#its been like in the back of my mind for a while but now that ive officially got like appointments and have to actually do my job its uhhhhh

[lidiasloca]

hello!! I was wondering if you could write an azriel x reader fic where they've been best friends for centuries and one day the bond snapped for her. And she starts to avoid him because she thinks he doesn't love her so she doesn't show up to things they usually do together and whatnot (or however you want to put it!) but meanwhile Azriel is going crazy because he misses her and has been in love with her for years and then he confronts her and the bond snaps for him as well!! sorry if it's too long hahah but thanks

is it chill that you are in my head?

azriel x reader

friends to lovers

It was curious to think that no matter the strength you applied, no hit you made would ever hurt Azriel.

Yet, the Illyrian seemed intensely determined not to let you get to even touch him.

“Where’s your mind?” he asked as he dodged yet another hit. You took, at least, a bit of pride in his breathless voice.

You also took pride in how much you had made him sweat already, but you didn’t let your thoughts linger there too much—your eyes, neither.

“In trying to hit you.”

“Well, isn’t it frustrating you won’t satisfy your mind?”

“You get cocky—I’ll hit you down there,” you threatened, taking in his amused grin.

“There you can get?” he questioned as he circled you.

You held your fists up, following his eyes as he eyed you like a vulture. “You don’t want to find out.”

“I don’t,” he replied, just as you went to hit him.

He dodged it effortlessly.

And even had time, as you retracted your arm, to take it and pull you toward him, unbalancing you until you fell onto his torso.

As he prevented you from the fall he himself had caused, you found yourself close enough to his body to make out the intention written on his face.

A threat for a threat, you realized as you stared at those deep hazel eyes.

His face lacked any sympathy as he spoke, his voice death and sensuality all in the same honeyed spoon. “Don’t make threats you cannot back up, love.”

Your breath caught at the darkness that surrounded you. The darkness that you faced when you had his lips so close to yours, his eyes so focused on you.

Azriel was that: darkness. Both the dark that scared you as a child and the dark that now let you dream of him without guilt in the depths of the night.

“You’re right. No more threats,” you breathed as you drove your knee upward—

His hand was steel against the futile force of your movement. And a mocking grin on his lips was all you could think about due to the roaring in your ears.

Bastard.

The knee you were going to use to teach him a lesson was held in place with his right hand, which now moved down, and down until it found a place on the back of your thigh. He urged you nearer him.

Close enough. Until your surroundings vanished and you could only see his face, his never-faltering smirk when you made it so easy for him to mock you.

This was the Azriel you had only for yourself.

Not polite shyness, or quiet kindness.

But darkness.

All of it—all of him. Darkness.

Everything, but his eyes.

While you liked to have this flirtatious, dangerous Azriel—which you both called friendship—you still found yourself fantasizing about the light in his eyes and how soft they were, how romantic and intimate, and everything that he shouldn’t feel like.

Where all of him was dark, his eyes were golden.

Lightness.

Like a thread that led you through deeper parts of him, of his soul.

Too intimate.

You let out a long exhale. “I’m not in the mood,” you mumbled.

And it broke your heart the way he immediately released you. How gently he let go of you as a flash of… pain painted his eyes.

Then it was gone in a blink. And that smirk found its way to his face again. “I make you exhausted quite fast.”

“Mhmm,” was all you could mutter as you watched him—those eyes.

That thread.

What was that?

He held your stare with a bit of confused amusement. “What do you find so interesting?” he smiled.

You took all your bravery… and a step, and another, until you were back where you started: looking deep into his eyes, close enough to feel his breath on your face.

He didn’t dodge this time. And neither did he smirk as you placed both of your hands on his face to make him meet your eyes.

Those golden eyes.

There was something in them.

That lightness that guided you through the darkness—his darkness.

As a thread.

A gasp broke through you at the realization, at the feeling in your heart—your soul.

You took a step back, your hands sliding away from his face as gently as a wind’s whisper.

He eyed you worriedly, taking a step toward you as you kept walking away.

“What?” he asked, finally that mask off his face.

But you couldn’t bear the sight of his eyes again. The feel of that thread.

M-

“What is it?” he asked, desperation lacing his words.

Ma…

“Y/N?” he pleaded.

Mate.

You winnowed away before he could pronounce another word.

…

You knew hiding was not the solution. You knew you would have to face him eventually—he was one of your closest friends after all, yet…

“I cannot do it. I cannot see him.”

Another of your closest friends was there to make you think logically.

“Y/N,” Nesta said, taking a seat on the couch in your bedroom. “You’ve been hiding here for almost a month. You can’t hide from him forever. He’s your—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, despite how stupidly childish it made you sound.

Nesta exhaled as if indeed, you were acting stupidly childish. “Mate? You cannot hear the word mate?”

There was a tinge of mocking in her tone that made you meet her eyes with fury in yours. “It’s very easy to look at me and judge me when you don’t know what this feels like.”

“What? Having an Illyrian as my mate?” she asked with a soft smile on her lips, and you knew your friend well—you knew it wasn’t mocking anymore.

Nesta, as if to prove you right, walked toward where you sat on the bed and made herself a place next to you, moving her hand to caress yours like a mother would.

She didn’t say anything, though, so you replied, emotion running your words slowly—unsteady. “You don’t know what it’s like to know your mate… doesn’t want you back.”

“You don’t know if Azriel doesn’t want you back.”

“Yes, I do. I know Azriel.”

“Well, I know him as well. And I know—actually—all the house, and probably all Velaris, knows he likes you. A lot.”

You shook your head.

Nesta went on, “He flirts with you all the time, Y/N. In all honesty, it was about damned time that bond snapped for one of you. It was clear you had something.”

“Exactly: something,” you rectified. “That something, Nesta, is flirting. Flir-ting. Nothing more, nothing else. That’s all he wants from me. Taunting and touching and provoking and friendship. But not love. And most certainly, not a damn mating bond.” You took a staggered breath, not able to meet her eyes anymore. “Not with me.”

Nesta watched you silently, then said, “You don’t know that.”

You shook your head, wiping a tear that slid down your face. “You don’t know either.”

“That’s true,” she replied, handing you a tissue with her free hand as the other drew circles on your wrist. “We won’t know until you ask him.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “So, I just ask him if he wants the mating bond with me? That simple? Thanks, Nesta.”

Her eyes narrowed at you in warning to watch your tone, yet her faint smirk provoked one to bloom on your face. “Yes. It’s that simple.”

“And when he says no?”

She shook her head. “What if he says no,” she corrected you.

Your smile grew just a bit. “What if he says no?” you echoed.

“Then I’ll beat his ass on the training ground. And have Cassian beat him afterward.”

You chuckled lightly, imagining the scene.

But the question appeared in your mind, and you took the courage to ask her.

“And what if he says yes?”

By the warm look in her eyes, you knew she had understood. “It’s a long way to go. But one finally learns to let herself be loved, Y/N.”

And by one, you knew who she meant.

You were grateful that afterward, Nesta and you had a more lighthearted conversation. And when it turned dark outside, Nesta gave you a hug and left your bedroom.

You knew you had to also leave your bedroom at some point and face what awaited outside that comfort.

But love seemed to find you just where you thought you were safe.

“Can I come in?”

It certainly wasn’t Nesta’s voice.

Your hand trembled as you went for the knob and opened the door.

“Can I come in?” Azriel repeated, and you realized long seconds had passed of just you staring, unmoving.

“Yes,” you whispered, letting him through and closing the door.

You had prayed he stayed like that—backward to you, staring outside your window. Anything but have his eyes meet yours.

But he turned to you.

He was even more beautiful than ever, even if you couldn’t help but notice the dark circles around his eyes, his pale lips, or his eyes… almost lifeless.

Like the light had deserted him.

Like the bond had abandoned him… because he didn’t want it.

“It’s been weeks,” he eventually said, and his voice carried enough emotion you had to lean on the door, afraid to crumble to the ground. “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.”

He took a step closer to you, making you meet his eyes again. “With what?” he demanded.

You weren’t fast enough to make up a lie before he said, “You’ve been avoiding me.” It wasn’t quite a question. “You are mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he muttered, taking another step.

“I’m not, Azriel.”

He stopped his following step at the sound of his name. He looked like he had been slapped, and his face morphed into something unreadable.

“I’m sorry," he murmured.

“What?” you asked, walking towards him when he looked down.

You had to see his face, you had to understand him.

“Whatever I have done. I’m sorry. Forgive me and… be my friend again.”

You stopped in your tracks, not having quite reached him. Friends.

His words both broke and healed your heart. The desperation in them, the vulnerability.

You stared at the selfless male who cherished your friendship in front of you. Maybe you could take that and give up dreaming. Maybe you could convince yourself that friendship was better than nothing, even if it killed you.

“I miss you,” he said, and you decided that was the final blow.

A sob broke through you, raw and desperate, and his expression shifted instantly. He closed the distanced and his hands found your face, those scarred palms trembling as they cupped your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Don’t cry, please. I’m sorry.”

Friends.

Mates.

“What are you even sorry for?” you mumbled, shaking your head faintly.

“The last time I saw you - when you got… mad at me, we were doing what we always do. Well, what I always do. That stupid flirting, that… you know. And I know that bothered you. And I’m sorry. I never knew it made you uncomfortable before and… I’m sorry,” he said again. 

You quietly stared at him, at the sadness and guilt in his eyes. “It’s not that it bothers me...” you said because it never had, but maybe now—maybe now it hurt your feelings - but that was because of you. It was not his fault. 

Yet you couldn’t speak your thoughts before he went on. “It does. I saw it in your eyes… like you were disgusted.” His voice cracked. “And it broke my heart, because… I don’t want it either.”

There it was.

The truth you’d been bracing yourself for.

Friends.

That’s all he wanted you to be—a friend.

He took a deep breath, his hands falling away from your face as he stepped back, as if retreating from his own vulnerability. “It’s all a lie, Y/N.”

Your breath hitched.

“I thought that’s what you wanted—the only thing you wanted from me—and I tried to convince myself that I could settle with that. That it would be enough. But…” His gaze locked on yours, piercing and raw. “I can’t.”

“What?” you breathed, your voice barely audible.

“I love you, Y/N.”

The world stopped turning.

“I love you,” he repeated. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m okay with only being your friend. I don’t want to keep pretending. I just… I just want you to know that I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t remember what life was before you.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think.

Mate.

“You love me?” you whispered.

He nodded as a tear ran down his face. 

Another sob tore from you and his hands were on your face again in an instant, pulling you close. “I love you, too,” you murmured, the words spilling out.

And at last, the color returned to his eyes again, hazel-golden shining in the dark room. 

And that was it; the light that you needed, the strength that guided you—that encouraged you to tell him. 

“I am… I am your mate.” 

A beat later you realized you weren’t the one who had spoken. 

-Charcaters by Sarah J Maas

azriel masterlist

a/n: thanks for requesting, i hope the fic is of your liking, though i took some liberties in the writing. thanks for your request, love!!

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Alone Together

On a chilly New Year’s Eve, Y/N, seeking an escape from loneliness, finds herself unexpectedly swept into a night of warmth, fireworks, and romance when longtime crush Harry shows up at her bar table.

Word Count: 2,297

Content Warning: mentions of alcohol.

Y/N swirled her drink absentmindedly, the ice clinking against the glass as she took a slow sip of her rum and coke. The bar was alive with laughter, music, and the countdown buzz of New Year’s Eve, but she felt strangely detached from it all. Alone, tucked into a shadowed corner booth, she watched the revelry through tired eyes.

People clinked glasses and kissed cheeks, confetti already beginning to litter the floor as the clock edged closer to midnight. The bubbly fizz of her drink stung her throat, grounding her in the moment, though her mind was far away. Why had she even come here? The idea of ringing in the new year surrounded by strangers had felt less lonely than staying at home, but now, she wasn’t so sure.

Her phone buzzed on the table—a message from someone she wasn’t ready to read. Instead, Y/N set the glass down with a sigh and glanced toward the bar. Maybe she’d get one more drink before the ball dropped… or maybe she’d finally leave the past year behind for good.

Y/N sighed, her hand hesitating over her phone as it buzzed again. The text notification glowed on the screen:

Sarah Jones: Hey! Mitch and Harry are nearby. Mind if they join you at the bar?

Her heart skipped. Harry. That Harry. It wasn’t like she didn’t know Sarah’s friend—she’d met him a handful of times through her bestie and her boyfriend Mitch, but those encounters were fleeting, polite. And now, Sarah was offering to send him her way, along with Mitch?

Y/N glanced around the crowded bar. The thought of company, especially familiar faces, was tempting. She didn’t know if she could handle starting the new year completely alone, but the idea of sitting at a table with Harry Styles brought its own kind of pressure.

She took another sip of her rum and coke and typed back:

Y/N: Sure, why not?

Her thumb hovered over the send button before she hit it. The text went through, and she exhaled deeply.

Y/N barely had time to second-guess her decision before Mitch and Harry appeared at the entrance, their tall frames instantly recognizable even in the dim, crowded bar. Mitch spotted her first, grinning as he nudged Harry and pointed toward her table. Y/N felt her heart race as they wove through the throng of people, her grip tightening on her glass.

Harry was dressed effortlessly, of course—black jeans, a slightly unbuttoned shirt under a blazer, his signature rings catching the light as he waved at her. Her stomach flipped. He was unfairly charming, his presence commanding yet easygoing, and it only heightened the fluttery feeling she’d been trying to suppress for years.

“Happy almost New Year!” Mitch greeted, sliding into the seat across from her. Harry followed, his warm smile lighting up his face as he settled in beside Mitch.

“Hope we’re not crashing your night,” Harry said, his voice smooth and low. He leaned slightly forward, his green eyes locking with hers in a way that made her pulse quicken.

Y/N shook her head quickly, hoping her voice didn’t betray her nerves. “Not at all. I could use the company.”

Mitch ordered drinks for himself and Harry while they chatted about the chaos of the night. Y/N tried to focus on the conversation, but Harry’s easy laughter and the occasional brush of his hand against hers on the table were distracting. She stole glances at him, thinking about the secret she’d kept from everyone except Sarah—her quiet, hopeless crush on him.

“Been here long?” Harry asked suddenly, drawing her attention back to him.

“Uh, not too long,” she said, fidgeting with her glass. “Just long enough to people-watch and second-guess my choice of drink.”

He chuckled, tilting his head. “Rum and coke’s a classic. Solid choice.”

She smiled, feeling her shoulders relax a little.

Y/N took another sip of her drink, feeling a small surge of confidence as the rum warmed her chest. She tilted her head, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she turned to Harry.

“So,” she began, her voice teasing, “are you out tonight looking for a New Year’s kiss?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, a sly smile spreading across his face as he leaned back in his seat, the dim bar lights reflecting in his eyes. “Something like that,” he replied, his tone laced with humor, but his gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, making her stomach flip.

Mitch, clearly sensing the tension, let out a chuckle and raised his glass. “Don’t let him fool you—he’s hopelessly romantic under all that charm.”

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but his smirk didn’t fade. “I don’t know about that,” he said, his gaze flicking back to Y/N. “Just seems like a nice way to start the year off right, don’t you think?”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, and she quickly looked down at her drink to hide her flustered expression. “Yeah, I guess so,” she murmured, trying to sound nonchalant.

But the way Harry’s eyes stayed on her made her wonder if there was more to his words than just idle flirting.

Mitch excused himself a moment later, claiming he needed to grab a drink at the bar and leaving Y/N alone with Harry. She tried not to overthink it, but the second Mitch was gone, the atmosphere between them seemed to shift. The crowded bar faded into the background, leaving only the two of them in their little corner.

Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he studied her. “You’re not one of those people who hates New Year’s Eve, are you?” he asked, his tone curious but light.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not exactly. I just… don’t really know what to do with it. It’s a lot of hype for one night, you know?”

“I get that,” he said, nodding. “Sometimes it feels like everyone’s trying too hard to make it perfect. But, every once in a while…” He paused, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Something surprising happens, and it makes the night worth it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you always this cryptic, or is that just a New Year’s Eve thing?”

Harry chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Maybe it’s the rum,” he joked, nodding toward her drink. “Or maybe it’s just me trying to impress you.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she tried to play it cool, leaning back in her seat. “Impress me? That’s a tall order, Styles.”

He grinned, leaning forward even more, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, I do love a challenge.”

Before she could respond, Mitch returned with a fresh drink, breaking the moment. But even as they all settled back into conversation, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between her and Harry. And with the countdown to midnight inching closer, she wondered just how far he was willing to take his “challenge.”

The noise inside the bar grew louder as the countdown neared, voices chanting in unison as the energy reached a fever pitch. Y/N glanced at Harry, who gave her a slight nod toward the door.

“Fireworks are better outside,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her coat and followed him. The cool night air hit her as soon as they stepped out, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the bar. The street was quieter, though the distant sound of music and cheers still carried through the night. Above, the sky was clear, stars faint against the glow of the city lights.

She crossed her arms, shivering slightly as a gust of wind swept past them. “I didn’t realize it would be this cold,” she muttered, trying to rub warmth into her arms.

Harry chuckled softly beside her. “London is cold, huh?” he teased.

Before she could respond, he slipped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer. The move was so natural, so easy, that it took her breath away. His warmth enveloped her, and for a moment, she forgot about the chill altogether.

“Better?” he asked, his voice soft, his chin just barely brushing her temple.

She nodded, leaning into him slightly. “Much better.”

They stood like that for a moment, the sounds of the crowd inside muffled as the first distant boom of a firework lit up the sky. Bright colors burst above them, painting the night in shimmering light. Y/N tilted her head up to watch, but she couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of her heart, the way it seemed to sync with the rhythm of Harry’s breathing.

“One minute,” he said quietly, his voice rumbling against her ear.

She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. Was this really happening? She’d dreamed of moments like this but never thought they’d feel so… effortless. So real.

The countdown began in the distance—ten, nine, eight—and Harry loosened his hold just enough to turn her toward him.

“Seven, six…”

Her eyes met his, and she saw the question there, the unspoken tension that had been building all night.

“Five, four…”

Her breath hitched as he leaned in closer, the world around them fading away.

“Three, two…”

And then, with the final chime of “one,” Harry closed the distance, his lips brushing hers as the first firework exploded above them. The kiss was soft and tentative, a perfect beginning to what felt like something more.

It was gentle at first, almost hesitant, as if Harry was giving her a chance to pull away. His lips were soft and warm, a stark contrast to the cool night air that bit at her skin. The fireworks overhead painted fleeting bursts of color across their faces, but Y/N barely noticed. All she could focus on was the way his hand cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing her cheek in a delicate, reassuring motion.

As the initial surprise melted away, she leaned into him, her hands instinctively finding their place on his chest. The kiss deepened slightly, still unhurried but charged with a quiet intensity. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic—it was tender, meaningful, as though he wanted to savor every second.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, and Harry’s breath mingled with hers in the cold air. His green eyes searched hers, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N felt a laugh bubble up, her cheeks flushed—not from the cold, but from the realization that this moment, this kiss, was better than anything she’d imagined. “Happy New Year,” she whispered back, her voice catching slightly as her heart raced.

Harry pulled back slightly, his arms still resting loosely around her. The fireworks overhead cast fleeting shadows across his face, but it was his smile that caught Y/N’s attention—a soft, almost boyish grin that made her heart flutter all over again.

“So…” he began, his voice warm and teasing. “That kiss seemed pretty good, yeah?”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked up at him. “I mean, I’ve had worse,” she teased, though her smile gave her away.

Harry chuckled, his thumb brushing lightly against her shoulder. “Well, if you’re not busy sometime soon… maybe we could test it out again? You know, under more proper circumstances. Like a date.”

Her breath caught, the playful glint in his eyes making her pulse quicken. “A date?” she repeated, as if she needed to confirm it wasn’t just her imagination.

He nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah. Dinner, drinks… whatever you like. Just you and me.”

Y/N smiled, her cheeks warm despite the chill in the air. “I think I’d like that,” she said, her voice quieter now, the weight of the moment settling over her.

Harry’s grin widened, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Good,” he said, his tone almost triumphant. “It’s a date, then.”

They lingered there for a moment longer, the fireworks still bursting in the sky above them, but all Y/N could think about was the way the new year had already surprised her in the best possible way.

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is type A and suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe. There’s a half-pint of ice cream left in the freezer, you remember, and store that information for later.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

[charlesslut16]

-very merry christmas-

summary : you can't see your family, so Lando tries everything to make it happen...

PAIRINGS : lando norris x fem!reader

WARNINGS : none

note : I hope that you have a great day, my loves!!!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gentle hum of the jet engines was familiar, a steady rhythm that usually calmed your nerves, but today, the soft noise only seemed to amplify the quiet ache in your chest.

You stared out of the small plane window, watching the clouds drift by in soft, cotton-like clumps. It should have been a comforting view, but all you could think about was how this Christmas was shaping up to be unlike any other.

You’d tried everything. You’d fought to get time off work, even sacrificed family traditions to make it happen. But no matter how hard you tried, no flights had been available.

Your mind raced with images of your family back home—your siblings laughing around the Christmas tree, your parents cooking in the kitchen, the sound of carols filling the house. You hadn’t seen them in what felt like forever, and now you wouldn’t be there to share the magic of Christmas morning with them.

Lando, your boyfriend, had been understanding, of course. He always was. It’s one of the things you loved most about him—his ability to always put others’ feelings first, even when his own were clearly brimming over with excitement.

You’d both decided to spend Christmas together in Monaco, with his family, but deep down, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of missing your own. Lando had insisted, though, that you’d make new memories together. And while that was sweet, it didn’t stop the ache inside you.

Lando’s hand found yours, his fingers warm and steady, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Are you okay, love?” he asked, his voice laced with a mixture of concern and tenderness.

You nodded, offering a half-hearted smile, trying to hide the disappointment that clung to you. “Yeah, just… thinking about everything. You know, Christmas.”

He squeezed your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. “I know you’re missing your family, but I promise you, we’ll make it special. It won’t be the same, but it’ll be just as meaningful. I swear.”

“I know,” you murmured. “It’s just hard, you know?”

He smiled softly. “I get it. But we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

You tried to focus on the bright side—the beauty of Monaco, the excitement of being with Lando’s family, but as the plane flew closer to its destination, the sadness didn’t seem to want to let go.

When the plane touched down, you were immediately swept up in the bustling energy of the Monaco airport. Lando was already in his element, his mind on everything at once. As the two of you navigated the crowds, you caught sight of the shining Christmas trees and twinkling lights that lined the walkways, and for a moment, you felt that familiar holiday warmth.

But when Lando turned to you, his expression serious and a little secretive, you knew something was up.

“I’ve got a little surprise for you,” he said, his eyes dancing with a playful gleam.

You raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” he said with a wink. “But first, we’ve got to head back to my parents’ house.”

You climbed into the car with him, the anticipation mounting in your chest. As the car sped through the streets of Monaco, you tried to imagine what could be in store, but nothing could have prepared you for what Lando had planned.

When you arrived at the house, the door swung open before you even had a chance to knock, and Lando’s parents greeted you warmly, their arms wide. You were soon swept inside, the scent of mulled wine and cinnamon filling your senses.

The house was decorated beautifully, lights sparkling in every corner. There was the unmistakable feel of holiday cheer, but something was different about the atmosphere—something that felt a little extra special, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

As you followed Lando through the hallway, you were greeted by more than just his family. You were greeted by your family.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked at your mom, your dad, your sister, and your brother. They stood there in front of the grand Christmas tree, their faces lighting up with joy at the sight of you.

“How—” You couldn’t finish the question, your voice cracking with emotion.

Lando smiled, his eyes glowing with warmth. “I know how much you’ve been missing them, so I flew them out. They’re here, just like you always wanted. We’re all going to have Christmas together.”

Tears filled your eyes, and you couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that washed over you. “Lando… I can’t believe you did this.”

“You deserve to have your family with you, especially at Christmas,” he said softly. “I love you. And I wanted this to be perfect.”

Your heart was in your throat as you rushed toward your family, embracing them all at once. The warmth of their hugs enveloped you, and it felt as if all the space between you and home had finally melted away.

After the initial whirlwind of emotions settled, Lando gathered everyone together, leading you all into the living room, where the fire crackled softly in the hearth. It felt like a dream—a beautiful, surreal dream.

He turned to you then, his eyes shining. “There’s one more thing I need to do.”

Before you could even react, he was kneeling in front of you, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. You gasped, the breath catching in your chest.

“[Y/N],” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion, “Christmas isn’t just about family. It’s about love. And you’re my everything. I want to spend every Christmas with you for the rest of our lives. So, will you marry me?”

The room fell silent, all eyes on you. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, the words struggling to break free. But as you looked into Lando’s eyes, the man who had brought your family halfway across the world just to make this Christmas unforgettable, the answer was already clear.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you!”

The room erupted into cheers and applause as Lando slid the ring onto your finger, his smile brighter than the Christmas lights surrounding you. It was a moment you would never forget—a moment where love, family, and everything you held dear came together in the most perfect way.

As you kissed him, feeling the joy and warmth of everything you’d ever wanted, you whispered against his lips, “This really is the very merriest Christmas.”

Lando’s arms wrapped around you tighter, pulling you closer as the cheers of your family echoed around you. “It’s only just begun,” he murmured. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

And with that, you knew you were home, no matter where you were.

[wwooyology]

Glowing Caverns | C.SN

「pairing」 : san x fem!reader 「word count」 : 4.5k

「synopsis」 : you were on vacation, taking the time to get away from your chaotic city life and enjoy the tranquility of the beach. it was supposed to be an easy laid back few weeks yet you weren't expecting to catch the eye of a lifeguard who just couldn't seem to keep his eyes off of you.

「genre」 : smut, lil bit of fluff, lifegurard!san, summer fling au

「warnings」 : MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, kissing, flirting, unprotected sex, biting/marking, messy makeout, rough sex, slight clit play, dirty talk, teasing, dom!san x sub!reader, overstimulation, pet names (princess, baby, pretty, pretty girl...), multiple orgasms, slight buldge kink, creampie, dumbification, slight manhandling, praising, breeding, lmk if I missed anything!!

「notes」 : this has been sitting in my drive half finished for at least a month now and I can't believe that I'm just now getting back to it 😭, but lifeguard san was the first thought that came to mind when I saw the crazy ass video he posted 🥴. special shout out to @kitten4sannie for listening to insaneness and letting me share my crazy ideas, this ones for you babes! also, HAPPY NEW YEARS!! 🥂

The sun was shining brightly in the sky, warming you to the core as you walked along the beach. The book in your hand is long forgotten as you soak in the warm rays, enjoying the sea salt air. It was refreshing to finally have a place that didn’t have you running around like a chicken with its head cut off or a manager that would yell at you for every little thing that you did wrong and even the aches in your body due to overtime were melting away the longer you stood in the summer breeze.

Moving your hand up, you shielded your eyes from the bright sun as you looked around, you saw only a few families on the beach, parents lounging around on their towels under large umbrellas while the kids were off playing in the water or giggling with one another as they attempted to build sandcastles a little too close to the water. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched the three kids jump to their feet with squeals as a wave crashed over their newly built sandcastle, completely demolishing it.

This was the life that you had longed for, and you would give anything to be able to call this your ‘every day,’ but you knew that it would never be true. You couldn’t leave your life in the city behind; as much as you would love to, there was just too much at stake.

Letting out a conflicted sigh, you turned back to the ocean and watched the waves roll calmly on the surface. The gentleness of it all lured you in like a siren's call, tugging at every fiber of your being, and you took a step forward, allowing the cool water to wash over your bare feet, the temperature causing a chill to run down your spine.

After a few moments, you could feel the burning gaze of someone’s eyes, the hairs on the back of your neck standing tall. Peeking over your shoulder, you met the eyes of one of the lifeguards; he was perched on top of the watch-out chair. Heat flushed your cheeks as you took in his appearance, his shaggy hair falling in front of his eyes, but it didn’t hide the intensity of the look he was giving you. Your eyes took in more of his appearance, and you felt like your face was going to burst into flames at any moment. His honey skin was on perfect display. The only thing he was wearing was the bright red swim trunks that all of the lifeguards were wearing.

Swallowing thickly, you raised your hand, sending him a small wave, and your heart nearly stopped when he smiled, waving back. A smile of your own spread on your lips as you turned back around to look out at the ocean once more.

San’s eyes stayed glued to you even after you turned back around; something about you intrigued him. He’s never seen you around town before, and he knows almost everyone. The town doesn’t have very many tourists, so he was curious. It was like there was an invisible string tethering him to you, and he felt a pull, one that wouldn’t go away until he learned more. So he leaned over the other side of the lookout chair, searching for someone.

“Hey, Jongho!” He called out to the other male, who turned around a pair of dark sunglasses adorning his features. “Can you cover for me for a few minutes?” San asked, causing the younger to cock an eyebrow.

“What’s in it for me?”

“I’ll buy your lunch for the rest of the week.” San bargained, and Jongho thought about it for a second before ultimately nodding and agreeing.

“But don’t think I won’t throw your ass under the bus if boss shows up,” Jongho told him pointedly, and San chuckled before patting his shoulder.

“Thanks!” San then turned and jogged over to where you were standing while Jongho climbed up the ladder, drink in hand, as he leaned back in the seat.

You were crouched down, your book in your lap, as you combed through the sand to find any seashells. The sound of footsteps nearing you tore your attention away, and you pulled your hand from the water. Looking over, you found the lifeguard from earlier making his way towards you, so you shook your hand, trying to dry any of the leftover water before standing to your feet once more. Your heart fluttered when he got closer, and you were able to see his dimpled smile and his teeth peeking out from behind his lips.

“Hi.” He greeted you as soon as he got close enough, stopping just a few feet away from you.

You turned to face him, returning his smile as your fingers curled around the spine of your book, “hi.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town before.” He tilted his head a little bit, causing some of his hair to fall further into his eyes, but he didn’t seem to mind.

The only thing that came to your mind as you watched him look at you curiously was that he was cute. His soft brown eyes drew you in like a freshly made batch of brownies, and his sweet smile left you wanting more. 

You laughed softly at his statement before nodding your head, “That would be because I’m new around here.” You told him before quickly adding on, “Only for the summer though, then I’ve gotta go back home.”

San didn’t miss the solemn look that crossed your face when you mentioned going back home, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for you. However, hearing that you were going to be here for the summer gave him an idea, albeit possibly a horrible idea, but an idea nonetheless.

“Would you care for a tour of the town? I can show you all the best places around.” He gave you a cheeky smile, and you felt your stomach flutter.

The last thing you expected was for someone to offer to show you around the foreign town, let alone someone who was like a godsent. You thought it over for a few moments before ultimately deciding that it wouldn’t be a bad idea, seeing as you were going to be in this town for at least another three months, so you nodded your head with a smile of your own.

“I’d love that.” You told him before you heard shouting from behind him causing both of you to turn only to find an older man marching down the beach.

Chuckling nervously, the boy turned back to you, rubbing the back of his neck, “That would be my boss, I should probably get back. Do you know where the ice cream parlor is?” He asked, and you nodded, recalling seeing it as you were on your way to the beach. “Awesome, I get off at six. Meet me there?”

“San!” You heard someone shout causing the male in front of you to look over his shoulder, seeing the older man now standing next to the lifeguard post with Jongho.

“You should probably go,” You laugh softly. You would hate to see him get into any more trouble for staying and talking to you.

“Probably…” He sighed, turning back towards you, “I’m San, by the way.”

“I’m y/n.” You smiled up at him, and San felt his stomach swirl at the sight, but the moment was ruined when his boss once again yelled at him to get back to his post, causing the poor boy to let out a defeated sigh.

“I’ll see you later y/n.” He waved at you softly before turning and started jogging towards the lifeguard stand but stopped short when he remembered something, “Oh, y/n?” You looked at him at the sound of your name with a hum, “Make sure to wear your bathing suit.”

You nodded softly before watching as he walked back over to the lifeguard stand where his boss started giving him an earful as the boy who was sitting on the chair watched, a straw in his mouth. You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. This might just be the best summer you’ve had yet.

Just like San said he would, he showed up at the ice cream parlor a little after six. He found you sitting in a booth off to the side with an empty cup in front of you as you scrolled through your phone. Walking over, he stopped just short of the table with a small smile tugging on his lips.

“Is this seat taken?” He asked, causing you to lift your head, and as soon as you saw him, your face lit up, a smile spreading across your glossed lips. You shook your head before telling him to sit down, to which he happily obliged, sitting across from you and propping his arms on the tabletop.

“So, where are you taking me first?” You asked, taking a sip from your watered-down soda only to grimace slightly due to the bland taste, causing San to chuckle, ‘cute,’ he thought, watching you push the cup away with a small pout forming on your lips.

“Well, I was thinking we would just make our way back down to the beach.” He told you, and you looked at him with scrunched eyebrows. Weren’t you guys just at the beach? Noticing your confusion, he added, “There is a cavern just slightly off the beach that glows at night.”

Your eyes widened at the thought, you have heard of them before but you never thought that you would actually be able to go and see one in person. It would also make sense why he told you to keep your bathing suit on. However, a sudden unease starts to settle in the pit of your stomach at the thought of the sea life that normally comes out after dark.

“What about sharks and whatnot?”

“We won’t have to swim to get inside, plus the underwater entrance is too small for anything big to get in,” San reassured you, and your unease died down as you took in the sincerity that gleamed in his eyes. “If you’re ready, we can start heading that way.” 

You nodded with a bright smile before standing from your seat and turning to grab your trash, but San was quicker. He walked over to the trash can, throwing it away as you followed behind him closely.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You pouted slightly, not used to people doing anything like that for you.

San just offered you a smile, walking to the door and opening it for you, “after you.”

–

About an hour and a half later, you walked side by side with San down the beach, your sandals in your hand as you talked. He had shown you so many small shops that had all kinds of things that you couldn’t find in the bigger cities and even took you to the small animal shelter where he volunteers from time to time. It was refreshing to see, and you wished that you could make it your everyday life, but alas, you couldn’t.

“The entrance is just over here.” San pointed off to the side of the cliff, the flashlight in his hand illuminating the ground underneath your feet. You followed after him until you made it to more rocky ground, so you stopped to put your shoes back on.

You had managed to put one on without too much struggle, but as you were putting the other on, you lost your balance, toppling over. However, instead of crashing on the ground, you felt arms wrapped around your midsection, keeping you upright. Looking up, your breath hitched in your throat as you noticed just how close San was. Stammering out an apology, you pushed away with a flustered face, and San watched in amusement as you avoided his eyes.

After your shoes were on, San led you to the entrance, “it's just through here.” He pointed the flashlight at the small entrance, glancing back at you. You followed after him, making sure to stay close so you don’t get separated. Then, finally, you broke through the entrance with a deep breath; the air smelled heavily of sea salt.

A small gasp fell from your lips when you looked up as San turned the flashlight off. The whole cavern was illuminated in an oceanic blue. The reflection of the water from the ceiling made it feel like you were underwater.

“It’s beautiful.” You spoke quietly as you stepped forward, and San looked over at you with a silly smile on his lips.

Heat flushed his face as he took in your appearance. The lights from the algae made your skin glow. You were breathtaking, and every fiber in his body was yearning to reach out to touch you, but when you looked over, catching him staring, he decided against it.

“C’mon, let’s get in the water.” He quickly spoke before you had a chance to even question why he was staring and jogged over to the edge of the water. 

You stood there in confusion for a moment before looking back over at the taller male as he kicked his shoes off and pulled his shirt over his head. Your mouth watered slightly at the sight of his bare skin, watching the muscles in his back ripple as he threw his shirt off to the side.

Heat crept up your neck as he looked back at you with a small smile, but there was a gleam in his eyes that made your stomach flip. Swallowing thickly you walked over to the water’s edge as San dove in and kicked your sandals off once more.

“This is safe, right?” You asked, your voice coming out shaky as you took in San’s appearance after coming out from under the water.

“I’ve been swimming here since I was a kid. I promise it’s safe.” He offered you a reassuring smile, and you nodded before reaching for the hem of your shirt.

San couldn’t tear his gaze away from your body as you pulled your shirt over your head, revealing the bikini top that you were wearing underneath. He could feel his whole body start to burn as you pulled your shorts down your legs before tossing both items over with his discarded shirt.

You could feel his eyes burning into you as you threaded through the water, which was surprisingly warmer than you expected it to be. When you got close enough to him, he swallowed down the lump in his throat, but then you got a mischievous idea.

Cupping your hands together, you splashed water at him, drenching his face and hair. You broke down into a fit of giggles at the shock on his face after he wiped his eyes.

“Oh, you’re playin’ a dangerous game.” He chuckled deeply, and you felt a shiver run down your spine at the noise, heat pooling in your gut, but you tried to ignore it as he sprayed water right back at you.

A squeal fell from your lips as he rushed at you, and you ran from him, the whole cavern filling with the sounds of your guy's laughter. 

You tried to get away from San’s outstretched hands after splashing him once again, but your foot slipped, and he managed to grab your arm. He pulled you towards him, your body almost weightless in the water.

“Got you.” He huffed, looking down at you as your hand fell to his chest to keep your balance. 

The air around you grew still; the only sound was your heavy breathing. San’s eyes were glued to your face, and you could feel your body growing warmer by the second. He started to lean down, his lips ghosting over yours, and your eyes fluttered closed as he closed the space between your bodies.

San’s lips were soft against yours; the kiss was sweet, but it didn’t take long before it started to fill with need. His tongue swiped over your bottom lip, groaning at the taste, a mixture of sea salt and your strawberry lip gloss. The sound was enough to leave your core dripping as you parted your lips, allowing him to invade your mouth.

A small whine fell from your lips as he bit down on your bottom lip gently before trailing kisses down your jaw to your neck. You rolled your head to the side, giving him more space to leave wet, open-mouth kisses along your skin.

“San…” You let out a breathy moan as he nipped at your skin, his hands wandering your body while yours squeezed his shoulders to try and ground yourself. Your breath hitched in your throat when his hand cupped your boob over your bikini top.

“You sound so pretty, moaning my name.” He groaned against your skin, his senses going haywire as he kissed back up to your lips. He just couldn’t seem to get enough. He wanted more.

A small yelp fell from your lips when he picked you up effortlessly, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you out of the water. His lips then found yours, capturing them in a heated kiss.

Not a word was spoken as he laid you down on the smooth floor of the cavern, fingers dancing across your skin. Every fiber of your being felt like it had been set aflame as his hand crept down your stomach, tracing the hem of your bottoms.

He pulled away from your lips, taking in your disheveled appearance and your swollen lips glistening under the light. The sight made his dick swell in his trunks, the material straining, causing him to groan. Pulling back a little more, he curled his fingers around the fabric of your bottoms and looked back at you with a questioning gaze. After giving him the green light, San wasted no time in discarding you of your bottoms, leaving your dripping core on full display.

You felt small under his gaze, and you started to close your legs in embarrassment. However, San was quick to stop you. Grabbing your knees, he spread your legs once more, his cock twitching at the sight of your glistening pussy.

“Fuck.” He cursed, mouth yearning to latch on to your clit, but his aching cock was telling him that there was no time. So he prayed to the gods that he would get another chance to eat you out before the summer was over.

“San–” You were cut off by a choked moan when he pressed down on your clit suddenly, groaning at how wet you were. He leaned back over your body, caging you under his as he looked at your lust-filled eyes.

“Shit princess, you’re so fucking wet.” His head leaned down, his hot breath fanning over your ear as he continued to toy with your clit.

“San, please!” You whined, back arching off the ground when he added more pressure to your clit. Your body felt like it was on fire, and your core ached, begging to be filled. The growing desire becomes insatiable.

“Please, what, pretty girl?” He cooed, raising up to look at you with a teasing smirk, and that’s when you noticed the chain dangling from his neck. 

Biting back another moan, you reached up and wrapped your fingers around the cool metal before pulling him down until his lips brushed over yours, “stop teasing and fuck me.”

San chuckled before removing his hand from your little bundle of nerves, “so demanding.” 

You were about to retort, but all words died on your tongue as he leaned up to pull his trunks down just enough to let his weeping cock pop out. Noticing the shocked look in your eyes, he smirked before leaning over you again, lips brushing over your ear.

“You were the one demanding that I fuck you, so take it like a good girl, hmm?” His voice was deep, causing you to clench around nothing, a small whine falling from your lips.

Your whole body jolted when you felt his tip running over your slit before bumping into your clit. Then he started pushing into you without so much as a warning, causing you to choke out a broken moan of his name.

“San!” You cried out, nails clawing at his back, nearly breaking skin, and tears brimmed in your eyes. “‘S too much.” 

“But you wanted this baby.” He cooed, thumb brushing under your eyes as tears started to fall, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find his forcefulness hot. Your walls squeezed around his aching cock, sucking him further in and he groaned, “plus you’re sucking me in, your pretty little cunt is just begging to be filled.”

Your eyes rolled back when he finally bottomed out, your mind fuzzing over from the full feeling. San watched you intently as you pulled at his body, wanting him close to you, a pathetic whimper falling from your swollen lips.

“Sannie!” You cried out, and his cock twitched at the whiny tone in your voice. The pressure was overwhelming, and you felt like you were about to combust if nothing was done about it soon. Your hips rolled up against San’s, and a choked gasp fell from your lips when his tip brushed over your sweet spot. “M-Move, please. San, please.” You spewed pleas like a mantra, and San’s lips curled into a smirk as he took your hips in his hands.

He pulled out until just the tip was left before pushing back in with enough force to make your tits bounce. A strangled cry tore from your lungs, and your hands flew to his forearm. His pace was slow but deep, hitting all of the right spots and turning you into a blubbering mess.

“Look at you taking me so well,” He cooed, pistoning his hips into yours until his tip hit your cervix.

Stars danced across your vision when his pace picked up, his grip so tight on your hips that you were sure that it would leave bruises the next day. However, all thoughts melted from your brain when his hand pressed down on your lower stomach, making you feel him even more.

“S-San– fuck! You feel so good, oh my god!” You cried out, back arching off of the ground when his thumb made contact with your clit. Your legs trembled around San’s waist as he brought you closer to your climax, your velvet walls squeezing around his throbbing cock like a vice.

“Shit, if you keep squeezing me like that, I’m gonna cum.” San groaned, his body leaning over yours to litter your chest with sloppy kisses. “Is that what you want, pretty girl? Me to cum in this sweet pussy of yours? To claim you as mine, is that it?” He growled against your skin, and it felt like your brain turned to mush at the thought of him cumming in you, and you tightened around him once more, giving away exactly what you wanted.

With just a few more thrusts, he sent you toppling over the edge, a string of broken moans falling from your lips as he fucked you through your high. Detaching his lips from your collarbone, he leaned over you, chain hanging just in your peripheral. Without so much as a second thought, you grabbed the jewelry and pulled him down, slotting your lips over his.

The kiss was anything but neat; he kissed you with a bruising force, and a mixture of spit covered both of your chins. Any sound you made from his relentless pounding was swallowed by his lips. Tears of overstimulation clouded your vision as you tried to tell him to slow down, but all that left your lips were incoherent babbles.

“Fuck! I’m sorry, pretty, just hold on a little bit more; you can do that, can’t you?” He grunted through gritted teeth as he sat back up, using his hold on your hips to plow you into oblivion. Your nails dug into his forearm, threatening to break skin as he pushed you closer to another climax.

“S-San!” You choked out a moan as he brushed over your sweet spot, causing stars to cloud your vision.

“Shit.” San groaned as he felt his own high right on the tip of his tongue. His hand then moved from your hip, trailing up your body until he caught your chin between his fingers. “Look at me pretty girl, I want you to watch as I fill your womb with my cum.” 

His words were enough to have your eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body trembling as another high washed over your body. Your pussy spasmed around his cock as you continued to gush out your own cum. An incoherent mixture of his name and curses spewed from your lips as he continued to fuck you through another high until his own thrusts became sloppy.

“Eyes on me, princess.” He tapped your cheek, watching in amusement as you tried your best to focus your attention on him despite all of the pleasure your body was receiving. “F-Fucking–” His voice cracked as his climax hit him like a freight train, his warm seed spilling deep into your walls.

“Sannie!” You whine at the sudden feeling, back arching off of the ground once more when he stilled inside of you.

“You did so good for me, baby.” He huffed, leaning over to pull your lips into a gentle kiss, and your shaky arms wrapped around his neck, wanting to keep him as close as possible.

The two of you stayed like that for a few moments more until San pulled away, causing you to whine at the sudden loss of contact. With a chuckle, he slipped out of your spent hole, watching as a mixture of his and your cum pooled on the ground beneath you. Swallowing thickly, he tore his eyes away, afraid that he would get hard again, and instead pulled his trunks back up before helping you back into your clothes.

“C’mon, we can go back to mine and watch a movie or something.” He smiled sweetly at you as he helped you pull your shorts over your hips, and you felt your face flush.

“Throw in some snacks, and I’ll be yours.” You teased, and he chuckled before grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

“I can make that happen.” He then pulled you back towards the entrance of the cavern and back to the beach before the both of you headed back to his place for the rest of the night.

You couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, if you kissed your city life goodbye, you could be happy here. The thought of having to leave San at the end of the summer after what just happened left an ache deep in your heart. So that’s all it took, was another flash of San’s dimpled smile to call your boss and tell him that you were going to quit.

@wwooyology | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ.

[capuccinodoll]

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter ten ♡

Summary: You open the door to Joel, preparing yourself to hear what he has to say. WC: 9.9k A/N: Helloooooo! Wishing you all happy holidays! I hope your holiday season was wonderful, and that you enjoy reading this part. Be patient <3 I def enjoyed writing it lol Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love u all

“I... I know you probably don't wanna see me,” he said, his voice low, almost strained, his eyes dark and heavy with something blue, looking at you with controlled desperation. “But I... I... can we talk? Please?”

Your eyes blinked rapidly, lashes brushing against your skin in quick, involuntary flutters. Joel caught the movement immediately. Of course he did. He noticed everything about you, even now, even after everything. It was obvious he had startled you, but whether that made him feel vindicated or more like an intruder, he couldn’t tell.

The week had been hell. He had been hell. Work was relentless, a grind of demands and decisions that seemed designed to erode what little patience he had left. Coming home wasn’t much better—Sarah’s teenage tolerance for him was wearing thin, and he knew it. Her exasperated sighs, her eyerolls, the way she barely looked up when he walked in the door.

The last time you’d spoken, your voice had been steady, measured, almost clinical, which somehow made it worse. “I think you should go,” you’d said, calm and certain, slicing through the rising heat of his anger like a blade. “I just... I just need some time.”

Anger had only been the surface. Underneath, he was wrecked. Broken in a way that felt unfamiliar, even compared to the times he thought he’d been hurt before. While you spoke, his mind had fixated on Travis—his stupid smirking face, the condescending edge to his voice. It was all Joel could see, all he could hear, drowning out everything else.

He’d slammed the door of his house that day and told himself he was done. He wasn’t going to call, wasn’t going to show up, wasn’t going to see you again. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He told himself he was done. Done with you, done with all of it.

You won’t see her again. You don’t want to see her again. The resolve felt like armor at first, solid and impenetrable. But later, as he sat in the dark of his room, it hollowed out, echoing back every memory of you he couldn’t seem to let go of.

And now here he was, standing in front of you, stripped of any armor he thought he had. He told himself he looked calm, his posture straight, his face neutral. But his hands betrayed him, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt, his fingers curling and uncurling like they didn’t know what else to do.

“Joel,” you said finally, and it wasn’t anger in your voice. He heard that right away, though what it was instead, he couldn’t quite name. “Need somethin'?”

The coldness of your tone startled him more than he wanted to admit. Not anger. Indifference. He recognized it only because it was unfamiliar coming from you.

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly, the word tumbling out before he had time to second-guess it. “Yes. I... I need to talk to you. Please, can we talk?”

“What do you wanna talk about?”

Your question was measured, but it wasn’t an invitation. He felt his lips twitch into an awkward half-smile, the kind you used to find endearing in its clumsiness. Now it only seemed to widen the space between you. You both knew the answer; you were just making him say it.

“About everything,” he said, stepping closer without thinking. The movement was automatic, but the way you took a step back wasn’t. It hit him like a sudden ache, sharp and lingering. “My birthday. What happened after. Travis. Everything I said to you, everything I did.”

“I don’t wanna fight, Joel.”

“Neither do I,” he said quickly, his voice soft. “I ain't here to fight. I swear. Please, just... give me a minute. If you don’t wanna hear me after this, I’ll—” He hesitated, his throat tight. “I’ll respect that.”

Your head tilted slightly, a small, almost imperceptible motion. “You’ll leave me alone?”

The words landed hard. He felt it, like a stone dropping into his chest.

“If that’s what you want,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, his gaze locked on yours. “If that’s what you really want, then yeah. I’ll leave you alone.”

You shifted to the side, a subtle movement that opened a narrow space between your body and the doorframe. Joel hesitated for just a moment before stepping through, his eyes flicking to your face as his arm brushed lightly against yours. The contact was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a strange charge through him that he couldn’t quite ignore.

As he walked past, he inhaled deeply, letting the scent of your home wash over him. It was grounding, like stepping into a memory he hadn’t realized he was carrying. The air was thick with the comforting notes he associated with you—freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint, clean sweetness of the textile spray you spritzed religiously on the couch cushions. Beneath that lingered the softer, subtler scents: the warm floral of your fabric softener, the trace of your favorite perfume still clinging to your skin, and something else he couldn’t quite name but had always recognized as distinctly you.

It was the same scent that used to cling to his shirt after one of your hugs, when his nose would inevitably dip into the curve of your neck without thinking. The thought of it now hit him like a whisper of nostalgia, equal parts tender and bittersweet.

Joel’s gaze swept the living room as he entered, and he paused, taking in the familiar organized chaos. Two mugs, each half-full, sat abandoned on the coffee table. Next to them lay the crinkled remnants of half-finished snacks. Soft blankets were strewn across the couch, their folds still marked with the shapes of bodies that had recently lounged there. Two candles flickered on the mantel, filling the air with the warm, tropical scent of coconut and vanilla. On the floor, two pairs of slippers rested haphazardly, as if their owners had kicked them off mid-laughter.

The first pair was purple, dotted with little blue hearts—Cassie’s, he assumed. The other pair he recognized instantly. The white pom-pom slippers, soft and well-loved, and he could still picture the Christmas he’d given them to you. You’d hurt your foot a week earlier, and he’d insisted you needed something sturdy to wear around the house. At the time, you’d rolled your eyes at the practicality of the gift but had smiled when you slipped them on anyway. After that, he gave you his other gift: the complete box set of Nightmare on Elm Street. 

Now, seeing them here, Joel felt a tightness in his chest, a painful warmth that spread through him as he took in the scene. This mess, this lived-in disarray, was evidence of you. Evidence of life. And he missed it.

For weeks now, his own home had been the opposite—too quiet, too clean. No lingering smells of scented candles, no forgotten mugs on the table. Sarah had been retreating to her room more and more, and the spaces she used to fill with her presence now felt hollow. The house smelled of little more than coffee, and the silence stretched long and thin, oppressive in its stillness.

“Have a seat,” you said, your voice cutting through his thoughts. “Want some coffee? Cassie made a pot before she left.”

Joel didn’t want a tidy house. He didn’t want a quiet living room. He didn’t want the emptiness that had taken root in his home.

He wanted noise. He wanted laughter echoing through the halls, the kind that erupted out of nowhere and carried long after the joke had ended. He wanted his living room cluttered with the evidence of conversations and evenings spent together. He wanted his house to smell like candles, fresh bread from the oven—burnt edges and all—and your perfume lingering in the air. He wanted the warmth of Sarah and Tommy and you, all of you there together, filling the house with life again.

“Sure,” he replied, watching as you moved past him toward the kitchen. His eyes followed the curve of your shoulder, the way the light caught in your hair, until you disappeared through the door.

He sat down on the couch, his hands resting on his thighs as his gaze landed on the coffee table. A book lay there, its spine tilted just enough for him to read the title: Jane Eyre. His fingers reached for it instinctively, brushing over the cover as memories flickered to life. Two years ago, you had insisted he watch the movie with you. He’d been indifferent at first, grumbling about how slow it was, but by the end, he’d found himself blinking furiously, swiping at the tears that kept slipping past his guard. You and Sarah hadn’t let him live it down, teasing him gently once the lights came back on.

A quiet laugh nearly escaped him at the memory, but it faded as you reappeared, two mugs balanced carefully in your hands. You set them down on the table and took the seat across from him.

Joel reached for his mug immediately, grateful for something to do with his hands. He lifted it to his lips, the warmth spreading through his palms as he took a sip. The coffee was strong and slightly sweet, the taste familiar and comforting. But as he lowered the cup, he couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting back to you, watching as you settled in place.

You sat next to him, the cushion between you a quiet, unspoken boundary neither of you seemed willing to cross. Your arms rested on your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns on your knee, while your eyes fixed on him—watching, waiting. He wasn’t looking at you, not yet. His gaze was locked on the mug in his hands, the coffee inside long forgotten, as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to this conversation.

The silence stretched, uncomfortable and taut, until finally, he broke it.

“I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout what to say to you,” he began, his voice steady but low. He didn’t look up, still focused on the mug. “How to say it, what order to put it in so I wouldn’t just… trip over myself and make it worse.”

You said nothing, your eyes trailing across his profile, noting the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows.

“And even after all that thinkin', there doesn’t seem to be an ideal way to do this,” he continued, his fingers tightening around the ceramic. “But I think… I think the first thing I gotta say is that I’m sorry.” He paused, swallowed, then lifted his eyes to yours. They were heavy with something raw. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze, refusing to give him an inch.

“What’s everything?”

You already knew. Of course, you knew. But you needed him to say it, needed to hear the words from his mouth.

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “For not being enough. For not living up to what you needed. For being a coward.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pressed on. “I’ve been afraid—terrified, actually—and I hate myself for it.”

Your tone was sharper than you intended. “Afraid of what?”

“Of making a mistake. Of ruining things.” His gaze dropped back to his hands, his lower lip trembling in a way that made something inside you twist painfully.

“You already ruined things, Joel. You already blew it.”

At that, he looked up, his face pale, his expression something close to stricken.

“I know,” he admitted, the words barely above a whisper. “I know I did. But… I was hurt.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You were hurt?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rising just a touch, a hint of frustration there. “Last time we talked, at my place, we said things… things that stuck in my head and twisted ‘round ‘til I couldn’t think straight. And then Travis—he blindsided me. He said things I wasn’t ready to hear, and before I knew it, I was just… angry. Angry and too stubborn to think if any of it even made sense.”

“You could have asked me about it,” you said, leaning forward slightly, your voice tight with restrained anger. “It would have been that simple. All you had to do was ask.”

Joel shook his head, running a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable.

“You say it like it’s easy. Like it’s that black and white. But it wasn’t. I couldn’t think straight. My head was full of these awful, painful thoughts, and I didn’t know if I could face the answer. I didn’t know if I wanted to face it. What if you told me it was true?”

“What if I told you it was true?” you repeated, incredulous, your voice sharp enough to make him flinch. “Joel, it’s me. Not some stranger off the street. It’s me. Why is it so fucking hard for you to talk to me?”

“'Cause it’s you!” he said, his voice breaking slightly as he finally set the mug down, turning fully toward you. “You’re not just anyone, don’t you get that? You’ve never been just anyone. You’re you, and that’s why it scared me so much. That’s why it’s always scared me.”

You stared at him, your hand brushing against your neck as you tried to process his words.

“What does that even mean?” you asked, your voice quiet but loaded with frustration. “I’m me, but you treat me like I’m a stranger. You accuse me of things I would never do. How does that make sense?”

“It doesn't make sense, I know,” he said, his voice soft now, filled with remorse. “I know, and I’m sorry. I should have—”

You cut him off, leaning closer, your tone sharp and unforgiving.

“I talked to Travis, Joel. He told me everything. He told me what he said to you—that he implied we’d slept together that night.” Your voice faltered for a moment, but you steadied it. “And it was a lie. He lied to you. And you didn’t even stop to think. You didn’t come to me. You just believed him.”

“I know,” he said again, his voice a little stronger this time, though his eyes dropped to the floor. “I know it was a lie. I know that now.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “How?”

He met your eyes, and for the first time that evening, there was something solid in his expression, something that felt like conviction.

“Travis confessed to me. Earlier today.”

You blinked, stunned, the words hitting you like a physical blow.

“What?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you talking about?”

“He came to my house this morning.” He paused, glancing at his hands like they might steady him. “When I saw him, I wanted to beat him to a pulp. I thought about it—what it’d feel like, what it’d fix. But he looked… pathetic. Like a wet dog. And I don’t know why, but I listened to him.” He exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into a fist on his thigh. “He confessed everything. Said it was all a lie. That he was angry that night, that he wanted to hurt me, hurt you, us. And that he was sorry.”

That morning, before Joel had even finished his first cup of coffee, the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all Travis, who stood on the porch looking like he’d rehearsed this moment a dozen times but still wasn’t ready. There was a tension to his posture—hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders squared but uneven, like he couldn’t decide between defiance and regret.

Joel opened the door without a word, his eyes narrowing slightly, the kind of look that made most people hesitate. But Travis didn’t flinch. He cleared his throat, glanced briefly over Joel’s shoulder as though confirming they were alone, and began. His confession was brief but clear.

Joel stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his silence heavy and deliberate. Anger started to build in him, slow and deliberate, like water simmering in a pot. If he’d been alone, he might’ve said something sharp or done something rash—just enough to make Travis rethink ever stepping foot here again. But Sarah was at the dining table, half-hidden behind a glass of orange juice, listening to every word. It was too early in the day for things to escalate, and besides, Joel knew better.

“I don’t know you, Joel,” he said, voice low but firm. He kept his gaze on Joel, unblinking, but his body angled slightly away, as if ready to retreat if things got ugly. “And I don’t claim to know the whole story between you two. Don’t know all the details, don’t pretend to.” He exhaled sharply, a trace of frustration slipping through. “But I know enough to say this—she doesn’t deserve what you’ve done to her. Not a damn bit of it.”

Joel’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening, but he stayed silent, his arms crossed in front of him like a barrier.

Travis shifted again, this time squaring his shoulders, his voice growing firmer.

“Whether you deserve her or not... that ain’t my call to make.” He shook his head, almost as if he pitied Joel. “But, just be enough. Stop lookin’ for ways to screw it up. Fix it. Make it right.”

The last words hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving. Travis glanced back at Joel one final time before stepping off the porch, his body already half-turned away, as if to signal the conversation was over.

Joel’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He stayed there, rooted to the spot, as Travis turned and walked away without looking back. When the door finally closed, Joel exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair before heading back to the kitchen.

Sarah was seated at the table, her cereal soggy in its bowl, her chin propped up on one hand as she watched him. Her expression was impossible to read at first—calm, maybe even detached—but there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, the kind that always made Joel brace himself.

He dropped into the chair across from her, rubbing a hand across his face.

“So,” she began, her voice light but measured, “are you gonna tell me what that was about, or should I start guessing? Because I can go wild with it if you want.”

Joel looked at her, his mouth twitching into the beginnings of a smile despite himself. “You don’t need to guess anything, Sarah. Eat your breakfast.”

She raised an eyebrow, letting the silence hang for a beat. Then she switched tactics.

"You have the afternoon off today, don't you?”

"Yeah."

“Can I spend the afternoon with Irina?” she asked then, her tone casual, like the question had been waiting for its moment to pounce. 

Joel eyed her suspiciously, leaning back in his chair. “Why do I get the feeling this is part of a larger plan?”

“Because it is,” Sarah said brightly, sitting up straighter. “But also because you’re smart, and I’m obviously your favorite child, so you’re always on high alert.”

Joel snorted. “You’re my only child.”

“Exactly,” she said, pointing at him with her spoon. “See how much you have to lose if you say no?”

“Fine,” Joel said, shaking his head. “But be home for dinner.”

“Can I stay over?” she asked immediately, her tone hopeful but strategic, like she was carefully laying pieces on a chessboard.

“Sarah—”

“Tomorrow’s saturday,” she interrupted, grinning now. “And besides, you could use some alone time. Don’t you think? You know, kick back, put your feet up, maybe even watch a movie. Something fun, preferably. You’ve been way too broody lately—it’s not good for your skin.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “My skin is fine, thank you very much.”

“I’m just saying,” she said, widening her eyes for emphasis. “Take a self-care moment. Relax. Settle your affairs. And let’s be honest—at some point, you’re gonna have to get used to me bein’ gone. In a few years, I’ll be outta the house anyway. Might as well start now.”

Joel chuckled low in his chest, shaking his head. “You’re thirteen, sweetheart. You’re not leavin’ anytime soon.”

“Thirteen and a half,” she corrected. “Which means I’m practically halfway to twenty. Time flies, man. Better get used to it.”

He shook his head, a smile breaking through despite his best efforts.

Joel shook his head, letting out a quiet chuckle.  “ Come back for dinner,” he said firmly. “And finish your breakfast, smartass. We’re running late.”

Relief fluttered through you, but it didn’t stay long enough to root itself. Instead, anger rose, sharp and unyielding, burning through your chest like fire.  

“So that’s why you’re here,” you said, your voice cutting through the air between you. “Because Travis decided to clear his conscience? What if he hadn’t? What then, Joel? Would you have hated me for the rest of your life without even asking me about it?”  

“No,” he said quickly, his posture straightening as if bracing for impact. “Of course not. I wanted to come and talk to you before—”  

“How can I be sure of that?” you interrupted, leaning forward slightly, your voice cold and unwavering.  

His face shifted, his desperation barely masked. His eyes moved over your features, searching for something—an opening, a shred of forgiveness, anything to grasp onto. It was the look of someone teetering on the edge of losing what mattered most. And seeing him like that, so vulnerable and raw, sent a sharp pang through your chest.  

But you didn’t move. You didn’t let him off that easily.  

Joel sighed heavily, the sound thick with frustration and resignation. He looked back down at his hands, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the conversation was pressing him into the couch. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. You watched him wrestle with his thoughts, his jaw tightening and loosening, his fingers twitching slightly.  

Finally, he opened his mouth, but no words came. He shut it again, his brow furrowing, his expression pained. He looked like he was trying to pull something out of himself that refused to surface. Then, with a deep breath, he ran a hand over his forehead, his fingers brushing through his hair before he finally lifted his gaze to meet yours again.  

His cheeks were flushed, the color spreading to his neck, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter but startlingly clear.  

“You could do the worst atrocities in the world to me, and I’d still come crawling back to you,” he said, his words landing heavily in the space between you.  

You blinked, stunned, your anger momentarily eclipsed by his confession.  

“I’d take it all,” he continued, his voice steady despite the emotion rippling just beneath the surface. “Every insult, every blow. At first, I’d probably bark back—like some angry dog—but it wouldn’t matter. I’d still come back to you. Over and over again. Until you decided I wasn’t worth the effort anymore. And even then…” His voice faltered slightly, his eyes darkening as he leaned closer to you. “Even then, I’d wait. I’d wait for you like some stupid, loyal, domesticated animal.”  

His hand fell lightly onto your knee, the weight of it grounding and electric all at once. His face was closer now, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin.  

You stared at him, speechless, his words circling in your mind, unfamiliar and disarming. You had never heard him talk like this before, never heard him articulate his feelings with such painful honesty.  

Confusion flickered across your face, your brows knitting together as you tried to process what he’d said. But before you could respond, Joel pulled his hand back, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he was reluctant to let go.  

He sat back, his hand running along his jawline, his thumb brushing against his stubble in an attempt to soothe himself. His eyes shifted away from you, staring somewhere into the distance as he collected himself.  

When he finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost hesitant, but still carrying the weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. His eyes stayed fixed on some invisible point in front of him, his expression thoughtful and distant.  

“I’m a lucky man,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching in a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Though for a long time, I thought life had it out for me.”  

The confession lingered in the room for a moment before he continued, his voice lower now, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to you.  

“When I was a teenager, I had all these goals, y'know? Dreams that seemed so big and endless back then. And then every single one of 'em became impossible the moment Amelia told me she was pregnant.” He laughed softly, though it wasn’t a happy sound. It carried the weight of years gone by, of opportunities lost. “It took me a while to make peace with that. To accept that everything I thought my life would be was just… gone. My responsibilities changed overnight, and I wasn’t ready. Not even close.”  

You stayed quiet, your gaze fixed on him as he spoke, unwilling to break the flow of his words.  

“It was hard,” he admitted, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture of discomfort. “Harder than I could’ve imagined. But then Sarah was born.” His voice softened when he said her name, a reverence in the way he spoke of her. “And everything changed. Suddenly, none of it mattered anymore—not the dreams I lost, not the plans I’d made. Because I had her. She was all I needed to be happy, even when everything else felt like it was falling apart.”  

There was a pause, a stillness that filled the space as he collected his thoughts. His hands, resting on his knees, clasped together tightly, his knuckles turning white.  

“And then Amelia left,” he said, his voice dropping lower, his jaw tightening as though the memory itself was still too sharp. “When she walked away, I thought I wouldn’t survive it. I wanted to die. The only thing that kept me going was Sarah. She was my strength, my reason to keep breathing. And Tommy,” he added with a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “even if he gave me more headaches than I could count.”  

His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Those years were… suffocating. I was drowning, trying to stay afloat for Sarah’s sake. I worked every hour I could, even when it wasn’t enough. And I tried so damn hard to keep her from noticing. She was just a baby, too little to understand, but I noticed. I noticed every empty space, every moment we didn’t have what we should’ve.”  

Joel paused, his fingers fiddling with an invisible thread on his jeans, his voice turning steadier as he continued.  

“Everything I did was for her,” he said, his tone resolute. “Everything I still do is for her. I didn’t care if I wore the same worn-out shoes for years, as long as she had everything she needed. I didn’t care about working overtime, as long as she had a good christmas, with all the things she’d ever dreamed of.”  

A soft smile crept onto his face, faint but genuine. “And then things got better. I started making more money. I was able to move us into a nicer place, give her her own room with everything she wanted—books, toys, a million stuffed animals. Seeing her happy was all I needed. Nothing else mattered. My own dreams, my own goals—they didn’t even exist anymore. I didn’t have room for them. All I cared about was her.”  

He exhaled shakily, his hands now clenched together, his shoulders slightly hunched as if carrying a weight he hadn’t quite managed to set down.  

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. His words settled into you, heavy and aching. Your throat tightened, and your vision blurred with unshed tears. You knew Joel was a good father—better than most. But hearing him lay it bare like this, recounting the sacrifices he made and the pain he endured, broke something inside you.  

He looked down, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I had no desires of my own,” he admitted, his words halting, “until I met you.”  

Your breath hitched at his confession, your gaze dropping to your hands, folded tightly in your lap.  

Joel shifted in his seat, his eyes finally lifting to meet yours. He was waiting, searching your face for a reaction. When you finally looked up, your vision blurred, a single tear slipping down your cheek.  

“And then you moved in next to me,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “And I became the luckiest man in the world. Because that night, on your birthday, I saw it. I felt it, clear as day, in your eyes.” His voice wavered slightly. “Did you feel it too?”  

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”  

Joel’s gaze flickered between yours, searching, probing for even the faintest shadow of doubt. But he found none. Your answer had left no room for uncertainty, and the truth of it settled visibly in his chest. For a moment, his eyes dropped to his hands, fidgeting restlessly in his lap. The reprieve was brief; his gaze snapped back to yours almost immediately, as if afraid to lose the fragile connection.  

“You took me completely by surprise,” he began, his voice low and unsteady. “I had this quiet, organized life. Everything was in its place, everything predictable. And then you came along, and suddenly I was thinking about futures I’d never allowed myself to imagine before. Futures where my purpose wasn’t just being a dad, where there was… more.”

His lips pressed together, and he glanced past your shoulder, unable to hold your gaze for long under the weight of his admission. “I tried to act on it. I wanted to. I told myself I’d tell you how I felt, ask you out properly, but I was terrified. You were such an easy part of our lives, mine and Sarah’s, that the idea of risking that, of losing you…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as though frustrated with himself. “I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t.”  

His eyes returned to you, a mixture of resignation and determination clouding their depths. “So I swallowed it all. All these years, I’ve done everything I could to be the friend you deserved. To not let my feelings interfere. But if I’m being honest…” He paused, his jaw tightening as though bracing for impact. “I’d take anything from you. I’d come back to you every fucking time, no matter what. Because the thought of living without you—” He stopped abruptly, his voice catching in his throat.  

Joel exhaled sharply, attempting to recover, and then a faint, self-deprecating humor colored his expression.

“I know how pathetic I sound right now,” he said, his voice lighter but no less sincere. “I don’t care.”  

“Yeah, Joel, that’s pretty damn pathetic,” you replied, your lips curving into a soft, fleeting smile. There wasn’t much humor in it, but it was enough to ease some of the tension between you.  

Joel chuckled faintly, shaking his head as though chastising himself. He glanced down at the floor, his shoulders sagging slightly.

“I know,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’ve been feeling pretty pathetic lately.”  

“Me too,” you admitted quietly, your voice tinged with an exhaustion that mirrored his.  

Silence stretched between you, not awkward but weighted. Joel’s hands stilled, resting loosely against his knees, though you could tell he was still grappling with everything he’d laid bare. You studied him in that moment—every slight movement, every shift in his expression—trying to parse the tangle of thoughts in your own mind.  

For Joel, the quiet was a reminder of how vulnerable he’d been. He could feel a knot tightening in his stomach, a lump rising in his throat that he fought to suppress. The fear of baring himself so fully gnawed at him, but it didn’t terrify him as much as losing you did.  

“I don’t regret that night,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, though his eyes remained fixed on the floor. “But I hate how it happened. I hate that our first night together came out of a fight. A fight where I was…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Terrible to you. That’s not how it should have been.”  

“Oh, God. Stop that,” you cut in sharply, your tone carrying the faintest edge of irritation. You leaned forward, placing your hand firmly on his knee. “I’m tired of hearing you say the same thing over and over. Things are the way they are. Nothing more.”  

His head snapped toward you, his brows knitting together in confusion and disbelief. His lips parted, as if he wanted to argue, but no words came immediately.  

“I get it, okay?” he said eventually, his voice quieter but no less intense. “But I fucking blew it. Look where we are now. Years of keeping my feelings bottled up—for what?”  

You shook your head and pulled your hand away from his knee, covering your face as frustration bubbled to the surface. Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your cheeks felt hot, and bitterness churned in your chest.

“Why are you so uncomfortable with the idea of being more than my friend?” you asked, your voice trembling, broken and laced with helplessness. “If we had never argued, we never would have slept together, and then what? You would have spent your whole life being just that—my friend?”

Joel’s face contorted, a mix of anguish and confusion. “It’s not that, I... I...” He faltered, his words tumbling over themselves as his gaze flickered between his hands and your face, desperate to find the right thing to say. “Relationships are complicated, you know that. No matter how hard you try, sometimes things just... break. Feelings get messy, people hurt each other, and then it’s over. And after that? You’re left with the wreckage, picking up the pieces, trying to put them back together, and... starting over. And I want to be wi—”

“I’m not Amelia!”

Your voice cut through the room like a whip, sharp and unrelenting. Joel froze. His body went still, his eyes wide as he watched you rise from your seat, your palms pressing against your face to catch the tears that spilled freely now. A sob broke through your chest, raw and guttural, shaking your whole body.

Joel stood abruptly, closing the space between you with long, purposeful strides. He reached out, his large hands settling gently on your shoulders, trying to ground you, to pull you closer to him. But you resisted, your body tense and unyielding beneath his touch.

You dragged your hands down from your face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and an expression so pained that Joel felt an ache bloom in his chest. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, as he took in the sight of you.

“Why do you have to make everything harder?” you said, your voice cracking under the weight of desperation. Your words fell between you, sharp and piercing. “I know what happened to you was horrible, Joel. I know. I can’t imagine how alone you must have felt. It hurts—God, it hurts—to think of you going through that. I wish I could go back in time and change it, spare you all that suffering, but I can’t.”

Your voice broke again, and you shook your head, gripping his arms tightly as if trying to anchor yourself. “I can’t change it, and neither can you.”

“I know, baby,” Joel said softly, his voice almost breaking. “I don’t—”

“No!” you interrupted, your hands squeezing his arms harder. “You know nothing! You don’t listen to me. You’re scared—this, us, it terrifies you because it makes you feel weak and vulnerable, and you hate that. I know you do, because I know you. I know you like the back of my hand, just like I know myself."

Your voice rose, thick with emotion, trembling but unwavering. “You’ve spent years building everything you have, brick by brick, because you know how fragile it all is. You know how quickly it can fall apart. And yes, it’s true—that’s life. That’s how it works.”

Joel tried to interrupt, but you pressed on, your words pouring out like a dam had broken. “But I’m not Amelia, Joel. I’m not going to leave when things get hard. I’m not going to disappear. Just look at me—look at me right now. This has been hell since your birthday, absolute hell, and yet I’m still here. I’m standing in front of you, listening to you, when maybe—probably—you don’t even fucking deserve it.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and his hands slipped from your shoulders to your elbows, holding onto you as if afraid you might disappear. His eyes glistened, his lips slightly parted as he took in your words. For a moment, the room was silent except for the uneven sounds of your breathing.

“I know,” Joel said abruptly, his words choking out in a way that made his chest tighten, like he was barely able to get them out at all. “I’ve been a coward all this time, but—”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me the same thing again,” you cut him off, shaking your head in frustration, taking a small step back, your space suddenly feeling more necessary than ever. “Yeah, real—”

“Can you stop interrupting me and just listen?” he snapped, his voice sharp, the calm restraint in it fraying just a little as he stepped closer, his hands landing gently on your shoulders, grounding himself in the movement.

He stared down at your feet, his gaze lingering there, not meeting your eyes, the words heavy in the space between you. In that moment, he felt desperate, like the situation was slipping through his fingers again, but somehow, there was a strange sense of vulnerability in his posture, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go but forward.

His hands fell away from your shoulders, but he didn’t move, his eyes finally lifting to meet yours, his gaze unwavering and intense. It felt like there were a thousand unsaid things in the air, and still, he said nothing for a long beat, his mouth opening, then closing again as if he couldn’t quite gather the words.

“Everything you said is true,” he started, his voice quieter now, but carrying a weight in it that felt both final and irreversible. “And everything I told you is true. And I don’t care, not anymore. I’m done with it.” He moved his hand across the space between you, as though trying to sweep away the past, drawing an invisible line through the tension that had hung over both of you for too long.

You let out a slow breath, the question hanging in the air before you could voice it. “And what does that even mean?”

“It means that I want you, that I love you,” Joel started, his voice breaking slightly on the words, the confession so raw it felt like it was tearing him open from the inside. “That I need you. That I can’t… I can't help but resent a life without you.” He took a shuddering breath, his eyes burning, not quite able to meet yours. “I always thought I was fine on my own. I’ve been alone most of my life, you know that. I never needed anyone. I never thought I was missing anything, never felt incomplete. I felt perfectly fine alone.” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, were now trembling, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to hold onto something, anything, to keep himself from shattering.  

“And then I met you,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, like he was afraid to say the words aloud. “And I realized how empty I’d been. How much I’d been missing. How full I felt when I was with you.” He paused, his face contorting as if the weight of his own words was too much to carry. “And then I screwed up. I messed it all up.” His hands balled into fists at his sides. “And no, I’m not that cold. I’m not some heartless bastard. I need you. I need you more than I’ve ever needed anything. And I can’t—” He stopped, his breath catching in his throat, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven gasps as he struggled to control the emotion threatening to overwhelm him.  

His eyes closed for a moment, as though he could hide from the truth for just a second longer, but when they opened again, they were full of something that felt like desperation. “I can’t live another day knowing you’re just next door, and you’re uncomfortable because of what I did. Because of what I let happen. Because of how I failed you.” His voice cracked on the last word, and it was like a knife to your chest, hearing the hurt in him, seeing how much it was tearing him apart to even say it.  

“I know I probably don't deserve you,” he whispered, each word like a burden he couldn’t bear. “I know that. And if you decide not to choose me, I’ll understand. I’ll walk away. I’ll stay away. I promise you, I won’t bother you again. But if you… if you just let me, one last time...” He faltered, his voice breaking as he looked at you, his eyes dark with pain and regret. “If you let me prove to you, show you, how much I love you... the way you deserve to be loved, if you let me do it for the first time...” He shook his head, his voice catching again, barely a whisper now. “I promise I’ll never disappoint you again. I swear it.”  

There was nothing left in his voice now but the ragged edges of a man who had bled himself dry in front of you.

“Joel—” you started, but before you could finish, he cut you off, his voice calm but firm, like a man who had already said too much but was determined to say it all.

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head slightly. “I’m not finished.” His voice held an edge of something deeper now, like he had reached the point of no return. “You have to understand what I’m telling you. When I told you about Amelia, when I told you how much of a coward I’ve been, when I told you about how you changed my life, when I told you I was afraid—what I meant is, that’s why it cost me so much to do all this. But now? Now, it’s all insignificant. All of it. Compared to this. Compared to you.”

Your breath caught as his words settled in the space between you, and you could feel your eyes widen, your body stiffening with an ache you couldn’t place. You watched him, his expression flickering—his eyebrows tense, his lips parted with an unreadable intensity, his eyes dark and glistening, glossed with the unmistakable trace of tears. Your stomach twisted at the sight of them, the tears there but barely contained, and you realized how long it had been since you had seen him like this. Vulnerable. So impossibly vulnerable.

He leaned in slightly, his hands rising to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing the damp skin of your cheeks, as if he could steady you both with his touch.

“I love you,” he said, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “I always have. From the moment I saw you, I loved everything about you. Everything. The way you are. The sound of your voice. The way your face lights up when you smile. The way you move, the way you think, the way you feel. I want it all, I want it all with you. Please.”

The words hit you like a slow wave, gentle but relentless, and before you could stop them, the tears you had been fighting to keep in check broke free. They streamed down your face, hot and heavy, staining your flushed cheeks. Joel’s hands were gentle as they wiped them away, his touch tender, almost reverent as his calloused fingers traced the outline of your skin. He stared at you, as if trying to read the language of your eyes, but there was something in them he couldn’t name. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t anger. It was something similar to doubt. Uncertainty, maybe. Something that he couldn’t fix with a touch or a word, but something that still held him captive.

“I would kneel in front of you,” he said, his voice soft but laden with a kind of desperate affection, “and beg all night if you asked me to, sunshine.”

His words had the air of a joke, but the way his lips curled into a smile—slow and warm—made something inside you tighten. Something inside you broke just a little, and you smiled in return, the gesture pulling at the corners of your mouth. The smile felt unfamiliar, like it had been so long since you had smiled for him. Really smiled, without hesitation. And when you did, the effect on him was immediate, like a light suddenly flicking on in a room that had been dark for far too long.

Joel’s breath caught at the sight of it. He looked at you as though he had been waiting for that exact moment, for that exact smile, for weeks. The smile he had missed more than he could admit.

With a quiet, almost embarrassed chuckle, he pulled his hands from your face, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You stared at him, confused, as he slowly began to lower himself onto one knee, the movement slow, deliberate, as though he was going to ask something, something monumental and beg. But before he could finish the motion, you instinctively reached for him, hands gripping his sides, pulling him back up with a soft laugh.

“Joel, please,” you laughed, the sound light and disbelieving, as if you couldn’t quite believe what was happening. But in your chest, you felt a soft pressure—the weight of everything he had just said, everything he had just given to you. 

Standing before you, Joel didn’t give you a second to pull away, his hands moving with certainty, cupping your face with a tenderness that seemed almost fragile, as if he was afraid of breaking something. His fingers gently traced the contours of your skin, his gaze unwavering, like he was memorizing every detail of your face. 

“I fucking love you,” he whispered, his voice rough, the words heavy with an urgency that seemed to echo in the stillness between you. Before you could react, his lips were on yours—soft, tentative at first, like he was testing the waters, and then more sure, more insistent, as he kissed you again, and then again, and again, and again. Each kiss was brief, a fleeting press of his soft lips against yours, but each one held a weight, a quiet desperation that was impossible to ignore.

Your hands rested on his chest, the steady beat of his heart under your palms grounding you in that moment, pulling you closer into the warmth of his embrace. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body seemed to pulse with need, and you knew—without a doubt—that he was hanging on to every second, waiting for you to say something. 

"I love you," you whispered, the words slipping out involuntarily, caught somewhere between a confession and a plea. Your lips were mere inches from his as you spoke, your breath mingling with his in the small space between your mouths. As he kissed the corner of your lips, you felt the tremble in his kiss, the way his entire body seemed to respond to the simplicity of those three words. 

Joel’s lips curved into a smile against yours, and he pulled back, just enough to watch your face. His eyes searched yours, like he was trying to memorize something invisible, something that only the two of you could understand.

“I love you too, Joel,” you said again, your voice low but steady, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing grounding you. “And I’m sorry. Truly. If I hurt you—if anything I did made you feel that way—it was never intentional. I need you to know that. Nothing that happened with Travis was ever about trying to hurt you. I’d never do that.” You paused, your fingers tightening slightly. “But I get it. I shouldn’t have let it get so messy, not after what happened between us.”

Joel tilted his head, his gaze softening even further.

“We handled this a little badly, didn’t we?” he said, his voice edged with a hint of humor, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark and bright at the same time, his pupils blown wide like he was looking straight at the moon.

You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “I think that’s putting it lightly.”

His smile turned rueful, almost sheepish. “I’m sorry—for all of it. I mean it. Please, forgive me.”

Your hands slid upward, fingers tracing the line of his collar, then moving to the soft skin behind his ears, the place where his hair curled just slightly above his nape.

“I forgive you,” you murmured. “It’s okay. I understand. And I love you.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his—just the barest touch—before pulling back again, almost abruptly. Joel didn’t move, his eyes flicking between yours like he was searching for something more in your expression. Your fingers played with the hair at the back of his neck, anchoring you both.

“But if you ever do something like that again,” you said, your voice soft but firm, “if you ever run away from me again, Joel Miller, I swear to fucking God—”

He shook his head quickly, cutting you off. “I won’t. I promise.”

You studied him for a moment, your eyes narrowing slightly, measuring the weight of his words. Then, as if deciding you’d had enough distance, you closed the space between you in one swift motion, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his mouth back to yours.

This time, there was no hesitation. No shyness. No lingering doubt. Just heat and certainty, the kind that made the room feel smaller, the air heavier. Joel’s arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him until there wasn’t a millimeter of space left.

When you finally broke the kiss, his lips left yours with a soft, audible sound, one that seemed to echo in the stillness of the room. You hovered for a second before kissing him again, this time opening your mouth, your tongue grazing his bottom lip. He groaned softly, a sound that vibrated from his chest to your mouth, and you smiled against him.

Somewhere in the distance, a shrill sound broke through the haze. His phone. It rang once, then twice, before falling silent again. Joel didn’t so much as flinch.

You pulled back, slightly breathless, your hands cradling the sides of his face. His lips were pink, puffy, his cheeks still flushed. His hair was mussed from your fingers, and his eyes—those impossibly dark eyes—looked at you like you were something sacred.

That man was yours.

“Cassie will be back any second,” you whispered, your fingers brushing through the locks that had fallen over his forehead.

Joel hummed, leaning in to press his lips against your neck, his mustache tickling your skin in a way that made you laugh involuntarily.

“I doubt it,” he murmured, his breath warm against you. “But we could go to my place if you wanna keep talkin'. Sarah won’t be back till dinner.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but his teeth grazed your neck, gentle but deliberate, sending a ripple of warmth through you that stole whatever you were about to say.

“Talk,” you managed, half a laugh, half a protest, as his lips pressed against the spot again, and the world outside the two of you felt very far away. 

“I wanna take my time with you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he kissed a slow, soft trail up to your jaw. “I wanna do things right, without arguments or interruptions.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the weight of his intention, and for a moment, it felt like everything outside of this room was suspended. Time wasn’t rushing forward anymore—it was just the two of you, existing in this space, in this perfect, quiet moment.

But just as the last word left his lips, the ringing of his phone sliced through the air, sharp and unwelcome. Joel froze for a beat, the smile on his face faltering slightly. He pulled away, reluctantly, the distance between you growing just enough for him to glance at the phone screen.

“Convenient,” he muttered, his voice holding a note of dry humor, but the amusement quickly faded as he saw the caller ID. His brow furrowed, and he answered with a steadying breath, bringing the phone to his ear. “Yeah?”

You watched him, the way his posture stiffened, his focus sharpening as he listened. His brows furrowed deeply, his eyes narrowing. Your hand, which had been resting on his chest, stilled as you saw the shift in his expression, the tightening of his jaw.

He stepped back slightly, as if distancing himself from the moment, his hand gripping the phone tighter as his voice lowered, more urgent now. “Which hospital?” he asked, his words clipped. “Okay, okay, I’m on my way. Tell her I’m on my way—tell her not to be scared...”

You took a step forward, instinctively, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Joel...”

His eyes flicked to you, a flicker of panic crossing his features, but he quickly masked it. He stood straighter, listening intently, his body still but tense. “I... uh,” he hesitated, his gaze meeting yours, the weight of the moment sinking in. “I’ll be right there.”

The words hung in the air, and just as quickly as the connection was made, it was severed. He snapped the phone shut, his breath shaky as he shoved it into his pocket. His face had gone pale, the usual warmth drained from his expression.

“Irina’s mother is at the hospital with Sarah,” he said, his voice thick with worry. He ran a hand through his hair, the movement absent, almost frantic, as he turned toward the door, his steps hurried. You followed him, your heart now thumping in your chest, your mind spinning with the new reality of the situation.

“What happened?” The question left your mouth, but it felt cold, distant, as if the words hadn’t quite reached you. Your heart raced, the quiet stillness in your chest now replaced by a frantic pulse. “Is she okay?”

“She fell out of the treehouse,” he said, his voice breaking for a moment as he spoke, a touch of guilt in his words. “I... I...” He trailed off, unsure of what to say, his words tangled in the chaos of his thoughts.

Without another word, you grabbed your coat from the rack by the door, your fingers shaking as you pulled it on. Without thinking, you moved toward him, your hand pressing gently but firmly against his lower back, urging him forward.

“Come on,” you said, the urgency in your voice pulling him out of his fog. “I’ll drive.”

[satoru-is-the-way]

A/N: Hello everyone it has been a while since I have done any sort of fanfiction. I want to try and get back in the groove for this new year. There are so many fandoms I want to write for. I want to try and get all my drafts and inbox requests cleared out by June but who knows if that will happen. Right now I will focus on them one at a time. But for now I want to focus a bit on Squid Game since the new episode just released. This will be a two part fanfiction.

Triggers: Mention of death, Gore (part 2), smoking, alcohol use, age gap (reader is 25 , Seong is 50,) and SMUT (PART 2)

Seong Gi- Hun x Reader

Game of Hearts pt.1

Seong Gi- Hun had his heart, mind, and soul set on finding the person who currently ran the Squid Game. He needed to find not only their leader but the island he was sent to in hopes of stopping the horrid games once and for all. His first step was to find the salesman who recruited him. Gi- Hun needed a team searching everyday for signs of this recruiter, and with his money he could afford anyone he desires. That is how (Y/n) (L/n) landed an invitation from Gi- Hun to discuss a partnership. Doing his research on possible hires, her name somehow kept finding its way to the top of his list. (Y/n) (L/n) came from an international family who of course aren't exactly on the right side of the law. Gi- Hun normally would not converse with people such as this but he needed someone discreet. It is possible this foreigner may be just the thing he needed to give a different perspective, and if they were caught it wouldn't connect back to him.

Gi- Hun sat patiently waiting for (Y/n) to arrive. His leg bounced nervously as the anticipation continued to grow. He was eager to get his mission started and this was only the first step in his plan. So many doubts ran through his mind. Everything that happened, all the friends lost, and worst of all the betrayals. A gentle knock at the door instantly grabbed his attention. “You may enter.” He spoke in a monotone voice. A cricking sound echoed in the room as (Y/n) entered. Now Gi- Hun had seen many beautiful foreigners in his life but this woman took his breath away. A feeling was rekindling he never thought possible again especially with how things ended with his ex wife whom Gi- Hun used to harbor feelings for. (Y/n) was a decent height, not taller than he was. Her sharp (e/c) eyes had been the first thing that captivated him. A look someone in power gave and it made him almost fall to his knees in front of her. (Y/n) held her head high taking a seat in front of him. She crossed her legs elegantly ready for business. Suddenly his lips were dry he quickly wets them taking a breath in.

“Are you just going to sit there and sweat all over the place or talk business?” Her tone that made him hang off every word spoken.

Gi- Hun nods,” Forgive me. I am looking for someone and I believe your team has the skill set needed to help.”

“Sure, do you have a picture of this suspect? Do you want them dead or alive?” (Y/n) got straight to the point.

“No I don’t have a picture but I can describe him, maybe even draw a reference up, but I do need him alive. This man is very dangerous. I didn't plan to go into detail about him. I do think you need to know what I have been through…” Gi- Hun then goes into details about how the salesman looked and tells her the synopsis of his time in the Squid Games. In honesty he simply needed to vent to some who might listen. Like any normal person of course her facial expressions changed throughout the entire hour he spent rambling on. Just as she was about to call him a lunatic and storm out for wasting her time Gi- Hun pulled out a case of money. The sum only one could achieve if his story was true. He looked like a desperate man needing someone, anyone to believe him.

“I’m in.” Those are the words that sealed their fate.

_1 Year Later_

The first year was rough for Gi- Hun who struggled with no progress. The pressure built on his shoulders as (Y/n)’s team searched. No leads, signs, or any traces of this guy or any others recruiting for their sadistic game. He is currently lighting a cigarette leaning back in his chair. It was time for (Y/n)'s weekly update. She walked into the room. The once stone cold eyes now turn soft seeing Gi- Huns distress. It was easy to notice he was worked up, especially today because it happened to be the ‘anniversary’ of him winning the games.

(Y/n) had also opened up with Gi- Hun the older man constantly turned to her for conversation. Normally she would dismiss clients' interests in becoming more than just professional partners… However this man , using those sad puppy looks made her professional code crumble after the first 3 months. Today Gi- Hun started their normal conversation about who went where and searched what stations including all the evidence of their searches that had been submitted via picture. (Y/n) in the middle of their debriefing took a bold step behind Gi- Hun’s desk gently placing both of her soft hands on his shoulders. At first he tensed up, unsure of her movements. Little by little her hands began to move , rubbing his shoulders.

“What…why are you doing this?” His voice shakes from the amount of relaxation he was drifting into. She chuckled at his response and applied more pressure at the base of his neck earning a moan. “You are trying to kill me aren't you?”

“Gi- Hun if I wanted to kill you and take all of your money I would have done so already. But I wouldn’t ever think of doing that. After meeting you nothing feels the same… I want to meet more than once a week. I can see this is tearing you apart. You have been at this for a year… we may not have much progress… but I know destiny brought us together and it's just begun. I won’t leave your side.” She could not stop as her heart took over.

Gi- Hun is speechless gazing up into her large (e/c) eyes that sparkle in the dim light of this run down hotel. “It's dangerous, I am dangerous. All the people that were killed… I hated that I even got you involved… you are the closest friend I have made in a very long time.”

Friend… just like that her world crumbles this whole time she had only been a friend to Gi- Hun and nothing more? All the late nights thinking of him. How (Y/n) casually would scroll through their texts… Each sweet compliment or kind gesture from Gi- Hun meant nothing but… friendship… (Y/n) refused to let her emotions show now.

“Yeah, what are friends for! I know you would do the same for me if the roles were reversed… or at least I would hope so.” She felt her cheeks warm up as he stood gazing down at her. Gi- Hun pulled her into a hug needing more physical contact. (Y/n) quickly embraces him as well, feeling the need to act as if this was no more than a friendship.

“I don't know what I would do without you.” He whispered. It was breaking Gi- Hun to tell her this was nothing more than a friendship because he craved more. But he didn't need to put a target on her back. If she got caught up in these horrid games… if they killed her… Gi- Hun wouldn't be able to move on.

“I should get going. I have some more paths to lay out with my men. They need to know where to head for next week.” (Y/n) pulled back, turning to leave.

Gi- Hun grabbed the small of her forearm, “Wait! How about we get some drinks tomorrow. It's an off day… I would really like to treat you… Come here and I’ll take you somewhere nice… as professional friends of course!” It took a moment for her to respond properly, she had to make sure her voice did not waver, not in front of him anymore.

“Yeah I would love that. How does around noon sound?” She asked after receiving a confirmation from Gi- Hun (Y/n) left returning to her apartment tossing herself in the bed with a sigh. Why is she putting herself through this? The desire to cancel this meetup was close but she had to see him… She craves Seong Gi- Hun.

-To Be Continued.

[sasheemo]

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary: Sunday morning’s spicy haze gives way to a heartfelt conversation about your future together. But with Agatha’s signature flair, it’s anything but ordinary.

Chapter Tags: Jealous Reader, Domestic Bliss, Nicky is Basically a Tiny Wingman, Happy Ending, Fluff Ending, Slow(ish) Burn Payoff, Smut

Word Count: 8.9k

A/N: Chapter 4 dropped on Christmas Eve, and now Chapter 5 is here New Year's Eve—what can I say, I aim for festive timing! 😬

I know I’m not the fastest writer, and I’m sooo sorry about that, but this final chapter had me second-guessing everything right up until the very end.

It was supposed to be short and sweet. No smut. No Rio cameos. Just a heartfelt conversation to wrap everything up neatly. But… well, apparently I can’t resist a little extra spice and some fluff. So instead of “short and sweet,” you’re getting “long and indulgent.” You’re welcome.

Oh, and fair warning—this chapter has a lot of dialogue. But I promise I did my best to make it… engaging wink wink 😏

This is my first-ever completed multi-chapter fic, and honestly? I’m a mix of proud and devastated to be saying goodbye to it. These two have been living rent-free in my head for a while now, and I really hope this ending does them justice.

Thank you to everyone who’s been along for this wild ride—it’s been a joy writing this story, and your support has meant everything. As always, I can’t wait to hear what you think! Here’s to the happy ending these two (and you, let’s be real) deserve. Enjoy and Happy New Year! 💜🥳

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

All you can hear is the relentless pounding of your own heartbeat, each thud drowning out your thoughts as you search for the words.

Agatha’s watching you, her gaze sharp but not unkind. Her hand rests lightly on your arm—a simple, grounding touch—but it might as well be a flame branding your skin, its warmth sending waves of tension rippling through you.

The weight of her presence, the intensity of her eyes, the way her touch seems to anchor you in place, it all builds to a point where you feel like you might snap. You take a step back, breaking the connection, though the movement is hesitant, almost reluctant.

Agatha lets her hand fall without protest, her brow lifting slightly in curiosity as she watches you retreat.

Your feet begin to move instinctively, pacing back and forth across the room as you try to untangle the storm of thoughts in your head. The soft sounds of your bare feet against the hardwood floor create a rhythm, something tangible to focus on as you walk a short line, turn, and walk it again.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Agatha shifting her stance. She takes a couple of steps back and leans casually against the dresser, crossing her arms over her chest with an ease that contrasts maddeningly with your spiraling. 

Her hair falls loosely over her shoulders, the soft light catching on its dark waves. Her expression is calm, almost amused, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips as she tracks your movements.

After a couple of minutes of incessant pacing, you don’t even need to look at her to know she’s probably fighting the urge to laugh. She sighs, low and exasperated, though there’s no real annoyance in it.

“Come here, hon.” her voice cuts through the fog in your mind like a blade, steady and commanding. 

You freeze mid-step, glancing toward her, your pulse quickening at the simple authority in her tone.

Slowly, you approach, hesitant but unable to resist the pull of her presence. You stop just short of closing the distance, leaving a fragile sliver of space between you—a barrier you cling to, as much for your own composure as for a chance to steady the storm inside. 

Every part of you aches to close the gap, but you hold back, convincing yourself that this small distance is the only way to face her with a clear mind.

Agatha doesn’t push, doesn’t reach for you. Instead, she stays where she is, leaning against the dresser, her eyes fixed on yours with piercing intensity. Her stillness feels intentional, as though she’s giving you space to breathe, to think, while still holding you firmly in her orbit.

“Well?” she prompts, her voice a velvety blend of calm and command. “Whatever’s got you pacing like a caged animal, it’s time to spit it out.”

You let out a sharp breath, your shoulders slumping slightly as the tension inside you finally breaks.

“Doesn’t this worry you?” you ask, your voice tight with nervous energy.

“You’ll have to be a little more specific, hon.” she replies smoothly, her tone effortlessly confident. “What part of this is supposed to worry me?”

You gesture vaguely with your hands, the words tumbling out clumsily as you try to give shape to your thoughts. “I mean… all of it? Us. Nicholas. What if—what if this gets messy?”

Her smirk deepens, and she tilts her head, studying you with that maddening, amused expression, like she’s already figured you out and is just waiting for you to catch up.

“Messy?” she repeats, the word rolling off her tongue with a teasing lilt. “Sweetheart, the only thing messy about this is how you’re tying yourself into knots over it.”

“I’m serious, Agatha.” you scoff defensively, crossing your arms over your chest.

“So am I, hon.” her voice sharpens slightly, firm but not harsh. “Look, I’m not saying there won’t be challenges. But whatever they are, they’re not anything two grown women can’t handle.”

“So… what exactly is it that’s worrying you?” she presses, her tone softening just a fraction.

Her question hangs in the air, and the weight of her gaze settles over you like a warm, steady pressure. You glance away, trying to collect yourself, before meeting her eyes again.

“It’s everything.” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I just… I don’t know how this works. How we work.”

Agatha doesn’t respond. She just watches you, but there’s no rush in her gaze, no impatience—just a quiet expectation, as if she knows the words are there and trusts you to find them on your own.

Her unexpected steadiness makes something inside you loosen. For some reason, you thought Agatha might struggle with conversations like this—emotional topics, deep and vulnerable. It never seemed like her thing, at least in your mind.

But now, seeing her so composed, so unshaken by the storm you’ve brought to her, you realize that maybe she was expecting this, maybe she’s known this conversation was inevitable long before you did.

And somehow, her calm confidence makes it easier to breathe.

“I just…” you trail off, running a hand through your hair. “I need to know. When did this start? When did you start… feeling like this about me?”

Her brows lift slightly, and for a moment, genuine surprise flickers across her face. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar smirk curling at the corner of her lips.

“That’s a tough one to answer.” she begins, her voice carrying a thoughtful edge. “It wasn’t some grand epiphany. More like… a collection of little moments, each one adding up until I couldn’t ignore them anymore.” 

There’s a faint trace of annoyance in her tone, not aimed at you but at the sheer audacity of the realization itself. Like the idea that you’ve been occupying so much space in her mind is a personal affront she’s still coming to terms with—and even now, it seems to bruise her pride just a little.

“Like what?” you press with quiet insistence, a thread of determination woven through the words.

Agatha tilts her head, her smirk softening as her gaze narrows, calculating. For a moment, she looks almost reluctant to speak, as if she’s weighing how much to tell you. 

“You remember that afternoon a couple of months ago,” she starts, her tone deceptively casual. “when you showed up drenched from head to toe? It was pouring outside, and you still walked in here grinning like an idiot, dripping all over my floors.”

You blink, caught off guard by the memory. “Yeah, what about it?”

“I thought to myself,” she murmurs, her eyes drifting as if replaying the scene, “how does someone look that damn happy while freezing and soaking wet? And why the hell can’t I stop staring at her?”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, your cheeks heating as your gaze darts away from hers. Instinctively, you feel the urge to take a step back, a reflexive retreat from the intensity of the moment. 

But this time, Agatha reaches out, moving as though she’s read your mind. 

She leans forward slightly, her hand grazing your wrist as her fingers curl lightly around it, tugging with just enough firmness to pull you a fraction closer to her.

“And then…” she continues, her voice gaining that teasing edge that always leaves you off-balance, “You’d leave those little treats from the café on the kitchen table. Like some saintly delivery girl, making sure Nicholas had something sweet after school and I had something waiting for me after work. You didn’t think I noticed, did you?”

“I just thought—” you begin, stammering slightly, but she cuts you off with a wave of her hand.

“You thought I was too busy to notice, or that I didn’t care.” she says, her tone mockingly serious now, though her smirk never wavers.

Her fingers trail from your wrist to your hip as she speaks, and it takes a moment for you to realize you’ve unconsciously taken a step closer, the space between you narrowing with each passing second.

“And you,” she continues, her voice dipping lower, “always smelled like coffee after your morning shifts. That scent… it stuck with me. Sometimes I’d walk into the kitchen at night, hours after you left, and I could still smell it. God, I started to notice it everywhere. It drove me insane.”

Your breath catches at her words, and again as her other hand joins the first, both settling firmly on your hips. With a final, deliberate tug, she guides you into the space between her legs, her warmth radiating against you, drawing you into her orbit completely.

“And then there was last Friday night.” she breathes, her voice steeped in an intimacy that makes every word feel like a secret. “I came home and found you on the couch with Nicky curled up next to you. I stood there just staring at you both. I couldn’t stop thinking about how… safe he looked with you. How much he trusts you. How cute the two of you looked together like that.”

The weight of her words leaves you momentarily stunned, but before you can process them fully, a darker thought claws its way to the forefront of your mind.

“And the other Fridays?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

Her brow arches, and the sharpness in her expression returns, a glint of mischief sparking in her eyes. “What about them?”

“You know what I mean.” you say, crossing your arms tightly, trying to shield yourself from the sudden vulnerability you feel. “All those nights you came home late, looking… like that.”

Agatha sighs, the sound low and laced with mock boredom, yet the gentle squeeze of her hands on your hips betrays her true feelings—anything but indifferent. It’s not real annoyance, more a carefully crafted exasperation tinged with amusement, as if, deep down, she’s savoring how your relentless, probing questions are playing perfectly into her hands.

“Most of them were business dinners.” she says, her voice firm and matter-of-fact. “Clients, potential partners. Necessary evils, nothing exciting.”

“But not all of them.” you press, your voice sharper now, frustration lacing your words.

“No.” she remarks dryly. “Not all of them.”

“How many were dates?” you demand, the jealousy you’ve been trying to suppress bubbling to the surface hot and fast despite your best efforts to tamp it down.

“Does it matter?” she counters smoothly, her tone cool but not dismissive.

“It does to me.” you snap before you can stop yourself.

“Fine, a few. But none of them were serious, hon.” she says, and you could swear her voice is playful, almost teasing, as if she can sense the jealousy burning you alive and is enjoying every second of it.

“Define ‘serious.’” you scoff, your hands coming up to push lightly against her shoulders, but she doesn’t budge an inch.

“One dinner.” she states with a shrug, her tone infuriatingly calm and offhand. “Maybe some fun at their place afterwards, but that’s it. It was never anything more.”

Her honesty stings, even if it’s what you wanted, what you asked for. You look away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the jealousy from overtaking you.

“And last Friday night?” you press, your voice barely above a whisper. The words feel heavy as they leave your lips, your pulse quickening with a mix of apprehension and the need to know. “What happened before you came home and found me and Nicky on the couch?”

Her grin turns inexplicably wicked as her hands slide lower to firmly your ass. With a deliberate tug, she pulls you flush against her, your hips colliding in a way that sends heat racing up your spine.

“Last Friday night was a date, sweetheart.” she begins, her tone maddeningly casual, like she’s recounting a a dull anecdote rather than making your blood boil. “She tried to kiss me outside the restaurant and invited me to her place.”

She pauses just long enough for the words to sink in, her eyes glinting with amusement as she gauges your reaction.

The words hit you like a cold gust of wind, and your chest tightens, jealousy fizzling hot and insistent in your stomach. Her nonchalance feels like a knife twisting, and you’re sure she can sense it, her smirk widening ever so slightly as her eyes lock onto yours.

You force yourself to hold her gaze, but the casual edge of her tone, the way she seems so unaffected, is almost too much to bear. A hundred thoughts race through your mind, each one more unbearable than the last. You’re not sure whether to scoff, snap, or step away, but before you can decide, Agatha’s voice cuts through the tension again.

“But…”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, and her expression shifts, the confidence that usually cloaks her like armor faltering ever so slightly. It’s subtle, but enough to make you feel the weight of whatever she’s about to say. 

She exhales through her nose, the hesitation palpable as though she’s debating whether to say the words out loud. 

When she finally does, her voice is lower, dipping into a gentleness that catches you completely off guard, each word laced with a quiet vulnerability that makes your heart stutter. 

“When I politely declined her offer… I called her by your name.”

You blink. Once. Twice. your brain firing on all cylinders yet somehow managing to stall completely. Surely, you must have misheard her.

And then she winks. And it’s game over.

Your eyes widen to comical proportions, your jaw drops like it’s auditioning for a slapstick comedy, and you’re pretty sure your entire face is now brighter than a chili pepper under a spotlight. 

At your reaction, Agatha’s smirk blossoms into its full, mischievous glory, positively dripping with wicked delight—a clear indicator that she’s savoring every second of your mental implosion.

“You what?!” you practically squawk, the words bursting out louder and more incredulous than you thought humanly possible.

Agatha chuckles, low and rich, the sound rolling over you like a warm wave. The sheer satisfaction glinting in her eyes is almost maddening, and her hands, still resting on your ass, shift slightly—her fingers brushing against the loose fabric of your shorts in a way that feels far too casual given the bombshell she just dropped.

“No, no, wait.” you stammer, still trying to process. “You’re telling me you, Agatha Harkness—confident, poised, never-misses-a-beat Agatha Harkness—actually called someone by the wrong name? My name? On a date? I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t exactly strike me as the type to… you know… trip over your own rizz like that.”

She tilts her head, one brow arching in mock warning as her eyes lock onto yours, a look that clearly says, Careful, hon, don’t push your luck. It’s playful, yes, but there’s just enough edge in her gaze to make your breath hitch, like she’s daring you to test her patience. 

“Trust me, sweetheart, no one was more surprised than me.” she admits with dry amusement as the faintest shrug rolls off her shoulders.

But there’s a betraying flicker in her eyes, a glimmer of self-deprecation, and you can tell she’s trying very hard to hold back laughter herself at this point.

“So, you’re standing there, at the end of your very hot date or whatever, and just—what? Randomly blurt out my name?” you ask, the teasing edge in your voice growing sharper as you fight the urge to giggle.

“It wasn’t quite like that.” she corrects, “We were outside the restaurant, and she leaned in—clearly angling for a kiss. I… stopped her before it went that far.” she continues as her smirk deepens. “But then she still invited me back to her place, and… well, that’s when it happened. Your name name came out instead of whatever hers was. Clear as day.”

The image plays out in your head: Agatha standing there with some impossibly glamorous woman, utterly composed until… she isn’t. The thought sends a strange mix of emotions swirling through you—jealousy, disbelief, and something dangerously close to triumph.

“Why didn’t you…?” you hesitate, your voice faltering as the question comes out before you can stop yourself. “Why didn’t you just go home with her?”

“It wouldn’t have made much sense, would it?” she replies with a shrug, as if you’ve just asked the most obvious question in the world.

“Why not?” you push, your heart pounding now.

“Because it wouldn’t have mattered. The whole date was a lousy attempt to stop thinking about the fact that I wanted my hot, younger babysitter.”

Your breath hitches, heat rushing to your face at her words. They land between you, heavy and electric, making it impossible to look away.

“And I knew,” she continues, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, “that if I’d gone home with her, it wouldn’t have changed anything. I’d have spent the whole night imagining it was you. Hell, I spent the entire dinner doing that.”

The honesty in her words steals the breath from your lungs, leaving you momentarily stunned. Her confession is playful and teasing, but it’s also raw, stripped of any pretense, leaving no room for doubt.

“You’ve been in my head, sweetheart, for longer than you realize. Last Friday night just made it impossible to keep pretending otherwise.”, her words come out almost in a sigh, laced with exasperation, like this whole ordeal has been just as maddening for her as it has been for you.

Your thoughts are spinning, a chaotic swirl of emotions you can’t quite untangle, but the way she’s looking at you—steady, unshaken, and utterly sure—anchors you in place. Her gaze is magnetic, pulling you toward a singular truth that feels impossible to ignore, and there’s only one thing your mind is screaming at you to do.

Your hands fly to her neck, fingers tangling in the soft waves of her hair as your lips crash into hers. The kiss is anything but gentle—urgent, unrestrained, a collision of pent-up tension, jealousy and raw need. 

Agatha stiffens for a second, caught off guard, but the hesitation melts as quickly as it came.

She responds with equal fervor, her lips moving against yours with a commanding urgency that steals the breath from your lungs. When she finally breaks away, it’s not in retreat but with a low, surprised laugh that vibrates against your lips.

“Well.” she drawls, her voice roughened with amusement and provocation, her lips still brushing yours, “If jealousy makes you this needy, I might just make it a habit to mention my Friday nights more often.”

Your face burns as you glare at her, though the heat in your chest only intensifies. 

“Don’t even try it.” you snap, tugging slightly at her bottom lip with your teeth as your voice drops to a playful warning. “I mean it, Agatha.”

Agatha chuckles, the sound rumbling through her chest as one of her hands drifts from your hips to the front of your shorts, her fingers toying lazily with the waistband. 

The casual, almost absent motion ignites a wildfire beneath your skin, leaving every nerve alight and your body coiled tight with anticipation.

She slips one thigh between yours, nudging gently to widen your stance, and your hands instinctively clutch her shoulders for balance. Before you can steady yourself, her fingers dip beneath the fabric, brushing the edge of your panties.

Her smirk deepens, her eyes gleaming with sinful intent that sends a tremor through your knees, as if she’s already savoring the exact moment she’ll make you fall apart. 

“But baby…” she murmurs, leaning in until her lips brush the shell of your ear, her voice dropping into something dark and honey-sweet. “Needy looks sooo good on you”

Her voice alone sends a pulse straight to your core, and when her fingers dip lower, slipping past the edge of your panties to press against your soaked folds, the moan that rips from your throat is nothing short of pornographic.

You’re drenched, embarrassingly so, and the slick sound of her fingers gliding through your arousal only makes it worse. 

She doesn’t even try to conceal her delight, letting out a throaty, satisfied hum that vibrates against your skin. It’s a sound of pure indulgence, as though she’s reveling in the way your body responds so eagerly, so quickly, to her words, to her touches.

“Agatha—fuck!” you gasp, your voice trembling with a mix of need and protest as your hips buck involuntarily against her hand. “We’re not… we’re not done talking.”

Her lips curl into a grin as she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, her eyes gleaming with a challenge as her fingers slide deeper, spreading your wetness with excruciatingly languid strokes.

“Oh, I know.” she purrs, her tone dripping with faux innocence as her fingers tease your entrance. “Go on, baby. Keep talking.”

“You can’t seriously expect me to—”

The sentence dies in your throat, replaced by a strangled moan as two fingers slide into you effortlessly. The sound of your wetness fills the room, obscene and loud, and you can’t stop the strangled cry that escapes when she curls her fingers just right.

“I’ve been patient, haven’t I?” she asks smoothly, her smirk widening as her thumb brushes a lazy, maddeningly light circle over your clit. “I’ve let you ask all your questions, answered them, and I’m still here for the rest. But…”. She punctuates her next words with a deep thrust, her palm grinding against your clit in a way that makes your breath hitch. “It’s time you start giving me something back, don’t you think?”

“Oh my God—fuck!” you groan, your head dropping to her shoulder as your hips grind against her hand, chasing the pleasure she’s so expertly coaxing from you. 

Your legs tremble, barely holding you up, and the wet, filthy sound of her fingers moving inside you makes your face burn with humiliation and need.

“That’s it.” she hums, her voice low and approving as her free hand moves to tangle in your hair, tilting your head so her lips graze your ear. “Be a good girl and try for me, mmh?”

“Agatha, please.” you whimper, your nails digging into her shoulders as your walls clench around her fingers. “I can’t—I can’t focus when you’re—mmh—when you’re doing that.”

“Sure, you can. And you will.” she murmurs, her thumb pressing harder against your clit in rhythm with her thrusts. “You’ll think, talk, listen, and take everything I’m giving you, just like the clever girl I know you are.”

Her praise is a double-edged sword, both a balm and a brand, sending warmth flooding through you while also igniting a stubborn need to meet her challenge. Gritting your teeth, you force your voice to form a single, coherent thought.

“N-nicholas.” you stammer, your voice barely intelligible as pleasure and worry collide in your chest. “What about—oh, fuck—what about Nicholas? What if— what if this messes everything up for him?”

Agatha’s smirk softens just slightly, though her fingers don’t falter, their pace steady and relentless.

“Nicholas is smarter than most adults, baby.” she murmurs, her voice impossibly calm and confident even as you whimper against her shoulder. “He’s practically a human lie detector. Honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already picked up on something.”

“Besides, he adores you.” she continues casually, as if you aren’t completely falling apart in her arms. “As long as we handle this carefully—and don’t, you know, start fucking in the living room while he’s watching cartoons—he’ll be fine.”

You let out a strangled laugh, though it quickly dissolves into a moan as her fingers curl deeper, hitting a spot that makes your entire body tense. 

“But—but what if he—oh my God—doesn’t take it well?”

“Sweetheart.” she murmurs, her free hand tilting your chin up to meet her gaze, her eyes impossibly tender yet razor-sharp. “Stop overthinking. We’ll handle it. Together.”

You nod weakly, unable to form a rational response as she quickens her pace, driving you closer to the edge with every thrust. 

But before you can let yourself fall completely into the haze of pleasure, another thought claws its way to the surface.

“And Rio?” you choke out, though your voice is barely a whisper now, trembling with the effort of holding on. “What happens when she—fuck—when she finds out?”

“Rio doesn’t have a say in my life anymore.” she drawls, her smirk widening into something downright predatory as her fingers thrust deeper, harder, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “Sure, we keep things civil for Nicholas’s sake, but beyond that? She can think whatever she wants. It won’t change a damn thing.”

“But—but what if—mmh yes—what if she makes it hard for us?”

“What’s she gonna do, huh?” Agatha arches a brow, her free hand gripping your waist to steady you as your legs start to tremble. “Get all huffy and judgmental? Let her.”

Her confidence ripples through you, grounding and infuriating all at once, even as her pace grows brutal. Your walls clench tighter around her, the pressure in your belly building to an unbearable height. Yet one last question remains lodged in the back of your throat. 

When it finally tumbles out, your voice cracks under the weight of it. “And what if you… what if you get tired of me?”

Agatha freezes for a heartbeat, her gaze pinning yours in place with a fierce, almost dangerous intensity that takes your breath away.

“I won’t.” she snaps, her tone so firm, so unshakable, it’s as if the very idea is offensive.

Her gaze drops pointedly to where her fingers disappear into you, sliding out glistening before thrusting back in with a wet, filthy sound, over and over again.

“If you could see yourself right now—falling apart on my fingers, so perfect, so mine—you’d know just how impossible that question is.”

Her words land like a thunderclap and your body shudders violently, your legs trembling so hard you’re certain you’d collapse if it weren’t for the firm, possessive grip she keeps on your waist.

And then, as if to punish you for your suggestion, or perhaps to drive her point home with devastating clarity, she slides a third finger into you without warning. The stretch is intense, toeing the line between pleasure and overwhelming, and you let out a strangled cry that tears through the room.

Her thumb presses harder, faster, against your clit as her fingers work you open. It’s deliberate, merciless, as though she’s staking her claim in every possible way, daring you to question her devotion again.

“That’s it, baby.” she hums, her voice dark and velvety, her satisfaction palpable in the way her lips curl into a smirk against your temple. “Taking me so well… so fucking perfect.”

Her words only add fuel to the fire blazing inside you, and you’re helpless to stop the wrecked, broken moans spilling from your lips as her pace quickens. 

Your body arches involuntarily, seeking more, needing more, as the pressure builds impossibly higher, threatening to snap with every flick of her thumb and thrust of her fingers.

You silently call on every divine entity, ancient force, or cosmic fluke you can think of, just to ensure she’ll grant the desperate plea teetering on the edge of your lips.

“Please!” the word escapes you as a desperate sob, raw and aching as your hands clutch her shoulders. “Please, Agatha—fuck, I need to—”

“Come for me, baby.” her command cuts you off, slicing through the haze like a blade and shattering you completely. 

Your body seizes, the coil in your belly snapping violently as your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, relentless and all-consuming. 

Wetness gushes from you, coating her hand and soaking the fabric of your shorts as she continues to work you through it, her fingers dragging unrelentingly along your walls, sending shivers through every nerve.

“Fuck, look at you.” she breathes, her tone edged with awe and sinful pride as your walls spasm around her fingers, gripping her so tightly it’s a wonder she can still move. “So messy for me.”

The intensity is almost unbearable, your cries escalating into a scream that rips from your throat as the pleasure crests in waves, each more powerful than the last. 

Agatha doesn’t let up, her movements steady and calculated, prolonging your pleasure until the last waves finally begin to ebb. 

Her hand on your waist tightens, grounding you as her lips press soft, soothing kisses along your jaw, a stark contrast to the raw intensity of what she’s just done to you.

As you collapse against her, your breathing ragged and uneven, she slows her fingers, her touch gentler now as she carefully withdraws, her hand glistening with your release. 

She presses a lingering kiss to your temple, her voice impossibly tender despite the smug satisfaction lacing it.

“See? I knew you could do it. Such a good girl for me.” she murmurs, her words a caress that feels like velvet against your frayed senses. 

Her free hand strokes slow, appeasing circles against your lower back, grounding you as the tremors in your body begin to ebb.

The room feels impossibly quiet now, the only sounds your labored breathing and the warm, satisfied chuckle that hums through Agatha’s chest.

“You’re insufferable.” you mumble weakly against her neck, your voice hoarse and cracked, though there’s a stifled laugh buried beneath the exhaustion.

“And yet….” she purrs, lifting your chin with a single, deft finger until your gaze meets hers. Her piercing eyes hold yours captive, but there’s a glimmer of something softer beneath the smirk curling at her lips—something achingly tender, almost reverent. “Here we are.”

Her thumb brushes over your cheek, the simple, affectionate gesture robbing you of what little breath you’ve managed to reclaim. 

You blink up at her, still dazed, a faint, incredulous smile pulling at your lips.

“Here we are,” you echo, your voice trembling but steady enough to carry the weight of a moment that feels suspended in time.

It’s a connection that needs no embellishment, one that feels intimate and inevitable, like it had been quietly waiting for the two of you all along.

The rest of Sunday unfolds in a blissful, lazy haze. 

After the emotionally charged conversation in the morning, the day slows to a gentle rhythm. Agatha suggests a walk to clear your heads, and the two of you meander through a nearby park. 

The air is crisp, the sun peeking through the clouds as you stroll side by side, talking about nothing in particular—favorite seasons, forgotten childhood stories, ridiculous hypotheticals. 

It feels easy, natural, like you’ve been doing this forever.

Back at home, the afternoon fades into evening. You help Agatha prepare a simple dinner, and she insists on pouring you a glass of wine while you work. 

Later, the two of you curl up on the couch, a movie playing on the screen, your head resting on her shoulder. The sound of her quiet laughter at the film’s witty dialogue makes your heart ache with something sweet and new.

But the serenity is interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. Nicholas bursts in, his bag slung over his shoulder, his cheeks flushed from the cool evening air. 

Rio follows, her gaze sweeping briefly between you and Agatha, lingering just long enough to convey a subtle curiosity, before she offers a polite nod. Bending slightly, she presses a kiss to Nicholas’s cheek, her voice soft as she wishes him goodnight. 

Without another word, she straightens, casting one final glance in your direction, then strides out the door with the same poised elegance she carried in.

“Hey, kiddo!” Agatha calls out, sitting up slightly but keeping her arm draped over the back of the couch, her fingers brushing your shoulder.

Nicholas closes the door and freezes the second he turns, his eyes darting between the two of you. 

His brow furrows, and then, with his hereditary dramatic flair, he lets out a loud, exaggerated sigh.

“Finally!” he groans, dropping his bag on the floor with a thud. “I was wondering when you two were gonna figure it out.”

You blink, startled. “Wait—what?”

Agatha’s smirk is instant, her lips curling as she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “What do you mean, ‘figure it out,’ Nicky?”

He rolls his eyes with as if the answer is painfully obvious. 

“I mean the two of you! You’re always talking about each other and asking me stuff.” he quips, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You’re like, ‘What’s your mom’s favorite breakfast?’, and Mom’s like, ‘Do you think she likes scary movies?’. Ugh, it was soooo annoying.”

Nicholas shakes his head, letting out another dramatic sigh as if he’s been a long-suffering martyr to your mutual pining. 

From beside you, you hear the unmistakable sound of a small snort escaping Agatha.

Heat floods your cheeks as you glance at her, but it only makes her grin widen. She arches a single, perfectly smug eyebrow at you, her expression dripping with satisfaction.

“Told you.” she says simply, giving an exaggerated shrug.

You cover your face with your hands, groaning. “This is mortifying.”

Agatha’s laughter fills the room, warm and unrestrained. She reaches out to tug one of your hands away from your face, her thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture so casual yet affectionate it leaves you breathless.

After that day, You and Agatha decide to take things slow, despite the months you’ve already spent orbiting each other. You want to step out of the roles you’ve occupied—Nicholas’s babysitter, his mom—and discover who you are to each other beyond that.

At first, you were almost afraid. Afraid that someone like Agatha, who seemed so independent and unapologetically confident, might be all fire and intensity, with little space for tenderness beyond fleeting moments. 

But slowly, carefully, she proves you wrong.

When Agatha loves, you realize, she doesn’t hold back. She loves with her entire being, fiercely yet gently, as though nothing outside the world she’s built around you truly matters.

Sure, the sex is breathtaking—raw, unrestrained, and unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. But with Agatha, it’s so much more than that. 

She doesn’t just make you feel wanted, she makes you feel profoundly seen, utterly cherished. Every touch carries intention, every kiss a pledge of devotion.

She quickly learns your body like a map, her fingers and lips tracing each curve with reverence, savoring every discovery as though unveiling a hidden treasure meant only for her.

But beyond the fiery passion, there’s an unexpected warmth, a softness that takes you by surprise. 

Her teasing sarcasm and sharp wit—cornerstones of who she is—remain ever-present, capable of making you groan in exasperation one moment and laugh until your sides ache the next. 

And yet, as new facets of her emerge, they gradually begin to share space with so much more.

At night, when the world is quiet, Agatha reveals a rare, thoughtful vulnerability, speaking of the things that scare her or the mistakes she’s afraid of repeating.

In the evenings, she pulls you onto the couch, wrapping you in her arms as she teases you about your movie choices, only to stay glued to the screen the entire time.

In the middle of an argument, even when her irritation is clear and the sharpness in her tone feels like a shield she’s reluctant to lower, her gaze softens. Against her own nature, she takes a breath, letting the frustration ebb just enough to say, “I’m listening, go on.” It’s not easy for her, you can see that—but she tries. She chooses to stay, to listen, to understand, even when every instinct might tell her to close off.

Each moment is a small glimpse into a side of her that feels like a gift, a quiet affirmation that she is so much more than you ever imagined.

You also come to realize, that Agatha, for all her snarky remarks and commanding presence, craves affection too. 

She’ll never say it outright, of course, but the way she seeks those little moments of closeness gives her away every time.

The way she tucks you closer to her chest in the morning, long before the rest of the world is awake. The way her hand brushes your hair back as you lean over a book, a casual touch that lingers just a second too long. The way she kisses your temple absentmindedly as she passes you in the kitchen. The way her fingers trail down your arm before settling on your waist as you both stand in the backyard at night, watching Nicholas excitedly point out constellations while Agatha murmurs their names with a quiet smile. The way her fingers softly brush against yours when she hands you a cup of coffee.

These aren’t grand gestures—they’re quiet, unspoken reminders of how deeply she cares. They’re Agatha’s way of saying what she can’t always put into words, of reaching for connection in ways that feel achingly sincere.

Agatha surprises you constantly. 

She starts showing up at the café during your morning shifts, always impeccably dressed, her heels clicking against the tile floor as she strides in like she owns the place. 

“I’m between meetings” she claims casually, though you notice she always stays just long enough to leave your coworkers flustered and whispering about ‘the gorgeous older woman’ who sits at the corner table, sipping her black coffee and glancing at her phone like she has nowhere better to be.

When she catches you watching her from behind the counter, her smirk is instant, as if to say, Yes, hon, I know I’m distracting you. And it never fails to make your pulse race.

She spoils you shamelessly, too. Thoughtful gifts appear with alarming regularity—books she’s noticed you eyeing, a beautiful scarf she swears “just screamed your name,” or your favorite pastries from a bakery across town. 

“Stop fussing.” she says one evening as you eye the expensive wine she’s ordered at a rooftop restaurant. The city lights glitter around you, and the cool night air brushes your cheeks. “You deserve it.”

You roll your eyes but lean in to kiss her anyway, her hand slipping up to cup your cheek. Her smile softens, that guarded edge melting just enough to reveal the depth of her affection, and your heart aches in the best way.

For Agatha, you could have stopped working altogether if you wanted to. She made it clear from the beginning that money would never be an issue, brushing off the idea as though it was laughable. 

Still, you hold onto your job at the café. It keeps you busy in the mornings, gives you a sense of independence, and lets you stash away some savings of your own. Besides, you’ve worked there so long it feels strange to think about leaving.

At the same time, you insist on keeping your part-time babysitting job, though you flat-out refuse to let her pay you anymore.

That particular conversation becomes a recurring battle. One day, however, you reach your limit.

It’s the umpteenth time Agatha offers to pay you for the hours you spend with Nicky. She leans casually against the doorframe as you fold Nicholas’s laundry, her voice calm but insistent, a mix of exasperation and charm she wields far too well.

You freeze mid-fold, the heat of your frustration bubbling over.

“Agatha, I swear to God, if you bring this up one more time…” you snap, throwing a pair of socks straight at her chest with uncharacteristic force.

Her smirk falters as she catches them, her eyes widening at the sharpness in your voice.

“You’re seriously yelling at me over socks?” she quips, clearly thrown off but still managing to sound incredulous.

“I’m yelling because I’m done with this conversation.” you fire back, your voice louder than you intended. “I’m not taking your money for this anymore. Period. End of story. Got it?”

Agatha blinks, stunned into silence. It’s not often you raise your voice, and judging by her expression, she doesn’t quite know what to do with it. 

After a long, weighted pause, she finally lets out an exaggerated sigh, her shoulders slumping dramatically as she tosses the socks back at you.

“Well, you’re impossible.” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans back against the doorframe with a look of mock irritation. “I can’t win with you.”

You narrow your eyes at her, still fuming, but the hint of a grin tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“You already have.” you mutter, chucking another pair of socks her way.

This time, her smirk returns in its full glory. She catches the socks with ease, her expression relaxing as she throws them back with a playful flick of her wrist. “Flatterer.”

After that conversation, the balance you strike feels so natural, so effortlessly right, that it’s hard to remember a time when things were any different.

You spend your mornings at the café, while most of your afternoons are dedicated to Nicholas. Over time, Agatha begins working from home more often, and those afternoons blend seamlessly into dinners shared around the table, followed by evenings that melt into cozy, lazy hours on the couch. 

Even if you don’t see her much while she works—her door often closed as she immerses herself in work—there’s something undeniably comforting about knowing she’s just upstairs. 

It’s in the faint hum of her voice during a call, the creak of floorboards as she shifts her chair, or the brief moments when she steps out to grab coffee, check on Nicholas, or steal a quick kiss from you in the kitchen. 

Her presence lingers throughout the house, steady and grounding, offering a quiet reassurance you hadn’t realized you craved.

The roles you once played haven’t disappeared, but they’ve shifted, harmonizing gracefully into this new dynamic that feels equal parts exciting and comforting.

Agatha doesn’t push you to redefine everything overnight, doesn’t demand more than you’re ready to give. Instead, she meets you where you are, and together, you explore the space between who you were before and who you’re becoming now.

Five months in, Agatha brings it up over breakfast.

“You know…” she begins casually, buttering her toast with the kind of ease that suggests she isn’t about to change your life forever, “it’d make a lot more sense if you just lived here.”

You nearly choke on your coffee, coughing and setting the mug down with a sharp clink. “Are you—are you serious?”

She looks up from her plate, her expression calm but her eyes warm, filled with a certainty that grounds you even as your heart races. “Of course. It feels right, doesn’t it?”

It does. Deep down, you’d known for a while now that this was where you belonged. Still, hearing it aloud, from her, catches you off guard. But there’s no hesitation when you answer.

“Yes.” you say, the word coming out soft but steady. “It does.”

Everything falls into place with an almost disarming simplicity and, by the end of the weekend, your things are integrated seamlessly into her home. 

Your favorite mug finds a spot on her kitchen shelf, your books line the living room walls alongside hers, and the faint scent of your perfume lingers in her bedroom.

Nicholas adjusts effortlessly, almost as if he’d been waiting for this to happen all along. The three of you settle into a domesticity that feels natural, filled with laughter, shared meals, and quiet moments.

Even Rio seems unbothered when she comes to pick Nicholas up on the weekends. She exchanges polite words with you, her demeanor perfectly cordial, before whisking him away for their outings. 

Whatever tension you’d feared never materializes, leaving you to wonder if Agatha had talked to her privately or if Nicholas, in his own way, had smoothed the path between you.

On Saturday mornings, Nicholas claims the kitchen as his domain, declaring himself “Head Pancake Chef” as you and Agatha lounge at the table, sipping coffee and exchanging amused glances while he works.

In the evenings, after Nicholas has gone to bed, the two of you often find yourselves curled up together on the couch, her arm draped lazily over your shoulders as you share quiet conversation, watch a movie or simply sit in comfortable silence.

Every day, every moment, strengthens the sense that this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

Yet, for months, you’ve held onto your old apartment, keeping it as a safety net—a place to retreat to if things fell apart, if Agatha ever grew tired of you, if it all turned out to be too good to be true. 

You’d told yourself it was practical, that it didn’t mean anything. But deep down, you’d known it was fear keeping you tethered to the space.

One random evening, everything changes.

It’s late, and the house is quiet. You and Agatha are curled up on the couch, one arm draped around your shoulders as you trace lazy circles on the back of her hand. There’s an ease between you, the kind that has grown naturally over the months.

Out of nowhere, she murmurs, “I love you.”

The words land softly but powerfully, knocking the air from your lungs. 

You freeze, your hand stilling on hers as your mind races. For a brief moment, you think you’ve imagined it, your own thoughts playing tricks on you.

But then you glance up, and she’s watching you. Her expression is open yet achingly vulnerable, her lips slightly parted as if she’s bracing herself for your reaction, the faintest flush coloring her cheeks.

Agatha Harkness, who exudes confidence and poise in every other moment, suddenly looks almost shy.

Your heart swells, the response spilling out without hesitation. “I love you too, Agatha. So much.”

Her eyes widen briefly before a slow, radiant smile spreads across her face, lighting her up in a way you’ve never seen before.

She leans in, her movements deliberate yet tender, and when her lips meet yours, it’s as if the world tilts on its axis.

The kiss starts soft, her lips warm and gentle against yours. But it deepens quickly, her hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, her thumb brushing your cheek.

You feel her smile against your lips, a small, unguarded curve that sends warmth flooding through you. When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours, her hand lingering on your cheek as if she’s reluctant to let go. 

Her eyes search yours, glowing with a mix of joy and relief, and you realize that this moment, this love, is as real as it gets.

The next morning, you list your apartment for sale.

Weeks later, it sells, and it’s time to clear it out for good. Agatha insists on coming with you to help despite your protests that there isn’t much left to do, since most of your things had already made their way to her house when you moved in.

Together, you sift through the last remnants of your belongings—forgotten trinkets in the back of drawers, mismatched furniture that doesn’t fit anywhere anymore, and boxes filled with things you can’t remember why you kept.

As you bend down to pick up one of the boxes, you feel the weight of her gaze on you. By the time you straighten, she’s right there—closer than she was a moment ago—her hand curling possessively around your waist, her presence electric.

“What if…” she murmurs, her lips grazing your ear as her fingers slide to the small of your back, “We give this place a proper send-off.”

Before you can respond, her mouth is on yours, claiming and insistent. The kiss is searing, a collision of teeth and tongues that leaves you breathless as she presses you back against the nearest wall.

“Agatha—fuck!” you gasp as her hands wander, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against her. “We’re supposed to be clearing out, not—” your voice falters as her lips graze your neck, stealing your train of thought entirely.

“Oh, we will.” she purrs, her voice dripping with wicked intent. “After.”

What follows is nothing short of ruinous. She doesn’t just touch you—she consumes you, her hands, mouth, and body working in perfect, devastating harmony to claim every inch of you.  

She starts in the kitchen, bending you over the counter with a commanding ease that makes your breath hitch. Her nails dig into your hips as her fingers slide into you, relentless and thorough, her mouth hot and demanding against your neck. The slick sound of her movements mixes with the sharpness of your cries, echoing off the bare walls as her pace quickens, leaving you breathless and clawing for the edge.

In the living room, she pushes you down onto the couch—the same one where you once sat alone, overthinking everything. Now, it’s where she strips you bare and buries her head between your thighs, her tongue working with maddening precision. She doesn’t stop, even as your hips buck against her mouth, her grip on your thighs unrelenting. When you fall apart, her name breaking from your lips, she takes it all, her smirk sinful as she looks up, licking her lips like she’s savoring every second.

Even the bedroom—now a sparse, nearly empty space that offers no distractions—doesn’t escape her attention. She pins you to the mattress with a ferocity that leaves no doubt as to who you belong to, her name a broken mantra on your lips as her pace builds, her body pressing against yours in a way that demands surrender. Her fingers push you over the edge again and again, each climax leaving you trembling and weak, her breath hot on your skin as she praises you through the haze of pleasure.

By the time she’s done with you, every surface bears the evidence of her passion, and you’re left spent, boneless, and utterly wrecked in her arms.

Later, as you sit on the floor together eating takeout amidst the remaining boxes, she looks over at you with a satisfied smirk.

“So…” she says, her voice a lazy drawl. “Think you’ll miss this place?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you lean into her side. “Not even a little.”

Because your home isn’t a space anymore—it’s her.

Exactly one year after that Sunday morning when everything changed, you find yourself reflecting on how far you’ve come.

It’s Friday night and you’re sitting at a cozy restaurant, the golden glow of candlelight reflecting off Agatha’s beautiful features. Her hand brushes against yours on the table, her touch as natural and grounding as the rhythm of your breaths.

Fridays used to be a minefield, an endless loop of questions you were too afraid to ask, feelings you didn’t dare name. You remember those nights vividly, steeped in quiet agony, where every thought, every fleeting moment tied to Agatha—her voice, her gaze, her very presence—was laced with an ache so consuming it felt impossible to escape. 

At times, you can still taste the bitter certainty that nothing you longed for could ever be within reach. Looking back, though, you almost laugh. 

Agatha had nearly driven you insane with her looks, her touches, her maddeningly unreadable smirks. You’d been so sure you were imagining it all, you’d almost lost your mind trying to figure her out.

But now, Fridays have transformed into something else entirely. They’ve become a ritual of joy and love.

They’re your nights. Date nights. Moments stolen just for the two of you while Nicholas stays with Rio or a babysitter. Whether it’s a fancy dinner in the city or a quiet evening at home, these Fridays are sacred.

You glance across the table at Agatha, who’s sipping her wine, her eyes flicking up to meet yours. 

Her smirk curls in that way you know will always make your stomach flip, no matter how many times you see it. But there’s a softness behind it now, a tenderness she doesn’t bother hiding anymore.

“What’s that look for?” she asks, her voice low and familiar, the sound of it wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

You smile, bliss flooding your chest. “Just thinking about how lucky I am.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes in mock disbelief, but the way her thumb strokes the back of your hand betrays her. 

“You’re insufferable.” she mutters, though her tone holds no bite.

“And yet…” you tease, leaning forward slightly, your voice dipping conspiratorially, “Here we are.”

Her lips twitch as though she’s fighting a full smile, and for a moment, you both laugh, the kind of easy, unguarded laughter that fills every quiet corner of your heart.

And as you sit there, her hand in yours and the echoes of your journey fading into the warmth of the present, a quiet certainty blooms within you: you can’t wait to see where this love leads.

[mybelovedfleur]

,,𝐵𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓃𝓃𝒶" 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝐼

(Yandere!Silco x Amnesiac!Fem!Reader)

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!TW! FantasyAU! Heavy Yandere Themes, Silco is ooc for sure, vomiting, sick!reader, violence, mention of death, I will tag every chapter seperately! :)

Description: ,, A series of unfortunate events causes you to completely lose your memory. Now, you find yourself thrust into the role of the Duchess of Zaun, married to a man you don’t recognize. But was this ever truly your life? And why does the scent of blood cling to you, no matter where you go? "

Note: english is NOT my first language, I am very much open for critique and suggestions but pls be nice and respectful :c

Also a big ty and ily to @ink-and-dagger because DWM is the best fic on the internet and you should read it immediatelly! They're the main reason for me coming back to writing after YEARS, yes it is that good C: GO READ IT NOW OR REREAD IT IDC

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A violent cough escaped your lips, food remains mixed with blood landed on the undoubtedly expensive silverware before you. A warm hand found its way to your back, moving in soothing circles, while you tried to catch your breath. You frowned at the mess you made, tears slowly clouding your vision.

,,I'm so sorry" you whispered in embarrassment, looking down at your weak, trembling hands.

"Don’t," Silco muttered, his brow furrowed as he wiped your face gently. "I shouldn’t have let you eat at the table. You’re too weak, my love." His tone was firm, but the action was oddly tender. It felt as though you were a child being cared for by a doting mother. But the difference was evident - you were a grown woman, and he was your husband, at least that’s what he told you.

"We're going back to bed now, that's enough stress for you today, beloved," he said without a second's hesitation, immediately picking you up and heading towards the bedroom as you whimpered in his hold. It was the first time Silco had allowed you to be anywhere beyond your bedroom or the bathroom. Sitting at the table, rather than being spoon fed by him while lying in bed felt strangely liberating, a brief moment of freedom you hadn’t realized you craved so much. 

,,It's morning" you were certain he heard your complaints, yet he chose to ignore them as he tucked you under the covers of an annoyingly comfortable bed. You felt like you had explored every nook and cranny of that room a hundred times, and stepping outside of it felt like a trip to an amusement park.

The matress beside you dipped under his weight, while his hand started to softly carress your hair

,,I'll bring you your medicine, you'll feel better then, alright?" his touch traveled over your temple, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear ,, I'll be right next to you, I'll read the reports and you'll fall asleep cuddled up to me, warm and soft" a delicate kiss landed on your head "Just like you used to"

It's been 2 weeks since you woke up. A dense fog shrouded your mind, obscuring everything. Who are you? What is your name? These seemingly simple questions only deepened the ache in your head. The pain had been unbearable then - every little movement was difficult. Your body felt exhausted and weak, as if it was pushing against the limits of its own capabilities.

It felt as though you had been dragged through hell and back—there was no other way to explain the state you were in. For the first few days, you burned with fever, teetering on the edge of consciousness, struggling to hold on to even a fleeting sense of reality.

In those brief moments when you managed to grasp even a sliver of reality around you, there was always that one hand gently touching your forehead, that one voice soothing your nerves, whispering sweet words of comfort.

You felt then as if some higher power took pity on your tormented soul, sending you an angel who became your only anchor in all this madness, his presence was like a silent ray of light piercing through the thick fog of pain. Every time his presence was felt, your whole body seemed to cry out for his touch, as if he was the only cure for the pain, the only being who could heal you. You were sure that if only you could, you would pull him to you, locking him in a strong embrace.

The reality turned out to be much more bitter than you expected.

When you first saw his face, a crushing feeling of terror ran through your body, unable to move on your own, completely at the mercy of this strange man. Your body trembled on its own with his every touch, almost trying desperately to scream for you to run away, the complete opposite of your imaginary savior. 

At first you thought it was just his appearance that made you so terrified, and you couldn't help but feel disgusted with yourself.

Yet despite his terrifying, almost inhuman eye and wounded face, the fear you felt ran deeper. It was some intangible, subconscious force that told you to stay away, as if something in his presence dangerously shook your intuition.

At first glance, you could already tell that he was an extremely elegant and wealthy man. His clothes were woven with gold and silver threads, perfectly fitting his figure, as if it was an indispensable part of him.

You were convinced that this place belonged to him. The opulence and grandeur of this bedroom made you feel almost alien, like you had no right to be there, like all this luxury didn't suit you in any way.

But the way he looked at you made you feel like you were a priceless treasure, a million times more valuable and beautiful than anything he ever owned. Only then did you begin to consider that it was the same person who had been standing by your bed all those days. His face immediately softened when he noticed you were no longer desperately trying to get away from him.

He told you everything, not taking his eyes off your face, as if he was looking for any reaction in it, as if each of your glances could reveal something he hadn't said yet. "I am Silco, Duke of Zaun, you are (Y/N), my only, dearest wife" the way he said it, as if it was a sacred thing, known to the world for centuries. He knelt down in front of your bedside, took your cold hand in his and gave it a kiss that involuntarily made everything inside you instantly quiet, your fear, the trembling of your body, the accelerated heartbeat audible in your ears, and probably your common sense.

A month ago, when your carriage was attacked by his enemies, their goal was him - but fate would have it that he wasn't with you in that moment. Against all odds, despite your wounds, you managed to escape, the only survivor. Amidst the raging storm, you wandered breathlessly through the forest, with every moment your wounds were deepening, and your strength was fading. Surely at some point you had to fall, the doctors said that the wound on the back of your head was critical.

You felt the internal pain that he must have experienced, almost spilling over to you. Every word he spoke carried pain and indescribable sadness, as if what he was telling was not only a story but also a painful memory that would not give him peace.

You sat there, legs pulled up to your chest, heart beating at an accelerated pace. Although you tried to make a sound, the words died in your throat, and the huge lump that was stuck there prevented you from saying anything. Finally, unable to contain your emotions, tears began to flow, silently running down your cheeks. 

The moment he pulled you to him and locked you in a tight embrace you were unable to resist , or tell if his embrace was a gesture of a  savior or the bonds of an executioner. 

You closed your eyes and gave yourself into his hands

You wouldn't get an answer.

─ ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ─ ─ ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱ -'♡'- ⊰ ⊹ ─

A terrible coldness took over your body, you opened your eyes the moment an icy gust of wind touched your face. You groggily sat up, to your surprise the door to Silco's office was wide open, compared to the darkness of the bedroom, a faint glow of a dancing candle flame was emerging from that room. Your feet touched the cold floorboards, and the sound of your own breathing seemed exaggeratedly loud

And it was only when the door handle was within reach of your hand that you realized you were able to move without Silco's help. Your legs no longer seemed to disobey you, standing no longer made you nauseous, and the inevitable headache disappeared.

The office was shrouded in mist, and its humidity made you slowly squint. The candle flame seemed to shimmer more and more intensely in your eyes, its light reflecting aggressively on the dark walls. Could it be smoke and not mist? Surely such a small candle couldn't do that, a fire had to start somewhere. As soon as that thought crossed your mind, you felt it,

As soon as that thought crossed your mind, you felt it - the sharp smell of burning forcefully entered your lungs. Choking, ragged breaths spasmed from your throat. As you grabbed your neck, and tried to back away to the bedroom, only a blank wall stood where the door had been, as if it had never been there.

"Ṣ̷͇͓͚̓̍a̶̭͒v̷͉̹̦̊̋̿ẻ̷̳ ̵̪͔̭̓̿͑͝ư̸̖ͅs̸̻͚̯͐" a desperate cry echoed in your ears, your eyes wandering around the room in panic. But the blinding glow of the candle flames made everything around them merge into one, as if time and space had ceased to exist.

"I̷͗͐͜t̷̢͇̪͗͆͝'̸̘̟̕s̶͈̘͝ ̶̺̞͈͓͆̒̓͘h̷̜̥̙͚̄͐̏̕ì̷̟̙͇̭̐̑̕s̶̢͖̏ ̶͇͝f̵͓͋ą̸̘͔̤͐̍̌ú̵̹̕l̵̨͎̈́̒̓́t̴͉̬͒̍.̷̡̣̭́.̵̡̯̠̋̓.̸̩̭͍͎̈́͊́͐" screams, sobs, dying breaths, desperate attempts to catch even a moment of respite. In the background, that terrifying, constant sound of burning wood, as if the world was about to fall to pieces.

"Y̴̜̎̔͛͂o̴͔̎ṵ̷̾͆̊̈r̴̟̜͚͂͌͘ ̵̢̖͙̫́̄f̵̰̚a̷͈̽͋̀͝ủ̵͙͑̕l̷̹̳̻͖̈͝ţ̸̐͋"

[revelboo]

your revel highness, if its not too much trouble could you spare some knockout or drift crumbs? only if you're up for it

Sure!

My Favorite Accident Pt 7

Knockout x Reader

• “You can’t just keep sneaking out. It’s being noticed,” Breakdown growls and Knockout huffs at his friend, sterilizing and putting his tools away. Because this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. Knows Breakdown worries about him and the repercussions of him sneaking out just to drag race, but really? Lord Megatron is too busy amusing himself with tormenting that little human they snatched thinking it was important to the Autobots only to realize it wasn’t. Anything else he doesn’t have time for.

• “Aren’t I always careful?” He laughs, turning and tipping his head back as Breakdown frowns at down at him. “It’s just a little fun. You remember what that is?” Pointedly going around his bigger friend, he thinks about that cesspool he’d left you in. Plating crawling at the thought of ever returning there. Embarrassed for you that you work there and wondering how angry you’d be if he burns it down while you’re not there so you have to find a new job. Though, given your current one and that pit-forsaken hovel you live in, you’ll somehow find something worse just to spite him.

• “You’re just spending a lot of time with those little flesh bags,” Breakdown mutters and he vents guiltily. That’s what this is about. That he’s been out racing and lately, practicing alone with you instead of hanging out with Breakdown. Reach up to affectionately cuff the bigger mech on the chassis, he knows he needs to spend some time with Breakdown. But he also needs to check on you, make sure you got home okay. It’s not like he cares, but who is he going to race if you get yourself killed? That in mind, he heads out, aware of Breakdown frowning after him. Unhappy.

• Hoofing it back to the apartment since your ride ditched you, the only good thing is it’s dark now and you’re not baking in the sun at least. But you’re going to kick the hell out of Knockout’s stupid, shiny paint when you see him again. Who just leaves someone stranded? High maintenance alien jerks, apparently. Hair slicked to your forehead and neck with sweat, you see the headlights coming up behind you and move further off the road just as a car streaks by only to immediately slam on the brakes. Speak of the devil.

• On the side the road, he almost doesn’t recognize you, driving past before he catches you in his mirrors. Throwing himself in reverse with a snarl, he backs up and shifts on his shocks. “Why are you walking?” Primus, he knows you’re broke, but still. And you glare at him. Like this is his fault. Annoyed when you just keep walking, he follows.

• “I’m walking, because my ride ditched me.” And because you didn’t have anyone to call, but you’re not about to admit that. Not to him. “Go away before I key you.” It’s an empty threat and you both know it. Even if he seems to, well, not like you, but tolerate your existence, you’re pretty sure he’d stomp you if you tried. And he pops open a door, waving it in invitation. “Really? Cause I’m sweaty.” Door closing sharply, he just keeps passively rolling alongside you.

• What is he doing? Keeping his headlights out, Breakdown trails behind at a safe distance. Close enough to not lose Knockout, but too far away to hear whatever’s being said. But what he can tell? Knockout is talking to a little human walking by the side of the road. Sees his friend open a door for you then close it without you getting in as you throw up a hand at him. Who are you? And why is Knockout bothering with you?

Previous

[urmommt]

ch1 Sealed with a kiss (jayvik x reader)

Summary:

After months at the Late Latte Cafe, your routine had become predictable—making coffee, jotting orders, and chatting with customers. You never imagined two of those customers were the brightest minds at the academy—or that they’d become your friends. Jayce’s booming laugh and easy charm made him impossible to miss, while Viktor’s quiet wit and sharp focus drew you in more subtly. Simple interactions grew into saved tables, shared jokes, and conversations you looked forward to more than you’d admit. Soon, it wasn’t just friendship. Every glance, touch, and late-night talk felt charged, like something unspoken was waiting to surface. And part of you didn’t want it to stop.

The undercity was always shrouded in a haze of gray, a suffocating mix of smog and shadows that seemed to cling to every surface. The streets were a labyrinth of narrow alleys and crumbling buildings, their foundations long eroded by neglect and desperation. This was where you grew up, where survival wasn’t guaranteed, and every step was taken with caution.

You remembered waking up to the hum of machinery, the clanging of metal echoing through the thin walls of what you called your apartment. It wasn’t much but it was home and that was all you needed. The air always smelled of oil, rust and another more distinct smell, one that you couldn’t put a name to but a scent you’d grown used to nonetheless. Now that you thought about it, it was most likely the smell of the smog. The one bane of your existence and the thing that set you back as soon as you came out the womb much like many other Zaunites.

The only Zaunites that weren’t set back as much by the smog were the rich ones and Janna knows you weren’t one of those. Your pathetic ragged clothes and constant dirt on your face were clear distinctions of your socioeconomic status and you were certainly not rich at all.

Your father worked in the factories, his hands constantly stained with grease and exhaustion. He always came home late, carrying the weight of the day on his slumped shoulders, but he’d still manage to put on a tired smile when he saw you.

“How’s my little Zaunite scholar?” he’d ask, his voice tinged with pride. He was a very proud Zaunite and although you never understood why you knew his pride in Zaun wasn’t entirely unaccounted for. Zaun did accomplish many things and through the danger of living here the people still survived and even sometimes thrived.

You’d show him the notes you’d scribbled on scraps of paper, equations and ideas you barely understood but wanted to learn. He’d ruffle your hair, tell you that you were destined for more than this place, that you’d make it out one day. His belief in you was unwavering, even when you doubted yourself.

The undercity was harsh, but it taught you resilience. You learned how to navigate its dangers, how to keep your head down while quietly dreaming of a life beyond the grime and shadows. The undercity wasn’t just a place; it was a state of mind, a constant reminder of where you came from and how far you wanted to go.

You’d learned early on to read people, to gauge intent in a glance or a gesture. It was a skill that had kept you safe, but also one that made you hyper-aware of the divide between those who thrived in the undercity and those who merely survived. For you, survival had always been about keeping your head down, staying out of trouble, and planning for a future that felt impossibly far away.

When the opportunity came to attend the academy in Piltover, it felt like a lifeline. Your father had worked tirelessly to make it happen, sacrificing more than you’d ever know to give you a chance at something better. The day you left, he’d hugged you tightly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re going to make me proud, kid,” he’d said, and those words were the last he’d ever said to you before he passed away in your first year at the Academy.

Now, as you stood behind the counter at the Late Latte Cafe, the memories of the undercity felt like a distant echo, though they were never far from your mind. The warm, golden light streaming through the windows and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee were a stark contrast to the world you’d left behind. Here, the hum of espresso machines and the murmur of conversation were your new soundtrack, a soothing rhythm that brought a sense of normalcy to your days.

The door chimed softly, pulling you from your thoughts. A pair of customers walked in, their presence commanding attention even before they reached the counter. As you looked at them you felt a sense of DeJa’Vu as though you’d seen them someplace, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

One of them was tall and broad-shouldered, his confident stride and easy smile making him hard to ignore. The other was leaner, his movements measured and deliberate, a sharpness in his gaze that seemed to take in everything at once.

“What can I get for you?” you asked, your voice steady despite the slight flutter of nerves their presence brought.

The taller one spoke first, his tone warm and friendly. “Two Americanos please. Busy day ahead.”

The other simply nodded, his attention briefly flickering to the menu before settling back on you. There was something about the way he looked at you, as if he were trying to read through you, into your soul.

You prepared their order quickly, handing them the cups with a practiced smile. “Good luck with your day,” you said, and they both offered brief thanks before heading to a table by the window.

It was a fleeting interaction, one that lasted only moments, but it lingered in your mind long after they’d sat down. Something about them felt different, though you couldn’t quite place why. Shaking off the thought, you turned your attention back to the counter, wiping it down as the morning rush began to pick up.

Later, as you sat in the quiet of your shared apartment, the day’s events replayed in your mind. You should have been focusing on your biology project for university, the one that had been looming over you for weeks. Instead, your thoughts kept drifting back to the two customers, their presence as vivid in your memory as it had been in the cafe.

The undercity had taught you to read people, to notice the small details that others might miss. And something about those two told you they weren’t just ordinary patrons. You pushed the thought aside, opening your laptop and forcing yourself to concentrate on the work in front of you. There were deadlines to meet, goals to achieve, and you weren’t about to let anything distract you from the future you’d worked so hard to build.

Still, as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the images of their faces flashed in your mind—the warmth in one’s smile, the intensity in the other’s gaze. You shook your head, trying to focus. You couldn’t afford distractions, not now. But deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if that brief encounter was the start of something more significant. For now, though, all you could do was wait and see.

guys pls dont shit on this its my first jayvik fic and i promise chapters will get longer they wont stay short omg TwT

[yanderefarm]

yandere butler x reader

cw;; drugging, non-con implied, blood, murder, violence

Its not easy being the northern duke of a nation run by a mad man. It's not easy having everything you've ever known destroyed so quickly leaving you alone without any guidance. It's not easy sitting in your frozen castle in the north dealing with food shortages and monsters and religious weirdos. Nothing about this is easy but it used to be, when the halls were filled with your mother's laughter and your little footsteps running to and fro. Now the halls are empty and cold and your footsteps never make a sound.

You straighten your back with a deep breath as you ready yourself to greet your guest. The Dvolin Marquis and his family are here, presumably to try and set you up with his eldest daughter. It's a common occurrence that you'll be harassed at least a few times by every noble woman in the country for your hand in marriage. You'll turn her down just like you have everyone else.

As you descend down the stairs you notice that your butler gives you a little wink before he begins to guide your guests to the drawing room. You can't help but smile knowing that even with this exhausting waste of time he's prepared your favorite dessert.

Of course as expected the meeting is short. You tell them plainly you are not currently looking for a wife and then they try to argue with you. The marquis tries to get more time to change your mind by insisting that you not cast them out into the snow after their long trip and out of politeness you offer them your guest rooms. Your butler gives them the tour while you return to the office with a headache.

As you sit at your desk trying to finish signing documents your eyes keep closing. Your head is so heavy. You've never been so tired in your life. Your eyes flutter close as you hear the door of your office open. Knowing your butler he probably already knew you were tired and had brought a blanket. He smelled really sweet today too.

...

Phillip had of course noticed your sudden exhaustion and even more concerning the disappearance of the Dvolin daughter during his tour. He can't stand bottom feeding scum like this who dare to bother you or even worse actively try to hurt you. It's hard to keep his composure when he opens your office door and finds this woman moving your unconscious body to the floor. Still he must remain professional.

"It seems as if his grace has fallen asleep. I ask that you not move him." He smiles as politely as he can muster.

"Oh- He-he was having some kind of problem he said his clothes were too tight before he fainted." She tried her best to look innocent and helpless.

"Then you should have alerted his staff immediately. In fact, why were you here to begin with?" He stepped closer to make sure you were still breathing normally. Just asleep like he said.

"You.. You're right I should have said something but I was so worried! You should be lucky I'm here to help your master."

"And you should learn your manners. Allow me to educate you." Phillip pulled out his riding crop and rested it against his hand.

His smile dropped as he hovered above her. "Lesson one. If you think a filthy lowlife like you could ever deserve my master you're too stupid to learn anything."

...

When you woke up the sun had started to set and you were laying on the lounge of your office, three different blankets wrapped around your body. The one who had woken you was a young maid who was out of breath and panicking as she shook you.

"Your grace! The marquis and his family have gone to the monster territory! They won't listen to reason!"

You clattered to your feet and grabbed your fur coat and your sword. Running out into the snow only to find Philip standing at the gate with his head hung and his coat hit with the unmistakable splattering of blood.

[rueclfer]

evergreen

𖤓 part vii. | series m.list | prev | part viii.

touya had been at camp for less than 24 hours and he could already feel himself cracking. you were insufferable, stubborn, and self righteous, but it doesn't take him long to remember that you always had been.

betweens silent sips of the beer bottle twirling between his fingers, he thinks back on the summer after his sixteenth birthday- which he concluded was the last good summer before things started getting bad.

this was the year that touya had forgotten to pack deodorant for one of japan's hottest summers within the last decade. knowing you, it didn't take much convincing for you to practically beg him to take your spare. you two spent the entire summer smelling like lilac and white tea.

touya distinctly remembered all the teasing from other campers that so obviously made its way under your skin. you've always been so easily irritable. he probably spent that entire summer warning you about getting a crinkled tan line right in between your eyebrows from all the scowling.

he almost audibly laughs to himself. compared to the look on your face when you two made eye contact earlier today, he half-way wished it was that scowl instead.

touya leans his head back and lets it hit the smooth wood of the cabin wall, bringing the opening of the bottle up to his lips. this wouldn't be the first night he'd be drinking with you on his mind.

"dude, get your fucking shoes off my bed." tomura tosses a pillow off of hawks' bed, hitting touya's shoulder.

he rolls his eyes and straightens his legs, letting his feet dangle off the side of the bed.

"loser." he mutters into the back of his hand as he swipes it across his lips.

"and if you throw up on my bed, i'm setting your cabin on fire." tomura downs the remainder of the contents in his red solo cup. "y/n in it and everything, you fuckers can die together."

touya rolls his eyes with a glint of a smirk on his lips. 

“always such a romantic, shigs. you’re more than welcome to burn with us.”

"shut up, I can't stand emo on emo crime, or flirting or whatever the fuck you guys are doing." hawks slurs, swivelling back and forth on the desk chair with his cheek pressed against the palm of his hand. "y/n is just another one of touya's victims, leave them out of this."

tomura drops his head into his lap, slapping a hand over his mouth to suppress a fit of drunken giggles. hawks look over at him with a wide grin.

"that wasn't even funny, shigs." he giggles. "shut up or else touya's gonna beat your ass."

"me?" he exclaims. "you're the one who said some stupid shit, not me. i'm gonna tell y/n and have them beat your ass." he says in between laughter.

touya's eyes flicker between the two bickering and laughing back and forth in their drunken daze. if he was a bit less intoxicated, he'd have more to say to his idiot friends and their antics.

maybe that was a cue for him to leave.

touya sits for a bit longer. it would be wise of him to sober up before stepping out into the open woods and making the trek back to his cabin- especially if he had to come to face you this late. is this feeling excitement or dread?

he taps on his phone screen. 12:37 AM.

he wonders if you were done packing. it's been almost three hours since curfew. what would you be doing now? making a summer bingo card? read a book? going through his things? plotting his demise? you were always a mass of type-a unpredictability.

the cabin door suddenly swings open, bringing the bickering to a halt and inviting in the warm summer night breeze.

while the breeze rolls in, the air sucks out of touya's lungs.

"what?" you sheepishly say, suddenly self conscious over the amount of eyes on you.

touya noticed the familiar old jacket slung over your shoulder. there was really no need for one on a warm summer night like this, but of course you had to grab it.

just in case!

your voice rings in his head.

"am i interrupting something?" you cock an eyebrow, eyeing the line of empty beer bottles lining the wall. "weren't you losers just saying something about missing me? what're you guys so quiet about?"

"you're late." hawks exclaims, breaking the wall of silence. "shots. now. you need to catch up." he reaches down from under the desk and pulls out a half empty handle of vodka.

"nah, put that shit away." tomura slides himself off of hawks' bed and stumbles onto his own beside touya "i wanna go to sleep."

"pull it together, crustbucket." you huff, taking his spot on hawks' bed across from the others. "you can handle a couple more shots."

you silently said your prayers. you and touya haven't seen each other since the bonfire, and he hadn't bothered stopping by the cabin before heading off to hawks and tomura's. you weren't sure if you were unintentionally-intentionally avoiding each other, or if things really are different now.

get a grip.

you silently curse to yourself, accepting the handle of vodka that you were sure had been passed around many of the other counselors that had stopped by earlier.

you squint your eyes shut in anticipation before tipping the bottle back, taking in a deep swig of the lukewarm alcohol.

you hold your breath through the burning sensation crawling down your throat. a beat passes. then two.

your eyes slowly open and catch touya's. he doesn't notice his lips curling into a smirk or his head nodding in approval as you pass the handle over to him.

you were grateful that in this weather, with this alcohol settling in your stomach, the heat prickling your cheeks and ears could pass off as nothing.

"where'd you learn how to do that?" he casually brings the spout up to his lips, the smirk never disappearing.

"you don't think i know how to drink?" you cock an eyebrow at him.

"can't i be impressed?" he playfully rolls his eyes. "you used to be such a wimp when it came to this stuff."

you don't reply, but instead press your lips together and avert your gaze down to your shoes.

if they were kids again, touya would take this as a success. you don't let him win often- or at all, really, but there's something bitter laced with your silence.

things feel different.

a/n: ok time to check in how r we feeling abt this fellas!!!! i rlly do writing shigs n hawks like this like i lowkey think they should all kissssss heh

tags:

@iluv-ace @bitchyfestivalbouquet @redr0sewrites @babylambdietcoke @bnhabadass @hanmastattoos @1ndee @starsryi @nesrynsblog @twoplayergaymers @suksatoru @ita606 @pookiebear16 @fictionalcharactersownmyheart @in-the-marina-trench @haruhi269 @itgetzweird08 @ilophilia @chimimon @emluvs-sugu @punishblue @whorror-complex @akumakitsune21 @maddie-rose-1 @ixeyi @commonmisery @ggriwm @exselily @kryscent @starrmage @vannyinthestars @burnishingbagels @soobhns @kaybug88 @lantsovheiress @0skullyard0 @albakugo @sleepyk0dyz

[cannibalisticskittles]

wingmanning - pt. 1

also on ao3 here :)

Lucanis has become accustomed to waking in odd positions in the months since Spite was forced into him, so finding himself half-crouched on the floor, thighs tensed like he’d been in the process of rising, isn’t much of a shock. 

What he is less accustomed to is regaining consciousness with another person present. 

Ward Ingellvar, called Rook by everyone around her and holder of his current contract, is currently peering down at him, worry etched between her brows.

“...Lucanis? Are you… back?”

Is he in control, or is Spite?

But Spite does not press at his mind, clamoring to wrest control away. Instead, he skulks about the edges of Lucanis’ consciousness, faintly grumbling – and yet, relatively quiet. 

“...yes.” For now. Which means he should get up and figure out what damage has been done while he was out.

Rook’s fingers twitch at her side, but she has the good grace not to offer him a hand up and worsen his embarrassment as he stands. She does, however, stare at him with that same look of worry. Intently. Lucanis takes a moment to assess his surroundings more thoroughly.

The last he recalls, he was writing notes, and now… well, at least Spite has not brought them far. He is still in the Lighthouse, not far from the pantry he has recently taken residence in; Spite’s escape attempt only brought them as far as the dining room.

The fire is out. The scent of wet woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air. There are potatoes scattered across the floor – as well as a few of the place settings that were formerly at home on the table. 

What exactly was Spite doing?

“What… happened?” he asks carefully. The words are spoken with great reluctance. It is… less than pleasant to have to rely on others to get answers for these missing moments.

“Spite… got into a few things,” Rook says. “Well. A lot of things. Tried to talk him out of the more, ah, dangerous ventures, but that wasn’t hugely effective, so then I tried to… distract him.”

“With – the potatoes?” 

Rook laughs, suddenly, then claps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. You just sounded so – …sorry.” She clears her throat. “No, the potatoes are my fault, but it wasn’t intentional. I came in to take stock of how many we had; Harding wants to make stew. But when I went to check, it… drew his attention, I suppose? He came out of the pantry, startled me, I dropped them, they scattered everywhere… then he started to poke around the room.”

“Just in the room?”

“Mmhmm. He said something about leaving, or wanting to leave, but he didn’t seem to be actively trying to go anywhere. More… seeking new sensations?” She shrugs. “I imagine there’s a lot here that was not present… before.”

In the Ossuary, she means. 

It’s been mere days since stepping foot on solid ground, and in that time alone, the demon has witnessed far more than he ever did when they were trapped down in that accursed place. It should be more than enough to keep Spite occupied – but it is not. 

Spite has been incessant with his questions since getting out, pestering him about new sights, new concepts – and yet, between all this, Spite makes demands to leave no matter where Lucanis goes, and complaints of being trapped when he declines. It makes no sense. The demon has always been insistent when he wants something, and he does seem to struggle to understand much about this world that is different from his own, but how could walking free of their prison have made Spite more restless? 

Now, it’s like he rankles whenever Lucanis isn’t in motion. Even in the Ossuary, the grousing was less frequent. It’s enough to drive a man mad. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, nor does there seem to be any rhyme or reason to what Spite has been doing here.

But… he considers Rook’s words. Is that what it is? Curiosity? The desire for these new sensations? Mierda. If that’s true, he’s not sure the demon is ever going to be satisfied.

Lucanis spots a bent spoon amidst the fallen tubers, and a fork with its prongs bent back by the fireplace. “Spite’s handiwork, I assume?”

Rook nods. “Mmhmm. He did get ahold of a few more than that, though I’m not sure where they ended up.” She peers around the room as Lucanis sighs, then  adds, “it’s not so bad – there weren’t enough place settings when we got here, but the Fade spit more out, so I’m sure replacements will show up eventually. And while he was preoccupied with that, I was able to move the knives out of the way.”

“The knives?” 

Lucanis glances at the far corner of the kitchen, where he can detect a flicker of violet – a telltale sign that Spite is lurking nearby. The demon does not deign to chime in, though. His silence feels purposeful. 

…or perhaps he is simply bored and wandered off. Maker knows he did it often enough in the Ossuary, even if the wards in place kept him confined to their erstwhile cell. 

“Half the kitchen knives were laying on the countertop,” Rook says. “Felt like the sort of thing he should probably know his way around, but not without some… supervision. So. I moved ‘em. Set ‘em outside the doors, on the little balcony.”

Spite does pipe up now. “No fun,” he grumbles, then disappears from view, in the direction of the door.

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Lucanis fires back.

He realizes too late that he has spoken aloud, when Rook stops in her tracks and shoots him a puzzled look. That’s a habit in need of breaking. 

“That… was for Spite,” he explains with a sigh. 

“Ah!” Understanding dawns in her eyes immediately. “Is he – still here?”

“He’s never far,” Lucanis says, “but I believe he has left us for the moment.”

Rook nods, but her eyes still drift in the general direction Lucanis was facing when he spoke to Spite. “I wonder how far he’s able to wander from you,” she murmurs. “And… does actual, physical distance have any bearing on how well you can communicate with each other? Are there sound waves moving through the air and it’s a matter of attuning to it, or is it entirely magical and facilitated by, or through, the Fade? Is there a way to become attuned to it?”

As she muses, Lucanis surveys the damage once more. It could be worse, all considered. Though the fact that Spite was able to take charge so soon – so easily – is… worrying. But there is little to be done about that now besides fixing the disorder the demon caused. He bends to pick up one of the wayward potatoes at his feet. 

This, at last, breaks Rook from her reverie. “Oh! Sorry, here, let me help.” And she begins to do just that. She takes to the task with fervor, scrabbling on her knees to scoop up nearby tubers and coax them out from the nooks and crannies they have rolled into. 

“Rook,” Lucanis says, “you don’t have to do that. It isn’t your mess to mend. It’s Spite’s fault – which means it’s mine to handle.”

But Rook is not to be deterred. 

“Oh, no,” she says. “There wouldn’t be a mess if not for me. Not this one, anyway; I suppose he might have still gotten to the silverware later on. Even so, this?” She waves a potato in the air demonstratively before, for some reason, tucking it into one of the many pockets adorning her coat. “This one’s my fault.”

“You were only preparing for dinner. There’s no fault there.”

But she grimaces. “Weeeell, if it was that simple, I might agree with you. However…” Another potato, another pocket to stash it in. “I… may have come to, ah, hide them.”

“To hide them,” he repeats. “Is that why you're keeping them in your coat?”

Rook pauses, shoots him a glance, then… tucks yet another potato into her coat. “Yes. Better here than within reach.”

“And why exactly is that?”

“Harding wanted to make stew.”

“Yes,” he says, “you’ve mentioned that.”

“Ah. Right. You weren’t here the last time this happened. Harding made potato stew once before, soon after we came to the Lighthouse, and it was… well…” 

She pauses for a moment, staring off into the middle distance as though beset by a terrible memory.

“The taste was… passable.” Yet the wrinkle around her nose and the way her lip curls slightly as she says that suggests otherwise. “But the texture… I don’t understand it. It’s like every mouthful, there was something different wrong with it. Crunchy, then mushy, then gritty, and sometimes even rubbery.”

“In a stew?”

Rook nods. 

Suddenly, a comment Bellara made the previous night about acquired tastes makes sense. 

“I don’t know if it’s a Ferelden thing, or if it’s because we’re in the Fade, or what,” she says. “When it was just her and Varric and me, we almost never had access to a kitchen, so I can’t say I really had a reference point for her cooking skills outside of the sort of things you could throw together on the go. But I know she could make a killer sandwich. I had so many of the Lace Specialty when we were tracking down Solas, and her yam and jam slam was perfect for traveling, too.”

“...yam and jam slam?” The words sound bafflingly foreign together. 

Rook nods. “Y’know, just… buttered toast, slices of roasted yam, and some butter in between. Keeps for a surprisingly long time.”

That… sounds heinous, but he lets it pass. He won’t bother asking about the Lace Specialty – it might be best to keep that one a mystery. 

“Whatever it is, though, when Harding said she wanted to make it again tonight, it seemed like it might be for the best if the main ingredient was to be… conveniently lost. But they were heavier than I expected, and I dropped the bag the first time I tried moving them, and then Spite came out, and I dropped it again and spilled them… so really, if I hadn’t been so uncharitable, maybe Spite wouldn’t have come to investigate in the first place. No noise, no mess.”

“Or,” Lucanis says, “perhaps Spite would have done more than bend a few spoons – he may have wandered off without any eyes on him.”

He is loath to admit the limitations of his ability to control the demon, but it does no good to ignore the potential threats it poses. 

“Mmm.” She considers this. “You may be right. Still, I say I’m at least half responsible for the mess,” she says, and resumes her efforts to tidy. 

Lucanis does the same. 

A few minutes pass in silence this way, filled only by the sound of quiet shuffling and tiny clang of silverware being scooped up.

Lucanis is the first to speak. He has done much for the sake of a contract in his life – much that was miserable, or injurious, or torturous, even – but the thought of rubbery stew will not leave his mind. That… cannot come to pass. 

“What did you plan to tell her?” he asks. 

“Hmm?”

“Harding,” he says. “When you went back to her empty-handed. Surely she would find that odd, knowing that there had been plenty here, before.”

“Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Rook says. “Maybe that we misremembered what we had? Or the Fade did something to them? Or… I tripped and fell and lost them all in the abyss.”

“And… what did you plan to eat, then?”

“Had not thought that far either,” she admits. 

He makes a contemplative noise and picks up what seems to be the last of the ruined silverware. Unless, of course, Spite has stashed more elsewhere in the room. Lucanis wouldn’t put it past him. 

“You know,” he says, “I do know how to cook.”

“You do?”

Perhaps he ought to be offended by her tone, but amusement wins out. “I do,” he confirms. 

“The master assassin has kitchen skills?”

“The master assassin has to eat.” 

“I suppose so.” She cocks her head to the side and blinks owlishly at him. “Wait – are you saying you’d be willing to make dinner tonight instead? Really?”

“Seems a waste of perfectly good potatoes to hide them away,” he says. “That is, of course, if you do not mind a master assassin handling your food.”

Rook scoops up the last handful of potatoes at her feet and rises. “If you poison me with something edible, I’ll die happier than I’d live if I ate that stew again.” And then her expression reflects a sudden panic. “–not that I really think you’d do that!”

“It’s natural to worry about,” he says. They ought to consider the possibility, at least. He won’t be poisoning anyone today – but a little more caution on their part wouldn’t go amiss.

“But I really don’t think–” She cuts herself off before finishing. Instead, she worries her lower lip between her teeth, then asks, “are you sure you’re alright doing this for us?”

There is apprehension in her voice, in her expression, but he is unsure of the reason for it. “I would not offer if I did not mean it,” he assures her. 

“I only mean – we’re asking a lot of you, as it is. Killing… gods, or ancient mages, if that distinction means anything. That’s your contract, not… playing scullery maid or chef. We really should be providing for you, not the other way around.”

Ah. The fear of overstepping. That, he can do something about. 

“If I allow myself to be sickened by tainted food and am too weak to hold a dagger straight, my odds of fulfilling my contract become… low,” he says. “And I do not fail contracts.”

Rook nods slowly at that. “Point made. …you don’t think it would do any harm to tell Harding a little white lie, do you? Say that you were already making food when I came in – something with potatoes, so, alas, we’re fresh out, and dinner is taken care of for the night. You know a recipe that involves potatoes, right?”

A recipe?

“I'm sure I can think of something,” he says mildly.

“Excellent. And… maybe Harding will just forget about stew by the time we get more.” She rolls her shoulders. “…I suppose there’s no need to hold on to these, then.”

Rook crosses to the kitchen area and begins to set tuber after tuber on the countertops, first arranging the ones from her arms, and then pulling them from her coat pockets. Lucanis brings his armful over as well, placing them beside her pile until there is a nice, tidy row. 

“We’ve got sort of a hodgepodge of various ingredients,” she says, “and they’re a little… scattered.”

“I’ve noticed.” The pantry has plenty of root vegetables, but not nearly as many essentials beyond that, and while he may not have had much time to examine the areas of the Lighthouse besides his erstwhile living space, even a quick perusal of the cabinets did not turn up much more.

“Honestly,” she says, “it’s been difficult to keep track of what was here before we got here, what we brought in, and what’s just… appeared. Still! There ought to be enough to make… something other than that stew. Would you like some help?”

But as she asks this, another voice steals away his attention. 

“Smells. Like earth.”

Lucanis has the composure not to jolt or visibly startle when the demon speaks into his ear – but it does delay his response by a moment. What was it she said? She asked if he needed help? 

“There’s no need,” Lucanis says, “you’ve already done more than enough, straightening out Spite’s chaos. I shouldn’t require any further help.”

“I’m sure you’re quite capable in the kitchen and you don’t need help,” she says, “but would you accept some anyway? To speed it up, or to give you less to do? I can’t say I’m particularly practiced – I never spent all that long on a cooking rotation – but I also never had my rotation ended early after giving the whole hall food poisoning like some of the other Watchers did, so…”

Spite chooses now to hover around her, craning to peer over her shoulder, and then looks back at Lucanis. “Lucanis. Why?”

Lucanis does his best to ignore the demon and process her words.

Does she ask out of that fear of overstepping again? Not wanting to give him too many duties outside of his contract? Lingering distrust, despite her insistence on the contrary? Wanting to be sure he isn’t going to slip something in the food and poison them after all? Or is it simply a genuine desire to be helpful?

He’d like to think he would have a better read on that, normally – when there isn’t a demon speaking incessantly into his ear. 

“Different. From potatoes. Different. From the others. Lucanis.”

“...Lucanis?”

Rook, this time. Her brow is once again knit with something akin to worry. She has said something else, he realizes, that he did not catch, preoccupied with Spite as he was. 

“It’s… Spite,” he admits. “He is… curious again.” 

Rook tilts her head and narrows her eyes as though doing so will allow her to hear the demon. As though this is something to desire instead of something to endure. “What is he asking?”

But Lucanis shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Best not to indulge him, it will only encourage him to try this again.”

She frowns and opens her mouth as if to protest, then shuts it again. Which is just as well, because Spite continues to pester him, needling him with increasing agitation. 

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” she asks, just as Spite growls, “Lucanis!” 

He needs —

A moment to himself. Some quiet. Rare though that may be.

Lucanis runs a hand through his hair as he gathers his thoughts. “…didn’t you say you were going to tell Harding her efforts were no longer needed?”

“Yes!” Rook clasps her hands together. “Right. I should let her know. Then she can rest of it longer, after all that rock magic she did today. Why don’t I do that and then I can come back and… peel? Stir? Scrub? Any of those tedious little tasks you don’t feel like doing, foist them onto me, yes?”

“Yes,” he agrees, though really, he has only ever been able to tolerate the presence of others in the kitchen with him in small doses, aside from those who had the kindness to teach him the basics in the first place – and Illario, though his cousin usually tested his patience before too long.

He shouldn’t refuse, though. What grounds does he have to turn her down?

Rook nods, and then she is off. 

When she is gone and Lucanis is as alone as he can be, these days, Spite redoubles his questioning. 

“Like dirt,” says the demon, “earth. But not like. Harding.”

“No,” Lucanis sighs. “Not like Harding.”

Harding smells like… loam. Fresh, healthy soil, flecked with green and growing things. Rook smells more like… old earth. Drier, dustier. 

“Why?”

“Why does it matter?” He cannot keep the exasperation from his voice any longer. 

“You notice. But won’t. Say why.”

He does notice. It’s an old habit, and one he intends to keep sharp. Things left unnoticed are things he cannot account for, and even a scent can be a warning sign of some danger lying in wait. 

“It isn’t important enough to interrupt,” he says. “Spite, I cannot focus when you’re speaking over someone. Others… notice.”

“But why? Why not. The same?” 

“It’s just different. There doesn’t have to be a reason.” Even if there is, it’s not one that the demon is likely to understand. What does he know of gardening, or catacombs? And he does not have the time required to give Spite an answer that would satisfy him.

“Is,” Spite grumbles. “But Lucanis. Never wants. To say. Why.”

Spite continues to voice his discontentment, but Lucanis turns his focus away from the demon and towards the task at hand, taking the opportunity to take stock of what’s in the cabinets.

It isn’t much. The shelves are in dire need of restocking. But… there’s olive oil. And several glass jars with the names of various spices written on them in what looks to be Bellara’s handwriting. 

Below, pots and pans of… sufficient size and quality, at least for now. Right. He can make something of this. 

He diverts, briefly, to the pantry, and returns with root vegetables, as well as a few onions. It won’t be the stew Harding envisioned, but there is enough for soup. 

As he sets these on the counter, besides the row of potatoes, he says, “Spite.”

Spite is entirely uninterested in his attempt at conversation, preferring instead to stare intently at the vegetables. He bends until his face is almost flush with the countertop, then reaches out and pokes at the pile, watching one of them wobble.

Lucanis isn’t sure if that actually does push it forward or if it’s simply unbalanced. Truly, he’s not certain how much influence Spite can exert on the world when he isn’t considering Lucanis’ body. There wasn’t much to test this on in the Ossuary; the venatori did have enough sense not to provide a practiced assassin with anything that could be used as a weapon. Which was, well, anything, when you’re a Crow. So the only thing Spite could consistently attempt to influence was… him.

If Spite is able to influence physical objects even when incorporeal... well. It’s something to watch out for. Another layer of danger to this whole situation. Even if Spite is only using this influence to poke around at root vegetables. 

“Spite,” he says again, firmer. 

The demon glances his way, which might be the most acknowledgment he’s going to get.

“You cannot – we cannot – be walking around whenever you want. And you cannot just… take over like that. My body isn’t yours to do as you wish with it, and – besides that, a demon in the midst of everyone, outside of the Fade, it scares people.” As it should. 

“Wasn’t. Outside it! And she. Already knows! About us!” Spite protests.

“Yes,” he says, “but losing control like that – not knowing where I am? – it’s… unprofessional.” 

Spite grumbles but makes no other reply. Lucanis opens the cabinets again and begins sorting through the jars of spices. 

“We – I – seem less… competent. Less trustworthy when this happens.”

Spite doesn’t even bother to grumble in response this time, only presses his face closer to the counter, watching how light filters through the glass jars. 

Lucanis sighs. His professional reputation has surely been marred enough by his absence; that he has been made an abomination and cannot seem to keep a tight enough leash on Spite for this fact to stay secret forever… well. It will not help that. The whispers back home may not have started yet, but it is only a matter of time, and all his past deeds, all the respect and good regard he once had earned, may crumble in the face of his new, permanent guest.

And he can’t even say this isn’t exactly what ought to happen. Who would trust a man – an abomination – who could lose himself at any moment to the capricious whims of a demon? Even here, now, amidst all their kind words, these excursions cannot foster encouragement about his ability to fulfill his contract. 

“What must they think…”

Spite pokes at a potato now.

“Rook thinks. You have. Nice hands.”

Lucanis pauses. He closes the cabinet to get a clearer look at Spite.

“…Spite,” he says quietly, voice carefully restrained, “how do you know that?”

Spite barely spares him a glance between examining root vegetables. “She said so!”

“Yes, but – why did she say so?”

A thousand different scenarios flash through his head. Rook said Spite bent silverware, chased potatoes, was interested in knives, but… what part of that could have inspired a comment like that? What else could Spite have done while Lucanis wasn’t in control?

Spite spares another glance at Lucanis, but seems faintly baffled by the question. “No. Fun.” 

That’s hardly an answer. 

“Spite.” Lucanis is terse, now. “What. Exactly. Did she say?”

“Careful, Spite. Don’t want to ruin. His nice. Hands.” Spite makes a face – with his face, which should feel stranger, but doesn’t, after so many months with only reflection of his own face gazing back at him as his only company. “And then!” the demon says, no longer mimicking, “she put. It. Out!”

“The knives?” Lucanis asks. 

“The fire!”

Spite’s expression – his expression – suggests this is an offense of the highest order. He practically pouts, jerking his chin towards the fireplace, which he now gazes balefully at. “Wouldn’t. Let me touch,” he complains. 

“…ah.” That… makes sense. The smell of wet wood, the decidedly damp logs in the fireplace… “Spite, fire is not to be touched.”

“Why. Not? Rook makes fire.”

“And Rook still doesn’t go sticking her hands in fireplaces. You shouldn’t, either.” He sets another jar on the counter, then adds, “or ovens. Or candles.”

Spite’s lips twist down. “Lucanis is no. Fun. Rook. Is no. Fun. Only want. To see! Not fair!”

“Touching is not seeing, Spite.” Lucanis can hear the sound of footsteps, faint but growing nearer. Rook is returning. “You’re welcome to watch and see all you like, now, but keep quiet. …I’ll see about relighting the fireplace if you can manage it.”

This, at least, elicits a positive response from the demon, and Spite is grinning as he says, “deal!”

It is a deal Spite is likely to break before long, but Lucanis will cherish the brief moments of silence he gets all the same. 

[burrowlvrr]

— NOT LONG AGO, joe burrow.

PAIRING: Joe Burrow 𝔁 Black!Wife!Reader

GENRE: Husband & Dad Joe

SUMMARY: In which — Joe and Y/N can't believe how far they've come. From taking a pregnancy test in a dorm room, to washing dishes while the babies watch a movie.

NOTE: I got a MacBook and forgot how to act, writing on this thing is so much fun Lord help me. I thought this was kinda cute, shows a lil different side of our couple but its low-key the shortest thing I've written so far, unfortunately :( but enjoy and ignore any errors! <3

UNIVERSE: Tenderhearts & Touchdowns!

The house was unusually quiet, a rare reprieve in the Burrow household. The twins, Hudson and Elijah, were snuggled up on the couch under a thick blanket, captivated by the colorful characters on the TV screen. Their little giggles and whispers occasionally broke the stillness. Outside, the cold December wind howled, but the warmth of their Cincinnati home kept the chill at bay.

Y/N stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the last of the dinner plates. The glow from the under-cabinet lights cast a soft radiance over her face, and she hummed a tune under her breath, content in the moment.

Joe appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. His gaze lingered on her, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” he called softly. “Why don’t you let me handle these? Go hang out with the boys for a bit.” He nodded toward the couch where their sons were quietly enjoying the movie.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder, her lips curving into a smile. “Y'know how this works, Burrow. I wash, you rinse.” She handed him a freshly cleaned plate, their fingers brushing briefly.

Joe chuckled, stepping forward to take his place beside her at the sink. “Fair enough. I just hate seein' you doing all the work when you’ve been chasing after them all day.”

“I like this part,” she replied softly, dipping her hands back into the soapy water. “It’s peaceful. Plus, we’re a team, remember?”

Their routine continued, the rhythmic sounds of dishes clinking and water running filling the air. The moment felt perfect in its simplicity.

“Remember when we found out?” Joe started, his voice carrying a note of nostalgia. Y/N looked at him briefly, shaking her head as she let out a soft giggle.

“How could I forget? You ran nearly three miles across campus to get to my dorm, Joe.” She replied, and he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly before asking, "How do you think I got the Heisman?"

★

Back in 2019, Joe and Y/N were basically still kids. Seniors in college, but still kids. Y/N had finals coming up for her Bachelor's degree, and word around campus was that Joe would be nominated for this year's Heisman. They were both rather successful in their academics and sports--but this, no level of success could prepare a college student for a positive pregnancy test.

She sat on the floor of her dorm room, her back pressed against the bed-frame, knees pulled to her chest. Her breathing was shallow and erratic, her hands trembling as she clutched her phone. The pregnancy tests were on the bathroom counter, both of them untouched—her mind racing in panic, holding her back from using the tests alone.

When Joe picked up, his voice was steady but laced with concern. “Y/N? Hey, babe. What's up?”

She tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked sob. Her breathing quickened, and she could feel her chest tightening.

“Y/N,” Joe said, his voice firmer now. “Breathe, okay? I’m coming. I’ll be there in ten.”

The line disconnected before she could respond, and she stared at the phone in her trembling hands, her tears falling freely.

Meanwhile, Joe was already running. He bolted out of the locker room, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his cleats barely tied. The cold air stung his face as he sprinted across campus from the football field to the girls’ dorms. Students turned to watch as he sped past, but he didn’t care.

By the time he reached her door, he was panting, his chest heaving from the exertion. He pushed it open without hesitation and dropped his duffel bag to the floor. The sight of Y/N, curled up and trembling, hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Y/N,” he breathed, moving toward her. She stood shakily, meeting him halfway, and threw her arms around his neck. Her sobs were muffled against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Hey, hey,” Joe murmured, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her tear-streaked face breaking his heart. "I think I—I'm pregnant." She choked out, a hand going to her mouth to try and cover the hiccups.

"I'm too scared to touch them, Joe." She sobbed, and he nodded, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "It's alright, Y/N. I'm here now."

They stood there for a moment before Joe left a kiss on her tanned forehead, brushing a stray curl away from her face and tilting her chin upward. "I'll stand right beside you. I'll even hold your hand if you want me to."

Y/N playfully rolled her eyes, "Now's not the time to be humorous, Burrow." She roughly wiped her tears away before making her way to the bathroom, turning around with a waiting expression—hoping Joe was on her heels, which he was.

She took both tests while Joe stood a few inches away, looking away out of respect but still turning around to check on her every few moments. Y/N quickly washed her hands, taking the tests and grabbing Joe's hand, leading him to her bed. They both sat on the edge, the two plastic tests lying in between them. Face down.

At least six minutes had passed now, and Joe couldn't stop his leg from bouncing. Y/N stared at them as if they might explode, her hands trembling slightly.

"You should check." Joe said, breaking the silence, his voice low and steady. Y/N whipped her head in his direction, "Me? You check it!"

Joe shook his head by then decided against arguing. He sighed, leaning over, and then hesitating for a moment. His fingers hovering over the tests, "Okay, but...don't we kinda already know?"

"Just look, Joe." She snapped, her voice higher-pitched than usual. She squeezed her eyes shut out of fear, as Joe flipped the tests over and freezes. His jaw tightened, but he doesn't speak right away.

"Joe," Y/N whispers, her heart pounding in her chest. "What does it say?"

"Positive." he says, barely above a whisper.

The words hit her like a freight train. She slumps back into the couch, her head in her hands. "Oh my God," she mutters, her voice cracking. "This can’t be happening. I can’t—"

"Y/N," Joe starts, but she cuts him off, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush.

"My mama is going to kill me," she says, sitting up straight now, her hands flying. "You don’t understand, Joe. And my daddy's always lecturing me about ‘staying focused’ and ‘not ruining my future.’ This is exactly what he meant! They’re never going to forgive me for this!"

Joe stands, walking over to her and crouching down. "Hey," he says softly, placing a hand on her knee, but she jerks away, jumping to her feet.

"And what about graduation?" she continues, pacing the room now. "Three months, Joe! We graduate in three months! Do you have any idea how much a baby costs? Diapers, formula, doctor visits… How are we supposed to afford that?"

Joe stays quiet, letting her vent. She turns to him suddenly, her eyes wide. "You don’t even have a job lined up yet! And me? I don’t know if my internship is going to turn into anything. We have nothing, Joe. Nothing!"

"Y/N," he says firmly, standing up.

She doesn’t stop. "I’m not ready for this! We’re not ready for this! I can’t—"

"Y/N!" he says louder, his voice cutting through her panic. She freezes, her chest heaving.

He takes a step closer, his voice calmer now. "Listen to me. I know this wasn’t the plan, okay? I get it. But I am going pro. You know I’ve been working toward the draft, and my agent is confident I’ll get picked. I’m gonna make it, Y/N. And when I do, we’ll be okay."

She stares at him, shaking her head. "Joe, the draft isn’t guaranteed. What if something goes wrong? What if you don’t get picked? What if—"

"I will," he interrupts, his tone steady. "I will. I’m not just doing this for me anymore—I’m doing it for you. For us. For this baby."

Her bottom lip quivers, but she doesn’t say anything. Joe steps closer, taking her hands in his. "I know you’re scared. Hell, I’m scared too. But we’ve got each other, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure you and this baby are taken care of. I promise you that."

Tears spill over her cheeks as she looks at him. "You’re so sure about everything, but I’m not. My parents are going to see this as the end of my life, Joe. The end of everything I’ve worked for."

He nods, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Then we’ll prove them wrong. We’ll show them that this isn’t the end—it’s just a new beginning. You’re still going to graduate, Y/N. You’re still going to chase your dreams. And we’ll figure the rest out together."

She exhales shakily, leaning into him as he wraps his arms around her. "I just… I don’t know how we’re going to do this."

"One step at a time," he says, his voice firm but gentle. "We’ll start by telling our parents. Together."

She pulls back, giving him a doubtful look. "That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to hear my dad’s lecture about how I’ve ‘thrown my life away.’"

Joe chuckles softly, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, but I’ll be right there with you. And if he tries to kill me, I’ll just tell him I’m going pro—maybe that’ll distract him."

Despite herself, Y/N laughs through her tears. "You’re ridiculous."

"Maybe," he says, grinning. "But I love you. And I love this baby, even if it’s the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me."

She looks at him, her expression softening. "I love you too."

He pulls her back into his arms, holding her tightly. For the first time all night, she lets herself believe him.

★

Back in their kitchen, the married couple laughs in unison as they recalled the dinner where they told both of their parents. "Oh my gosh! Daddy almost jumped across that table at you!"

"I was scared!" Joe laughed loudly, covering his mouth when he saw Hudson's head pop up over the top of the couch. "Your dad is very intimidating."

"Well, you survived." Y/N insisted, "And we both know I thought my life was over." Joe playfully frowned, "You were pacing so much before that dinner, babe. I thought you were gonna burn a hole in the carpet."

She flicks a bit of water at him, rolling her eyes. "Well, excuse me for being a little freaked out. It wasn’t exactly a normal Tuesday, you know? We were graduating in three months, broke as hell, and had no idea what we were doing."

Joe nods, his smile softening. "I remember how scared you were about telling your parents. But you know what I remember more?"

"What?" she asks, handing him a clean glass.

"How you still managed to push through all that fear and finish your degree on time. You didn’t let anything stop you, not even two babies kicking your ribs during finals."

Y/N shakes her head, laughing. "Don’t act like you weren’t freaking out too. You spent half the night staring at that pregnancy test like it might change if you looked hard enough."

Joe laughs, drying the glass. "Okay, fair. I was terrified. But I knew we’d figure it out. And look at us now."

Y/N glances around the kitchen, her eyes lingering on the family photos on the fridge—the twins’ school pictures, a shot of the four of them at the beach, and a drawing labeled Mama, Daddy, Hudson, and Elijah.

"Yeah," she says softly, her voice thick with emotion. "We’ve built a pretty amazing life, haven’t we?"

Joe sets the towel down and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "We have. And those two little terrors in the living room? They’re the best thing that ever happened to us."

Y/N leans into him, resting her head against his chest. "I still can’t believe we were worried about not being ready. I mean, we weren’t—but we figured it out."

Joe kisses the top of her head, his voice low and full of love. "That’s because we’re a team, Y/N. Always have been."

Before she can respond, a loud crash comes from the living room, followed by giggles and a triumphant "Wasn't me!"

Y/N groans, pulling back. "Moment's over."

Joe laughs, grabbing a dish towel. "I’ll check on the damage. You finish up here."

As he heads toward the living room, Y/N watches him go, her heart swelling with gratitude. She turns back to the sink, rinsing the last plate as the sound of Joe’s playful scolding echoes from the other room.

She smiles to herself, thinking back to that night all those years ago. It had been terrifying and uncertain, but it led to this—a life full of love, laughter, and a chaos she wouldn’t trade for the world.

[fandomfablesunleashed]

New Year Celebration

Law x reader

English is not my first language

The first one I actually wrote for this event. I wrote it at the airport while waiting for my flight back to my country (I was on a short city break) 🤭 

🎉🎉 Happy New Year, everyone! 🎉🎉

💖💖Let it be better than the last 💖💖

Ficmas masterlist

Main masterlist

Another year passed. Another year survived. Another year full of trials, challenges, and… even a dose of happiness?

Law pondered it as he stood in the corner of the Polar Tang common room, looking over his crew. He watched the group at the table, deep in a competitive card game, laughing and arguing. His gaze then drifted to Ikakku, Harugan, and John Bart, who seemed to be engaged in some drinking game. Then, it moved to Penguin, Shachi, and Bepo, who were animatedly conversing, their faces bright with excitement.  So many years had passed, and yet there they were, still by his side, still honoring the promises they made when they first set out on this journey together. His heart tightened with something close to gratitude. No, not close—pure gratitude.

Finally, his eyes found you, approaching him slowly with two champagne glasses.

He couldn't help but offer you a small smile. This was the year, after so much hesitation, so much uncertainty, when you both stopped dancing around one another and admitted that there was more between you—way more than just a friendship. He had been hesitant about it, scared even, and yet, looking at you now, he could say with certainty that it was one of the best decisions he had ever made.

He would never have believed that a bastard like him could be loved by someone so wonderful… or that love itself could feel so incredible.

“You okay?” you asked as you handed him a glass, standing close enough that he could feel the faint brush of your shoulder against his.

“Yeah… just thinking,” he replied, taking the champagne from your hand, his fingers grazing against yours briefly.

“Hopefully about something nice for a change,” you teased him with a small smile, genuinely interested in what his mind was conjuring this time.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“Oh, care to share?”

He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering over his crew—his family—before finally meeting your gaze again. “I just… I guess I'm kinda… grateful for what I have,” he said, the words awkward but sincere.

“Myself included?”

He smiled then—not the small, guarded smirk he so often gave, but a genuine smile that reached his eyes, the kind you had grown to treasure. “Definitely.”

“Well, I'm grateful for you too… and I'm grateful we finally gave in to the feelings. It's not as bad as we were afraid it would be, right?” Your words were light, teasing even, but he could sense the subtle hint of vulnerability beneath them.

He laughed softly. “Definitely not bad.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” you said, giving him a full smile—the smile he adored so much. The kind of smile that had captured his heart and held it firmly in its grasp. It reminded him, in that moment, just how precious you were. You, who he would protect with everything he had. You, who he would do anything for. Sometimes his mind would wander to extremes, and he could swear that he would burn the world just for you. He might if you ever asked him to do so.

Before you could speak again, your quiet moment was interrupted by the lively shouts of the crew, their voices brimming with excitement. 

“It's nearly midnight!”

“Let's countdown!”

“Ten!”

“Nine!”

“Eight!”

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

As the words rang out, Law turned to you. He clinked his glass with yours, the sound of it mingling with the laughter and cheers of the crew around you.  “Let's hope we survive another,” he said.

You chuckled. “We better do.”

You both grinned at each other, caught in the shared silence that said more than words ever could. Then, from behind you, came the teasing chorus of your crew:

“Awww, look how cute they are!”

Law immediately scoffed and rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You just laughed, your heart full, as you basked in the love of your eccentric, supportive family. 

After clinking glasses with everyone and taking a long sip, Law’s gaze swept over the room once more. The faces of his crew—his family—were a comforting sight. And as he took it all in, a thought lingered in his mind, solidifying his resolve for another year: Yeah, I can live another year… as long as I have all of them by my side.