#like fair enough if that's where they wanted to go with it

[gyugraphy]

between book pages and baked pies (r.r.)

summary : He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes.

Then you found out he’s the Sentry —

and suddenly, pretending doesn’t feel so simple anymore.

pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader

content : basically just fluff, fakedating!au, fakeboyfriend!au

warnings : none

word count : 7k

⋆˙⟡

Thursday, 10:43 am.

You glance up, and there he is.

You’ve seen him before. Always on Thursdays, always around the same time. Always with that same energy — like he doesn’t quite belong to this world, or maybe just doesn’t expect to be noticed in it.

He has messy hair, a too-worn jacket, and the kind of posture that says please don’t ask me anything, but I’m also not in a hurry to leave.

Today, for the first time, he meets your eyes.

You smile. “Back again. That’s three Thursdays in a row.”

He blinks, like he’s surprised you’ve been keeping count.

“…I like it here,” he says, voice quiet but not shy. Just gentle.

“Most people say that when they’re avoiding something,” you joke lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter. “Bad day?”

He shrugs. “It’s a day.”

Fair.

He heads toward the fantasy section, the same corner he always drifts to. You try not to stare — you really do — but it’s hard not to watch the way he slows down at the shelves like they’re familiar terrain.

After a few minutes, he returns with two paperbacks — both epic fantasy, both with weathered covers and dramatic titles like The Hollow Crown and Ash and Sovereign.

You ring them up, sneaking a glance. “You like the ones where the world almost ends?”

He gives a faint smile. “Sometimes I like when it doesn’t.”

You pause, curious. “You a writer?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just… a fan.”

“I get it,” you say, handing him the bag. “Books are a safer way to live dangerously.”

He smiles at that. A little more real.

Then, on impulse, you ask, “So, what do you do?”

He hesitates just a second longer than most people would.

“…Sometimes I help save the world,” he says, deadpan.

You blink. And then you laugh, because there’s something about the way he says it — so dry and sincere — that it’s obviously a joke. Or at least… you think it is.

“Wow,” you grin. “That’s bold. You a firefighter or a Marvel cosplayer?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that.”

You hand him his receipt, eyes narrowing playfully. “Well, mysterious world-saver, if you ever want book recommendations, let me know. We’ve got a great section for heroes with identity crises.”

He nods, turning toward the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He’s almost gone when he pauses and looks back.

“What’s your name?” he asks you, and you tell him.

He nods once. “I’m Bob.”

Then he’s gone.

The bell chimes again — sharper this time. Final.

You stand there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind him. Then you shake your head and go back to restocking the display.

Still, for some reason, you keep thinking about him.

Bob.

⋆˙⟡

Your phone lights up with the most dangerous contact in your list: Mom.

You stare at it for a second, debating whether to let it go to voicemail.

Then you sigh, hit accept, and brace yourself.

“Hi, sweetheart!” your mom’s voice practically sings as you answer. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone.”

You smile, mouth full of lukewarm noodles. “Hi, Mom. You called me yesterday.”

“I know, I just missed you. So sue me.”

There’s a beat where you brace yourself. And sure enough—

“So, listen,” she continues, far too casually. “Next Saturday we’re doing dinner at our place. Just the usual — your aunts, cousins, possibly Grandma if we can coax her out of her crosswords. Nothing formal, but, you know, nice.”

“Mmhmm.” You sip your drink, waiting.

“We were thinking 6 o’clock. And of course we’ll do something vegetarian for you—oh, and listen, your cousin Chelsea is bringing that new boyfriend. Super cute. Works in finance. Wears suits on weekends. Can you imagine?”

There it is.

“Anyway,” she adds, far too lightly, “I just thought I’d ask — are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone worth bringing?”

You snort. “Bringing where? Into the lion’s den of a family dinner?”

“Oh come on,” she laughs. “We’re not that bad.”

You give her a look she can’t see. “Last time Aunt Diane tried to set me up with her neighbor’s chiropractor, and Uncle Marty asked if I’d frozen my eggs.”

“She meant well. He didn’t, but—still.”

You roll your eyes. “No, Mom. I’m not bringing anyone.”

“You’re not?” Her voice dips into gentle disappointment. “Not even just as a friend? You have such a sweet personality. I feel like people must just gravitate to you.”

You hum noncommittally, casually glancing toward your bookshelf. Your eyes drift to the spot where you keep returns and holds — including two fantasy books still waiting for a certain quiet customer to pick up.

You think of Bob, his soft smile, the way he said “Sometimes I help save the world” like it wasn’t even strange.

But you say nothing.

“Anyway,” your mom chirps on. “No pressure. Just… you know. You’re not getting any less amazing with time.”

“That’s not how time works, Mom.”

“Semantics. Just let me know, okay? We’ll keep a seat open. Just in case.”

You sigh and mutter, “Okay.”

She’s already launching into a story about a raccoon in the neighbor’s shed by the time you close your eyes and groan into your throw pillow.

You definitely don’t have a date.

You definitely don’t need one.

…But your brain is already wondering what Bob looks like when he’s not rain-damp and bookstore quiet.

⋆˙⟡

Tuesday, 11:07 am.

The bell over the door rings, and — like clockwork — you glance up.

There he is.

Bob.

Same as always, but also… not. His jacket’s still weathered, but he looks a little more put-together today. Hair slightly neater. Like maybe he didn’t get caught in a wind tunnel on the way over. Less cryptid, more mysterious traveler passing through town.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives a quick scan of the room before heading straight for the back... for the fantasy section. His usual.

You try not to smile.

Try.

“Tuesday this time?” you call out from behind the counter, tone light. “Switching it up?”

Bob glances over, mouth tugging up slightly. “Had some time.”

You nod, watching as his hand drifts over the table display near the entrance — new paperbacks, some with gold foil titles and overdramatic taglines. He doesn’t stop there long. Just a brush of his fingers across the covers before moving on.

“You sure it’s not just the emotionally damaged swordsmen calling to you again?” you add, moving toward a nearby shelf with a stack of returns.

He raises a brow, pausing in front of a familiar book. “Maybe I like consistency.”

“Bold choice in this economy.”

That gets you a huff of amusement, soft and unexpected.

He picks up The Lantern War — you know the one. Mid-trilogy. Sad prince. Betrayals. You’ve read it twice and cried both times. He opens it, flipping through the first few pages with surprising care, like he’s searching for something he might have missed the last time he held it.

You lean against a nearby shelf, casually.

“You know,” you begin, tone half-teasing, “you don’t talk much, but you’ve got this whole mysterious loner with a tragic past thing going on.”

Bob looks up — startled, but not annoyed. Just a little caught off guard.

“People pay for that kind of vibe on dating apps,” you add quickly, before you lose your nerve.

He blinks.

You wince. “Sorry. That was weird. I’ve just… been talking to my mom too much lately. She’s on this campaign to get me to bring someone to a family dinner and now I think I’m starting to project ‘potential boyfriend material’ onto every semi-normal customer.”

Bob doesn’t laugh, exactly — but something close. A breath. A smile. Small and real.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, gently placing the book under his arm.

You nod. “It was meant to be one.”

The air shifts then. Not awkward — not yet — but quieter. You both stand there for a beat too long, not speaking. The store is still around you: soft music playing low, dust motes catching in the light near the windows, the occasional creak of the building settling. Cozy, lived-in quiet.

You watch him for a second longer than you should.

He always lingers when he’s here. Not like he’s killing time. Like he’s… catching his breath.

You don’t say it — not aloud, not now. But something clicks. The beginnings of an idea. Stupid, insane, utterly desperate.

Still.

As he approaches the counter, you glance at him sideways.

He wouldn’t. That’s insane. Would he?

He pays in cash, always cash, and nods politely.

“Thanks,” he says.

“See you Thursday?” you ask, voice light, playful.

He pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe.”

You watch him step back out into the sunlight, his silhouette framed by the door before it swings closed behind him. The bell chimes again. He disappears down the street, a figure in motion.

And you’re still watching the door when the next customer steps up and gently clears their throat.

Right. Work.

You turn back to the register, hands moving automatically — scanning books, making small talk — but your brain’s somewhere else.

⋆˙⟡

“Hi, honey!” she sings the second you answer. “Don’t panic — this is not a ‘guilt you into bringing a boyfriend’ call.”

You snort. “You literally said the word ‘boyfriend’ in the first sentence.”

“Okay, technically,” she says, unfazed, “but I’m just calling about the family dinner this Saturday.”

You sigh and lean against the counter. “I know, I know. 6 p.m., casserole, deeply invasive questions from Aunt Diane—”

“Oh, speaking of Aunt Diane,” she says sweetly, which should’ve been your warning, “she knows this great guy from her pickleball league—works in insurance, divorced once, only a little bitter. She wants to bring him to dinner for you to meet.

Your stomach sinks.

You stare at your fridge like it might offer an escape hatch.

“I—Mom, no.”

“Well, honey,” she says, trying for innocent, “you haven’t said you’re bringing anyone. And if you’re still single—”

“I’m not.”

Silence.

Your heart drops into your socks. You scramble.

“I mean. I am. Seeing someone. Kind of. It’s been, like, a month.”

A pause. Too long.

“You are?” she says slowly.

You wince. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring him because, you know, the whole interrogation-by-relatives thing. I didn’t want to scare him off. He’s… kind of shy.”

Your mom gasps like you just told her she’s finally getting a grandchild.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! What’s he like? Is he nice? Where did you meet? Does he like dogs?”

“Mom, calm down,” you say quickly, pacing now. “He’s just… quiet. And really kind. And, you know. Nice.”

You mentally kick yourself.

“Well, now you have to bring him,” she insists. “If he’s already survived a month with you, he’s clearly got staying power.”

You laugh sharply. “Gee, thanks.”

She chuckles. “I’m just saying — you never bring anyone. This is a big deal.”

You force a smile into your voice. “Let me talk to him first, okay? I’ll see if he’s up for it.”

“Promise me you’ll try.”

“…Promise.”

You hang up, staring at your reflection in the microwave door.

Mouth open. Brain screaming.

You just fake-dated someone in a conversation.

Now all you have to do is actually find someone to play the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for a month.

You think of Bob. The quiet guy who reads about broken heroes and once joked about saving the world.

And for some godforsaken reason…

…you think he might actually say yes.

⋆˙⟡

Thursday, 12:45 pm

It’s raining again.

Of course it is.

A slow, steady drizzle beads against the front windows, softening the city outside into watercolor shapes. Inside, the shop smells like paper and cedar polish, with a hint of peppermint from the tin you cracked open after lunch. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar plays from the old speakers near the register, barely audible over the patter of rain and your quiet muttering.

“Two days late on the shipment, again, and if they swap my fantasy order with true crime one more time—” you grumble under your breath, balancing a stack of returns against your hip as you shuffle toward the front display. “Who even wants twelve copies of Stabbing for Dummies?”

You sigh, crouch to fit the bottom shelf, and toss a glance at the fogged-up door.

“I swear, if one more teenager asks where we keep the smut, I’m moving to the mountains. I’ll sell rocks. I’ll become a rock girl.”

The bell above the door chimes.

Right on cue.

You straighten just a little too fast and nearly drop a paperback. “Welcome in,” you call absently, trying to sound composed — but you already know.

It’s him.

You don’t need to look.

Still, you do — and there he is.

Bob stands just inside the doorway, rain misted in his hair, the shoulders of his dark green hoodie slightly damp beneath a black denim jacket. His jeans are worn in the knees. The laces of his boots are uneven. He looks like he walked through the rain on purpose, like the storm outside didn’t even try to stop him.

There’s a quietness to him that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just familiar.

“Back to your usual Thursday shift?” you ask, setting a book down and turning toward him fully now.

He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “It felt wrong not to.”

There’s something steadier about him today. He still carries that bone-deep kind of tired — like his body’s been holding something heavy for too long — but his gaze doesn’t flick away as fast when your eyes meet. He lets the quiet settle for a beat before moving deeper into the store.

You catch yourself smoothing your shirt before following him.

“Let me guess,” you say as he veers toward the back. “Fantasy section?”

“Always.”

You trail a few paces behind, grabbing a book that’s been reshelved in the wrong genre. There’s no one else in the store right now. Just the two of you, and the occasional whisper of rain against the windows.

He stops in front of a display and picks up The Sword Beneath the Throne. Studies the cover like it holds some secret he hasn’t cracked yet.

You rest your elbow against a shelf. “That one’s going to wreck you emotionally,” you warn, teasing. “But, you know. In a noble sacrifice kind of way.”

Bob glances over. “Good to know.”

You hesitate — just for a second. Then you inhale, let the moment linger, and say: “Hey… can I ask you something kind of weird?”

His eyes shift to yours — cautious, but open.

“Sure.”

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of every sound in the store. “So… hypothetically,” you begin, with what you hope is a breezy tone, “if someone were being — let’s say — aggressively pressured by their entire family to bring a boyfriend to a dinner—like, a big one—”

“Okay,” he says slowly, still holding the book.

“And they may or may not have panicked and told said family they’d already been dating someone for a month… someone who does not, technically, exist—”

Bob’s brow arches slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Go on."

“Would it be completely unhinged to ask you to maybe… pretend to be that person? Just for a night. Three hours max. There’s pie.”

Silence.

Bob doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t recoil.

He just watches you.

And you, of course, rush in to fill the quiet.

“I know it’s weird. And probably creepy. And I swear I’m not dangerous. You don’t even really know me. But you’re the only person I know who could pull off being quiet and normal enough to not scare my mom or make my aunts think I’m secretly dating a war criminal.”

His expression shifts — thoughtful now, not unreadable. Still holding the book, but not looking at it anymore.

“And if it helps,” you add quickly, “I already told them you’re shy. So you wouldn’t even have to say much. Just… look human. Maybe compliment the stuffing. Smile once. Pretend I’m charming.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

“Just for a night,” you say. “No pressure. No long con. Just mashed potatoes and survival.”

“…Because your mom threatened you with a pickleball player.”

You blink. “Wait. How do you—?”

“You talk while you shelve books,” he says simply, mouth quirking. “I pick things up.”

You gape at him for a beat. Then snort.

And then laugh. A real one. It escapes before you can stop it — bright and ridiculous and yours.

Bob… smiles.

It’s small. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing. But it’s there.

“So?” you say, biting your lip. “Would you consider it? I can’t offer much. Just pie. And probably embarrassing levels of gratitude.”

He sets the book down.

Looks at you.

A long moment passes.

“Okay,” he says.

You blink. “Wait — really?”

He nods, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why not.”

“You didn’t even ask what kind of pie.”

“I trust your judgment.”

You squint at him. “You’re either the nicest person alive, or wildly unhinged yourself.”

Bob shrugs. “Can’t it be both?”

Something in your chest tightens — in a good way.

“Dinner’s Saturday,” you say softly. “At my parents’. Here's... the address?” you added as you handed him a yellow post-it note with your parent's address in red ink, which was actually written not even ten minutes before.

You wrote it thinking that there's an 80% chance he'll accept it.

And he actually did.

He nods. “Should I wear something nice?”

“Honestly,” you say, “if you show up looking like less of a cryptid than usual, my family will be thrilled.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He turns to leave, hood pulled up lazily as he disappears into the rainy street — a figure blurred by drizzle and glass.

And you?

You stand behind the counter, staring after him.

Your hands are a little shaky. Not from nerves.

From relief. And something else.

Excitement, maybe.

Because somehow, against all logic and odds —

Bob said yes.

⋆˙⟡

Saturday, 5:49 pm

“Not too much sugar,” your mom says over your shoulder, peeking into the mixing bowl as if she doesn’t trust you with a spoon.

You hold the measuring cup up dramatically. “Mom, you’ve raised me. If I die of poor pie proportions, it’s on you.”

She snorts and hands you the nutmeg. “Don’t tempt me.”

You smile, despite yourself. The kitchen is warm in that nostalgic way — cluttered, golden light filtering in through the curtains, something soft playing from the old speaker by the fridge. You’re elbow-deep in pie filling, sleeves rolled up, and trying not to think about how insane this all is.

You’ve told everyone you’ve been dating someone for a month.

That he’s meeting your family.

That he’s sweet and shy and real.

And in about fifteen minutes, Bob — your fake boyfriend — will be at the door.

You’re 85% sure he’ll show up. Maybe 90.

…Okay, 75.

“Do you need help with the crust?” your mom asks, and for once, she sounds like she’s trying not to pry.

You glance at her. She’s avoiding eye contact. She definitely wants to pry.

“Nope,” you say, pressing the dough into the pan. “Unless this is a metaphor for my love life, in which case, yeah, I could use a full support team.”

She hums noncommittally and starts slicing apples, her back to you.

“So,” she says, “you never told me how you met him.”

You hesitate. “The guy I’m—bringing tonight?”

She nods. “Mhm.”

You stall by rinsing your hands.

“It’s kind of a quiet story,” you say carefully. “We kept running into each other. Same place, same time. It just… kind of happened.”

“Hm.” She tosses apple slices into the bowl. “And you like him?”

You look down at the dough beneath your fingers. Think about his awkward smile. The way he listens like it costs him something. The warmth in his voice when he said, “Thanks for inviting me.”

You nod. “I think I do.”

Your mom looks over, something soft in her face now.

“Well,” she says gently, “I can’t wait to meet him.”

You smile and slide the pie into the oven just as the doorbell rings.

Your heart stops.

Your mom turns toward the sound.

You wipe your hands on a towel and take a breath.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, “moment of truth.”

You walk to the door.

And open it...

You expected nerves.

You did not expect him to look like this.

Bob stands on your porch like he walked out of a cologne ad and got lost on the way to GQ. His dark button-up is rolled at the sleeves, fitted just enough to draw attention to muscles he normally hides under worn hoodies. His hair—usually floppy and rain-wrecked—is now styled neatly back, just messy enough to look effortless.

You blink. “H-hi.”

He smiles—bashful, but sure of himself. “Hi.”

Before you can gather your thoughts or your dignity, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek. It’s warm, brief, but confident. His hand grazes your waist like muscle memory.

“I hope I’m not too early,” he murmurs.

“No—uh—no, perfect. You’re perfect. I mean, the timing. The timing is perfect.”

You step back to let him in, praying no one heard that.

As he crosses the threshold, he glances around, eyes scanning photos on the walls, shelves stacked with family memories. You take his coat. His scent lingers — fresh and faintly minty.

“My mom’s in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”

He chuckles. “Noted.”

You walk him into the war zone of casserole dishes and cousin chaos.

Your mom spots you both from the dining room and gasps like she’s just been cast on a reality show. “There he is! You must be Bob!”

Bob blinks for a moment, surprised she already knows his name. You shoot her a look that says Mom, please, I am begging.

He recovers quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And polite!” she says, delighted, patting his arm like she’s already ordering him to call her ‘Mom’ by dessert.

Dinner unfolds in a blur. Plates are passed, stories fly around the table like darts, and somehow Bob navigates it like a pro. He even laughs at your uncle’s tired jokes. When your grandma comments on his posture, he adjusts with a quiet “Yes, ma’am” that makes her beam.

At one point, your youngest cousin, Milo, squints at him from across the table.

“You look really familiar,” Milo says, tilting his head.

You freeze mid-chew. Bob’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

“I get that a lot,” Bob says calmly.

Milo frowns. “Like, weirdly familiar. Like—superhero familiar.”

“Milo,” your mom cuts in, “eat your green beans.”

Milo shrugs but keeps sneaking glances.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

And about halfway through dessert, something happens.

The TV is on behind your mom’s head, low volume. Just the news playing — no one’s really watching. Your dad’s closest to it, half turned in his chair, focused on his pie.

You’re listening to your aunt ramble about her new garden mulch when the news anchor’s voice shifts tone.

“—dramatic footage of the Thunderbolts’ mission this past Wednesday—”

Your brain barely registers it.

You glance at the screen.

Explosions. Screaming. Concrete cracking like bones.

A familiar flash of red and black—John Walker. Then Ghost phasing through debris.

And then—

Golden light. Blinding, unmistakable.

The Sentry.

A blurred shot becomes a close-up.

He’s floating mid-air. Hair wild, cape tattered, jaw clenched in focus. Glowing.

It’s not grainy enough to deny. The face is clear. The posture. The jawline.

You choke on your pie. Eyes widening.

Bob.

You snap your gaze toward him.

He doesn’t move, but his fork slowly lowers.

Your eyes dart to your dad. He’s starting to turn toward the screen.

Before he can react—click.

The TV cuts off.

Silence.

Your dad frowns. “Did the TV break again?”

Bob shrugs, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

Your relatives resume their conversations without a second thought. Bread is passed. Laughter resumes. No one’s the wiser.

Except for you.

And Milo, who is now staring at Bob with slack-jawed awe.

You place your fork down slowly. Your pulse is in your throat.

Bob meets your gaze across the table. Calm. Cautious.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say sweetly, plastering on a smile. “Can you excuse us for a second? I just need to talk to my boyfriend for a minute.”

He rises without protest.

You grab his arm, steer him down the hallway... past photos of you in braces, past the coat rack, past everything normal, and into the dim, quiet hallway near the laundry room.

Then you turn, look up at him, and whisper—

“What the hell, Bob?”

You shut the door behind you.

Bob leans casually against the wall — too casually — like he isn’t literally the man you just saw hovering over a burning building on national television.

You cross your arms. “Okay. Start talking.”

He looks down at his hands, fingers laced. There’s a strange stillness to him, like he’s waiting for a storm he knows is coming.

“I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.

You stare. “Bob. I watched you on the news. You turned off my parents’ TV. With your mind.”

“I said I help people,” he replies, looking up at you now. Calm. Earnest. “Sometimes I help save the world.”

You gape. “I thought you meant you were a firefighter. Or a teacher! Or like, I don’t know, a really good therapist!”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Sorry. That probably would’ve been easier.”

“You’re—” You lower your voice, leaning in. “You’re The Sentry. You’re an actual Avenger. Or—Thunderbolt. Or—whatever the hell team you’re on.”

“Technically, I’m sort of on loan.”

You give him a look. “That's not the point.”

He’s quiet again. But not defensive. Not evasive. Just… waiting. Letting you process.

And you are processing.

All the little things you overlooked:

The quiet strength in how he moved.

The weird evasiveness.

The stormy energy he sometimes carried like he was trying to keep it bottled.

You exhale, the adrenaline finally catching up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, softer now.

“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he says. “I liked the bookstore. I liked that you didn’t know. You talked to me like I was just… Bob.”

You blink. “Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“And you really read fantasy novels?”

He actually smiles. “Especially the sad ones.”

You hesitate. Your heart is still pounding, but your voice softens even more.

“You came to dinner,” you murmur. “You sat through my uncle’s knee replacement story. You complimented my grandma’s brooch.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t hard. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

The man who eats lemon muffins on Thursdays.

The man who shyly kissed your cheek.

The man who casually shut off a television with his brain.

You rub a hand over your face. “I dragged The Sentry into a fake dating scheme because my mom thinks I’m undateable.”

His voice is gentle. “You didn’t drag me. I said yes.”

You glance up at him. “Why?”

His gaze softens. “Because you asked.”

You swallow.

He takes a step closer. His voice lowers, almost shy again. “If you want to call this off now, I’ll understand. I’ll tell them we broke up before dessert. I can cry if it helps.”

You laugh — a short, startled sound — but it breaks some of the tension.

You look up at him. “You’d really do that?”

“I’m a very convincing fake ex.”

You’re quiet for a moment. He’s still standing there — not defensive, not cocky — just Bob. The same Bob who buys fantasy novels and waits for you to recommend the good ones.

The same Bob who just blew your entire reality to pieces.

And yet…

You find yourself saying, “Let’s just get through dessert.”

His brows raise slightly. “You sure?”

You nod. “We can panic later.”

He smiles. A real one. Small. Grateful.

“Okay,” he says. “Back to the pie.”

You nod, open the hallway door, and walk back toward the dining room together — fake-dating The Sentry, one awkward spoonful of whipped cream at a time.

You return to the dining room with Bob beside you, and despite the mini-crisis that just played out in the hallway, somehow… everything continues like nothing happened.

The pie’s been sliced. Plates passed around. The table is filled with the comforting hum of your family talking over each other, laughing, sneaking bites of dessert before their coffee cools.

Bob slips into his seat beside you, and when your mom asks if he wants whipped cream, he nods and says, “Yes, ma’am,” with a small smile.

She beams.

You stare at him for a second longer than you should.

He’s calm. Almost too calm. Like he’s pretending to be human in a sitcom, and somehow nailing the part.

Milo won’t stop glancing over, like he’s replaying the Thunderbolts footage in his head. But thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.

You press your knee against Bob’s under the table.

He glances at you.

You mouth: Thank you.

He just nods.

⋆˙⟡

When the dishes are finally cleared and your aunts start hunting for their coats, you help your mom carry plates to the kitchen. She’s humming. Actually humming.

You try not to let guilt claw at your chest.

After a few minutes, coats are zipped, goodbyes are exchanged, and your mom pats Bob’s arm like he’s already part of the family. Your dad claps him on the back and says, “You handled the chaos pretty well, son. That’s promising.”

You’re still not sure whether that’s a compliment or a threat.

Finally, it’s just the two of you at the door.

You walk Bob out onto the porch. The sky’s dark, but the porch light gives his face a warm glow. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly from the cool air, partly because you don’t know what to do with them anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, leaning against the railing. “I dragged you into that mess because I panicked and lied to my mom and I never expected you to actually say yes or look like that or—”

Bob steps forward and kisses you.

Soft. Sure. Warm.

It happens in the span of a heartbeat — his hand resting gently on your cheek, the kiss itself lingering just long enough to make you forget where you are.

When he pulls back, he whispers, “Sorry.”

You blink, stunned.

He jerks his thumb toward the window beside the front door.

You turn.

Your mom is standing there, mostly hidden behind the curtain — watching. Her expression is somewhere between victorious and smug.

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Bob chuckles. “She’s committed. I respect it.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “That was mean.”

“That was method acting,” he teases.

You hesitate, then reach out and fix the collar of his jacket. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he says. “I meant what I said — I liked being asked.”

A beat.

“I still do.”

The air between you shifts — warmer now, quiet but honest.

You nod once, not sure what to say. Not sure what this is becoming.

He opens the gate and starts to walk down the path. Just before he disappears into the dark, he turns back.

“I’ll see you Tuesday?”

You smile. “Tuesday.”

And then he’s gone.

You close the door gently, heart fluttering like it’s trying to tell you something. You lean against the wood for a second, exhale, and whisper to no one:

“…Oh no.”

⋆˙⟡

Sunday, 7:36 am

It starts like any other day.

You stop at your usual corner café, order your iced coffee (half sweet, extra ice, just the way you like it), and wrap your hands around the plastic cup like it might ground you.

For a moment, the world feels normal.

You walk the next block with your earbuds in, the playlist soothing, the city humming gently around you. It isn’t until you pass the magazine stand by the subway entrance that something feels… off.

Your eyes drift lazily over the covers as you walk by.

And then you see it.

Front and center. Bold red font. A full-page photo.

“WHO IS THE SENTRY’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?” (Shocking New Romance Revealed — Civilian Involved?)

You stop mid-step. Your breath catches.

Your own face stares back at you from under a blur of porch lights and lipstick smudged from a very real, very public kiss.

You nearly drop your coffee right there.

But it only gets worse.

Because as you turn the corner toward the bookstore — just a normal Tuesday morning — you don’t see the usual handful of early customers waiting for the shop to open.

You see a crowd.

No — not a crowd. A swarm.

Microphones. Cameras. People standing on tiptoes, phones raised high, shouting questions at… nothing, because the store isn’t even open yet.

Your stomach drops.

Your name gets shouted from somewhere in the noise.

And then, mercifully — your brain does the one logical thing.

It panics.

You spin around. Your foot hits the curb. Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the sidewalk, and explodes in a cold, sticky splash.

“Hey—hey! That’s her!” someone yells behind you.

You don’t look back.

You duck into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the laundromat, heart hammering, air slicing sharp into your lungs.

Your mind is racing with every terrible headline, every awkward question your mom is probably getting right now, and how very not normal your life has become.

And then—

“Hiii.”

You scream.

A figure drops from the fire escape like it’s nothing, landing in front of you with the elegance of a spy movie villain and the expression of someone who just finished a cinnamon roll.

Blonde. Tactical jacket. Combat boots. Sunglasses perched on her head like she accessorized mid-mission.

She smiles. “So. You’re the girlfriend?”

You stumble back a step, heart in your throat. “I—I’m—who are you?!”

“Yelena,” she says cheerfully, offering a hand like this is a brunch date. “Bob’s teammate. Sometimes assassin. Don’t worry, I’m nice-ish.”

You don’t take her hand. You just stare.

“I was sent to retrieve you,” she continues, already walking past you like she owns the alley. “Big mess. PR nightmare. Possibly global. Thought you might need help.”

“I—I’m fine,” you lie, inching toward the wall.

Yelena glances down at your coffee-covered shoes. “You’re not fine.”

You exhale shakily. “How is this real?”

She grins. “You kissed The Sentry on your porch. Now you’re in a tabloid warzone. Welcome to superhero dating.”

You press your palms to your face.

Behind you, the voices are getting louder.

Yelena tilts her head toward the street. “Wanna escape this circus?”

“…Yes.”

“Come on.” She tosses you a hoodie from her bag — black, oversized. “Put this on. You’re going to Thunderbolts HQ.”

“What?”

“Bob’s waiting,” she adds casually, “and he looks very stressed. It’s adorable.”

Your heart thumps harder.

You pull the hoodie over your head, the scent of leather and something faintly metallic catching in your nose. Yelena nods approvingly, then leads you toward a black SUV idling around the corner — quiet, sleek, and somehow completely unnoticed by the mob.

As you duck into the backseat, she climbs in beside you and shuts the door.

She tosses a protein bar in your lap.

“You’re going to need energy,” she says. “They’re gonna love you.”

The SUV pulls away.

The shouting fades behind you.

And your life? Well. It’s never going to be quiet again.

The SUV glides through a checkpoint, into an underground tunnel, then up a ramp. You think you see a guard tower disguised as a billboard. Or maybe you’re hallucinating. That’s possible too.

Yelena’s sitting casually beside you, texting someone, while you clutch your protein bar like it might shield you from public scrutiny and government agencies.

Finally, the vehicle stops. The door swings open.

Yelena hops out and waves you after her. “Don’t look nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

“Then pretend you’re not. That’s what we all do.”

You step out into a huge glass and steel atrium. Sleek floors. Tall ceilings. Giant screen with the Thunderbolts logo rotating in slow, dramatic fashion. Men in suits, agents in gear, someone zipping by on rollerblades like this is normal.

You? You’re in someone else’s hoodie, dried coffee on your pants, and your brain’s still processing “Bob is the Sentry.”

Yelena leads you through a corridor like she’s returning a library book. “Try not to look directly at Valentina unless you want to end up as the face of the team’s diversity initiative.”

“…What?”

“Just smile and nod.”

Yelena leads you down a bright hallway, past glass walls and security doors, through what feels like the inside of a top-secret airport crossed with an IKEA showroom. You’re still in someone else’s hoodie, your coffee’s long gone, and you haven’t quite recovered from the kiss-seen-round-the-world.

She swings open a door, and inside it’s surprisingly normal — couches, a kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring. A few Thunderbolts glance up.

Ghost gives you a quiet nod from her seat at the counter.

John Walker grins, already sharpening a teasing remark.

Bob stands awkwardly by the sink, like he just got caught sneaking a cookie.

“Well, damn,” Walker says, leaning against the counter. “I thought Bob was making you up. Or buying girlfriend stock photos online.”

“John,” Bob says flatly.

“I’m just saying, we’re happy for you, man. It’s cute. Weird, but cute.”

Ghost sips her tea. “He’s been checking his phone like a teenage girl since Saturday.”

Bob looks like he wants to phase through the wall. You try not to laugh — and fail. A little.

Then the doors behind you slide open, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine enters like the final boss in heels.

She smiles, perfectly calm. “Glad you made it. Cute outfit. Hope you like government buildings.”

You blink. “Uh… thanks?”

Val flips open a sleek tablet and doesn’t look up. “So here’s the deal. We can’t exactly walk this story back without making it worse. You’re already part of the narrative. The kiss happened. The porch photos are out. Bob looked… well, shockingly competent.”

Bob mumbles, “Thanks?”

Val finally meets your eyes. “So. Option one: go home, brave the cameras, and let Reddit guess your social security number. Or option two: we give you a place to stay. Quiet. Safe. With a door that locks and, if you ask nicely, a reading lamp.”

You glance at Bob. “Would I… be staying with him?”

Bob visibly stiffens.

Val shrugs. “You’d have your own space. This isn’t The Bachelor. We’re not trying to force anything.”

Bob relaxes.

You think about it for a long moment. The tabloids. The porch. The look on his face when he saw you today.

“…Okay,” you say. “But I want a real lock. And maybe snacks.”

“Done,” Val says, already walking away. “Yelena, get her something from the vending machine. And no shrimp chips.”

Once the others drift off, you find yourself alone with Bob again — sort of. You’re standing near the couches, and he’s holding a mug like it’s a prop he forgot how to use.

You glance at him. “So.”

He looks up. “So.”

“You, uh… handled that well.”

“I was sweating the entire time.”

You smile. “Didn’t show.”

There’s a pause. The good kind.

“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he says.

“I’m not,” you admit, then quickly add, “I mean—not the whole national-news part. That sucked. But, you know. The bookstore. The pie. That stuff.”

He looks at you like you just handed him a book he didn’t know he needed.

He fidgets. “For the record, I didn’t just kiss you because your mom was watching," he says. You tilted your head.

Then, again, he softly says: “Do you think… once this blows over… maybe we could try the real thing?”

You consider it, heart full but calm.

“…We’ll see,” you say.

He grins.

So do you.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: i have SO MANY prompts/scenes in my head for bob that i had to list it down on my notes (this is one of them). PS i wrote this when i was suffering from a writers block in the middle of writing the second part of Psyche. PSS i cant stop writing about bob (not that i want to) it's making me crazy

[leighlew3]

In under a day this has nearly 12k+ reblogs and what strikes me most -- the amount of people (teens and adults) sharing it with tags/messages saying how they still feel like they'd be better off gone. This is exactly why Pride is needed. Why community is important, especially online and in fandom spaces since for some that's the only place they can find it. 

As someone who has survived... well, a lot in my years as part of this deeply troubled world on many fronts, and as recently as 2 years ago nearly ended my own life (due to loss/grief) -- I’m telling anyone reading this that you are not alone when it comes to “what’s the point” whether it’s also due to loss or grief, or about your identity as an LGBTQ+ person, or any abuse you may be suffering or have suffered, isolation, financial trauma, disability, health issues, and/or struggles with who you are or want to be in career, life, family and friend circles — or any combo of these things. 

Man of us have cried ourselves to sleep, too.

And we have awoken thinking “fuck, this again…”

Look, I can’t say it’s always going to be worth it to stick around, but — I believe it’s worth it to at least TRY and wait and see. And if you’re trying for yourself and your worthiness to exist — that’s fucking awesome. You’re pretty far ahead against the despair battle already! 

But if you’re not there yet, if you can only stick around for a friend, a pet, a loved one, for the next episode of your favorite show or the next album by your favorite artist or the next game by your favorite athlete or team — whatever keeps you breathing, hold onto that and keep trying and maybe some day… maybe it’ll be easier. Maybe it won’t be such a weight to take a breath. Maybe existence won’t feel as suffocating. Maybe it’ll be easier to get out of bed in the morning. Maybe you’ll sleep easier. 

If “maybe, someday…” is all that keeps you going, that’s enough sometimes. 

And I know it fucking sucks and it’s not fair and some of you feel like you were born into situations and/or identities where it feels like you never even stood a chance, and it’s not fucking fair and it’s okay to say that and feel that. Everything doesn’t always have to have some positive fluffy spin all the time. Sometimes it really is okay to not be okay and to say this life if UNFAIRLY fucking hard because none of us asked to be born. But don’t let the darkness consume you, please. It can be part of you, and sometimes and in some ways it may never fully go away, but letting any SHRED of light in -- and keeping that in sight and keeping going — is important. 

I know you’re tired.

You’re tired physically. And more deeply -- tired in your soul. 

I get it. I fucking get it. Truly.

But if I’m still here and you’re still here — we’re in this together. 

Please don’t leave. 💜

[writeriguess]

Can you write me a MHA fic where reader and Katsuki have been crushing on each other for ages but both are denying it and Katsuki is really mean to her, and reader is really mean to Katsuki. One day, Katsuki's friends trick them and get them to go on a blind date, they have a huge fight but end up making out.

Like Hell I’d Fall for You

"God, he’s insufferable."

You slam your locker shut with a little more force than necessary, scowling like the world personally offended you. Which, to be fair, it kind of did. Or more specifically, he did.

"Bakugou Katsuki is the human embodiment of a stubbed toe," you mutter under your breath.

"Funny," says Mina from behind you, “because I just heard him say you were the reason birth control was invented.”

You whip around. “He said what?”

She raises her hands innocently. “Hey, I’m just the messenger. Though, to be fair, didn’t you call him a sentient Red Bull can last week?”

“That's generous,” you scoff. “Red Bull gives people wings. Bakugou gives people migraines.”

Meanwhile, in the opposite hallway…

"She’s fucking unbearable," Bakugou growls, kicking his locker shut hard enough to dent it.

“She’s literally the only person who can keep up with your bullshit, man,” Kirishima replies, biting into an apple like this is just another episode of their weekly soap opera. “That kind of energy? It’s flirting.”

Bakugou’s eye twitches. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. She calls you a dumpster fire with legs, but she also stares at you for ten minutes during training.”

Bakugou turns his glare on him. “If I stared at a fire for ten minutes, it’d be because I wanted to burn it out.”

Kirishima just smiles knowingly. “Right.”

This, of course, has been going on for months. The entire class is in on it. The professors? Probably too. It’s hard to miss the sheer voltage of tension between you and Bakugou.

You mock him, he scowls at you. He mocks you, you threaten to shove his gauntlet up his ass. Everyone pretends not to notice that neither of you ever backs down. It’s exhausting. And weirdly entertaining.

Which is why Mina, Kirishima, and Kaminari decide to intervene.

By lying to you.

Friday, 6:30 PM – Somewhere in a trendy Tokyo café

You’re dressed like a liar. Because you were told this was a casual coffee meetup with Mina and Momo. So you showed up in a cute dress, makeup on, hair nice.

Which is exactly why, when you see Bakugou at the other end of the café looking just as confused and wearing a crisp black button-up (that you refuse to admit fits him way too well), your stomach drops.

“Oh hell no.”

He spots you. His face does a weird thing. You think it might be pain. Or fury. Or indigestion.

You both start walking toward each other like you’re about to duel at high noon.

“What the hell is this?” you hiss.

“I was told this was a Kirishima thing,” he growls.

“Well, Mina’s dead to me now.”

He crosses his arms. “Like I’d go on a date with you.”

“Oh please. Like I’d want to.”

And yet, neither of you leave.

You’re both seated. Begrudgingly. In utter silence. Until the barista drops off two drinks Mina apparently pre-ordered under the names “Queen of Spite” and “Lord Explosion Murder.”

Your cup has a little heart on it. His has a middle finger doodled on the side.

You blink. Then laugh. “Okay, that’s actually kind of funny.”

He snorts. “Idiots.”

Silence again. Then:

“You look good,” he mutters.

You glance up, startled.

He immediately scowls. “I mean, like. For you. Not—whatever. Fuck.”

You smirk. “Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment. Who are you and what have you done with the snarling porcupine I know?”

He glares. “You look like you’re going to a damn gala.”

“Oh, so now it’s too much?”

“You’re fishing.”

“I don’t need to fish for compliments from you, Katsuki.”

“You just did!”

“Oh my god, do you even hear yourself?!”

You’re both standing now. Not yelling, but close.

“You think I wanna be here?” he bites out.

“I know you don’t. You’d rather die than admit you like me.”

He goes still.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

You freeze too. A beat of silence. Then:

“I—what?” you stammer.

His mouth works like he wants to say something, but can’t.

Then he does.

“Of course I fucking like you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs.

“I’ve liked you since second year,” he mutters, not meeting your eyes. “When you beat the shit outta that third year who said my quirk was all boom, no bite. You called him a discount sparklers pack.”

Your jaw drops.

“I've tried everything to stop. You drive me insane. You talk back, you’re loud, you fight dirty—”

“So do you!” you shout.

“Exactly!” he snaps. “You’re like... I don’t know! A natural disaster. A pretty one. With teeth.”

You blink.

“Oh my god.”

And then—

You launch across the table.

He catches you halfway.

Mouths crash. Teeth knock. Someone knocks over a latte. It’s chaos. It’s electric. It’s inevitable.

Your hands are in his hair. His hands are on your waist. Your body feels like it’s on fire and your heart is trying to punch out of your chest. It's a fucking moment.

Somewhere behind the counter, a barista stops mid-pour.

“Holy shit,” says the newer one. “Should we... call security?”

The older barista just watches calmly, chewing gum. “Nah. This is like a nature documentary.”

The new guy blinks. “What?”

She jerks her thumb toward you and Bakugou, still aggressively making out.

“Predators. They fight, then they mate. Give it a minute.”

You and Bakugou eventually stumble out of the café, breathless and flushed, hand-in-hand like you didn’t spend the last year trading death threats.

“So,” you say, looking up at him. “Was that the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

He grins, wide and wolfish. “Nah.”

“I mean, you did spill my latte.”

“You tackled me.”

You smirk. “So we’re even?”

“Not even close,” he growls, pulling you in again. “I’m gonna spend the rest of the damn week making up for lost time.”

And he does.

Much to the horror (and secret delight) of everyone at U.A.

[seen-the-stars]

my love, my baby, i think buck deserves 2 or 9 from tommy ^^

babe, i think youre absolutely correct. i went with the first one for now but keep your eyes peeled bc i might add a second part later :] (This fic is sponsored by my 10 year old knee injury that still acts up every now and again and annoys me to no end) 2. "How do you always know exactly what I need?" "I pay attention."

Buck is having a day.

He woke up with a slight limp, which isn't too unusual. His leg still gives him trouble whenever the weather changes, or when he extends himself, or sometimes simply because it wants to make his life a little more difficult.

It's annoying, but it's not the end of the world, and he doesn't want to whine about it too much. It could've gone much worse, all things considered.

Dreaming about the truck should have been the first warning sign, because it doesn't really happen all that often anymore, especially not unprompted. So when he woke up this morning drenched in sweat and shaking slightly, he should have known where things were headed.

Foolishly, he'd just shaken it off and burrowed closer into Tommy's chest until they were both ready to wake up; and then, maybe just as foolishly, he'd shaken off the slight twinge in his calf as being a little sore.

He gets through the morning easily enough. It's a slow affair, him manning the coffee maker while Tommy makes them breakfast, and they lounge around for a bit after that. When Buck goes to do the dishes ("It's only fair, Tommy, you cook, I clean"), Tommy waves him off, tells him not to worry about it. Buck tries to protest, but Tommy fixes him with a look, and he lets himself sink back into the couch.

They go grocery shopping, because it's less crowded this time of day, and Buck notices the pain in his leg getting sharper the longer he puts weight on it. So he offers to push their cart around and uses it to support his weight, determined not to ruin their day.

When he starts putting the things away into the car, Tommy kisses him and pushes him into the passengers seat. Buck pouts at him, but he can't deny that sitting down makes it easier to breathe, so he stays put.

On their way home, Tommy looks at him out of the corner of his eyes and asks, "Do you want to get take-out for lunch?" The question confuses Buck for a second, because they just went grocery shopping, and he tells Tommy as much.

"Just offering. I don't want you to be in pain just to make lunch." And, well. It's a good point, and it's also just so considerate, it makes Buck want to burst into tears.

Because the thing is, the more he thinks about it, the more dreadful standing behind the kichen counter for an hour sounds right now. His leg is throbbing, and it's annoying, and it's making him a little grouchy.

Tommy knows, and has probably noticed his mood shift long before Buck was even aware of it, and it's…yeah, it's really nice to be known like this.

"How do you do that? Knowing exactly what I need before I even do?" he asks, a little befuddled and a lot in love, and Tommy chuckles low in his throat at the question.

"I pay attention. And I love you," Tommy replies, resting his hand on Buck's thigh and massaging it gently.

"I love you too," Buck says, resting his hand atop Tommy's.

[katnipp]

when summer ends— daniela avanzini

genre: ANGSTTT

synopsis: y/n and daniela loved each other but broke up badly. years later, something catastrophic brings them back and they have to deal with their feelings again

—

every summer, the avanzini family came in a black suv that didn’t belong on cracked country roads. they stayed in the same house on the hill — tall shutters, long porch, white hydrangeas, and a view of the lake that made people whisper, “they must be rich.”

y/n never cared about them. not until the summer daniela arrived.

she was sixteen, all legs and temper, rolled out of the car with an eye-roll and sunglasses too big for her face. her mom kissed her cheek in front of the neighbors. daniela shoved her off.

“god, i hate it here,” she said loud enough for the whole street to hear.

“we get it,” y/n muttered from the porch next door, not looking up from her book.

daniela turned. paused. stared.

and that’s how it started.

⸻

the summer stretched out in gold and heat. y/n showed her the lake. the sunflower field. the crumbling train tracks no one used anymore. daniela complained the whole time. said it was boring. lame. stupid.

but she kept showing up. every day.

she stole peaches from the fruit stand just to make y/n chase her. she asked too many questions. she fell asleep on y/n’s shoulder once and didn’t apologize.

and one night, under the stars by the lake, she kissed her like it was an accident.

“sorry,” she said, pulling back.

“do it again,” y/n whispered.

and she did.

⸻

they didn’t talk about what they were. they just were.

every summer after that, it was them. three years in a row. daniela would arrive like a hurricane, all noise and perfume, and y/n would act like she wasn’t waiting — even though she always was.

they held hands under picnic tables. danced at the county fair. argued like they were an old married couple.

“we should run away,” daniela whispered once, head on y/n’s chest.

“and go where?”

“anywhere. anywhere but here.”

but she never meant it.

⸻

when they were nineteen, it changed.

daniela was getting offers. dance scholarships. touring auditions. her name in lights. she wanted to leave.

“come with me,” she said one night in the attic of the lakehouse, her suitcase half-zipped and her perfume sharp in the air.

“you know i can’t,” y/n replied, arms crossed, trying to hold herself together.

“why not?”

“my mom’s sick. the bookstore’s barely holding on. this is my life.”

daniela laughed — short and bitter.

“what life? running that dusty little shop like it’s your purpose? waiting for your mom to die so you can keep living in her shadow?”

“don’t say that.”

“i’m being honest. you never want more. you never fight for anything—”

“i fought for you,” y/n snapped, voice breaking. “i’ve been here every summer waiting for you like some—some dog hoping you’d throw a bone.”

“oh, please. don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

“daniela.”

“no, you know what? maybe i outgrew this. you. you’re pathetic, y/n. stuck in this dead-end town, clinging to a fantasy. it’s embarrassing.”

y/n took a step back.

“do you even hear yourself right now?”

“i wasted three years on you,” she hissed, eyes sharp and cruel. “i could’ve had real relationships. a real life. and instead i’m stuck replaying summer flings with someone who doesn’t even have the guts to leave their porch.”

“you don’t mean that,” y/n whispered.

but daniela was already shaking. already crying. already hurting.

“i don’t even know why i ever loved you.”

and that was when she slapped her.

hard.

the room cracked open like a ribcage. y/n didn’t speak. just stared, hand to her cheek, like if she stood still long enough this wouldn’t be real.

daniela’s chest was heaving.

“say something,” she said, voice cracking.

“there’s nothing left to say.”

she turned. y/n didn’t stop her. and when the door slammed, it felt permanent.

the silence she left behind was louder than anything she’d ever screamed.

⸻

three years passed.

y/n stayed. ran the bookstore. took care of her mom. watched the seasons roll by like ghosts.

she never dated again. never kissed anyone. never stopped loving daniela, not even when she hated her.

the avanzini house stayed empty for three summers. and then it wasn’t.

y/n saw the suv first. heard the voices.

then — daniela.

older. softer. beautiful in a new way.

but she wasn’t alone.

a man stepped out first. tall. handsome. clearly wealthy.

then a little girl. curly hair, big brown eyes.

“mommy, look!” the child shouted, pointing at a bird.

daniela laughed — the same laugh.

y/n froze on the sidewalk.

and the photo in her hand crumpled.

⸻

she got in the car. didn’t think. didn’t breathe.

the road twisted through the trees. lake shimmered in the corner of her eye. memories clung to the wind.

she gripped the wheel. tears blurred the windshield.

“you always said you wanted a daughter with my eyes,” she whispered. “guess you changed your mind.”

she pulled out her phone. hit record.

“i saw you today,” her voice shook. “you looked happy. you have a little girl. she’s beautiful.”

“you got everything you wanted. and i…”

silence.

“i’m sorry, dani. i never stopped. loving you. missing you.”

“but i’m glad you’re okay.”

she never pressed send.

she didn’t see the light turn red.

she didn’t see the truck coming.

but daniela did.

⸻

she was across the street. holding her daughter’s hand. her husband pointing at some store window.

and then — the screech. the metal. the world tipping sideways.

daniela turned just in time to see the impact. y/n’s car spinning. smoke rising. glass everywhere.

“no,” she whispered.

“NO.”

she ran.

people shouted. her husband grabbed her arm. she tore away.

“y/n?” she screamed. “Y/N!”

the car was crumpled. the windshield caved in. y/n’s head slumped to the side.

daniela fell to her knees.

“baby, no. no no no no— please stay with me.”

“don’t do this. don’t you dare leave me.”

paramedics pulled her back. her hands were covered in blood. her dress soaked. she didn’t care.

⸻

at the hospital, she waited.

her daughter was home with her parents. her husband sat across from her. silent. confused.

daniela clutched a hoodie they handed her — torn, bloodstained.

inside was a folded letter. yellowed from time.

“i think a part of me always knew i’d never be enough for you. but you were always enough for me.”

“you were my beginning and my end. and i think i was just your summer.”

daniela broke.

she slid to the floor. gasping.

her husband knelt beside her. touched her back,“daniela— who was that?”

she whispered, “the love of my life.”

—

a/n: this is how i imagine y/n waiting for daniela (i basically took inspiration from the notebook)

[sidequestobserver]

Opening shifts are the worst. Percival parked his car in the alley behind the cafe. After checking the wheels were within the hastily spray painted “Employees Only” rectangle, he unlocked the back door and headed in.

Percival, or Purse to his friends, took his time starting brewing machines, checking the stock of brown paper to-go cups, and pulling chairs off tables. He hummed as he worked. Scarborough fair was stuck in his head. He deliberately ignored the constant thump of hands on the front door.

Half an hour later, the cafe was neatly arranged and Percival could stall no longer. He turned to the glass front door. His eyes were greeted by a pile of bodies.

The “zombie apocalypse” had started two years ago. Well. Perhaps apocalypse isn’t the right word. Certainly it was terrifying when cemeteries suddenly lost the majority of their lifetime—or rather, death time—customers. Seeing Grandma crawling around like a drowning centipede, flesh gone but sporting her favorite tweed jacket (polyester takes forever to decompose), isn’t something people typically want. But unlike in zombie propaganda, as those movies were called now, newly revived Grandma did not eat brains or flesh. Nor did she boast of superhuman strength.

Zombies did not eat. Scientists were trying to figure out how they function, hoping to harness a new power source. They were weak. Whatever invisible force had replaced muscles and tendons of old were woefully insufficient. Zombies could not open doors, could barely carry themselves, and moved like a turtle whose shell had turned to lead. It was a miracle they manage to crawl out of the grave.

The city set up a zombie collection unit, but like many municipal functions, it was understaffed and struggling. The cat trap, neuter, release program had better organization and more people. People have an aversion to the dead for some reason; cats were preferable. Zombies were rounded up and returned to cemeteries, now with newly constructed zombie jails. Despite their struggles, the zombie collection unit was doing fairly well and the city was mostly clear of zombies.

Which brings us back to Percival. Who worked in a cafe. A cafe on the edge of Fairwood Cemetery. Fairwood Cemetery. The city’s largest unfenced cemetery, where the body count was so high some plots held three occupants, stacked like the world’s least appetizing sandwich. Every night, new zombies emerged from the ground and started to crawl. There was too much ground to cover, too many zombies to stop, too many headstones to trip over in the dark. Cemetery and city decided it was safer to deal with the newly risen in the daytime.

One thing about zombies not yet covered. They love light. Yep. These stumbling little corpses crave light, flocking toward it like moths. During the day, that’s fine, the Sun is there. The zombies are happy to stumble about in the sunlight. During the night, however, the Sun is gone. And the only light source in the area is the bright neon words “Sugar Fairy Cafe” at front door, which Percival’s manager refused to take down or turn off. All the other businesses were smart enough to turn off the lights.

Percival unlocked the front door. Putting his back into it, he shoved. The lump of bodies shifted slightly. Zombies at the outermost edges had started to wander, the Sun luring them away. The rest were trapped under their comrades, as of yet unable to leave. Percival sighed. He grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from the kitchen sink, exited the back door, and walked around to the front. Ignoring those already free and walking, he grabbed a zombie wearing a brown suit and unsightly lime green tie. Pulling it out from under another zombie wearing a floral dress, he swung around and sent Green Tie flying into the street. Luckily, Percival had been a hammer thrower in high school and hadn’t lost his muscles yet. He targeted another leg. Grab. Fling. Grab. Fling. The zombies didn’t resist. Grab. Fling. Sweat dripped down Percival’s cheek. Grab. Fling.

Opening shifts are the worst.

It's the zombie... not so much apocalypse, as mild to moderate inconvenience.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Hunter and Him

Remmick x female!reader

Summary: After Annie and Mary trained you to be a vampire hunter, you imagine that the last thing they would have expected was for you to fall in love with one. Every night, you sneak off to be with Remmick, but on a night when Mary and Annie almost catch the two of you together, Remmick asks you to leave with him for good.

Notes/Warnings: Smut, so 18+ please. Remmick is soft boy. That honestly might be it.

I don't support the actions of this character in the movie at all. I just think the guy's hot, alright? I'm sorry. I can't even explain why.

Words: 3200

Sinners Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List

You used to tell yourself you didn’t know what he was when you met him. That when he found his way into one of Clarksdale’s only bars, it wasn’t because he asked the front doorman for permission, it was because he was like any other patron, a regular man who walked right through the door like anyone else, ready for a good time. You told yourself that when he asked you for a dance and you took his hand, his skin wasn’t colder to the touch than it should have been. You let yourself pretend that the low lighting in the bar was not reflecting off of his irises in an unnatural way, and that when he smiled at you, there wasn’t a slight exaggeration to his canines. 

You reassured yourself of these things because you had to. Because you were reckless that night, and recklessness was not in your nature. Because after an hour in his company and too many drinks, you led him around the bar to the back alley where you let him take you against the weathered brick wall, and kiss you, and nick the skin of your neck with his teeth. He licked the trail of blood from your collarbone back up to the little mark he’d made, and you allowed yourself believe that was normal, because if the others found out, not only would they kill him, but they would likely kill you, too.

Mary and Annie had been hunters long before you. When you met, they’d been following a lead which sent them to your house, and it was there they’d found you, huddled into a corner, your sopping face hidden by your bloodied hands as the decapitated bodies of your parents and brother lay around you. They’d comforted you, as women do, and convinced you to join them—they’d lost people too—so you did. Mary had taught you how to fight, Annie how to track. 

You should have ended him the moment the internal alarm in you sensed the potential of what he was. Mary and Annie would have. They would have clocked him immediately and done their job. But not you. 

To be fair, you were the newest hunter. Your guesses and suspicions had been off a time or two, leading you to follow a perfectly innocent man to his home, only to find a loving family there to greet him. You could’ve easily been wrong about Remmick. Ignoring the signs didn’t necessarily have to do with the way he looked at you and how it made the blood in your body rush as if trying to outrun something. 

But a few nights after the bar encounter, you could no longer play that game with yourself. He showed up at your house in the dead of night, knocking and shocking you awake. You hadn’t given him your address, and yet there he stood, unable to step past your threshold even though you held the door open wide enough for his frame to enter. No words were spoken to confirm it. Instead, you told him to come in, and he kissed you and nibbled on you and took you all over again. 

That has been your pattern ever since. You lie to your friends, you invite him in or sneak off somewhere, you fuck a vampire, you part ways before sunrise, you repeat. Six months you’ve been going on. And tonight is no different. 

—

It’s not like it’s easy. You feel guilt every time you do it. Betraying your friends was never something you wanted, it was something the lord forced upon you when he allowed Remmick to enter your life. And now that you’re locked in, you can’t be expected to stop. 

As you escape into the woods that line the back of your house, Annie and Mary lie asleep inside. You know he’s watching you, smirking. He will never not revel in the satisfaction he feels from having you to himself in the most risky of times. And you will never get enough of the feeling of anticipation that fills your gut each time you come to him. 

The density of the forest blocks out the majority of the moonlight, nothing but a few beams streaming through sparse openings in the treetops. As you venture forth, you lift your skirt, carefully stepping over winding roots and around patches of vines, avoiding mud puddles that will surely ruin your slippers and the hem of your silk robe. 

“About time, darlin’,” he says, and you pause, your head on a swivel. 

He reveals himself from the shadow cast by a large tree. There’s a slight curl to his lips as he stands there. A second passes, and you take each other in like it’s the first time you’re seeing one another. His eyes are their natural shade, his fangs nowhere in sight, but, as always, he carries the air of a vampire—confidence, with a touch of arrogance. 

As he walks toward you, an unhurried gait to his steps, the same effects he’s had on you since you met him return: heart pumping, breath catching, blood rushing, face blushing. 

You still can’t quite put your finger on how he does this to you. After all, he’s not the only man who has shown you attention. But where those men produced in you little emotion, if any, Remmick’s presence sinks into you, rapping on the closed door of sensations you’ve never felt before—a deep desire, a thrilling need that is ever more overwhelming with him so close. It’s like there is an invisible aura around him capable of casting a spell over anyone within a certain radius. Or perhaps, it is just you. Maybe you are the only one meant to react this way to him. 

“They’re at my house tonight,” you tell him. “Had to wait until they were good and asleep.”

Remmick hums, unpleased despite your perfectly reasonable excuse. 

“We have to be quick,” you say, and to that, his brows dip in the center and his bottom lip protrudes in a slight pout. 

“Why?”

You roll your eyes. “You know why.”

“We always gotta be quick,” he grumbles, his arms crossing over his chest. “I’m tired of quick.”

Truth be told, you’re tired of quick, too. But it can’t be helped. You both have the lives you have, and both of those lives come with complications—time, undeniably, being one of them, and how limited yours is when you most wish it would cease ticking on. Nothing can stop the world from spinning, however. Nothing can stop the night from ending, the morning from coming, or your friends from waking and questioning your absence. 

“Just take off your clothes,” you tell him. 

He stares at you for a few lengthy seconds, but eventually he sighs and reaches for his shirt. One by one, deft fingers pop open the buttons, exposing inch by inch of his toned chest. Then he pulls the suspenders off his shoulders, lets them fall to his sides, and yanks the rest of his shirt from his trousers to undo the remaining closures. His eyes remain on your face as the cotton slides down his arms onto the ground before he attacks the clasp of his pants. With thumbs tucked into the waistband, he guides the trousers, along with his underwear, over his hips, and lightly kicks them aside so they can join his discarded shirt. 

Every inch of his body is muscled. They’re not the muscles of a man engaging in back-breaking work on the daily, but they’re just the right amount of toned to keep him strong. Enough to lift you and hold you how he pleases. You think you’ll never get over the sight of him. 

Goosebumps skitter down your arms. You somehow manage to keep your voice steady when you say, “Lie down.”

He raises a brow but does as he’s told, dropping to his knees and reclining back onto a patch of grass as you reach for the tie that is keeping your robe wrapped around you. You pull on one of the tails of the bow until the material peels apart. You didn’t bother with undergarments tonight—it’s too hot as it is—and you don’t miss the heavy inhale that Remmick sucks in through his nose as his stare roams from your breasts to your navel to the slit between your legs. 

Stepping out of your slippers, you move toward him. When you’re close, he extends his hand and you let him assist you in settling on top of his thighs. His cock is swollen red, on the verge of a bruised purple, aching, pleading, as if you didn’t just satisfy one another the night before. It twitches when you take it in your hand and pump once, twice. A vein pulses against your palm. Remmick’s breathing fails to remain calm, and then with a squeeze of your fist, his eyelids pinch and the back of his head digs into the dirt. He releases a delicate whimper. That whimper quickly loses out to a gasp, which then turns into a groan when you rise on your knees, guide him to your entrance, and take him inside of you. 

Strong hands fly to your waist, nails elongating into razors and poking into your skin. You watch his adam’s apple bob harshly in his throat. You try to shift your hips, but his grip on you tightens to keep you still. Patiently, you wait, and it’s not until his fingers ease their pressure that you plant your hands on his abdomen and test out another roll of your hips. His grasp tightens again, but this time he eases his hold much sooner.

For his benefit as much as your own, you start slow. Despite the familiarity of him inside of you, your body never seems to get used to the stretch, the fullness. Each time, it takes a toll on you, but thankfully he has yet to decide to rush your pace.

When he opens his eyes, they’re their typical red, glazed over with lust. His teeth are longer and pointed at the ends. His palms slide up your waist, claws running along the curve of your breasts before brushing over hardened buds. Your walls clench around him, and his jaw sharpens from his grinding molars. When his pelvis bucks, the air is punched out of your lungs.

It takes a moment to regain your breath, but once you do, he sits up and his arms cinch around your waist. His face is a mere inch away, your gazes locked, your oxygen shared—it’s close and yet not close enough. He leans in and his lips ghost over yours; a kiss that is as much of a kiss as can be without fully eclipsing your mouth with his own. One of your hands rests on his bicep, the other gripping the back of his neck, and you move again, lifting up and gently sliding back down, and lifting up, and sliding down. A low moan rumbles from his chest as his forehead falls against your collarbone. 

You don’t talk. There’s no need for words. Only touch. Only overwhelming sensations. It’s all groans and moans and whimpers and breathing, and that’s all you want it to be. 

But then you hear your name being called in the distance. 

Remmick squeezes you as if to keep you from fleeing, holding you down until you’re speared to the hilt and unable to move. The tension in his body forces you to shove aside the concern of your friends’ voices. You’re deep enough in the woods; surely they won’t find you any time soon.

Placing your hands on his face, you guide him to look at you. “It’s ok,” you whisper, nodding. “It’s ok.”

He blinks and swallows and frees you enough so you can resume the motion of your hips. Gentle, then harder, then faster until you’re tumbling over the edge.

Remmick’s palm over your mouth muffles your whine as the tight coil in your core releases. When he follows after you, you do the same, pressing your hand to his lips to keep his groan locked in his throat. 

As you come down, your face tucks into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder. The tips of his claws trace along your spine in the moment of silence; the delicate moment of peace that no living soul is permitted to invade.

He breaks that silent peace when he says, “Stay,” the lone word riding on the back of a heavy exhale. 

Immediately, your lungs constrict. Your chest sinks in on itself. You hate this part. 

“They'll find me,” you say. “They'll find you.”

“Then come with me. Right now.”

Your head whips up. A crease forms between your brows. “Remmick.”

“We could go where we want. Wherever you wanna be, I'll take ya there.” He presses a soft kiss to your lips, then says, “Won't be hidin’ no more.” Another kiss. “You love me, don't ya?”

You’ve never said it. Neither has he. But you know. You both know. 

Your name echoes through the trees again, and your heartbeat is no longer fueled by the heat of passion but an anxious chill that makes your skin clammy. Your head twists in the direction of the voices. They’re getting closer. Teeth nip at your neck, but when you pay it no attention, Remmick’s hand cups your cheek and he turns your face back to his. You lock eyes. The red is gone, replaced by the luminescence of the white that reflects the moon’s glow. Fangs are retracted, save for the canines. 

“C'mon, darlin’,” he whispers, his stare piercing into yours. “You got nothin’ keepin’ you here.”

You consider his words. Is that true? You’ve got your house. You’ve got this town, the people in this town. You’ve got your friends. But, at the same time, you’re no fool. To keep all of that means you can’t keep him. Because one day, you’ll slip up, and when you do, Annie and Mary won’t understand. They won’t spare him a stake to the heart just because that heart already belongs to you. They will rip that heart out of your hands and do what must be done to turn the man you love to ash before your very eyes, assuming they don’t make you carry out the act yourself. They will show no remorse because they will have none. Through your tears, their faces will be blurry shapes, and those blurry shapes will tell you to get over it, to get back to your job and do it the way they trained you. 

But you won’t be able to get over it. Neither will you be able to forgive them for the enjoyment they will receive from ending him. 

You’ve staked a handful of vampires, including the one that killed your family, and you know the feeling of ridding the world of one more monster. It’s addicting, as much of a high as falling apart on Remmick’s cock, and that is what Annie and Mary will feel when they take him from you. They love you, you love them, but love will not prevail over injecting that drug into their veins.

Remmick’s thumb lazily swipes over your bottom lip. As if the motion has also wiped your slate of mind clean, you drop your thoughts and focus your attention back on him, his face, the look in his eyes. He’s unsure, you realize, not confident that you will give him what he’s asking for, and it creates a little crack in your heart. But you already have your answer, the only answer you were ever going arrive at. 

You nod a single, firm nod and say, “Okay.”

—

You came back. Just this once. Just to visit. Just to check on them. From a distance, of course. If they caught sight of you, they’d be able to detect what you are in an instant, and you can’t risk that. They’d be ashamed of you, and having once been their friend would not likely stop them from doing what they consider themselves put on this earth to do. So you don’t put them in that position. 

You were declared lost, then missing, then dead. There was a funeral. There’s a tombstone with your name etched into it, standing above an empty coffin in the one graveyard on the edge of town. 

To the world, you are gone. But you think they know. 

Earlier in the night, when you stood outside their window, you caught them talking about you. They started on how much they miss you, but that did not last long before they were prying back into the details your disappearance, how odd it was, how random, how different you’d become in the months prior. Mary said it wasn’t the first time she’d woken in the middle of the night to find you absent, only for you to be tucked back in bed by morning. Annie reminded her of the time they tracked a vampire to the woods behind your house and how tirelessly you worked to convince them it was just a deer. 

It went no further than that, and after recounting their memories, they stared at one another for a beat before shaking their heads and switching the conversation to something a little more logical. You suspect it’s because neither of them wanted to speak it aloud.

It’s for the best. The sooner they let you go, the better. You are not coming back from the dead. It’s amongst the dead where you have chosen to belong. With him. 

From the shadows, you watch your friends step through the door of the bar where you met Remmick. It feels like just yesterday your eyes landed on him for the first time, and yet forever ago. You imagine that is how the rest of your life will feel as well; the effects of eternity.

Arms suddenly wrap around your waist from behind. “Few months we’ll come back if ya want,” Remmick says, planting a kiss on your shoulder. 

Tingles spread down your limbs at the pleasure of his lips on you. One thing he didn’t prepare you for ahead of time: everything is intensified in this new form. Every inch of your skin is more sensitive, every touch is more consuming, every orgasm more shattering. You still haven’t gotten used to it. 

Your hand reaches up, fingers sifting and fisting into his hair. He chuckles, and that kiss turns into a bite that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” you tell him. “I’m dead here.”

His tongue catches the blood that drains from your puncture wounds and he licks a line up your neck to your ear. “You’re dead everywhere,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Dead and mine.”

You smile then, and anything that isn’t him and his body against yours melts away. Because he is all that matters. Despite what you had to give up, you made the right choice, and nothing on this earth could convince you otherwise.

Turning in his arms, your link your hands around his neck. The kiss is slow, tender. When it breaks, he rests his forehead against yours. 

Yes. 

Dead and his. 

Forever.

---

A/N: Thank you for reading :) If you liked it, let me know. It always makes my day.

Tag List

[scoupsakakitty]

Framed in Silence | idol!Yeosang x Reader | angst

-Late night. Yeosang is on tour in Japan (Osaka). Y/N is at home in Seoul. A video call becomes the only space where their worlds still touch.-

The screen flickered once before settling into clarity.

Yeosang appeared, damp hair pushed back, hoodie loosely hanging from his shoulders. Behind him, the dimly lit hotel room in Osaka looked clean, clinical. Distant. He smiled—small, tired.

"Hey," he said softly.

Y/N pulled her knees up to her chest, curling deeper into his oversized hoodie. Her room was dim, the only light coming from her laptop. The faint hum of the city outside her window filled the silence between them.

"You looked happy tonight," she said.

He blinked. "Did you watch the stream?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I watched the fancams. Someone posted one of you smiling after 'Wave'."

Yeosang rubbed the back of his neck. "It was a good crowd."

"Yeah," she whispered. "You looked... far away."

He tilted his head slightly, reading the shift in her voice.

"Y/N..."

She bit her bottom lip. "When did I become part of the audience?"

His expression faltered.

"Is that what you think?"

She nodded, slowly. "I know you're busy. I know what this tour means to you. But lately it feels like I'm not in the frame anymore. Just watching from behind glass."

"That’s not fair."

Her brows furrowed. "It’s not about fair, Yeosang. It’s about how it feels."

He exhaled sharply, looking away from the screen for a moment.

"Do you really think I forgot you?"

"No. But I think I'm starting to forget what it feels like to be remembered by you."

He looked back at her, eyes heavy. "That's not true."

She laughed softly, bitterly. "Then when was the last time you asked me how my day was? Without me having to prompt it? Or told me you missed me—without it being a reply?"

Yeosang’s jaw clenched. "I’ve been doing my best."

"I know," she said quickly. "That’s the worst part. This is your best. And it still makes me feel invisible."

Silence.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly.

"We knew it would be hard."

"Hard isn’t the problem," she said. "Distance isn’t the problem. It’s... the silence. The way it grows between us like a wall."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I don’t know how to fix that."

Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back, but one slipped free.

"I don't want to become a memory in your life," she choked. "A story you tell later. 'There was this girl once...'

"You’re not a memory."

"Aren’t I? You live a thousand lives every day. And I... I wait for scraps of you. A text. A smile on a screen. That’s all I get."

Yeosang swallowed hard. "So what are you saying?"

She paused. Her voice cracked.

"I don’t know. I’m tired. I love you, but I don’t know if that’s enough to keep watching you from a distance."

He stared at her. No words. Just a silence that screamed.

She wiped her cheek and exhaled shakily.

"Goodnight, Yeosang."

"Wait—"

But the screen went black.

Five minutes passed. Ten.

She lay back on her bed, phone on her chest, tears on her pillow. The room was so quiet, she could hear her own breathing—sharp and shallow.

Then.

Buzz. A message. From: Yeosang

I’m sorry I made you feel alone. But I’d rather burn the stage down than lose you. Check your email. There’s a ticket. One way. Come to me. I’d never let you go. Not again.

Her breath caught.

She opened the email.

A single PDF. A flight. Seoul → Osaka. Tomorrow.

Tears returned—new ones this time.

This boy. This quiet, distant boy who rarely said what he felt—had just screamed it through silence.

[violentdeliiights]

to have and to hold [2] - creature of habit

[series masterlist]

butcher!simon riley x f!reader 1.6k

cw: brief mention of cannibalism, gory imagery, mention of animal death/flesh/organs typical stalker butcher vibes, stalking/stalker mentality delusion etc, perv simon, brief mentions of war, ptsd, injury, military bullshit, mentions of divorce, price is a bad husband, johnny is a weird flirty objectifying perv, tf141 are NOT good people, overall graphic imagery, mention of domestic violence (not simon), mentions of murder, mentions of kidnapping

<- prev

♫ - songs for this chapter: enter sandman - metallica & where’s your head at - basement jaxx

Simon doesn’t see the harm.

He’s seen his fair share of what the world has to offer. How greed can corrupt even the most pious of men. How hunger can gnaw at a person’s psyche until they snap. A ticking sound you can only just hear, drives you to the brink of madness. He’s seen soldiers trapped in warzones eat their comrades when rations run out. Watched women become toys trapped in labyrinths for men twice their age. He knows how the world is to pretty young things like you. Pretty, soft, naive lambs get eaten whole. Chewed up and spit out. Ligaments torn apart. Tendons ripped from muscle, flesh sliding clean off the bone.

So, no, he doesn’t see the harm in checking on you every now and then.

It starts innocently enough.

Just checking in. Doesn’t want to scare you off, gentle thing that you are.

Doesn’t think you’d take too kindly to his great hulking mass standing over the road from the library, opposite that window you seem to love sitting in. You know, the one with the most comfortable seat that kind of squeaks as you settle in.

Maybe wandering past your flat on his nightly walk after work. Finds his joints lock up if he doesn’t stretch them properly. So what if his route just happens to meander past your building? Just wants to make sure you’re managing. Can’t have anything happening to you now can we, birdie?

It starts innocently enough but Simon will be the first to admit that it doesn’t continue innocently.

It doesn’t take long for him to find himself immersed in you. He knows you like the back of his hand- you’re his. Of course he does.

He knows that on a Monday, you sit and plan your week, and on Sundays you take what he’s heard you call an ‘everything shower’. He knows that some nights you look in your empty fridge and decide to have sleep for dinner (he’s not mad, just disappointed). He knows your favourite cafes and the way you sometimes limit yourself from going one week so it tastes better the next time you go. He knows what the toys in your bedside table look like. Knows how you throw your underwear in a drawer rather than fold it- makes his job easier, he’s sure you won’t notice if a couple pairs go missing. Knows that the bedroom has to be freezing for you to sleep. You keep the window on the latch every night. Ever so considerate, his tender lamb.

It takes a whole seven months for your paths to cross again.

Simon and the lads had gone out for a pint, one of the rare times they were all home at the same time. His palms itch with every second he’s not watching you.

It had become somewhat of a routine; he wakes up, opens up shop, takes his lunch hour where he strolls himself past the cafe you’re sitting in or past the library window you’re holed up in, goes back to finish his shift and shut up shop, ambles across town towards your flat, comes home to sleep and do the same thing the next day. Creature of habit. Creature.

Soothes his flaming palms with the cooled pint in front of him. Condensation collects in his palm’s heart line. Beads roll down the glass to collect in a ring on the table where he doesn’t bother to use a beer mat. Becomes sticky and sickly until he swipes at the puddle absentmindedly as Johnny talks his ear off. Something about the rugby maybe. Maybe a bird he’d shagged while on leave. Is it considered leave if there’s no plan to go back, he wonders. Supposes getting shot in the head is as good an excuse as any.

Price sat opposite him playing with the thick gold band on his ring finger. Simon recalls how messy that last divorce (Price’s fifth he thinks…maybe his sixth?) had been and deems that Price doesn’t like being married, he just likes having a wife. Likes a ring sitting heavy like a shackle, a weight that reminds John daily of his fuck ups but that he is also more than capable of acquiring another wife by the end of the year. Simon knows you’d never think of leaving him like that. He’d never give you a reason to.

Gaz is unusually quiet, sat looking almost through Johnny with glazed over eyes as he swishes the dregs of a pint around in his glass. Simon doesn’t miss those days. Returning from missions so harrowing you can’t even begin to describe what you’ve seen. It only makes sense that Simon became a butcher after he left the forces. Butcher of men returns from classified locations to mutilate and deliver animal flesh. Ice boxes filled with hearts and eyes and organs and his stomach stays completely settled the entire time.

“Phwaw, she’s a feckin’ sorry sight isn’t she? What’s a bonnie lass like her doing here?” Johnny’s voice cuts through Simon’s brain fog like a machete, slicing through the thick invasive weeds overtaking his mind.

His head snaps up like a soldier to attention. The pint glass in his clutch nearly shatters as his fingers tighten around it instinctively. It’s you. His lamb. Here.

You’re standing there in a tiny little vest, your tits near enough spilling from the top. It hugs your stomach and slope of your back perfectly, the jeans on your bottom half all but clinging to your arse. He remembers seeing the scuffed trainers on your feet scattered about your bedroom as you rushed to leave for uni that morning.

You’re standing there looking like the tenderest cut of meat he’s ever seen. And from a quick scan of the pub, every other dirty pervert in here is thinking the same thing.

Difference is, Simon is the only dirty pervert allowed to look at you like that.

The girl next to you is chatting your ear off as you stand awkwardly playing with your necklace. She’s pretty, sure, but Simon hasn’t so much as thought about another woman since he met you. You’re the one.

“Eyes. Off.” His teeth separate just enough to force the order out without tearing his eyes off of you.

A snort from Johnny has him reluctantly swinging his head to look at the younger man, “Ye already called dibs, Ghostie? Tha’s nae fair. A’ saw her first.”

“She’s mine, MacTavish. Don’t fuckin’ try it.”

“Jaysus, calm your heid. Wasnae gonna dae any’ing. She the lassie you’ve been creepin’ on? Boy did good, she’s mighty braw.” Johnny’s eyebrows raise nearly to his hairline as he commends his old Lieutenant, looking around the table at the other men still gazing at where you stand ordering at the bar.

Your friend has disappeared by now, gone to the toilet or outside for a ciggy and unknowingly leaving you to fend for yourself amongst a pack of hungry wolves.

“You ever gonna speak to her, son?” Price’s gruff voice is a welcome reprieve from the slightly slurred rambles of the drunk Scotsman.

“Mmm, gonna wait ‘til she’s ready first. Don’t need her runnin’ off on me.” Simon’s eyes are still locked on you. A sniper with his target set. A hunter counting down his breaths whilst his finger rests on the trigger.

“You? Waiting? Pfft, yeah okay.” It’s the first time Kyle’s properly opened his mouth all night except to half-heartedly agree to Johnny’s drunken word babble.

Simon’s eyebrow raises behind his mask, “s’That supposed ta mean, Garrick?”

“It means, when have you ever, in your bastard life, waited for anything? I’ve watched you tell terrorists to fuck off whilst they’ve held guns to your forehead. Watched you run into active war zones with your chest pumped so full of lead you’d set off a metal detector,” Gaz’s eyebrows are so furrowed in frustrated confusion that it looks painful, “And you’re telling me you’re just gonna wait around and see if this girl wants you? Sure, okay.”

The more Kyle talks, the more Simon realises he’s right. He’s fucking right.

For the last seven months, Simon’s been following you around desperate for the day you turn around and admit what he already knows. That you crave him like he craves you. That you want to crawl into his chest cavity and take your rest. That you need to bury yourself under his skin until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

For the last seven months, you could’ve been his. What the fuck was he doing?

The only good thing his bastard father ever told Simon was that if you want something, you take it. Spewed it through clenched teeth when Simon and Tommy would come home to him stood towering over their mother. Would bark it between coughing his tar-filled lungs up as he would drag another pretty bird into the back garden shed.

Only, Simon remembers the white hot fear in the girls’ faces. Sweat dripping from their forehead into terror crazed eyes, sobbing and writhing, kicking and grunting behind layers of duct tape wrapped around their heads. He remembers the smell of blood and whiskey that always seemed to linger around his father. Remembers how the only ‘gift’ his father ever gave him was on his 15th birthday, when he was allowed to enter that shed. His father died the following month. Simon left for the military a year later. He never celebrated his birthday again.

Simon remembers the fear in the girls’ faces. He doesn’t want that for his lamb.

But if that’s what it takes.

[howi99]

From the Nest 25

Jaune: *looking at the date* ... *Sigh* Only two weeks left until my death.

Nora: What's wrong, fearsome leader?

Jaune: *double take* Fearsome?

Nora: *shrug* You did scare Cardin shitless and you're kind of intimidating when you're angry... I mean, not to me, but you get the idea.

Jaune: ... *Blink* Fair enough. *Rub his chin* And to answer your question, i need to prepare myself for the apocalypse.

Nora: *giggle* Yeesh, that bad?

Jaune: *sigh* You remember Vernal? The girl i saved when i was seven?

Nora: Oh yeah! She's your best friend, right?

Jaune: ... *Sigh, dragging his hand down his face* She confessed her love to me in a letter just before she left for Haven... *Rubbing his eyes* Where i was supposed to join her.

Nora: ... *horrified* THAT'S NOT GOOD!!! THAT'S NOT GOOD AT ALL!!!

Jaune: *sigh, hitting his head on the wall slowly* I know...

Nora: And what's your answer!?

Jaune: *groan* I don't know... She's like a sister to me, even more so than my actual sisters. *Hit his head again* But it's not like i don't feel anything more. *Hit his head again* But i also don't want to lose what we already have, you know?

Nora: (... Uh, so that's what it looks like from the outside.) Yeah, i think i understand it well.

_ meanwhile _

Vernal: *walking aimlessly in Vale, completely lost* (Sun, you stupid CUNT! Where the hell are you!?) *kick a can of coke inside a trashcan, nailing it* Tsk... *Continues to walk, looking more and more annoyed* (It's already bad enough that i've followed you on that boat, but then you leave me in the middle of nowhere!?) *grit her teeth* (What is it with blond guys abandoning me? Did Jaune didn't come to Haven because i'm just THAT awful?!) *worried* (D-does he hate me?!?) *stomping her foot on the ground* (Damn it, damn it-) *Angrily screaming* DAMN IT, AM I THAT UNBEARABLE!?

Every passerby: *turning their heads towards her in surprise*

Vernal: *flustered* W-What? Never saw someone having a bad day!?

_ after searching Sun for 1h _

Vernal: *sitting on a bench, a long sigh escaping her mouth* I'm lost... And Sun's nowhere to be found! *Pout* I hope he gets arrested and put in police custody. *Mumbling* At least that way i'd be able to find his stupid ass.

???: *overly enthusiastic voice* Salutations~! You seem to be in emotional distress; do you need assistance?

Vernal: *frown, turning her eyes towards the voice, seeing a cute young girl with orange hair smiling at her* Hm?

Penny: *still smiling* You said you were lost and needed to find someone? I can help you, if you want!

Vernal: ... Sorry, but if you want to rob me, you'll need a better tactic than that old trick.

Penny: *looking genuinely confused* Rob you?

Vernal: *sigh* I saw right through you, you don't need to continue acting all innocent and-

Penny: *tilting her head* Why would i rob you?

Vernal: Tsk, i dunno. I'm not the one trying to steal money, am i?

Penny: *looking even more confused* B-but i'm not! I would never steal! *Looking genuinely distressed* I just want to help!

Vernal: *slowly realising that this isn't Mistral and that the girl might, potentially, actually want to help her* ... Wait, you were actually asking me if i needed help?

Penny: *nodding her head energetically* Of course! My father always said that i should help people in need whenever i can!

Vernal: *blink* (... How many golden retrievers are there in this world?! I thought Jaune was unique, but they keep popping up everywhere!) I see...

Penny: *smiling, extending her hand* My name is Penny Polendina and i would be thrilled to assist you in the search of this Sun individual!

Vernal: ... *Shake her hand* You can call me Vernal. *Sigh* But i still have no clue where he could be in the first place...

_ meanwhile _

Sun: *confused by his teammate's absence, after coming back from the convenience store* ... Where did she go?

[saturnsag3]

Cowboy - will smith x macklin celebrini

summary: based on this post

wc: 1,573

The only thing louder than the honking traffic outside Columbia University’s wrought-iron gates was Macklin’s heartbeat.

He stood awkwardly in the back of his 9 a.m. creative writing seminar, clutching a worn-out notebook and wearing a hoodie that still smelled faintly like bonfire smoke and his dad’s garage. The room was already half full, and most people seemed to know each other. A girl in the front row laughed too loud at something a guy whispered to her, and Mack felt a familiar pressure in his chest.

He didn’t belong here.

Not in this frigid city where people moved too fast and never made eye contact. Not in classrooms where everyone spoke like they were auditioning for NPR. Not even in this chair, the legs uneven, his boots too muddy-looking for a room this pristine.

Back home in Tallahassee, he was known as the smart kid who fixed tractors on weekends and graduated valedictorian. Here? He was just another full-scholarship freshman trying to survive.

“Seat taken?”

Mack looked up, startled. A guy was standing next to him—tall, grinning, cocky in the way that made Macklin's stomach twist with nerves. He had a Columbia varsity jacket thrown over a hoodie and a backpack that looked like it cost more than Mack’s first car.

“No,” Macklin mumbled, scooting over.

“Nice.” The guy dropped into the seat beside him with the easy confidence of someone used to taking up space. “I’m Will.”

Mack gave a hesitant nod. “Macklin.”

“Cool name. Is it like...Scandinavian or something?”

Mack shrugged. “Don’t know. Just my name.”

Will laughed. “Fair enough.”

There was a pause, and then Mack opened his notebook, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

No such luck.

Will leaned over. “You a freshman?”

Mack nodded.

“Thought so. You’ve got the ‘new deer in the city’ look.” Will grinned like it was charming, not embarrassing. “Don’t worry, it fades after, like, six months.”

Macklin snorted before he could stop himself. It came out quiet, but Will caught it anyway.

“There we go,” Will said, pleased. “I knew there was a person under that hoodie.”

Mack looked down quickly. He wasn’t used to being teased. Not like this. Not by someone who seemed…cool.

“So where you from, Macklin?” Will asked as the professor walked in.

“Tallahassee.”

“Florida?”

Macklin gave him a look that said obviously.

Will smiled again. “That explains the boots.”

Mack didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth tugged up. Just a little.

---

By week two, Will was waiting for Mack outside of class.

It became a routine—class at nine, followed by a walk to the coffee cart on 116th and Amsterdam, then ten minutes of banter while Will drank his latte and Mack drank…nothing. (He hated coffee. Will insisted this was a crime.)

“You ever gonna let me buy you something?” Will asked one morning, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as they stood on the sidewalk, steam rising from his cup.

Mack shook his head. “You keep offering, and I keep saying no.”

“Yeah, but what if I just show up with something one day? Like…a hot chocolate. With extra whipped cream. And those little marshmallows.”

Mack raised an eyebrow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’ve been doing research. You seem like a marshmallow guy.”

Macklin rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like it.”

He kind of did.

---

Will talked a lot. About the city, about the hockey team, about his friends who were all “insane but in a good way,” and about his childhood growing up in Queens. Macklin listened. Quietly. Sometimes he’d offer a story about fixing engines with his uncle or how his dog used to chase chickens. Will ate those stories up like they were rare delicacies.

“You know you’re, like, incredibly fascinating, right?” Will said once as they sat on the Low Steps after class.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You talk like you don’t think people want to hear you, but when you do? It’s always something I couldn’t make up if I tried.”

Macklin looked away, cheeks warm. “You’re weird.”

Will grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

---

By March, the city started to thaw.

So did Mack.

They weren’t dating, not officially. But Will texted him good morning every day. Mack had started saving the little paper flowers Will folded for him out of napkins and receipts. They studied together. Sometimes they didn’t say anything at all. Mack would bring his laptop to Will’s dorm and sit on the floor while Will played music and tapped away at his own assignments.

“You’re the only person I know who actually focuses during study sessions,” Will said one night, upside down on the bed.

“That’s because I can’t afford not to.”

Will blinked. “Mack—”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Mack cut in quickly. “Just…I gotta make this count, you know?”

Will sat up. “You already are.”

Mack looked at him. Really looked at him. The wild curls falling onto his face, the soft eyes that somehow always knew when Mack needed space, or noise, or just someone to sit close by.

He didn’t say anything. But he smiled. And Will smiled back.

---

It was April when it finally happened.

They were walking through Riverside Park, half by accident. Mack had gotten turned around, and Will had teased him for not using Google Maps.

“It’s just trees and paths,” Mack argued.

“Exactly,” Will said. “You’re in my city now, cowboy.”

Mack shoved him lightly. “I could out-walk you.”

Will stopped. Turned to face him. “You can try.”

And then he kissed him.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was soft and a little awkward, and Macklin was so startled he didn’t kiss back right away.

But then he did.

And he didn’t want to stop.

---

They sat on a park bench after, knees bumping, silence stretching out like warm sunlight.

“I didn’t want to make things weird,” Will said finally.

“You didn’t.”

Will glanced at him. “You sure?”

Mack nodded. “Just didn’t think you…wanted that.”

Will laughed under his breath. “Macklin. I’ve wanted that since the day you corrected the professor about Hemingway and then tried to disappear into your notebook.”

Macklin flushed. “That was my second day.”

“Still counts.”

---

They weren’t loud about it. Macklin wasn’t built for loud.

But Will didn’t mind. He held Mack’s hand under tables, texted him dumb memes in the middle of the night, made sure Mack had snacks before every exam. Mack fixed the zipper on Will’s jacket, taught him how to spot deer tracks when Will took him upstate for a weekend with the team, and started drinking hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.

By the end of the semester, Columbia didn’t feel so cold anymore.

And neither did Macklin.

sages thoughts⋆˙⟡: i think this was so so so cute like i can’t i love them omg, i hope u guys enjoyed as much as i did writing this !!

[greenxgloss]

Could you do one where the reader is pregnant and yoongi is just helping her through the pains, like nausea, throwing up, idk like bad stomach aches etc…

Thank you!!!!!

A/n: i would be soooo happy to continue writing for this au if you have more requests for it but ngl i was drawing a blank with this one bc i have as much knowledge about pregnancy as my HS parenting class and google gave me lmao i also idk ive never really thought about or fantasized about being pregnant with someone so i dont really know like... what to fantasize about??? ig? idk but this being said ill still write this au if requested esp because this was so short and i feel so bad abt it

Pregnancy, Panic, and Yoongi’s Patience

Pairing: FatherToBe!Yoongi x Pregnant!Reader Summary: In the quiet chaos of early pregnancy, you battle morning sickness and bizarre cravings while Yoongi proves, in every tender and tired moment, that love—and his steady presence—makes it all a little easier to bear. Themes: Y/n getting emotional and morning sickness, Yoongi literally being the cutest dad-to-be, fluffy fluff Word Count: 1.4k

You weren’t sure what woke you first—the nausea creeping up your throat like a bad secret, or the gentle weight of Yoongi’s hand resting protectively on your belly, half-asleep and instinctual even in slumber.

The answer didn’t really matter. You were up. And unfortunately, so was your stomach.

You shuffled as quietly as you could out of bed, hoping to make it to the bathroom without waking him. You almost succeeded, too—until your foot caught the edge of the hallway rug and the smallest gasp slipped past your lips.

A moment later, you heard sheets rustle behind you.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, husky with sleep. “Bathroom?”

You didn’t answer right away, too focused on kneeling over the toilet and regretting everything you’d eaten the day before.

Then, quietly: “Yeah.”

A beat passed. Then soft footsteps padded behind you, followed by a hand gathering your hair back and another gently resting on your spine.

“Third time this week,” Yoongi murmured, squatting next to you with a yawn. “Your stomach’s got terrible taste.”

You let out a weak laugh as you wiped your mouth. “Don’t talk about our child like that.”

“Fair.” He brushed his fingers lightly over your temple, the way he always did when he wasn’t sure how else to help. “You okay? Want water?”

You nodded, curling against the cool tile wall as he disappeared and returned a moment later with a glass of water and a cold washcloth.

“Your hands are warm,” you muttered as he dabbed your forehead. “Feels nice.”

“I read somewhere it’s supposed to help.” He sat on the floor next to you, his legs crossed, sleep still in his eyes but heart fully awake. “Not that Google’s been that useful. Every site says something different. One said ginger tea, one said crackers, one said essential oils… I might just get you all three.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “You’re trying too hard.”

“Trying just enough.” He tilted his head to rest against yours. “You’re growing a person. I can grow into a husband who Googles too much.”

You smiled tiredly, stomach still in knots but heart slowly settling. He smelled like sleep and laundry detergent, his hoodie soft against your cheek. There was no miracle fix for morning sickness—but having him here like this, solid and gentle and yours, made it feel a little more survivable.

“You should go back to sleep,” you whispered.

Yoongi shook his head. “You’re not going through this alone.”

And for the first time that morning, something in you relaxed.

Even if your body was turning against you, even if the days ahead would be filled with more discomfort and nausea and crying for no reason—you had this.

You had him.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

-

After brushing your teeth and drinking water, you sat on the couch, Yoongi insisting on making you breakfast while you rested.

You were curled up, wrapped in one of Yoongi’s oversized hoodies and swaddled in the fluffiest blanket he could find. The early morning sun was still a shy glow behind the curtains, casting a soft amber hue across the living room. Yoongi was in the kitchen making toast—the only thing you could even think about stomaching right now—but your eyes weren’t on the food.

They were on him.

Your husband. Quiet and focused, hair a bit messy, sleeves pushed up as he hovered over the toaster like it was a mission from the gods. The way he moved—gentle, unhurried, careful—like the whole world might shatter if he didn’t get it right… it undid you.

By the time he walked over, balancing the plate and a glass of water in one hand, you were already blinking too fast, heart caught in your throat.

“Hey,” he said softly, crouching beside you, setting the plate on the table. “Still nauseous?”

You nodded, then shook your head. “It’s not that.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked to your face, concern washing over him instantly. “What is it? Do you need—”

You cut him off with a shaky breath. “No—it’s nothing bad. I just…” Your voice caught as tears welled up, thick and sudden. “You’re just… really good to me.”

He blinked, confused for half a second. Then he moved. Quietly, without a word, he sank onto the couch beside you and pulled you into his arms.

And that’s when it broke.

You buried your face in his hoodie, tears slipping silently down your cheeks, soft and overwhelmed and grateful in a way words couldn’t hold.

“I’m just… so happy,” you whispered. “I didn’t know it would feel like this. I didn’t know I’d get someone like you.”

Yoongi’s hand slid up your back, warm and grounding. “You’re scaring me a little,” he murmured, kissing your hair. “But also… I think I know what you mean.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”

Something in his expression shifted—surprise first, then something deeper. His eyes softened, full of something almost shy. “Yeah?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

You nodded, smiling through tears. “I already see it. The way you talk to the baby, the way you take care of me. You’re patient, and kind, and…” You sniffled. “God, I’m a mess.”

He chuckled gently, brushing a thumb under your eye. “You’re not a mess. You’re just really pregnant and really loved.”

That made you laugh, and cry a little more, and then curl back into his arms.

Yoongi kissed the crown of your head, resting his chin there. “I don’t have it all figured out yet,” he murmured, “but I’ll show up. Every day. For you and for them. That I can promise.”

And in the quiet, wrapped up in his arms with the morning light growing warmer, you believed him.

You didn’t need perfection. You just needed this. The kind of love that stays.

“Yoongi,” you said, completely serious, eyes locked with his like you’d just discovered the solution to world peace. “I need pickles.”

Yoongi didn’t even blink from where he was folding laundry on the bed. “Okay. Pickles I can do.”

You paused dramatically. “But also… chocolate frosting.”

This time he blinked. Slowly. “Like, as a dip?”

You nodded solemnly, rubbing your belly as if that might lend some credibility. “I saw someone do it on TikTok. They said it was life-changing. Sweet and salty. The perfect combo.”

Yoongi set the towel down. “Babe. With all due respect, and from a place of genuine love… that sounds like a crime against food.”

You frowned. “I’m growing a human. I get to commit at least one food crime.”

He sighed, already reaching for his keys. “If we end up in the ER tonight because your stomach rejects your Frankenstein snack, I’m telling the doctor it was your idea.”

—

Ten minutes later, you were at the kitchen counter, pickles in one hand, a tub of frosting in the other, staring at them with almost reverent anticipation. Yoongi leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching like you were about to detonate a bomb.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked one last time.

You dipped the pickle into the frosting, eyes narrowing at his doubt. “Watch and learn, Min Yoongi.”

You took a bite.

And immediately gagged.

Yoongi didn’t even try to hide the slow, victorious smirk spreading across his face. “Oh no, baby. What happened to life-changing?”

You spit the offending combo into a napkin, dramatically slumping onto the counter. “It betrayed me.”

He chuckled, walking over to rub soothing circles on your back. “Told you it sounded like a war crime.”

“It was supposed to be sweet and salty,” you mumbled miserably. “Instead it was… cursed.”

Yoongi kissed your temple, grinning. “Let’s just stick to normal weird stuff, okay? Like orange juice and cereal. Or hot Cheetos and yogurt.”

“I never said I was gonna stop trying weird stuff,” you said, voice muffled into the counter. “Next week might be tuna and jelly.”

“Absolutely not,” he said instantly. “I draw the line at seafood and fruit spreads.”

You giggled, turning to look at him, feeling your heart soften as he cleaned up your failed experiment without complaint.

“You still love me, right?”

He looked at you like the question offended him. “Of course. Even if you try to poison yourself with snack choices.”

And when he kissed you, quick and sweet, you made a mental note: no more pickle-frosting disasters. But also… maybe he was onto something with the cereal and OJ.

Maybe.

➽ Yoongi Masterlist ➽ Main Masterlist ➽ Kpop Masterlist ➽ G-Dragon Masterlist ➽ Buy Me a Coffee

[anotherhomelanderblog]

So, a common consensus seems to be that Homelander starts hating Hughie out of nowhere. Before he even knows he's involved with the group who killed Translucent, he sees him at the Believe Expo and decides to torment him. It's almost instinctive and a nice parallel to Butcher's similarly instinctive feelings towards Hughie. It helps set these two sides up against each other etc etc.

Buuuut... I do actually think there was a specific reason Homelander took an initial disliking to Hughie at the Believe Expo.

First of all, he was pissed off at Madelyn for prioritising Teddy over him, so he was already in the mood to subtly act up - as we see later when he gives his speech. But why target Hughie, this nobody he's never met before, out of every single person in that tent if he wanted someone safe to take his frustrations out on? For the plot, yes, but also...

I think he was doing it for Starlight. Hear me out.

We know a young Homelander was told by Vought that the Seven would be his family, and certainly in the early seasons we get moments where it's clear he does view them this way - albeit in a very messed up, controlling sense, but duh. He's the leader of the Seven, so therefore obviously he should be some kind of father figure to the younger members, right? He plays this role with A-Train when he finds out he and Popclaw have been shooting up V.

In the Believe Expo episode, we get Annie herself thinking Hughie has only befriended her for the perks being friends with someone in the Seven can get you - in this instance, tickets to Ezekiel's private and expensive baptism event. When Homelander introduces himself to Hughie, he makes it pretty clear he knows he's only there because he's Starlight's friend. He even makes a pointed comment about the tickets being pricey. Clearly, he believes Hughie is taking advantage of her too.

We don't see Homelander and Annie interact one to one an awful lot in S1. They sort of go from that very interesting scene on the corridor where they talk about secret identities to him getting all up in her face for "betraying" the Seven. We don't really get to know for sure if Annie's whole perception of Homelander was shattered in that latter moment, or if he'd already pulled intimidating stunts with her the way he does with A-Train, Deep, and Maeve. My point being, they don't appear to have been close on a personal level and - since Homelander is very prone to doing things for people without asking them first, anyway - it makes sense to me that he'd take this twisted, paternalistic approach to the situation he saw and intimidate Hughie on her behalf like this.

But still, he's Homelander. Why bother? This is Annie's problem. Well, not purely out of the goodness of his heart, of course. I do wish they'd explored Homelander and Annie's relationship and parallels a bit more throughout the show, but they didn't (and probably won't in S5, either). I'm not trying to claim he had any particular feelings towards her at this point in S1 - things didn't get truly messy between them before S3, anyway. I'm sure at first he thought she was a naive idiot due for a wake up call, who'd soon fall into line, and whom he didn't need to worry too much about.

But, all of that ambivalence aside, the fact remains for Homelander: Starlight is a supe and a member of the Seven. We know Homelander's views on humans, so in his books it'd be totally unacceptable for a supe, especially one at Starlight's level, to be taken advantage of - made a mockery of, taken for a ride, whatever - by the insipidly average human known as Hughie Campbell. Homelander can't have Hughie thinking he's gotten away with disrespecting the Seven like that. What makes him special? Nothing. Does he think he's clever getting himself freebies? Think again. Homelander could actually drown him right here, right now, if he was feeling vindictive enough.

It's petty behaviour, because Homelander is petty. And, to be fair, considering he's spent his entire life being taken advantage of for the sake of Vought's fortunes and people's entertainment... you can understand why this situation combined with an already bad mood irks him enough to act. He can't/won't attack the system that puts supes in this situation, but he can lash out at the little guy who thinks he's getting one up on them.

That's my interpretation, anyway! And, of course, the irony is that Hughie wasn't taking advantage of Annie because he wanted something as basic as VIP access to some dumb event - he was actually part of the group coming for Vought and Homelander. To Homelander, Annie really is betraying her "own kind" by still loving this guy in the later seasons. Maybe some part of him even thought he was saving her - as well as getting to torment both her and Hughie for his own amusement - by forcing her into a relationship with him in S3.

But that's another discussion...

[cheesepeese1017]

more Cecil dating/marriage HCs (sfw)

Cecil's issues, how you deal with them, and the ways he compensates.

I feel like the old hag is super conservative about dating. He’s not a very eligible bachelor and he knows it. It’ll take a good three years before he considers dating, then another year to confirm and officialize it, then you’ll date for five more as he debates proposing towards the last two, THEN he gives you the Netflix password, and you finally get married at the decade mark.

Cecil’s style of attachment is avoidant 100%. He struggles immensely to bring down the self-protective walls he’s built up over the years even when you’re twenty years into marriage. In the weird middlemost lull of your initial dating phase, it often felt like he was just there to lick the icing off the cake. He wanted the humor, exclusivity, intrigue, and emotional crutch of a romantic relationship without putting the in the effort. When you got sick, he didn’t bother to come visit. Rather, he sent store-bought soup. When you told him about how a particular problem was slapping the shit out of you, he would listen stone-faced and offer painfully obvious advice on how to fix it, not understanding that you’d already figured it yourself and just wanted him to be there and nod along.

When you told him that, he snorted. “Go get a shrink if you need someone to listen to you that badly.”

Yeahhh, the seven year mark of dating Cecil was highkey insufferable. I’m sure at this point you were mostly staying for the money, and even that might not have been enough.

One night after another aborted date, you issued an ultimatum before he could leave. Either he started genuinely investing in the relationship or it was over because quote “I can’t stand the way you treat me like an emotional cumrag, Cecil.”

Firstly, pop off! Secondly, slay! He stood there blinking for a moment, jacket in hand. Then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Not in the ‘God that’s the fifth time Invincible screwed up today’ kind of way, but in the ‘No, no, you’ve got a point goddamnit’ kind of way.

“I don’t want this as a concession,” you continued. “I want it as a fullhearted effort. I want you to deal with all the aspects of this relationship that I have to deal with – the hard times as well as the good times – because it’s not fucking fair that you can walk it off like a high school fuck and I’m left bitter over a fifty year old.”

That got him good. You were too frustrated to laugh at how he gaped like a fish, then got more frustrated that you couldn’t find humor in it, that you should even have to be in this situation with a full grown man.

“No, you’re right. You’re right. I’m… I should’ve paid more attention to you.” He tried to play it cool but you could hear the waver in his voice. “I was busy with work, and I neglected to consider your end of the deal. I’m sorry.”

You nearly rolled your eyes, this was so overdue. “I accept. But it doesn’t mean shit if you don’t follow through.”

He shook his head heavily. “I will, I promise. God, I’m sorry to have put you through all that. What was I thinking?”

He actually sounded pained. “Hey, let’s not make it about you now, Mr. Director,” you half-joked half-warned. “Now go save the world.”

As he walked out, you slapped his ass for good measure. His aloofness and unavailability have stayed constant fixtures in your marriage, but both of you have learned to work around them as a unit, designating times to talk or eat or play or just be together. Later, he told you he appreciated you standing up to him.

“It’s a quality I appreciate, conviction.” You wiped the sweat off your brow with a gloved hand. Summer had descended on your garden with a vengeance. “Yeah, is that so?”

“Yeah,” he sipped lemonade, his shades mounted high. “It seems so.”

Don’t even mention work around him, he’ll explode. There’s about a dozen things for him to worry about at any given moment to the point where most nights for him are spent at the GDA putting out fires. He counts snatching three consecutive hours of sleep as a win. At least if you somehow have a baby, he’ll be ready for the night shift.

Speaking of babies, this man does not want a freaking baby. Last thing he can afford to worry about. Encourages you to get on the pill if possible and uses protection like a priest wears his cross.

It’s such a struggle to get him in anything but his formals. You guys regularly vacation in Geneva and Cabo and he SLAYS various bodies of water with his suit and tie. As a surprise one time you packed a loud Hawaiian shirt and khakis for him in his suitcase. As the days went on without a hint of flowery orange, you grew more and more dismayed. You found them in your luggage at the end of the trip with a note.

“Not in a million years.”

(You got him to wear it for your most recent birthday. You snagged a picture. He deleted it off your phone with his super secret government powers.)

(He keeps it on his own phone for your next birthday present. He knows how much it means to you)

Cecil doesn’t feel sorry for like 90% of the things he ‘has’ to do. But he really really really overthinks the rare things he does regret. That’s when the Immortal-age wine gets broken out from his private study retreat (man cave). He’ll duck and weave but when push comes to shove he goes to you like he always has, his sanctuary, his rock. On the unfathomably rough nights, when he gets lost in his own head and he stares bleakly at you like he’s stuck in the worst moments of his life, you’re the one who bears the burden of being the most important person in the GDA. It’s not Donald who washes Cecil’s unmentionables, it’s you.

A bath is in order. You worried he’d try to drown himself the first few times but it turns out he’s actually incapable of slumping that low because his shoulders automatically lock up from old scar tissue. His eyes widen when they do. You can tell it scares him a bit in this state to not have control over his body, and it seems he knows as well. He just watches you quietly as you shake unscented bubble bath solution into the tub, scatter sweet honeysuckle from the garden, check the warmth of the water, gently rub his aging body. He sighs from time to time.

You try not to let him drink too much; justify it with the risks of high temperatures and old age and alcohol and such, but it’s mostly because you’re worried about what would happen if he did.

After the bath, you help him out and wipe him down. It’s clumsily unromantic. His leg hair alone could reforest the Amazon. It’s funny because he does nothing but sit around all day and still manages to get the thickest callouses on his heels. You frequently joke about him strutting about in high heels to achieve this level of dermal encrustment, which earns you an exasperated groan. You quip back. You’d rather have this weariness than his self-inflicted horror.

Once, he spoke.

“It helps.” He mumbled thickly.

It startled you from where you were pressed against his front. “What?”

“The baths,” you felt his throat quaver as he swallowed. “They help.”

A heartbeat later, he finished with, “Thank you.” And pressed a weak kiss to your temple.

The next morning, Cecil is gone as usual. He leaves a Post-It dusted in perfume letting you know that the Whole Foods near you has a good deal on essentials and ‘the early bird is able to buy more eggs in this failing economy’. You snort and roll back over, lazing in the sun as you write a response which you snap to the fridge, ‘birds lay eggs grandpa’.

Mandatory Debbie appreciation!!!

Debbie is supremely used to dealing with grumpy, overworked, stubborn old men. She actually sends you care packages every Christmas as a thank-you for being Cecil’s emotional chew toy, and they always make you laugh because it’s filled with things only a mother would pack: high SPF sunscreen for the garden, cute notes tucked in between instant noodles, plenty of Asian snacks, buns, and chocolate, an outfit or jewelry she thought would look good on you, emergency care supplies (even though you’ve got emergency private care), a journal or two, good pencils/pens/erasers, and books she’s finished already and wants you to read so the two of you can discuss them at length. The ramen comes in handy when Cecil’s private chef gets his paid time off and the snacks readily disappear throughout the year.

In response, you schedule times to meet with her between her familial obligations and work. At first Cecil was more than a little combative about his spouse spending time with the divorcee of Omni-man – nothing against divorcees, he said, just Omni-man – but you wrestled him into agreeance by threatening to withhold cuddles. You and Debbie talk about mundane things that you both miss, back when the biggest issues in your lives were what to make for dinner. You talk about how hard it is to live in the periphery of superpowered spouses. Her life has been shattered since Nolan left, and your presence has begun to fill in those cracks. You get the feeling she enjoys your company as much as you enjoy hers.

Back to our regularly scheduled bitchy old man media!!!

This goes without saying but he’s extremely accommodating of your hobbies. Do you like writing? A fully set up typewriter, new laptop, and paperback Scrivener tutorial show up on your bed. He’ll sign you up for workshops if you want. Got a thing for skydiving? 24/7 private jet just for you, baddie. Do shelves upon shelves of Funko Pops please you? Fuck it, drain his paycheck.

Cecil will do damn near anything to keep you happy. He tries his best to spend as much time with you as possible even with the GDA’s vice grip on his balls. As you’ve seen before, he leaves notes for you around the house as an endearing way to communicate with you, even if the contents aren’t all that endearing. He encourages you to see your friends under the condition that he’s always got your location – otherwise your imperceptible absence bugs him all day.

He fantasizes about just dropping it. Running away with you into some corner of the world, a sundrenched treehouse hideout looking out over seas of rustling, rolling prairie grass and creeks cold enough to steal your breath, the same way as it was when he was young. Before he got tough, before he got smart. Just two people in love sharing air and laughter and dreams.

Then his alarm goes off or Donald barges into his office. Cecil comes unwillingly back to reality, a dog collared every which way.

here's something wrong with this man and i really, really like it.

[starhvney]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑 | 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐘

����𝐂: ~5.1k

𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑: @arienic

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 ☆ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 | 𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒

Gene: I’m here Gene: Wya? You: I think I see you just wait there

You get up from the park bench, walking along the sidewalk to your ride, trying to keep your jaw from dropping as you stare at Gene’s familiar figure. He rests on his sports bike, black helmet visor lifted as he squints down at his phone.

“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle.”

He looks up at you, eyebrow raising as he looks you over. “You look cute. Why did you insist on me picking you up here instead of your place?”

“Because I don’t want to be investigated if my parents see a guy pick me up alone. Especially if they see me getting on a motorcycle,” you scoff. “I wouldn’t even make it out of the house.”

He smirks. “Fair enough.”

Despite your internal conflict and the weird tension with Laurance yesterday, you're surprised at how willing you were to come along with Gene today. Maybe a part of you craved the adrenaline rush of doing what you weren’t supposed to after all the years of being the “good kid”. Maybe you were, embarrassingly, doing it out of spite because of current circumstances. And maybe this was dumb. But you can’t deny the giddy excitement you felt knowing you probably weren’t supposed to be doing this.

He picks up an extra helmet from his bike and  lifts it up to you with one hand. With the other, he pushes his visor back down. “Here,” he says. “Put this on.”

“Honestly, I’m kind of surprised you wear a helmet,” you remark, taking the helmet from him.

He snorts. “I may break the rules but I’m not fucking stupid.”

You take a moment to examine the helmet before sliding it over your head, internally groaning at how this was most definitely going to ruin your hair. Once it’s on, you take a step forward so you can get on the bike behind him, only to be stopped by his hand darting out to your waist.

“Did you fasten it?”

Your hands raise to the helmet in confusion. “…No.”

Still sitting on the bike, Gene pulls you towards him, one of his hands moving under your chin where the helmet strap is. One-handed, he tugs the strap tight, his other hand tapping your side once he's done.

“Okay. Now sit as close as you can behind me and wrap your arms around me tight. Got it?”

You nod, doing as he told you to and sliding onto the seat behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and hugging onto him like a backpack snug on his back.

“Ready, doll?”

You nod again.

“I need an actual yes, sweetie.”

You sigh, before leaning forward and confirming with a “Yes.”

Whether it’s adrenaline or anxiety coursing through your body, you’re unsure. But it’s a bit too late to back down when he flicks up the kickstand with his foot and revs up the bike, taking off into the street.

If anyone that you knew saw you right now, you’re sure they’d either assume you were coerced into this, or that you finally lost your mind.

Maybe it’s the latter, because feeling Genes muscles shift under your arms and the wind brushing through your clothes and against your skin was… making you feel giddy. You’re having fun, you realize, and as the motorcycle picks up speed you realize something else: despite the fact that you’re letting a senior delinquent pick you up on one of the most dangerous vehicles to ride, you completely trust that he'll keep you safe.

Every now and then he reaches for your hand—secured on his waist—and squeezes it in what you think is a way to check on you, and so despite the intimate nature of it, you link your fingers with his and squeeze back, earning yourself a satisfied chuckle that rumbles from his back against your chest. The entire ordeal has your ears warming and face flushing. By the time you get to the mall and have to dismount the bike, you're debating just leaving the helmet on forever, for fear that you're completely flushed underneath.

Still, Gene unlatches it for you and gently pulls it off your head, doing the same for himself and placing both on the bike. He pushes the sleeves of his flannel up before turning around, and you can't help but linger on his surprisingly strong forearms. He reaches out to ruffle your hair.

“Having fun so far?” He smirks, leaning down to meet your gaze. 

You swallow, realizing he’d just caught you clearly ogling him, and there’s a deep, primal urge to scream. Executing a little more self control than you had yesterday, you allow yourself to nod. 

“Yeah.” You smile, crossing your arms and attempting to distract the attention from you. “Do you ride around a lot?”

He seems satisfied with your reaction, straightening up and nodding for you to follow him.

“Yeah. When I can, at least. I got it recently, so I don’t want to run it into the ground just yet, you know? I had the money to buy it, but whether I have the money or not to repair it is…” He makes a face, gritting his teeth. The expression is kind of… cute. “And, uh, my mom was not too happy about me buying it.”

“Hm? Why not?”

He snorts. “It’s dangerous. Plus, she’s worried Dante will want to get one, too.”

“Ah,” you hum, your friend’s face popping into your head. Aside from their looks, Dante and Gene seem so different that you forget they're brothers half of the time. “Do you want him to get one?”

“Honestly?” He tilts his head, pondering on your question. “No. I’ve done and currently am doing a lot of really dumb shit that I don’t want Dante doing.”

“Dumb shit, huh?”

He smirks, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Say that again?”

“…Dumb shit?” you mutter in confusion, earning a quiet laugh from him.

“Has anyone told you that the cuss words that come from such an innocent face like yours is funny?” he snickers.

“Wh—huh?”

“Say another one.”

You blink at his request. “Um, the fuck?”

He tilts his head back, fully laughing this time. “Oh, that’s actually adorable!”

“Shut up.” You look away, an embarrassed flush rushing over your cheeks.

“Aw, come on, doll, I mean it in the best way,” he insists. You're not inclined to believe him when an amused smile's still plastered on his plump lips. His hand lands on the small of your back. “Hey, you hungry?”

You bite your cheek. Well, you haven't eaten since lunch, and today's choices in the cafeteria were honestly not very satisfactory.

“Sure. I could eat something. I didn’t eat much at lunch, anyways.”

“Let’s go, then,” he says, steering the two of you to a familiar café.

Oh, shit.

The café Laurance works at. Was he on today?

You stumble your steps, swallowing nervously. “On second thought…”

Gene glances over at you, eyebrow quirked as he continues guiding you forward. “You just said you didn’t eat much today.”

“I’m actually not that hungry…” you laugh awkwardly, panic seeping into your bones the closer you make it to the doorway.

“You just said you could eat something.”

“But I don’t—”

“Don’t want Laurance to see us?” Gene leans over with a wide, shit-eating grin, and you can’t help the way your jaw drops and eyes widen. “Why not? If he’s here then this is a perfect opportunity for you to get back at him, no?”

It’s too late to argue further when he continues encouraging you into the cafe, and, oh! What better is your luck than to see the very boy you were worried about behind the counter!

“Oh, this’ll be fun,” Gene muses, flashing Laurance a cocky grin when the boy looks up, his eyes widening at the sight of you both.

Gene’s steps don’t falter as he parades the two of you right up to the register, his head tilting almost mockingly at the soccer captain on the other side. Laurance's eyes jump from Gene to you and you to Gene, gaping for a moment before he snaps his mouth shut. His nostrils flare, clenching his jaw.

“Laurance.”

“Gene.”

If a sinkhole were to randomly open up beneath you and suck you deep into the earth, you wouldn’t complain. In fact, this would be the perfect time for it to happen. 

“Why do you look so hostile towards me and my date here, Laurance?” Gene prods, his eyes lighting up in amusement when the boy’s eyes darken.

“I’m just wondering what brought you two here,” he grits, eyes drifting to you again.

You can’t keep the intense eye contact, instead choosing to duck your head.

Fuck.

“We’re just hanging out.” Gene is so clearly eating this up, and he still has his hand firmly placed against your back, like some sort of claim. “Why do you look so upset? Don’t you have a girlfriend? You can’t have ‘em all, Laurance.”

What the fuck?!

“Aren’t you going to ask us what we want?” Gene continues when he gets nothing but enraged silence from the other end of the conversation.

“What… do you want?” Laurance says carefully, straining with the effort of holding himself back. He does not want to lose his job.

“I’ll take a mocha, medium, and… oh! I’ll take a blackberry turnover, too,” he casually replies, before his hand slides up to your shoulder, lightly pushing you forward—stopping you from backing away like you slowly had been subconsciously doing this whole interaction. “What do you want, sweetie?”

You could throw up. You’re going to throw up.

“J–just a latte.”

“Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

Not anymore, bitch!

“Let’s also get one of those sandwich slices and a macaron in case she changes her mind,” Gene continues, flashing a smile at Laurance, who only glares back.

“Seventeen dollars and sixty cents.”

Gene finally lets go of your shoulder, his hand leaving a searing sensation as he goes to pay. Relief fills you when no other words are spoken between the two, and Laurance turns to prepare the order. As he walks off, Gene saunters over to the pick up section of the counter. You glare up at him.

“Did you know he was going to be here? You did that on purpose,” you whisper, voice wavering and nose wrinkling.

He smiles, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh, c’mon, that wasn’t too bad, doll.”

“That doesn’t answer my question!”

Your orders are set down in front of the two of you, and you quickly snatch everything up before making a beeline for the exit, desperate to leave. Gene picks up his own food before following after you, able to easily keep up with you despite how fast you’re walking.

“You mad at me?”

You don’t say anything, still attempting to speed ahead of him.

“Doll,” he drawls. “C’mon, he can’t see us anymore. Let’s just sit and eat, yeah?”

You stop in your tracks, whipping around and glaring up at him. His eyebrows raise, hands coming up in defense.

“Woah. That upset at me, huh?”

“That was awful. You’re awful,” you say, frowning deeply. “I hated that whole thing.”

He sighs, shoulders dropping as he steps closer, leaning down to meet your eyes at your level. The cocky smile from earlier is gone, and he seems… strangely serious.

“I’m sorry… for making you uncomfortable,” he says quietly, just to you, voice deceivingly earnest and eyes twinkling as they dart across your face. “I promise I really am. I might like to make Laurance upset, but I didn’t want you to be. Sorry, sweetheart.”

Your lips part, and instead of stuttering and trying to find a response, you simply turn to sit on a nearby bench, looking up at the tree and skylight above you and clutching your drink and snacks in your hand.

“You willing to forgive me?” he presses, slowly sitting next to you.

“Depends on if this is any good,” you mutter, looking down at the wrinkled bag with your sandwich and macaron inside.

He chuckles. “Well, then let's hope it is.”

The two of you start to eat, and you’re surprised at how Gene allows you to stew in silence, giving you space to cool down rather than continuing to press your buttons like he’d done with Laurance just before. It’s almost… unnerving how natural the lack of conversation between you feels, like two friends (or a couple) who were happy to just spend time in each other’s presence. You hate how good the food is, and how it calms you enough to admit it to him when you were both done.

“Guess that means you have to forgive me now, hm?”

You stare at him, eyes narrowed. He merely chuckles, wiping away a crumb from your cheek before ruffling your hair.

“Your intimidation tactics need some work. You only look cuter when you pout like that.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, I just did for a solid, like… ten minutes. That’s gotta be enough for now,” he teases, standing from the bench and taking one last swig of his drink before tossing it in the trash. “You ready to pick out an outfit?”

You stare at him as he outstretches his hand towards you, before sighing and reluctantly taking it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. You work on finishing your drink as you walk, your mind drifting back to the boy who made it—the guilt still ate at your insides. You can't believe that you'd been too nervous to look him in the eye at least once before running away. 

The two of you make it to a store front before you can dwell on it further, the inside dim and playing grungy music through the speakers. You look up with a raised eyebrow at the red, neon sign lettered 'Hot Topic' above you.

“They still give me an employee discount here,” Gene says, when you don't speak. “Even though I worked here like, two summers ago.”

Your lips wobble, and a snort leaves your lips before you can stop it. He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to you with a “let’s hear it, then,” look on his face.

“Don’t you claim that you aren’t emo? But you worked at Hot Topic?”

He scoffs, though an amused smile plays on his lips. “Hey, I worked here two summers ago. And they have outfits here that are good for non-normies that aren’t completely emo.”

“Sounds like something an emo in denial would say.”

“Oh, shut up and let’s take a look,” he sighs, looking a little defeated for once.

You’re too satisfied at your small victory over Gene Hyun himself to complain when he pushes you into the store, his hand firm on your back as he guides you through the racks of clothing. Some of the stuff was a little corny, but as you browsed, you had to admit that a few were actually pretty cute. As in, you'd-buy-them-yourself-even-without-Gene's-influence, kind of cute.. You honestly wouldn’t think that Gene got some of his stuff from here, but they had a few selections that you could see him wearing and looking good in.

After a few minutes, Gene pulls something from one of the racks, turning you towards him and holding two pieces of clothing up against your body, looking you up and down with a smirk.

“Oh, yeah. You’re trying this on.”

You glance down, your cheeks reddening at the idea of even wearing it out, let alone in front of him and a bunch of other people at a party. A thin, deep blue, and very short dress with ripped sleeves, paired with a black undershirt and what seemed to also be ripped tights.

“Oh, come on. At least give it a try,” he eggs on at your hesitation. “You’d look really good in this. Trust me.”

You take the clothes, looking at him uncertainly.

“And it matches my eyes…” he coos, nudging you towards the changing rooms and picking up a pair of tall combat boots on the way.

Sighing in resignation, you decide—for whatever strange reason—to entertain him, dragging your feet into one of the stalls and shrugging off your clothes, replacing them with your new party outfit. Heat rushes to your cheeks once you have on the full ensemble and you take a look into the mirror. It was revealing, yes, but it complemented your body well. You had to admit, you looked good. And you had to wonder how Gene got such a good eye for fashion. A knock on the stall door startles you from continuing to stare at your reflection.

“Well?” the ‘gang’ leader calls from the other side.

Gathering some courage, you pull open the lock and peek out, glaring up at him. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

He laughs at your accusation. “Hey, what do you mean by that? I think you’re a cute one. C’mon, let me see the full fit, now.”

With a wave of two of his fingers in a ‘come here’ motion he backs up, nodding for you to fully open the door for him to see you. A low whistle comes from his lips when you oblige, and he fully smiles, nodding his head in approval.

“You can act mad and shy, but you have to admit I have a good eye.”

You look down, picking at the edges of the rips in your tights, where the skin of your legs are revealed. “What kind of party is this, exactly, Gene?”

He tilts his head, walking up to you. “It’s gonna be teenagers making themselves look stupid and doing stupid things at some poor, oblivious parent’s house. That’s for sure.”

Your heart drops. You’ve never even gotten detention before, and now you were going to go to a house party where people would be drinking, smoking, and probably be up to other debauchery. You didn’t want to take part in tearing up someone’s house, and the thought of some drunk teen coming up to you while you were wearing this and trying to pressure you into something was enough to send a sick shiver down your spine. A part of you wants to throw this outfit right in Gene’s face and telling him to forget about the agreement all together, but before you can muster up with the confidence to, he’s moving closer into your space.

Leaning down to your height, he raises his eyebrows in concern, trying to catch your eyes. “You worried?”

You glance up at him through your lashes, unable to hide the nervousness any longer as you nod. Gene's close enough that you can make out each individual freckle scattered across his face, and the shine of his lip ring as he smiles at you.

“I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to, sweetheart. If you don’t want to drink, don’t drink. If you don’t want to smoke, don’t smoke. And if you’re worried about some guy trying to mess with you?” He reaches up and ruffles your hair. “I’ll fuck him up. So you don’t have to worry about that either.”

God, the image of Gene beating the shit out of some guy for creeping on you was both startling and honestly a little… attractive. The way he���s so confident in his ability to protect you…

“Why do you want me to go?” you murmur. “I’m not a party person. Zenix said it. You know it. I mean, wouldn't you have more fun if you went with someone more... outgoing?”

He shakes his head, amused chuckles leaving his lips. “Do you really think I’m just messing with you when I say I’m interested in you? I want to have fun with you. And maybe I wanna see you have a little fun.”

You look down. Maybe you're too hard on yourself. Is that really Gene’s goal here? Not to mess with you or make Laurance hate him even more, but to get you out of your shell?

Gene watches you think to yourself for a moment, before stepping forward and pokes your cheek.

"Come on, why don’t you change out of that?" he says, gesturing towards the changing stall. "I'll buy it for you, and then you can hang out with Zenix, Sasha, and me for a bit. Sound good?”

☆

When you get off Gene’s bike and pull off your helmet, you find yourself in a skate park, the sky above beginning to darken as the sun disappears beyond the horizon. There’s a few people hanging around, most of them looking either high school or college age. A group of them smells strongly of weed, and they cheer half-heartedly as one teen pulls a few tricks.

You told your parents you’d be hanging out with one of your friends at 'her' house after school, and you feel a little anxious at the thought of them finding out you’d really been spending time with a boy, and one with a delinquent reputation, at that. An arm slings around your shoulders, and you’re guided to a familiar duo lazing on a park bench. When you get closer, you realize that it smells of fresh spray paint; your eyes widen at a fresh tag on the concrete below, reading 'SK'.

The culprit of the graffiti very boldly still has paint on his fingers, a used can sticking out the pockets of his baggy jeans.

“Sup. Having fun with your goodie-two-shoes here? She still hasn’t wimped out?”

Gene stares at him unamused, pulling you closer to his side. “Zenix.”

“What?” He gets up, ignoring Sasha as she lightly kicks his shin, and pulls out the can of spray paint, shoving it towards you. “If she’s cool, why doesn’t she prove it?”

Your heart rate speeds up, palms sweaty as you swallow. Before you try and flounder for an excuse, Gene speaks up again, his voice firm.

“We’re not doing that.”

Zenix pauses, staring at Gene before rolling his eyes, tossing the can to his bag and snatching up his skateboard from the ground. “So fucking lame.”

“Hey,” Sasha calmly greets, sending Zenix a judgmental look as he stalks off to the skate ramps, then lightly smiling in your direction.

“Hey,” Gene says, sounding less than happy as he squeezes your shoulder and guides you to sit on the bench. “I’ll be right back.”

You sit, watching Gene follow after Zenix before looking over at Sasha. She’s already looking at you, an eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips. She’s… really pretty. Soft white hair brushes across her forehead and flows across her shoulders, framing her pale skin and doll-like features. Mascara and dark eyeliner frames her eyes, the color a startlingly beautiful lilac—almost siren-like. Honestly, a part of you is surprised that neither Gene nor Zenix are dating her, but the way she glances at them like an annoyed sister immediately shoots down any assumptions.

“Don’t mind Zenix,” she comments, crossing her legs. “He doesn’t like that Gene’s changed recently.”

“Changed?” You look over, eyebrows furrowing when you see the two boys leaning on a railing, smoke puffing from their lips as cigarettes burn between their fingers. They’re deep in conversation, and Gene seems to be lecturing Zenix, who's sulking like a kid and staring at the ground.

“Yeah. This year he’s kinda… chilled out a bit. I don’t mind, but Zenix is a… lively person. He’s restless. I think maybe he feels almost left behind.” She taps your shoulder. “And Gene’s mellowed out even more in the past week alone.”

You glance over at her. “In what way?”

“Usually he’d suggest new places to trespass and people to mess with and choose to do that instead of, you know, being normal? But lately he’s been wanting to go to class and chill at places like this instead.” She shrugs. “He’s just different. I think he’s matured. And maybe he’s found a reason to be better, I’m not sure.”

That information settles into you, and you stare off in thought. You both sit in silence until a wave of cigarette smoke hits your nose, the two boys’ footsteps approaching. Zenix stops in front of you, pressing the toe of his shoe into the concrete and sighing.

“My bad.”

You blink up at him. “...It’s all good.”

He wrinkles his nose, looking like he wants to say something snarky in return, but stops himself and continues on towards an awning with some vending machines underneath. Sasha looks up at Gene for a moment, before sighing and standing up.

“I’ll go with him.”

Gene nods, watching his two friends leave before taking a seat beside you, the musky scent of his cologne mixing with the cigarette still between his fingers. He takes one last drag, turning his head from you to release the smoke before flicking it to the ground and smothering it with his shoe. You can’t help but stare, and he sends an apologetic look back.

“…Sorry. Bad habit,” he rasps quietly, clearing his throat and looking up to the sky.

You look up with him. It's the end of twilight now, the last lingering rays of the sun leaving touches of orange on the dark purples and blues that swallowed the light. The street lights scattered around the skate park are pretty dim, allowing you to make out a few stars beginning to show themselves in the night. 

“It’s okay,” you mutter, despite the small nervous voice in the back of your head that worried the smell would stick to your clothes, alerting your parents to what you’d really been up to. “…Have you been trying to stop?”

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t want Dante to catch on and pick up the habit. Plus, I regret getting… a few other people into it too. It’s not good for them.”

You think of Laurance.

“Not good for you, either.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, that too.”

You both watch as the orange fades to a distant pink, and more stars shine against the dark backdrop.

“It’s pretty. The sky,” you note quietly. “And the moon. It’s a perfect crescent right now.”

“Mhm.”

You glance over at him, nearly jumping out of your skin to see him already staring down at you. He looks intense, like he's thinking about something horribly important in his head. Your eyes widen when his hand comes up to your face, the rough calluses on his thumb brushing against your cheekbone as he begins to lean in.

No way this is happening right now.

You suppress a gasp when his lips meet yours, shoulders stiffening and heart thrumming in your chest. His lips are slightly chapped, but they’re plump, and you’re surprised to find yourself leaning into him despite how every other part of your being screams in a confused panic. The taste of tobacco lingers on your tongue when he pulls back, his eyes scanning your face and lingering on your mouth before he leans away.

Guilt washes over his features when he sees your shocked features and stiff body, and he looks down with regret.

“...I’m sorry. I should’ve asked,” he mumbles. “I got carried away.”

You swallow thickly, trying to focus on what he was saying through the blood still rushing in your ears.

“I… I’m just not sure how I feel yet.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “That was a dick move. I’m sorry, doll.”

You blink, staring down at his lap as you brew in your confusion. You feel guilty. Gene had hurt the people you consider your close friends in the past, and one of them was a boy you’d had a crush on for the past two years. But… a small sense of longing lingers in your gut for Gene, his genuine expression tugging at your heartstrings and stirring a strange fluttering sensation in your stomach.

…And you can’t deny, he kisses well.

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

You break the silence on the way back to his bike, wanting to ease the storm that was starting to brew over his head.

“Thank you for buying me the clothes. And the food.”

He looks at you from the corner of his eyes, a smile threatening his lips. “It was nothing, sweetheart," he says, then tilts his head down at you. “You still on for this weekend?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

“If you change your mind and want to do something else, we can,” he says, fastening his helmet on before helping you with yours.

You hesitate, a sense of bravery and determination guiding your next words as he secures the strap under your chin. “We already got the perfect fit, didn’t we? Might as well put it to good use.”

He chuckles. “Atta girl. Time to live a little.”

☆

You’re back home and in your room—thankfully without any suspicion from your parents—when you finally check your phone, and are surprised to see several texts from Laurance.

5:24 Laurance: Sooo what was that about? Laurance: Did he blackmail you into going on a date with him? 6:47 Laurance: …? Laurance: Is everything okay?

Your heart drops as you stare at the screen. Laurance has a girlfriend, but why do you feel like you’ve just been caught cheating on him? With a shaky sigh, you respond.

You: Omg Laurance I’m so sorry I’m just seeing this now!!! You: We were just hanging out, it wasn’t a date.

The read notification shows up immediately, and it feels like your heart is going to leap out of your throat. Staring at the screen, you frown when he doesn’t respond immediately. Is he angry at you? After a second he starts to type, before stopping, and picking up again a few seconds after.

Laurance: Oh, okay.

Your heart drops.

Laurance: I just wanted to be sure. Laurance: You’ll tell me if he tries anything on you, right? You: Of course. You’re one of my best friends, Laurance

He starts typing again, before pausing. You wait for a minute, then two… until you start to get confused. Maybe he accidentally clicked his keyboard, and that was the end of the conversation.

Laurance: You’re one of my best friends too :)

…Weird.

Laurance: Good night, I’ll see you at school You: Yeah, see you :) Good night

Flopping down on your bed, you stare at the ceiling, eyes wide and blank. You know, the love triangle trope is pretty well hated by the reading community for a reason. There’s always a clear choice to make, and anytime you’ve had to suffer through them in any piece of fiction you’ve always wanted to claw at your face from how stressful and stupid it was. After all, it can’t be that difficult!

…

How stressful and stupid this all is.

©starhvney 2024. do not plagiarize, feed to any AI, or repost my works to any sites.

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[silvyysthings]

https://www.tumblr.com/silvyysthings/785355024863772672/can-you-or-anyone-who-reads-this-tell-me-why-some?source=share

anon, do you honestly believe that Kylie is innocent being part of one of the most corrupt families in the world? One where they used blackmail (Kris has had blackmailed other men around her daughters), aided in sex trafficking, money laundered and help strip Britney of her wealth and helped the people who put her in conservationship, drugged and caused physiological damage to men - hello Pete and Kaney looking at ya. So, do you think that they and her are beyond exercising power and twisting his hands. Yes, he agreed and signed the contract but do you honestly look at this man and think yes he is happy and wants to be this situation and he is there by his own free will? Like have you seen his face in the last game in that video- does it look to you like face to someone who willingly wants to be there? Yes, he chose badly, yes he signed, yes he agreed but god damn it people make mistakes. I pray you never have a family member who falls into trouble or falls to addiction or signs a stupid deal. Anyways, the point was that Kylie is not innocent - she could have let him go seeing how unhappy he is but she thrives on attention (positive and negative) and she clearly want to get what she paid for (which fair). The way she smothers him, continues to strangle him even when he flinches away from her, forced him to kiss her (hello tennis match video) and makes him do things he is clearly uncomfortable with. This is not a behaviour of a woman who is just doing her job and fulfilling her role - this is a behaviour of toxic person, clingy and manipulative. It is frankly worrisome to watch. She is not just a PR girlfriend like Lily or even Eiza - did you ever see them act like this and forces themselves on him? No, because they were professional, respectful and doing their jobs. I know this is unpopular opinion in this fandom but I think him and Lily were at the very least friends. Kylie has bullied women (Selena and others) and have laughed and covered crimes when it comes to Megan Thee Stallion - look it up.

that all being said I do feel sorry for Kylie as she is clearly a product of her environment and being surrounded by that family, fame and money at a young age does psychologically mess you up. But and this is a big but she continues to chose to be involved and continues to literally bully Timothee and cross his lines even when she sees he is uncomfortable (we have enough video footage of this) and this is where I draw the line as this is not ok. It goes beyond doing your job. No one deserves to be disrespected and treated that way.

literally could care less if he has a PR relationship with someone, almost anyone in HW will be a better option at this point. It’s just how the business he is in works - you got to do what you got to do. But this behaviour from her and her family is unacceptable and bordering on abuse. This is why I personally not ok with her.

I don’t even care about how she looks or what operations she has . Is it a a good role model - no and is it harmful for young girls - yes . But on the flip side of the coin I think people are free to do whatever they want with their bodies and I am not one to tell a woman what to do. I have nothing against her surgeries and way she looks - don’t find it attractive or appealing at all and I prefer natural looks, but I think that doesn’t make her a bad person and i think she has the right and freedom to do and look however she likes. It’s her behaviour, complicitness and the way she treats people, treats Timothee, animals, children and environment that I have an issue with.

thank you for your opinion anon