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scealaiscoite · 3 months ago

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‧₊˚ 🗣️ ✩ three hundred assorted dialogue prompts

¹⁾ “it’s too early for this.”

²⁾ “say that again, but take all the words bigger than two syllables out for me.”

³⁾ “you never came to bed last night.”

⁴⁾ “ibuprofen and a red bull is not breakfast.”

⁵⁾ “where the fuck have you been?!”

⁶⁾ “i can’t believe you told him.”

⁷⁾ “look, all i’m trying to tell you i- oh god, no, please don’t cry.”

⁸⁾ “taxi- taxi!”

⁹⁾ “i broke it off last night.”

¹⁰⁾ “no way that’s true.”

¹¹⁾ “i’m not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house.”

¹²⁾ “red’s definitely your colour.”

¹³⁾ “i don’t even want to know how the glitter got there.”

¹⁴⁾ “second time the electric’s been cut off so far.”

¹⁵⁾ “come on, the water’s fine!”

¹⁶⁾ “i’m so mad at you for this, but i’m angrier at myself for knowing i’ll forgive you for it.”

¹⁷⁾ “nice tan lines.”

¹⁸⁾ “christ, i don’t know how you drink that shit.”

¹⁹⁾ “that was the best meal i’ve eaten in years.”

²⁰⁾ “i got fired yesterday.”

²¹⁾ “are those handcuffs?!”

²²⁾ “hell of defense to put on for someone you say you don’t care about anymore.”

²³⁾ “i love you, i swear it, but not enough to watch another western.”

²⁴⁾ “just hold the ladder, and i’ll do the rest.”

²⁵⁾ “is there any chilli powder left in the cupboard, or is it all on my plate?!”

²⁶⁾ “i know what exes are, and i know you two aren’t them.”

²⁷⁾ “please, please just leave me alone.”

²⁸⁾ “neither of us are leaving this room until you tell me how you got that shiner.”

²⁹⁾ “fucking liar.”

³⁰⁾ “scooch over, i’m about to fall off.”

³¹⁾ “i nicked your shirt on my way out- i hope you don’t mind.”

³²⁾ “the cold will kill us before they can if we don’t find shelter.”

³³⁾ “just- please, can’t you see she’s in pain?!”

³⁴⁾ “a pint of coors and a passionfruit martini, plea- no, i told you, i’m not calling it that!”

³⁶⁾ “only you could crochet in a time like this.”

³⁷⁾ “they know i hate boats!”

³⁸⁾ “your mother called.”

³⁹⁾ “i can smell vodka and bubblegum toothpaste on your breath, and i’m totally sure which concerns me more.”

⁴⁰⁾ “it’s midnight, please turn off the jazz.”

⁴¹⁾ “i didn’t read that book, but i slept behind [name] in bed every night for a week while they did.”

⁴²⁾ “please, we need a doctor!”

⁴³⁾ “you’ve done shitty things to me before but you’ve never been cruel.”

⁴⁴⁾ “normally i can get behind your stress baking because of how much i benefit from it, but come on. it’s two in the night; what is a red velvet cake going to fix that some sleep won’t?”

⁴⁵⁾ “i found an earring under the passenger seat.”

⁴⁶⁾ “please, if the choice is between ice cream for breakfast or whiskey, choose the fucking ice cream.”

⁴⁷⁾ “you’re still bleeding- stop and let me look at it.”

⁴⁸⁾ “we’ve been broken up for a year now. you’ve got no right to look at me like that.”

⁴⁹⁾ “mama will be home soon, promise.”

⁵⁰⁾ “in the name of the father- “

⁵¹⁾ “i’m going to lose them either way. better they hate me and live, than love me and die.”

⁵²⁾ “you have a son?!”

⁵³⁾ “boss wants to see you.”

⁵⁴⁾ “i figured we were close, i just didn’t think it was “call me at two in the morning from a police station” kind of close.”

⁵⁵⁾ “are we just going to ignore that massive rock on your finger?”

⁵⁶⁾ “you of all people don’t get to question my parenting skills.”

⁵⁷⁾ “is that a fucking chicken?!”

⁵⁸⁾ “fuck- you’re hurting me!”

⁵⁹⁾ “mind the puddles.”

⁶⁰⁾ “you’re sick. you’re not going into work, end of story.”

⁶¹⁾ “what on earth are you wearing?!”

⁶²⁾ “she’s too old for you.”

⁶³⁾ “you play mario kart like it’s your first day on earth.”

⁶⁴⁾ “you’re gonna break an ankle walking in those heels.”

⁶⁵⁾ “if it was important, you would’ve remembered i don’t answer fucking calls!”

⁶⁶⁾ “late night?”

⁶⁷⁾ “i’m terrified.”

⁶⁸⁾ “i’ll call you when i land, yeah?”

⁶⁹⁾ “try and get some sleep, pet.”

⁷⁰⁾ “where is that blood coming from?!”

⁷¹⁾ “it is sheeps or sheepses?”

⁷²⁾ “so you can fold a paper crane from a candy wrapper, but you don’t know your times tables.”

⁷³⁾ “clerk said they only have one room left.”

⁷⁴⁾ “why did you get an apartment on the eighth fucking floor?”

⁷⁵⁾ “it’s snowing!”

⁷⁶⁾ “when the shooting starts, stay down and only look at me, okay?”

⁷⁷⁾ “how fucking dare you- i am married.”

⁷⁸⁾ “we should be safe here.”

⁷⁹⁾ “i’m at the store, what kind of monster did you want again? and don’t say ultra violet, i’m not bringing that filth into the house.”

⁸⁰⁾ “the cat misses you.”

⁸¹⁾ “i’ve been having nightmares again.”

⁸²⁾ “i can practically hear your stomach growling. come fill up a plate.”

⁸³⁾ “i’m proud of you, kid.”

⁸⁴⁾ “are you sure you’re not mad at me?”

⁸⁵⁾ “please don’t tell me you lost it.”

⁸⁶⁾ “wanna pick the movie?”

⁸⁷⁾ “bit late for boxing, no?”

⁸⁸⁾ “i don’t care if it’s harmless, kill it!!”

⁸⁹⁾ “if you so much as look in their direction again, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

⁹⁰⁾ “do you wanna go out sometime?”

⁹¹⁾ “is- is that [name]’s shirt?”

⁹²⁾ “c’mon, sit with me a minute.”

⁹³⁾ “good boy!”

⁹⁴⁾ “no, fuck- i can’t swim!”

⁹⁵⁾ “your friends are unbearable.”

⁹⁶⁾ “oh, kill me now.”

⁹⁷⁾ “can i bum a light?”

⁹⁸⁾ “just listen to me for once in your life!”

⁹⁹⁾ “someone call an ambulance!”

¹⁰⁰⁾ “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you in pink before.”

¹⁰¹⁾ “i told you i was done talking about it.”

¹⁰²⁾ “the lock’s broken- i think someone’s inside.”

¹⁰³⁾ “you kept it.”

¹⁰⁴⁾ “i have somewhere to be; make it quick.”

¹⁰⁵⁾ “you’re unbelievable.”

¹⁰⁶⁾ “they never meant anything to you, did they?”

¹⁰⁷⁾ “is the point of giving me such bad advice to force me into seeing an actual therapist?”

¹⁰⁸⁾ “your smile makes my day.”

¹⁰⁹⁾ “how do you remember where all my jewellery goes?”

¹¹⁰⁾ “… but you’re definitely nothing more than coworkers. sure.”

¹¹¹⁾ “i’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

¹¹²⁾ “can i help with your hair?”

¹¹³⁾ “i always forget how pretty the city looks at night.”

¹¹⁴⁾ “the dog, for all his failings, did not do that and i’m taking it personally on his part that you’re trying to claim he did.”

¹¹⁵⁾ “you have many strengths; all i’m saying is that parallel parking is not one of them.”

¹¹⁶⁾ “let me drive you home.”

¹¹⁷⁾ “thanks for bringing me in on this ritual of yours.”

¹¹⁸⁾ “what time do you have to be at court?”

¹¹⁹⁾ “do you, uh- do you maybe wanna get dinner, sometime? like, with me?”

¹²⁰⁾ “i’m- *achoo* a-allergic to one kind of- *achoo* of flowers in the whole world, and you- *cough* really m-manage to pick them out for me?”

¹²¹⁾ “table for three, please.”

¹²²⁾ “you’re getting so grey. i’m kind of liking it.”

¹²³⁾ “of course i noticed.”

¹²⁴⁾ “hey, quit forcing yourself to talk before you lose your voice altogether.”

¹²⁵⁾ “please, please wake up.”

¹²⁶⁾ “was anything you said true?”

¹²⁷⁾ “get in the fucking car!”

¹²⁸⁾ “where’d you get that?”

¹²⁹⁾ “you put me through so much, and still all i can think about is how i’d do it all again if you asked me to.”

¹³⁰⁾ “i’ll stay while you sleep. nothing’s gonna happen while i’m here, okay?”

¹³¹⁾ “you said you wanted to talk it out but all you’re doing is shouting at me!”

¹³²⁾ “we broke up a few days ago. i guess i was too embarrassed to tell you after you warned me about them.”

¹³³⁾ “family don’t pull this kind of shit on each other.”

¹³⁴⁾ “i phoned in sick. i’m yours for the day, if you’ll have me.”

¹³⁵⁾ “i’ll make the reservation, you just worry about turning up looking half as good as you do right now.”

¹³⁶⁾ “that’s still how you take your tea, isn’t it?”

¹³⁷⁾ “stop throwing those damn paper planes at me!”

¹³⁸⁾ “i’m so c-cold.”

¹³⁹⁾ “… i can hear meowing.”

¹⁴⁰⁾ “want some?”

¹⁴¹⁾ “fuck all of them, anyway.”

¹⁴²⁾ “i could look at your tattoos all day.”

¹⁴³⁾ “ever considered sending me flowers without a keycard for a hotel room tucked inside?”

¹⁴⁴⁾ “i made coffee.”

¹⁴⁵⁾ “c’mon, sit with me a minute.”

¹⁴⁶⁾ “fuck, they’re gonna flank us- get someone on the south wall, now!”

¹⁴⁷⁾ “christ, get up.”

¹⁴⁸⁾ “put some pants on.”

¹⁴⁹⁾ “it’s over!”

¹⁵⁰⁾ “not another broken bed frame.”

¹⁵¹⁾ “that thong really brings out your eyes.”

¹⁵²⁾ “you’ve already stolen from me; don’t twist the knife by lying about it, too.”

¹⁵³⁾ “... i thought you locked the back door.”

¹⁵⁴⁾ “they were saying awful things about you. every last one of them had it coming.”

¹⁵⁵⁾ “so you had a can of monster and a pack of sour patch kids for breakfast eight hours ago, and you really don’t understand why you have a headache?”

¹⁵⁶⁾ “i think someone’s in the house.”

¹⁵⁷⁾ “walk me home?”

¹⁵⁸⁾ “this song reminds me of you.”

¹⁵⁹⁾ “can you pick up some eggs on your way home?”

¹⁶⁰⁾ “i’ve got a flat tire.”

¹⁶¹⁾ “you broke his fucking nose!”

¹⁶²⁾ “do you remember the room number?”

¹⁶³⁾ “i can’t see anything.”

¹⁶⁴⁾ “lab results are back.”

¹⁶⁵⁾ “is it really so hard to pick up the damn phone when i call?”

¹⁶⁶⁾ “don’t you dare run.”

¹⁶⁷⁾ “bulleit, please. neat.”

¹⁶⁸⁾ “will you marry me?”

¹⁶⁹⁾ “how did you get tickets?!”

¹⁷⁰⁾ “your tie’s all crooked.”

¹⁷¹⁾ “license and insurance, please.”

¹⁷²⁾ “i’ll get a nurse in to do your sutures, and then we’ll send you on your way.”

¹⁷³⁾ “you’re a dead man.”

¹⁷⁴⁾ “you’re the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

¹⁷⁵⁾ “no, this is her secretary. i can take a message, if you’d like?”

¹⁷⁶⁾ “the money’s gone.”

¹⁷⁷⁾ “yeah, but it’ll cost you.”

¹⁷⁸⁾ “we need to find that phone.”

¹⁷⁹⁾ “can i crash here tonight?”

¹⁸⁰⁾ “i, um… i saw you. online.”

¹⁸¹⁾ “what do you mean husband?!”

¹⁸²⁾ “the fire’s growing- we need to keep moving.”

¹⁸³⁾ “your lipstick’s all over me!”

¹⁸⁴⁾ “four broken ribs… fuck.”

¹⁸⁵⁾ “what happened in shanghai?”

¹⁸⁶⁾ “you and these awful horror movies!”

¹⁸⁷⁾ “next door’s cat is back. do you remember where i put the kibble?”

¹⁸⁸⁾ “glitter and faux fur. classy.”

¹⁸⁹⁾ “since when were you blonde?!”

¹⁹⁰⁾ “do i even want to know?”

¹⁹¹⁾ “we were by a river. that’s all i remember.”

¹⁹²⁾ “please, let me call you a cab.”

¹⁹³⁾ “my hands are killing me, get these damn zipties off.”

¹⁹⁴⁾ “you don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to.”

¹⁹⁵⁾ “i read your last article. you’re not half bad at this shit.”

¹⁹⁶⁾ “is now a bad time to say i’m afraid of heights.”

¹⁹⁷⁾ “- quick, hide!”

¹⁹⁸⁾ “test came back negative.”

¹⁹⁹⁾ “say, ah.”

²⁰⁰⁾ “some friends they turned out to be.”

²⁰¹⁾ “you look oddly good in sequins.”

²⁰²⁾ “now there’s a headline: murder in mittens.”

²⁰³⁾ “we need to swab your hands for gunpowder residue.”

²⁰⁴⁾ “black, three sugars.”

²⁰⁵⁾ “i need you to listen to me, okay? this cannot happen again. ever.”

²⁰⁶⁾ “we shouldn’t be here.”

²⁰⁷⁾ “if you’re going to be such a die-hard fan, could you please start picking better teams? for my sake?”

²⁰⁸⁾ “… did you make me a packed lunch?”

²⁰��⁾ “i got a little bit stabbed.”

²¹⁰⁾ “no, it’s too late; you’re not walking home alone.”

²¹¹⁾ “i don’t care if she’s ten, she cannot be led to believe that derek is an acceptable name for a cat!”

²¹²⁾ “they were just here.”

²¹³⁾ “oh captain, my captai- “

²¹⁴⁾ “come to my room in ten.”

²¹⁵⁾ “no part of this was in the training manual.”

²¹⁶⁾ “i think i’m gonna lie down for a bit.”

²¹⁷⁾ “i can’t come out tonight, i’ve got to re-pot my roses.”

²¹⁸⁾ “you kick like an ass in your sleep.”

²¹⁹⁾ “i think we kissed.”

²²⁰⁾ “i never want to be a burden to you.”

²²¹⁾ “there’s someone in the trees.”

²²²⁾ “where’s that smoke coming from?”

²²³⁾ “my sheets smell like you.”

²²⁴⁾ “what did sarge say?”

²²⁵⁾ “the funeral’s at ten.”

²²⁶⁾ “she’s asystolic.”

²²⁷⁾ “it’s too loud in here. i’m going to start biting people.”

²²⁸⁾ “give it back!”

²²⁹⁾ “don’t make me call the cops!”

²³⁰⁾ “we tried everything. i’m sorry.”

²³¹⁾ “another round?”

²³²⁾ “come on the carousel with me, and i’ll think about it.”

²³³⁾ “this is why we didn’t stay married.”

²³⁴⁾ “i like your hair.”

²³⁵⁾ “homicide are on the way.”

²³⁶⁾ “i just ran.”

²³⁷⁾ “want a drink?”

²³⁸⁾ “i’m scared of the things i feel for you.”

²³⁹⁾ “can you remember anything about last night?”

²⁴⁰⁾ “you left this at mine.”

²⁴¹⁾ “i made us a reservation.”

²⁴²⁾ “pass the goddamn ball!”

²⁴³⁾ “someone cut the brake lights.”

²⁴⁴⁾ “wanna come to vegas with me?”

²⁴⁵⁾ “… did you use my body wash?”

²⁴⁶⁾ “go shower, then we’ll talk.”

²⁴⁷⁾ “how dare you say something like that to me!”

²⁴⁸⁾ “there’s a letter for you.”

²⁴⁹⁾ “i need to see you. now.”

²⁵⁰⁾ “i’ll kick this fucking door open!”

²⁵¹⁾ “don’t look at me like that.”

²⁵²⁾ “i can’t do this anymore.”

²⁵³⁾ “got a light?”

²⁵⁴⁾ “i don’t care if we both get hypothermia, i’m not sharing a sleeping bag with you!”

²⁵⁵⁾ “do you hate me?”

²⁵⁶⁾ “please don’t leave.”

²⁵⁷⁾ “i’m sorry i missed dinner.”

²⁵⁸⁾ “i have a name, and it’s sure as hell not kid.”

²⁵⁹⁾ “you are a grown man, don’t pout.”

²⁶⁰⁾ “ah, look who’s awake.”

²⁶¹⁾ “if you’re after a ransom, i’m sorry to say you picked the wrong person.”

²⁶²⁾ “don’t you dare track all that sawdust in here! leave your boots at the door.”

²⁶³⁾ “if you’re not here to pay my tab, you can leave.”

²⁶⁴⁾ “you’re so warm.”

²⁶⁵⁾ “bit kinky for a monday morning, don’t you think?”

²⁶⁶⁾ “not again!”

²⁶⁷⁾ “i think i pulled something.”

²⁶⁸⁾ “kiss me.”

²⁶⁹⁾ “watcha reading?”

²⁷⁰⁾ “i ordered room service. possibly on your card.”

²⁷¹⁾ “this isn’t gonna work out.”

²⁷²⁾ “i saved you a seat.”

²⁷³⁾ “the dog got ahold of your scarf.”

²⁷⁴⁾ “i want to see my son.”

²⁷⁵⁾ “my friend’s an ass, i’m sorry.”

²⁷⁶⁾ “please, she could scare the balls off a brass monkey with a single look.”

²⁷⁷⁾ “you’re an almerciful pain the ass.”

²⁷⁸⁾ “give my compliments to the chef.”

²⁷⁹⁾ “wanna catch a movie at the weekend?”

²⁸⁰⁾ “you said i only had to stay for an hour- you got an hour and seven minutes! what more could you possibly want from me?!”

²⁸¹⁾ “i think i left my phone at the bar.”

²⁸²⁾ “... why is there a pool noodle in the hall?”

²⁸³⁾ “can you turn the lights off?”

²⁸⁴⁾ “was any of it real?”

²⁸⁵⁾ “do i want to know how you got that nickname.”

²⁸⁶⁾ “you’re like if an angel had a very severe ketamine problem.”

²⁸⁷⁾ “i think i fucked up my ankle last night.”

²⁸⁸⁾ “take the sunglasses off.”

²⁸⁹⁾ “i don’t know how i’m going to forgive you for this.”

²⁹⁰⁾ “i can’t believe i fell for this shit again.”

²⁹¹⁾ “morning, killer.”

²⁹²⁾ “who names a goldfish andrew?”

²⁹³⁾ “... i could’ve sworn you had too eyebrows last time we spoke.”

²⁹⁴⁾ “i’m scared shitless of dolls.”

²⁹⁵⁾ “how’d you get the shiner?”

²⁹⁶⁾ “here, let me help.”

²⁹⁷⁾ “look, my tomatoes are finally ripe!”

²⁹⁸⁾ “you can hold my hand, if it’d help.”

²⁹⁹⁾ “i brought you croissants. as like, um, an olive branch.”

³⁰⁰⁾ “do you trust me?”

#god i am so happy to get this out of my google docs lol #prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #fluff prompts #dialogue prompts #soft prompts #imagine your otp #angst prompts #dialogue meme

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kroosluvr · 9 months ago

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temptation

i lowkey have too many notes to write down properly KDFHKDS but ill write them down for Future Cele so i can read it later and be like omggg past cele ur so fun and interesting

in general, the more "color" the scenes have, the closer it is to "real life" as opposed to the muted/hushed winter blues of maruki's reality

i.e. the dark frames w akira smiling and the very last panel are when reality sinks in: first for akira, then for goro

by the way this is long winter au but sumire is still brainwashed. this also works for canonverse but i just had long winter au in mind:o

youve heard of laundry and taxes now get ready for coffee and pastries

in every panel, akira is smiling! :) and goro is very much not smiling.

intentionally his face is hidden in the last 2 pages so its unclear whether it's the "ideal reality" already (akira/goro's daydreams/wants/desires), or if goro is still fighting akira on making sure he picks the right choice

the smoke from the first page kinda leads into the 3rd page omfg COMPLETELY UNINTENTIONAL BUT REALLY COOL LMAOOO

that's nameless and belladonna in jazz jin!!! i love them. I LOVETHEM. i miss them so bad is it obvious

the cafe is loosely based off of caffe strada @ uc berkeley LMAO. my parents used to take me there a lot as a little kid so that's the first cafe i think of when i imagine one. its like right on the streetside, basically on the sidewalk, so its very bustling and people are always walking by... probably a little disconcerting to see everyones summery bright smiles despite the bitter cold and snow

in long winter AU, the Ideal Reality starts before 1/1 so yeah they get to see the new years fireworks together (or something)

also intentional that they wear the same winter outfits in the whole comic although it Probably does not take place at the same time. in maruki's snowglobe, time seems frozen in place... but akira and goro are both acutely aware that the sands are running thru QUICK

goro's frustrated expression on page 3 is one also of disdain: "don't speak FOR me you fucking imbecile" type of expression.

goro, who's never lived a normal life and therefore doesn't know much abt "normalcy" nor really actively seeks it. this 3rd semester is basically purgatory for him and he doesn't care to try and go through the motions the way akira does. akira what do YOU know about the type of "normalcy" i deserve? how do YOU know if i "deserve" that?

im thinking that this is a naive akira who is mostly set on taking the deal because he feels hopeless... seeing all his friends with good happy lives while goro and himself are alive and miserable and shouldering the weight of the world during the horror of long winter......

oh but if he takes the deal they could all be good and alive and happy!!!.... and goro knows this. i feel like in any other universe (i.e. akira is 100% certain on not taking the deal and goro knows this) then goro would be happy and carefree to do these little indulgences for himself and akira's sake, to just enjoy the snowglobe world while it exists.

but this goro is discontent. he sees how akira is enjoying the snowglobe and knows maruki is depending on this. goro has to be the one to remind akira that none of this is his to keep........ in this fucked up world, routine is dangerous. becoming comfortable is dangerous. they cannot keep any of this.

on that note, goro says "i hate you" in a halfhearted sort of way (it's not true and akira knows that.) but he's trying to think of a way that he can dissuade akira from picking the wrong choice.....

and i think the thing is, goro thinks all of this, but he still falls into the rhythm of routine with akira anyway. in a way, goro feels hopeless too.

all of this is maruki's doing........ paralyzed by the inability to choose... whatever you do, you lose. goro needs to hold akira at arm's length so the stupid sentimental fool doesn't get too attached and falls into the wrong universe. akira needs to make a concentrated effort to detach himself from goro even though he wants the simplest thing in the world: just one more unremarkable day with him. it's lose-lose..........,

also i liked drawing the tentacles in the last pic the freaking blue lines on them were SO satisfying to draw

edit: also the last page: the blood flooding the panel….. the idea of the ideal world being built off of the blood and sweat and tears and bodies of the people who could have been. of those lost in the actualization, of those destroyed, of those stitched together and brought back to life. all just for a little false happiness. goro sees it but akira doesn’t, and it’s a grim sight.

#shuake #goro akechi #akira kurusu #persona 5 royal #cele draws #cele comics #last comic for 2 weeks ish probably bc ill be away frm my usual setup for a while:O will still be drawing tho!!!#long winter #takuto maruki

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nathanbatemanfucker · 1 month ago

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A Breach in Reality

request: If you're taking requests ive been GNAWING for a joaquin x fem reader where they go on an undercover mission to a riiiiiiich ahh gala as a fake couple and they end up kissing to not get caught🤌

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

contents: undercover trope, colleagues to lovers, internal angst/insecurity, kissing

wc: 1,572

an: these two are so adorable! thank you for sending in this request anon. I truly hope you enjoy <3

danny ramirez characters masterlist

The mission brief was simple: infiltrate the gala, extract the intel, get out without blowing your cover. The two of you had prepared well, going over your aliases, asking each other questions that someone might want to know, making sure all the gaps were filled.

What you didn’t prepare for is how tight and warm Joaquin’s hand would feel on your waist in the silky gown you’re wearing. Or how good he’d look in his polished suit, black and sleek. How good his cologne smells when you walk hand and hand. How his eyes seemed to roam a little more than usual; you brush that thought away easier than all the others. Of course he was looking at everyone, at you more closely.

He leans close to whisper against your ear as you walk up the marble steps of the venue. He has to say it because it’s true. “You clean up nice, princesa.”

You barely hold back a smile, rolling your eyes at him playfully. “You’re just saying that because I’m your fake date.”

Joaquin’s gaze is sincere. “I’d say it if you were my real one, too.”

You have to look away from his brown eyes because you don’t detect any dishonesty. But you know that you shouldn’t get involved with someone you’re working with, especially with how infrequent you see him. You don’t want to get attached to the idea of having him this way, even if your mind has forced you to dream about it once or twice before.

You value reality and protection of yourself, of your heart over everything. It’s why you haven’t let yourself go on a date in over 5 years. The last time you opened up in that way, you couldn’t remember who you were when it all finished.

The gala is all champagne flutes, soft jazz, and people with money to waste. You keep your arm looped through his, playing the role of the doting partner while you both scan the room for your target. He’s pressing you closer than necessary, his body heat seeping into your skin, but you don’t pull away. You don’t want to.

What’s one night letting yourself feel the affection of someone else, especially when it’s already known to be a farce. No harm, no foul.

“Target’s heading toward the east wing,” you murmur, eyes trained on the man with the silver cufflinks. The pin on his suit indicates he’s exactly who you’re looking for.

“Copy,” Joaquin says smoothly. “Let’s move—”

“Un segundo,” you cut in quickly, pressing into him more firmly to stop him. “Su seguridad está mirando.”

Two guards in suits that linger just far enough to not draw attention to the untrained eye have turned to look directly at you both, eyes narrowed like they’ve seen something they shouldn’t. Like they see right through you.

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate. He shifts in front of you, hand sliding to your jaw like it belongs there. “¿Confías en me?”

You raise a brow at him, like he’s asked you a silly question. And he has, you wouldn’t have agreed to go on a mission with him if you didn’t trust him. “…I’m literally undercover with you.”

He grins mischievously, eyes glittering in the low lighting. “Close enough.”

He kisses you then.

It’s delicate and unexpected, and you’re too caught up in the perfect way his lips feel against yours to remember the mission for a split second. The reality you had just promised yourself you would stay in slips away. His hands stay gentle but sure, holding your face like you’re something fragile, like he’s been waiting for an excuse.

You melt into it—just for a second, just until the guards look away. At least that’s what you tell yourself, because the thought of breaking the kiss never crosses your mind.

It’s him who pulls back, leaving you both a little breathless.

“Convincing enough, yeah?” he asks, trying to sound casual but his voice is rough. He’s clearly affected, but you chalk it up to a natural response from the body.

You clear your throat, looking anywhere but at him. “Yeah. They’re uninterested.”

Neither of you moves. He’s still cupping your face, his thumb absentmindedly running over your cheek. And your hands that had moved to ground you during the kiss are still fisted in the fabric of his suit. The mission calls you forward, but something heavier hangs between you—hot, unspoken, electric.

You clear your throat again, loosening your hold on him, still not daring to meet his gaze. “Listas?”

He lets out a breath. “Listo.”

The mission wraps up without a hitch. The target successfully caught, the intel procured. You’re back in the van peeling off your heels with a weighted sigh and trying not to think about the way Joaquin kissed you like he meant it.

Except, how are you meant to not think about it?

You’ve replayed it at least thirty times on the way back to the safe house, each one more embarrassing than the last. Because the thing is, it didn’t feel fake; not for a second. And now you’re stuck wondering if that was just him being good at the job, or if maybe it meant something. Something more.

That’s not a question you’ll let yourself ask though. Reality. Protection. You repeat the words to yourself multiple times.

You’re still in your dress, sitting stiffly on the couch while he moves around the tiny kitchen grabbing water bottles and energy bars like it’s any other mission night. Like he didn’t short-circuit your brain with one very public, very effective, very affectionate kiss.

He tosses a bottle your way without looking.

You recognize it for what it is; an interrogation tactic that the both of you have been taught. Meet a need no matter how small and the person is more inclined to give you the information you need.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Sure.”

You open it and take multiple sips, in an attempt to stall. But there’s nowhere for you to go. If you avoided the conversation tonight he would simply ask you in the morning with more eyes watching. At least here the two of you could talk about it alone. You won’t go down easily though.

He finally turns to face you, leans against the counter like he’s waiting for something. His expression is patient and no less warm than always.

“So,” you say, like it doesn’t feel weird. “Impeccable job out there, as always.”

He nods slowly. “You too.”

Silence.

The air’s thick with everything you’re not saying, and you start picking at the label on your bottle because suddenly you don’t know where to look.

Joaquin finally pushes off the counter and walks toward you. Not in a hurry, he’s calm and collected. Deliberate. His voice is soft when he asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. You pause, voice softer when you speak again, “I’m fine. Just… y’know. Debrief brain, long night, longer morning coming. I miss my bed, my cat, eating real food.”

He tilts his head. “It’s not the mission you’re thinking about, right?”

You go quiet, opening your mouth to deny his line of questioning but nothing comes out. You’re rusty when it comes to dating or feelings of any kind— almost feeling like an antiquated machine.

He steps closer, enough to kneel in front of where you’re sitting. His hand rests gently on your knee—not pushing, just grounding.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” he says apologetically. “The kiss. I didn’t plan it— I wasn’t thinking that it would make you uncomfortable. Pero, querida… fue real.”

You finally look at him, wide-eyed unsure of what to say. It was real. He meant it. He meant to kiss you.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while,” he admits, his thumb mirroring his movements from before, stroking the curve of your knee. “The op just gave me an excuse.”

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to. “Oh.”

He gives a breath of a laugh. “That’s all you’ve got?” he teases.

You blink. “No, I mean—yeah, I mean—I— well.”

He squeezes your knee in an attempt to comfort you, “Breathe, princesa. It’s just me. You can tell me anything.”

At his urging you pause to take a breath, finally able to say, “It didn’t feel fake to me either.”

That earns you a soft, slow smile. Joaquin settles more firmly on his knees in front of you, ducking his head so that you have to meet his gaze. “So how about we try it again sometime,” he says, “no mission, no cover story—just us?”

You grin, a little shy. A little anxious. Isn’t this what you’ve been trying to avoid? Reality and protection. But this reality as far as you can tell. You look at him, your eyes searching, skimming through the depth of his brown eyes. You’re met with nothing but warmth, with reverence and hope.

“Are you asking me out, Torres? Really?”

“Damn right I am. If you let me,” he adds after a moment, voice gentler.

You let yourself look at him—really look—and for once, you stop fighting the warmth that blooms in your chest every time you’re with him.

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay. I think I’d like that.”

He pushes up, hand cupping your cheek like before so that he can kiss you.

And this second kiss?

It’s slower, softer— more thorough with no eyes watching and all the time in the world.

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x fem!reader #joaquin torres x f!reader #falcon x reader #marvel x reader #joaquin torres fanfiction #captain america: bnw fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #arson writes #x reader #al’s mail requests

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movedblog-thesacrificialdove · 7 months ago

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tags sugar daddy, rich yandere, low-key obsessive behaviour, first meetings, college student reader, age gap, brief mention of a rapist (no description or anything more)

—📜" Being a broke college student, you decide to try your hand at getting a sugar daddy. You find someone who is... quite eager to know everything about you. It's weird because he doesn't seem to be the same person he was online.

They say to spend your youth on nightclubs and partying with friends. But really, they don’t know the true beauty of being in a jazz club and drinking all by yourself. There’s no ill intentions, there’s no partying until the sun goes down—just some nice music and good drinks.

People find it odd, sure. But nothing can beat this feeling for you. As you lay in a couch that’s worth double your college tuition, you drink champagne that's triple your college tuition.

How you ended up here is another embarrassing story. Hunting for a sugar daddy online is a clear plan for destruction. It could end well with a decent allowance every now and then, of course. Yet, fear gets the most of you. The thought that you end up with a fat well and alive man who asks for sex with his small dick looms over you like a gloomy cloud. That fear is there because your sugar daddy is anonymous.

Sighing, you drink another sip of the champagne as you fix your posture. Again. The seat in front of you is still empty. You’d think he wasn’t really being honest with you but he did have a reservation ready for the both of you.

It’s not bad to wait. Even if you do look dumb getting stood up, at least you’re enjoying yourself.

“You lonely there?” someone asks behind you.

Turning your head behind you, you see a towering man with a smile so bright you think you could be blinded by it. He looks elegant—the way he’s holding a glass like a connoisseur and his long black hair pulled into a slick ponytail. Fuck, is he your sugar daddy? He looks the age for it and honestly, he aged really good.

You tell him, “Maybe. Are you lonely?”

He chuckles and takes the seat opposite. Finally. “No,” he says, “not anymore, at least. All thanks to…?” he gestures to you.

When you tell him his name, he parrots it like he’s tasting it. “Beautiful. Your mother picked it out?”

“I’m sure so,” you don’t know, who the hell would know that? “It’s a generational name, really. In our family we keep reusing names.”

“So are you the second? The third?”

The third was your great grandfather but he ended up being a rapist. Eugh. “The fourth,” you answer. “But I never tell anyone that, actually. Bit embarrassing if they call me the fourth, so.”

He laughs, somehow finding you amusing. “Nicolas,” he says, “very nice to meet you.”

Was… his name Nicolas? You’re not so sure about that. From the site he only revealed his last name so that you could get the reservation. Huh.

“Nice to meet you, Nicolas.” The little twitch in his lips is unavoidable to your eyes, “You look very nice tonight,” maybe that’s why he took almost an hour to arrive here. “Do you live near here or?”

“Oh, no,” he shakes his head, “I come from Bolzano. But I came here from Portofino, where my heart currently is.”

You nod like you know where those places really are. Italy, you assume. “Very nice. I heard it’s a beautiful place.”

“Beatiful even more with company,” he puts his drink down. “How about you? What makes you come here?”

You, actually. You wanted to go here. “I was raised by my grandfather and jazz was his favourite. Every corner of the house Hank Mobley would be playing. I have his old records that he passed down to me and whenever I play it, I can see the way he dances.”

“So, come down here for a little trip to memory lane?”

Before you could answer, you think about it even more. The man you were talking was definitely not Italian, right? No, his name sounded British, at most. And Nicolas sounds like he has little to no knowledge about the fact that you two are supposedly on a date.

Fuck, did you get him wrong? I mean, he is interested, you think.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you hum. You put your glass down too, clasping your hands. “I think I do need to go now. It was nice to have your company—”

“Going so soon? A bit rude especially if you came here to be mine for a price, no?”

You pause. Though you’re ready to leave this embarrassing meeting, you’re caught. You turn to him in confusion. So you were… wrong? Right?

“Sit back down, this champagne is a bit too new to me.” He raises a hand and someone immediately finds their footing beside him. Nicolas speaks in his own tongue, requesting something you don’t understand.

You’re promptly back on your seat with a small wave of his hand. “Come on, I think we have a lot to learn about each other. But I know you.”

Did he send in a private investigator or what? Fuck, man. You didn’t think that those things were real in real life. “How much do you know?”

He doesn’t answer. His legs are crossed as he watches the busboy leave to prepare your drinks. “How are your classes?” he asks, making idle conversation of things you’re a bit worried to talk to him about. “Hope you’re dealing well.”

“Yeah,” you say, unsure of this now. “It’s all fine, yes. Just a few projects and classes.” You wonder for a moment how rude it would be to ask for a price on your body right now. “Nothing interesting, really.”

“I’m sure anything you say is of interest,” he says, all too fond of you. “Tell me, love, you mentioned having difficulties with some of your professors.”

He wasn’t interested in all that before when you were talking. “It’s fine. Well, not like I can say no. It’s a bit hard when you’re paying for an education and you’re not being taught,” you laugh, “Self-taught learning, he excuses.”

“That’s simply lazy,” he excuses. “Fine arts is such a nice career path. No reason to be dismissive of students who want to learn it.”

Did you tell him what you’re studying?

The busboy returns and brings a drink to the both of you. The song changes and it sounds familiar. You could almost see your grandfather dance behind Nicolas.

“I’m going to guess that’s your doing,” you say, “Thank you. It sounds lovely.”

He smiles, “I’m not one for jazz myself.” He reaches for his glass and swirls in, taking a whiff of its scent afterward. “But I’m curious as to who you are. How you grew up is one of those things”

When the both of you talked online, you expected him to be more lustful than this. Maybe it’s the repeating innuendo in his messages. All of that persona is gone now as if it never existed. It’s concerning.

Both of you make small conversation. Mostly it’s about you. He asks every little detail about you, asking for things that not even your friends would care about. It’s the little things.

‘Do you like soft cotton or silk?’ You don’t really know the difference but cotton is nice.

‘How often do you see your family?’ Every or so month, you’d wager. But you make sure to keep in contact.

‘What’s your thoughts on caged animals?’ A bit cruel, but you can see where it can stem from. Still, it’s cruel. You’d never do it.

The night come to a close when you start to feel a bit light-headed with the drinks you’ve ingested. Nicolas puts aside your glass as he stands to go on your side of the table. “Maybe it’s time to take a break tonight, love?”

You groan. “Yeah, I guess that’s fine now. I’m really thankful for tonight.”

“I’m glad,” he says, pulling you up and helping you walk. You don’t need it but it’s nice anyways. “I can take you back to your dorm, yes? You don’t need to worry about anything else when you’re with me.”

In your pocket, your phone buzzes. You don’t get to check it when Nicolas wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls you to the exit and you swear you hear ‘Signore Giordano’ come out when the men bid him goodnight.

Which is weird, because his surname is Abbot.

The ride was a blur, literally. Maybe you’ve had too much to drink. The next thing you know is that both of you are in front of your dorm. It’s too dark outside. The streets are dead silent. The low rumble of his car is the only thing you can really hear.

He calls your name. “It’s time to go home. You can’t stay with me yet, love.”

You stretch in the seat. A car seat has never been more comfortable. “Been nice, really. Thank you.”

As you unbuckle your seat, he leans forward. His arm drapes over your shoulders as his hand comes to your face. “Then can I get a little reward? Just a little?” He turns his cheek, a grin on his face.

It’s stupid but oh well, he would pay you. You press a kiss on his cheek and he looks like the happiest man alive. He laughs, looking at you with stupid heart eyes. “Thank you. Call me with this number—” he places a card in your hands—”and delete that damn app. I’ll come find you after your classes tomorrow for your contract. You don’t need to find anyone else now.”

He leaves shortly after you get inside your dorm. You hear the revving of his car go in the quiet night. It’s relieving. You’re tired on your feet, unable to really process what happened tonight.

It’s whatever. It’s all done now.

You delete the app on your phone, swiping away a message you got from it. You’re pretty sure it’s from another match you had last time but again, you don’t need it anymore.

do not redistrubute this work as yours/without permission or feed to AI 📷 art by @ L0tus_Ren_ & @ Ivan Belikov

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chaoticwriting · 11 days ago

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One's man trash is another man's treasure

Run

His little legs swing as fast as he can. Escape is all his choice left. As incompetent as he is, he is very good at escaping. However, they don't need an escaper. What they need a warrior. And he is not one.

So he run. The league wishes to kill him. His grandfather Ra's sees him nothing as a lesser being. Even his mother Talia despises him. He has no one else here. He needs to be gone while they are focusing on the newest recruit.

So he run. And run. And run. He doesn't know how long has he been running. He only stops at the end of the day to sleep for an hour and drink some water. He is not a good fighter. Mainly because he isn't capable of killing. But his physical abilities are beyond what any of peers have.

He doesn't know where he is now. All he could see is towering building that pierce the sky. People in weird clothing, walking fastly along the road. And a huge fountain.

Water!

Rushing to it, he jumps straight into the water. He could feel the gazes coming at him but the feeling of the cool water is enough for him to ignore them for now.

???: Hey, you!

He turns around at the voice and sees a girl that's a little older than him standing there with her hands and her hips. English

????: Yes, you. You can't bath there. And you can't drink from that fountain.

?????: Why?

????: Because it's dirty. And it's not good. You should take a bath at home.

?????: I don't have a home.

????: What? What about parents?

?????: My mother hates me.

????: Oh! Errrm, would you like to come with us then?

?????: *Vigilant* To where?

????: To our hotel room. My mom and dad are out searching for ghost. So you can come use our shower. We even has food.

?????: No thanks. I'm not hungry *grrrrr*

????: Well, your stomach disagree. C'mon. I will make sure you eat the best food you will ever eat.

As the girl drags his wet body and clothes away, he wonders what is wrong with this girl. He will sneak out after he finish eating and showering.

?????: I'm Danyal

????:Hey Danny, I'm Jazz.

Danny: Danyal. Not Danny.

Jazz: Wasn't that what I say?

Danny: *Gives up* Whatever.

----15 years later----

Danny: Yeah, mom. I'm right in front of Gotham U right now. Ehhh, it's okay but it gives off serious haunted vibe. No. There is no ghost here. I will deal with the ghost here if there is any. I know. I will say hi to Jazz for you. Bye, mom. Love you too dad.

Danny enters Gotham U and true to Sam's rambling, it has the 70s gothic vibe to it. Sam did try to attend here too but her parents make her go to Metropolis U while Tucker goes to Star U. It is kind of weird going to class without them but it is not something he can't do.

As he opens his enters his dormitory, a figure rushes down the hall and accidentally bumps into him. Thankfully, he is fairly strong and the impact isn't strong.

The guy apologizes and immediately disappears at the end of the hallway.

Danny: Huh, what a weirdo.

After he enters the dormitory, he settles down and goes on his day.

---Wayne Manor---

Duke: You wouldn't believe what I just see at Gotham U this morning.

Steph: What?

Duke: I met a guy that look almost identical to Damian. If Damian smiles and his skin a little lighter, that would have been him.

Tim: Are you sure? We could try to do a background check on him if you want?

Duke: Nah. It's probably just a coincidence. There is no way he is somewhat related to Dami.

Tim: Daniel James Fenton. Birth of origin: unknown. 18 years old. Male. Have 2 sisters, a brother and parents. Live in small rural town. The only significant thing about them is that his sister is working at Arkham Asylum and his parents is ghost hunters.

Duke: What the fuck?! How the fuck do you know who to find out?

Tim: *Imitating Batman's voice* I'm Batman.

Duke: Whatever. See! He really does look like Damian. I'm not crazy.

Steph: No one says you are, dude. Anyway, we should show this to Damian. Maybe he knows him?

Damian: What are you all imbeciles talking about?

Tim: Hey, Dami. Look at this guy. Does he looks familiar?

Damian: *Freezes*

Steph: Uh oh. That isn't a no.

Damian: Where do you find him, Drake? Tell me!

Tim: Woah, dude. Chill. Duke bumps into him at Gotham U. He is studying there for Aerospace engineering apparently.

Damian: I need to make a call.

As Damian walks away, all of them look at each other signifying their shared thoughts. Yeah, they are not gonna leave this alone.

#danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #batfam #dc x dp #Danny is Talia's son #Not ghost king danny #more like ghost envoy danny #like the ghost that deals with any business in the mortal realm #Probably would be Dead Silent #maybe #I have finals next week #i should be studying

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estrellami-1 · 3 months ago

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Fall For You

Prompt from this post | Ao3 link

“Eddie!” Steve calls, walking into the apartment. He finds Eddie at the table and sets his hands down on the surface, wide eyes staring at Eddie. “You’ve got a membership at that gym, right?”

Eddie blinks up at him from his bowl of cereal. “The climbing gym?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie tilts his head side to side. “I’m mooching off Jeff’s membership right now, but I’m about to run out of free passes, so I’m thinking about getting my own. Why?”

“I asked the workers if my boyfriend counted as family for the discount and they said yes.”

Eddie blinks at him. “Do you have a secret boyfriend I don’t know about?”

“No, it would be you.” He sits across from Eddie and spreads his hands out. “If we pretend to be boyfriends, we can get the discount, and then you could climb and I could use the gym.”

“Robin climbs too,” Eddie points out. “You don’t want to pretend to be her boyfriend?”

“Ew,” Steve says, screwing up his face. “No, she’s basically my sister.”

“Right,” Eddie says slowly, “but it’s fake.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’ve seen her try to act, Eds,” he reminds him. “She’s hopeless. Siblings are an easier act for her because that’s closer to true. Please, Eddie? Just one time, we just need to go to the front desk together once, tell them we’re together, and get our discount. We don’t even have to go to the gym together at all, if you don’t want, if you- I don’t know, if there’s someone there you hang out with? You can keep doing that! We just need to go to the front desk together once. Please?”

Eddie sighs, long and drawn-out, dropping his spoon in his now-empty bowl and leaning back. “Damn you and your puppy eyes,” he says by way of answer.

“Yes!” Steve jumps up, pumps his arm in the air, and rounds the table to hug Eddie. “Thank you! You won’t regret this!”

He’s out of the room and down the hall before Eddie can blink, can even move, so he misses Eddie’s second, quieter sigh.

“Somehow I doubt that,” he murmurs, lips quirked up in a sad sort of smile. “But it’s worth it.”

He leaves the for you unsaid, even to himself, and brings his bowl to the kitchen.

“Hey, Chrissy!” Eddie greets the woman at the front desk. “How’s it going?”

“Hi, Eddie!” Chrissy says. “Good, busy today.”

“How’re you and Jason?”

She bites her lip. “We are no longer.”

Eddie drops to his knees and raises his hands. “Finally!” He crows, popping back up and leaning over the counter. “I’m so proud of you, Chris, seriously.” He pauses. “Wait, you initiated it, right?”

She giggles and nods. “He didn’t want to accept it at first, but I stood my ground and he finally agreed. He’s coming to pick up his stuff tomorrow.”

Eddie’s brows furrow. “Are you gonna be okay? I can move my schedule around, be there if you want someone as a buffer.”

She blinks big eyes up at him. “Would you? I don’t want to inconvenience you, but Jason-”

Eddie waves her off, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “It’s no inconvenience, seriously. What time’s he coming over?”

“Eleven.”

“Okay, and… put your address in, please?” He hands his phone over, and she quickly types it in. “I’ll be there a bit before eleven, if that works for you, just to make sure I’m there before he is. Oh, and here, add your number. I’ll shoot you a text, that way you’ll have my number, and can call if he gets there before I do.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Eddie, seriously.”

“Nah,” he grins. “I’m a regular asshole, you just wore me down.”

Behind him, Steve snorts.

Eddie whirls around. “See? He agrees with me!”

“No I don’t,” Steve laughs. “Eds, you’re an asshole in the way teddy bears are scary.”

Eddie frowns. “But they’re not scary.”

“Exactly.”

Eddie narrows his eyes at Steve. “So you don’t agree with me.”

“Not even a little.”

“Oh, I remember you!” Chrissy pipes up. “You came in yesterday asking about your boyfriend! Is he here?”

“Uh,” Steve says, blushing. “Yeah. He’s right in front of you.”

Chrissy blinks. “Eddie?”

“Surprise,” he says, raising little jazz hands and sending Chrissy a sheepish grin.

“Okay, I take it back, you are an asshole,” Chrissy says, but she’s grinning. “How dare you not tell me you have a boyfriend!”

“Oh,” Eddie says, “um.”

“I asked him not to,” Steve smoothly cuts in. “I’m sorry. We’ve had some… not great reactions in the past.”

Chrissy huffs, rolls her eyes. “Well I sure hope you don’t get that reaction here! If you do, just come find me. That person may find their account suspended.” She winks at them, and Eddie grins.

“There’s really no need for that, but we appreciate it. For now, think you could get us both set up with a membership?”

“Oh,” Steve says, “Robin!”

“Oh, right!” Eddie turns to Chrissy. “Can his sister join if we have all her info? Or does she need to be here?”

“She needs to be here, but we can always add her later. You two will be paying more until she joins, though.”

Eddie waves a hand. “That’s fine.”

She gets them set up, then hesitates, biting her lip. “I hate to ask,” she addresses Steve, “but are you busy tomorrow? As much as Eddie is willing, and I’m very glad he is, Jason’s stronger than him, and just in case-”

“You don’t need to explain it,” Steve promises her. “We’ll both be there a little before eleven tomorrow.”

Chrissy sags like a marionette with cut strings. “Oh, thank you. Thank you both. Seriously.”

“Not a problem,” Steve assures her.

They move on into the gym, then wave to Chrissy on their way out.

The next day they head to her apartment and arrive just when they said they would. Chrissy greets them both with a hug. “Thank you so much for being here,” she tells them. “Can I get you anything? Coffee?”

“If I ever say no to coffee, you have my permission to shoot me,” Eddie tells her seriously.

Steve snorts. “Ditto. We’d love coffee.”

She gets them each a mug, pulls out the sugar and creamer. Eddie nudges Steve out of the way, fixes his coffee the way he likes it. Steve smiles in thanks, nudges Eddie teasingly when he winks.

Chrissy sighs. “You two are so cute together,” she tells them.

Steve blushes. Eddie pulls a strand of hair over his face. “Thank you,” Steve says.

“How long have you been together?”

“Not very long at all, but we’ve known each other since high school.”

Eddie snickers. “He hated me.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I didn’t hate you, I thought you were weird, and I was right.”

“He hated me,” Eddie assures Chrissy.

“Christ,” Steve mutters, looking up at the ceiling.

Chrissy giggles. “How’d you become friends?”

“That’s my younger brother’s fault,” Steve tells her. “He’s obsessed with Dungeons and Dragons, and Eddie was the resident Dragon Master-”

“Dungeon Master, Stevie.”

“-yeah, that—in high school. I graduated before him, so he was there in his senior year when my brother, Dustin, was a freshman.”

Eddie snickers. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it. I was held back,” he tells Chrissy. “Had to take senior year three times. He graduated during my second senior year, and then Dustin came my third go ‘round. He brought a whole pack of rugrats with him.”

“They get into a lot of… situations,” Steve picks up. “And as his brother, I end up involved through no fault of my own. In one of these situations, Eddie got involved. We got to talking and realized, outside of the high school hierarchy lens, we’re not that different.” He smirks. “He’s still weird, though.”

“Hell yeah I am, that’s a badge of honor, sweetheart, I wear that with pride!”

Before Steve can retort, there’s a knock on the door.

Chrissy takes a deep breath, brushes by them, and opens the door. “Jason.”

“Chrissy. Didn’t take you long to change the locks.”

She sets her jaw. “This isn’t your apartment anymore, Jason. You have no right to walk in whenever you want to.”

“Jesus,” Eddie murmurs to Steve, “he’s a piece of work, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” Steve agrees distractedly. “That- that’s Jason?”

“I mean, I haven’t seen the guy before today, but I assume so.” He looks at Steve, frowns a little. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Steve takes a breath. “I’m fine. Trying to decide if I should be a bitch or not.”

“Always yes,” Eddie says immediately. “Unless you mean to Chrissy? In which case no.”

“No, not to Chrissy. I’ve met Jason before, about four months ago. But he called himself Liam.”

“Holy shit!” Eddie whispers. “Terrible hookup Liam?”

Steve nods. “One and the same.”

Just then, Jason glances over at them. His face pales with recognition, but he quickly schools himself. “Who’s this?”

“Jason, is it?” Steve asks disinterestedly. “Thats funny. I could’ve sworn you called yourself Liam when we hooked up four months ago.” He crosses his arms. “You didn’t mention a girlfriend, either.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. Chrissy,” Steve asks, “does Jason have a mole above his right butt cheek?”

“He does,” Chrissy agrees, narrowing her eyes at Jason. “and a birthmark-”

“On the inside of his left thigh?”

“Exactly.” Chrissy crosses her arms.

“Never thought I’d be the other woman,” Steve says. “I don’t appreciate being played. And I especially don’t appreciate you cheating on Chrissy.”

“Nor do I,” Chrissy says, rounding on Jason. “How dare you?”

“I didn’t!”

“Oh, yeah, like I believe that. How long? How many times, Jason? How many times were you home late because work went long, because you had meetings?” She laughs, loud and sardonic. “Oh, and let’s not forget that business trip to Florida. Unless that wasn’t for business at all, was it?” She laughs again, then walks away, shaking her head. “Get your shit and get out of here.”

She walks into the kitchen. Steve and Eddie exchange a glance, then immediately follow her.

“Chris?” Eddie murmurs. “You alright?”

She rolls her eyes at him, reaching for a mug. Her hand is shaking. Steve immediately jumps for the coffee pot, pours her a cup. “Would anybody be alright? After having something like that happen?”

“Probably not,” Eddie admits. “What can we do?”

She sighs, shakes her head. “I don’t think there’s anything to do. I’m just seeing a lot of ice cream in my future.”

Steve snorts. “I’ve been there. Actually, uh.” He shifts uncomfortably. “The last time I was there was about four months ago.”

Chrissy’s smart, so it’s only a second before she connects the dots, and she spins around to stare open-mouthed at him. “Him?”

Steve nods. “I don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna hear it.”

“I absolutely want to hear it,” she tells him. “What happened?”

“Well,” Steve says, “we call him terrible hookup Liam even though I’ve never hooked up with another Liam. Or, I guess, a Liam at all, considering his name is actually Jason.” He frowns. “And why’d he change his name anyways? It’s not like we knew each other four months ago.”

Chrissy rolls her eyes. “Who knows. What happened that made it so terrible?”

Steve snorts. “Well, first I think we need to establish what you’re comfortable with hearing.”

She leans towards him, eyes big and serious. “I’ve seen every inch of that man. There is nothing that you could say that I wouldn’t be comfortable with.”

Steve studies her for a minute, then shrugs. “Okay. So it’s a hookup, right? We’d met at a bar, there weren’t any sparks but there didn’t have to be for a hookup, just mutual attraction, and that was there, at least on the surface. So we go back to his place and he fucks me. And I swear to God I’ve never had a worse fuck. He didn’t hurt me or anything, but he was trying to get himself off and wasn’t really caring about how I was doing, y’know?”

Chrissy snorts. “I know, trust me.”

Steve winces. “Right. He lasted maybe five minutes? Pulled out, got up, and basically went alright, nice meeting you, now leave please. Meanwhile I’m laying there completely unsatisfied. He couldn’t have missed more if he’d tried. And I’m just… dumbfounded, basically. I’ve never met anyone like that before. So I leave and head back home, and Ed’s waiting up for me-”

“I’d nearly forgotten,” Eddie murmurs. “That’s when I realized I loved him.”

“Oh?” Chrissy says, interest piqued.

Eddie nods. “Mhm. He got home and was ranting about how terrible his hookup had been, and all I can think about is how he deserves better, how I would do better, if I could, never let him go, never leave him unsatisfied again-”

Steve’s breath catches. He remembers the night, remembers the fight they’d had, how he wanted to go back out the next night but Eddie-

Eddie had yelled, because he does that; he gets excited and he rants and rambles and throws his arms around and forgets things like personal space.

I can’t keep watching you hurt yourself like this, Eddie had said, too loud for the room, for Steve’s fragile heart.

So don’t, Steve had said, and slammed the door to his room.

They didn’t talk about it again.

But that was just- that was Eddie, just being his friend. Heart on his sleeve, because that’s how it is with the people he trusts.

He shakes the thought away, focuses back on the conversation at hand.

“That’s so sweet,” Chrissy coos, brows drawn up. “You two are so lucky to have each other.”

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, smiling at Steve.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Steve smiles back, sad and a little lost. “I think one of us should probably keep an eye on Jason,” he says quietly. “I’d do it, but since he and I know each other-”

Eddie shakes his head. “It could end badly, I know. I’ll go.”

Jason does, in fact, get his shit and get out. Steve and Eddie follow him down, Eddie cites work as a reason they can’t stay even though Steve knows he doesn’t have work for a few more hours.

When they get back to their apartment, Eddie immediately sequesters himself in his room.

At a loss, Steve heads to his room. Shuts the door. Doesn’t mean to fall asleep. Wakes up when the front door shuts, signaling Eddie leaving.

He’s not sure why his chest hurts at that thought.

The next day Eddie’s back to normal, so Steve does his best to act normal too. Chalks it up to thinking about the worst fight they’d had to date.

Life goes back to normal, and soon they’re back to their regular schedule. They go to the gym together as often as not, since their schedules usually align.

There’s one such day Eddie’s climbing, taking a break on a bouldering route and holding on by three points, letting his right arm hang loose, get some blood back into it. He looks around the gym, sees Steve hopping off the treadmill.

He watches as Steve lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his face, and oh-

Hello, stomach. Hello, happy trail.

Eddie’s left hand flexes. Relaxes. He falls.

“Shit!”

He knows how to fall, lands on his feet and rolls backwards, distributing the force. Lays there for a minute, breathing hard, categorizing.

He’s known he’s liked Steve for a while. That’s an open secret to anyone except Steve, though maybe that’s not so true anymore, based on that day at Chrissy’s.

But Eddie’s never seen him work out before. Never seen his abs as he flexes slightly, the little bit of pouch he gets when he leans over, and that fucking hair-

“Eddie!” Steve calls, dropping to his knees at Eddie’s side. “That was, like, a ten-foot fall, man, are you okay?”

Eddie blinks up at him. A fluorescent angel, backlit by bulbs high in the ceiling. “Fine,” he says, when he can find his words again. “Just a bruised ego.”

Steve tilts concerned brows at him. “Are you sure? Your ankles are fine? You didn’t hit your head?”

Eddie smiles, shakes his head, sits up. “I’m fine, I swear. I’ve fallen from higher. Hell, I’ve jumped from higher.”

“You’re sure?”

Eddie laughs, shakes his head. Stands and offers Steve a hand up. “C’mon, let me show you.” He scans the wall, picks an easy route, white holds. “This is the easiest route we’re gonna find here. I’m gonna teach you how to fall, ready?” He jumps up, grabs a hold. Shows off a little, pulls himself up by his arm to grab another hold higher up, gets his feet on the wall too. Releases his left arm, grins down at Steve, only about three feet below him. “We’re gonna start here to learn, ‘cause it’s pretty hard to fuck up badly enough at three feet to actually injure yourself. You’re gonna let go, land on your feet, and roll back.” He looks at Steve, studies the ground around them. “Move back a foot? Yeah, good. Now watch. Feet, then roll to your back.” He jumps and does as he said, grinning at Steve once he’s on his back again. “See? Just like parkour, you’re distributing the energy you get from jumping. This way you don’t end with a fucked ankle or knee.” He rocks himself up to a sitting position, unclips his chalk bag, and offers it to Steve with another grin. “Chalk up, big boy, your turn.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but chalks up anyways. Climbs up to where Eddie was. It takes him longer, and he’s sure he looks more awkward than Eddie had, but it’s easy enough.

He looks down at Eddie, then further still to the ground. It looks far, even though he knows there’s only about three feet of distance. He takes a deep breath and lets go, letting the momentum carry him over onto his back.

He explodes into a breathless laugh, accepting Eddie’s arm up. “See?” Eddie says, then hands over the chalk bag again. “One more time, then you’re going all the way to the top.”

Steve glances up nervously. Eddie smiles, hands him the bag, and shows him the route. “Feet here, hands here to start, yeah? Your legs are stronger than your arms, so push up with your legs instead of pulling with your arms. Make a mental map of the route before you start and stick to it if you can. This bit can be a bit tricky; right hand reaches over here, and left hand takes the hold your right was just on, see?” He drops his left hand to look down at Steve. “Got it so far?”

Steve’s face is the picture of doubt. “I think so.”

Eddie snorts, scrambles to the top. “It’s easier once you’re doing it anyways. Hands-on is easier than watching. Then once you’re up here, you grab onto this last one with both hands, and that means you’ve completed the route. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Now from here, you’ve got two options. You can climb back down the way you came, which is possible but it means you tire yourself out faster.”

“Or?”

Eddie grins, lets go. “You jump!”

He lands on his feet, lets the momentum take him down onto his back with a giggle. “Your turn.”

“Christ,” Steve mutters. “Okay.”

“It’s not gonna be as easy as I made it look,” Eddie tells him. “I’ve been doing this for months.” He points to a sign. “This route, with the white holds, is v-zero, see? Then it goes up, v-one, two, three, all the way up to eleven. I’m regularly climbing v-seven, sometimes v-eight. It takes time to get up to that level, and I’ve learned a lot that you can really only learn through doing. Robin’s been going for a while, too, right? And she’s about at v-four, sometimes five if it’s an easier climb.”

“So you’re saying…”

Eddie chuckles. “Don’t beat yourself up if you can’t do it, or if it’s harder for you than I made it look.”

“Cool,” Steve nods. “Probably gonna beat myself up if I can’t do it.”

“Steve!” Eddie laughs, shoving him a little.

Steve laughs back, reaches for the bag, which Eddie hands him. “Here, clip it on around your waist. That way if your hands get sweaty on the climb, you can re-chalk them so you can get a better grip.”

Steve does, glances at the wall, takes a breath, and grabs on.

He gets about halfway up before he begins to slow, and about three-quarters of the way up before he’s moving at practically a snail’s pace, looking between his hands and feet, looking for the next hold. He gets to the place Eddie had warned him about. He moves his right hand over, almost gets a grip, tries again-

And falls.

“Shit!” He yelps. He does his best to fall the way Eddie had shown him, and finds that not only does it work, it doesn’t hurt and it’s actually kind of fun.

He bursts out laughing as soon as he meets Eddie’s worried eyes. Eddie’s brows smooth out, and he chuckles as he offers Steve a hand up. “Harder than you thought, huh?”

“Much,” Steve nods with a grin. “Fun, though. Can I try again?”

“Hell yeah!” Eddie grins. “Go for it! Might want to shake your hands out before you do, get your blood flowing to them again. You were pretty spread out, your hands were above you a lot of the time, and you got less blood to your hands than you should’ve. Try keeping your arms a little closer next time, really rely on your legs to push you up. And when you get up to that spot again-” he points, then sighs. “Fuck it, give me a second.”

He scrambles up, puts his hands and feet on the holds Steve had. “Here’s where you were, right? And here-” he moves his feet to holds a little higher “-is where I was. See how my arms aren’t quite as high above me anymore? It also means this hold is easier to reach.” He grabs the next hold, then decides to show off some and dangle from that hand, grinning at Steve.

Steve laughs, pretends to throw the chalk bag at him. “Showoff!”

“If I can’t now, when can I?” Eddie retorts, dropping back down to the mat and rolling all the way back, over his shoulder to end up kneeling.

Steve snorts, shakes his arms out, chalks up again, and tries one more time.

This time he makes it to the top, and Eddie whoops as soon as he touches the last hold with both hands. “Nice one, Stevie! You’re a natural!”

Steve laughs, glances down at Eddie, and drops, rolling back the way Eddie had taught him. “Okay, your turn. Show me what you can do.” He hands him the chalk bag, and Eddie grins, looking around as he clips it back on.

“Okay, here, these green holds, see? That tag is the same color as v-seven, and I did that climb last time I was here.” He chalks up, scans the route, nods, and starts.

He’s up in a little under two minutes, grinning down at Steve after he taps the final hold.

“Damn,” Steve grins. “Think I could try?”

Eddie snorts, jumps down. “Sure.” He’s stands up and gestures Steve closer to the wall. “See how there’s two tags here? One here, one there? That means you start by holding both of these. Then you get your feet up here, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, so Eddie moves back and Steve tries.

He almost immediately falls. “What the fuck,” he laughs, “how do you hold on?”

Eddie grins. “Hard, isn’t it? You’ve gotta get your fingers around best you can and pull together. Like the, uh.” He holds his arms out to the side, then brings them both forward. “Whatever machine this is.”

Steve snickers. “Chest fly. That makes sense, but are your fingers strong enough to grip like that? How do you build up the strength?”

Eddie shrugs. “How do you go from benching one plate to two?”

Steve snorts. “Okay, I get it.” He tries again and is able to hold on longer this time, but ends up on his ass anyways.

“Here,” Eddie says, “let’s try this. Get back up there, and I’ll help hold your hands there, so you can still start the right way.”

Steve gets back up, and Eddie slots in behind him, slides his fingers between Steve’s, and supports him. “There,” he murmurs. “Now you see that hold above you? You’re going to reach with your right hand and grab it. Pull with your left a little when you let go with your right so you stay on the wall.”

Steve turns his head to the side, and only then does Eddie realize how close they are; his nose brushes Steve’s cheek as he nods. “Got it. You won’t let me fall?”

“Never,” Eddie promises in a whisper. “I’ve got you, Stevie.”

Steve takes a breath. Nods. Rocks to his right, then as he moves to his left, Eddie lets go of his hands and brings his own hands to Steve’s hips, stabilizing him. “You’re going to want to keep pulling your arms together,” Eddie tells him. “Keep that tension. Now see that hold up and to your left?”

“Uh-huh. That’s where my left hand goes?”

“Exactly. Swing up and grab it.”

Steve does so, then moves his feet up to a couple of higher holds as well.

“Now this is what we call dyno,” Eddie tells him. “Short for dynamic. See that hold above you?”

“Oh, you mean the y-shaped one? Or the little button-looking one? Or maybe you mean the one that looks like a mushroom.”

Eddie snickers, carefully moves away from Steve, then scrambles up on some holds next to him. “This one.” He taps it twice, then jumps down and quickly gets back in position. “Try and reach it.”

Steve does, and immediately fails. “What the fuck? How do I reach that?”

“That’s the dyno move I was talking about. You keep your feet here, crouch down best you can, and jump. Let me get out of the way, because you’re probably going to fall and I’d rather it not be on me.” He moves off to the side, then nods at Steve. “Go ahead.”

Steve narrows his eyes, crouches down, and jumps up. His hand grazes the hold, but he isn’t able to grab it and ultimately falls onto the mat.

“I call bull,” he laughs. “No way you can do that.”

Eddie laughs. “You just saw me do it!”

“Nope. Nuh-uh. That’s impossible. I didn’t see you jump.”

Eddie grins, rolls his eyes, chalks up real quick before climbing back up to that spot. “This is probably what you saw,” he says, reaching up with his hands while staying crouched, then exploding up and grabbing the hold. “I made it more all of one movement, instead of stopping and then jumping.” He releases his left hand to grin down at Steve.

Steve looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon. “That’s impressive,” he says.

Eddie frowns, jumps down. “Are you okay?”

Steve takes a breath, smoothes his features out. “I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”

Steve smiles. “I know. You didn’t. I’m fine, I swear.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, unsure. “Um. Are you ready to go? Done working out?”

“Sure,” Steve agrees, and digs his keys out, offering them to Eddie. “Would you mind driving?”

“Okay,” Eddie says, half joking, “now I know there’s something wrong.”

Steve sighs, ducks his head. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Steve looks up at Eddie from under his lashes with a half-smile. “No. But thanks.”

“You’ll tell me if that changes and I can help?”

Steve snorts. “I swear on your Uncle Wayne.”

“Good,” Eddie tells him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leading him out. “Coffee on me?”

“You don’t have to-”

“Let me rephrase. I’m getting coffee.”

Steve snickers. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Stevie.”

They’re back at the gym a few days later when Steve slots his arm around Eddie.

Eddie, who was studying a route, jerks in surprise. “Please play along,” Steve murmurs. “This girl will not leave me alone.”

Eddie laughs like Steve had said something funny, pulls him in, and presses his lips to Steve’s cheek. “I gotcha,” he murmurs when he pulls away. “What’s going on?”

Steve shakes his head. “What were you looking at?”

Eddie points at the wall, traces a line. “See the blue holds? See the three close together, then the one further, kinda up and to the left?”

“Mhm. That’s a… uh, a dyno move?”

“Exactly. The problem is, see the holds below? There’s not a comfortable place for my feet. They’re either too high or too low.”

Steve frowns. “Could you… maybe put your feet on the higher one, then use your hands and kind of… swing up to the higher one?”

“Probably,” Eddie admits. “I think what I need more than anything else is practice on this route.”

Steve hums, moves away. “Show me?”

Eddie does, groaning when he falls again. He pops back up before Steve can worry and spins around to find Steve talking with a girl.

His body language looks extremely uncomfortable, is the first thing Eddie sees. He’s leaning away from her, one foot back like he’s about to walk away, arms crossed. He’s got his customer service smile on, so Eddie bounds over with a, “Stevie!” He grabs onto Steve’s shoulders with a bright smile.

Steve laughs and grins back at him, then just as suddenly his expression falls. “I missed it! Did you do it?”

“Nope!” Eddie snickers. “Think I just need practice. Who’s your friend, baby?”

“Oh, this is Cynthia. Cynthia, meet Eddie, my boyfriend.”

Eddie releases Steve and grins as he extends his hand to shake, which she does with some reluctance. “Nice to meet you!”

“Yeah, you too. Anyways, Steve, I’ve gotta get going, but it was nice to meet you!”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “you too,” but he’s still got his customer service smile on.

Eddie wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders as she walks away. “She the one who was giving you trouble?”

Steve hums affirmatively. “Apparently I don’t look bi. Do I look bi? I do, right?”

“The bi-est,” Eddie agrees. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Steve chuckles, then nudges Eddie over to the wall. “Okay, no interruptions this time, show me?”

Something in Eddie thrills at the fact that Steve is asking, wants to learn more about something Eddie’s passionate about. He grins wide and bounds over, makes his way to the problem area, swings up as he jumps-

And grabs the hold.

“You did it!” Steve yells, just as Eddie is realizing that very fact.

“Holy shit!” He grins down at Steve, gets his other hand and his feet on the holds. “Okay, from here should be easy enough.”

Steve snorts. “None of that is easy, dude.”

Eddie completes the route and jumps down, rolling on his back and grinning up at Steve. “Would’ve been cooler if I could’ve flashed it, though.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Not sure the wall cares about that, but the employees might.”

Eddie snickers and shakes his head. “No, flashing means completing a route the first time you try it. Mind outta the gutter, Stevie. ‘Sides, I can’t show just anyone the goods.”

Steve rolls his eyes with a grin. “Yeah, yeah, you’re not a slut like I am, I know.”

“Hey, you said it, not me.”

They both laugh, and Steve slaps Eddie on the back before he walks away, back to the wall to attempt a different climb.

They’re back home the next day when Eddie walks into the kitchen to see Steve staring at a tub of peanut butter. “I hate you.”

Eddie blinks. “You talking to me or the peanut butter?”

Steve pouts up at him. “My forearms are sore, and my hands hurt, and I can’t open the peanut butter because you were the last one to close it.”

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says, and opens the jar for him. “Sorry, man, I never get that sore anymore.”

Steve waves him off, dumps some peanut butter in the blender. “I’m used to being sore, and it’s a good hurt, y’know? Building muscle.” He puts the peanut butter away, grabs the milk from the fridge. Pours some of that, too. “Do you know when Chrissy’s working next? I know she broke up with Jason not too long ago, but she hasn’t met Robin yet.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, they’d be great together! I think… Tuesday? Or- no, shit, that was last week.” He sighs, pulls his phone out. “I’ll text her. Are we gonna try and wingman?”

Steve considers it, pulls the protein powder from the pantry. “For any normal person, I’d say yes. But you know how Robin is. She’s a rambler. If they can’t handle it right out of the gate, they don’t have a chance. It’s best to just let Robin be.”

“You know Chrissy’s gonna be sweet about the rambling.”

“I also know Robin rambles even more when confronted with a cute girl. I know Chrissy is pretty exactly her type. And I know Chrissy’s got a dirty mind but blushes at the slightest thing. I think they’re gonna be perfect for each other.”

Eddie grins back at Steve, tosses him a banana. Pulls his phone out of his pocket and grins at the screen. “She works today, tomorrow, and Friday.”

Steve tilts his head, looks at the ceiling. Eddie grabs the chocolate syrup and drizzles some into the blender, capping it before turning it on.

“Thanks. Thursday work?”

“It should. Rob doesn’t have school that day and she doesn’t work until that night. When do you work that day?”

“I don’t, actually, the new guy’s taking all my shifts.”

Steve chuckles. “I work that morning but I should be back by eleven, if you want to head to the gym then?”

“Sure, I’ll get Buck up with the promise of muffins.”

“Ooh,” Steve says, “blueberry?”

“Always,” Eddie agrees. “Although I might do some chocolate chip this time, too, I know you’ve got a sweet tooth.” He looks significantly at the blender, and Steve laughs.

“You don’t have to make them just for me.”

“Oh, right, cause I’m not going to have a chocolate chip muffin. And Robin definitely won’t.” He shrugs. “Besides, even if it was just for you, it’d be worth it.”

He’s hesitant as he says it, not sure how his heart will be received, but it’s worth it for the bright blush that Steve turns away to hide.

Eddie sighs, grabs a bowl and the Honeycomb. Steve pours his shake into a glass, and together they separately get on with their day.

Thursday dawns with Eddie cursing his promise to Steve. He’s not a morning person, and the muffins take a while to make.

He finally gets them in the oven and collapses onto the couch with a sigh, pulling his phone out and opening his messages with Steve.

Eddie: are you heading by the coffee shop on your way home 👀

Steve: I could be 👀

Eddie: 👀

Steve: I’ll be home 11:15

Eddie: 👍

Steve gets home with their coffees just as Robin’s trudging to the table to eat. If Eddie’s not a morning person, he doesn’t know what Robin is; she’s a zombie until she gets coffee, and even then she needs not to be spoken to until she’s finished her mug.

She stops in her tracks and makes desperate grabby hands at Steve, who chuckles, kisses her temple, and hands her a cup.

He hip-checks Eddie as he hands him his coffee then continues into his room to change out of his work clothes and into gym clothes.

He’s back in a few minutes, chugging the rest of his own coffee and throwing it in the trash on his way to the table, sitting down with a happy sigh. “Thanks, Eds.”

Eddie chuckles. “No problem, Stevie.”

“You have a plan for the gym?”

“I don’t have a plan for my life, dude. I just climb whatever I want to climb.”

Robin mutters something under her breath about climbing and Steve and trees. Under the table, Steve kicks her.

Eddie decides he doesn’t want to get in the middle of that.

Soon enough they’re on their way to the gym. Steve’s driving, and Robin has permanent passenger privilege, which means Eddie’s relegated to the backseat. He doesn’t mind, he knows how Steve and Robin are, but he lets his mind wander.

Sure, Steve’s hot. That’s a pretty objective fact. But he’s also kind. He can also be kind of a bitch, but really that just adds to his charm. He’s fiercely protective of his friends but will let people walk all over him.

Eddie wants to protect him. He wants to show Steve that he’s worth just as much as anyone else is; more, to Eddie. He wants to take Steve on drives, hold his hand over the console. He wants to get a bucket of popcorn at the movie theater and spend most of the movie eating popcorn and talking shit about the characters, fingers getting tangled when there’s just unpopped kernels left.

He wants them to know each other so well that they don’t need to ask, just do instead; he wants to surprise Steve with a coffee because he knows he’s tired, or a sweet treat because he knows he’s had a bad day.

They get to the gym before he can follow that specific train of thought too far.

“Chrissy!” He yells, grinning at the redhead, who grins back.

“Eddie! And Steve, hi! And- is this your sister?”

“This is Robin,” Steve agrees, pushing her forward.

“Hi,” she squeaks out, eyes wide.

“I like your name,” she says.

“Oh. Um. Thank you? I didn’t pick it.”

Chrissy giggles. “No, but you didn’t change it, either, that’s gotta count for something. You’re here for a membership, right? Have you been here before?”

“Y-yeah, and uh, I have, a few times.”

Chrissy pouts. “And I’m just now meeting you? That’s not fair!” She blushes a little, focuses on the counter when she says, “Maybe we could get to know each other more? Maybe over dinner?”

Robin blinks until Steve nudges her. “Yes!” She bursts out. “Please. I’d, um, I’d like that?”

Chrissy grins at her. “I’m glad. I can’t get your number while I’m on the clock, but maybe I could give you mine? We could text, find a time to meet up?”

“O-okay,” Robin agrees.

Steve nudges Eddie, and they slip away after scanning their tags.

Steve sighs happily. “I knew they’d get along.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie laughs. “Casanova, I know. You gonna climb or work out today?”

Steve shrugs a shoulder. “Probably just work out, but I’ll definitely come watch you two when I finish.”

“Cool,” Eddie says. “Um. You can come find me if anyone bothers you, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees warmly. “Same to you.”

Eddie snorts. “Right, like this is so attractive.” He gestures to himself, and Steve stops in his tracks, brows furrowed.

“You- you’re joking, right?” Eddie gives him a confused look, and Steve’s brows skyrocket. “Dude, you know you’re insanely hot, right?”

“Tell that to all of the boyfriends I’ve had. Oh, wait, I haven’t had any.”

“Okay, and that’s their loss. You’re a great friend and I know you’d be a great boyfriend. Or fuck, if you’re looking for a one night stand. You’re attentive and conscientious and you put others’ needs above your own. And, again, you’re hot. Hell, if I’d ever had any indication you wanted me back, I’d be all over you.”

“You-” Eddie blinks. “What?”

Steve winces. “I didn’t really mean to say that here. Can we, like, ignore it? Until we’re home? Or forever?”

“I mean, it takes two to have a conversation, so I don’t really have a choice unless I wanna talk at you, but…” he shakes his head. “What the fuck, dude?”

Steve winces again. “I know, I’m sorry, I swear Robin rubs off on me and I just start rambling. But I can- I mean, it’s been this long and I haven’t, like, acted on it, and I can just… continue to not act on it, y’know? Nothing- nothing has to change.”

“I think everything’s going to change,” Eddie says, then notices the way Steve’s holding himself, small and unsure, and relents. “We can wait till we’re home,” he says softly.

Just then, Robin runs up and flings herself at Steve. “Dingus!” She exclaims. “I have a date!”

Eddie watches Steve pull back behind a wall, plaster a smile on his face. Only the edges peel a little, let Eddie know it’s not real. Robin would notice, too, if she weren’t so excited. “That’s great, Robs!”

“I know! I mean, we don’t actually have a date yet, but we’re going to, unless I completely misread what she meant by get to know me-”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay cool, cool. Ah! I’m so excited!”

Steve grins at her. “That’s seriously great, Robbie. I’m super excited for you. Where are you going?”

“There’s that new coffee shop down by the mall, y’know? She’s never been, and I’ve never been- should I go first? To, like, figure it out? So I don’t look stupid?”

“I mean,” Steve says, “she hasn’t gone either, right? So whatever happens, you’ll learn together.”

“Oh, that’s true. Okay. I won’t go first, then.”

Steve snorts. “Okay. You want the car or were you planning to take the bus?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know I don’t drive unless I don’t have a choice. And the bus goes right to the mall anyways, and it’s not that far a walk to the coffee shop.”

“Okay,” Steve shrugs.

“Okay,” Robin says, clapping her hands with a grin and looking between the two of them. “What are we doing first?”

“We aren’t doing anything,” Steve tells her. “I’m just working out today.”

Eddie’s heart tugs pitifully. He pushes it away. “I’ve got no idea what I’m gonna climb,” he says, and looks around. “Maybe that route, with the green holds to start?”

Robin frowns at him. “I can do that one.” Eddie shrugs, so she does, too. “Alright. I guess just… yell? When you’re ready to go?”

“Can do,” Steve nods, and takes off for the gym.

Eddie turns to the wall with a quiet sigh as Robin heads off in search of a route to climb.

Eddie tends to throw himself into things, he’s well aware. He knows putting his earbuds in won’t help that fact, but it’ll help distract him, so he does it.

It’s only when there’s a tap on his shoulder that he wakes up and realizes his hands are shaking. “Hey,” Robin says when he takes his earbud out. “Steve’s waiting up front for us.”

He follows her out, slips into the backseat. Can’t help but notice the way Steve’s eyes slide over his face in the rearview mirror.

When they get back, Eddie’s barely extricated himself from the backseat by the time Steve’s in the apartment with his door shut.

With a heavy heart, feeling like he’s walking to the gallows, he knocks on Steve’s door. “Steve?” He asks. “Can… can we talk? Please?”

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t come out that night, even for dinner.

Eddie goes to bed with a heavy heart, but doesn’t actually fall asleep until nearly four in the morning. He wakes up to the sound of Steve’s door closing again. He rolls over, buries his face in his pillow, and quietly cries himself to sleep again.

He doesn’t see Steve at all that day. He finally catches him the next morning. It’s earlier than he’d like to be awake, but it’s not like he’s going to be able to sleep without talking to him.

He walks out to the kitchen and stops short at the sight of Steve.

He looks terrible. His eyes are puffy, his hair is flat and greasy, and his shirt is creased and rumpled.

“Steve,” he murmurs, flinching when Steve jumps. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Sorry,” Steve says nonsensically, hurrying around the kitchen. He won’t look at Eddie. “Sorry, I- I’m almost done, I’ll get out of your hair-”

“Steve,” he quietly repeats. “Can we talk?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again. “We- we don’t have to, I can- I’ll get over it, nothing has to change. Or- if you’re not comfortable with it, if you want to move- or if you want me to move-”

“I don’t want to move. And I don’t want you to move. Steve, please. Just talk to me.”

Steve shudders out a sigh. “I think I said it all already. What, you want to hear it again?”

“Clearly this time,” Eddie says. “Yes. Please.”

Steve sighs, runs his finger along a crack in the countertop, where two pieces join up. “I like you,” he whispers. “And I have for a while.” He grips his mug tight, shuts his eyes. His shoulders round, his head dips. “And I- I know you don’t feel the same, and that’s fine, I can get over it-”

“Hang on a second, Stevie,” Eddie requests. He takes a small step forward. “Who said I don’t like you back?”

“Well, why would you?” He asks. “I love too fast and too hard. Even Nancy couldn’t keep up and she’s the most intense person I know.”

“There’s a difference between just plain intensity and devotion,” Eddie murmurs. He takes another step forward, leans sideways on the counter. “I know devotion. I’ve known it, I think, since you walked into my life.” Steve sobs once before cutting himself off, curling into himself even more. “Stevie?”

“Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Please don’t.”

“It’s true.”

“It can’t be. I- I don’t get that. I don’t get you. It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Eddie questions. “It’s the truth, Stevie, I liked you the moment I saw you. Then I saw you interact with Robin, and I saw the bitchy persona you pull out sometimes, and I saw you tired and sad and mad and sick and goofy, and I’ve loved every single facet of you that I’ve seen. What haven’t I seen yet, Stevie? Why can’t I like you? How can I prove that I do?”

Steve shakes his head, releases his mug to wrap his arms around himself. “You can’t.”

“Then how can I help you prove it? Stevie,” he murmurs, taking another careful step forward. “Sweetheart. Can I hug you?”

Another choked noise. A small nod.

Eddie steps forward again, his last two strides taking him all the way to Steve. He gently pulls him in, tucks his head on his shoulder, wraps an arm around his waist and runs a hand through his hair. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs again, “how could I not love you?”

“No one ever has. Why would you be different?”

“Robin?”

“‘S different.”

“Then maybe I am, too.”

He pulls back, pushes Steve’s hair out of his face with a sad smile on. “Hey. You got anywhere to be for the next little bit?” Steve shakes his head. “Good, then c’mon. You can bring your coffee.” He pulls back entirely, just holding on to Steve’s left hand so he can grab his mug, then leads him to the living room, where he pulls Steve down onto the couch and into his arms again.

“I don’t know if you caught it,” he murmurs, “but when we were at Chrissy’s and she asked how we met, I told her the story of when I knew I fell in love with you. That was all true.”

“I heard it,” Steve admits. “I just couldn’t let myself believe it.”

“All this time,” Eddie breathes. “We could’ve skipped all of this if I’d just told you. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Steve shakes his head. “‘S not your fault. ‘S mine.”

“Now I just refuse to believe that,” Eddie tells him. “First of all, I could’ve told you ages ago. That’s on no one but myself. You couldn’t have known how I was feeling.”

After a pause, Steve lifts his head to ask, “and second of all?”

“Okay, I don’t really have one.” Steve hits him with the bitchiest look, and Eddie collapses into giggles.

Suddenly Steve looks unsure. “You even like me when I’m being a bitch?”

“I love you all of the time,” Eddie tells him. “But you being a bitch is definitely one of the reasons I originally fell for you.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Are you gonna tease me if I say I think it’s hot?”

Steve hums, lays his head back down. “Only a little.”

Eddie snorts. “It is. You can hold your own, and you’re so smart, and… I dunno. It’s hot.”

Steve snorts. “So eloquent.”

Eddie chuckles. “Believe me yet?”

“I’m starting to,” Steve promises. “I think… I think I just need time.”

“Take all the time you need, as long as I can hold you like this in the meantime.”

Steve hides his smile in Eddie’s chest. “Deal.”

They’re still there two hours later when Robin stumbles out of her room.

“Morning,” Steve tells her happily. “Eddie and I are dating.”

“I thought you already were,” Chrissy says, appearing in Robin’s doorway.

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #robin buckley #chrissy cunningham #jason carver #Chrissy and Jason were dating but she breaks up with him #platonic Stobin #fake dating #fake relationship #these boys are idiots but what else is new #idiot4idiot #miscommunication #just tell me if I forgot a tag #starambles

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demonic0angel · 3 months ago

Note

For whatever reasons, Jazz becomes Damian's foster parent for about a year.

(May I introduce you to the ‘Damian grows up as a Fenton’ AU? XD However, this ask won’t be related to that AU)

Damian felt cold.

“… I’m going back?”

Bruce frowned. “Yes. Of course, you’re going back to Gotham.”

Damian could not help the glance that he took by his side, where the presence of Jazz was absent. Bruce had caught him while he was out with friends, and he had been forced into a conversation with his father for the first time in a year.

Yes, a year. A year since he had been tossed out of the manor for “protection” and put into foster care. It had been hell at first, but Jazz was the most patient, rewarding, and kindest person he had ever met, possibly even above Alfred or Richard.

And now he would be separated from her again.

Damian was silent before he then said slowly, “I see.” Shadow brushed against his legs, ever watching with its wide eyes and Damian could see Bruce recoil at the sight of the strange dog. He resisted a smile and then reached downwards to pick them up. “When am I expected to be leaving?”

“In a week,” Bruce said, grimacing. “We’ll talk to your… guardian and thank her for her assistance.”

Yes. Because taking care of him and showing him proper familial love was merely assistance.

Damian’s eyes were half lidded. “I see.”

Bruce stared at him and opened his mouth. But after a moment, he didn’t say anything and then just turned around to leave. Damian watched him go and when he was assured that no one was looking, looked down at Shadow and said, “Take me back to Jazz.”

Shadow did so with a whoosh of its powers and Damian dropped into the kitchen, where Jazz stood in front of the stove, blinking at the sight of him.

“Damian!” She said, beaming at him, cheerful as ever. “Welcome home! Are you hungry? Go wash your hands, I tried making potato soup today.”

Damian gently lowered Shadow to the ground and then strode over to throw himself into Jazz’s embrace, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face into her stomach. She startled but then quickly dropped to the ground in a squat, holding him carefully.

“What’s wrong, Damian? Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?” She continued holding him in a hug and her vanilla-ocean fragrance was a comfort as always.

“…. My father approached me. He wants me to go back and he said that he’ll talk to you.”

Jazz froze. Then carefully, she asked, “Do you want to go back?”

Did he?

He loved being Robin and in a way, he had loved his siblings. They had pushed for him to stay but Bruce’s orders had been absolute and whatever he had said to them seemed to have reluctantly convinced them to let Damian go. They still secretly visited and sent him photos on the occasion, but Damian did not miss Gotham City.

He liked being here. He liked the schools here. He liked the curricular courses and the many ghosts. He liked his new friends and being a civilian and walking around town to find blob ghosts and get ice cream on the weekend with his foster uncles and aunts. He liked Shadow and Danny and Dante and Ellie and Samantha and Tucker and everyone else.

And most of all, he liked being with Jazz.

“……… no,” he said reluctantly and then the flood broke through the dam. Jazz never judged him for his acts of weaknesses, and even now, all she did was wrap her arms around him and pull him into a cradled hug, stroking his hair and back as he sobbed into her shoulder.

He couldn’t help but admit quietly, “I want to be here with you.”

The admission burned but it was true. He had never been happier than when he was with Jazz.

Jazz didn’t pull back, only squeezing him tighter. “Then I’ll fight for you. Whatever it takes, alright? You can stay here with me, as long as you want, Dami.”

Damian nodded, tears still flowing from his eyes as he felt the comforting press of Shadow against his side and Jazz’s hold completely encompassing him. He ducked his head into her neck and went slack. She took all of his weight and just held him like he was a babe, tightly, securely, protectively.

The words, ‘I’ll fight for you,’ were a comfort and a promise that he had never gotten before.

But oddly enough, he completely believed in it.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #danny phantom x dc #dp x dc crossover #ask #anon ask #jazz fenton #damian wayne #jazz + damian duo #jazz has a shadow friend #ty for the ask <3

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sanguinesmi1e · 7 months ago

Text

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 Pt. 2 (you're here) Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Art of LBM

Danny was still lying under the Specter Speeder, mind reeling as the words “they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms” ran in a loop through his head. Could that really be true? Is his death attached to the portal, forever lodged in the doorway, preventing it from closing?

The guy clearly knew what he was talking about. The bit about why his ghost friends and frenemies caused so much chaos as they unleashed their obsessions on Amity Park made so much sense. It would certainly explain a lot of his interactions with ghosts after he died.

Danny silently cursed himself for not destroying everything in the lab before they got here. He and Jazz hadn't worried about the portal schematics, because they honestly didn't have any way to open a portal, only cycle energy in a recursive loop that shouldn’t have done anything. No one, not he and Jazz, not their parents, not Tucker or Technus, had been able to figure out why it had worked when Danny was inside. But if the machine was able to sustain a portal that was already opened. . . He wondered idly if he could light a fire that looked accidental and would both destroy the lab and leave the two men enough time to escape. It’d probably be too risky. And who knew what destroying the portal would do to him. Fully kill him? Destroy him completely and shatter his core? It might be worth it to prevent anyone from gaining this knowledge.

No wonder Lex Luthor was interested in this business. A child was murdered in this basement, and for all Tim knew, the child’s soul could still be trapped here fueling a Lazarus Pit that connected the world of the living to the afterlife. What Luthor could do with an interdimensional portal or even a single sample of Lazarus water. . . Tim shuddered to think.

On the one hand, he was grateful that Wayne Enterprises secured the business before Luthor had the chance. On the other hand, he felt rather ill to think his family had directly enriched mad scientists who performed child sacrifices. At least he had full faith that between him and Oracle, they’d hunt the Fentons down and make sure justice was served.

“What is to be done for the child?” Tim asked Constantine. “Is his soul tied to that machine?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s just his death.”

“You’re gonna have to explain the difference to me, ‘cause I’m not sure I see the distinction.” Tim said wryly.

“I guess. . . Hm. You could think of it as the moment of transition drawn out endlessly like a plucked string whose note never stops vibrating. Like life is the anchor point of one end of the string, and the afterlife is at the other end, and the child’s death is the note created when his soul crosses from one side to the other. The soul is the bow causing reverberations, but the reverberations are the actual death itself. The effect of the soul’s passage. And in this case, the portal is amplifying the death so it doesn’t end like a normal death ‘note’ would.” Constantine leaned in to examine some of the runes that were part of the array. “Not a perfect metaphor, obviously, since you bow perpendicular rather than parallel to the string, and death and souls are nothing like music, but you get the idea, right?”

Tim was still caught on John Constantine saying the words “death note” together unironically in a sentence. He was going to have to share that with Steph later. Maybe with the whole family group chat, even. “Yeah, the metaphor makes sense, as much as any of this occult stuff does to me.”

“Whatever. As for whether there’s anything we can do for the child, I think we’ll have to try and summon him if we can.” The Brit started pulling items out of his trenchcoat’s inner pockets. “We need to ask what the spirit wants done, before we go messing with things we don’t understand.”

“Alright, need anything from me?”

“Yeah, move this stuff out of the way so I can draw a circle.” Constantine directed Tim to shove aside a few stacks of boxes, something called a Fenton Ghost Weasel, and together they shifted a coffin-shaped iron maiden that for some reason was labeled Fenton Stockades. Then he set to work chalking a circle and runes on the ground.

Finally he sat back and dusted chalk off his hands. “That should do it.”

“Will this be bright too?” Tim asked warily.

“Eh, might be? Shouldn’t be too bad.”

Tim grabbed an auto-darkening welding helmet with a green “Fenton” sticker on it off the workbench and slipped it on.

“Alright, here goes.” Constantine began the summoning ritual.

While Danny debated arson, the other two had finished clearing a space and chalked some kind of circle onto the floor. He tuned back into the conversation when he heard the trenchcoat guy begin a traditional incantation for a summoning. Were they trying to summon him? Danny really hoped it wouldn’t work.

When people tried to summon the Ghost King he could almost always ignore the pull. This pull, however, was very strong and immediate. It seemed proximity made a difference, or this guy was just better at summonings than the average cultist. Before Danny could accept the inevitable, he was pulled bodily — literally! — out from under the vehicle and across the floor, still flat on his back on the Fenton Under Car Creeper, with the Specter Speeder’s ecto-engine hugged tightly to his chest. The wheels of the Fenton Creeper (not to be mistaken with the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick) sped him straight to the summoning circle. Still very much in human form.

This was his first real look at the guy called Constantine, and he couldn’t help a horrified yelp. “Eugh!! What the fuck is wrong with you, dude!?!!”

His lapse in attention made him lose the battle with the summoning spell, and it gripped him, pulling him through the convolutions of the spellwork even though he was already lying half across the circle, and forcing him to change into Phantom in the process. It was such a disgusting sensation, like he was one of those squishy water filled tube snake toys that look like a fleshlight, and someone squeezed really hard and abruptly so he turned inside out and went flying to go splat against a wall (or in this case, against the ground inside the circle of chalk). He tried and failed not to retch.

The younger man in the crisp suit whom he’d already identified as Mr. CEO-Timothy-Drake-Wayne looked at him in startled bafflement, while the older blond, still smoking his cigarette, (gross, and was that thing never ending?) was probably looking at him. Maybe. It was really difficult to tell, because he was a frankly vile sight. Danny winced and swallowed down nausea. “What have you done to your soul?”

“I — what?”

“Trypophobia central, man! Ugh that’s gotta be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t you cover it up?”

“Who are you?” Timothy Drake-Wayne interjected.

“I’m the dead guy? You literally just summoned me.”

“Constantine said you were a child”

“I mean, I was?” Danny looked down at his obviously twenty-something year-old self and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I was fourteen though. These things happen.”

“Not typically, no. The dead tend to be pretty unaging.” Constantine said.

“Dude I’m not having a conversation with you while your soul looks like Escher’s swiss cheese nightmare. Anyways, some of us do. Heck, I know a guy who constantly shifts from infant to old man and every stage in between. It’s pretty distracting when you’re trying to get him to let you fix the timeline again.” Danny continued to look anywhere but at the blond man. “But if it’s so important to you, I can —” He got an abstracted look, and slowly de-aged himself until the two men stood over a fourteen year old boy with snow white hair and glowing green eyes.

“That does not help. No.” The guy whose soul looked somewhat like a bleeding tooth fungus said. He turned away and started doing something magical. Danny hoped it would mask his soul in some way, but so far all it did was make Danny feel like he needed to pop his ears.

He also felt particularly uncharitable, so he didn’t revert to his natural age, and instead tried to see how young and cute he could make himself appear.

“So are you just haunting this basement? Seems hazardous, given the former proprietors.” Timothy tried to redirect the conversation. He didn’t seem nearly as distressed to see the ghost of a child, but his eyes darted surreptitiously to the Lichtenberg figure Danny used to always hide under gloves.

“Nah, haven’t been back here in years. I mostly live in my Infinite Realms haunt these days.”

“You . . . live? Is that just a figure of speech?”

“It’s rude to ask about a ghost’s nonliving status, you know. Highly taboo to ask how a ghost died or poke into the circumstances of our deaths without permission.” Danny admonished. Making himself younger than fourteen took more effort than he expected.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Timothy raised his hands placatingly to the boy who now looked younger than Damian. “What brings you back to Amity Park?”

“Uh, you summoned me? Are we still not clear on that?”

Tim looked pointedly at the Fenton Creeper and the engine Danny still held. He’d shrunk down to the size of a four year old, and the engine really should be crushing him given it was bigger than his torso now. He quickly set it aside, and turned his biggest puppy dog eyes on Tim.

“You were in here already, and you looked pretty alive for a moment there.”

“I can look lots of ways!” Danny focused really hard on looking as cute, small, and nonthreatening as possible. He thought it was working when all of a sudden there was a pop! and he was smaller than he’d ever managed before.

Timothy Drake-Wayne looked like a giant. The other guy, who had thankfully managed to put away his soul somehow, wore scuffed oxfords bigger than Danny. Hell, he could probably fit his entire self into one of Constantine’s shoes if that wasn’t a bizarre thing to do, and they weren’t already full of stinky feet. Holy shit what happened to him!?

Tim blinked down at the cat? Snake? Ghost. . . thing at his feet. What the fuck. A moment ago he was talking to an adult man whom he’s pretty sure was dead and he’s very sure was trolling them. Now his interlocutor had turned into an adorable creature with soft white paws, a long twisting tail, big pointed ears that swiveled like a cats, and a humanoid face that should’ve been creepy but was actually eliciting cute-aggression in him. Tim blinked again. The little baby ghost creature blinked enormous green eyes back at him. Then it yawned, revealing three rows of needle sharp teeth that looked like a cross between what you’d find in the mouth of a shark and a cat. Yikes.

“Does that mean the interview is over?” Tim asked him.

The creature just blinked up at him again, then zeroed in on his shoelaces, pupils expanding until only a narrow band of green ringed them.

Yup. The interview was over. Those paws hid some wicked claws which could apparently slice through leather with ease. Oh, Tim really hoped ghost scratch fever wasn’t a thing. At least the ghost looked sufficiently contrite after he yelped, and it waited while he removed a shoelace to sacrifice as a toy.

If Damian ever met him, there would be a new member of the family. Maybe he should name the creature preemptively so they didn’t have a cat-snake named Bat-Ghost in Wayne manor.

“Do you have a name, little baby cat-snake ghost? Little baby ghost man?” He cooed as the miniature monster dashed back and forth, intent on shredding his shoelace.

The ghost paused long enough to chirp, “Li’l baby man!” before launching himself at the string. Even shocked, Tim’s reflexes had him whisking the toy out of the way, and the ghost went careening under a cabinet.

He wedged himself in the gap, landing face first in a dust bunny, and quickly wriggled backwards with an indignant squall. His wordless protestations cut off as he fell into a violent sneezing fit that thankfully dislodged him from beneath the cabinet.

Tim suppressed his laugh, and asked, “Little Baby Man? Is that what you want to be called?”

The ghost pawed most of the dust away from his nose, but spider webs covered his face and a big dust bunny perched atop his head like a fascinator with a cobweb lace veil. He looked Tim right in the eyes and nodded, dislodging the dust in his hair and setting off more sneezes.

“Li’l Baby Man” he confirmed. He placed a paw on Tim’s shoe and chirped, “Tim!” Then he pointed his tail at Constantine and said, “Gross!” with narrowed eyes.

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wontmindd · 1 year ago

Text

Alastor in a relationship with a pure hearted s/o

a/n. the relationship can be interpreted as queerplatonic or even romantic if you wish, but not sexual in any nature. hope Alastor is not ooc!

tw! canon typical violence

"cuddled up with a heart condemned, I should love you and I swear I do"

it's true that Alastor is touch averse, but this doesn't apply if it's you we're talking about.

also, we saw that Alastor dislikes physical touch only when it's someone else getting handsy with him. he can be pretty touchy if he wants to and likes to be close to you.

sneaking an arm around your waist, putting his hands on your shoulders, pecking your forehead. also, arms intertwined while walking around the city.

hand holding is more occasional, but not excluded at all.

he likes the sound of your laugh, and has a soft spot for your smile. he thinks that it suits you so well like a perfect-chosen accessory.

veeery protective. he knows you can be naïve and that Hell loves to take advantage of more innocent inhabitants.

he prefers to go with you when you have to leave the Hotel and strikes deathly smiles to anyone who dares to look at you with any kind of intention.

you're the only person who can see him drop his smile sometimes. he doesn't have to use it as a tool when you're around so there's no reason for him to always keep it. he doesn't feel vulnerable around your presence.

sometimes he comes back to the Hotel covered in blood. you don't approve his ways, and he knows, but he's just like this.

you shrug your shoulders, sigh, and then take some towels to clean him up.

"you'll end up ruining your coat and your pretty face like this"

loooves to dance with you. swing dancing specifically. maybe to the rhythm of an upbeat jazz tune in your room.

you were completely wack at dancing the Charleston, but he taught you well since he's an absolute beast at it.

you occasionally slow dance, it's a really intimate moment for you and Alastor and makes you both feel closer to each other. your favourite spot to slow dance is the forest in his room, especially at night under a clear and starry sky.

you like to drink together, he's a classy type of drunk and you make the best conversations while sharing a glass together.

sometimes, he'll start ruminating about the possibility of you redeeming yourself and leaving the Hotel.

he doesn't like ruminating, it makes him feel weird because he doesn't believe in redemption in the first place. so case closed...right?

he says to himself that even if you were to be, he would find a way to let you stay.

but he immediately tells himself that he doesn't want to force you. but he also starts to get concerned because it's not like him to contain himself and his cold heart. more ruminating, more concerned Alastor.

he's aware that he cares about you, and that you're special to him and that he feels a deep rooted love. but he never thought it would affect his evilness and now he's confused.

you like to cook for him, since you're aware that he's a huge foodie. and he loves to do the same for you! he likes to share his mom's recipes.

loves to call you "my darling"

you like to hang out at his radio tower, just listening to him intently while he hosts a program.

sometimes even asks you to join in to talk about jazz!

very occasionally sleeping together, just holding your hands with fingers intertwined.

honestly Alastor doesn't even know what love is, but he just knows that he feels it for you.

#alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #vivziepop #alastor x reader #alastor #radio demon #alastor the radio demon #radio demon x reader #queerplatonic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #writers on tumblr #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x you #alastor x reader headcanons #headcanons

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revelboo · 7 months ago

Note

I see that you mentioned an ao3 account? Can I ask what the name is? I don't mind asking via private message since you had also mentioned warnings and wanting to keep minors away of course. I just absolutely love your writing and would love to follow it sksksksks

The A03 will still be RevelBoo, it’s empty for now until I start fleshing out the Starscream x Reader story.

Over It Now Pt 4

IDW Jazz x Reader

• As the days pass, he gets used to your routine. You work during the day. Doing what, he’s not sure, but he’s tails you daily to an office building in town. Once you’re safely inside, he heads back to the Ark. Back to his duties with that smiling mask firmly back in place. At night, he returns to follow you home. And some nights, you come outside, lingering on the step like you’re not at all certain if you want to speak with him or hide inside. You remind him of the wild animals he’s seen in the woods. Skittish and so fragile you’re almost ethereal. But those nights you do talk with him? You have such a soft voice, it lulls him, draining away the tension of the day. The stress of always carrying on an act. “I know you have better things to do than babysit me,” you say as you carefully lower yourself into the sun-faded rocking chair, mindful of the cast on your leg. “I’m fine.”

• “Nowhere I’d rather be,” he counters, smiling brightly when your eyes narrow suspiciously at him. Knows you think he’s a liar. He is, but for some reason, it bothers him that you know it. That you think less of him. “I like it here just fine.” Sitting in the driveway, his servos flex against his thigh so he doesn’t reach out. Knowing if he does, you’ll just want loose to go hide in your home. Out of sight and leaving him alone with his thoughts.

• That visor glows faintly as he tips his alien face up to the night sky and the silence spreads between you. Not uncomfortable, but peaceful and that bugs you. You’re getting used to the big alien. Getting to like the game of trying to figure out what’s true and what’s a lie, because he lies with a smile as easy as breathing. Teases and flirts shamelessly and that too is a nothing but lies. Like it’s all a game to him. “Do you ever tell the truth?” You ask.

• Helm tipping down to meet your stare, his door panels lift and fall in a shrug. “I’m always honest, doll.” With you, but he keeps that vulnerable part to himself. He owes you honesty, but lies are so much easier. Safer when no one can guess his motives. An obvious spy is a dead one and he’s taken that lesson to heart. “I adore these little conversations of ours.”

• And that’s your lying alien limit for the day. That not-quite mocking, teasing tone pushing your buttons. Disgusted with him and yourself for caring, you push up and grab your crutches. It’s cold out anyway and you’re suddenly very tired. Mostly of trying with him. You almost fall when he moves, a servo thumping against the door to keep you from pulling it open. Heart racing as your grip goes white knuckled on the crutches, you consider smacking his wrist with one. “Jazz, move. I’m tired.”

• He can’t. Not yet. If he does, you leave him alone again and he doesn’t want to be left alone with his memories. Doesn’t want to stress and worry about playing his part and keeping that facade firmly in place, because he’s so tired of it. Just a bit longer, that’s all he needs. He knows it’s not fair to take your time, he has no right to demand more of it. But, still. “Stay. Please.” Your shoulders hunch and he braces for anger. Annoyance. But then you just exhale and slowly limp back to the chair. He wants to reach for you, but he’s afraid to scare you off. “Thanks,” he murmurs, venting softly. Previous Next

#transformers #idw jazz #jazz x reader #transformers x reader

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mandoalorian · 1 month ago

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timeless [bucky barnes x reader]

On a crowded street in 1944 And you were headed off to fight in the war You still would've been mine We would have been timeless

[w/c: 3k] [masterlist] [dedicated to @notreallythatlost ♡⟡˙⋆]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Brooklyn, 1944.

The apartment is warm with the glow of a single bedside lamp, the light flickering soft and golden against the vanity mirror. The faint sounds of a radio drift from the other room—Ella Fitzgerald’s voice lilting through the apartment, weaving through the scent of evening perfume and the distant hum of city life beyond the open window.

You stand in front of the mirror, adjusting the delicate strap of your dress, smoothing your hands down the soft fabric. The silk shimmers in the light, hugging your curves just right. It’s the nicest dress you own—something you saved for, something you pulled from the back of your closet tonight because you wanted to look perfect.

Because tonight, Bucky Barnes is taking you out.

You don’t hear him enter at first, but you feel him.

A slow, lingering gaze. A shift in the air.

Then—warm fingers tracing over your bare shoulder, featherlight.

"Christ, sweetheart." His voice is low, almost reverent. "You trying to kill me?"

A smirk tugs at your lips. "Depends."

You meet his gaze in the mirror. He’s standing just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, smell the faint hint of whiskey and honeyed cologne clinging to his shirt. He looks unfairly good—crisp navy dress shirt tucked into tailored slacks, suspenders resting over broad shoulders, dark hair perfectly combed back.

But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your stomach flip.

Like he’s seeing something sacred. Like he doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve this moment, but he’s not about to waste it.

His hands slip to your waist, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing over the silk of your dress. He dips his head, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"You’re beautiful, doll," he murmurs. "Always are, but tonight? Damn near stopped my heart."

Heat rises in your cheeks. "You’re laying it on thick tonight, Barnes."

"Ain’t thick if it’s true."

His lips skim over your jaw, lingering just beneath your ear, his grip on your waist tightening slightly.

"You ready to go?"

"Mhm." You exhale, shivering at the feel of his breath against your skin.

But as you turn, he catches your wrist, halting your movement. His fingers slip between yours, bringing your hand to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he’s sealing something in.

"You sure?" he asks softly, thumb stroking over your palm. "Last thing I want is to rush you."

Something about the way he says it—like he knows this might be the last perfect night before everything changes—makes your heart ache.

"I’m sure, Buck."

And then he smiles—that slow, dimpled grin that always makes your knees weak—and offers his arm.

"Then let’s go paint the town, doll."

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

The bar is dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of low-hanging chandeliers and the red flicker of a neon sign outside the window. Smoke curls in the air, the scent of whiskey and old leather thick around you. A jazz trio plays in the corner—slow, syrupy notes rolling through the room like a warm summer night.

Bucky leads you inside with an easy confidence, his hand resting low on your back as he guides you through the crowd. He fits in here effortlessly, like he belongs in a place draped in velvet and shadow. You, on the other hand, are keenly aware of the eyes that follow you.

Or maybe just one pair.

"Well, aren’t you a sight," a low, unfamiliar voice purrs from the bar.

You barely have time to react before a man steps into your path. He’s tall, broad in a way that suggests he was once handsome before too many late nights and too much whiskey dulled the edges. His grin is all teeth as he looks you over, his gaze crawling across your dress like a touch you didn’t invite.

"What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?"

You barely get a word in before Bucky moves.

His grip on your waist tightens just slightly before he steps in front of you, his presence solid, immovable. The easy charm he wore just seconds ago is gone, replaced by something colder, sharper.

"She’s with me," Bucky says, voice smooth but firm.

The man’s gaze flicks between you and Bucky, sizing him up. He scoffs, takes a lazy sip of his drink.

"Relax, pal," he drawls. "Just paying the lady a compliment."

Bucky’s jaw tightens. You can feel the shift in him—shoulders squared, stance rooted, his hand twitching at his side like he’s resisting the urge to clench it into a fist.

"She don’t need your compliments," he says, voice low, dangerous.

The tension crackles between them, thick as the smoke hanging in the air. For a moment, you think Bucky might actually hit him, right here in the middle of the bar.

"C’mon, Buck," you murmur, slipping your fingers into his. "Let’s just get a drink."

It takes a second, but then Bucky exhales, slow and controlled. His grip tightens on your hand before he turns his back on the man, guiding you toward an empty booth.

You slide in first, and Bucky settles beside you—not across from you, but next to you, his arm draped across the back of the seat, his body angled toward yours, like he’s staking a silent claim.

"Didn’t need to do that, y’know," you tease lightly, reaching for the menu.

"Yeah, I did," he mutters, still glaring toward the bar.

You nudge his side. "You jealous, Sergeant Barnes?"

That gets his attention.

He huffs out a laugh, finally dragging his gaze back to you. His eyes flicker over your face, over the curve of your lips, the slope of your collarbone, before he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin.

"Not jealous, doll," he murmurs. "Just don’t like when men who don’t deserve to look at you think they got a chance."

Your breath hitches, pulse kicking up. "And who does deserve to look at me?"

Bucky smiles then, slow and knowing.

"Me."

And just like that, the moment shifts again—tension melting into something warmer, softer. The jazz band transitions into a slow, honeyed tune, and Bucky doesn’t waste a second before he’s on his feet, offering his hand.

"Dance with me."

You roll your eyes but take it anyway.

He pulls you into his arms, his hand settling firm at the small of your back as he sways you in slow circles. He smells like spice and whiskey, something rich and familiar, something that feels like home.

"You dance a lot, Sergeant Barnes?"

"Only with the right partner."

He twirls you, and when he pulls you back, you land flush against his chest. His fingers slip beneath your chin, tilting your face toward his.

"You’re trouble, you know that?" you whisper.

His lips brush against your temple, soft as a secret.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "But you love me anyway."

The music swells. The world fades. And for a moment, neither of you are thinking about the war.

Neither of you are thinking about what comes next.

The sound of the music follows you as you exit the jazz bar, where the evening air feels cooler, more open. The streetlights flicker, casting long shadows on the sidewalk as you walk arm in arm toward the subway. Bucky’s hand is warm on the small of your back, guiding you without a word—just the shared rhythm of the night pulling you closer together.

You’re both quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable. The kind of silence that speaks louder than words ever could. The world outside fades, and it feels like nothing exists but the two of you and the hum of the city at night.

When you reach the subway, Bucky looks down at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

"How about we skip the train and take a detour?"

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "A detour?"

"Coney Island," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. "The fair’s still open."

You laugh, the sound light and carefree. "Isn’t it past midnight?"

"You’re with me now," he says, his voice low and teasing. "You can do anything you want."

And just like that, the subway ride feels like it takes forever, the anticipation buzzing in your chest, the night stretching out with endless possibility.

The bright lights of Coney Island greet you as the subway doors slide open, and the air smells faintly of saltwater and popcorn. The Ferris wheel looms ahead, lit up like a string of stars against the dark sky.

You can’t help but smile, the excitement bubbling up in your chest.

"Coney Island, huh?" you say, your voice teasing. "You sure you want to go here? This is where all the real trouble starts."

Bucky chuckles, his hand reaching for yours, lacing your fingers together.

"I’ve been in trouble before." His voice drops an octave, a teasing edge to it. "But I think you’re worth it."

You give him a playful look. "Flattery, Sergeant?"

"Flattery’s just honesty dressed up in pretty words," he says, squeezing your hand.

Together, you walk through the bustling fairground, the noise of the carnival rides and the excited chatter of other couples and families filling the air. There’s a certain magic here, the kind that only comes in moments like these, where everything feels timeless, like the world is holding its breath for just one more perfect moment.

And then, standing at the base of the Ferris wheel, Bucky looks at you with something serious in his eyes. It’s a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible, but you see it. The weight of everything that’s to come. The unspoken promise that hangs between you two.

“I’m going to come back.”

You smile softly, your heart catching. “I believe you.”

He turns to you, stepping closer. There’s a vulnerability to his voice now, the kind you rarely hear from him, the kind that feels like it’s just for you.

“It’s a promise, you know?” he says, his voice quieter now, full of intent.

You nod, your hand slipping into his as the Ferris wheel begins to move, lifting you higher, higher, until the lights of the fair grow smaller beneath you. Bucky’s gaze never leaves yours, and there’s a quiet understanding in the space between your breaths.

At the top of the Ferris wheel, he stops the ride with a gentle touch on the lever. The world below you seems to stretch out forever, the city lights twinkling, distant and unreal. And in that moment, it’s just the two of you, floating in the sky.

Bucky turns toward you, his expression intense.

“The thing is, sweetheart, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Soon the war will be over and we can be together for good. Nothing will tear us apart.”

And even though you know what’s coming, you can’t help but feel the weight of it—this promise that hangs in the air, bittersweet and fragile.

You smile, eyes soft. "I know."

And you wish you could believe him, wish you could hold onto this moment forever, but deep down, you both know it’s not that simple.

Bucky leans forward, his lips brushing your cheek with the gentlest kiss. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box, flipping it open with the same reverence as though it’s the most precious thing in the world. Inside is a silver ring, simple but beautiful—a band that gleams under the lights.

"I’m coming back for you," he repeats, his thumb running over the band as he holds it up to you.

You blink, momentarily caught in the overwhelming flood of emotion. You never expected this—a proposal, in the middle of a Ferris wheel ride in the heart of Coney Island, the place that felt like magic in the air.

"Bucky..." you whisper, unable to stop the tears that well up in your eyes.

He smiles, his thumb brushing your cheek softly. "Marry me, sweetheart. When I come back. I want you to be mine, always.”

"Bucky—"

"No, I mean it. I’m coming back. I swear it. And when I do, I want—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "I want a life with you. A house. Kids. Sunday dinners with Ma fussing over us. I want everything."

And just like that, your world feels complete. It feels like everything is right, even knowing that the world will change in a way you can’t yet imagine.

But as the ride slowly begins its descent, the weight of what’s to come presses on your chest, and Bucky slips the ring onto your finger, the cool metal heavy with meaning. He holds you close, kissing you with a tenderness that makes your heart ache.

“It’s perfect,” you whisper, your eyes glazed with unshed tears. But you take the ring off your finger and hand it back to him. “I will marry you when you come back. Let this ring be a symbol of your promise Bucky, and I will wait for you.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” Bucky smiles, his cheeks turning a shade of rosy pink.

To you, he is worth the wait.

Brooklyn, 2025.

The years have passed, but the weight of the promise still lingers in the air, in the very marrow of Bucky’s bones. The city looks different now—cleaner, brighter, with the gleam of modern life wrapping itself around old buildings. But some things never change. Coney Island still stands, a monument to the past, its lights flashing against the dark sky like stars in an eternal night.

Bucky stands just beyond the gates of the fair, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his tailored suit, his face shadowed with the weight of memories he can’t shake. He’s older now—rougher, harder, his once soft features now etched with the passage of time and the scars of war. His vibranium arm gleams faintly under the dim glow of the streetlamps, an ever-present reminder of the man he’s become.

The suit he wears today is expensive, a dark navy that matches the suit he wore that night all those years ago, but the man wearing it is different. The elegance of the past is gone, replaced with something sharper—something more dangerous. The years of being the Winter Soldier, of losing himself in missions and blood, have taken their toll. But there’s still a trace of the man who once promised you everything.

Bucky moves toward the entrance of the fair, his gaze fixed on the Ferris wheel, now standing still and quiet in the distance. The lights flicker, a gentle hum in the air, just as they did that night. The feeling in his chest is thick, heavy—a mixture of loss and love, nostalgia and regret.

He steps up to the Ferris wheel, his steps slow, purposeful. The sound of children’s laughter and the calls of vendors fade as he approaches, the world shrinking around him until it’s just him and that one moment he can’t ever seem to forget.

He reaches into his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the small velvet box. The ring, the same one he had held in his palm all those years ago, rests inside. He holds it up to the light, the silver gleaming, and for a brief second, it feels like he’s back in that moment with you—standing at the top of the Ferris wheel, the promise of forever hanging in the air.

"I promised I’d come back," he mutters to himself, his voice thick with the weight of those words. "I promised..."

The wind picks up, tugging at his suit as he stares at the empty Ferris wheel, his mind lost in the echo of that night. He takes a deep breath, feeling the familiar ache in his chest as he remembers how you looked in that dress—how you smiled at him with so much hope, so much love. And for a moment, it feels like he can still hear the soft melody of the jazz band, the laughter between the two of you, the soft hum of the world outside.

But the world has moved on. And so has he.

He walks past the gates of the fair, his eyes scanning the empty rides, the once-bustling booths now quiet and forgotten. His mind drifts to the time he spent as the Winter Soldier—the bloodshed, the darkness, the missions that tore him away from everything good in his life. The life he had before.

You.

He shakes his head, pushing the thought away. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re gone.

His hand clenches into a fist around the ring, the metal cool against his palm. He steps up to the Ferris wheel, the memories coming back like a flood—the sound of your voice, your laugh, the promise you both made to each other.

He swallows hard, fighting the lump in his throat as he looks down at the ring.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I’m so sorry."

With a heavy heart, Bucky steps back from the Ferris wheel, walking away with the ring still in his pocket, the promise still hanging in the air—unfulfilled, unbroken, but always just out of reach.

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #marvel #mcu #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #avengers #thunderbolts #sergeant james barnes #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #winter soldier

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ckret2 · 10 months ago

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Chapter 59 of human Bill Cipher possibly not being the Mystery Shack's prisoner because he got executed two chapters ago:

Everything you haven't wondered about how Bill survived his execution.

7:27 a.m.

Mabel didn't know why, but figuring out when to ask Mrs. Grendinator to pull over had felt as stressful as trying to throw a ping pong ball into a passing car's open fuel door to land in the little fuel pipe. All she had to do was ask to pull over after they'd passed everything but the last truck stop, but before it was too late for Mrs. Grendinator to make the turn into the Triple Digit parking lot. That was a large window. It wasn't easy to miss. Somehow Mabel still dreaded that she'd speak up too late and Mrs. Grendinator would say she'd have to wait for the next rest stop—by which point Bill would have splatted like a bug against the weirdness barrier while everyone else passed safely through.

But she'd managed to blurt out "I forgot to use the bathroom at home. Can we pull over?"; they'd stopped at the Triple Digit Truck Stop; and Mabel made it inside before her friends could catch her.

She locked the unisex restroom door, set her backpack on the ground, opened it up, and sighed with relief when she saw Bill sitting on her sweater. She carefully pulled him out, set him on the floor, and pointed the height-altering flashlight at him.

For a moment after returning to his true size, he remained seated on the floor, legs bent, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Worriedly, Mabel asked, "You okay?"

"Think I learned what motion sickness is," Bill groaned. "Just—gimme a sec."

"Aww, I'm sorry." Mabel surreptitiously checked in her backpack to make sure Bill hadn't been sick on her sweater. (It was a cool one. It had kissing parrots.)

After a few deep breaths, Bill lifted his head enough to look at Mabel. The first thing he said was, "'Cool big brother-slash-sister,' huh?" He gave her a queasy, but cheeky, grin.

"Shut uuup you weren't supposed to hear that!" She'd just about died with embarrassment when Candy had repeated that where she knew Bill could hear.

"I'm flattered." Bill uncurled himself from his nauseous half-fetal position; and then, gripping onto the sink for support, got back to his feet. "Being smaller again was nice, but I'm never traveling like that again."

"You're such a whiner."

"Yeah, yeah. I have a lot to whine about. I'm dead and about to be executed. Talk about... lose your cake and... not-eat it, too."

Mabel laughed. Bill mussed her hair, grinning, and said, "Hey, you've got no room to laugh, you're the one with the not-setting-houses-on-fire bit."

"Arrrgh, don't remind me!" She pushed Bill to the side so she could use the mirror to straighten out her hair again.

"You did pretty well, though! I'd say that was some of the best acting I've ever seen out of you."

"You too! They definitely bought it," Mabel said. "Even Grunkle Stan was getting worried."

"Especially back in the kitchen, wow! That was really convincing." He paused. "Really, really convincing."

Something heavy hung in the air. Mabel focused on her hair in the mirror.

Bill said, "That bit in the kitchen about me 'depending' on you." He exaggerated the air quotes around the word, distancing himself from the concept. "It wasn't on our list."

"Yeah. It just kinda... seemed right. Improv." Mabel waved unenthusiastic jazz hands.

"It bothers you."

Mabel winced. "I mean... I'm not actually mad at you. But. I want to help, but I don't know what to do for..." She gestured at Bill. "The whole being dead on an alien planet issue."

"Believe it or not, the hoodie helps," Bill said. "Listening helps." But he couldn't meet her gaze; he was fiddling with his friendship bracelet instead. He had to know how heavy even just listening to him could be.

"I'm glad, but... I just... wish you had more friends you could talk to."

Bill nodded morosely. "So do I." It wasn't like he'd chosen to only have one friend, was it? Prisoners didn't get to make those kinds of decisions.

Mabel asked, "Do you really think I think you're just a summer fix-it project?"

"I... pfff... come on, I watched you spend all last summer handing out makeovers and dating advice. You've already done my makeup, taken me clothes shopping, and tried to pump me for info on what kinds of freaks I'm into."

(Mabel quietly filed away the fact that Bill referred to "freaks" as his preferred romantic targets.)

"That's how your summer was going to end," Bill said. "You tame the monster, go home triumphant, and don't worry about it anymore. Like how you patched up Broken Heart's love life and left him to sort out the consequences."

"No!" Mabel huffed, "I mean—maybe a little at the beginning, but... you're really my friend now, I'd hate it if I never saw you again. I don't give friendship bracelets to just anybody!"

Bill kind of thought she did; but he wasn't about to argue. "Well, I've only given one person a bracelet, and I meant it." (Even more now than when he'd originally made it.) "You're never getting rid of me now, star girl. You're stuck with me forever!"

Coming out of Bill Cipher, the promise should have filled her with dread. A month ago it would have filled her with dread. But Mabel just found it comforting. "Good."

(And Ford hadn't felt any dread when he'd sworn "until the end of time," either.)

Bill took off his backpack and rummaged through it. "Now let me make sure I can keep that promise."

He took out a map of the mountains and forest around Gravity Falls and spread it out on the floor for them to kneel in front of. "You know about the spaceship buried under town? When its ring cut through the mountain, a few chunks of the ship dislodged and were buried in one of the mountains. No human has ever found them before, not even your great uncle. That's where I'll hide."

"Are the chunks big enough to hide in?"

"Sure! There's one that'd serve as a decent studio apartment. Well—the cheapest studio apartment in Manhattan, maybe. But, hey, I don't have much furniture."

On the map, he showed Mabel a route to reach the base of the cliff, tracing it with his finger. She couldn't afford to take a map with the route marked; if the adults discovered Bill's escape and confiscated Mabel's possessions, a marked map would lead them straight to him. She'd just have to do her best to memorize the route he described. "When and if the coast is clear, you can come find me there."

"How do I get up the cliff?"

"Don't worry about that. You make it that far, I'll take care of the rest."

And that was all they could afford to discuss. Mabel couldn't hide in here for long. As Bill refolded the map (and Mabel was awed to learn he was the kind of person who could refold maps correctly on the first try), and he packed the map and the height-altering flashlight in his backpack, they each tried separately to figure out how to get around to saying goodbye.

"I uh... I know you're sticking your neck out for me, kid." (Bill wasn't used to this, wasn't used to people who didn't help him due to fear or duty or lies, wasn't used to people who still wanted to help him after they knew what he was really like.) "So, thanks—"

Mabel flung her arms around him. Her voice thick, she said, "I think your manners are getting better."

"Shut up, I've always known how to say thanks." It was gratitude that was new.

"Be safe out there," Mabel said. "Don't die, or else. Remember to eat. And drink water! And do laundry sometimes."

"All right, all right. You'll find me in better health than you left me. All the sunshine and fresh air this body can take."

"I'll miss you."

Keep it together, Cipher. He swallowed hard. "Have you ever heard the song 'We'll Meet Again'?"

"Uh-uh?"

"Old war song. Look it up once you're in Portland, when you aren't busy having synthesizers pumped in your ears."

"Is it about... how we'll meet again?"

"Yes, smartypants. Look it up anyway," Bill said. "I'll miss you too."

Mabel washed her face, left the restroom, and shut the door behind her; and Bill waited in the dark while everyone left.

####

7:45 a.m.

A woman with two children opened the unisex restroom door, and gasped in shock when she saw a human silhouette lurking in the dark, one eye shining.

"Hey, thanks, lady! Couldn't get the door for some reason." He breezed past her. "Careful, it sticks from the inside."

He grabbed an empty backpack for sale, and loaded it up with supplies, food, and drinks. (The good stuff, not the weak cider he got in the Mystery Shack. He was making margaritas tonight.) He headed up to the cash register... veered to a currently-unmanned register, stole a handful of loose change out of a tip jar, and timed his exit so he walked out just as a man walked in and kindly held the door for him.

####

7:55 a.m.

It was a fair walk from Triple Digit back to the cliffs around Gravity Falls. When Bill was a safe distance into the woods, he unzipped his first backpack, retrieved his flattened top hat, and popped it out; and then continued on, behatted and using his umbrella like a cane.

Even with no sleep, even just a couple of days after the worst hiking trip in history, even tired and sore from an hour of frenzied dancing, even carrying two full backpacks with one strap slung over each shoulder, even with the sky gloomy and overcast—this was the best he'd felt since Weirdmageddon.

His steps were sure, his body was unchained, and the future had opened up for him again.

####

8:00 a.m.

Mabel kept glancing out the window, back in the direction of Gravity Falls, waiting and waiting to see the light of some kind of killer laser cut through the sky.

Maybe the Quantum Destabilizer's beam just wasn't visible from this far. Maybe they'd decided to wait to execute Bill. Maybe they hadn't wasted their shot because they'd already discovered Bill and Mabel's ruse. Maybe the "enchantment" Bill had written hadn't done its job.

But if they had discovered Bill was missing, they would've called Mabel immediately, trying to find out what she'd done and where he'd gone.

Her phone sat hard and heavy and silent in her pocket.

The butterflies in her stomach didn't stop fluttering until long after they reached Portland.

####

10:30 a.m.

Plus or minus a few trees, the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff was just how Bill had remembered last seeing it millennia ago. The Trilazzx Betan proximity sensor that had been embedded in the cliff face since the ship crash was still there and still sensing, even after millions of years and a layer of stone had closed around it. He could see it behind the face of the cliff; and it could see him.

He took out the multi-tool pocket knife Dipper had "donated" to Bill's supplies, flipped out the blade, and carved his face in a tree far enough from the rendezvous point to avoid notice by anyone who found this spot, but near enough it could see anyone who showed up. He made it as accurate as he could—hat, bow, limbs, eyelashes. That would unfortunately make it easier for humans to identify the face if anyone happened to walk by, but his ability to connect to his other eyes was still weak, he needed as much of a boost as he could get. He licked the bark, leaving his saliva to connect the eye on the tree to him.

And then he returned to the rendezvous point at the base of the cliff, and, beneath the watchful eye of the proximity sensor, began digging in the dirt with his hands.

Beneath the soil, fortunately not buried too deep, was a stone shaped like a small tombstone with several symbols carved into its surface that superficially resembled common runes. Bill brushed the dirt off of his leggings and rubbed it out of the carved lines in the stone. It was lucky that today was overcast; it would make this thing a lot easier to control.

Bill took out the flashlight, removed the height-altering crystal, turned it on, and aimed the beam at the topmost rune.

The runes began glowing an eerie green.

The ground shuddered; and then a patch of ground five feet in diameter lifted up into the air, carrying Bill with it, tearing the grass at the edge of the circle, propelled by a long-forgotten enchanted stone platform concealed in the clump of dirt.

He rose to the gouge that the spaceship had carved into the mountain; and then he moved his flashlight's beam to another rune. The platform smoothly shifted to moving sideways, gliding beneath the ancient overhang. When he turned off the flashlight, the stone stopped glowing and gently settled to the ground. Bill stepped off, fished a spare shirt out of his backpack, and pulled it over the rune-covered stone so it couldn't take off if the sun came out. There was a reason this buried stone was the only platform of its kind left in the area outside of the deep mountain caverns: leave one outside on a sunny day where the light can hit its runes, and next thing you know it's zoomed out over the Pacific and is quickly rising toward space.

He surveyed the area. Every once in a while humans climbed up here just for the challenge of it, delightful little explorers they were; but he doubted anyone had been up here in decades. He stood in front of what was, to all appearances, a completely nondescript patch of stony ground; and he said, in heavily accented but intelligible Trilazzx Betan, "Let me in, you hunk of junk. Activate emergency crash protocols."

A fragment of ship deep beneath the ground stirred awake, registered the command, analyzed itself and concluded from the fact that it wasn't in space and was separated from 99% of the rest of itself that it had indeed crashed, and activated emergency crash protocols. In acknowledgment of the dire situation, it deactivated its usual authorized personnel list—there was no sense in waiting for the captain to approve new orders if the captain might be dead—accepted the command given by the unknown being above it, and opened its hatch.

Millions of years of solid stone groaned and buckled in protest at being moved; but Trilazzx Betan engineering was strong enough for the framework of a portal capable of ripping a hole between dimensions without being ripped apart itself. The stone yielded first. A hatch swung up, revealing a tilted chamber descending into the cliff.

Bill strolled confidently down the walkway. "Cancel distress signal. Disable life support's air filtering." The fragment of a ship beeped a warning, and Bill responded, "I'm aware of this planet's high oxygen content. You worry about your health, I'll worry about mine. Disable air filtering." The ship beeped a confirmation. "Reconnect to all external proximity sensors in range and display on screens one, two, and three." This broken part of the ship had once handled communications. It had a whole wall of screens. He wondered whether he could jury rig this thing to pick up human satellite TV. Nah, probably not worth the effort.

He slung off his backpacks and started unpacking.

####

12:04 p.m.

It was time.

Dipper sat on the floor and put his head in his hands. He felt sick.

He was dead. In just a few seconds Ford would discover that Bill was gone—Dipper was sure he was gone, they hadn't heard a peep from the room, Mabel must've snuck him out or left him some escape route—and then Ford would know that someone had warned Bill and Mabel, and then Dipper was dead—

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah." Dipper waved Ford off. "Just... didn't get much sleep. Little dizzy." Ford would never trust him again. Stan would be furious. They'd both be furious.

"You can go downstairs if you..."

"No no, I'm fine, I..." Dipper took a deep breath and lifted his head. "I'll face it." Better to get it over with now than to hide downstairs and wait for it.

Stan nodded. "Good man." He wouldn't be so proud of Dipper in a moment.

Ford nodded, stood, opened the door—and Dipper buried his face in his hands again.

####

12:06 p.m.

Ford could see Bill up in the loft, hood up and shoulders hunched, back to the room. Ford could shoot Bill in the back without him ever waking up.

He climbed into the loft. Bill lay curled up in a ball, a small as Ford had ever seen him.

But it only took a moment for Ford's eyes to adjust to the dark; and even in the dim light through the stained glass window, he could tell:

The shape in front of him wasn't human. Just lumpy clothes.

Ford whipped around, heart pounding, clutching the Quantum Destabilizer's carrying case against his chest, searching for the real Bill lurking somewhere in the shadows. No sign of him. Ford had already looked on the floor level. Was he gone? How?

He was too dumbfounded to be outraged. He walked up to the dummy to pull it apart—

And saw the paper, folded in quarters, floating in the air above it. Four symbols in a cipher were written atop the paper. Ford recognized them: it was the alien alphabet of an interdimensional pidgin used as a written lingua franca throughout the Nightmare Realm and its bordering regions; it was so widespread that Ford had learned the alphabet before he ever left Earth.

The four letters read, "F O R D".

Ford plucked the paper out of the air and unfolded it.

Stanford–

I'll cut to the chase. I need your help. I don't want to die.

I'm banking on the hope that, in spite of everything you've said and done, part of you also doesn't want me to die.

You have a choice. You can walk out there, tell them I escaped, rally an angry mob, and comb everything under the weirdness barrier for me. This town's not that big and I'll need to eat eventually. We both know I can't hide forever.

Or you can tell them you finished the job. No one looks for me. No one knows but you and me.

I don't have rewards or deals to offer. You already know what I bring to the table. If that hasn't persuaded you to side with me by now, it never will. I'm not bargaining. I'm begging.

I'm asking you, as my friend, to help me survive.

Please.

· –·-– -–

Of course.

How dare he.

Had Bill planned this all along? Was this why he'd insisted he wanted to be Ford's friend? Was this why he'd saved his life? Maybe the entire rescue had been staged—the rescue, the performance of fear over a harmless phenomenon, the mental breakdown, all of it. For all Ford knew, maybe the accursed Axolotl was in on the scheme! How clairvoyant was Bill? Had he seen this moment coming?

But if he'd seen this moment coming, wouldn't it have been easier to just let Ford, his executioner-to-be, die? Ford and Dipper both, so Dipper wouldn't figure out how to synthesize NowUSeeitNowUDontium? If he'd saved them in spite of that, didn't that make it a sincere gesture?

But implication was clear: I've been a friend to you, now be one to me. A life for a life. There was nothing sincere in that. It was pure self interest.

(For just a couple of days, Ford really had thought it was sincere.)

But if the only reason Bill had saved Ford was to save himself—then why had Bill endangered his own life in the process?

With every thought Ford's paranoia pendulumed.

He should get Stan. Call the cops, confess who they'd been harboring for the past month, tell them everything, get a manhunt going before Bill could make it any further away. Even if he couldn't leave the weirdness barrier, there were probably hundreds of hidden hidey-holes Bill could dig himself into that humans had never seen—unexplored hallways in Crash Site Omega, uncharted caverns behind Trembley Falls where Bill didn't even need light to see. They could drag him back into the light, tie him up, aim the Quantum Destabilizer straight at him...

But. In spite of himself, he could still see Mabel's drawing hopefully reassigning Bill the role of a superhero. He could still see the crumpled drawing in his pocket—"I BELIEVE IN YOU. YOU CAN CHANGE!" He could still see Dipper tentatively asking whether they might need Bill someday. He could still see Bill playing teacher in the living room. And for a moment, for just a moment, Bill had been so good. He could be so good.

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why can't you be this person?

What if he could be better? What if he could be decent? What if he could be a friend?

Ford didn't believe Bill was any better today than he had been the day he died. But—at some point, something had slowly turned over in Ford's mind. He believed that Bill could change. Not would change, not is changing, but could. And if Ford started a manhunt, Bill would never be a threat again—but he'd also never be better.

There was a point where the doubt and hope built up to a critical mass—when they became enough, just enough, to stay the trigger finger. Because once Ford fired on Bill, that was it. All chances were gone forever. It was over. If Bill was alive they could always try again to kill him later; but if Bill was dead, they could never try again to better him.

And for the first time in thirty years, Ford wanted Bill to be better more than he wanted Bill to be dead.

Ford looked at the dummy. Looked at the note.

And then he lay the note on the dummy, knelt by the edge of the loft, opened his case, and removed the Quantum Destabilizer.

####

12:09 p.m.

Ten minutes ago, Bill had been in the process of emptying out his backpacks and finding nooks and cubbies amongst the alien communication workstations where he could tuck his supplies, when he'd glanced out the open hatch and noticed the beforeimage of the shot lighting up the sky.

He'd come out of his shelter to watch the moment approach; but he hadn't quite believed it until it was in the present and actually happening. The blue-white beam of the Quantum Destabilizer—its one and only shot—screamed off into the sky.

"Well, what do you know," he murmured, standing at the edge of the cliff, hands on his hips, staring out in wonder over the town. "I really didn't think you'd do it."

Ford had saved his life.

Bill crossed his arms tight and tried to convince himself he didn't wonder why.

####

12:10 p.m.

Ford heard Dipper and Stan come into the bedroom and climb the ladder. He was seized by an urge to sweep away the ashes and the evidence of his trick before they could realize what he'd done.

"Grunkle Ford...?"

He forced himself to speak. "It's done."

"So... Bill is...?"

Ford suddenly realized: Dipper knew Bill wasn't in here. He must have warned Mabel, and Mabel had arranged for Bill to be alone in their room long enough to escape.

Which meant Dipper knew Bill was alive.

(Bill had written, "No one knows but you and me." Bill was covering for the kids.)

Ford turned to look him in the eyes. "Yes, he's dead."

Which meant Dipper knew what Ford had done—and knew Ford knew what he had done.

Neither one of them needed to say anything else to know what the other was thinking. They just shared a look—the two most miserable co-conspirators in Gravity Falls.

####

12:25 p.m.

Bill sat cross-legged at the edge of the cliff and watched until the afterimage of the Quantum Destabilizer's shot had faded from the sky; and then he went inside his shelter, mixed the world's lamest margarita in a coffee mug, took it outside, sat again, and toasted toward the town and the Mystery Shack.

Here's to survival.

He sat outside until the gash the Quantum Destabilizer had cut in the clouds closed and it began to rain.

####

1:10 p.m.

Stan had come and gone a few minutes ago, and already Ford had forgotten everything he'd said, if he'd even registered it in the first place.

His fingers had itched until he'd finally had a moment to steal down to his study, retrieve Journal 5, and bring it up to the guest room; and now for over half an hour he'd been feverishly writing down every single thing he could remember learning about Bill over the last two days. The drawing of his homeworld. His lecture on biangles and psychic powers. How polygons inherited their sides. (Their royalty sounded nigh on Habsburgian; had their political system ever changed?) What little details Bill had let slip about where Edward Bishop Bishop's book was wrong. (Had he told Mabel more about their relationship? He'd have to ask when she was home.) How Bill signed his letter: "· -·-- --", Morse code for "EYM," was it an acronym, was it a code, what did it mean, why did he write it in two colors? How Bill spelled Mabel's name in alien alphabets: Mabelle, Maybell, the varying extra letters. How Bill danced: how he struggled to cross his ankles, how he turned out his feet, how his spine and shoulders never bent, how the complex ways he tilted his legs and pelvis compensated for his stiff spine.

If Bill was sticking around a while longer, then these details still mattered.

He refused to forget a thing.

####

Sunday, 12:02 a.m.

As "We'll Meet Again" finished playing, Mabel turned off her phone, put it back on her nightstand, and wiped her eyes again. Big stupid dork couldn't even say this himself, he had to hide it behind a song.

Yes. They would meet again. Law of attraction. Believing it was the first step to making it come true.

####

10:20 a.m.

The fearful butterflies in Mabel's stomach had slowly returned during the drive home from Portland. No one had texted her—was that a good sign?—but she was afraid it just meant they'd decided to let her enjoy the rest of her trip before letting her know she was grounded forever for helping Bill escape. When they'd all greeted her at the door, looking so somber, and she was sure she was about to get the bad news, she'd just had to keep acting normal and hope she wasn't gonna get in more trouble for playing dumb.

The last thing she expected Stan to say was, "Weshotim."

"Say wha?"

"We got that—space gun of Ford's working. We shot him. He's... I'm sorry, sweetie."

Mabel stared at Stan. That was impossible—there was no way they'd found Bill. But—if Stan believed he was dead...

She dragged her gaze from his face to Dipper's. Dipper bit his lips, staring at his feet. He wouldn't meet her eyes—too afraid that even looking at her would give something away.

She looked from Dipper to Ford. "Grunkle Ford?" She tried not to hope. "Is it true?"

There was no way he'd believed the dummy was real. The moment she'd read Bill's so-called "enchantment," she'd known making it believable was never the point. Bill's only real plan had always been to get Ford on their side.

For a long moment, Ford said nothing. He dragged his eyes up to meet her stare, took a deep breath, and nodded. "He's dead."

Mabel's eyes widened. Two days ago, Ford had been the one arguing that killing Bill was their only choice. If he'd changed his mind...

If anyone said anything else, she didn't register it in her excitement. She backed out of the doorway, leaped off the porch, and ran around the shack, looking for her bike.

She had to see Bill immediately.

####

10:21 a.m.

Quietly, Dipper asked, "Did we do the right thing?"

Ford didn't know. His stomach had been twisting with guilt and doubt since yesterday. His conscience had kept him up half the night. "I hope so."

He feared they'd have second-guessed themselves no matter what.

####

2:30 p.m.

Bill was asleep. He'd been sleeping off and on for most of the past day. This was the first time since he'd died that he had somewhere safe to sleep—somewhere nobody could touch his vulnerable body, nobody could move him, drown him, kill him.

And this was the first time he hadn't been helpless and sightless.

In his sleep, he saw his own body, curled up on the tilted floor against a wall, on top of the sleeping bag and under the Pony Heist bedsheet, from an eye he'd drawn on the ceiling.

From another eye he'd drawn on the wall, he saw the ship's open hatch, the overhang above, a small sliver of the gray drizzly sky over Gravity Falls.

And from his eye on the tree, blurry and fading as the rain washed away his saliva, he saw a human-shaped mass of raucous colors exploring the pit in the ground left behind by his hovering platform.

A human? He sat up with a gasp and looked at the screen displaying the proximity sensors. Sure enough, the sensor at the base of the cliff was displaying a Mabel-shaped silhouette.

He grabbed his flashlight and climbed out of his shelter.

####

"Kid, what are you doing out out here?!"

Mabel looked up. Bill was some twenty feet above her and quickly descending on what looked like a chunk of flying dirt the same size as the pit in the ground she'd been inspecting. "Bill!" She leaned her bike against the cliff face. Finally—she'd been wandering around in the trees forever trying to figure out where Bill's rendezvous point was hidden.

"It's pouring rain," Bill scolded. "You could lose your immune system or—or slip in the mud or something."

"Wow, nice to see you too, mom." Mabel ran up as Bill landed his floating chunk of ground.

"Hey, I don't want anything happening to my favorite human!" He scooted over to make room for her on the platform. "Just couldn't wait for a sunny day to meet again, huh?"

"Psh, come on! Like you meant that literally." Near Bill, the rain had mysteriously stopped landing on Mabel. She looked up and saw the rain simply parting in the air over Bill's head.

He noticed her glance and said, "Did I ever teach you the spell to repel rain? Remind me to do that before you go." He pointed his flashlight's beam at a rune on a stone rising from the platform, and it lifted off again. "Nice sweater today." He poked one parrot-winged sleeve, its bright colors darkened by the soaking rain. "It probably looked better dry."

Mabel smacked away his hand. "Bill, guess what! Grunkle Ford decided to protect you!"

"I know, I saw the wasted shot from here." He steered the platform onto the cliff. He landed it next to a hatch that opened into a subterranean tunnel. "Of course, I always knew he would. Didn't I say we'd pull this off?"

Sure he'd known. That was why he'd lied about what the "enchanted" paper really was so Mabel wouldn't worry.

Mabel followed him down into the metal tunnel. "Do you know what this means? You can come back to the shack!"

Bill turned to stare at her in bewilderment. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because... it's safe now? They're not gonna kill you?" Mabel squinted. "Why's it so dark in here?"

"Oh, right. You need this." Bill offered the flashlight.

Mabel turned it on. They were in a metal chamber, about half the size of the Mystery Shack's floor room and nowhere near as tall. One end of it had been torn off and dirt and stone served as the new wall. Most of the walls were dominated by heavy metal consoles, curved metal chairs, and screens, a few of which were on but flickered irritatingly. One chair still had a fossilized alien skeleton in it. Bill had put his top hat on it.

His supplies were piled haphazardly on consoles and the floor; all Mabel saw in his food pile was shelf-stable junk food and drinks. The air somehow felt more damp in here than it did outside with the rain. The chairs didn't have cushions, the floor didn't have carpet; everything was hard and cold and dark. She didn't even see a door for a bathroom in here. This was where Bill was staying?

"The Mystery Shack is safe for now," Bill said. "Just wait until Stanley decides to take another swing at me, or Dolores poisons my dinner again—or Ford changes his mind, dunks me in the bathtub, and doesn't let me back out."

"They wouldn't..." Mabel trailed off. She tried to imagine how mad Stan would be when he found out Bill was alive, and had to concede he might.

"Even if it was safe—why would I go back to that sorry makeshift prison?" Bill hopped up into one of the tilted alien chairs. There was a weird extended bit designed for alien anatomy that curved up at the end of the seat and forced Bill to straddle the chair rather than sit in it normally; it didn't look comfortable. "After almost a month and a half, I'm finally free!"

"Free inside a tiny bubble around the town," Mabel protested. "To live in a... weird little metal dirt room."

"Freely moving inside the entire barrier is a lot better than freely moving through half a shack! Surrounded by people who want me dead! I don't even get full privacy when I'm using the toilet—that's the bare minimum humans offer as basic respect! You don't know how many times I've been walked in on!"

"Do you even have a toilet here?"

Bill hesitated. "There's a—there are gas stations within walking distance."

"How are you gonna get into the restroom?"

"Fine, I'll dig a pit or something, all right? The point is, whatever I do, at least I can do it in freedom!"

He hadn't planned this through at all, Mabel realized. He'd only thought as far ahead as finding food and shelter that would last him the next couple of days. "But..." She gestured at the pathetic room around them. "The shack's got a proper roof and a shower and real food—wouldn't that be better than this?"

Bill scoffed "Only humans care about roofs and showers, and the idea of 'real' food is a social construct I reject!"

He'd be miserable here. Mabel couldn't let Bill do this to himself. "Then don't you wanna be in the shack with your only friend on Earth?" She gave him a pleading look. "Would you really rather spend the rest of summer in some dumb old busted alien ship?"

There was a flash of light reflected in the dark as Bill's eyes turned away from Mabel.

"Bill?"

He didn't respond. He trudged past her, halfway up the walkway out of the ship, and stopped there, his back to Mabel, hands on his hips, staring out into the rain. He sighed. "Kid, you're trying to give me Stockholm syndrome."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I'll think about it," Bill said, voice flat. "Go back to the shack."

Before Mabel could move, Bill said, "Hold on. Let me teach you that umbrella spell first." He turned and descended back into the ship. "And when's the last time you ate? Human bodies act pathetic if they don't get glucose every three hours. Get some lunch, it's a long bike back to the shack." He gestured at his meager food supplies.

She rummaged through the foil bags and colorful boxes and grabbed some Chipackers and sour gummy dolphins.

Bill sat near her, grabbed a bag of jerky for himself, and said, "And tell me about that concert you abandoned me to my doom for."

####

4:00 p.m.

Bill escorted Mabel down off the cliff—and, at her request, let her borrow the flashlight and wiggle the floating platform back and forth a little as they descended. He took back the flashlight when she nearly crashed the platform and killed them both.

"Where'd this come from?" Mabel asked, poking the stone. "Did the aliens make this, too?"

"Nope! This is good old local Earth magic. Ever hear of Caterpillar Man?"

"Is that some kind of superhero?"

"Afraid not. Well—ever hear of Grendel?"

"Uh-uh."

They were nearly at the ground now. "I think I'll tell you next time."

As the platform lifted him back up, Bill watched Mabel wheel her bike through the trees, slowly heading toward the main road back into town.

For a midsummer day, it was chilly in the rain.

####

Monday, 1:03 a.m.

And it was even chillier in the post-midnight dark when he knocked on the Mystery Shack's door.

####

(Eager to hear what y'all think now that you've seen the full story of how Bill survived—last week once Dipper and Mabel's roles were revealed, I think most folks thought that fully explained how Bill faked his death. ;) Next week is probably a double length chapter, because there's no graceful way to break it in half and also it'd be nice to get this plot arc wrapped up before The Book of Bill comes out lmao.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #grunkle ford #stanford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 3 months ago

Text

Not As Planned | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

This story contains themes of sexual assault. If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, please know that support is available. I’ve included resources below to help guide you toward assistance. You are never alone, and there is always hope. Please take care of yourself as you read.

International Sexual Assault Resource Link

Words: ~14,500

Tags/TW: SA, Violence, Trauma, Modern AU, Reader Insert, Female MC, Plus Size MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Muggle Born MC, Post Hogwarts, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Drama, Romance, Jealousy and Longing, Confessions

The low hum of the bar buzzed like a low-grade static in Sebastian’s ears. A smooth jazz ensemble played in the corner, their music rich and sultry, threading through the room like smoke. Golden light bathed the space, casting everything in soft amber hues that made the whole place feel a little unreal. Along the curved bar, bottles of rare liquors glittered like jewels, and the faint scent of citrus and something floral—lavender, maybe—lingered in the air.

It was a far cry from their usual haunts.

Sebastian ran his fingers around the rim of his glass, trailing condensation down to the base. The whiskey in front of him wasn’t his first, and it wouldn’t be his last. Across from him, Ominis sat with the casual poise that came so easily to him, his chin balanced on one hand while his other traced absent patterns along the bar's polished surface. He looked relaxed, though Sebastian knew better. If the subtle flush on his pale cheeks wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the way his lips twitched faintly every time Poppy’s name came up certainly was.

Beside him, Garreth Weasley was anything but subtle. Loud as ever, he laughed and gestured animatedly, mid-story about some disastrous experiment he’d tried at the pub last weekend.

“…and then, right as I’m about to take a sip, she snatches it out of my hand, takes one look at it, and says—and I quote—‘You have a death wish, don’t you?’ Can you imagine? The nerve!” Garreth threw his hands up in mock indignation. “It wasn’t even that bad. Just rum, peach schnapps, absinthe—”

“One day,” Ominis cut in smoothly, tilting his head toward Garreth with the faintest smirk. “You will be tried for your alcoholic war crimes, Weasley.”

Sebastian snorted into his drink, unable to help himself. He'd need both hands to count the number of times Garreth had walked into a bar and pestered the bartender to mix him something absolutely disastrous.

It was a wonder they still got served anywhere.

Garreth scoffed, taking an exaggerated sip of his neon-colored monstrosity. “You just don’t appreciate true genius.”

Ominis arched a brow. “If by ‘genius,’ you mean ‘reckless disregard for the structural integrity of your liver,’ then yes, I'm terribly ungrateful.”

Sebastian smirked, but his attention flickered toward the entrance—again. The girls weren’t even late, not technically, but every passing minute stretched unbearably. He should have been used to this feeling by now, this sharp-edged anticipation curling low in his chest.

He wasn’t. He never was. It was always like this, wasn’t it?

The waiting. The wanting.

Sebastian had spent over a decade orbiting around you, trapped in some endless, torturous loop of almosts—of lingering touches, stolen glances, conversations that danced too close to the edge of something he didn’t dare name. The worst part? It was his own doing. He’d had every opportunity to cross that invisible line, to tell you what he felt, what he ached for, but he never did.

Because once he did, there would be no undoing it.

Meanwhile, everyone else in their group was paired off now. Garreth and Natty had been inseparable since a Ministry event a few years back, and Poppy and Ominis had been as good as married the moment Hogwarts spat them out. Imelda had ended up with Nerida, to the surprise of no one, the two of them making up a formidable duo—one sharp-tongued and reckless, the other quietly cutting.

Sebastian was happy for them. Truly, he was. It was almost sickening how well it had worked out for everyone. They’d all somehow ended up with their Hogwarts sweethearts, riding off into the sunset with picture-perfect endings that looked like something out of a fairy tale.

And then there was him.

The idiot who’d spent 11 years hopelessly in love with his best friend and done absolutely nothing about it.

At first, it had been easier to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. You were best friends. You had always been best friends. Of course you were close. Of course you knew each other better than anyone. So what if you had a habit of leaning against him whenever you were tired, or if you always reached for him first when something made you laugh so hard you couldn’t breathe? So what if you touched him more than anyone else, if you let your fingers brush his wrist when you passed him a drink or hooked your ankle around his under the table without thinking about it?

It had always been like that. Until one day, it wasn’t. Until one day, when he was 15, he’d looked at you, and his stomach had flipped, and suddenly, every innocent touch, every laugh, every glance, felt different. Felt like something else entirely.

And now? Now he was fucking trapped.

Ominis’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll get wrinkles early if you keep scowling like that.”

Sebastian glanced up, narrowing his eyes at the smirk tugging on Ominis’s mouth. The bastard didn’t even need to see him to read him like an open book.

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” Sebastian muttered, taking a long sip of his drink.

Ominis didn’t respond, just tipped his head slightly, his expression bordering on smug. He didn’t need to say anything. The unspoken truth hung between them like smoke—Sebastian’s feelings for you were obvious to everyone but you.

Garreth leaned in suddenly, jarring him. “Relax, mate. They’ll show up. Natty wouldn’t miss this for the world, and she’d drag the others along if she had to.” He paused to sip his drink, a mischievous grin spreading over his face. “Although, Poppy’s probably the one making them late. You know how she loves to test Ominis’s patience.”

“More like Natty’s,” Ominis muttered, though there was no heat in it.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and turned toward the door again, restless. The moment stretched, his fingers tapping absently against the side of his glass. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t waiting for you—not like that. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t counting down the seconds until you walked through the door, wasn’t anticipating the sound of your voice, wasn’t wondering what you’d look like tonight, what you’d—

And then the door opened.

And everything else stopped.

Because there you were.

You moved through the room with easy confidence, utterly unaware of the way you were undoing him. That dress—fuck, that dress—it wasn’t something outrageous, wasn’t scandalous or overtly suggestive, but it didn’t need to be. It followed the soft curves of your body, hugged your waist, your plush thighs, the full flare of your hips in a way that made his pulse hammer violently against his ribs. Every step you took made it shift, just enough to tease, just enough to remind him that he should not be thinking about this.

And yet, his mind was already lost to darker places, caught in the dangerous, helpless imagining of how it might feel beneath his fingers. The silky fabric sliding beneath his hands, the warmth of your skin under it. How it would be if he were close enough to touch, to trace the shape of you properly, to press his hands into the softness of your waist and feel the weight of you against him.

His fingers tightened around his glass so hard he swore it might crack.

Garreth chuckled under his breath, clearly entertained, “Good luck tonight, Sallow."

Ominis said nothing, but Sebastian didn’t need to see him smirking to know exactly what was going through his mind.

It was humiliating, really, how easy it was for them to see right through him. And you? You just kept moving, oblivious to the chaos you were leaving in your wake.

Sebastian watched as you approached, your laugh bright and sweet as Natsai caught your hand, spinning you once in an exaggerated flourish as if to show you off. You humored her, swaying playfully, rolling your eyes when Imelda cat-called in approval.

Then, before he could steel himself, before he could brace for the inevitable destruction you always left in your wake, your eyes landed on him again.

And fuck, that smile.

It was warm, unguarded, laced with something soft. The kind of smile that was effortless, unconscious, the kind that made his stomach drop because it meant you were happy to see him. Because you looked at him like he was something good, something familiar and safe, and it tore him to shreds inside.

He forced himself to exhale. To not look like some love-struck fool drowning in you.

“About time,” he said as you sidled up beside him, leaning back against the bar in a way he hoped looked casual.

You rolled your eyes, slipping onto a stool, your shoulder brushing his. “I had to make sure you suffered a little first.”

“You’re a cruel woman.”

“I’m a patient woman,” you corrected, lifting a brow. “I got us on the guest list here weeks ago, so if I have to hear you complain about the wait, I will take my very expensive cocktail and pour it directly into your lap.”

Sebastian huffed, feigning offense. “You wouldn’t.”

You turned, propping your chin on your hand as you looked at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Try me.”

His stomach twisted violently. He didn’t know how you did this—how you made him feel like you could see right through him, like you knew exactly how wrecked he was and were enjoying every moment of it.

He forced himself to focus, to shift his attention somewhere safe.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere safe.

Because now, he was looking at your lips, parted just slightly in a teasing smirk, glossed and inviting and fuck—

He needed another drink. Immediately.

Before he could even flag the bartender down, Garreth leaned into your space with a dramatic sigh his arm wrapped around Natsai's waist. “Seriously though, what took you so long? Sebastian’s been brooding all night.”

You shot him a knowing look. “Has he now?”

Garreth smirked, tipping his glass toward Ominis. “Oh, yeah. Gaunt here tried to warn him about wrinkles.”

You chuckled, leaning slightly into Sebastian’s shoulder in a way that sent a full-body shudder down his spine. “I told you, Seb. Stress is bad for you.”

He tried to smirk, to give you some smart remark, but he knew it wouldn’t come out right. His brain was still lagging on the fact that your body was pressing against his.

Garreth, oblivious as ever, continued rambling. “Honestly, it was embarrassing. I think he almost—”

Sebastian elbowed him sharply, causing Garreth to spill his drink.

Natty, taking pity, pulled him back. “Come on, Garreth. Leave the poor man alone.”

“Fine, fine.” Garreth grinned, clearly not remotely deterred, but let himself be steered away.

Sebastian sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before turning back to you. “So? Was it worth the wait?”

You hummed, taking in the warm, intimate atmosphere, the soft glow of the speakeasy lights. The way the gold hues caught in your eyes nearly killed him.

“Oh, absolutely,” you replied with a smile. "It looks so authentic, like just look at the bar, Seb. The design is almost spot on to the real ones from the Prohibition era—mahogany, brass accents, those exact kind of light fixtures..."

Sebastian tried to focus on your words, really he did.

You were onto talking about speakeasy history now, eyes gleaming with excitement as you gestured toward the dim lighting, the low, rich hum of the jazz band. You’d clearly done your research, and you were rattling off facts with that same enthusiasm you always had for things you loved. It was so endearing. You could make anything sound interesting.

“Well, technically, speakeasies originated during the Prohibition era in America,” you were saying, leaning forward slightly, the low L ight catching in your hair. “They were hidden bars—illegal drinking spots since alcohol was banned. They had secret passwords, hidden entrances, all that. Some were even run by gangsters—people like Al Capone—because bootlegging was so lucrative.”

Sebastian nodded, trying to pay attention, but it was impossible. Because, as much as he loved hearing you nerd out, his brain had zero capacity for historical facts when every single one of your friends had immediately paired off around him.

At the bar, Natty was leaned into Garreth’s side, her hand resting lightly on his chest as he ordered her a drink, his voice dipping into something low and teasing that made her smile. A few feet away, Poppy had sidled up to Ominis, fingers barely brushing against his wrist in that quiet, intimate way they always did. Meanwhile, Imelda and Nerida had wasted no time making themselves comfortable, tucked into a plush booth, heads close together, already lost in each other.

And then there was you. With him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you belonged here, beside him. Like you were his.

Except—you weren’t.

Sebastian swallowed hard, fingers curling around his glass.

It was a cruel fucking thing, this closeness you gave him so easily. Because it wasn’t real, was it? Not really. You were just you. His best friend. Close enough to touch, to tease, to wreck him without even realizing it. But never his.

Never really his.

“…they even had hidden tunnels sometimes,” you continued. “The really fancy ones had hidden rooms, secret staircases, all kinds of tricks. Some of them were in basements, some behind fake storefronts. People had to whisper the password when they got in, which is where the term ‘speakeasy’ comes from.”

Sebastian barely registered what you were saying and you sighed, finally noticing the way he was watching you.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

Sebastian blinked.

“No,” he admitted, because what was the point in lying?

You rolled your eyes, exasperated, but there was no real bite to it.

“Well, at least you’re honest.”

Sebastian smirked. “Always.”

You huffed, clearly unimpressed. “So, what were you thinking about?”

He should have said something teasing, something to deflect, but then you leaned in, just slightly, your head tilting, and Sebastian was drowning.

There was too much warmth in your eyes, too much softness in the way you looked at him, and for one reckless second, he thought maybe. Maybe this wasn’t one-sided. Maybe you knew. Maybe you felt it too.

Sebastian cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away, to wave down the bartender like they might save him.

“Nothing important,” he lied.

You studied him for a beat longer, and then, before you could say another word—

“What can I get for you?”

Mercifully, the bartender appeared, their voice smooth, professional.

Sebastian exhaled and leaned against the bar, grateful for something else to focus on. “Whiskey and Coke.”

The bartender nodded, about to turn away when Sebastian jerked his chin toward you. “And whatever she wants.”

You huffed then rolled your eyes. “I can pay for myself, you know.”

“I know,” Sebastian said, smirking as he propped his elbow against the bar, resting his chin in his hand. “But since I’m clearly suffering through your history lesson, consider it payment.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, suffering, are you?”

“Excruciatingly.”

“Fine,” you sighed, faux exasperation in your tone, turning back to the bartender. “I’ll take the signature cocktail then, since it’s on his dime.”

Sebastian smirked, shaking his head. “Figures.”

The bartender chuckled and disappeared to prepare the drinks, leaving the two of you to settle back into the warmth of the speakeasy’s golden glow.

Sebastian let himself relax, narrowing his eyes slightly. “So? This drink of yours—what’s in it?”

You lifted a brow, amusement flickering across your expression. “Trying to impress me with your knowledge of mixology?”

“Absolutely not.” He snorted. “Just trying to gauge how badly I’m about to regret funding your expensive taste.”

You laughed, the sound warm, easy. “You’ll live. It’s gin with elderflower liqueur, citrus, a little honey, some kind of infused vermouth—oh, and a sprig of rosemary for flair. They call it The Whisper.”

Sebastian snorted. “That’s a lot of effort for a single drink.”

“That’s the whole point of a speakeasy, you loser,” you teased, nudging your shoulder against his. “It’s all about the craft.”

He rolled his eyes but grinned. “And here I thought we were just here to drink.”

“Well, that too.”

Your drinks arrived, and you lifted your cocktail, inspecting it with a satisfied little nod before taking a sip. The moment your lips met the rim of the glass, Sebastian had to fight back another surge of inconvenient thoughts—the gloss on your mouth leaving the faintest sheen against the glass, the way your lashes fluttered slightly as you tasted it, considering the balance of flavors.

“It’s so good,” you told him, swirling the liquid lightly in your glass. “Floral, a little sweet, but not too much.”

Sebastian hummed, sipping his drink as he watched you. “Glad to know my money’s going to a worthy cause.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “You know, you never did answer my question.”

Sebastian blinked. “What question?”

You gave him a look—one that told him you knew he was dodging. “What you were thinking about earlier while you ignored my history lesson.”

His grip on his glass tightened for half a second, but before he could come up with a clever retort to get out of this, a new voice cut in—bright, excited.

“Hey you!”

Poppy.

She appeared out of nowhere, seizing your wrist before you could protest. “Come dance with us!”

Your eyes widened. “Poppy—wait—”

But Poppy was relentless, already tugging you toward the dance floor with surprising strength. “Nope, no arguments! Come on!”

Sebastian watched, amused and relieved, as you shot him a look over your shoulder—half entertained, half exasperated—before you disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by the glow of the dance floor, and just like that, you were gone.

A slow, knowing voice hummed beside him.

“She got away from you rather quickly.”

Ominis.

Sebastian scowled. “Don’t start."

The blonde sipped his drink, the picture of smug amusement. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Sebastian shot him a flat look. “You were absolutely going to say something.”

Ominis smirked. “Well, if you insist—”

Sebastian groaned, tossing back a sip of his whiskey and coke before slamming the glass down with a bit more force than necessary. “I don’t. I really, really don’t.”

“You’re in rare form tonight,” Ominis continued, swirling the last of his drink lazily in his glass. “I think I might even pity you.”

Sebastian shot him a glare. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, but you do need a strategy,” Ominis mused, setting his empty glass down with a soft clink. “Because, at this rate, I fear I’ll be married before you confess to her.”

Sebastian scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you. Took you 8 years to say anything to Poppy.”

Ominis simply smirked. “And yet, here I am, in a committed relationship, while you’re still over here brooding into your drink like a lovesick schoolboy.”

Sebastian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin’s sake, Ominis.”

“What?” Ominis asked, feigning innocence. “It’s painful watching you, you know. I can hear the longing.”

Sebastian scowled. “I do not long.”

Ominis turned his head toward him, lips curling ever so slightly. “Sebastian. Poppy said you stared at her mouth for a full ten seconds while she was talking about her drink.”

Sebastian flushed, gripping his glass a little too hard. “It wasn’t ten seconds.”

Ominis hummed. “It was.”

Sebastian wanted to slam his forehead into the bar.

This was his own personal hell.

Garreth sauntered over before he could wallow too deeply, plopping onto the stool beside him with a lazy grin. He slung an arm over the bar, casting a glance toward the dance floor.

“Mate, you are so obvious,” Garreth said, sipping his drink. “It’s honestly impressive.”

Sebastian gave him a flat look. “Did you come over just to harass me?”

“Pretty much,” Garreth said cheerfully.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to throw back the rest of his drink.

Garreth followed his gaze toward the dance floor, where you were now laughing at something Natty had said, your body swaying to the rhythm of the music. The warm amber lighting bathed your skin, the movement of the crowd shifting around you in slow, rhythmic waves.

And fuck, you looked good. Too good. Sebastian took another sip of his whiskey, trying to ignore the ache curling in his chest.

“So,” Garreth said, propping his chin in his hand. “What’s the plan?”

Sebastian glanced at him. “What?”

“The plan,” Garreth repeated. “You know—the one where you finally do something about your massive, crushing, soul-consuming love for her?”

Sebastian groaned. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Mate, we have to do this right now,” Garreth said, motioning toward the dance floor. “Because if you don’t do something soon, some other guy will.”

Sebastian stiffened. Because this? This was the one thing he never let himself think about for too long.

For years, he had convinced himself there was time. That things would work out naturally, that you’d both just… fall into place.

It wasn’t as if you had never been with anyone. You had, a few times during school, in the careless, fleeting way that teenagers fell in and out of things. But nothing had ever stuck. Nothing had ever felt like it mattered. And when they ended, Sebastian had always been there.

Your constant.

The one person you always came back to.

It had reassured him, in some selfish, pathetic way. Let him believe that you weren’t really going anywhere. That whatever was between you—whatever was building between you—would always be there, waiting, until you both figured it out.

But then you’d fallen for him.

Your first real, serious boyfriend. The one who had made Sebastian’s life hell for over a year.

He had hated every goddamn second of it. Hated watching you be with someone else, hated the way you had looked at him—like that—like he was yours. Hated seeing another man have what should have been his.

And what had he done? Nothing. Because he hadn’t been brave enough.

He had let it happen. He had let himself smile and nod and pretend to be happy for you. He had let himself sit on the sidelines and watch.

And then, when it was over—when it had all fallen apart—he had been there. Of course, he had. But you never told him what happened, and Sebastian never asked for details. Never pressed, never pried. All he knew was that one day, it was over, and you didn’t talk about it.

And if Sebastian had felt relieved? If some ugly, selfish part of him had thrived in the knowledge that you were single again?

Well. That was between him and the whiskey.

But that was over a year ago now, and Garreth was right.

You were moving forward, and Sebastian no longer had the luxury of time. You weren’t seventeen anymore. You weren’t in school, fumbling through fleeting relationships just for the sake of them. You were a grown woman—beautiful, incredible, desirable—and when you chose someone now, it would be for something real.

Something long-term. Something permanent.

And the idea of someone else—some faceless stranger—walking up to you on the dance floor, flashing you a grin, letting their hands wander over your waist, pulling you close like they had any right—fuck. That alone was bad enough. But the thought of someone keeping you, of some other man being the one you turned to at the end of the day, the one who got to wake up beside you, touch you freely, know you in ways Sebastian never had the chance to—

It made something inside his chest splinter, burn so hot and fierce he swore it might ruin him.

Across from him, Garreth was watching, expression infuriatingly smug.

“So,” he said, lazily swirling the ice in his drink. “How’s that plan coming along?”

Sebastian dragged a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to groan.

“Garreth.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Garreth grinned. “See, I would, but you’re being so fun to watch right now.”

Sebastian scowled, about to say something sharp and unhelpful, but his tongue turned to lead the moment he caught sight of you again.

You had slowed, your dancing shifting into something softer, something more. Natty had turned away, distracted by Poppy tugging her toward another group, and now you were swaying on your own, hands drifting absently down your sides as if lost in the rhythm. Your body moved without thought, your dress hugging the curves of your hips in ways that sent something dark curling in Sebastian’s stomach.

He watched as your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the music, the soft golden glow of the lights painting your skin in honeyed warmth.

And then, like clockwork, it happened.

Some man—some fucking man—noticed you.

Sebastian saw it before it even began, could feel the exact moment the stranger’s gaze landed on you, lingering.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of polished that came with old money, and he was looking at you like he wanted you.

And you—unaware, oblivious—were still dancing. Still open. Still approachable.

Sebastian’s blood ran hot.

Garreth, always a shit-disturber, let out a low whistle. “Ohhh, this is gonna be good.”

Sebastian didn’t even register him, because the stranger was already moving, crossing the floor toward you with intent, cutting through the slow sway of bodies, an easy grin sliding into place.

Sebastian barely heard Garreth mutter, yep, there it is, before he was already moving.

Not thinking—just moving, standing, glass forgotten, feet carrying him across the floor with single-minded purpose.

The stranger reached you first, but Sebastian wasn’t far behind, and he saw the exact moment the man’s hand started to lift—reaching for you, moving into your space.

And he saw the way you instinctively leaned back, a subtle but unmistakable recoil, your easy smile dimming as you shook your head, declining whatever offer the guy had just made.

And before the bastard could press further—before he could try again—Sebastian was there.

His body cut smoothly between you, stepping into your space so fast and close that you had to tilt your head up in surprise, your eyes widening at him.

The stranger hesitated, thrown off by his sudden arrival, but Sebastian didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t even fucking blink in his direction.

Because you? You were looking at him. And only him.

Your lips parted slightly, something caught between confusion and surprise, but Sebastian didn’t give you a chance to question it.

Sebastian held out a hand.

“Dance with me.”

Not a request. Not a suggestion. A command.

Your brows lifted slightly at the shift in his voice, but you didn’t hesitate. Because of course you didn’t. You trusted him.

Your fingers slid into his, warm and soft, and Sebastian nearly exhaled in relief.

Because just like that, the moment was over.

The stranger lingered for only a second longer before turning away, disappearing into the crowd.

Gone. Good.

Then you sighed—a small, quiet thing, barely noticeable over the music—and glanced up at him, a flicker of something unreadable in your expression.

“Thanks for that,” you murmured, voice lower now, more serious than it had been all night.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed slightly. “For what?”

Your lips pressed together for a second, as if debating whether to say anything. Then, finally:

“That guy was talking to our group earlier, too.”

Sebastian’s grip on your waist tightened, his mood immediately souring. Because how had he not noticed? How had he been sitting at that bar this whole damn time, so hyper-focused on you, so obsessed, and not seen some asshole lurking around you and the other girls? A slow, simmering anger curled in his gut.

“Did he say anything to you?” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be.

You shook your head. “Just… you know.” You made a vague gesture, rolling your eyes slightly. “The usual.”

Sebastian’s jaw flexed. No, he didn’t know. Because he wasn’t you.

He didn’t know what it was like to be someone like you—gorgeous, open, effortlessly magnetic—constantly dealing with men who thought that just because you were kind, just because you smiled, just because you laughed and danced, it meant they had a chance.

It made something dark coil inside him, something ugly. Something possessive.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying—failing—to push it down.

“Did he touch you?” he asked, voice quieter now, lower, but hard.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the edge in his tone.

“No,” you said after a beat, shaking your head.

Sebastian didn’t realize how much tension he had been holding until the word left your mouth. Didn’t realize how furious he had been, how much his hands had itched to grab that bastard by the collar and drag him outside just for thinking he had the right to put his hands on you.

“You don’t have to look like that,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly.

Sebastian raised a brow, his smirk automatic but strained. “Like what?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Like you’re about to storm out of here and commit a felony.”

Sebastian didn’t deny it.

"You should let me fight someone for you at least once," he muttered, only half-joking.

You grinned. "Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?"

"More than you know."

"Violence isn’t the answer, Sallow," you sing-songed.

He smirked. "It’s a good answer, though."

You shook your head, still laughing, still entirely too light while Sebastian was over here barely holding himself together. And then, just to kill him, you leaned in, pressing your forehead lightly against his chest.

"I’m okay, Seb," you murmured.

Just like that, the anger drained from his body. Because if you weren’t upset, if you weren’t shaken, if you were still smiling up at him like this—like he was something good, something safe—then how was he supposed to hold onto his fury?

The song slowed, the deep bass fading into the last lingering notes of the melody. The hum of conversation filled the space again, bodies shifting, moving apart, laughter rising over the murmur of the next song beginning.

Sebastian barely noticed because you were still close—your forehead resting against his chest, your breath warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. And just as easily as you had leaned into him, you pulled back and reached for his hand, fingers sliding against his.

“I need another drink.”

And Sebastian—who would have followed you anywhere, who always had—went without question.

He let you lead him through the crowd, past shifting bodies and hushed conversation, back toward the bar where your friends had gathered, voices raised in lively debate.

Garreth was the first to notice your return, his grin downright wicked as he clocked your joined hands.

“Look who decided to grace us with their presence,” he drawled, handing Sebastian a pint of beer. “Have a nice dance?”

Sebastian ignored him, but you just rolled your eyes, releasing his hand as you slid onto a stool. “I did, actually. What’s all this?”

Nerida, perched beside Imelda, snorted. “They’re making bets on what Poppy has gotten Ominis into this time.”

You blinked. “Where've they gone?”

“She dragged him off about twenty minutes ago,” Imelda said, smirking over the rim of her glass. “Into one of the side rooms.”

Sebastian felt your laughter before he heard it—the way your shoulders shook, the way you leaned slightly into his side, your warmth pressing into him once again.

“Oh no,” you breathed, shaking your head. “Poor Ominis.”

Garreth grinned. “Poor Ominis?” He gestured wildly with his glass. "That man's probably having the time of his bloody life right now! In fact, Natty, I'd be more than happy to—"

Natty cut him off with a sharp look, arching a brow. “Don’t finish that sentence, Weasley.”

Nerida, still nursing her drink, smirked. “So, what are the odds? Did she lure him in with something harmless, or is Ominis about to lose all dignity?”

“Fifteen galleons says he’s getting head at this very second," Imelda said with a grin, tapping her fingers against the bar.

Garreth howled with laughter, nearly spilling his drink. “Oh, Merlin, I wish I had that kind of faith in Poppy, but in public?! I don't know, Mel.”

Natty groaned, covering her face with her hands. “For the love of God—”

Nerida just smirked, tilting her glass toward Imelda. “Bold bet. You really think Poppy’s got it in her?”

Imelda snorted. “Look, I’m just saying—quiet ones are always the freakiest.”

Sebastian choked on his beer.

Garreth, still grinning, wiped at his eyes. “Ten galleons says she is at least getting handsy.”

“Five says he’s just standing there awkwardly while she tells him fun facts about kneazles,” Natty countered, shaking her head.

Sebastian smirked, shaking his head. “I’d put twenty on him hexing us all into oblivion if he knew what was going on right now.”

Garreth cackled. “A safe bet.”

The conversation was rapidly descending into chaos when, right on cue, Ominis’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and unimpressed.

“I hate all of you.”

The group collectively turned to see Ominis standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed, Poppy at his side looking suspiciously pleased with herself.

Garreth, delighted, clapped his hands together. “There he is! So… how’d it go, lover boy?”

Ominis’s expression darkened. “I will hex you.”

You grinned, still trying to contain your laughter. “Tell us what happened, Omins.”

Ominis’s face went red. Not just a faint flush—fully red, the kind of embarrassment that spelled immediate entertainment for everyone involved. And Poppy, the absolute menace, lifted a hand to her mouth, failing miserably at stifling her laughter.

The group lost it, and Ominis looked like he wanted to die.

Garreth cackled, nearly spilling his drink as he clutched his stomach.

Nerida slammed a hand on the bar, wheezing. “Oh my God."

Imelda, grinning like the devil herself, leaned forward. “Right, then. Who’s paying up the fifteen galleons?”

Ominis exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear to Merlin, if one more person so much as suggests—”

Garreth clapped him on the back, grinning wildly. “So, that’s a no on the getting head, then?”

Ominis’s expression darkened so fast it was almost impressive, but before he could truly commit to murder, Nerida—ever the peacemaker—tilted her head toward the back corner of the bar.

“Alright, alright—before Ominis does something irreversible, who’s up for a round of pool?”

This was met with general agreement—mostly because the alcohol was settling in enough that no one felt like sitting still anymore.

Sebastian, still thoroughly amused, tipped back the rest of his drink before pushing away from the bar, waiting for you to follow.

And you did. Of course you did.

In fact, Sebastian was pleased—very pleased—when you stuck by his side for the rest of the evening.

You could have easily wandered off, flitted between groups, danced again. But instead, you leaned against the table, sipping your drink, laughing at Garreth’s terrible pool skills, rolling your eyes at Imelda’s trash talk, nudging Sebastian with your hip whenever he made a particularly cocky shot.

It was good.

The night stretched on in a golden haze, full of too much laughter, too many drinks, and the kind of warm, buzzing atmosphere that made it far too easy to forget that the outside world existed at all.

Except.

Sebastian noticed—drunkenly, hazily, slowly noticed—that something was off.

It wasn’t obvious, but it was there nonetheless. The girls were still laughing, still drinking, still teasing them mercilessly over every terrible shot at pool. But they weren’t leaving. And that was weird.

Because usually—after enough drinks, after enough games—the girls always migrated. They’d get bored of pool, tired of darts, and drift off to dance, or find a quieter table to sit at and gossip.

But not tonight. Tonight, they were sticking close.

Poppy, usually the first to suggest another round on the dance floor, was still here, sitting comfortably at Ominis's side, chatting animatedly with Natty while Garreth ordered them drinks.

Nerida and Imelda, who normally found excuses to disappear for a bit, were locked in an intense conversation while still staying within view of everyone else.

And you were still beside him.

And maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the way the room had tilted slightly when he stood up earlier. But Sebastian’s brain, slow and sluggish, finally caught up to the creeping thought that had been lurking in the background since you'd danced with him.

Was it because of him? That man from earlier?

Sebastian turned his head slightly, scanning the bar. He hadn’t thought about him in hours, but now that he was... where the hell did he go?

Sebastian’s fingers tightened around his drink, a slow, simmering anger curling back into his gut. Because if you—and the others—had been sticking close all night, had been keeping within reach of them instead of doing what you usually did…

Then what did that mean? Had that bastard scared you?

But then—

“Seb?”

Your voice cut through the haze, your fingers curling around his wrist, tugging lightly. He turned, and whatever dark, brooding thoughts had been creeping into his mind vanished.

Because fuck, you were drunk. Not messy, not too far gone, but just enough. Your eyes were hazy with warmth, your grin lopsided, and when you pulled him slightly closer, there was the faintest slur in your words.

You swayed slightly. “D’you wanna sit? M’legs feel all… floaty.”

And just like that, Sebastian forgot about everything else. The man. The unease. The lingering feeling that something was wrong. Because now? Now he was only looking at you.

You, standing just a little too close, your body warm with alcohol, your hair a little mussed, your expression soft.

You, blinking up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted like you were trying to work through whatever lazy, meandering thought had just slipped into your mind.

Sebastian smirked, setting his drink down. “Those cocktails stronger than you thought?”

You huffed, swaying slightly as you nudged his arm. “So much stronger.”

Sebastian barely bit back a laugh. “Lightweight.”

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “How dare—”

Sebastian grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulders before you could wobble too much.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, guiding you toward one of the plush loveseats behind the pool table. “Let’s get you off those floaty legs.”

You hummed, leaning into him a little too easily, like it was natural, like this was where you belonged. And fuck, if that wasn’t a dangerous thought.

Sebastian exhaled slowly, guiding you down before sitting beside you, letting his arm rest along the back of the chair, leaving just enough room for you to lean into him if you wanted to.

You let out a small hum, tilting your head back slightly to look at him, eyes half-lidded, hazy with alcohol. Then—out of nowhere—you reached for his hand.

Sebastian blinked, watching, completely dumbfounded, as you grabbed his wrist, pulling his palm toward yours. You pressed your hand flat against his, comparing sizes, your fingers barely reaching the first knuckle of his own.

And you beamed.

“Merlin,” you murmured, like you were discovering something truly profound, flexing your fingers against his. “Why are your hands so big?”

Sebastian swallowed hard, staring at the sight of your palm against his, at the way your much smaller fingers curled slightly around his own.

He barely found his voice. “Dunno. Why are yours so small?”

You giggled, tilting your head at him. “D’you think if I had big hands, I’d be better at pool?”

Sebastian huffed a laugh, his chest tight. “You’re already better than Garreth. No changes necessary.”

You gasped dramatically. “Poor Garreth.”

“He deserves it.”

You snorted, then curled your fingers between his, lacing them loosely together. Just resting there. Just holding. Sebastian nearly blacked out.

You didn’t even seem to realize what you were doing, just looked down at your intertwined hands with an easy, alcohol-softened smile before shifting again, tucking yourself even closer into his side.

“You always smell nice, too."

Always. That meant you’d noticed before. You noticed him.

Sebastian forced himself to clear his throat, trying for something casual—something to keep from absolutely combusting.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “What do I smell like?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Like…” Your brows scrunched slightly, like you were trying to pinpoint it exactly. “Something warm. Like... like… cinnamon. And cloves. And something kind of… smoky? But not in a bad way. Just… cozy.”

Sebastian was about to die. Right here. Right fucking here, in this speakeasy, drunk with you pressed against him, completely unaware that you were absolutely wrecking him. And then, because you weren’t done ruining his life, you sighed. All content and pleased and nestled against his side like you belonged there, like this was normal, like you weren’t setting his entire fucking world on fire.

“And you’re always so warm,” you murmured.

Sebastian’s throat bobbed as he forced something out.

“You cold?” he asked, trying to sound unaffected.

You hummed, nuzzling slightly into his shoulder. “Not anymore.”

Sebastian was dangerously close to losing his mind, and he needed a distraction. Immediately.

“So,” he said, shifting slightly, trying to ignore how easily your body moved with his, “since I did such a terrible job listening last time, how about another speakeasy lesson?”

You perked up instantly, blinking at him in adorable surprise, then huffed, amused. “Oh, so now you’re interested?”

Sebastian smirked. “Figured I should at least pretend to be an attentive student.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly in your seat to face him better—though, in your drunken state, that mostly meant you leaned even more into his side.

“Well,” you began, slipping into a more thoughtful tone, “like I was saying before you zoned out completely, speakeasies got their name because people had to speak easy—keep their voices down so they wouldn’t get caught.”

Sebastian nodded like this was brand new information, even though he vaguely remembered you mentioning it earlier. Meanwhile, you draped your arms over your lap, tilting your head against the back of the loveseat as you spoke, your words a little slower, your thoughts a little more meandering.

“But what’s funny,” you continued, your finger tracing absentminded circles against the fabric of your dress, “is that even though the entire point was secrecy, some speakeasies were huge. Like, big bands, huge dance floors, completely over-the-top. They wanted the allure, the glamour, y’know?”

Sebastian did not know.

Because he was too busy watching the way your lips moved around your words, the way your lashes fluttered when you got lost in a thought, the way your entire body seemed to sway slightly with the rhythm of your own storytelling.

This was not helping his situation.

At all.

“So some of them weren’t hidden?” he asked, if only to remind himself to keep his brain functional.

You shook your head, a little slower than usual. “Not really. Like, technically, you still had to know someone to get in. They had passwords, secret entrances�� but everyone knew where they were.”

Sebastian hummed, watching the way you twirled a loose strand of hair around your finger. “So what you’re saying,” he mused, smirking, “is that criminals are just show-offs?”

You snorted, rolling your head to the side to look at him. “That’s what you took from that?”

He grinned. “Am I wrong?”

You sighed dramatically, shaking your head. “No, you’re not wrong, but historically speaking—”

Sebastian could have stayed here forever. You, curled into his side, talking about some random bit of history you’d read in a book. Your voice laced with alcohol, your words a little softer, a little slower, but still so full of excitement. It was so easy. So perfect.

His fingers absentmindedly played with the hem of your dress, twirling the soft material between his fingertips, completely absorbed in the warmth of the moment, in the way you looked at him, in the way—

Then you let out a heavy sigh, shifting against him.

“I need to break the seal,” you muttered, groaning dramatically.

Sebastian blinked, momentarily thrown from his thoughts.

You pouted, stretching slightly as you tilted your head toward him. “I have to pee,” you clarified. “And I don’t wanna move.”

Sebastian chuckled, shaking his head. “That is a tragedy.”

You groaned, snuggling further into the cushions, making no move to actually get up. “Ugh, this sucks. I'm so comfy.”

He nudged you lightly. “Go on, love, I'll be right here when you get back.”

You whined, literally whined, before finally, reluctantly pushing yourself up. You stretched as you stood—your dress shifting dangerously as you straightened yourself—and Sebastian was definitely not looking. Not at the way your dress shifted up the curve of your thighs, not at the way your arms lifted over your head, making every inch of you somehow even more tempting.

Nope.

He was absolutely looking straight ahead, nowhere near you.

But as you turned away—taking slow, slightly unsteady steps—something in his chest twisted. Not the usual ache, the fuck-I’m-in-love-with-her feeling he’d been drowning in all night.

Something else. Something wrong.

He tried to shake it, tried to tell himself it was just the drinks, just his dumb possessive instincts making him hyperaware of you.

But still.

His smirk faltered slightly as he watched you make your way toward the washrooms.

It wasn’t far. Just across the lounge, past a few tables, through a hallway.

But still.

Sebastian shifted in his seat, his foot tapping idly against the floor. You’d be back in a few minutes. Everything was fine.

Except it wasn’t.

Sebastian knew it the second too much time passed.

At first, he kept himself distracted, letting Garreth and Imelda pull him into their bickering over pool shots, letting Ominis make dry, unimpressed comments about their collective lack of skill. Sebastian nursed his drink, felt the warmth of the alcohol hum through his veins, tried to tell himself you were just taking your time.

But then a song ended. And another. And you still weren’t back.

Sebastian’s fingers tapped against the rim of his glass, his brows pinching slightly.

Then he checked the time. And the wrongness that had been sitting, low and uneasy, in his chest all night curled tighter.

He straightened in his seat, setting his drink down, his entire body suddenly too alert.

It was fine. You were fine.

Maybe you’d just gotten distracted. Maybe you were reapplying your lipstick, or fixing your hair, or—

No. No, something was wrong. And suddenly, Sebastian wasn’t drunk anymore.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Just moved, ignoring the way the others glanced at him in mild confusion.

“Be right back,” he muttered, already walking away.

His heart picked up speed as he cut across the bar, past the lounge, weaving through groups of people, gaze sharp as he scanned the room.

The hallway to the washrooms was dimly lit, tucked just slightly away from the main bar, just enough that it made something uncomfortable roll through his stomach.

He stepped into the corridor, his footfalls suddenly too loud in the muffled quiet. The wrongness in his gut went from unease to something razor-sharp.

Where were you?

Sebastian glanced toward the entrance to the women’s washroom, waiting—listening—for any sign of you. Nothing.

His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched at his sides. He turned his head—

And froze.

Just past the corner of the hallway, tucked slightly out of view, a sound. A muffled whimper. Quiet. Shaky. Then a voice. Low. Murmuring. Unfamiliar.

Sebastian’s fingers curled into fists, he rounded the corner so fast he nearly slammed into the wall, and there you were.

Pressed against a door, your shoulders curled inward, hands shaking as you tried to push him away. Your dress, torn at the strap. That man—his hands on you, gripping your waist, his body too close, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured something low, coaxing, like he was trying to convince you, like you weren’t already crying.

Sebastian’s mind went blank. One second, the bastard was pressed up against you, gripping you like he had any fucking right, and the next—

Crack.

The man hit the opposite wall, hard, eyes blown wide as he let out a stunned, choked gasp, lip split and bleeding.

Sebastian was already on him.

His fist caught the bastard’s shirt, dragging him forward, shoving him so hard the walls rattled.

Sebastian was breathing too fast, seeing too much, his pulse roaring in his ears. The man let out a pained groan, hands grabbing at Sebastian’s wrist.

“Hey—”

Sebastian slammed him back again.

“You think you can touch her?” His voice was low, deadly, his face so close that the bastard flinched.

“She was asking for it,” the man spat, mouth bloody, words slurred. “Didn’t say no, just got shy—”

Sebastian snapped. His fist came down hard—one, two—again—

“How fucking dare you?”

The man gasped, wheezing, hands scrambling to stop him.

Sebastian was going to kill him. Was going to beat him into the fucking floor.

And then a hand. Light. Shaking. Fingers curling around his arm.

“Sebastian?”

Soft. Trembling.

Sebastian’s lungs seized. He turned his head, still breathing hard, still shaking. And fuck—

Tears streaked down your cheeks, your lip trembling, your eyes too wide, too stunned, too afraid.

Sebastian’s stomach dropped. His grip tightened for a breath, then, with a sharp, ragged exhale, he let go.

The man hit the floor hard, scrambling back on his hands, panting, nose crooked.

Sebastian didn’t even look at him. Because you—

You were still standing there, your hands clutching your torn dress, fingers shaking, chest rising too fast, breath uneven.

Sebastian felt sick.

And then voices. Footsteps. A sudden surge of noise as the dim corridor flooded with people.

Sebastian barely turned in time to see Ominis, Garreth, Natty, Imelda, Nerida, Poppy—the whole group—rounding the corner at full speed.

Garreth’s face twisted into something Sebastian had never seen before, his usual easy demeanor vanishing as he took one look at you, then the man on the floor, then Sebastian—still fuming, still shaking, still breathing too fast—and understood immediately.

Natty sucked in a sharp breath.

Nerida froze.

Poppy clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and horrified.

Imelda’s knuckles cracked from how hard she clenched her fists.

And Ominis—

Ominis, usually the calmest among them, took one step forward, and his voice came out cold. “What the fuck happened?”

Sebastian didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight. You hadn’t moved.

Then another voice, unfamiliar, but undeniably authoritative.

“Out. Now.”

Sebastian turned his head to see the bouncers push through the group.

One of them grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him up by the collar of his shirt. The bastard let out a choked noise.

“You’re done,” the bouncer growled, dragging him toward the exit. “Get the fuck out of here.”

The man spluttered, voice slurred from his split lip. “I—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Sebastian watched. Watched as the man who had his hands on you got ripped away, thrown out like trash, shoved into the night where he fucking belonged.

And yet Sebastian still wasn’t breathing right. Still wasn’t calm. Because you were still shaking, still—

“We’re leaving.”

Ominis.

His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. Sebastian nodded automatically. They all did.

The group moved quickly, no hesitation, no time for words as they all started toward the door, the bouncers giving them a wide path through the crowd.

Sebastian barely noticed the murmured whispers around them. All he noticed was you. Still silent, still staring down, still breathing too fast.

The cold air outside hit like a shock, cutting through the drunken haze that had lingered over the night.

Sebastian barely felt it, but the moment the chill hit, you shivered violently. Ominis moved instinctively, shrugging off his jacket in one smooth motion.

“Here.” His voice was still tight, still controlled, but softer than before.

But when he stepped forward, offering it—

You flinched. Sharp. Instinctive.

And Sebastian—watching it all unfold—felt something deep inside him break.

Because it wasn’t just anyone you flinched from. It was Ominis. One of your closest friends. The gentlest, kindest, least-threatening person you knew. And if you recoiled from him—

Sebastian swallowed hard, his throat tight as the entire group went silent, the weight of it suffocating.

Ominis stilled, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the fabric of his jacket before he pulled back, his face unreadable, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try again. Just exhaled slowly, fingers twitching once before he let his arms drop to his sides.

Poppy, who had always been the most gentle of them, shifted half a step toward you, lips parted like she wanted to say something—but stopped herself. Because she saw it, too.

You weren’t just shaking. You were wrapped up inside yourself, arms clutched around your middle, shoulders drawn in tight, like you wanted to disappear.

Sebastian’s chest ached. He didn’t know what the fuck to do. Didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t know how to make the world feel safe for you again.

He wanted to grab you, hold you, whisper that he would never let anyone touch you again—but he couldn’t. Because what if you flinched from him, too?

Ominis—always steady, always rational—was the first to move.

"Let's go, we need to get off the main street," he said, voice measured, composed—but there was something else beneath it. Something tightly wound.

No one argued. The group moved as one, huddled close, protective.

Imelda and Nerida flanked either side of you like an unspoken shield, while Natty and Poppy stuck close behind.

Garreth, for once, was silent, his face set in a rare, grim seriousness as he cast sharp glances at every single person still lingering outside the club, as if daring someone to look at you wrong.

And Sebastian stayed right in front of you, hands curled into fists, jaw aching from how tight he had clenched it.

Together, they moved toward the nearest side street, somewhere quieter, somewhere out of the open. Only once they were tucked into the dimly lit alleyway, far from the club and the weight of watching eyes, did Ominis finally speak again.

"Who’s flat is closest?"

"Mine," Sebastian said instantly.

That wasn't technically true.

Natty and Garreth’s place was closer—objectively the better option. If this had been any other night, any other situation, logic would have dictated the choice. But logic didn’t mean shit right now.

Not that anyone protested. Because of course it was going to be Sebastian. Of course he was the one taking you home.

Garreth let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Right. Let’s get you a cab, then."

"Fuck that," Sebastian muttered. "I’ll Apparate."

That stopped everyone in their tracks.

Ominis immediately frowned. "Sebastian, we’re in Muggle London—"

"I don’t give a shit." His voice came out sharp, barely restrained. "I’m not making her sit in some goddamn cab, not after—" He cut himself off, exhaling hard, trying to shove down the fresh wave of anger clawing at his throat.

It was the last thing you needed right now.

The group exchanged uneasy glances.

Apparition was dangerous under the best circumstances—let alone when he was like this, let alone when you were like this. Not to mention, doing magic in a heavily populated Muggle area was risky as hell.

But fuck that. He wasn’t going to make you wait. Wasn’t going to let you sit through some excruciatingly long cab ride, squirming in silence, trapped in a moving metal box.

No. He was getting you out of here. Now.

Natty stepped forward, voice level. "Sebastian."

He clenched his jaw. "Natty, I swear to—"

"Sebastian."

She was stepping in front of you now, her dark eyes steady, sharp, cutting through the thick, suffocating tension like a blade.

Sebastian knew that look.

Natty had always been practical—calm, calculated, always thinking a step ahead. And right now, she was looking at him like she was measuring him, like she was assessing him.

"You're not going anywhere with her," she said, her voice even, "unless she wants to go with you."

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. His gut reaction was to be offended. To snap that of course you wanted to go with him, because who else would it be?

But Natty’s expression didn’t change. Didn’t waver. Because this wasn’t about him. This wasn’t about what he thought, what he wanted, what he was sure of. This was about you, and whether you still felt safe with him.

Sebastian swallowed hard. The thought that you might not be wrecked him, made his stomach twist, made his ribs feel like they were caving in.

The idea that you—his everything—might not want to be anywhere near him right now. Might not trust him. Might not even be able to look at him after what had just happened. But if that was what you needed then he wouldn’t fight it. Wouldn’t blame you. Wouldn’t say a damn word.

Sebastian nodded, and Natsai turned to you slowly, her movements deliberate, careful. Her voice softened, but still held its steady, grounding weight.

"Do you want to go with him?"

A moment passed. Sebastian held his breath.

Then you nodded. It was small, barely more than a twitch of your chin, but it was everything.

Sebastian exhaled, something sharp and unbearable unwinding in his chest. He stepped forward, slowly, his movements deliberate, careful.

Held out his hand and waited.

Your fingers trembled, but you reached for him, sliding your palm into loosely into his.

"Ring us when... when you have a minute," Ominis said, his voice level, steady—but heavy. There was something unspoken in it, something Sebastian understood immediately.

Sebastian nodded once. No words. No drawn-out goodbyes. He didn’t have it in him.

Then, without another thought—he turned on the spot, pulling you with him.

The world twisted. The sharp pull of Apparition coiled around his ribs, wrenching them through the dark, until—

Home.

Sebastian’s flat was silent. Dark. The shift from the crowded club to the emptiness of his space was jarring.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was your breathing. Uneven. Shallow. Sebastian’s stomach twisted.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, and he didn’t want to let go, but after a second, he forced himself to loosen his grip. A silent offering. A choice. And after a beat, you pulled away.

Sebastian felt it like a wound. The warmth of your skin slipped from his grasp, and the absence of it left something hollow in his chest.

But he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Didn’t let it show. Because this wasn’t about him.

He unsure of what to do now, though. How to talk to you, what he was even supposed to say. He felt like he was balancing on the edge of something sharp, a thin, precarious line between giving you space and giving you what you needed—except he didn’t know what you needed.

So, he did the only thing he could think to do.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice hoarse, heavy. “Let's sit you down. Get you comfortable.”

He turned toward the living room, motioning toward the couch as he moved. “I’ll—” He cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “I’ll get you something else to wear.”

But before he could take more than two steps, you shook your head.

Sebastian hesitated. “You don’t—”

“I’ll go with you,” you murmured.

Your voice was quiet. Unsteady. But certain.

Sebastian blinked, thrown off. He didn’t understand. You had to be exhausted, had to be drained, and the couch was right there, waiting.

But you weren’t moving toward it. You were waiting for him. And something in your expression—something small, something subtle—made the words click in his mind.

You didn’t want to be alone.

He swallowed hard then nodded. "Okay, come on.”

When he turned toward his bedroom, you followed.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping inside first, letting you follow at your own pace.

Sebastian’s room was… messy. Books stacked haphazardly on his nightstand, a half-open wardrobe in the corner, a few stray clothes abandoned on the chair near the window.

He ignored it all. Went straight for the dresser.

He rifled through the drawers, trying to find something soft, something comfortable. Something that wouldn’t remind you of tonight, that wouldn’t feel like a weight pressing against your skin.

A worn sweater. Sweatpants. That would work.

He turned, holding them out for you. “Here.”

You hesitated. You weren’t looking at him. Your gaze was down, locked on the clothes in his hands like you weren’t sure what to do with them.

He softened his voice. "If you want something else, just say the word.”

Then, quietly, almost too soft to hear.

“Can you... will you help me?”

Sebastian stilled. For a second, he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

Help you?

His first instinct was confusion. You’d flinched from Ominis outside. You hadn’t wanted him near you. Hadn’t wanted to be touched. After what happened, Sebastian had assumed you’d want privacy, that you wouldn’t want to be seen at all.

But then he looked at you, really looked at you, and he understood.

Maybe, right now, this wasn’t about not wanting to be touched. Maybe it was that you didn't want to touch it. Didn’t want to unfasten the dress yourself, didn’t want to peel the fabric from your skin, didn’t want to register the places it had been touched, gripped, pulled by someone who had no fucking right.

Sebastian exhaled, slow and careful, schooling his expression into something even.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Turn around for me?”

You hesitated for a moment, fingers trembling where you clutched the hem of the sweater he’d handed you. But then you did, shifting slightly, your back to him.

Sebastian took a slow step closer, hands hovering just behind your shoulders, giving you the chance to change your mind.

But you didn’t move away.

So he gently, carefully, reached for the zipper at your back.

And fuck, he’d imagined this before. Ten thousand times, maybe more. Peeling the layers off you slowly, seeing what was underneath, watching the fabric slip down the curves of your body. His hands, his, mapping the warmth of your skin as he uncovered inch after inch, drinking in the sight of you like he’d been starving for it.

But this—this wasn’t like that.

This was the first time he had ever done this, maybe the only time he ever would if he didn't get his shit together, and the circumstances were so utterly, sickeningly wrong that it made his chest feel hollow.

He wasn’t looking at you with desire. He wasn’t seeing the expanse of your skin the way he would have if things had been different.

Seeing you like this just hurt.

The fabric was still warm from your body, but that wasn’t what made his stomach twist. It was the broken strap, the torn seam, the evidence of what had happened—of what he hadn’t been able to stop sooner.

Slowly, he dragged the zipper down.

The dress loosened, slipping slightly off your shoulders, the weight of it threatening to pull away completely—and for a second, he panicked, his brain scrambling to make sure he wasn’t making this worse for you, that he wasn’t exposing more than you were comfortable with—but you stayed still.

So, with a deep breath and slow, careful movements, he tugged the dress down, guiding it past your arms, your waist, your hips. The fabric slipped easily, pooling at your feet.

His stomach twisted. Seeing it like this—abandoned, discarded—it felt like something sick and wrong. Because that dress had looked so fucking beautiful on you. Had clung to you like a dream, had made him ache. Had made him stare.

And now... now, it was nothing but a reminder of what happened.

“Step out of it, love,” he murmured, voice low and gentle despite the ache in his chest.

You obeyed, lifting one foot, then the other.

Sebastian grabbed the discarded fabric from the floor and tossed it far away—out of sight, across the room, like it didn’t deserve to be near you.

Then he picked up the sweatpants from the bed.

"Step in," he murmured.

You did. The sweater came next.

"Arms up for me."

You obeyed again, and he tugged the sweater over your head, guiding it gently over your arms, down your torso, covering you, shielding you from whatever still lingered on your skin.

The moment it was on, Sebastian exhaled deeply.

"All done."

You let out a breath. A slow, shaky thing. Then, for the first time since entering his flat, you met his gaze.

And Sebastian felt his chest cave in. Because you still looked so shaken. Still looked wrecked. But the difference was, you were here now. Fully.

"Thank you."

Your voice was small. Quiet. But present.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the unbearable ache in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Of course.”

You shifted slightly, like you wanted to say something else, but the words didn’t come. Instead, your arms wrapped around yourself, small, like you were still trying to make yourself disappear.

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to touch you. Wanted to reach out, wanted to pull you into his chest and hold you there until the shaking stopped.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

So, instead, he exhaled carefully, ran a hand through his hair, and nodded toward the doorway. “Come on,” he said, voice softer now. “Let me make you some tea.”

You blinked at him, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to you. But after a second, you nodded.

So, he turned, leading you back into the dimly lit apartment, moving toward the kitchen. And you followed. Because you still trusted him.

Sebastian pulled open the cabinet and reached for your mug—the oversized one printed with tiny blue flowers, the one you always used when you visited. It had been a birthday gift from him last year, and after unwrapping it, you’d immediately set it in his cupboard and said, This one stays here.

He set it down on the counter and filled the kettle, flipping the switch with the practiced ease of routine. Something about the motion, the normalcy of it, settled the restless tension in his chest.

His hands worked on autopilot—pulling down the tin of loose tea, measuring out just the right amount, stirring in the fixings the way you liked. Far too much sugar and milk for his taste, but he didn’t hesitate, mixing it the exact way you always did.

By the time he turned around and pressed the mug into your hands, steam curling between you, he finally caught the way your fingers trembled as you curled them around the ceramic.

And then—soft, broken, barely above a whisper—

“I’m sorry.”

Sebastian went completely still, something sharp, something furious, coiling in his chest.

“What?”

Your gaze dropped, staring into the depths of your tea. “I—I don’t know. Just for all of this. For ruining your night. For—”

“Don’t.”

He took the mug from your hands, just for a moment, long enough to force you to look at him. His brows furrowed, his mouth tight, like the words physically hurt to say aloud.

“You don’t apologize. Not for this. Not to anyone.”

You swallowed, hard, but you didn’t look away.

“This wasn’t your fault,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less fierce, his grip tightening briefly around the handle of your mug before handing it back. “Not one single fucking bit of it. Do you understand?”

You hesitated, like you weren’t sure you could understand. And fuck, that made something ugly rise in his throat.

Sebastian had never felt anger like this—like something helpless and raging, burning at the back of his skull, at the hollow space in his chest where you had been hurt and he hadn’t been there to stop it.

You sniffled, swiping your sleeve across your eyes, shaking your head like you were mad at yourself. “I should’ve—” Your voice was thick, strained. “I should’ve pushed him away harder. Been more assertive. Asked one of the other girls to come to the bathroom with me, or—or been more aware, or not drank so much, or—”

“Stop.”

You shook your head again, watery, miserable. “I just—”

“No.” His voice was hard, unyielding. “This wasn't your fault, there's no magic combination of things you could have done differently to make someone else not be a fucking piece of shit. It wouldn’t have mattered, because he's still a monster. And you—” His voice softened, just a fraction, his chest aching. “You did nothing wrong.”

You swallowed, throat bobbing.

“It wasn’t even that bad.”

Sebastian’s chest tightened.

You let out a wet, unsteady laugh, shaking your head. “It could’ve been worse. I just— I just froze because of Tyler.”

The second the words were out of your mouth, Sebastian saw it—the way your face froze, the way your lips parted slightly, like you hadn’t meant to say that. Like you wished you could take it back.

But it was too late.

Sebastian’s brain snapped back to a year ago.

The breakup.

How you had shown up at his door, quiet and withdrawn, a forced little smile on your lips as you told him your relationship was over. No details. No explanation. Just done.

How he had asked if you were okay, and you had nodded, too quickly, and said you didn’t want to talk about it.

And he’d let it go. Because you always told him things when you were ready. But now—now he was seeing it, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way you were smaller, like you wanted to disappear.

And something inside him snapped.

What the fuck had happened back then?

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “Tell me,” he said, voice low, but steady.

You blinked. “What?”

“Tell me what happened. Please.”

You hesitated, curling your hands around the mug like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. “It’s not—” You swallowed, eyes darting away. “It’s not important.”

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Minimize it.” His voice came out rougher than he meant, but he couldn’t help it. “I need to know, love.”

At the nickname, your fingers tightened around the mug, just slightly. You opened your mouth, then closed it. Sebastian waited.

He’d wait all fucking night if he had to.

And then, finally, you exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. “It was at a party,” you murmured, not looking at him. “I—I don’t know why I froze tonight. It wasn’t even the same. Not really. I just… the moment he grabbed me, I was back there.”

Sebastian hated how softly, how passively you said it. Like it wasn’t something that had haunted you. Like it wasn’t something that still had its fucking claws in you.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t push, because you were still talking, and if you stopped, he didn’t know when you’d let yourself say these words again.

“I told him no,” you whispered. “Tyler. I told him I didn’t want to go upstairs with him, that I was tired. But he kept—” You broke off, shaking your head. “He just kept talking, kept trying to get me to change my mind. And I just—I shut down. I just let him. I didn’t fight, I didn’t—”

Sebastian couldn’t take it anymore.

“I swear to God,” he said, voice hoarse, pained, “if you say you should’ve done something differently, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

Your throat bobbed, eyes flicking up to his.

“He was supposed to stop," Sebastian insisted. "That’s it. That’s the only thing that was supposed to happen.”

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. Like no one had ever said it to you so plainly before. And then, finally, you spoke—so softly, so small.

“But I let him.”

Sebastian’s hands curled into fists. “No,” he said, voice firm, unwavering. “You didn’t.”

He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, trying to say the right thing, because fuck, he couldn’t mess this up.

“If someone keeps pushing, keeps coaxing, keeps pulling you in when you’ve already said no—you didn’t let them. They took advantage of you.”

The words sat heavy between you, and Sebastian saw the way they hit you. Your grip on the mug went white-knuckled, a sharp inhale cutting through the air, and then you were crying.

Silent at first—just the shake of your shoulders, just the quiver in your lips. But then your breath shuddered, and your face crumpled, and the first broken sob escaped.

Sebastian stood there, feeling useless. Helpless.

Should he reach for you? Should he give you space? Did you want to be touched, or would it only make things worse? His hands hovered, twitching at his sides, unsure. And fuck, he hated it. Hated not knowing what to do, hated feeling like he was just standing here while you broke apart in front of him.

But then—

You set the mug down too quickly, tea sloshing over the rim, spilling onto the counter, and Sebastian barely had time to react before you collapsed into him.

His breath hitched, his arms automatically wrapping around you as you buried yourself against his chest, shaking, small.

And then he wasn’t thinking anymore. He just held you. Tightly. Protectively.

One arm wrapped firm around your back, the other cradling your head, fingers threading gently into your hair, like maybe if he held you close enough, it would put you back together.

Your fingers fisted into his shirt, and Sebastian closed his eyes, exhaling shakily against the crown of your head.

What the fuck do I say?

What words could he possibly put together that would make any of this better? He quickly realized there were none.

So he didn’t speak.

Didn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless reassurances, didn’t tell you to calm down, didn’t tell you it would be okay. Instead, he just held you, strong and steady, like a wall—one you could press into, lean against, fall apart against.

Your breathing was uneven, shaky against his chest. Each sharp inhale like it was trying to hold back the flood.

Sebastian pressed his cheek to your hair, gentle, careful. “I got you,” he murmured, voice raw. “I got you.”

You let out a sound, a soft, aching thing, half a sob, half relief, as the tension in your shoulders cracked, your weight fully sinking into him, like you’d been trying to hold yourself up all this time and just couldn’t anymore.

“I got you,” he whispered again, like maybe, if he said it enough times, you’d believe him.

You stood there for a long time. You didn’t pull away, and Sebastian didn't let go. He would have stood there all night if you needed him to.

The tea sat abandoned on the counter, growing cold, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the air while the kitchen clock ticked away the minutes.

Your breathing—ragged at first, gasping, uneven— slowly, so slowly, steadied, fading into quiet sniffles. And that was when Sebastian finally moved. Carefully.

He slid one arm under your legs, the other holding you steady against him. “Up we go, love.”

You let out a soft noise of surprise as he scooped you up, pressing your face instinctively against his shoulder.

“You don’t—”

“Shush” he murmured gently, affectionately, and you didn’t fight him as he carried you across the room, lowering you onto the couch.

But the moment he tried to pull back, your fingers tightened in his shirt again.

Sebastian obeyed, sitting down and letting you tuck yourself against him, curling into his chest. His arms wound around you again, warm and solid. His hand moved instinctively to your hair, fingers slipping through the strands, slow, soothing strokes.

It had always been this easy, hadn’t it?

Sebastian wasn’t sure how long you both stayed like that. Long enough that your breathing evened out. Long enough that his own heart stopped pounding with anger and ache.

And then, after a long silence—your voice, quiet, hesitant:

“I’ve been stupid.”

Sebastian’s brows furrowed. “Don’t—”

Your hand shot up, pressing lightly against his mouth, and whatever Sebastian had been about to say died instantly.

His breath caught. His lips parted slightly against your palm, startled, thrown completely off balance. But it wasn’t the touch that had him frozen.

It was your eyes.

Raw. Red-rimmed from crying, but so fucking clear. Like you had figured something out—like whatever had been sitting between you for so long, uncertain and unspoken, was now suddenly blindingly obvious.

“...You know I love you, don't you?”

Sebastian froze.

He did know. At least, sort of.

He’d always known you loved him as your best friend, as your constant, as the one person you always turned to. He had felt it in the way you sought him out first in a crowded room, in the way you always made one too many cups of tea just in case he wanted one. He had seen it in the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, in the way your hand lingered when you touched him.

But he didn't know if you loved him as more.

Of course, he'd imagined your confession the late hours of the night, when exhaustion blurred the edges of his thoughts. In the quiet spaces between glances, in the way his chest always felt too full when you laughed. In the way he always waited for you to arrive at his door.

But he always imagined hearing those words for the first time in a moment of joy, in the golden hush of a summer afternoon, in the warmth of a stolen moment where nothing hurt, nothing felt too heavy.

His throat bobbed. “You—are you saying—”

But the words felt too big, too heavy.

You huffed a laugh, sniffling softly as a stray tear rolled down your cheek. “I was so stupid. Maybe if I had just told you how I felt, if I had just—”

Sebastian cupped your cheek before you could finish your sentence, his palm warm and steady against your tear-streaked skin.

His mind was racing, his chest too full, his breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something so fierce, so all-consuming, so fucking relieved that it almost hurt.

Because you meant it. You loved him. Not just as his best friend. Not just as his constant. But as something more.

He searched your face, memorizing everything—the way your lashes were still damp, the way your lips parted slightly, the way your breath trembled under his touch.

And fuck, he didn’t know what to say.

He hadn’t been ready for you this moment to happen like this. Not when your voice was still raw from crying. Not when your hands still shook in your lap. Not when he had spent the last hour trying to piece you back together after something that should have never happened. Not when you deserved so much better than this moment.

He couldn't stop his mind from imagining what this would have been like if things had been different.

If tonight had just been another night.

If you had just come over, curled up with him like you always did, nudged your socked feet against his under a blanket, laughed at something stupid on TV. If he had turned to you and just fucking said it, just let it be easy.

But it wasn’t easy.

And yet, his the words left his mouth in a breath, like they had been waiting there, like they had been sitting at the back of his throat for years, clawing at his ribs, aching to be spoken. Because they had.

"Fuck, I love you too."

And the second they were out—

Relief.

Like something had cracked open inside him, something tight and suffocating finally letting go, leaving his chest too light and too full all at once. Because it was the truest thing he had ever said.

But right behind that relief came the guilt, because he should have said it sooner.

He should have said it a thousand times before now—should have said it when you were laughing, when you were happy, when you were light and warm and untouched by pain.

He should have said it last week, when you had fallen asleep on his couch, curled up with his sweater wrapped around you, mumbling something incoherent before sighing in contentment.

He should have said it months ago, when you had grabbed his hand without thinking at the crowded market, weaving through people like you had never once considered not holding onto him.

He should have said it years ago, when you kicked his ass in that very first duel.

Sebastian huffed a humorless laugh, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "God, I wish I’d just told you sooner. Over a bowl of popcorn, some dumb movie playing in the background.” The corners of his mouth twitched, a rueful little smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I imagined it a thousand times—telling you. Watching your eyes light up, seeing you smile like you do when you think I’m being stupid.”

Your lips quivered, the hint of a smile breaking through the tears.

“I wish it had been easy," he said. "Because you deserve easy. You deserve soft and gentle and everything good.”

You leaned into his touch, your hands reaching up to cover his. Your eyes searched his—gentle, knowing, certain.

“Easy’s never really been on brand for us, has it?”

Sebastian blinked, caught off guard for half a second. And then a breathless, broken sound left him, something between a scoff and a laugh, something small and raw and achingly fond.

Because you were right.

Since the very beginning, since the moment you had first collided into his life, it had never been simple. Never straightforward. There had always been something else—a complication, an obstacle, an unsaid feeling caught between glances and lingering touches that neither of you were ever brave enough to name.

You sniffled, wiping at your face with the sleeve of his sweater—the one you were drowning in, and fuck, you were so beautiful even now, despite the weight of the night still lingering in your shoulders.

“Do I wish none of this had happened?” Your voice was quiet, raw. “Of course I do. But fuck, Sebastian, you were there. You're always there." You gave a watery laugh, the smallest, softest thing. "When I'm at my best, when I'm at my worst. It's always been you. And I—"

You exhaled shakily, voice thick with too much. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t there tonight,” your voice dropped to a whisper, eyes locked onto his. “There's no one else I would have gone to. No one else I would have let see me like this. No one else I trust the way I trust you.”

Sebastian’s throat felt tight, his breath coming uneven, chest aching under the weight of realization.

This wasn’t just about tonight. Or last night. Or last week.

It was about every night. Every stolen glance, every quiet moment, every time you had reached for him first. It was in the way you always found him before anyone else, in the way you always chose him, in the way you always trusted him—with the good, with the bad, with everything.

When things went well, when they didn’t, when you needed comfort, when you needed a co-conspirator, when you needed someone to just be there—it had always been him.

It settled into him all at once—the weight of years pressing against his ribs, filling every empty space inside him that had ever questioned what he meant to you.

Because it had always been this. Not a revelation. Not a shift. Not something new.

It had simply always been.

And you must have seen something in his face—the way he looked at you like he wanted to fall apart, because you gave him a small, wobbly smile, something barely there, something hopeful, something real.

“Say something, Sallow," you teased.

Sebastian let out a breathless, unsteady laugh, shaking his head. His eyes burned, his own tears threatening to fall. He let his hands move—one tangling in the fabric at your chest, the other sliding to the nape of your neck.

He leaned in, slow, deliberate, like he was giving you the chance to pull away, like he was making absolutely sure—but your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him in the rest of the way, and then—

Then you kissed him.

It was soft. Hesitant. Testing. Like neither of you could quite believe this was finally happening.

But then Sebastian felt you melt into him, felt the warmth of you, the way your grip on him tightened, the way your lips parted—

And suddenly, it wasn’t hesitant at all.

A soft sound rumbled in Sebastian's throat, something relieved, something grateful, something aching with all the things he had never let himself say, and he kissed you like his life depended on it, because maybe it did. Like he had been waiting for this for years, because he had. Like you were the only fucking thing in the world that mattered, because you were.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync.

Sebastian huffed a soft laugh, his lips brushing yours. "…'bout time, huh?"

You let out a wobbly, teary laugh, nuzzling closer. "About time."

And Sebastian held you—tightly, unshakably, like letting go wasn’t even a possibility, like something fundamental in him wouldn’t allow it.

Because maybe this wasn’t how he had ever imagined this moment. Maybe it wasn’t wrapped in golden light, in laughter, in the warmth of an easy, stolen moment where everything was simple and good.

Maybe he hadn’t gotten to plan for it, hadn’t had the chance to say it first, hadn’t gotten to look at you when you were smiling, when you were happy, and tell you what had been the truth for so damn long.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to be saying I love you in the aftermath of something that had hurt you.

But this was still you. And this was still him. And that was all that mattered.

Because love wasn’t just about the easy moments. It wasn’t just about the days when the sun was shining, when your laughter came freely, when things felt light.

Love was this too—love was holding on, love was being there, love was standing in the wreckage of something awful and saying I’ve got you. I’m here. And I’m not leaving.

Sebastian pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, his grip tight, his fingers curled against the fabric of his own sweater on your frame, holding you close, keeping you safe.

And he knew, with every piece of himself, that he wasn’t letting go.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

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