the endless tasks—but it wasn’t. It was her. It was the way she said your name. The way she almost said something more. The way her eyes softened just a bit when she talked about that bunny, like it still meant something. 

It’s stupid how long you lay there after midnight, staring at the ceiling in your tiny inn room, letting every almost-moment replay over and over again like they were stuck on loop. What was she going to say? Why did she stop? Was she about to crack her walls open—just a little—or were you just reading too much into it again? 

You drag yourself up just as the sun begins to rise, shadows stretching long across the floor. The shower is short and cold, not because you want it to be, but because the hot water here is fickle. You towel off quickly and pull on your campaign shirt—wrinkled, but clean. You stayed up late enough doing a quick hand-wash in the bathroom sink last night, the cotton still smells faintly of soap. 

You don't bother with makeup. Just lip balm. Just something to make you look a little more alive than you feel. 

Downstairs, the inn’s breakfast spread is modest—just toast, butter, some scrambled eggs that taste like powder, and black coffee that tastes like survival. You eat automatically, not really tasting anything. Your fingers drum against your thigh, restless. 

Your phone is already open on the table. 

Coffee. 

Bouquet. 

Same one as always. 

You double-check the delivery details, pay extra for speed, and—on a whim—add her name to the order this time. Agatha Harkness. Maybe so the volunteers won’t accidentally take it again. Maybe because it feels like a quiet declaration. 

You don’t expect anything from it. You just need to do it. 

After breakfast, you slip on your jacket and step outside. The early air is cool against your skin, but it’s not enough to settle the hum under your ribs. You stuff your hands into your pockets and start the short walk toward the campaign site. 

It’s day three. The final day. 

And you still don’t know where is this going. 

But maybe today—you’ll find out. 

By the time you reach the campaign grounds, everything’s already alive with motion. Volunteers in green campaign shirts weave in and out of the main clearing, chairs are being carried from one end to another, and coordinators are barking out instructions with clipboards clutched tight to their chests. There’s a pulsing energy to the place—nervous, expectant, hopeful. 

It’s the final day. The big one. 

You walk in quietly, blending into the buzz, slipping your name badge from your back pocket and clipping it to the hem of your jeans. It swings lightly as you move, catching the breeze like it’s trying to wave at someone on your behalf. 

You barely get a moment before Kate’s voice finds you again. 

“There she is,” she says, sidling up next to you like you’ve been in mid-conversation for hours. “Lookin’ all serious and focused this morning.” 

You glance at her, offer a small smile, polite but automatic. “Morning, Kate.” 

She nudges your elbow. “You dream about fertilizer last night, or just too excited to see me again?” 

You let out a soft snort, shaking your head. “Definitely not fertilizer.” 

Kate laughs, the sound light and easy, but your attention’s already drifting—eyes scanning the crowd, the corners of tents, the edge of the makeshift stage still under setup. You haven’t spotted her yet. Agatha. 

You try to stay subtle about it, but you’re not sure how well you're doing. 

Before Kate can say more, one of the coordinators comes over—young, frazzled, already sweating through his campaign shirt. “Hey, you two—can you help unload one of the trucks? We need the chairs set up for the speeches later. Stage area. Please and thank you.” 

You and Kate nod in unison. Without much more instruction, you follow the trail toward the back lot, where a truck is parked with its back open, rows of white plastic chairs stacked inside. 

You move into work mode. Unload, carry, place. Repeat. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, but your eyes keep flicking toward the tents, toward the groups of volunteers, the flashes of green campaign shirts and white sneakers. Searching. 

Kate walks beside you with two chairs in hand. “You keep looking around,” she says casually, breath hitching a little as she walks. “You okay? Looking for someone?” 

You don’t stop walking. You just shrug. “Nah.” 

Kate raises a brow but doesn’t push it. She just flashes another grin and keeps moving. “Alright. Mysterious.” 

The chairs go up row by row in front of the small stage, angled just right for the eventual speeches. You barely even notice how sore your arms are getting—you’re too busy watching, waiting. 

But she’s still nowhere. 

Eventually, another coordinator waves you down. “Hey, you,” she says, pointing to you with a clipboard. “Can you stay with one of the campaign stalls for a bit? We need someone to keep an eye on the keychains and brochures. Just hand them out if anyone comes by. It’s a chill task. Thanks!” 

You nod, brush the sweat off your brow, and walk over to the table she points out. A small wooden stall tucked to the side, decorated in campaign colors, stacked with a few baskets of printed brochures and a small pile of keychains shaped like watering cans. A sign reads: "Plant a Future. Be Part of the Roots." 

Kate gives you a mock salute as she gets tugged into another task nearby. “Don’t fall asleep on the job.” 

You just smile faintly, watching her walk off, and then settle into the chair behind the stall. 

You’ve never been great at sitting still. 

You keep your eyes busy—watching the volunteers dart around, the coordinators lining up final logistics, and the stall across from you where someone’s trying to set up a half-deflated balloon arch. But more than anything, you’re still waiting—for that one familiar silhouette to show up. 

Agatha’s not here yet. 

Or maybe she is. 

You’ve been at the stall for over an hour now—maybe an hour and a half—handing out brochures and those tiny, cheerful watering can keychains to anyone who passes by. Most people just smile, say thank you, and keep walking. A few linger to ask about the campaign, some ask if it’s okay to take more than one. You tell them it’s fine. You don’t really mind. 

But your legs are starting to ache from standing too long, and your eyes keep flicking toward the gathering crowd inside the event tent. 

You can hear it now—the buzz is louder than ever. More people have arrived. Locals, yes, but also figures in crisp suits and shiny shoes, people you recognize from news snippets and articles. Press badges swinging from necks. Cameras flashing. Even from here, you can hear the laughter and the mic tests echoing from inside. 

And then you see him. 

Mayor Stark. Slick, smug, and somehow always a little too polished. He’s waving to the crowd like he just invented something, flashing a politician’s smile so forced it almost creaks. Your jaw tightens instinctively. You hate that he always looks like he’s performing. Like everything is a show. 

Billy’s voice crackles through the loudspeakers. “The program will begin in five minutes! Please take your seats. Again, we are requesting everyone to please find a seat as we begin shortly.” 

You glance down at the brochures in your hand. A quiet little sigh leaves your lips. You badly want to be in there. To see her. 

To see Agatha. 

But instead, you're still here. On brochure duty. 

“Still alive?” Kate’s voice breaks into your thoughts as she appears beside you, hands in her back pockets, lips curled into that usual half-teasing smirk. 

You nod. “Thriving,” you say with fake enthusiasm. “Best thing I’ve done all campaign, honestly. Peak achievement.” 

Kate chuckles. “Hey, don’t knock it. Those keychains? Collector’s item material.” 

You snort, handing another brochure to an old woman walking by. “What about you? What did they make you do?” 

She sighs dramatically. “Logistics. They needed someone to help with, I don’t know, rearranging delivery schedules or checking inventory or whatever. Naturally, they picked the most qualified person. Me.” She tosses her hair playfully. “I’m kind of a big deal.” 

You laugh softly, genuinely this time. “Must be exhausting being this excellent all the time.” 

“It is,” she says, mock-serious. “But I do it for the people.” 

Before either of you can say more, Billy’s voice cuts through again—this time smoother, more formal. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. We are incredibly honored to welcome our speaker…” 

You both instinctively glance toward the loudspeakers. 

Kate groans, only half-joking. “Oh God. I’m so glad I’m not stuck in there. An hour of political speeches? Hard pass.” 

You just smile at her, nodding along, but your thoughts are miles away. You know what you have to do. 

“Hey,” you say, careful, casual. “Can you watch this stall for a sec?” 

Kate raises a brow. “Sure. Everything okay?” 

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, just… bathroom.” 

She waves you off. “Go, go. I’ve got it.” 

“Thanks,” you mumble, already turning. You’re walking fast but trying not to look like you’re in a rush. You slip around the side of the tent, heart climbing its own way up your throat, trying not to get caught by a coordinator who might actually redirect you to get supplies. 

But you make it. 

Just in time. 

Billy’s voice is calm, clear. “—and now, please welcome the Governor of Washington State, Governor Agatha Harkness.” 

Applause erupts from the tent. Loud. Warm. Earnest. 

You slip into the very back, blending into the cluster of standing volunteers who didn’t manage to grab seats. From here, you can see the stage perfectly. Your breath catches. 

There she is. 

Agatha walks up the steps, smile soft and poised, her black blazer catching the light, the green campaign shirt she’s wearing underneath like a quiet nod to the cause. Her trousers are crisp, her hair down and loose, brushing her shoulders gently. Cameras flash as she reaches the center, waving once, thanking Billy with a subtle nod. 

She’s breathtaking. Unshakable. Unreachable. 

You find yourself clapping, like everyone else, but your eyes don’t leave her for a second. 

She greets the crowd with warmth, her voice strong and calm, just the right touch of command. She starts with a story—something about a farmer from Walla Walla who once built an irrigation system from scratch after a drought nearly ruined everything. You’re not sure how long she’s speaking before you realize your chest aches just listening to her. 

Agatha talks about farmers, about caretakers of the land, about why they matter. About how they are often the ones forgotten, unseen, undervalued—just like the farmer in her story. 

And then she folds it in effortlessly—why this campaign matters. Why she needs them. Why they need to raise $100,000. She doesn’t sound desperate, but she sounds real. And that’s worse, somehow. That’s harder. 

You barely notice how your hands start to curl around each other. 

She ends the speech after a few more points. You don’t catch the last words because your ears are ringing a little from how hard your heart is pounding. You clap, of course you do, and you stay for just one more second to watch her leave the stage, stepping down as Billy thanks her. 

And then—Stark is next. 

The moment he starts speaking, you’re gone. 

You slip out of the tent, back into the sun and the buzz of people wandering around the outer stalls. You make your way back to yours, where Kate is now comfortably seated, thumbing through something on her phone. 

She notices you right away. “Took you long enough,” she says with a grin. “You good?” 

You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. Long line. And then one of the coordinators caught me and asked if I could grab some supplies from the tent. Took a bit.” 

Kate nods like she buys it. “Classic. They really never let anyone pee in peace.” 

You let out a dry laugh. 

She stands and offers you the chair. “Here. You’ve been up all morning.” 

You shake your head. “You keep it. I’ll find another.” 

She raises a brow, but doesn’t argue. 

You find another folding chair a few steps away, pull it beside her, and sit down, the tension in your back finally catching up to you. 

For a few minutes, you and Kate just talk—nothing deep, just enough to pass the time. She tells you about how someone accidentally locked one of the trucks this morning and they had to call the driver back. You joke about how everyone seems to be held together by caffeine and duct tape. 

But even as you laugh, your mind still lingers elsewhere. 

On the stage. 

On her voice. 

On what she almost said to you yesterday. 

And whether she ever will again. 

The rest of the day dragged on like a slow reel. After Agatha’s speech, you didn’t get to see her again—she disappeared into the sea of people, press, and politicians. And you were stuck. Still manning your stall, still handing out the last of the brochures and keychains to a steadily thinning crowd. It started off kind of fun, especially when Kate was around. But then she got called off to help with some other logistics, and now you were left alone. 

Alone, and honestly… bored. 

It was a busy day, but a lonely kind of busy. You barely got to eat. You just munched on a cold sandwich in between handing flyers to people who barely looked at you. The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, throwing long shadows across the field, but the campaign hadn’t hit its fundraising goal yet. 100,000 dollars. Still short. 

You stared at the donation meter on the app that was pinned on your phone screen, the numbers ticking up slowly—painfully slowly. And then something shifted inside you. 

You glanced around. No one was paying attention. 

You open your contacts, scroll until you find her name, then tap it. Without thinking twice, you press “Call.” 

It rang once. Twice. 

“Ma’am?” her voice answered, always calm, always professional. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice low and tired. “I need you to make a transfer.” 

She didn’t ask anything at first. She was used to this. But when you told her the amount, her silence lingered for a second longer. 

“One… million?” 

You leaned against the edge of the stall and looked out into the distance. “Yes. I’ll send you the campaign’s details. I want it anonymous.” 

“Are you sure?” she asked gently. 

“Positive.” 

“Alright,” she said. “Send me the info. I’ll do it right now.” 

You forwarded the campaign details to her, watching your fingers shake slightly as you typed. Not from nerves. From something else. Maybe from everything—fatigue, hunger, the way Agatha’s speech earlier made your chest feel like it was both splitting and whole. 

A few moments later, an email notification lit up your phone screen. The bank asking for your confirmation. You clicked it open and replied quickly. 

Confirmed. 

Then, silence. 

And then—ding. 

Another email. Transfer Successful. 

You stared at it for a while, then slipped your phone back in your pocket just as Billy’s voice came through the loudspeakers again. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice booming across the field, “we did it! We officially reached our 100,000 dollar goal—and more.” 

People around you turned to look, clapping and cheering. 

Billy continued, “In fact… we received a one million dollar donation just moments ago! Anonymous! I don’t know who you are, but whoever you are—thank you. You’ve changed the entire course of this campaign.” 

You watched people light up. Even the volunteers around you looked stunned. Everyone clapped. Some whistled. Some laughed in disbelief. 

You just smiled to yourself and sat back down. 

Eventually, the day thinned out. One by one, the guests left. The press, the business people, even the politicians. What was left were the volunteers—some exhausted, some still giddy, all of you quietly proud. The event was over, but there was still work to be done. 

Billy’s voice cut through the low chatter again, this time not through a microphone but with his ever-present megaphone. “Alright! Let’s wrap it up, folks!” 

You were asked to help move the chairs back to the truck—the ones set up for the speech earlier. Your body ached, but you didn’t complain. You lifted, stacked, carried. Over and over again. The big canopy tents came down, the banners peeled off, lights turned off, tables folded up. Everything was being put away like nothing ever happened here. Just a patch of grass and sunburnt soil again. 

By around 8 PM, everything was clean. The trucks were packed, the field nearly empty. 

Billy called out again, “Everyone, gather around!” 

You made your way over with the rest of the volunteers. People huddled in a loose circle, some with water bottles, some with tired smiles. 

At the front of the group, you spotted Agatha standing beside Mayor Stark. Not on a stage. Just on the ground with everyone else. 

Agatha was the first to speak. 

She looked around the group, and when she smiled—it was different. Softer. Less political, more personal. 

“I just want to say thank you,” she began, her voice a little hoarse from the long day, “and I don’t think I’ll ever have the words to say it enough.” 

She looked genuinely moved. Not the kind of gratitude people perform, but the kind that hits from somewhere deep. Her voice wavered slightly as she continued. 

“This campaign wouldn’t be possible without you—without every single person here who gave their time, their energy, their patience. You all believed in this cause and believed in me even when I was… honestly panicking earlier because we were nowhere near the goal.” 

Some light laughter from the group. You bit your lip to stop your smile from showing. 

“And then… I don’t know. Maybe the universe was listening. Because someone out there donated one million dollars.” 

She exhaled shakily. “And I still can’t believe it.” 

Her eyes shimmered a little in the lights from the nearby trucks. 

You looked at her and thought, I would do it again. 

Then, unfortunately, Mayor Stark stepped forward. 

“Well!” he said, clapping his hands. “That means… it’s time to celebrate!” 

Some people laughed. Others clapped politely. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of renting the resto-bar just nearby,” he added with a grin that was just a little too smug. “Whole place is ours tonight.” 

You didn’t clap. You didn’t even smile. He looked like he wanted people to pat him on the back for opening his wallet. 

Still, the idea of unwinding with the others… maybe getting a glimpse of Agatha in a relaxed setting… it wasn’t the worst thought. 

But you stayed silent. Just watching her. 

She was glowing. Exhausted, emotional, but glowing. 

And you… you were just glad to still be near her 

The resto-bar was bigger than you expected. One of those open-layout places with warm lighting, polished wood floors, and exposed brick walls that made it feel a little too curated for a "casual celebration." Still, it was packed. People scattered everywhere—some crowding around the buffet, some already settled into booths, a few drinking at the bar even though it was barely past 8:30. 

The noise buzzed around you. Plates clinking, laughter in waves, someone calling for more wine at one of the bigger tables. 

You grabbed a plate and loaded it without overthinking—pasta, a pile of glazed ribs, a scoop of mashed potatoes, and some fruit for dessert. Maybe you went overboard, but you didn’t care. You hadn’t eaten properly all day and your body was catching up to the exhaustion. 

You found a corner table, away from the busiest parts of the room, and sat down. It felt good to just… be still. You dug into your food without ceremony, chewing as your eyes flicked to the far end of the room—towards her. 

Agatha was at one of the larger tables, sitting with Billy on one side and Stark across from her. She looked more relaxed now, like the weight of the day had finally lifted off her shoulders. You watched as Billy said something, waving his hands in that overly animated way of his, and Agatha burst into laughter. 

You paused mid-bite. 

She tilted her head slightly back when she laughed, covering her mouth the way she always did when something genuinely got to her. Her curls had loosened since earlier, now falling a little messier around her face. Her wine glass sat untouched in front of her. 

You were still staring when someone slipped into your view and cut the moment short. 

“Hey,” Kate said, holding her plate with one hand, the other already pulling a chair. “Mind if I join you?” 

You blinked, pulling your focus back to the table. “Yeah, sure.” 

She sat down with a grateful sigh. “Been looking for you earlier. You disappeared.” 

You stabbed a piece of rib with your fork. “Lot of people,” you said with a shrug, not looking at her. 

Kate tried to start small talk. Something about how the turnout was better than expected, how the mayor actually wasn't as unbearable tonight, how the ribs were surprisingly good. 

You nodded, offered small mhms. But your mind wasn’t on her. 

Your eyes kept drifting back to Agatha’s table, scanning her profile from afar. The way she tilted her head when she listened. How her fingers tapped idly at the edge of her plate. How she leaned slightly toward Billy when she spoke, but never toward Stark. 

Kate didn’t seem to notice you weren’t really listening. She just kept talking, like she was too tired to care. 

Eventually, people started drinking more freely. Some of the volunteers got louder. A few were even singing along to whatever 2000s playlist was on the speakers now. You finished your plate quietly and stood up, muttering something about the bar. 

You moved to the other side of the room and found an empty stool. 

“Whiskey. Just neat,” you told the bartender. He nodded and slid you a glass a moment later. 

The first sip hit hard—but good. Warm. Grounding. Like you were finally letting your muscles start to loosen. 

Kate appeared again, pulling up the stool beside you like she belonged there. You didn’t stop her. 

She kept talking. About something funny that happened earlier with the volunteers. You nodded, murmured responses when appropriate, your attention barely there. 

Your eyes, again, kept going back. 

Agatha was still at her table, now sipping her wine slowly. She looked so present. So rooted. Still smiling, but more subdued now. Her eyes scanned the room once in a while. At one point, she leaned in to say something to Billy, and he laughed again. 

Your glass was half-empty before you realized you were gripping it too tightly. 

Kate laughed at something—her own joke, maybe. You gave her a faint smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. She didn’t seem to mind. Or maybe she didn’t notice. 

You tilted your glass again, swallowed the rest of the whiskey, and set it down. 

And through all the voices and the clinking glasses and the tired music overhead, the one thing that wouldn’t leave your head was her laughter. 

And how it wasn’t meant for you. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. 

The night had long since slid into that golden, easy haze—when the food was eaten, the speeches done, and people had swapped their name tags for half-empty cocktail glasses. The resto-bar pulsed with low music and chatter, laughter echoing off the walls like firecrackers. Some folks were at the buffet for round three, others crowded near the bar, where the real party had started. 

You sat at a high stool, nursing your second whiskey with Kate still beside you, half-listening to her talk about someone’s embarrassing karaoke moment earlier. You nodded along, but your eyes kept drifting—past the hanging lights and waitstaff, toward Agatha’s table. 

She was still sitting there, legs crossed, her arm draped casually over the back of her chair. Billy was saying something animated, and she was laughing—really laughing, the kind where her eyes squint and her nose scrunches slightly. You didn’t even realize you were staring. 

“—so then he just faceplanted,” Kate finished, grinning, before catching the direction of your gaze. “You’ve been looking over there all night.” 

You blinked. “No I haven’t.” 

Kate raised an eyebrow. “Okay.” 

Before you could respond, a voice boomed over the buzz of the room. 

“Alright!” Mayor Stark stood on a chair, holding up a half-full bottle of rum like a trophy. “Enough talking, let’s make this a real party. I say we do something fun. Who’s down for a drinking challenge?” 

A small cheer erupted around him. Stark was grinning like a college frat boy at a reunion. “Winner gets a thousand bucks. Cash. Courtesy of my own damn wallet.” 

That caught more attention. A few people hooted. Someone clapped. And before you could talk yourself out of it, your hand was in the air. 

“Count me in,” you said, standing from your stool, a little too fast. 

Kate blinked at you. “Wait, seriously?” 

You just shrugged. “Why not?” 

The game began fast. 

Five contestants, a table lined with clear shot glasses, and Billy shouting dramatic commentary like it was a boxing match. Every few seconds, another shot. Vodka, gin, tequila—it rotated with each round. You weren’t even thinking anymore. Just drinking, and laughing, and drinking again. 

By round four, one guy had tapped out, slurring something about his stomach. 

By round seven, it was just you and Stark. 

Someone pushed a glass into your hand and you raised it without thought, your cheeks flushed, your heartbeat rushing in your ears. 

Across the circle of people, you caught a glimpse of her. 

Agatha. 

She wasn’t laughing now. 

She was standing beside Billy, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed. Watching you. Closely. Her expression unreadable, but her body was tense. 

Before the next shot, she stepped forward. 

“Okay, maybe that’s enough,” she said, her voice just loud enough to cut through the noise. “This is starting to look less like fun and more like a bad idea.” 

You smiled, tipsy and stubborn. “It’s fine, Governor. It’s just a game.” 

Stark, already sweating, raised his glass and added, “Yeah, c’mon, let her finish. We’re this close.” 

Agatha gave him a sharp look, then turned back to you. “You don’t look okay,” she said, softer this time. Just to you. 

You blinked, a beat too long. “I’m fine. Promise.” 

Your voice came out slightly slurred, your grin uneven. And before she could say anything else, you took the next shot. 

And another. 

And another. 

And another. 

Then it hit you. 

The moment you slammed the winning glass down and the small crowd whooped and clapped, the room tilted. Just slightly at first—like the floor had shifted under your feet. You opened your mouth to say something clever, maybe something smug about winning. But then your knees buckled. 

Kate is the first to move, but Agatha is faster. 

They both lunge for you at the same time as your legs give out, catching you between them before you hit the floor. 

“Shit—" Kate breathes, struggling to steady you. 

Agatha’s hands grip your upper arms, tight but careful. 

For a second — just a second — she looks terrified. 

She and Kate lock eyes over your head. 

Something passes between them — something sharp, unspoken. 

Kate looks... realizes something. Her jaw tightens slightly. 

Agatha's mask almost slips. 

Her hand lingers at your cheek, brushing your hair back with a tenderness that doesn’t match the cool, professional expression she tries to force back onto her face. 

She catches herself, stiffening. 

Without looking at Kate, she says briskly, "Billy, get over here." 

Billy rushes forward, helping to steady you on the other side. 

You blink up at Agatha, smiling like a fool, so drunk you can barely see straight. 

Your fingers cling to her jacket lapel without thinking. 

“You're so pretty," you mumble, loud enough that a few volunteers nearby laugh awkwardly. 

Agatha stiffens visibly. 

She gently peels your hand off her jacket, but she doesn't let go of you. 

Not yet. 

“This is a disaster,” she mutters under her breath, voice tinged with something that might almost be fondness. 

You lean into her shoulder, nuzzling clumsily. 

“Is this a dream?” you mumble, voice thick, “...’cause you look like a dream...” 

Kate looks away, jaw set. 

Agatha closes her eyes for a second like she’s praying for patience. 

Then she pats your cheek lightly. “Alright, sweetheart. Time to go.” 

There’s a quiet scramble as she exchanges quick words with Billy and another volunteer. 

Kate hovers like she wants to protest, but in the end, she just watches, lips pressed tight. 

Agatha tugs you closer to her side, her arm firm around your waist. 

"I'll take her," she says, tone brisk, like it's just logistics. Just another thing to handle tonight. 

She doesn’t ask. 

She decides. 

Outside, the night air bites softly at your cheeks, the chill a sudden slap compared to the heat of the bar. The sky above is velvet-dark, and the buzz of voices and laughter fades as the heavy door swings shut behind you. 

You stumble a little on the steps, and Agatha catches you—again. 

“Careful,” she murmurs, her arm firm around your waist. “You’re not exactly walking in a straight line.” 

You laugh into her shoulder, your breath fogging the fabric of her coat. “M’fine... I’m totally fine, Agatha... ‘s just the floor that’s weird.” 

She huffs a quiet laugh, just a breath of one, then shakes her head. 

The SUV pulls up to the curb with the smooth purr of a well-oiled engine. One of the volunteer drivers—young, confused, trying very hard not to stare—gets out and opens the back door. 

Agatha starts guiding you toward it. You resist slightly, hands grabbing at her coat sleeve. You look up at her with glassy eyes. 

"Where... are we going?" you ask, slurring the last word just a bit. 

Agatha doesn’t hesitate. She tells the driver, gaze fixed on you. “Hotel Viné. My suite.” 

Your brows furrow. “Oooh... scandalous,” you whisper, like it’s a joke just between the two of you, before letting out a breathless giggle. 

You don’t notice the way her jaw tenses. 

She helps you into the backseat like you’re made of spun sugar—careful, delicate. You half-fall, half-collapse against the seat, head lolling back with a dramatic sigh. 

And then she slides in beside you. 

You’re still fiddling with her coat sleeve when she leans over, buckling you in with brisk, efficient hands. Her fingers graze your side, her perfume filling the small space between you. 

She doesn't say anything at first. 

You're slumped over, blinking lazily, your cheek brushing the shoulder of her coat. 

Then you sigh again and mumble, almost dreamily, “Pretty… pretty Agatha…” 

There’s a hiccup in your voice, like a laugh trying to escape and getting caught in a sob instead. 

“Is this... is this real?” you whisper. “Or is this, like… some kinda wish I made?” 

Her hands freeze. 

Just for a second. 

She turns her face toward the window, away from you. 

When the driver glances back through the mirror, she composes herself. 

Voice cool, clipped, distant: “Drive.” 

As the car glides forward, her hand remains close to yours on the seat. Not touching. Not quite. 

Until the driver looks away. 

Then, barely a breath—just a brush of her fingers against your knuckles. 

You flinch slightly, but not in fear. In recognition. 

And when your head tilts to the side and you rest it against her shoulder, there’s no hesitation. 

You just let yourself fall there. Like it’s the safest place you’ve ever known. 

Like there’s no aching history between you, no wounds still healing. 

Agatha stays very still. 

The low hum of the road fills the silence. 

And slowly—quietly—she exhales. 

You whisper something again, barely audible. She catches only pieces: 

"...smells nice..." 

"...so warm..." 

"...always wanted to..." 

She closes her eyes briefly, her mask nearly slipping once more. 

This time, she lets it. 

Just a little. 

The car rolls into the parking lot, the sound of the tires muffled by the thick carpeting of night. As it stops, you blink up at the glow of the hotel’s entrance. The lights shimmer softly across the polished floors, the faint scent of freshly polished wood and expensive perfume lingering in the air. 

It feels... different. Even though it’s just a hotel, just another stop in the long stretch of this event, this night. But you’re here now. In this new, unspoken space with Agatha. 

Agatha steps out first, a quick move of her hand, flicking her hair back as she pulls open the door for you. You stumble, just a little, as you get out, and she’s there instantly—her arm around your waist again, steadying you, almost like second nature to her now. 

“Careful,” she murmurs, the word so soft and familiar. You meet her eyes, blurry but sharp enough to see the flicker of something guarded there. 

Your pulse skips. It's impossible to deny it now—the crackling, electric tension between you two. 

“Yeah, yeah... I’m fine,” you say with a laugh that almost comes out as a snort, still leaning into her, even though you can feel yourself swaying a little. “I’m not that drunk.” 

Her lips curl in the faintest of smiles. “No?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, as you nearly lose your balance again. “You sure?” 

You nod seriously, but your face shifts. Something flickers behind your eyes, something not so confident anymore. You’re losing grip on that cold resolve you’d been holding on to so tightly since earlier. The conversation about fixing things with Agatha... it’s becoming less of a sure thing. There’s fear now. Fear that you’ve waited too long. Fear that Agatha won’t let you. 

Agatha’s arm stays around your waist, guiding you inside with quiet precision, her fingers warm and steady against the small of your back. 

The hotel lobby blurs around you—shiny marble floors, soft lighting, the smell of expensive polish and roses in the air. You trip over absolutely nothing and Agatha catches you again with a muttered, "For God's sake." 

Still, her hand stays firm at your back, guiding you through like you’re a lost, sleepy kitten. 

The elevator ride is silent except for your occasional hiccupy sniffles and Agatha's low sighs. 

You lean your forehead against the cold metal wall and mumble, “Gonna throw up on your shoes.” 

“Please don’t,” she says dryly. But there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. You can feel it. 

When the elevator dings, she hooks her arm around your waist and steers you toward her suite. 

Her room is big, too big for one person—high ceilings, big bed, bigger balcony. 

You immediately beeline toward the bed and faceplant, shoes still on. 

Agatha huffs again but doesn’t yell. Instead, you hear her moving around, setting things down. The zip of a mini-fridge opening. The thunk of a water bottle landing on the nightstand. The soft rustle of the blankets being pulled back. 

When she comes back to you, she crouches down beside the bed. 

"Sit up, darling," she murmurs, trying to coax you up like you’re a particularly stubborn cat. 

You roll over dramatically instead, sprawling your arms wide. "Nooo… bed nice…" 

Agatha laughs under her breath. "Yes, I'm aware. But you need water first." 

You peek one eye open, squinting at her. “Y'know... you're bossy.” 

“And you’re drunk,” she says, holding the water bottle out like a peace offering. “Come on.” 

Grumbling, you push yourself up. You grab the bottle and chug half of it, water dribbling down your chin. Agatha reaches over automatically with a napkin, dabbing at your mouth like you're a toddler. 

You blink at her. 

She's so close. 

So pretty. 

You forget to be scared for a second. 

"Hey..." you whisper, voice thick with sleepiness and whiskey and a little too much heart. 

Agatha raises a brow. "Hm?" 

You frown, trying to piece your words together carefully. "Yesterday... storage room... you were gonna say something. Remember? Before... before Billy barged in." 

You watch her face closely. 

A flicker crosses her expression. 

Something careful. Something cautious. 

She leans back on her heels, studying you like she's weighing options. 

"You’re drunk," she says eventually. 

You nod, very seriously. "Mhm. ‘S the perfect time for honesty." 

Agatha huffs out a low laugh, almost involuntarily. 

She rubs her hands together, looking away for a second—like she's trying to find the right words. 

"I was going to tell you..." she says slowly, voice quiet, "that I miss you." 

You stare at her. 

For a second, you forget how to breathe. 

"I was angry," Agatha continues, almost to herself now. "I am angry. But not just at you. At myself. At all the things I... let happen." 

You scoot closer without thinking, your knee bumping hers clumsily. 

“I miss you too...” you whisper. Your eyes sting suddenly, too full of stupid, drunk emotions. 

Her hand—God, her hand—almost reaches for you. Almost. But at the last second, she pulls back, fist curling tight in her lap instead. 

"You're scared," she says softly, reading you so easily it hurts. "Aren't you?" 

You bite your lip. Hard. 

Your lower lip wobbles before you can stop it. "Yeah," you croak. "I'm scared you... you won’t... let me fix this." 

Agatha closes her eyes. Just for a beat. 

Then, she leans in, resting her forehead against yours. 

It's so simple. So heartbreakingly simple. 

"I don’t know how to let you," she whispers. 

You sit there like that—foreheads pressed together, the world spinning slightly around you, everything too loud and too soft at once. 

You whimper a little, like a wounded thing. "I’m trying so hard..." 

"I know," she says, voice breaking just a little. 

Then—because you're drunk and dumb and brave—you grab her hand and squeeze it tight. 

"You're so pretty," you blurt out, tears slipping down your cheeks now. "You're so pretty and I hate you—" 

A choked laugh escapes you. "I hate that I love you." 

Agatha lets out a ragged breath, her mask slipping all the way off for one heart-wrenching second. 

She cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You ridiculous, stupid girl," she mutters, voice shaking, affectionate and pained all at once. 

You lean into her touch greedily. 

The door to her suite is still slightly ajar. 

The hallway outside is empty, but it wouldn't matter even if it weren’t. 

To the world, she still belongs to someone else. 

But here, right now, in this private little moment—you belong to each other. 

Even if neither of you knows what the hell to do with that. 

Agatha's hand lingers at your cheek for a second longer, then, with a sigh, she pulls away. 

"Alright, come on," she says, voice softer now, tugging at your arm gently. "Shoes off, in bed." 

You groan but let her guide you, flopping back dramatically on the mattress. 

Agatha crouches down at your feet, starting to untie your shoes. She's slow about it, careful, fingers brushing against your ankles. 

"You know," you mumble, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes, "this is, like, domestic as hell." 

Agatha lets out a short laugh, the real kind. 

"You're a handful even when you're sober. Drunk, you're impossible." 

You grin sleepily. "Y'like it though." 

Her hands pause at your second shoe. 

Just for a second. 

Then she carefully slips it off without saying anything. 

She stands, brushing her palms against her jeans, like she's trying to shake something off. 

You push yourself up on your elbows, blinking at her. 

"Hey... Agatha?" 

"Hm?" 

You pat the mattress beside you. "Come here." 

She crosses her arms, giving you a very Governor Harkness look. "Absolutely not." 

"Pleeaaase," you whine, flopping back and reaching your arms out dramatically like a starfish. "It's a big bed. 'S cold. 'M lonely." 

Agatha pinches the bridge of her nose like she's fighting off a headache—or maybe a smile. 

"You are not lonely. You have a king-sized bed, air conditioning, and my undivided attention. You'll survive." 

You pout at her. 

She sighs again, long-suffering. 

But then—because she's her—she walks over to the side of the bed and sits down, perched right on the edge like she might bolt any second. 

You roll toward her instantly, hooking your arm around her waist clumsily. 

"God, you're clingy," she mutters, but she doesn't move away. 

Instead, she strokes your hair back off your forehead in slow, careful motions. 

So gentle it makes your throat ache. 

"You smell good," you mumble into her side. 

"You're drunk," she says, amusement coloring her voice. 

"Still true." 

You feel her smile against the top of your head. 

For a long moment, it’s quiet. 

Just her breathing and your breathing. The soft thrum of the AC. The pulse of something you don't dare name beating between you. 

And then, small and broken and a little bit scared, you whisper: 

"Don't leave me." 

You feel her whole body still under your arm. 

Agatha hesitates. You can feel it—the way she wrestles with herself, the way duty and fear and love all collide behind her ribs. 

Finally, she murmurs, voice rough: 

"I'm right here, darling." 

You sigh into her, relieved but still trembling a little. 

The sobering truth is — you know this is temporary. 

You know morning will come, and reality will come with it. 

But for now... 

For now, you let her hold you. 

For now, you let yourself believe it. 

Agatha keeps stroking your hair, whispering something you can't quite catch—maybe a spell, maybe just your name, over and over again like a prayer. 

You fall asleep that way—drunk, messy, hopelessly in love. 

And for the first time in a long time, you don't feel alone. 

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @darlingaura @upsidedowndanvers @iiiheartwomen

[starwovenkiss]

goodnight n go

You continue your daily tradition of calling Kyle while he's away for deployment. A/N: this man has unfortunately taken up too much real estate in my brain and at this point, the only solution is to write it out. <3

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ♡ ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─ ─ ⋅

The dial tone rings, and you count the seconds until he answers. Thirty-two today, nine quicker than yesterday.

“‘Ello love.” A murmured drawl crackles through, and you smile, turning over into the pillow directly next to you. You take a deep inhale, savoring the fact that Kyle’s body wash still lingers. You know you have another week before it fades completely. “It’s a bit late for you to call me. I thought you would’ve been asleep by now.”

“I was,” you giggle, “but I had a dream about you.”

“A dream, eh? And what was this dream about?” You roll your eyes at the shift of tone, knowing that if he were here, he would get a smack in the face with his pillow for the innuendo. And your heart tightens, wishing for a moment that he was lying right next to you instead of 5,000 miles away in some war-torn country.

“Our first date,” you hear his chuckle, smiling at your memory. You close your eyes, painting a picture of the freckles that litter his nose, the whiskey color of his eyes, and his flat curls after lying in bed all night. Your fingers reach out, feeling cold sheets rather than the warmth of where his hand should be.

“Tell me about it,” he asks smoothly.

“You should know, you were there,” you laugh.

“I still wanna hear.”

“Well, you were late.”

“Only by 15 minutes. You’ve been way later than that!”

“It was our first date!” you giggle. “And you were wearing flip-flops!”

“I didn’t know I needed to dress up,” he groans. “We were best friends! We had hung out by ourselves all the time.”

“Kyle, we grew up together. You would think I would’ve taught you how to impress a girl on a first date by the time you were 25 years old!” you laugh incredulously, and you hear his laugh back. 

The window creaks slightly as an evening breeze passes through, open to combat the summer heatwave in England. You smile fondly. It had been sweltering the day the two of you met. You were running down the street, chasing the ice cream truck, and were short a few pence for an ice lolly. Only seconds away from putting it back, when Kyle, a boy with sunburned cheeks and grass stains on his knees, stepped in without hesitation. He handed over his allowance and just grinned when you tried to protest. You shared it with him, of course, and from that moment on, the two of you were inseparable.

It wasn’t until he turned sixteen that something shifted. His voice dropped. His limbs stretched. His back straightened like he was growing into a version of himself the rest of the world hadn’t seen yet. Gone was the scrawny boy who still secretly collected trading cards and snuck over to yours to watch rom-coms under the guise of “movie night.”

And you weren’t the only one who noticed. Girls started paying attention, laughing loudly at his jokes, twirling their hair around their fingers. You told yourself the jealousy was just a habit. That it only hurt because you’d gotten used to having all of him. 

It wasn't until after his first deployment that the fear of losing him completely led you to reckon with the love you had been trying not to name since you two met.

“I’m pretty lucky that you gave me a second chance then.” Kyle’s smile laces every word, and you shuffle closer to his side of the bed as if you can will him closer to you by moving into the space he normally occupies.

“Well, you brought me flowers!”

“Lilies. Your favorite.” And almost instinctively, your gaze catches the vase of lilies on your nightstand, delivered the day Kyle left for deployment. Your brows knit as a petal falls, the dying buds serving as a marker for how long Kyle’s been gone.

He hears the pause, and always Kyle seems attuned to the shift in your emotions even through a phone call, so when he suggests “tell me more,” you follow. 

“At least the restaurant you picked was nice.” The cafe was only a short walk from your apartments, perfect for Kyle to show up grinning ear to ear at your apartment door, holding a bouquet of lilies. You had spent the entire morning on the phone with your friend, worried that you were making the wrong decision, and that would be the end of you and Kyle. That everything would be weird and awkward with this new romantic subtext in your friendship. But when you looked down and met eyes with a pair of thong flip-flops, you couldn’t help but laugh in relief that Kyle would always be Kyle.

“I miss you,” You whisper. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and the absence of his voice feels like a weight in your chest. You briefly wonder if you overstepped. It’s not easy, you knew that before you even started dating Kyle, comforting him as ex-girlfriends couldn’t handle the strain of not seeing him for months and months. Yet you could’ve never imagined yourself in the same position of wanting more from a man who could only give so much.

“I miss you more,” he whispers back, voice hoarse with longing.

You're quiet, and you can almost see Kyle’s frown before you hear it in the next words that leave his mouth.

“You’ll call me tomorrow, yeah?”

“Of course. I love you,” You whisper, barely audible over the rustle of the sheets as you shift beneath the sheets.

“I love you always. Now get some rest. I’ll be here until you fall asleep.” You set your phone beside you, eyes fluttering close at the gentle hum of Kyle’s chatter. 

Forty-eight minutes tonight, seven longer than yesterday.

[thedemoninme141]

Are Flowers Even Real?

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader. Wordcount: 8K-ish.

Summary: A florist’s voice brings color to Wednesday's world—until all that remains are flowers, silence, and a question that won’t stop echoing in her mind.

Theme: Angst, Heavy Angst! Loss. Blood.

Warnings: Some might already guess the plot with the pic above, the theme's a bit vague here too but it will be all clear at the end kinda like my Restless dreams or lost valentine's.

She used to hate this.

People who couldn’t help themselves—who spilled every thought like it mattered, who narrated their lives in real-time like the world was desperate to listen. Enid had done that every day of their shared dorm years. “Oh my God, you won’t believe what Ajax said,” and “I saw the cutest squirrel near the quad!” and “Wednesday, are you even listening to me?” She wasn’t, mostly. Not really.

Back then, she counted words like falling leaves in autumn—an inevitable mess. She hated the noise, the color, the feeling. Enid had been loud and bubbly and relentlessly present.

But you?

You made noise feel like quiet. Like it mattered.

Now she held the phone to her ear like it was lifeblood. Like it was you.

And your voice was soft today. Soft, but fast—your usual pace when you were excited or tired, or both. The hum of your flower shop drifted into the background.

“Okay, so—today was chaos. And I know I say that every time, but I mean it, this time? Pure chaos.”

Your voice was light, and she didn’t interrupt. She doesn’t roll her eyes. She closes them. Leans back against the cold bark of the tree behind her, the night wind slipping through the forest like a hand across skin.

There’s blood somewhere nearby, but she’s not thinking about that yet.

"This bride walks in—and I mean, she had this energy, right? Like she’s never heard the word ‘budget’ in her life. She’s dragging her fiancé behind her like he’s an old suitcase, and she’s listing every flower under the sun. Roses, peonies, baby’s breath, lavender, delphinium, freesia, tulips—I mean, Wednesday, she wanted them all. For one bouquet. Who does that?!"

Your voice had that kind of bright rhythm she’d never admit she looked forward to. The pitch of it changed depending on the flowers you were talking about—soft when you said “lilies,” amused when you said “sunflowers,” reverent when you said “gardenias.” You loved your flowers. You were annoyingly loyal to them, like they were alive, like they had personalities.

“...I told her it wasn’t going to look like a bouquet if we threw in every single bloom from every hemisphere,” you continued, laughing to yourself. “I even suggested doing a seasonal theme instead, but she looked at me like I just asked if she wanted a bouquet of weeds.”

You laughed, breathy and exasperated. Wednesday closed her eyes. Just for a second.

"Have you ever had to calculate fifty-four table arrangements, not including the bridal arch and the aisle runners, in under thirty minutes? Because I have. Today. Today, I did that.”

She could hear the smile in your voice, even through the stress.

“And then, oh—oh, get this—her fiancé shows up with a last-minute request for a boutonniere made of succulents. Succulents! For a winter wedding! Who even—?!” You groaned, a theatrical sigh. “Anyway. I didn’t say no. Of course I didn’t. I just nodded and smiled like a professional while internally praying for divine intervention.”

She doesn’t respond. Her jaw clenches, the silence between your sentence and her reply longer than it should be. But you don’t comment. You never did. You understood her silence was never empty—it was just crowded with too many words.

“I’m gonna be late tonight,” you say after a pause, your voice dropping into a soft kind of tired. “Definitely pushing midnight. I still have to sort out the invoices—do math, ugh—and call the supplier who keeps sending me crushed orchids. I swear I’m gonna fight that man.”

“Do you want me to kill him?” Wednesday asks flatly.

A beat of silence on your end. Then: “Mm… tempting. But I think you should save that kind of rage for someone who deserves it more.”

She opens her eyes. Watches her breath ghost into the cold night air. “I do.”

“Oh, and get this—” you pause suddenly, voice pulling away like you're shouting over your shoulder, “Sorry, we’re closed! Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you! God, I need a sign that actually scares people away.” You came back like you’d never left. “Where was I? Oh right. Hell orders. Seriously, though, this bride is lucky I didn’t charge her a stress fee. I should start doing that. I’ll call it the ‘flower frenzy’ tax. Like, if your expectations are out of control, that’s ten percent extra for emotional damage.”

Wednesday finally spoke, her voice low and dry. “You’d never charge anyone extra for being overwhelmed. You like chaos. You call it ‘natural.’”

“I do not!”

“You do. You said that exact phrase last week.”

You laughed again. “Okay, maybe I did. Once. But I was high on pollen and caffeine. Not a reliable source.”

The call was winding down now. She could feel it. The energy in your voice had started to fade—just a little. Still bright, still you, but… slipping. Like the sun behind curtains.

“Anyway. I should get back to it. I’ve got calculations to do, receipts to cry over, and oh—! I almost forgot—one of the orchids bloomed today. The one I thought was going to die last week. It just needed a bit more light, apparently. Go figure.”

Wednesday stared at the moon. Didn’t blink.

“Oh—and I love you, by the way. Just in case I forget to say it later. You should try it sometime too, you know. I promise your tongue won’t turn black and fall off.”

Another beat. Then a quieter, sheepish: “Okay. Talk later.” The line went dead.

Wednesday doesn’t move for a long moment. She keeps the phone to her ear even after the silence settles.

Then, slowly, she lowers the phone. Pockets it with the careful reverence of an addict putting away the last dose.

Her hand brushes against cold steel. She wraps her fingers around the handle of the knife. Pulls it out.

There’s a sound—scraping, desperate.

The man in front of her, half-covered in dirt, is trying to crawl away. He’s bleeding from the mouth, knees shredded from dragging himself over rocks.

He looks back. Sees her. Freezes.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just steps forward, slow. Controlled.

The knife glints.

Her voice, calm as ever, cuts the silence.

“One finger at a time now.”

She had come to your shop out of habit. Or maybe it was curiosity. Or the way you said, “You should visit sometime,” like it was just a law of nature. You’d said it with your hands buried in soil and a daisy tucked behind your ear, completely unaware of the chaos you caused with every smile.

The bell above your door had jingled, and the moment she stepped inside, she was swallowed whole by a riot of scent and color. Flowers bled from every surface—sunlight dripped through windows onto baskets of wild blooms, and you were already at the counter, fussing with a vase like the world wasn’t quietly tilting on its axis.

She stood in the doorway for too long. You looked up, grinned

“Good evening, Miss Addams. You stalking me again?”

Wednesday stepped forward slowly, arms crossed behind her back. “I was in the area.”

“You were never in the area before we started dating. Anyway come here. I need help deciding which of these flowers gets to be sacrificed for a bouquet.”

She stood beside you, looking down at the spread of colors and chaos. It was an overwhelming mess—vibrant and overstuffed—but in your hands, it was art. She admired that about you, though she’d never say it. Not out loud. Not directly.

You handed her two stems. “These are Ranunculus. One means charm, the other means attraction. Which one looks more ‘mysterious woman who possibly has a knife in her purse’?”

Wednesday arched a brow. “Neither.”

You fake-gasped, putting a dramatic hand to your chest. “You wound me.”

“Not yet,” she replied, and you laughed like she’d told a joke.

She didn’t correct you.

You picked up a small bouquet and began trimming stems. “Did you know bleeding hearts mean undying love?”

Wednesday blinked slowly. Of course she knew. She learned the language of flowers in her second year at Nevermore—before she met you. She could read petals like poetry, dissect colors like motives. She memorized the meanings the way most kids memorized multiplication tables.

But she didn’t say that. Instead, she looked at the flower you held up and said, “They look like they’re crying.”

You beamed. “Exactly. They’re dramatic. Just like you.”

“I’m not dramatic,” she said coolly, stepping aside as you nudged past her to reach a coffee cup. “I’m precise.”

“Sure,” you said. “And this isn’t my third cup of coffee.”

You chuckled. “And what about this one?” You picked up a marigold. “It means grief. Despair. Remembrance.”

Her eyes moved from the marigold to your face. You were smiling again, soft at the edges like you always got when talking about meanings, stories, symbolism. You swore half the fun was in the mystery.

Wednesday knew the meanings already.

Of course she did. She’d studied them in Botany. But she never said a word. Never once interrupted you to say, “Yes, I know.”  Because she preferred to hear you say it. It was different when it came from your mouth—something in your voice, the way you cradled petals like they mattered. Like you were part of their purpose. And she wanted to be a part of that too.

You spent the rest of the afternoon explaining the meanings of delphiniums and hemlock and hydrangeas. You told her about customers who reminded you of daisies and she just stood there. Watching. Drinking it all in. You told her everything. And Wednesday Addams—queen of silence, princess of the macabre—just sat there and listened like it was her religion.

He couldn’t scream anymore. Only pant. Wet, ragged breaths through clenched teeth. His lips were cracked, and his eyes were wide with the knowledge that he was alive and shouldn’t be.

The sound of agony twisted the air again.

Wednesday sat nearby, legs folded beneath her like she was in a garden. Her phone was pressed to her ear again, as if none of this was happening.

You were laughing on the other end.

“You wouldn’t believe how long I argued with that girl. She wanted orange roses. Orange! For a funeral. I mean, who does that? I asked her if she wanted the flowers to say ‘rest in tropical zest.’”

Wednesday let out a slow breath. “What did she say?”

“She said her grandmother loved citrus. Which is sweet, I guess. So I added lemon balm and marigolds. Made it work.”

“You always do.”

A pause. The wind rustled leaves overhead.

“You sound tired,” you said softly.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Another pause.

“I just worry about you,” you said. “All those late nights. Chasing monsters. Investigating murders. You know you don’t have to keep carrying everything alone, right?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked up at the stars that just didn’t shine hard enough anymore so she listened to the sound of your voice like it was oxygen and she’d been holding her breath.

“You’re the most stubborn person I know,” you continued. “But you’re not bulletproof. You’re allowed to rest.”

The man groaned again. Gurgled.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to him, but she didn’t move. Not yet. Not while you were still speaking. You talked about your day. The cat who scratched a customer. The kid who wanted to eat the flowers.

You said you loved her. Just like always. And she didn’t say it back.

Just like always.

When the call finally ended, when your voice faded into silence again, she took a slow breath. Looked down at the man whose blood soaked the soil.

He was still alive.

She crouched, pulled a wad of cash from her coat, and threw it beside his mangled hand.

“Fix yourself,” she said, voice flat. “You have until the next bloom.”

Then she pulled her phone again.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Attempted homicide. Coordinates incoming,” she replied coldly. “The suspect is injured. Severely. Unarmed. Unconscious.”

Wednesday texted the GPS location, then cut the call short.

She knelt beside the man, “I’ll remember you. Every bone. Every nerve.”

She paused at the edge of the woods.

“And I will be back again.”

You were humming again.

That same wandering, tuneless hum that always floated into the air when you were deep in concentration. Wednesday stood silently in the corner of the flower shop, arms folded, black coat dusted with pale pollen, watching you balance on your toes to reach a top shelf.

She didn’t speak. Just observed.

There was something ritualistic in the way you worked. Like a priestess. Like a witch. Each flower touched with reverence, as if it breathed back at you.

You looked down at her eventually and grinned, sweeping your hands outward toward the display you were building.

“What do you think?” you asked. “Too much? I always overdo the daffodils. They’re too loud, I think. They talk over the tulips.”

“You believe flowers… speak?”

“I think they understand,” you said without hesitation. “Not in words. Not in the way people mean. But they know things. They feel things.”

“This one’s for resilience,” you said, holding up a chrysanthemum.

“People say they’re funeral flowers, but I think they’re just misunderstood.”

Wednesday raised a brow.

You smiled over your shoulder. “They’re stubborn and hard to keep alive and everyone thinks they’re depressing. Sound like anyone you know?”

Wednesday almost smirked. She moved toward the arrangement. Reached out. Brushed her fingers over the white edge of a daisy. The petals were soft. Barely there. Almost like breath. “This,” she murmured, “feels like you.”

You paused, surprised. A flush of red crept across your cheeks, but you didn’t turn away. “That’s one of the gentlest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. I just said it as an observation.”

You smiled. “That’s why it means more.” You talked as you moved, voice light, melodic, like wind through reeds.

She watched you pick up a sprig of rosemary next. You handed it to her. “Memory,” you said, with something softer in your voice. “This one’s for remembering.”

She took it slowly, fingers brushing yours. It was strange how warm your hands always were. How you held things like they could bruise if you were careless.

Moments like those bled into each other. Quiet exchanges while trimming stems. Her fingers brushing yours when you passed her scissors. Her trying not to stare when you tucked a flower behind your ear.

You started giving her one word every day. One flower. One meaning. Bleeding hearts—undying love. Lavender—devotion. Black tulips—rebirth. Snapdragons—grace under pressure. Rosemary—Remembrance Nightshade—dangerous beauty. She never said she cared. But she remembered every single one.

And then she left. Again. Back to the darkness. Back to blood.

The man was on the ground again.

This time, it was the fingers of his other hand. Gone. Wrapped in bloody gauze that had once been part of his shirt. He was wheezing, tears running down his face as he crawled toward the barn door. He was slower now. Weaker. Still alive.

She crouched beside him again.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, voice mild.

He didn’t respond.

She pulled a knife from her boot and pressed it gently under his chin. He froze.

“I could end it now,” she whispered. “Would that be mercy?

He trembled, said nothing.

She stood. Dropped another thick wad of cash beside him. Then turned and walked away.

She just sat on the hill, watching from the trees as he dragged himself to the road and flagged down a car. She didn’t move. Just watched. Unblinking.

When she finally pulled her phone out, it was almost midnight.

“Where are you?” you asked, and she could hear you yawning.

“Graveyard.”

You laughed. “Only you would take me on a date to hell.”

“Romantic, isn’t it?”

“So much ambiance. Ten out of ten.” There was a long pause. “I miss you,” you said, quieter.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Do you want to hear something stupid?” you asked.

“Always.”

“I kissed a lily today. Accidentally. I was leaning too close. It kissed me back.”

“Scandalous.”

“I know. We’re basically engaged now.”

She exhaled, something caught in her chest. “Don’t cheat on me with foliage.”

“I’d never.”

Another quiet stretch passed, softer now. You hummed something tuneless.

“Hey,” you said, voice warm, sleepy. “I love you.”

“I—”

She hesitated.

You laughed. “You don’t have to say it. I know.” There was the sound of rustling, you shifting beneath your blankets.

“I’m gonna fall asleep on you,” you mumbled.

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll call you in the morning…”

And you did.

Two days later, the man ran again.

The man had tried to leave town. Made it all the way to the county line.

She found him in the back of a rental truck, bandaged, panicked, clutching a gas can and a stolen phone.

He didn’t even have time to beg.

That night, she called you again. You were tired. She could hear it in your voice.

“Long day,” you murmured.

“I can tell.”

“I had to fill a funeral order. A big one. Lots of lilies.”

She exhaled. “Too many lilies in your life lately.”

I know, right?” You yawned. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sound tired.”

“So do you.”

“…Stay on the line with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She listened to you breathe. Counted the beats between your sighs. You fell asleep like that—murmuring something about tulips and your heater being broken.

She kept the phone to her ear until the sun came up.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Only silence answered.

Another day, another call,

“Hey, you. I know, I know—I’m late again. I swear this time it’s the register’s fault. Or maybe the marigolds. They were being a little too dramatic today.” You chuckled to yourself, a soft breath of warmth over static. “I had this old Pedro Pascal looking guy come in. Said he needed something ‘apologetic but not desperate.’ I gave him yellow roses. Told him to deliver them with a smile and a very sincere, ‘I’m an idiot.’ He laughed. Paid in cash. Even gave me a tip.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched. She sat on the edge of a rooftop, the city crawling beneath her. Her knees drawn up, phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.

You kept talking.

“There was this one moment though—something stupid. I—I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but… there was this rose. Deep red. Looked almost black in the light. It reminded me of my mom. You know, the way she used to wear that lipstick that bled into the corners of her smile?”

You went quiet.

And then the sound—sharp and soft at once.

A breath caught. A sniffle.

“I—I snapped the stem by accident,” you whispered. “It just broke. And I don’t know why, but I started crying. Like full-on, ridiculous, snot-on-my-apron crying.”

Wednesday closed her eyes. She imagined your face—crumpled in sorrow, eyebrows drawn together in that quiet way you had when you were trying to stay strong for something that didn’t deserve it.

“I felt so dumb,” you laughed. But it wasn’t a happy sound. “It’s just a flower, right? Just… a stem. But I think—I think I was just scared. That I’d forget her. That maybe people aren’t made to last. Maybe even the flowers know.”

Another pause.

She could hear you shift the phone, the way your voice grew smaller. Closer to the truth.

“Sometimes I talk to the flowers because I’m scared no one else will ever really listen.”

She whispered into the speaker, “I listen.”

It was early. Too early for customers, but not too early for you to be animated and half-dressed in an apron and already juggling three ideas at once.

You were on the floor, arranging petals like you were solving a crime scene. She watched from the counter, long legs crossed, sipping bitter black coffee you’d insisted she try—“If I’m suffering, you are too.”

“Okay,” you were saying, lifting a pale marigold to the light, “I know you don’t care about table aesthetics, but imagine this for the engagement party centerpiece.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not interested in centerpieces,” she replied dryly.

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

You turned to her with a grin. “You’re lying.”

“I never lie.”

“Okay. Then you’re emotionally repressed.”

“Fair.”

You snorted and tossed the flower back into the pile. “I still think we should do something small. Intimate. You and me, our parents, maybe five friends, your creepy Uncle Fester playing violin in the corner.”

“He doesn’t play the violin.”

“Well. It’s never too late to learn.”

She watched you with a careful expression, one she reserved for delicate autopsies. It wasn’t suspicion. It was wonder. The way your hands moved. The way you lit up just saying the word “engagement.” Like it wasn’t just a party to you. It was something sacred.

You looked up suddenly. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re… doing that thing where you look like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

She tilted her head. “I’m here.”

“Promise?”

She didn’t speak right away.

You stood, brushing petals from your skirt, and stepped close enough for your shadow to fall over her. Your hand brushed her shoulder. “Hey. I need you to say yes. I need you to say you want this too.”

Her eyes flicked to your mouth, your nose, your lashes. “You already know I do.”

“But you haven’t said it.”

“I don’t say things I’m afraid of.”

That caught you of guard. “You’re not afraid of me?”

“No,” she agreed, “I’m afraid of losing you.”

That stopped you.

Your fingers froze on her shoulder, and she felt the tiniest tremble under your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “Unless you kill me, which I have warned you would be deeply counterproductive to our wedding plans.”

“I’m already planning it then.”

You grinned, eyes gleaming, and for once, Wednesday allowed herself to look. Really look.

At the curve of your lip, at the crease beside your nose when you smiled, at the soft flush of your cheeks. She touched your hand. Pressed her thumb into your palm.

“I’m serious,” you said. “Promise not to kill anyone on the day.”

She smirked. “Not even if they’re rude to the florist?”

“I am the florist.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, full and bright and real.

She breathed it in like oxygen.

And she began to believe that maybe—just maybe—she could be something softer. Just for you.

The guillotine was old. Weather-worn wood, chipped and splintered like the bones of an antique. It had taken Wednesday weeks to restore it—polishing each blade support, sharpening the steel until it gleamed like a smile.

He was gagged at first, slumped and bloodied, missing both hands, one leg bound and stitched just enough to keep him breathing. Wednesday had always been meticulous. Every cut had purpose. Every stitch had meaning.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone, black coat moving slightly in the wind. Her hands were bare. No gloves today. Her fingers curled and uncurled slowly at her sides. She held a phone in her left hand.

The right was twitching.

On the ground near her, a phone picture flickered with signal. She’d sent it minutes ago—his face, barely recognizable, eyes wild and swollen, mouth red with spit and screams. And she gave them the address so they would come to save him.

All they had to do was open the door.

“Who the hell are you?!”

It was hoarse. Desperate.

She didn’t move.

“Why are you doing this?! Who the hell are you?! What did I do to you?!”

The words were shredded by pain, but they still stabbed the air. He writhed beneath the frame, muscles shaking, eyes darting in every direction but hers.

Wednesday stared at him, her face unreadable. Not rage. Not triumph. Just a long, heavy stillness like the moment before glass breaks.

He didn’t even remember what he did.

Of course he didn’t. People like him never did because they weren't even people.

Wednesday opened the phone.

The screen lit up in her palm. Her thumb hovered over a file she’d listened to too many times already. It was cracked at the edges now, her phone screen shattered where she’d dropped it once—twice—when the grief had shaken her bones so hard she couldn’t hold anything.

She tapped play.

Your voice came through the speakers, warm and full of life.

“Sorry, we’re closed! Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you!”

She remembered.

She was sitting at home that night. The lights were dim. Your voice had ended in her ear. She had said something back—something simple, probably something dry and sardonic. You would’ve laughed at it. But you didn’t call again.

An hour passed. Then two. Midnight came and went. She told herself you were just working. You’d warned her. You always warned her.

But then one call.

No answer.

Another. Voicemail.

Another.

Then another.

Wednesday never panicked. That was a rule of hers. Panic was for people who had the luxury of helplessness.

But her heart had gone hollow.

She didn’t change. She didn’t grab a weapon. She didn’t even lock her front door. She just walked. All the way to your flower shop.

It was just before dawn when she got there.

The sky was still dark, but the edges were bleeding gold, creeping like guilt. The bell above the frame jingled when she pushed it open. You never locked it properly. You said it made the place feel more welcoming.

Inside, it was too quiet. Far too quiet. Not even the soft humming you sometimes did when arranging bouquets. Not the sound of your little radio. Just... stillness.

The flowers were wrong.

They were wilted. Slumped. Some had fallen from the shelves. The petals were scattered, torn, like they had tried to escape something that came in behind them.

The scent was wrong too. Sweet. And something else. Something sickening. Metallic.

Her boots clicked against the tiles. She didn’t call out. Not yet.

She walked past the counter. Past the shelf where you kept the lavender because you liked its color. Past the wall where your engagement board still had pictures pinned to it—samples, notes, fabric swatches. One of them had fallen to the ground. Her own handwriting stared back at her from it, a single word she’d let you coax out of her weeks ago: Maybe.

There was a bouquet on the counter.

It was half-finished. Carefully chosen. A mixture of deadly plants—your inside joke. Your love language to her. Monkshood. Nightshade. Hemlock. But there were gentle things in it too—carnations, a single lily, even a tucked-in daisy.

You made that for her.

Then she stepped into the greenhouse.

Glass crunched beneath her foot.

And she saw you.

The greenhouse had always been your favorite place. You’d told her you could breathe there. You’d even said once that if you died, you wanted to be surrounded by the things you loved.

You got your wish.

You were laid out like a sleeping bride, lying beneath the skylight. The glass above was shattered. Pale morning light streamed through, illuminating the tiny cuts all over your arms. Your head was tilted slightly to the side, resting against a bed of marigolds.

You were surrounded by flowers.

Your dress had been torn and smoothed again.

Petals were placed in your hair.

Your hands were folded across your stomach, like a child sleeping in a garden bed.

But you weren’t sleeping.

You weren’t breathing.

Your eyes were still open.

Wide. Glassy. Empty.

On the wall above you, scrawled in deep, thick red, were the words:

“Even the most beautiful flowers rot.”

Wednesday did not scream.

She did not collapse.

She did not shake or sob or wail.

She knelt beside you.

Her knees cracked against the glass, but she didn’t care.

She touched your cheek with her bare fingers, brushing a streak of blood that had dried beneath your ear.

You were cold.

She let her thumb rest on your chin. Her hand on your collarbone. She traced the curve of your jaw the way she’d done a hundred times before.

You didn’t move.

Her eyes didn’t well. Her mouth didn’t tremble.

Her breath stayed steady. Controlled. Slow.

But her hands shook.

Her hands shook so violently she had to clench them into fists just to keep touching you.

She pressed her forehead against yours.

She stayed like that for a long, long time.

And when she finally pulled back—

She made a promise.

Slowly.

She didn’t cry at the funeral.

Not when Enid sobbed shaking and muttering things like, “She was so kind,” and “She made everyone feel safe.” Not even when Weems paused mid-speech, voice cracking as she said your name. Wednesday just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of her, face like marble.

She didn’t cry during the burial.

Not when the coffin—your coffin—was slowly lowered into the earth, and the sound of the dirt hitting the lid echoed through the tight silence like gunshots.

Not when her father quietly stepped behind her, placing a warm hand on her shoulder with a kind of restraint Wednesday didn’t have the energy to analyze. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. No one really knew what to say to her. No one could fathom what your death meant to her. And if they had tried—she might have killed them too.

The only time she moved was when Enid leaned in to sob against her shoulder, and even then, Wednesday didn’t flinch—just allowed it, like a statue accepting offerings. Her eyes were focused on your name etched into the granite headstone. Clean. Polished. Final. It didn’t feel real.

Later that night, she went back.

The flower shop still bore the yellow caution tape across the doorway. It had become a symbol of everything she devoted her life too... a crime scene. She stepped through the yellow tape without hesitation, her boots crunching on the broken remains of your shop's heart. The place didn’t look like yours anymore. Not the way she remembered it. It had always smelled like fresh earth and life and the odd sweetness the flowers.... of you. But now, the air was heavy with dried blood and rotting blooms.

She imagined you standing there, maybe working on a bouquet, maybe laughing about a weird customer, maybe humming that ridiculous song you always sang when you thought no one was listening. She imagined you glancing up at the sound of the door. Smiling, welcoming. Then confusion. Discomfort.

She saw it all in her mind. You stepping forward, asking if he needed help. Him smiling back, reaching out—not to shake your hand or take a bouquet, but to grab the ceramic pot on the edge of the shelf and slam it into the floor. Shards flying. You stumbling back. That confusion turning into fear. A scream building in your throat—but he moved faster.

She could see it in flashes, like a strobe light of horror. His hands, the knife, your blood against the daffodils. She saw him pose you afterward, like a child setting up a tea party. Flowers in your hair. A performance. An insult. She imagined it all, and still… she didn’t cry.

The crime scene investigators had done their job. They’d taken photos, collected samples, made lists, labeled everything. But they hadn’t found him. And they hadn’t let her help.

“You’re too close to the victim,” they’d said.

“She was my fiancée,” she’d answered.

They still said no.

So she didn’t ask again.

She remembered the moment clearly. The moment she decided. The precise second she rewrote her entire to-do list with a single item: destroy him.

It wasn’t rage. Rage would’ve burned her out. It was something quieter, colder. Like slipping into a second skin. She watched herself from a distance, her own grief turning into focus.

She was going to kill him. But not like the others.

This wasn’t going to be efficient, or quiet, or merciful.

No, this time… she was going to take her time.

She closed her eyes.

The memories came uninvited. You laughing, your eyes crinkling in that way that made her stomach ache. You holding up a bouquet and saying, “Guess what this means?” You pulling her down to your level and tucking a flower behind her ear. You whispering against her mouth, “I love you more than all of them combined.”

Wednesday opened her eyes again. And this time, they burned.

But still, she didn’t cry.

Instead, she turned and walked back through the wreckage, her footsteps slow and deliberate. Every petal on the floor, every dried bloom, every bit of dirt clinging to the walls—she took it all in. She carved it into her memory. The scene of the crime, yes. But also the final place you existed. The last time you were alive in color.

By the time she stepped out into the night, she already knew how it would end.

He was going to suffer. And she was going to watch every moment of it.

Not for justice.

Not for closure.

But because she couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry, couldn’t breathe—not until he understood what it meant to destroy something beautiful.

The days blurred together in an endless cycle of silence and torment, and Wednesday never once allowed herself to break it.

Every moment, every minute she spent hunting him, tracking his every step, felt like something she could not pull herself out of.

The man was just a reflection of everything she despised—someone who had seen beauty and crushed it with no second thought. He didn’t just take a life; he took a piece of everything that could’ve been.

So, she hunted him. She tracked him like prey, never letting him slip from her grasp. She would come to him in the night, shadows in the alley, outside his car, standing just far enough to see the panic rise in his chest when he realized she was there. He would tremble, stare into the coldness of her eyes, but he never knew where the danger truly came from.

She tortured him slowly, steadily, as she listened to the one thing she couldn’t escape—the calls she had recorded, the calls that felt like the last connection she had to you.

Your voice, soft and melodic, filled the empty spaces as Wednesday stood in the dark. It was a constant. A reminder of you. A reminder of how she failed you.

And now, she is standing there, a few feet away from man tied to the guillotine, for her final act.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she would hear you say. “Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you!”

The man’s eyes widened, his face paling as he connected the dots. He laughed. A low, bitter chuckle that sent a cold shiver through the air. “I remember now...” he said between fits of laughter. “So it is because of that florist!” His laugh echoed through the room, a sound full of self-satisfaction and madness. “That’s what this is all about. Her, right?”

The sound of his amusement made Wednesday’s chest tighten, a slow-burning rage igniting in the pit of her stomach.

"It was all so simple. I had my fun killing her just like I killed so many, and you’re just another one of those people who got caught up in it. And now you think you can kill me, but what’s the point? You’ve already lost, haven’t you?”

The man’s laugh only increased in volume, like the sound of a fire crackling as it devoured everything in its path. Wednesday didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed steady. Calm.

“You can kill me if you want, but you’ll never get the satisfaction. Because I already won, and you lost! . It won’t even matter in the end. It won't even have an effect!"

The laughter grew louder. He seemed to relish in the moment, his mind broken by the realization. And yet, he has no idea... what revenge does to a person...

Without hesitation, Wednesday stuffed the rope into his mouth. She made him bite down on it, securing it between his teeth.

“Do you really think it won’t leave an effect?” she whispered, her voice soft but carrying an edge that was unmistakable. The rope was tied to the front door. If anyone opened it, if anyone walked through that threshold, the rope would snap. And the guillotine would fall. It was simple. But it was enough. It would be enough for him to understand the pain he had put her through.

The sound of footsteps outside.

His face went pale, his eyes widening as the panic began to swallow him whole. He started to struggle, trying to twist against the rope.

He realized the truth then. His family was there. His wife, his children, his father—he could hear them outside, their voices getting louder as they neared. He could feel the panic creeping into his chest, suffocating him as the reality of what was happening hit him.

“No! No!” he screamed, his voice muffled by the rope. “You can’t—don’t—please don’t let them—”

Wednesday didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. His eyes were wide, frantic, as he listened to the footsteps outside, getting closer. He was starting to beg. The fear was raw in his voice, in the way his body trembled. But Wednesday didn’t respond. She stood still, her face unreadable, her heart as cold as the blade hovering above him. The room was silent except for his frantic breathing and the distant voices of his family, unaware of the horror that was about to unfold.

She turned on her heel and left through the back door, the cool night air greeting her like an old friend. The sound of her boots echoed in the stillness as she walked away, each step measured, deliberate. She wasn’t in a hurry. There was no need to rush. The world would keep turning, and she would keep walking.

The sound of the front door opening reached her ears, faint at first. But then, the rope snapped. The guillotine blade fell with a deafening clang.

And then, the scream.

A woman’s scream. High-pitched, raw, full of terror. . It was followed by other screams, other cries of horror.

But Wednesday didn’t turn around. She didn’t look back. She just kept walking.

The sound of their screams faded behind her, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Not anymore.

She just kept walking. Further. Further still. Away from everything. Away from the memories, the pain, the loss. Away from the life she had once known. The night stretched before her, silent, empty. She still didn’t feel anything.

She just walked. And kept walking.

And she knew where she had to go.

The bell above the door no longer chimed.

It was rusted now, stuck in place as if even it had no strength left to announce visitors to a store that no longer served the living.

Every time she’d walked through this door in the past—always reluctantly, always pretending she didn’t care—it would chime, this tiny, inconsequential sound that somehow made her feel like she was walking into a different world. A ridiculous little fairy tale. One of scent and color and... you.

Now it didn’t.

The warmth was gone. The smell, too—no more freshly cut stems, no more lavender oil misting the corners, no more petals underfoot like fallen laughter.

Just rot.

Dust in sunbeams.

And dried flowers that sagged from their hooks like mourning veils.

She stepped in slowly, boots echoing across the cracked hardwood floor. Her coat was heavier now, not from weight, but from silence. From everything she carried in her lungs, her mouth, her heart. Her ribs felt like cages, like graves.

Inside, everything was as she remembered it—and not. Counters still in place. Shelves still lined with empty pots, ribbons limp and curled from moisture.

But the flowers… the flowers were no longer alive. They drooped where they hung, their colors now brittle whispers of what they used to be. Roses that once blushed scarlet were the color of rusted wine. Daisies had curled in on themselves. The baby’s breath looked like bone dust.

The register sat lifeless. Your little stool was still tucked behind the counter, where you'd prop your foot on the lower rung and scribble ideas on sticky notes—"wedding theme: wildflower forest?" "ask Mrs. Delaney if she likes callas again!" "tell Wednesday she's beautiful (deathwish!)"

She walked slowly. Past the counter where you used to perch on your elbows and pester her with questions you already knew the answers to. Past the vase with the crack she refused to fix because “imperfection is character.”

She moved without purpose until she reached it.

The greenhouse. The floor.

The spot where your blood had dried.

It had been cleaned, of course. The investigators, the forensics team. It wasn’t visible now.

She reached into her coat pocket, past the dagger, past the photo she’d taken of him as he screamed, and found her phone.

She didn’t look at it. She just unlocked it by feel. Muscle memory.

The screen flickered for a moment.

Then: RECORDED AUDIO CALL — March 17, 9:47 PM.

“Wednesday?”

Your tone was warm. Light. Sweet in a way that clutched at her ribs and twisted.

“Oh! Okay, you picked up. I thought you were gonna let it ring again just to scare me.”

You giggled. That sound. That sound.

"Oh me? I finished an insane bridal order, one with the thousands of flowers and zero sense of proportion. I swear, that woman thinks flowers grow from credit cards.”

Another breathless laugh. She hadn’t realized she’d leaned closer to the phone until she could hear the faintest buzz of the old recording.

“Anyway, I made you a little something. A bouquet. But not like a romantic one—I mean, yes, obviously romantic, but like... us-romantic, not generic-romantic. It’s black dahlias, white lilacs, and one single daisy. Guess what the daisy’s for. Go on, guess.”

The recording was quiet for a beat.

You chuckled again. “Wrong. It’s for Enid. She dropped in today and told me she misses you. I told her you miss her too and she made that little squeak she does when she gets excited.”

She remembered that squeak. It had annoyed her.

It broke her now.

“I miss you too, you know,” you continued, softer now. “Like… really miss you. Even tho had lunch together only a few hours ago. I know it’s stupid but you make me feel stupid.”

Wednesday’s hand gripped the phone tighter.

“Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when we move in together?” you asked. “Like... actually live together? I mean, I’m messy. You’re... you. We’ll probably fight over drawer space and you’ll threaten to hex my slippers.”

A pause. A breath. You smiled again. She could hear it.

“But I think we’ll figure it out. I really want that, Wednesday. Us. I want to argue about dinner and hold your hand at 3 a.m. because I had a nightmare that you would call "sweat dream." ”

She was shaking now. She didn’t realize when it started.

“God, I sound clingy,” you said, laughing softly. “I swear I’m not! Okay, maybe a little. Okay maybe a lot! But you love that, right? Say you love that. Say you love me.”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched. Her throat ached with something ancient.

The call kept playing.

“Fine! Still worth a try. You know what I realized today?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no one I want to call at the end of the day but you. No one I want to share all this with. Even the dumb parts. Especially the dumb parts.”

Her vision was going blurry.

“I love you, Wednesday Addams. I love you so much it’s kind of terrifying.”

She closed her eyes. Her nails dug into her palm. She remembered the way she’d sat there that day, silent, listening to you say those words. And not saying them back.

She hadn’t said them back.

She should've said them back...

“I know you’re not great at feelings,” your voice said gently. “And that’s okay. I’ll carry the feelings for both of us. I’ll carry all of it, if you let me.”

And then—your smile again, alive in your words.

“Okay, that’s enough sappy nonsense. I’m gonna go get some food and then fall asleep surrounded by empty ribbon spools like a tired goblin. Goodnight, my love. Talk to you tomorrow.”

The call ended.

Silence fell again, deafening.

Wednesday stared at the screen. At your name. The last of you, trapped in a speaker, looped in time.

She tried to swallow. Her chest didn’t move.

Her hand fell limply to her lap, phone still in it.

The first sob escaped before she could kill it.

It tore from her throat like it had claws.

She fell on her knees, folding in on herself as if trying to make her body small enough to disappear.

The sound that came from her mouth was not human. It was grief in its rawest form—broken, bloody, bare, clawing its way up from a place deeper than marrow. Her shoulders shook with the weight of it. Her hands trembled as she covered her face. She tried to contain it, tried to trap it behind her teeth like everything else, but it spilled out anyway.

Sobs tore through her.

Violent. Heaving. Shattering.

She cried like she was trying to bring you back. Like if she cried hard enough, the flowers would listen. That the pressed petals on the shelves would breathe again. That your laughter might echo down the hall. That time might open a door and let you walk through it.

She gasped for air between sobs that didn’t stop. Her fists clenched in her lap until her nails carved crescents into her palms. Her face was wet, red, contorted in a way it had never been allowed to be.

And she hated it.

She hated how much it hurt. She hated how empty her vengeance had felt. How no amount of screaming or slicing or orchestrated executions could fill the space you left behind. She had tied your murderer’s fate to his own family. She had set the guillotine. She had delivered death with poetry.

And none of it changed anything.

You were still gone.

She sobbed.

Loud, broken, primal. The kind of sound a person makes when nothing is left. When even memory turns to dust in their throat.

She screamed your name once. It cracked mid-syllable.

Her hands clutched a wilted daisy from the floor. The petals crumbled in her palm.

“You were a flower,” she whispered, her voice foreign and cracked and barely human.

She closed her eyes.

“You were the only thing I ever believed in.”

Her body shook with the weight of it. With the memory of your laugh. Your voice. The way you’d say her name like it meant something good. Like she meant something good.

“So why didn’t they save you?” she whispered. “Why didn’t the flowers save you?”

Silence. Her nails dug into the floor.

No answer came.

Only the sound of her breathing too hard. Of her tears hitting the ground. Of the shop creaking with the wind from outside, where it was still night. Where the world still spun without you in it.

She looked up. At the hanging bundles above her—flowers you once raised, once spoke to, once loved.

They were silent now.

Ashamed.

And then she asked the question.

The question that had no one left to answer.

“Are flowers even real?”

[Author's note: Yeah, this is very much inspired from a movie, guess it in the comments, also let me now how did this angst feel lol.]

Taglist: @rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk @mally-ka @protozoario @machyishere @freakshow2501 @101rizzlrr @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @blue-because-no-yellow @thyhooligans

[universefcb]

My favorite screen

Pairing: Pau Cubarsí X fem!reader

Summary: You're trying out some new paints, but Pau decides to get in your way in a cute and beautifully annoying way.

Warning: Mention of Reader, fluff.

Author's note: He is dating, I am so happy that he has found someone who loves him and who he loves.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

Soft afternoon light streamed through the windows of the small makeshift studio she had set up in the corner of the room. The smell of fresh paint mixed with a faint scent of lavender hung in the air, cozy and creative. She was concentrating, brush in hand, her eyes focused on the small patches of color she was testing on a blank canvas—they were samples of the new paints she had bought that morning, all with poetic and unnecessarily romantic names: “Wild Twilight,” “Cloud Dream,” “Silent Blue.”

I was happy. There, in silence, with only an instrumental playlist playing in the background and my thoughts flowing freely.

At least… until the apartment door opened.

“Hi, my life!” Pau’s voice sounded excited, almost sing-song, as it always did when he arrived and saw her from behind, wrapped up in her own creative world. “What are you up to now?”

She didn't turn around, she just smiled as she heard the familiar sound of the key being thrown on the table in the entrance, the clumsy steps of the sneakers he never took off properly and the way he always hit his knee on some corner.

“Trying out the new paints. I bought some beautiful colors today,” she replied, still focused on the canvas. “But if you touch anything this time, Pau, I swear I won’t let you in here again wearing a white shirt.”

“But this is my house too,” he replied in a mock-offended tone, before appearing behind her and resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. “And you love it when I get close to your paints. You get that cute angry look on your face.”

She rolled her eyes, but bit her lip to hide her smile.

“Cute? I look terrified when you decide to put your ink-stained finger on my cheek.”

“You look beautiful covered in paint,” he murmured, his voice low, before kissing her shoulder, right there, over the thin strap of her blouse.

She tried to hold her ground, but laughter escaped.

"No longer…"

“What? I’m just admiring my favorite artist.” He walked around her and sat on the floor, cross-legged, as if he were a spectator in a museum. “Paint it, go on. I want to see how you mix that blue with that green. It looks like the sky of Catalonia in the morning.”

She crouched down a little, picked up a bottle and began to stir the paint in silence… until she felt a cold, blue-stained finger touching her cheek.

“DICK!” he shouted, jumping to his feet. “I knew it! You can’t go five minutes without wanting to provoke!”

He burst out laughing, lying down on the carpet as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

“You look just like a Smurf!” he said, pointing to her cheek. “Oh, I needed that after training today.”

“I’m going to kill you,” he threatened, picking up the dirtiest brush and going after him.

“No! Wait, I was joking!” He jumped up, slipping a little, and dodged her across the room. “Honey, my white shirt!”

“Now do you care?'

She reached out and pressed the brush right against his neck. His laughter died away in a surprised gasp.

“Ouch… it’s cold,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her now. “And now you look… really cute.”

She held back her laughter, her brush still pointed at him. Their breathing was a little quickened by the silly chase, and there was something warm in the silence that formed.

“You irritate me so much,” she whispered, her voice low now.

“But you love me,” he added, approaching slowly, taking her hand that held the paintbrush. “And I love that… when you get angry, when you’re painting, even when you’re all dirty with blue. Especially then.”

She smiled, defeated.

“You are so silly, Cubarsí.”

“Your favorite little fool,” he said, before kissing her lightly, slowly, with that way that only he knew how: as if he had all the time in the world to stay there, with her, in the middle of the paints, the laughter, the peace.

When they walked away, he looked around and muttered:

“Now can we paint something together? I promise to behave. More or less.”

She looked at the dirty brush in his hand, at the stained carpet, at her own blue cheek, and sighed.

“Okay. But you’ll help me clean up afterward.”

“Deal,” he replied, planting a soft kiss on her nose. “But only if you let me paint your entire arm afterwards. I want to get a temporary tattoo of a heart with your initials.”

“Then I’m really going to kick you out of the apartment.”

They laughed together, and in the end, they ended up painting each other more than the canvas.

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @merinottt @htpssgavi @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[alexanderlightweight]

could you do something with alec not being a morning person?

it has been a bit, but here we go. this is in the petals vs and I hope you enjoy it

<3 lumine

in his wake petals fall

Magnus wakes, warm sun settling over his face and against his chest Alexander grumbles and moves closer, tucking himself tightly to Magnus.

It’s adorable and Magnus twirls his pointer finger and lets the shades fall to protect his boy from the sun.  It’s mid-morning and Alexander hates getting up before the afternoon unless it’s an emergency.

Thankfully, there is nothing on the agenda for today which means Magnus can go dabble while also letting Alexander sleep as long as he likes.

Magnus has long since learned to set up a small and simple ward, one that will let him know when Alexander wakes up.  It’s necessary, or Magnus will suffer a sulking Alexander who is wondering and complaining of where his cuddles have gone.

The rectangular glasses Magnus is wearing are several moveable layers in various shades of green as he examines the seeds in front of him.

Vitality is an important step in magic and if Magnus is going to bother to hand nourish these plants from seeds, then he is going to make sure they even have a chance to begin with.

It may seem like tedious work, but the unviable ones are still useful for potions or rituals and it’s actually rather soothing.  It may be something Magnus has put off for several months, but that doesn’t mean now that he’s doing it, it isn’t something simple and methodical.  

It’s a break from the hustle and bustle he and Alexander have been caught in and Magnus gets out his favorite record and slips on some music as he summons some tea and snacks. The music steadies the mood as Magnus sorts.

—-

Alec’s fingers slap against empty, lonely and cold sheets and a hollow ache resounds in his chest even as warm, calloused and strong hands rub up his side and arm.

“You haven’t even been awake a full minute and already you’re pouting.”

“Missed you.” Alec manages to grumble out, fingers greedily motioning through the air until finally Magnus slips back into bed and curls up against Alec.

He’s too happy not to shimmy closer and wedge himself tightly against Magnus so he can breathe in his scent of sandalwood and magic and also the smell of Magnus’ apothecary.

Magnus can call it sulking or pouting all he wants but it’s not Alec’s fault that Magnus presence is so big that it fills every room he’s in, even when he’s asleep.

Alec misses him when he’s gone.

“It’s almost three in the afternoon, are you sure you don’t want to get up yet?”

Alec shakes his head, tucking his brow against Magnus’ neck and rubbing his cheek against Magnus’ warm skin.

“Even for plants?”

It’s tempting, but no.  

Alec is too tired to go somewhere else when he can have Magnus and plants both at home.

Without needing to leave bed before dusk arrives, which is the preferably time to get out of bed when one has Magnus in it.

[tsukkishoney]

ʜᴀɪᴋʏᴜ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴅᴀᴛᴇꜱ! ᴘᴛ.1

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ꜱꜰᴡ

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ: ʜɪɴᴀᴛᴀ, ᴋᴀɢᴇʏᴀᴍᴀ, ᴛꜱᴜᴋɪꜱʜɪᴍᴀ, ʏᴀᴍᴀɢᴜᴄʜɪ

ʀᴇqᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ ᴏʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴘᴇɴ!⋆˚࿔

enjoy!

Hinata Shoyo

"Anywhere’s fun as long as we’re together!"

Hinata's ideal date? FUN. It has to be full of movement, laughter, and at least one moment where he ends up yelling, “THIS IS AWESOME!!”

Think: beach day, biking adventure, spontaneous mini road trip to the countryside — anywhere he can hold your hand and point excitedly at everything like it's the first time he's ever seen it.

He brings way too much food (his mom probably helped), sunscreen in your favourite scent, and exactly one broken pair of sunglasses he insists on wearing because he thinks he looks cool.

Gets ridiculously competitive at silly games — water balloon fights, sandcastle contests, arcade games — but immediately lets you win if you pout.

Loves taking selfies with you and posts the blurriest ones with captions like, “Best day ever!!”

At the end of the day, he’s lying on the grass or sand beside you, cheeks flushed and heart racing from more than just the sun. Quietly murmurs, “I hope we can do this again soon… like, all the time.”

Kageyama Tobio

"I’m not good with words… but I want you to know I care."

Kageyama’s ideal date is quiet, intentional, and kind of awkward in the most endearing way. He’s not flashy — he just wants time with you, where he doesn’t have to think about volleyball or being perfect.

He takes you to a peaceful spot: maybe a picnic in the park, a quiet riverside walk, or even a little café that sells milk bread and iced coffee (he definitely orders plain milk though).

The date probably starts with him being way too tense. He rehearsed what to say like a million times. But the moment you smile at him? He relaxes, just a bit.

He listens more than he talks, but his eyes never leave you. He’s soaking up every word like it matters — because to him, it does.

If you say you’re cold, he’ll give you his jacket without thinking, then panic when you actually take it like, “Wait–! I mean– yeah. You can.”

Might not initiate physical affection right away, but if you do? He melts. Like, internally screaming but also absolutely refusing to let go of your hand once you hold it.

After walking you home, he hesitates a long time before saying goodbye — then blurts out something like, “Today was fun. I wanna do this again. With you. Only you.”

Bonus: You’ll get a random late-night text from him that says, “You looked really nice today.” No emojis, no punctuation. Just pure sincerity.

Tsukishima Kei

"It’s not that I don’t like you. I just like teasing you about liking me."

He swears he doesn’t do dates. “They’re cheesy,” he says. “A waste of time.” And yet… somehow you’re walking beside him on a quiet Sunday afternoon, heading toward the city’s modern art museum. (He read the reviews. He checked ticket prices. He’s been planning this for a week.)

The museum is quiet, sunlit, and full of weird, abstract sculptures that he pretends to be unimpressed by—until you catch him staring at a piece way too long, lips slightly parted in curiosity. “Don’t read into it,” he mutters when you point it out. “I was just wondering how it was made.”

He never says it out loud, but he loves how peaceful it is. The silence. The way you lean in to whisper thoughts. How you grab his sleeve when something catches your eye. (Your hand lingers. So does his.)

Afterward, he takes you to this café tucked into a side street—books on the walls, quiet jazz playing, drinks with little bear latte art. You tease him about the aesthetic, but he rolls his eyes and mutters, “You like cute things. I was being thoughtful.”

He drinks his coffee black but steals bites of your dessert without asking. You pretend to protest, but he just smirks. “You weren’t going to finish it anyway.”

On the walk home, your arms brush. Once, twice. The third time, he links your pinkies together like it’s not a big deal. His hand is warm. His ears are red.

That night, he sends you a link to a new playlist called “it’s not like i like you or anything.mp3” with no context. The first track is your favourite song.

Yamaguchi Tadashi

"You don’t have to impress me. I just… like being around you."

Yams’ dates are the sweet, thoughtful kind that show he pays attention. He picks places that are cozy, a little quieter — where you can really talk.

Think: nighttime walk around a lantern-lit festival, grabbing dango or takoyaki from food stalls and sitting on the steps of a shrine while watching the crowd.

He lets you pick what to do, but has a few backup ideas written in his Notes app just in case (with panicked little scribbles like: “Plan B — cat café??”).

Blushes SO easily when you compliment his outfit, or if your fingers brush. If you link pinkies, he just about short circuits, but tries to keep it cool.

Loves dates that let him listen to your stories. Will look at you like you’re the most fascinating person alive and smile softly at everything you say.

Walks you home and lingers a little, trying to find the courage to ask for another date. You’ll probably have to kiss him on the cheek first — and then he stammers something like, “C-Can we do this again sometime? I-I mean, if you want to!”

ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪʀᴅ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ⋆˚࿔

ᴘᴛ.2 ꨄ︎

[toasttt11]

seattle

November 23, 2023

Ophelia’s head was resting on Quinn’s shoulder as they sat next to each other on the plane. Elias was sitting across the row from them and Brock and Connor were sitting across the table from Ophelia and Quinn playing cards as Quinn was reading and Ophelia was editing photos on her iPad.

They were flying to Seattle this morning for the game tomorrow, Ophelia has never had the chance to play at her home rink and she’s excited to play there for the first time.

She was gonna show Quinn a few things in Seattle today and Elias was curious and asked to join.

The plane landed in Seattle and they all got off the plane getting into the bus.

Ophelia texted with Jack and Luke the entire drive to the hotel before she followed Quinn off the bus and grabbing her back as they walked into the hotel.

“Alright guys and SJ what are we doing on our free day.” Brock tossed an arm over Ophelia’s shoulder as he walked into the hotel with Demko, Jt, Connor, Elias, Quinn and Ophelia.

“I was gonna show Quinn and Elias some things near the hotel.” Ophelia said, “Your welcome to join.” Ophelia softly offered to her teammates.

“Definitely!” Brock quickly nodded with a bright grin.

“Sounds fun.” Connor lopsidedly grinned.

Demko nodded in agreement. Jt gave a soft smirk and shrug.

“Nils?” Ophelia called out as he walked by and he looked towards them curious but immediately smiled as Ophelia invited him too and quickly accepted.

They all agreed to meet in the lobby in a few minutes.

Quinn and Ophelia headed up to their room and Quinn changed into more comfortable and a bit warmer clothes before Ophelia headed into the bathroom tossing a pair of blue jeans, white sweater, pink jacket and shoes with a multiple color scarf. She knew how easily she gets cold.

Ophelia grabbed her small black purse with her keychains from Luke and followed Quinn out of their room.

Ophelia and Quinn got downstairs first and once everyone got down there they started their walk.

Ophelia was brining them to a small little hole in the wall cafe that has one of her favorite hot chocolates and it was about ten minutes from her house.

They all ordered once they got into the cafe and the eight of them smushed into a booth by the large window and could see the water in the distance.

“Is your home close by?” Connor asked her curiously knowing she grew up in Seattle and Calgary but so far he has noticed she talks only about Seattle.

“Yeah it’s about ten minutes away, closer to the water and a little bit out of the busy part for the city.” Ophelia answered, she didn’t want to go back to her house yet at least not on this trip.

Her face lit up as the hot chocolate was placed in front of her and she quickly started drinking it.

Quinn smiled softly at the happiness on her face and took a quick photo and one more photo as she brought the cup down and had whip cream on her mouth.

They stayed in the little cafe for a little while all eating some food and drinking coffees and a hot chocolate for Ophelia.

Ophelia told them all some things about Seattle and answered some questions the boys asked her.

Eventually they left the cafe and they started walking around the city for a little while.

Ophelia was the tour guide for the evening and telling the boys fun facts about everything they walked by and they stopped at some places along the way.

No one even realized how long they all ended up walking around for until it started getting dusk and Connor’s stomach started rumbling making laughter break out.

Ophelia knew a good place for dinner close by and brought them to a taller building and headed to the top floor where the restart is on the roof top.

The restaurant has a great view of the city and the water and all the tables in the colder months get these covers like igloos with heaters so you can sit outside.

“Woah.” Elias said in awe as he looked around it was a really unique restaurant experience as they all walked into the larger igloo type thing and sat around the table.

Ophelia smiled to herself seeing the awed expression on all of their faces. It was one of her Dad’s favorite restaurants and they always spent his birthday there.

Quinn smiled softly at how happy Ophelia looked all day and how much she talked, it made him happy how content she was.

Quinn was sitting next to her as always sam’s sort nudged her making she glance at him, “Good job Bee.” His words made her beam proud.

The eight of them stayed at the restaurant watching the sunset till it was pitch back and they all ate so much food, they got back to the hotel just in time for curfew.

Ophelia fell asleep the moment she hit the bed making Quinn smile fondly and he gently pulled the blankets over her shoulders and set his penguin stuff animal in between her arms making her snuggle to it in her sleep and he leaned down pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before getting ready for bed.

November 24, 2023

Ophelia slowly stepped around the Kraken’s home ice, if life went the way she wanted she would have been in the arena before but it didn’t and this is her first time here.

Ophelia felt a lot better emotionally and physically than last week when Kraken was in Vancouver and her head really was fine, she was sore for a few days but nothing more.

Ophelia skated to the center and took the puck drop, she won the face off and passed to JT.

Ophelia narrowed her eyes at the player who had thrown the dirty hit on her last week, he was finally on the ice at the same time as her.

Ophelia didn’t hesitate and used her speed laying a hard hit on the player, the player who is a lot larger and sent him sprawling to the ice and it was a clean hit. 
Ophelia looked at Quinn with a bright grin making him laugh softly at the proud look on her face.

Jt was cackling and looked so proud and he immediately gave Ophelia so many head pats, now he understood why Ophelia wanted him to teach her how to throw an even harder hit than she could before even with her being smaller, “Perfect.” Jt gave her an approving nod.

Ophelia smiled more in return.

Ophelia recorded her second career hat trick that game and had two assists, Canucks won 5-1.

[sashimi020]

almost yours p5 *ੈ✩‧₊˚ [mitsuya x reader]

credits to @i-mmaculatus for the dividers! tags: @dollrndo

p1 | p2 | p3 | p4

last part!! thank you all for reading!! i'm so grateful for all your kind comments. i hope this last chapter will bring a satisfying closure! i must admit it was slightly rushed, i'm a bit sleepy so there may be errors (forgive me😭) i hope you all enjoy it regardless

reblogs likes comments and feedback appreciated!!<333

it was the big day: new years festival. you’d neatly packaged mitsuya's gifts and placed it in a cute gift bag and also added your heartfelt confession letter, struggling to pick a nice outfit you outsourced help from baji and kazutora who came over the afternoon of to help you pick. 

“this okay?” “err.. nah. too formal” “mm.. how about this?” “ooh maybe.. pair it with this?” the three of you discussed for a while. you thought they were being suspiciously helpful. after a certain point in the conversation, baji interjected “don’t wear two layers” “huh? why not? it might be cold..” “just trust me” you pouted. maybe you did look better if you lost the second layer of clothing.

for the next few hours, the three of you just chilled, playing some video games and lazing around at your house until it was time for the all of you to meet up with everyone else. for some reason the two of them were being extra giggly today. you perceived it to be slightly out of character for them. you picked up on them stealing glances as if they had some inside joke you didn’t know about.

you just brushed it off as them being excited for going out. the hours passed by quickly. reaching the entrance of the festival you all slow down and look for the rest of your friends. kazutora groans at his phone screen “they’re gonna be late again!” “seriously?” you sigh. “apparently it’s because mikey’s taking too long to get ready” “who’s coming with mikey again?” you ask, “draken, mitsuya, mikey and emma are all coming together i think” “oh alright” 

your face lights up ever so slightly at the mention of mitsuya. you were eager to give him your gift and confession letter, but you were equally apprehensive. though you were pretty hopeful for him liking you back due to kazutora and baji’s constant reassurance. you would actually kill them and then die out of embarrassment if he rejected you. you quickly push the possibility of rejection aside. 

wait.. what if he actually rejected you? your expression dulls at the thought. a pit forms in your stomach. it would ruin the entire mood of the festival. would things get awkward? .. oh.. oh now you’re really worrying. maybe it’s just nervousness and anxiety doing the rounds but you can’t deny that you felt suddenly apprehensive about the confession. while baji and kazutora were occupied by some food stall, you quickly stuff the confession letter away just leaving the gifts in the gift bag. you didn’t want to take this risk. 

you wandered a bit further away from kazutora and baji and felt someone tap on your shoulder. “hey pretty, say, you come here with anyone?” some random guy approached you? how were you supposed to react?? “uh.. uh- i’m-“ “no need to be so nervous” he chuckles. kazutora and baji, thankfully, almost immediately notice the interaction after they got their food. he puts his hand on your shoulder and you visibly become uncomfortable, “um. i appreciate it but…“ you feel someone grab your hand. kazutora?! baji? they glare at the guy and he immediately seems to back off. “jeez. sorry, didn’t know er..” the guys starts but kazutora tugs you away. 

you sigh heavily. “you didn’t have to be so rude” baji frowned “nah. no one’s stealing mitsu’s girl” your face flushes completely. “plus that guy put his hand on your shoulder, who does that to someone they’ve never met?!” “yeah i guess you’re right..” your voice cracks from you feeling so flustered. “mitsuya’s girl? really??” “yeah” they both responded in unison. 

“HII GUYS!” mikey yells loudly. everyone exchanges greetings and you meet mitsuya’s gaze. “hii..” “hey” he smiles gleefully. all of you browse the stalls and pass time until the fireworks. mikey, predictably, instantly gravitated towards the taiyaki stand. by some new years miracle he had brought his own money to pay for the sweets. maybe he decided to be a little merciful on ken-chin’s wallet for the occasion. draken on the other hand bashfully held emma’s hand and the adorable couple spent much needed time together. kazutora and baji disappeared somewhere to do god knows what. you were left alone with mitsuya. the both of you walk alongside each other, hands brushing against each other as you walk. 

after a certain point he just takes your hand in his and glances away, his composure completely gone. you smile to yourself but he catches it. his heart speeds up. your eyes scan the stalls in a desperate attempt to regain your own composure after the heart warming gesture. your eyes land on an extremely adorable cat plushie. “awh! that’s so cute” you couldn’t help but blurt out. “you want that?” “ah.. no i’m not good at winning these games.. my hand eye coordination is really bad.” “i could win it for you” he says softly. “or well, i could try..” he smiles widely and before you could argue he asks the vendor to set up the game.

it was fairly simple balloon game, pop 5 balloons in a row and you win the plushie! almost immediately you heard “pop!”“pop!”“pop!”“pop!”“pop!” no hesitation, full precision. and suddenly, you had a cat plush in your arms and an incredibly cute smile on your crush’s face. “thank you! oh- you really didn’t have to..” “you’re so cute when you’re happy” he cuts you off. you go dead silent as you feel like you need to reboot your brain. oh. my. god. 

a short time passes and you all regroup, mikey thoroughly enjoying his fifth taiyaki while draken was chiding him telling him that he was definitely going to fall sick after this. kazutora and baji also reunited with the rest of them, turns out they spent their time playing some dart game at a stall to try and win prizes but inevitably lost. “you won that cat?” baji asks curiously, “it’s super cute” “oh! ah. mitsuya won it for me” you giggle softly. they all share a knowing glance. both of your faces flush but no one brings it up. 

“i think the fireworks will start soon!” mikey points out, “we should find a nice spot quickly before all the good ones get taken” draken responds and you all quickly make it to a nice viewing point. the wind blows through your hair gently and the buzz of the people and stalls died down as you all found a rather secluded and slightly more peaceful spot. “can i borrow you for a bit?” mitsuya asks quickly, his tone soft. “o..of course, yeah” your grip on the gift bag tightens. you should give it to him now. 

his hand leads you only a little far away from everyone else and he takes the bag that he brought. “so.. um.. i made something for you” your brain stops almost immediately. wait. wait. wait. WHAT. He made something for you?! this was supposed to be you giving him a gift, should you interrupt him? should you give it right now? “w-wait!” you cut him off, “ah?” “i.. have something for you too” you hold up the bag. “o- oh.” the sparkly in his eyes gleams brighter and his grin widens. “w-we’ll exchange then?” “y-yeah, yeah-“ you both swap bags and inhale shakily as you peer into the gift mitsuya gave you. 

your jaw drops. you pull out the jacket with shaky, nervous hands. “this.. wait- how-?” questions flooded your mind. it looks exactly like the jacket you saw at the mall but it looks different, “look.. look uh. in the inside.” you open the jacket to see your initials sewed in at the bottom on the inside of the jacket. you stare back at him with the most dazed, loving expression. “you..” “yeah.. i .. made it..” “wait.. how did you- .. how did you find out i.. wanted a jacket like this though?” “draken told me you mentioned it?” “uh.. ah” oh kazutora you sly dog. you suddenly piece everything together, why baji told you not to wear two layers. so you could wear this now. you instantly shrug it on and feel absolutely elated. “o-open mine” “i.. didn’t know you were getting me one” you smile sheepishly. 

his face blossoms with pleasant surprise, “oh! a pincushion?! i’ve wanted this for a while but never got around to getting it.. how did you know? oh- wait.. are these?..” “matching.. yeah.. uh. you can pick which one you like, i’ll take the other” “i’m.. never gonna take this off” you start feeling lightheaded at his sweet sweet words. “a-ah.” he takes your wrist and slides on the bracelet gently and then puts on his. his lips tug into a serene smile and he adjusts the collar of the jacket. “there.. you look really good in it.” 

he glances away for a second, “there’s something.. i should tell you,” he takes his hands off from your jacket and stares at the ground, “i’ve uh. i realised a few months ago that i started.. to .. have feelings for you. i know this is really late and it might not be the best or most coordinated or put together confession ever but i .. really needed to get it out there. i.. really hope you feel the same way” your jaw is on the floor. heart is beating at a rate that would put you in a hospital. “y-you have no idea how long i’ve felt the same way” you manage to choke out without stumbling over your words. suddenly you glance at the sky. 

“the fireworks are almost starting..” “w..wait..” mitsuya slides his palm on your cheek and tilts your head towards his in a very gentle manner, almost offering you leeway to back out if you want to. but you don’t this is everything you could ever want and more. you think you could die happy right now. suddenly he leans closer, “can i?..” “please.” the second your lips meet, fireworks go off. colour paints the sky as mitsuya’s soft lips grace yours. he cups your face, fingers tucking your hair back. you pull away for air moments later, lips swollen and red from kissing, cheeks a similar shade and glossed over, dazed look his eyes. 

you pull out the stashed away confession letter. “i.. was going to confess to you but i guess you did it first.. you can still keep this and read it if you like-“ “i’ll cherish it forever” he cuts you off. “i’ll cherish you forever” you break out into a grin and wrap your arm around his. “i’ll cherish you forever as well”. 

the two of you return to the knowing glances of the rest of your friends, draken pats mitsuya on the back “great going loverboy” “shut up..” 

your fingers intertwine with mitsuya’s as more fireworks go off, you lean your head on his shoulder. 

that very same jacket you would continue to wear for years to come, and that very same bracelet, the both of you would have adorned on your wrists until time wore it out, that very same pincushion, mitsuya would have on every single sewing project. 

all of you would forever share this moment in your own ways. operation: mitsuya x y/n groupchat now served no purpose but no one had the heart to delete it.

you would all share more new years festivals and nights under the fireworks, and you couldn’t be happier with the people in your life. 

[iwantmyprizepet]

𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽 ℐ𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 5/?

Summary: Something happens and then another thing and then Agatha blah blah blah Agatha Agatha Agatha.

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: *Insert that lady singing surprise surprise.* Hitting y’all with a new chapter QUICK. All of you that have reached out since I’ve started posting are literal sweethearts. Much too kind and I appreciate it greatly. I hope all who read this are doing well and the rest of your week is lovely. -Mich :)

AO3 Previous Part

My Royal Tag List: @ahintofchaos @morgananyx

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Work was uncomfortable, a knot forming in my stomach right from the get. 

The weekend was here and while I wasn’t sure I’d definitely see her today, something in me knew I would. 

A cold shower before work was how I handled the dream. I could not bring myself to take care of it the way I wanted to. It felt entirely too wrong to fill that need.

The dream had me feeling like a spotlight was on me all day. Like everyone could see right through my skull and absorb every thought.

Chloe had asked me several times through out the day if I was feeling okay. Letting me know if I needed to go lay down, she’d fully cover me. I brushed her off each time just saying I had a little headache. 

It took a lot of convincing for her to leave early when business slowed. I knew that if Agatha did show up, I could not deal with it if Chloe stuck around.

I found myself pacing the kitchen when I had the building to myself. Each time the bell above the door rung I nearly jumped out of my skin. 

I almost didn’t expect to see her face through the kitchen window at the fourth chime of the bell. 

With a deep long breath I steadied myself and pushed through the kitchen door. 

“Hey.” I forced out through already warm cheeks.

“Hello, darling.” It dragged out of her playfully.

Jesus fucking christ.

“How was the work trip?” I asked fidgeting with the fabric of my jeans on the side of my leg. 

She let out a long sigh as she sat on the stool directly across from me.

That’s it, I simply wasn’t going to survive this encounter.

“Dreadfully dull, full of half wits that think they know everything.” Her eyes rolled.  “Plot twist, they know nothing.”

I let out a distracted breathy laugh, the gold chain around her neck holding my attention as she spoke.

“Can I uhm.” I trailed off forcing my head down pretending to fiddle with something behind the counter. “Can I get you anything?” 

She didn’t respond until I looked back up to her waiting blue eyes. “Can I be honest?” She leaned forward as she asked it. 

I nodded hanging on every syllable she uttered.

“I actually just came here to see you.” She whispered it like it was an extremely well kept secret. 

I could only imagine what the dumbstruck smile that took over my face looked like. 

Against my better judgment I walked around the counter over to her. Agatha’s hands gripped the bottom of her sweater to straighten it out as I approached.

It felt like a cruel joke the universe was playing on me. A guilty anguish washed over me. Images of the dream tossed around my head, a creeping anxiety following every single one.

“Everything okay?”

I hadn’t realize I stopped midway, the spins in my head most likely obvious on my face. 

“Oh, yeah.” I moved forward sitting on the stool next to her as casually as I could. “I’ve just had a bit of stubborn headache all day.” 

It wasn’t necessarily a lie, my racing thoughts were in fact making my head ache.

Her eyebrows pulled in as her hand reached for my arm on the counter.

“Well, that’s no good.” She said brushing her thumb on my forearm that she was now holding.

Again, I found myself wanting to fall into her. Despite every bit of anxiety I had about seeing her today, her presence seemed to settle all of it. The dream still nagged in a corner of my head, but it felt easier now, like it was okay. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing a good nights rest won’t fix.” I replied daring my pinky to push into her arm. 

She had to feel the magnetized pull between us, she just had to. 

The door opening felt like a crack of thunder. 

With a short sigh I stood. “Hi, how are you today?” 

The customer chose to ignore my question, finding his phone more important.

I made it around to the register and he still continued to stare at his phone. Working with the public for this long, I was definitely accustomed to this behavior. 

After giving him a few seconds of grace I spoke again. “What can I get for you?”

“Americano.” He finally replied fingers tapping away on the screen.

“Sure thing.” Only a thin veil hid the annoyance on my tongue.

Half way through making his drink, he made a call. With every loud word and laugh, you could just tell he thought he was the most important man in the world.

I turned to the counter and slid his cup over. “That’ll be four dollars and eighty cents, please.”

An obnoxious laugh spilled from him again. I just slowly blinked, straight faced and waiting.

I looked over to Agatha to find a seething look directed towards him. 

Just as I was about to repeat myself he dared a look at her. It made him fumble halfway through a sentence.

“Hold on.” He said into the phone dropping his arm that held it. 

He slipped a card from his wallet.

“Tap or insert.” I said plainly as I put the amount in the system.

After it beeped through he grabbed his coffee.

“All set, have a good one.” I said with no inflection either way.

He went back to his phone without a word to me and out the door. 

Rolling my eyes I put the slip in the register. 

“Prick.” Agatha seethed out shaking her head, eyes still following him. 

I laughed and walked back to her. “You get used to it.” I said trying to ease her worries on it.

She swiveled on her stool to face me as I sat. 

“He probably wouldn’t have acted like that if he knew how close I just was to straightening his crooked nose.” She said it with calm fury. 

I laughed out loud leaning towards her. Agatha pressed her leg into mine as she joined me. My eyes shut on their own at the touch. It only lasted a second, but it felt telling. 

Maybe I should just stand and kiss her into the counter right here, right now. Just say fuck it and see what would happen. 

Instead, I leaned my head onto my fist and drank her in. 

At the mention of noses, I found myself admiring hers. Her own held a bit of a crookedness. It was perfectly her, unique. I thought how nice it would be to admire it closer. Brush my own against it.

 If only she knew what I was thinking about.

 I knew I was looking at her too softly, I just couldn’t help it. It was growing harder every second to ignore my feelings.

The way I was watching her seemed to put her off of her guard. Her face dropped hand moving to her necklace to fumble with it. If I didn’t know better and had to guess. Well, I’d guess I was making her nervous. 

Thankfully I knew better and knew that was pretty much impossible.

The next move had me questioning if I was actually drunk or high. I don’t know where the boldness was erupting from, but it was very unlike me. Everything I was doing felt out of body.

I reached my hand over to her necklace. Hooking my finger under it, I dragged it across until I reached her hand that was fiddling with it. After holding it there for a second I slowly pulled away. 

Her eyes narrowed, but not in an angry way. “I like your necklace.” I uttered out evenly as my hand fell back to my lap.

She sat silent, eyes bouncing quickly across my own. 

The annoying door chimed again. She didn’t even pay it a glance, just stayed staring at me.

I turned, stood and walked over to the man in the ups uniform. The package of new mugs I had forgotten was getting delivered today.

We exchanged pleasantries as I signed for it. I’d gotten used to him delivering ninety percent of the time. I turned with the box as he left. My smile dropped as I took in Agatha, now standing with her coat on. 

Fuck. 

“I’ve got to get going.” She said eyes looking down as she buttoned her coat.

“Oh, okay.” My heart felt like it was in my gut. “Have a nice night. Hope the headache goes away.” She looked up to me just to nod and shoot an unconvincing smile before rushing past me. 

My brain couldn’t catch up in time to respond. The door was closed behind her and she was halfway to her car when it started to hit me. 

I should have never done that, what was I thinking? 

She got in her car and I caught one last glance she gave me. I couldn’t decipher it before she drove off. 

I could feel tears welling up as I stood shellshocked looking after her, gripping the package tightly.

I broke my eyes away from the ghost of her car to look at the clock. Fifteen minutes until closing.

Hold it together. 

I carried the package behind the counter haphazardly placing it down. I counted the drawer for deposit with shaking hands. I flicked the lights off on the way to the deposit box, trying to ward off any last minute customers. 

My headache was getting worse and my cheeks felt warm. 

It felt like an eternity waiting for the clock to tick. 

When it did I rushed out the door locking it behind me. Climbing the stairs my chest was swelling in an ache. My chin wobbled as I unlocked my door. 

As soon as I got through the threshold a pathetic sob escaped me. 

How could I be so fucking stupid? Why did I insist on ignoring the fact I’d known from the start? 

My headache took a sharp turn after ten minutes of crying. The rest of the night passed with an anxious dread. 

Sleep came in random spurts and as if I was being punished, my throat started to hurt around midnight. I could feel the unmistakable sign of creeping sickness crawling up. 

The growing fatigue all day started to add up now. It wasn’t just that despicable dream making me feel off all day. 

I willed myself to sleep with NyQuil, hoping by morning it would be gone.

Morning came and I felt like shit, sounded like shit and looked like shit.

I called Chloe and she instantly noticed the hoarse twinge to my voice. She assured me her and Janice would handle the day.

I did manage to get a bit more sleep after our conversation.

I lay in bed wondering if Agatha would stop in today. 

I replayed our last interaction over and over. Deciding after hours of thinking it out, there was probably no chance she’d be in. 

Chloe brought me tea mid day, keeping her distance at the door. The look she fixed me from across the room read like she knew something had happened. There was more to my state than just being sick. 

The day passed with mindless tv barely paying attention to any of it. 

I stood up to stretch around three, walking over to the front windows. My heart leapt with a jolt as I looked down. 

There it sat, the black Maserati parked against the curb. I waited, barely breathing and it didn’t take more than ten seconds before she walked out. 

She made her way to her car with a quick step. She stopped halfway past the hood and turned to look up. I was far enough back that I knew she wouldn’t be able to see me. 

Her face seemed to hold a creasing worry. After a moment she looked back down and started back to the drivers door. 

I walked forward pressing my feverish head to the cool window, eyes closed with a sigh. 

I opened my eyes to watch her drive away, only to find her still outside of her car looking back up. I froze on the spot. The lines between her forehead seemed to have deepened further. 

She probably couldn’t see me. It was so dark in my house that she didn’t. I convinced myself of this over and over. 

With a shake of her head she got in her car and pulled away. I stood face against the glass  until a chill brought me back to the couch and under a blanket. 

I tried wishing her out of my mind. Pleading to the unknown to just let me forget her. If she disappeared and I never saw her again, I could deal with that.

There wasn’t much time before closing now. Ten minutes after it was, Chloe’s name popped up on my screen with a call. “Hey.” I said answering clearing a cough from my voice. “How’d it go today?” “Fine, It wasn’t too bad today. How’re you feeling, bub?”

I heard her directional click on, the sound of quiet traffic coming through the bluetooth connection.

“I’m alright, sure I’ll be good to go on Tuesday.”

The wheel turned, the signal clicking off as she straightened the wheel. 

“Agatha was in today.” For once her tone didn’t seem to be teasing on the topic. 

“Yeah, I saw her car pull off.” I replied with a nonchalance.

“Oh, so you must have seen her longing stare up then?”

Yeah and there it was, the teasing. I stayed silent lost for what to say.

“She was looking for you. Seemed quite upset when I told her where you were.”

I wondered then if she thought Chloe was lying. If she thought I was feigning sick to avoid her. 

Again, I didn’t respond too overwhelmed and tired. 

“Hey.” Chloe said gently. “I’m not trying to mess with you, really.” “I know Chlo, I’m just tired.”

A sigh released from her, turn signal sounding again. “I’ll let you go, let me know if you need anything okay?”

“Of course, thanks again for covering.” I let out a cough slipping down further into the couch. 

“Anytime.” Another long pause, I thought she’d hung up. “I’m here for everything always ya know.”

It was my turn to sigh, nodding as if she could see me. “I know Chlo, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” I wasn’t meaning to be so dismissive but I couldn’t handle it right now.

After hanging up, I was flicking through streaming services finding something to watch. Nothing was peaking my interest so I decided on a millionth rerun of Gilmore Girls. 

The first episode was just finishing when the doorbell rang. I froze for a second wondering who it could possibly be. 

Rising I made my way over to the door. I caught a glimpse of a bright white van pulling off in front. 

I reached on my tiptoes to look out the small window at the top of my door. Nobody was there, but something lay on the steps.

I opened the door flinching at the cold. I was back in a chilly phase of sickness. 

A white to go bag is what it turned out to be. 

I smiled figuring Chloe and Brooks must have sent me something. I pushed open the screen door and picked it up bringing it in quickly to close off the freezing temperature. 

Placing it on the kitchen counter, I grabbed the slip on top. 

Stapled on top of the receipt was a hand written note.

‘Feel better - A.H. xo’

It was unmistakably in her handwriting. I’d admired the note she’d left with Chloe enough to know. I read it over and over, frozen to the spot. 

I peeped the receipt trying to place the restaurant. I think it was on Thames street by the park. I’d never been there before, seeming a bit too fancy for my taste.

I opened the bag and found two different soups in containers and a side of fresh bread.

I traced my finger along the writing. My chest swelled with every swirling letter.

I wished she was here, that she’d delivered it. I wished I could curl into her on the couch. Have her fingers scratch through my hair and ease away the cold I had. 

I felt fixated on the end of the note, xo. Why would she add that at the end? Why not just leave it at her initials and move on? 

If anything this gave me hope that I hadn’t fucked up everything when I tugged that damn necklace. 

I don’t know how much time passed with me staring at the note, drowning in want. 

Eventually I did examine the soup. One was chicken noodle the other an Italian wedding soup. I settled on the chicken noodle with a piece of bread. 

It was the best soup I’d ever had apart from my grandma’s.

Shortly after eating I took a hot shower. It felt good against my body aches and cleared my stuffy nose, even if just for a brief amount of time. 

I put away the now cool soup and downed some nighttime medicine. 

With a final look at the note on the counter, I made my way to bed. 

I lay staring at the ceiling thinking what I was gonna say to her when I saw her again. If only I had her number. Why had I never asked for it? Oh right, cause I would absolutely never do that.

The medicine started to kick in, eyes growing heavy drifting me to sleep.

——————————————————————————

I slept on and off all through Monday. The soup Agatha sent me ended up being an actual god sent. 

Chloe, with effort forced me to admit I couldn’t work Tuesday. Although I was feeling better Monday night, I didn’t want to risk getting anyone sick. The idea of still feeling unwell and having to see Agatha sealed the deal for me throwing in the towel. 

Tuesday night, Chloe rang me on her way home after closing. She informed me that Agatha hadn’t been in, but a suspiciously familiar black car drove up and down the street a couple of times. 

I took it with a grain of salt. 

I still hadn’t told her about the soup delivery. Unsure as to why, but I wanted to keep it to my chest for now. I also still hadn’t told her of the necklace debacle either.

I assured her I’d be in tomorrow. I felt miles better. My nose still dripped and a cough lingered from it, but I felt nearly normal. 

I needed to see her and talk to her. 

I turned in early to get a good nights rest, taking a gummy before hand to aid me to sleep having grown sick of cold medicine.

I wished in my head until I fell asleep, please come in tomorrow.

——————————————————————————

It felt nice to wake up and not have to rush to blow my nose. I got down early to get my bearings. 

My first sip of coffee in days was heavenly. Although I did love a cup of tea, I craved coffee whenever I didn’t have it for a couple of days.

Before it was time to open, I found myself back upstairs. I was fixating much too hard on how I looked. I changed my outfit three times this morning and found myself debating it again. 

I convinced myself back down the stairs after five minutes. It really didn’t matter how many times I changed. I’d still feel bland next to that damn woman.

Chloe hugged me when she got in, declaring that she couldn’t go that long without seeing me again. I rolled my eyes at her dramatics, but I missed her too and she knew it.

Luckily the day was calm. I sent Chloe and Janice home around one. I’d felt guilty leaving them to everything for two whole days. They fought me on it at first, but eventually gave in. 

If I saw her at all, I was expecting her at the usual hour before closing. 

Of course, Agatha always seemed to have me on my toes not knowing what to expect. So when she pulled up at two, there wasn’t much shock that came with it. 

She walked up to the door with a hesitation. As soon as she walked in we both said hi over each other. 

We laughed, settling an ease over the clear tension that seemed to build up over the past few days.

“Coffee?” I asked, voice still holding a roughness from days of coughing.

She shook her head and sat down on a stool. I made my over to her just above a steady pace. 

I sat down and we both turned to face the other.

She was absolutely stunning as usual today. The type of beauty to drive a person mad, and it did. 

She didn’t dawn one of her usual coats, a heavy sweater was all she had on. It hung a little big on her, sleeves stopping just past the center of her palm. For the first time she had on a pair of jeans. Although more casual than her usual dress pant, they still held a regality. 

I realized my trailing and forced my eyes up. I could swear I’d caught her doing the same.

“How are you feeling?” She asked gently breaking the silence.

“Much better, just a little hoarse still and tired.” I lulled my head back. “So fucking tired.” I dragged it out with a laugh before looking back to her. Her face was contorted in a way I couldn’t read. It quickly changed back to a soft smile. 

“Hey, uhm.” My right hand went to reach out for her. I stopped it retracting, hoping she didn’t notice. “Thank you so much for the soup, you have no idea how helpful that was. You did not have to do that at all.”

Her fingers tapped and flexed together incessantly in her lap. “It was nothing, I’m glad it helped.”

There was a strain in the conversation. Like both of us were holding back somewhere. 

“It was very much so, something.” I stated knocking her knee with my own. 

“What are you doing Friday night?” She blurted it out in a rush catching me off guard.

My mouth open and closed twice looking for words. “Nothing, I don’t think.” I held her eyes. “Why?”

It took a few seconds, but she finally responded. Fingers playing with her necklace. The same necklace I’d traced days ago.

“I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink with me Friday?” She left it to hang in the air a second before speaking again. “Just a casual drink, I just thought it would be nice. Two friends grabbing drinks.”

My heart dropped at the last of her words. I had to fight the urge to squeeze my eyes shut. I wanted to say no. 

What if I didn’t have the right clothes for where she wanted to go? What if there was some ulterior motive behind it? I squashed every racing thought as best and quick as I could. 

Against everything my head was screaming, I decided.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.” I replied gulping down the lump in my throat that formed at the word friends.

She’s just a friend I reminded myself, nothing to even worry about. I go out for drinks with Chloe and Brooks all the time.

My answer seemed to release her shoulders from a tension. I ignored it.

“I’d love nothing more than to keep you company, but I do have to run.” She said scrunching her nose and standing. “I’ve meetings all day tomorrow as well so, until Friday.”

I nodded. “Friday.” 

I followed her like a lost dog to the door. 

She turned sharply causing me to almost bump into her. My hand popped up at the halt bouncing off her hip. I retracted it like I’d touched a hot stove. 

Her eyes narrowed eyeing me up and down. If it wasn’t for a smirk, I’d think she was pissed. 

She inched closer, even though there was barely any room to spare, and placed a hand to my shoulder.

“I’ll pick you up at eight?” I nodded at her in a trance. Her hand slid down and she squeezed my arm before moving to push out the door. 

“Just wear something casual.” She said over her shoulder, then left in a sweep.

As if she knew I needed to hear it, like she knew I would be worried about it.

The rest of the day stretched on like cold molasses. I brought my laptop down to watch tv. Even with that I’d catch myself either pacing or bouncing my knee up and down, spacing out into nothing. 

When closing hit I felt ready to burst. I didn’t even wait until I got up the stairs before calling Chloe.

It rang just twice before she picked up. “Hey, what’s up?” She answered happily.

“Chlo.” I paused trying to reel in my panicky voice. It was no use. “Can you come over, please?” I rushed it out as I opened my door. Chloe held no hesitation for her response.

“Leaving now.” I heard Brooks in the background asking what was wrong.

“Okay.” I hung up and tossed my phone on the couch. 

For the millionth time today I found myself pacing, hand against my jeans pulling the fabric repeatedly.

True to her word, Chloe’s car pulled up arriving in record time. I acknowledged the fact that she probably broke several laws on the way to get here so quick from her place.

She walked in pausing my repetitive motions. “What’s wrong, bub?” She asked dropping her keys on the table by the door.

I dove into her, tears instantly racking out of me. The emotional build up from the past few days screamed out all at once. 

She held me quietly until I calmed a bit. The tears stopped morphing into occasional quiet sniffles.

“Let’s go sit.” She said gently leading me to the couch. 

She kept her arm around me, my leg started to bounce again after we sat. I tried to still it but it kept happening.

“Come on, lady.” She said nudging me. “What’s wrong?”

Huffing, I rubbed my temples for a few seconds. I dropped my head to the back of the couch to stare at the ceiling. 

“Saturday?” I started shooting a quick glance to her. 

She nodded eyes filled with worry. 

“Agatha stopped in.” I cleared my throat and sat up straight, hand fiddling the fabric of the throw next to me. “Everything was fine, she didn’t even want coffee. She just said she wanted to see me. We were sitting together, close. I reached out and traced her necklace, said I liked it.” I sighed dropping my head back again. “A delivery came in, I turned back and she was up and ready to leave. She was nice about it but.” I turned to her “I know it was because of that. It was so abrupt.”

“You don’t know that.” Chloe said squeezing my shoulder.

I shook my head and pinched the bridge of my nose. 

“No, I do. Then of course, I got sick and well, she fucking sent me soup with a hand written note.” 

I stood up, the ridiculous pacing starting again. I didn’t know if anything I was saying was even making sense, but it continued to barrel out of me. 

“Then, she shows up today and asks me out for a drink.” I stopped in front of Chloe holding my finger up for emphasis. “But made it a point to say just two friends grabbing a drink and tells me to dress casual and she’ll pick me up at eight.” 

“Hey, take a breath.” She soothed gently. I shook my head.

“I still feel so drained and she’s older than me and I have to get my Christmas tree with my parents still and I’m falling too hard for her Chlo and I feel like I’m gonna lose it a little and I had a very much not so PG dream with her several nights ago which is very not cool to do and I am so fucking scared.” 

I stopped my fast paced ramble with a long breath out. Finally I felt like I could sit still again. I didn’t look at her, but I sat right next to her.

Chloe wrapped her arms around my shoulders and pulled me close.

“My goodness.” Chloe said gently pausing for a long moment. “Wanna know what I think?”

It took a few seconds, but I nodded into her shoulder.

“I think well, I think she might be just as scared as you.” She paused seemingly waiting for me to respond to that, she decided to continue. “I think she’s also aware of all the things you’re worried about and I think she worries too. I’m telling you though.” She nudged my head with her shoulder making me look up. “I truly think she’s falling for you right back.”

She whispered the last part smiling and punctuating each word. I let her words sink in, forehead still creased with thoughts.

“Also, I think miss dripping in confidence would drop to the fucking ground if she knew you had a not PG dream about her.” She said it wide eyed and grinning. 

“Shut the fuck up.” I said laughing falling back to her shoulder.

We laughed together, a silence following and settling after.

“I’m sorry I’ve been keeping all this from you.”

“Well, hopefully you’ve learned your lesson that it doesn’t work in your favor.” Both of us laughed again. “Go for drinks. Be confident and sure of yourself because, you’re amazing. Just be you.”

[sen-rj]

Tea?

Summary- you are part of Levi's squad, but he likes you a bit more than most. A bit more than he probably should. Part 1? Maybe?

Tags- fluff, reader x levi, no reader names or pronouns, cannon verse, captain levi

Notes- (I have not written a fan fiction since I was in middle school so please be kind to me)

If yall want another part let me know! Also, if you hate how I highlight the quotes let me know 🤗

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

The hallways were cold and empty as you walked through them. The only sound being the snores of sleeping soldiers and the occasional laugh from a bunk room down the hall. Your footsteps quiet as you walked towards the captains quarters, making sure not to be seen or heard.

This had been going on for a while now. You're not sure quite where it started, but you could now consider yourself a friend of Captain Levi's. Maybe even more. Most would call you crazy for enjoying his company, or maybe even desperate. But to you, it was more than that. That man drove you crazy. Made you desperate.

You were used to his company, and him to yours. It had been over a year since commander Erwin assigned you to his squad. Not because of your skills as a fighting soldier, but as a trained medic and a smart, critical thinking one. You were with hange, helping with her Titan research and assisting on missions with medical aid until recently. Until Eren. Now, your job, as well as Levi's, was to protect him. Though, you also were expected (by hange of course) to poke and prod at our new titan meat.

You announce your presence at his door with three soft knocks. His response, a quiet and deep

"come in." 

You slowly open the door, looking behind you to make sure no one had seen you enter. Taking off your shoes at the door, you look back at him. His eyes had yet to lift from the papers on his desk. His brow furrowed and resting on hand as he studied the words.

He looks up at you with just his eyes.

"You're late" he states. His voice low as he moves his eyes back towards his papers.

"I know, I got held up with some stuff" you say, walking over to him. "Tea?" You ask.

His eyes meet yours, a glimmer of excitement in them at the mention of tea.

"You know the answer to that." He says dryly, looking away. You grab his kettle and his favorite tea, some tea cups too. Getting to work in the small kitchenette to his right. "What is this stuff that held you up?" he asks, his face still focused.

"Just some last minute details of today's experiments." You say, bringing the water to just below a boil. "They were quite interesting I will say, it's a shame you missed them."

"Anything is more interesting than this" he says, setting his pen on the surface of his desk, leaning back and looking over to you.

You laugh lightly. A sigh escaping as you slowly unwind from today's strenuous work. "We're making great progress. I really think we're on the edge of discovering something great here" you say, taking the kettle off of the heat.

"Yeah? And what's that?" He asks, genuinely curious as to how anything in this world could be something great. Other than maybe you.

Walking over to his desk, you prep the leaves in the cups, slowly pouring the hot water over them.

"I want to run more tests on Eren. His ability to transform really has me puzzled. In normal Titan classifications, he'd be considered an abnormal. So... who's to say that every abnormal we've ever encountered isn't like Eren? Or are there only some abnormal like Eren? And how do I find that out?" You sigh, swallowing down the rest of your words after realizing you had gone on a tangent.

"You make good arguments. I've never thought of that." He admits, watching as you pour his tea. "This is all a big shit show." He sighs. Rubbing his temple with his hands in exhaustion and frustration. When would this all end? How much about the world do they think they know, when really that have no idea. What are they fighting for? He knows not to let his mind spiral, but sometimes the thoughts are too loud.

"It truly is." You hand him his tea and take a seat in front of him.

This had become an almost nightly thing. You coming to Levi's office for tea and brief synapses of each others days.

You were part of levis squad, yes. But you were more of his partner than anything else. You filled him in on the things he is absent to see. The rest of the squad looks to you for direction when Levi isn't there. He trusts you, more than he probably should.

Levi looks at you as you sip your tea. Studying your face as you study the ceiling.

"Have you been sleeping? Eating well?" He asks, looking back down at his papers.

"As well as one in this job can." You admit, looking at him as his hands scribble signatures on his paper. "And you?"

"Enough." He answers dryly. You hum in response.

"You can't live off of tea and hate forever" you tease. A tiny smirk curses the corner of his lips.

"I can try" he says. You laugh in response, leaning back in the chair behind you.

Looking at the stack of papers on his desk, you instinctually grab half of them, turning them in front of you.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asks, but doesn't look up from his own paper.

"Helping" you say, grabbing a pen and beginning to forge his signature. You had it memorized by now. You could write it in your sleep.

He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "You really don't know how to quit, huh?"

"Mmm" you hum a no back. "And you really don't know how to stop me" you tease. Focusing on his papers in front of you now.

Hours pass when you're hand begins to cramp, and you back begins to ache. You have no clue how he has been doing this for so long.

With a sigh, you stand, stretching your legs and popping your fingers. His eyes look up, following you're body from your feet up to you're hands in the air as you stretch.

"Giving up already?" He asks

You shake your head no. "No, I just needed to stretch." You say, before a large yawn fills your mouth.

"Yeah right. Quit lingering and go to bed. You need sleep" he orders. His words sounding cold, but his intentions were quite the opposite.

"You sure?" You ask, your eyes heavy with sleep.

"Positive. I'll be fine." He says, focused on his work.

"If you insist."

"I do."

He looks up at you seriously.

"You have some serious beauty sleep to catch up on. If you don't start sleeping more you're going to start loosing that charm that got you here." he says, and you can't help but blush slightly at his words .

"You're sweet."

"Get out."

You laugh as you walk towards the door, eager for rest.

"Goodnight Captain."

"Goodnight."

[mer-acle]

Silent Wars: The Deans' house

sooooo I did a first rough blueprint of Athena's and Ares' childhood home, you know the drill, yt video, pictures, text variant under the cut :)

Transkription (with small corrections):

Alright, hello everyone. What I wanted to do today was talk about the childhood home from Silent Wars. Because we've talked quite a bit about the apartment, obviously we're still going to keep doing that as long as there's new versions, but today I wanted to talk a little bit about the house. The idea is that this is Zeus’ and Hera’s house, which Athena lived in from when she was five. I had some ideas for it, but not nearly as much as for the apartment. So we have a two-story kind of mansion-y type of house. We have here the garden, which is this rectangle. We have like a front yard and a back garden with a porch out here. And we have a second floor as well. So let's talk a little bit about it.

So we've the entry way over the stairs on here. They go up like in a U-shape like this. And then you have like this L-shaped hallway. Again, this is like the front of the house. This would probably be the yard where you have the cars. And I probably have like an entry to a small basement somewhere, but I'm not sure where yet.

We start in with the kitchen, which is on this side. We have the counters and the fridge over here, probably some cabinets on the side, but let's not overcrowd it. And then we have like a little island with some seating.

We have like a small hall bathroom, which is just a toilet and sink.

And then we have a laundry space in next to it, which is kind of important because I want Athena to kind of hide in the laundry room a lot. Like she just chooses that room and she's like, that's mine now. It's quiet. So like she'll hide in this laundry closet, for example. Like it's behind the door. It's very safe down there. We have an ironing board here.

Then we go down the hallway. We have the living room, which those are bookcases here. We can probably put a little chair here or something, just a little bit of space. I just want to lay it out like generally. And then I add all of the clutter in sims. We have a TV stand, small couches. This is a two seater. This is a three seater. Then a little extra chair. And this is a fireplace because they live in a relatively cold area, so a fireplace would be nice. As I said, we have like a porch. Depending on how the doors are, I think they'll be a door in the laundry room probably. Maybe in the dining room, like a glass front to have like outside dining as well. I'm not sure if the living room will have a door, but obviously if it does, I will have to like move the fireplace around a little bit. As you see, this is like still a little bit half baked, but we work on it.

And then I did a play area for the kids. I'm imagining that this is like the Ikea kitchen set, like the fake kitchen or like a shop or like something like that, like things that kids have. Then we have a rock climbing wall here, which is super fun because Athena and Ares both, but more so Athena will later go to rock climbing for fun as a hobby when they have grown up. The rock climbing wall leads into like a little playhouse. Like you can climb into it from a climbing wall and then we have you have like a little bridge thing and it leads to here. This is a slide. It is fancy, okay, I realize that they probably also have a bunch of stuff outside as well like a swing set or something like that. This is like a play tent. This will obviously like the play area will change as they grow up a little bit, especially after they know that a lot of this cannot be used by Hephaestus. So it's probably going to change into like a workshop or something like that.

So this is the downstairs. Let's go to the upstairs.

We start off at the side with something extremely boring, which is a master bedroom with just a bed, side tables, wardrobe. Nothing too interesting. I just wanted to lay this out like generally.

We have like a little study which I imagine mainly belongs to Zeus for home office stuff. Yet then we have the main bathroom which again that's like a shower top combo, sink, (probably double sink) and a toilet.

Then we have the children's rooms. One of them is a little bigger than the others. It's a little bit inconsistent I feel like because I feel like Ares just as the oldest and at that point only child would have gotten the biggest room but he didn't. I kind of like Hephaestus having like the bigger room. I'm open to ideas why. But yeah this is Hephaestus room. He has like a workbench wardrobe bed. Ares’ room with a bed, desk, other stuff that you have and then you have Athena's which is wardrobe, bed, desk and bookshelf. So it is very simple. I'm still not happy with the fact that Ares has not the biggest room but again, I just I feel like they would first of all have the ones next to each other. I would like that and also like I also don't know what they would do with the room before Hephaestus is born because it would be empty for so long. Obviously since Hephaestus is so much younger than Ares, like by 10 years actually, 12 for Athena so he's like a lot younger. Athena's room used to be a guest room. If you have any idea how I can make this work within the story then I would very much appreciate ideas.

But yeah in general this is what it looks like. Again as you can tell this is my first draft. Let me know what you think and what else I could put in there because I am willing to change some of some stuff and also if you first of all don't live in Germany and specifically if you live in America, I would be very interested if you noticed something that was like missing (or wrong). I have very little reference I feel. I'd be very interested in input. Yeah again I hope you like this. I will build it in Sims as soon as I can lol

@persony-person873 'tis a house, get tag'd XD

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

So many violets

[broke-on-books]

😍😍😍