#like i had it offered to me the next time i loved someone and i remember thinking in the moment like

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 24

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You had just taken a bite of your pastry; still warm, the subtle sweetness of melon practically melting on your tongue when Chai Latte Cookie leaned in with that look. You knew that look.

“So…” she began innocently, twirling a strand of her hair around one finger. “Will the ever-elusive, breathtakingly mysterious, utterly unshakable Sage of Truth be joining us this morning?” 

You nearly choked. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie let out a low whistle, already smirking behind his cup. Earl Grey didn’t look up, but you could see the small upward twitch of his lips. You glared at Chai, cheeks warming. “We didn’t even see each other yesterday.” 

“Oh, I know,” she said breezily. “Which is exactly why I’m asking. Perhaps absence makes the heart grow bolder?”

“Don’t you mean fonder?” Hazelnut biscotti offered, raising a brow. 

“No,” Chai said with mock solemnity. “I meant what I said. This one’s bold now. I saw it. The way they held his hand like a seasoned romantic under the table the other day? The nerve.” 

You covered your face with your hands, groaning into your palms. “I’m going to walk into the sea.”

“There is no sea,” Earl Grey said mildly, buttering his second pastry. “But if there were, I imagine you'd still try.” 

Chai patted your shoulder, all too pleased with herself. “Don’t worry. We’re proud of you. Truly. But if you think for a second I’m not going to tease you every time he’s not around, you’re wrong.” You peeked out from between your fingers. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.” Unfortunately, you did. Still, despite the embarrassment, there was a warmth in your chest that hadn’t faded not since that day in the gardens, not since the quiet walk to dinner, not since the moment you caught yourself watching him with that soft, foolish smile on your face. 

No, he wasn’t joining you this morning. But the thought of him lingered all the same. You waited for the perfect beat just as Chai Latte Cookie sipped her tea, her eyes still dancing from the last quip she made about Shadow Milk and then you leaned in, casually, your tone light but unmistakably deliberate. “So,” you said, “is there someone you’ve been thinking about lately?”

Chai choked. A sputter of tea escaped her lips as she quickly reached for a napkin, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with as much grace as one could muster after nearly inhaling jasmine green. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie blinked. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, her voice half an octave too high. 

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow, ever observant. “They barely asked anything. You reacted as though they proposed on one knee.”

“I did not,” Chai huffed, cheeks just a touch too pink. “It was just them asking. I didn’t expect it.” You tilted your head innocently, sipping your own tea. “Why not me?”

 Chai stared at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a carefully constructed smile, she leaned back in her seat, twirling her spoon between two fingers. “You just don’t usually ask things like that,” she said smoothly. “Especially not first.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned forward, clearly invested. “But it’s a good question. Is there someone, Chai?”

Chai waved him off with a groan. “Please, like I’d tell you.” 

You gave her a small smile, more sincere this time. “You don’t have to tell us. I was just curious.” 

Her eyes softened, and something flickered across her face brief, almost imperceptible. She reached for her teacup again, holding it between her hands like a shield. 

“…Maybe,” she murmured into the steam. “Maybe there’s someone. Or maybe I just enjoy a good story too much.” 

Earl Grey gave a quiet hum, sipping his tea like this was all immensely entertaining. Hazelnut Biscotti looked scandalized; he hadn't gotten a straight answer. But you just smiled, letting the moment pass. Because you saw the way her gaze lingered not on Hazelnut or Earl, but on you. And maybe she did enjoy a good story. Or perhaps she was just quietly waiting for hers to be written.

You rested your chin in your hand, watching the morning light glint off your tea. “I think we’ll get in,” you said, voice softer than expected, but certain. “All of us. The Spire, the labs we want… I really believe it.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie tilted his head, grinning. “You sound pretty confident for someone who almost got taken out by enchanted ice cream.” 

You rolled your eyes. “That was one time.” Chai Latte Cookie laughed, nudging your leg under the table. “Go on, then. Enlighten us. What do you think it’ll be like?”

You glanced at each of them, letting the thought build in your mind. “Big, obviously. But not in an intimidating way. More like… the kind of big that feels earned. The towers won’t just scrape the sky, they'll speak to it. Glass ceilings, enchanted railings, whole hallways that reflect constellations, maybe even floating staircases. It’ll feel alive.” 

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow, intrigued. “You sound like you’ve seen the blueprints.” You smiled. “Maybe I’ve just dreamed hard enough.” There was a quiet moment before you added, “I want us there. Together. I want to sit with you all in some ridiculous sky-windowed study hall with piles of research and cups of bad tea and think…we made it. Not because someone handed it to us, but because we earned it. Because we never stopped trying.” 

Hazelnut leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, grinning. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“I’m serious,” you said, trying not to laugh. “We’ve all worked so hard. You, with your field reports and that time you got Professor Calamint to quote you-”

“Unintentionally,” Hazelnut Biscotti mumbled.

“Still counts,” you said. “Chai, your enchantments? I saw how the upper division students were in awe of your binding techniques.” Chai blushed, sipping her tea to hide it.

“And Earl Grey,” you continued, looking at him, “you’re probably already halfway to running your own department.”

He didn’t smile, not exactly but something in his expression shifted. A kind of quiet, thoughtful pride.

“I just mean…” You trailed off for a second, then looked back down at your tea, hands cupped around it. “I want it to be us. I want to build something with all of you. Not just research. A life.” 

Chai reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Then let’s do it,” she said simply. “Let’s get in. All of us.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti raised his cup. “To windows in the sky and pineapple-free food experiments.” Earl Grey added, “To what comes next. And who we’ll become, getting there.”

You smiled, heart full. “To us. Always.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie squinted at you over the rim of his cup, dramatic suspicion written all over his face. “Okay,” he said slowly, pointing a croissant at you like it was a wand of truth.

“But seriously. Who are you and what have you done with the real you?”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he said, leaning back with a grin, “first you nearly cry over us doing research together like it’s the last scene in a tearjerker, and now you’re giving motivational speeches over tea. Are you… okay?”

“I’m great,” you replied, mock-offended. “I’m being heartfelt!”

“Oh no,” he said, gasping. “It’s worse than I thought.” 

Before you could retaliate, he reached across the table and dramatically placed his palm on your forehead. “Warm. Suspiciously warm. Someone check the pineapple ice cream. I think it’s still in their system.” 

Chai Latte Cookie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “Hazelnut Leave them be!”

“I’m just saying!” he protested, wagging his croissant like a lecturing professor. “Next thing you know, they’ll be asking us to hold hands and sing a unity song about the Spire.” 

You groaned, grabbing a napkin and chucking it at his head. “You’re unbelievable.” Earl Grey Cookie, unbothered, sipped his tea calmly. “If they do start singing, I’m leaving. Just for the record.”

“Rude,” you muttered, trying not to smile. Hazelnut grinned, victorious. “There’s the real you. All I had to do was poke the dramatics out.” 

You shook your head, finally laughing again. “Fine. No more speeches. But you’re all still stuck with me at the Spire.”

Hazelnut Biscotti gave you a mock salute. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Moments like these made you cherish what it meant to be mortal. Even as breakfast came to a close the laughter lingered in your memories.

The four of you trudged toward Professor Almond Custard Cookie’s lecture hall like prisoners marching toward a velvet-lined doom. Despite the laughter from breakfast still lingering in your chest, the energy had shifted to something sleepier, more subdued as if the early hour pressed down heavier now that the scent of fresh pastries had faded from the air.

Even Earl Grey Cookie, who normally carried himself with such relentless composure, rubbed at his eyes with a gloved hand as you rounded the corner. 

Chai Latte Cookie stifled a yawn beside you. “Do you think if we all collectively fall asleep, he’ll just… keep going?” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie groaned dramatically. “He’d probably take it as a compliment. ‘Ah, yes,’”

he said, imitating Almond Custard’s slow, droning cadence, “‘my voice so soothing, so powerful it guides even the most unwilling minds into the arms of dreams.’”

You stifled a laugh. “You know that’s exactly what he’d say.” Chai nodded solemnly. “And he’d still assign homework while we’re unconscious.” 

The lecture hall loomed ahead, filled already with the rustle of notebooks and the soft drone of students shuffling into their usual seats. You settled into yours automatically; second row, left side while the others filled in around you.

A few weeks ago, your stomach would’ve twisted just being here. Back then, your notebook was mostly blank, your confidence was hanging by a thread, and Professor Almond Custard had developed an uncanny knack for calling on you at the worst possible moments. But now?

Now your notebook had pages of real notes. Now you could follow the material not always easily, but with far less panic. And now, thankfully, the professor barely called on you at all. Whether that was out of mercy or satisfaction, you weren’t sure, but you’d take the reprieve.

Professor Almond Custard Cookie shuffled in at last, his robes rustling like pages of an old tome, and the class collectively slumped as he cleared his throat. 

“Good morning,” he intoned, voice as slow and honey-thick as ever. “Let us return to the topic of magical theoretical integrations and their applications in low-energy environments…” 

Hazelnut whispered behind you, “Wake me when he says something I need to care about.” You fought a grin and let your head tilt ever so slightly toward Chai Latte Cookie, who was already doodling sleepy stars in the corner of her notes.

Even Earl Grey Cookie didn’t pretend to look overly invested though his quill still scratched dutifully at his parchment, because of course it did. Your hand drifted to your own pen, and you began writing, a steady rhythm that helped keep your eyes from drifting shut. 

The class stretched ahead, dull and slow, but you didn’t dread it anymore. And somewhere in the back of your mind just beyond the sound of Almond Custard’s voice you wondered what Shadow Milk Cookie was doing now.

If he was working on his speech that was endlessly picked apart. If he thought about you the way you were thinking about him. You tapped your pen once against your notebook. Just a little longer, you thought. Then you’d see him again.

The rest of your classes passed in a kind of sleepy, sunlit haze the kind that made your notes a bit messier than usual, but your mind was just clear enough to carry you through.

The late morning hours melted into afternoon without resistance, and soon enough, the four of you were trailing lazily down the corridor together, lingering in the quiet comfort of post-class peace.

“I think I’m gonna head to the Scholar’s Wing,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder and adjusting the strap with a small sigh. “Go see Shadow Milk for lunch.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie perked up with a grin. “Oh? A lunch date with the Fount of Knowledge himself?”

“Tutoring,” you corrected smoothly, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “I’ll just… check in on him. See how the speech prep is going.” 

Earl Grey Cookie gave a knowing hum, brushing a bit of dust off his sleeve. “Very considerate of you.”

“I brought snacks,” you added, patting your satchel. “I’m not planning to starve myself before dinner.” Chai Latte Cookie stepped in front of you without warning, hands already moving toward your collar. 

“Hold still,” she murmured, cupping your face, getting rid of any residual crumbs checking for anything that might be off.

“If you’re going to see him, you might as well look like you weren’t flattened by six hours of lectures.”

You blinked. “Do I look that bad?”

She gave you a soft smile, gently straightening a crease on your shoulder. “No. You look like you. Just… a slightly rumpled version.”

Her fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary before she stepped back. “There. Perfect.” 

Hazelnut rolled his eyes dramatically. “You’re sending them off like a lovesick noble in a romantic epic.” 

Earl Grey Cookie chuckled. “It’s the academic equivalent of sending a knight off to war.” You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. “You three are insufferable.”

Chai looked at you sweetly, “Don’t lie to yourself, you love us.” 

You didn’t argue. Just smiled, small and quiet, your heart full. “I’ll meet you all at dinner,” you said, starting to walk backward down the corridor. “If I don’t show, assume I’ve been buried under three feet of rhetorical edits.”

“We’ll bring a shovel,” Hazelnut called.

“And tea,” Chai added.

“And reason,” Earl Grey said with a smirk. “Though he may not listen.”

You waved them off, turning toward the familiar quiet of the Scholar’s Wing notes in your bag, nervous energy in your chest, and a little bit of magic still tangled in your hair where Chai had touched it. 

You approached the Scholar’s Wing with steady steps, though your heart drummed a little faster the closer you got.

The soft light that filtered through the tall arched windows of the corridor dappled across the polished floors like shards of daydreams quiet, golden, expectant. It always felt a little different, coming here with purpose. 

Not for tutoring, not strictly. Just to see him. You reached the familiar door, the one you’d memorized every detail of by now the precise polish of the brass plaque, the way the faintest hum of warding spells curled around the wood like mist.

You were early. You knew that. Technically, you didn’t need to knock Shadow Milk had said so once, long ago, in his typical way “Formality is a construct. But I’ll indulge it, if you must.” Still, your knuckles rapped gently on the door three soft taps, quick and careful. It wasn’t about permission, not really. It was a greeting. A ritual. You waited a beat. Then another.

No one responded at first, and for a moment you wondered if he might be buried in his work again, head down over a sea of ancient texts or that ever-growing speech draft. But then soft footsteps. A shadow passed under the threshold. The door opened. And there he was.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood with his usual composed grace, robes drawn neatly around him, one sleeve still slightly ink-smudged. His expression shifted the moment he saw you not with surprise, but with a softness that was almost imperceptible if you didn’t already know what to look for. “You’re early,” he said, voice low, calm. You gave a sheepish smile. “I know. But I wanted to see you.”

He blinked once, slow and unreadable. Then, he stepped aside. “Then by all means,” he said, and there was the faintest trace of something warmer in his tone, welcoming, even. “Come in.”

He didn’t say anything more at first just stepped aside as you entered, the soft fall of his robes brushing the doorframe. But something about it struck you. You tilted your head, giving him a sideways glance. “You usually don’t get up.” 

Shadow Milk Cookie raised a brow ever so slightly, hands folding behind his back. “Don’t I?”

“Nope.” You stepped further into the room, shrugging off your bag. “You always say ‘Enter’ like a command whispered through the walls. I’ve never actually seen you open the door yourself.” He looked at you for a long moment, then turned, walking back toward his desk with that same composed grace he always carried. “You arrived earlier than usual. I assumed it might be someone else.”

“Ah.” You nodded slowly, teasing, lacing your words. “So I’m not the only one gracing you with midday visits.” 

His glance flicked toward you again sharp, amused. “I didn’t say that.” You smiled, folding your arms. “So who did you think it was?” 

He paused, adjusting a few scrolls on his desk. “Perhaps I hoped it was you.” Your breath caught just briefly and then his voice softened. “But if it hadn’t been… I imagine I would’ve been disappointed.” 

You blinked. You paused, your fingers hovering over the back of the chair across from him, the seat you always took.

The one for students, for questions, for careful study beneath the ever-watchful gaze of the Sage of Truth. But something about it didn’t feel right today.

Instead, you stepped around the desk, dragging the chair slowly, deliberately, to his side. The soft scrape of wood against stone echoed through the quiet room as you brought it next to his, tucking it just so close enough to feel the space shift, the atmosphere soften. Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t speak, but you could feel his gaze on you, sharp and observant, as always.You didn’t meet his eyes right away. 

You just settled beside him, folding your hands in your lap. “Thought I’d try sitting here today,” you said lightly, though your voice wavered at the edges. “If that’s alright.”

There was a beat of silence just long enough for you to wonder if you’d overstepped. Then, softly, “It’s more than alright.”

You turned your head to look at him then, and for once, he wasn’t wearing the mask of the Fount of Knowledge. No distant air, no carefully crafted distance. Just Shadow Milk, sitting beside you, his gaze softened into something gentle. You offered a small smile, and he nodded once, slow and sure. 

And just like that, the space between you wasn’t for questions and answers anymore. It was just for you.

You sat a little straighter in your chair, glancing sideways at him, watching the way his attention lingered half on you, half on the open scroll he had yet to properly acknowledge since your arrival. A quiet moment passed, and then, you cleared your throat gently.

“So,” you said, nudging your shoulder slightly toward his, “are you planning to eat lunch? Or are you just going to subsist on ink fumes and scholarly resolve?”

He let out a breath, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. “That was the plan,” he murmured, eyes still focused ahead. “But your tone suggests disapproval.” 

You smiled, pleased. “Deep disapproval. Shame, even.” He turned to look at you then, one brow arched in that signature, inquisitive way. “I see.” 

You reached down and pulled your bag into your lap, flipping open the flap with a rustle and revealing the contents with a small flourish. “Lucky for you, I came prepared.” Inside were perhaps more than reasonably necessary snacks. Wrapped treats, dried fruit, a half-loaf of sweetbread from the dining hall, and two little jars of preserved jam nestled among napkins and spoons.

“I brought provisions,” you said, very proudly. “Just in case I got hungry. Or, you know, in case you needed a reason to not forget about basic mortal needs.” 

He looked at the collection, then at you, then back again. “You planned for this?”

“I plan for many things,” you said solemnly. “Hunger emergencies are high on the list. Especially in rooms where you lose track of time and forget meals exist.” 

A small, fond smile tugged at the corners of his lips, subtle but real. “I should’ve known,” he murmured. “You’re quite difficult to out-prepare.” 

You held out a wrapped bit of sweetbread like a peace offering. “Accept the mortal offering, O Fount of Knowledge.” His eyes narrowed just slightly amused. And then, with a quiet, almost reverent motion, he took it from your hand. “I suppose I’m convinced,” he said. “Just this once.”

You grinned. “That’s all I ask.” And for a few moments more, the two of you sat in gentle silence, sharing quiet laughter and sweeter things, the air lighter than it had been moments before.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, nibbling on your snack as the thought came to you casual, light, and maybe a little mischievous. 

“So,” you began, tone playful, “what’s your favorite flower? And which do you think you’d embody?” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t look up from the parchment he was annotating, but you saw the faint lift at the corner of his lips. “A curious question for a midday visit.”

“Come on,” you prodded. “It’s not that odd. Everyone has a favorite flower.”

“That may be true,” he murmured, finishing his note with a flourish of ink. “But few ask for both a favorite and a self-portrait in petals.”

You grinned. “Then I’m the first, and that makes it special.” He finally looked up at that heterochromic gaze resting on you with a flicker of amusement. “Very well.” You perked up. “So?” A breath passed. He set his quill down. 

“…Delphinium,” he said at last. “Tall. Elusive. Slightly poisonous. But beautiful in a way not easily understood.” You blinked. “Poisonous?”

“Only to those who are careless with it,” he replied smoothly. That made you laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“But,” he added, eyes narrowing slightly in thought, “if I had to choose a flower to embody, it would be different.”

“Oh?”

“The hellebore,” he said softly. “Quiet. Winter-blooming. Not eager to be known. And yet, it endures. Even under snow.” You tilted your head. “That’s a little sad.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But also true.” 

You were quiet for a moment, letting that settle. Then, with a smile, you said, “Okay. Your turn. Do me next.”

His brow arched. “Pardon?”

“Pick a flower,” you said, pointing to yourself dramatically. “One that fits me. What would I be?”

He studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze made your cheeks warm. Then, calmly, he said, “An Orchid.” You blinked. “Really? Not something more delicate?”

“No.” His voice was firm, but gentle.“Rare,” he said, almost to himself. “Stubborn, if not tended to just right. You don’t shout to be seen, but you’re noticed anyway. And…” He paused, then added, softer, “you thrive in places others might wither.” You swallowed.

“…That’s really sweet.”

He gave you a knowing look. “You asked.” 

You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across your face. “Alright, fine. You win.” Winning what you weren’t quite sure.

“I usually do.” He picked his quill back up, but the corner of his mouth curled just slightly, betraying the softness beneath the mask.

You said nothing more. Your heart caught, an unexpected stillness fluttering in your chest. You smiled, a little breathless. “That was… a very poetic read of me.”

“I am, regrettably, quite familiar with you.”

You laughed, light and flustered. “Is that a compliment?” He didn’t answer. But the corners of his lips curled, and his quill moved again this time slower, steadier. You looked at your hands for a moment, then glanced back up.

“Thanks,” you said, voice quieter now. “For seeing me like that.” 

He didn’t look up. But he murmured, so gently you almost missed it, “You’re easy to see. When one bothers to look.” Shadow Milk Cookie brushed the last few crumbs from his sleeve with careful fingers, finishing the small snack you’d brought with the same attention he gave to deciphering constellations or ancient texts…an absurd level of seriousness for a biscuit. 

You watched as he folded the empty wrapper and set it down beside his quill, then turned toward you with that unreadable calm. But you’d known him long enough to see the way his eyes softened at the edges. 

The way they held a question before his mouth ever moved. He gestured faintly to the seat you’d dragged beside his. “So,” he said, voice low, amused, “was today’s visit prompted by academic curiosity, or did you simply come to feed me?” 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. “Both, maybe.”

“Oh?” He leaned his elbow lightly on the desk, resting his chin against his knuckles. “You brought sustenance and questions? How strategic.”

“I like to come prepared.”

“Clearly.” His gaze flicked toward the snack wrapper. “Though if your goal was bribery, you’ll need to bring more than one.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s not bribery, it’s hospitality.”

“And if your presence is hospitality, then what is the lesson I’m supposed to impart in exchange?”

You shrugged. “Company. That’s all I wanted today.” He didn’t reply immediately, but you could tell he was still watching you carefully, attentively.

Like you were a page he hadn’t quite finished reading. After a beat, he said softly, “Then consider me a willing participant.” You blinked, a little stunned by the quiet sincerity of it.

“No tutoring today?” you asked, only half-teasing. “No assessments? Not even a pop quiz?” He smirked slightly. “Not unless you request one.” You groaned. “You ruin everything.”

“I ruin nothing,” he said, voice just barely playful. “You’ve simply come on a different kind of lesson day.”

“Oh yeah?” You raised an eyebrow. “And what kind of lesson is that?” He leaned back slightly, just enough for the window light to catch in his hair.

“The kind,” he said, “where we sit in silence, eat questionable snacks, and pretend, just for an hour, that time doesn’t exist.” 

You smiled. “I think I could pass that.” He smiled, too just a flicker. Just enough to say he agreed. You leaned back in your chair, eyes drifting to the soft afternoon light spilling through the Scholar’s Wing window.

The warmth made the air feel still, like the day itself had paused just for the two of you. Your foot nudged against the leg of his desk absently, your gaze flicking toward him as he finished brushing a final crumb from his sleeve.

“So,” you said lightly, almost dreamily, “when the hour’s up… does that mean we have to go back to tutoring?”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t look at you at first. He was quiet, contemplative, his gaze trained on the golden rim of his teacup as if divining truth from the way the light curved around porcelain. Then, with the faintest lift of a brow, he finally replied.

“Of course.”

You groaned dramatically, slumping forward onto his desk like a tragic play protagonist. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Why would I?” he said, tone infuriatingly serene. “An hour of reprieve is generous. But I am still your tutor. And you are still… you.” 

You raised your head just enough to glare at him from over your arm. “That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.” You scoffed, but your lips curled despite yourself. “What if I claimed the hour was spiritually transformative and I can’t possibly return to academics today?” 

He didn’t blink. “Then I would suggest you take up poetry and write a full reflection on your enlightenment by tomorrow morning.” You let out a long, suffering sigh. “You’re evil.”

“I’m thorough.”

“Same thing.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gave the faintest shrug, and you could almost swear there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I find your dramatics deeply amusing.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “That is… not consolation.”

“It is to me.” You exhaled again, defeated, but a grin found its way to your face anyway. You settled back beside him, arms folded behind your head, and let the silence return for just a while longer.

An hour could last forever, if you didn’t look too closely. However time flies and you found yourself one-foot in the grave from his merciless tutoring. 

Shadow Milk Cookie leaned back in his chair slightly, elegant as always, before he returned his attention to you with an expectant look. He definitely asked you something…but you don’t remember what…time to deflect. You twirled your pen between your fingers and gave him a sly glance. “So… once I finish tutoring, do I get a reward?” 

He tilted his head, as if amused by your phrasing. “You mean beyond the privilege of knowledge?” You groaned theatrically. “Oh come on. That’s not a reward, that’s just the academic version of vegetables.”

“I happen to like vegetables,” he said, entirely unbothered.

“Of course you do,” you muttered. “Let me guess. You were the kind of kid who asked for steamed greens as a treat.”

“I was the kind of child,” he replied smoothly, “who did not need treats to behave.”

You blinked. “Okay, that’s kind of terrifying.”

He smiled, just faintly. “So. You want a reward.”

You nodded, leaning forward over your notes. “Just a little something. I think I’ve earned it. I didn’t even fall asleep during the theory explanation, and I only got mildly distracted twice.”

“I counted four.”

You gasped. “That’s not fair! My thoughts were only briefly astray!” His smile deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he said, “If you finish the next two questions properly I’ll consider it.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not a yes.”

“No,” he said. “But it is a challenge. And I know how you are with those.” 

You stared at him, then picked up your pen. “Fine. But if I ace this, I’m expecting at least a poetic compliment and maybe a walk to the Academy gardens. Or stargazing. Or a secret book from your private collection.” 

He raised a brow. “You negotiate like someone who intends to win.”

“I always intend to win,” you said, scribbling the first answer. “Especially when you’re involved.” His voice was quiet when he replied. “Then perhaps I should start preparing your reward.” 

You handed him your notebook with a sheepish look, hoping praying that maybe, just maybe, your overconfident answers had landed somewhere near the truth.

Shadow Milk Cookie took it with all the ceremony of a scholar preparing to weigh ancient truths, flipping to your page without a word. He read through your work carefully, eyes scanning your answers with a focus so intense it made your stomach twist. Then came the silence. Not the awful, disappointed kind. The worse kind; the patient kind.

“…I take it I don’t get my garden walk,” you mumbled, slumping in your chair. Shadow Milk Cookie closed the notebook with a soft thump and folded his hands over it. “Not quite.” 

You sighed, dragging your hands down your face. “Okay, but in my defense, I got close. The structure was there, right? Emotionally, it was correct.”

“Emotion,” he said gently, “is not what governs magical theory. You’ve made conceptual leaps without establishing the foundation first.”

You peeked up at him through your fingers. “So… I failed the challenge.” 

He tilted his head, gaze soft. “You simply haven’t passed it yet.” You blinked. Then sighed. “Okay. Walk me through it. Again.” 

He picked up your notebook and turned it toward you, tapping lightly on your first answer. “Here. You conflated mnemonic sigils with memory anchors. Understandable, there’s overlap but you have to trace the function backward. What is this sigil supposed to do?”

“…Reinforce the cognitive imprint of a casting pattern?” you guessed.

“Correct. But not preserve it. That would be a memory anchor.” You nodded slowly. “Okay. So the application is different…”

“Fundamentally,” he said, tone never once unkind. “You’re not wrong in instinct. But instinct is only the beginning.” 

You scribbled a note next to the margin. “I’m still not getting that third part of the last question, though. About the transfer threshold.” 

He leaned closer, reaching over to annotate the diagram in your notebook. His voice was soft, measured steady in the way only he could be. “The threshold isn’t static. It fluctuates based on the complexity of the spell and the vessel channeling it. You were thinking too linearly.” 

You stared at the correction, then at his handwriting, elegant and sure even in the tight margin of your page. “This is why I wanted a reward,” you muttered, lips twitching. “You’re too good at making me feel like an amateur.”

He gave a rare, almost fond chuckle. “And yet, you are here still learning.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You nudged his elbow lightly with yours. “Thanks for not rubbing it in.”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked at you and offered a smile, so earnest, it made your chest ache. “I would never mock a mind in pursuit of truth,” he said softly. “But I will correct it. Gently.” 

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face. “Even if I don’t get my garden walk?” 

His eyes gleamed. “Finish the next section. Then we’ll see about the stars.” You set your pen down with a quiet click, stretching your arms above your head with a groan that felt entirely too dramatic for only an hour’s worth of effort. 

Still your brain was tired, and your notes looked like a battlefield of trial and error.

Victory was hard-earned, even if the page wasn’t perfect. Shadow Milk Cookie glanced over your latest attempt. “Close,” he murmured, tapping one line with his index finger. “This theorem wants clarity, not charm.”

You leaned in, squinting. “So, charm doesn’t count for partial credit?”

“That depends,” he said. “Are you trying to charm the rubric, or me?” 

You snorted. “Both, ideally.” He gave you a long, slow look. Then, with a soft hum, gently guided you through the correction. His voice was steady, as it always was, and even your missteps didn’t feel like failures when he spoke, not scolding, but unveiling the answers, like the truth had always been there, waiting for you to uncover it. By the time you scribbled down the final line again, the sky outside had begun to mellow, bathed in hues of lilac and pale rose.

The day was fading fast. You sat back in your chair and exhaled. “Well, I didn’t get them all right… but we finished before dinner. That’s something.”

Shadow Milk Cookie gathered the loose pages with fluid precision, stacking them neatly before turning to you. “It is.” You hesitated, glancing out the window toward the soft-lit spires and glowing walkways of the Academy. 

Then you turned back to him. “I’ll come with you,” you said quietly. “After dinner.” His head tilted slightly. “Come with me?” 

You nodded, voice a touch firmer now. “Wherever you’re going after this. If you’re working or wandering or… just sitting in your favorite chair cataloging truth like it’s poetry I’ll come.” The air held still for a moment, like the room itself was listening.

“But,” you added quickly, raising a hand, “after dinner. Because dinner is sacred, and if I miss even one meal with them, Chai will write a haiku about my betrayal. And Earl Grey will read it aloud.” 

He blinked once. Then, finally, the smile arrived soft, quiet, and full of that strange fondness that never had to be loud to be real. “Then I will wait,” he said. “Sacred rituals must not be disturbed.” 

You stood, gathering your things with a smile that reached your eyes. “You’re learning.”

“On the contrary,” he replied smoothly, walking with you to the door, “I’ve always known how to wait.” And outside, the day dimmed into dusk, while your heart carried the warmth of a promise unspoken but understood. The walk to the dining halls was practically engraved in your bones, lost in your thoughts.

You stepped into the dining hall just as the golden lanterns flickered to life above, casting their warm evening glow across the room. The scent of baked herbs and sweet rolls drifted from the buffet tables, mixing with the hum of end-of-day chatter and the occasional clatter of cutlery. Your friends were already at your usual spot middle table, just near the windows. 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie had kicked back in his seat, nursing something that looked suspiciously like his second bowl of stew. Earl Grey Cookie sat with perfect posture, reading over something folded in his lap that looked a lot like extra-credit material. Chai Latte Cookie, of course, was mid-sentence, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“-and then,” she was saying as you slid into the empty seat beside her, “he tripped over his own robe trying to flirt with one of the potion scholars. Knocked over two cauldrons. The entire hallway smelled like burnt strawberries for an hour.”

Hazelnut let out a bark of laughter. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Chai said dramatically, turning toward you as you began to fill your plate.

“Oh, you made it just in time. I was just about to retell the story, and trust me you need to hear this.” You arched a brow. “Is this the part where you traumatize me with gossip before I’ve even had dinner?”

“It’s tradition,” Earl Grey offered dryly without looking up. Chai grinned, tapping her spoon against the rim of her bowl like a conductor warming up the orchestra. “So. Rumor is, one of the second-years you know, the one who always talks about elemental harmony like it’s a romance novel? Well he accidentally enchanted his shoes to follow someone around campus. Without his consent.”

“Wait, what?” you blinked. “Like… autonomous shoes?”

“Fully sentient slippers,” Hazelnut said solemnly.

“They followed her for three hours,” Chai continued, barely holding back laughter. “She screamed every time they got closer. They had to call in the Labyrinth Tactician to unbind them.” 

You pressed your hand to your forehead. “I leave you all alone for one afternoon, and chaos takes the stage.”

“It always does,” Earl Grey said, setting his paper aside with an exhale. “But at least it’s never our fault.” 

Chai gave you a pointed side glance. “Well. Usually never.” You made a face but couldn’t suppress the smile curling at the corners of your lips. The table felt warm, familiar like all the strange, academic chaos of your life had found its grounding here. 

Among food, friends, and just enough nonsense to remind you that no matter what, you were still allowed to laugh. Chai Latte Cookie tapped her spoon against the rim of her teacup like a judge ready to deliver a sentence, her eyes glinting as she leaned in. “Okay, okay…this one isn’t about any random student for once.” 

You nearly choked on your tea, relieved and yet… mildly suspicious. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie looked up, intrigued. “Then who is it about?” 

Chai wiggled her brows. “You know Professor Dandelion Quiche, right? The one from the Divining Sciences department?” Earl Grey Cookie’s brow arched ever so slightly. “The one who’s always late to faculty meetings and quotes ancient dream omens out of context?”

“That’s the one.” Chai grinned. “So get this apparently, someone saw her sneaking out of the Cryohex Lab in the middle of the night. With Professor Frosted Thyme.” Hazelnut nearly dropped his fork. “No way.”

“They’re from opposite disciplines,” you said, bewildered. Chai leaned in closer, as if she was telling you all state secrets. “Exactly. Divination and elemental alchemy? It’s like academic blasphemy.” 

Earl Grey sighed, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. “That lab’s restricted after dark. If they were there, they were either committing scientific brilliance or a deeply suspicious rendezvous.”

“Or both,” Chai said, sipping her tea with flair. “Some say they’ve been working on a long-lost fusion technique. Others say they’re just… working on each other.” 

Hazelnut let out a choked snort. “I’m never going to be able to look at Professor Quiche the same again.” 

You stared at Chai, half-amused, half-horrified. “How do you even find these things out?” Chai just winked. “You’d be amazed what people forget to whisper in the tea line.”

She beamed. “I’m simply conducting research of the heart. And also chaos.” You shook your head, trying to smother your laugh behind your cup. “Well, thanks for the image. Really enriched my afternoon.” 

Chai patted your arm sweetly. “Anytime.”

Chai Latte Cookie had just launched into another one of her scandalous tales, this one about a rumored duel between two rival potion instructors over a misidentified root when Earl Grey Cookie, ever composed, set down his teacup with a soft clink and spoke.

“She’s not the only one,” he said, voice smooth as always. Chai turned to him, eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Earl Grey.” He arched a brow at her, unbothered. “Please. Half the things you know are because I told you first.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nearly choked on his juice. “You? No way.” 

You looked between the two of them, blinking. “Wait…Earl Grey’s your source?” Chai huffed, folding her arms. “Sometimes. Occasionally.” 

He smiled faintly. “Often.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

Earl Grey took another sip of tea, his expression amused. “But I let her do the reporting. It’s only fair. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t let her have the gossip spotlight?” 

Chai gave him a begrudging grin. “You mean the glory, which I richly deserve.” Hazelnut leaned across the table, eyes wide with mock reverence. “So you're like… the secret informant? The shadow behind the gossip throne?”

“I prefer to think of myself,” Earl Grey said coolly, “as the archivist. She’s the herald.”

“I’m the herald,” Chai repeated, eyes sparkling. “Okay, I kind of love that.” 

You laughed, unable to help it. “So you’ve been working together this whole time?” Chai gestured between them with her fork. “Only when it’s really juicy.”

“And it always is,” Earl Grey added without missing a beat. You shook your head fondly. “No wonder you two are dangerous.”

“We’re efficient,” Chai corrected.

“Terrifying,” Hazelnut muttered into his cup.

Chai just beamed, clinking her glass gently against Earl’s. “To the dream team.” 

He returned the gesture with a dry smile. “To chaos well-curated.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie extended his hand across the table toward you, his expression equal parts exhausted and helplessly amused. Without a word, you took it, your fingers sliding into his with an ease born of mutual suffering. 

No dramatic flourish. No commentary. Just the silent, resigned solidarity of two Cookies who had been utterly outmaneuvered by the gossip duo at your table.

Chai Latte Cookie and Earl Grey Cookie were now deep in some kind of dramatic reenactment Chai’s arms flailing as she described the alleged potion duel in increasingly elaborate detail, while Earl Grey occasionally nodded, offering precise, unnecessary corrections like a dedicated footnote brought to life.

You and Hazelnut just… sat there. Holding hands. Witnesses to chaos.

“What even is this,” you whispered under your breath, half-laughing. Hazelnut exhaled through his nose, squeezing your hand gently. “I don’t know,” he murmured, deadpan. “But we’re in it together now.” 

You gave him a solemn nod. “This is our reality.”

“Pray for us,” he added, as Chai dramatically slammed her spoon down to mimic the sound of “a wand being shattered against a cauldron in fury.” You both winced in unison. 

And kept holding on. Because sometimes, friendship meant enduring the gossip apocalypse with the only other sane person left at the table. Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward, her eyes alight with mischief and the kind of energy that only brewed from too much tea and too many rumors.

“Okay, but hear me out…what if we all just come back to my dorm again? Another sleepover. I’ve got clean sheets, cinnamon candles, and I may have saved the last box of almond puff pastries.” 

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie perked up. “You had pastries this whole time and didn’t say anything?” Earl Grey Cookie gave him a side glance. “She was waiting for a dramatic reveal. Obviously.”

Chai grinned. “What’s the point of hoarding snacks if you don’t unveil them like buried treasure?” 

You laughed, setting your tea down gently, but shook your head. “As tempting as that sounds, I can’t tonight.”

Chai blinked. “What? Why not?” You hesitated for a moment, then said softly, “I have to head back to the Scholar’s Wing. Shadow Milk’s waiting.” 

The words settled quietly over the table not dramatic, not scandalous. Just true. Chai tilted her head, the mischief fading into something gentler. “He’s expecting you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I told him I’d come back after dinner. I think… he was hoping I would.” 

Hazelnut let out a soft “oooh” under his breath, but didn’t say anything more. Earl Grey simply gave you a knowing look and a faint nod of approval. Chai smiled, nudging your arm. “Alright. We’ll save the pastries for next time.” 

Chai Latte Cookie’s smile faltered for half a second so brief it might’ve been missed if you weren’t looking. But then it was back, radiant and a little too bright, like sunshine forcing its way through a clouded sky.

“Ditching me for your mysterious scholar boyfriend?” she teased, elbowing you gently. “I see how it is. Cold betrayal wrapped in ink-stained affection.” 

You snorted, setting down your cup. “I never said he was my boyfriend, it's a bit complicated.”

“Oh, please,” she huffed dramatically. “You think I didn’t notice the way you practically floated back into the dining hall last time? If that wasn’t a post-kiss glow, I don’t know what is.” 

You flushed, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie cackled into his drink. “She’s not wrong.” True or not, nothing would help your case. 

Earl Grey Cookie, as always, was calm and composed, though his eyes twinkled just slightly. “We’ll be sure to ration the pastries accordingly in your absence.” You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “It’s just one evening.”

“That’s how it starts,” Chai sighed, clutching her chest like the lead in a tragic play. “One night becomes two. Suddenly we’re attending your wedding in the Moonlit Archives and I’m writing your vows.”

“You’d write the vows anyway,” Hazelnut muttered. Chai smirked.

“Exactly. I’d do a great job.” Despite her theatrics, you saw it that tiny flicker of something behind her eyes. Not sadness, exactly. Not jealousy, either. Just… a quiet ache. 

The way someone might look when they realize a secret part of their world is shifting. You reached across the table, brushing her hand with yours.

“Next time, I promise. Sleepover, pastries, everything.” She looked at you for a moment and then her smile softened into something more real.

“You better,” she said, voice warm. “Or I’m holding your pineapple ice cream hostage.” 

You grinned. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would.”

The table broke into laughter again, but your fingers lingered on hers for a second longer just long enough to say what you couldn’t out loud. Then, quietly, you rose, the chatter fading behind you as your thoughts turned toward the quiet hum of the Scholar’s Wing. 

Where he would be waiting. The knock was more of a courtesy than anything three soft raps against the wood, followed by the subtle creak of the door as you slipped inside and shut it behind you. The wards barely flickered, recognizing you, allowing you entrance as if you belonged. You weren’t expecting silence. 

But that’s what you were met with the low hum of enchantments, the faint rustle of parchment disturbed by the breeze of the closing door, and the softest sound of steady breathing. Shadow Milk Cookie was asleep. He was slumped over his desk, head resting on the crook of his arm, ink still drying beside a half-finished passage, his quill cast aside like a soldier at rest. Strands of star-dappled blue hair had fallen from their usual order, trailing like silk across the page and his cheek. 

His brows, usually so precise, were relaxed, his whole expression stripped of his usual composure. In sleep, he didn’t look like the Sage of Truth. He didn’t look like the Fount of Knowledge. He just looked… tired.

And human.

You stood frozen for a moment, the breath catching softly in your throat. He hadn’t moved the chair you'd claimed so many times before tucked beside him behind the desk rather than across from it. A quiet invitation. Your steps were featherlight as you crossed the room, your shoes barely making a sound against the floor. 

You lowered yourself into the chair beside him with the kind of care normally reserved for sacred things. For a long moment, you didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You just watched him. The afternoon light spilled through the stained glass in the corner, casting a gentle shimmer across the edge of his robes. You could see now just how long his lashes were. The faint shadows beneath his eyes, the subtle weariness in his posture. 

The way his fingers still twitched lightly, as if even in sleep, he was chasing something: an idea, a truth, maybe even a dream. You weren’t sure how long you sat there, only that the air in the room felt softer now, almost reverent. You didn’t dare reach for him afraid to wake him, afraid to interrupt the one moment where even time itself seemed to let him rest. Instead, you leaned in just a little, your voice barely above a whisper.

“…You always wait for me. Maybe I can wait for you just this once.” You smiled, small and warm, and rested your chin against your hand. And then, in the stillness, you waited. Your voice barely made a sound. Not even a whisper, really just breath shaped into words, the kind that dissolved into the quiet before they ever had a chance to be heard. Still, you spoke them anyway, tracing the air between you and him with thoughts too heavy to hold in silence.

“…I don’t know what we are,” you murmured, gaze flicking over to his peaceful, sleeping face. “Not really.” 

You watched the way his breath moved, slow and even. Not a stir, not a twitch. He was lost to slumber, far from the questions swirling in your chest. “Are we… something?” you continued, so soft that it was almost like thinking aloud. 

“Are we together? Are we… in love?” You didn’t expect an answer. Of course you didn’t. That wasn’t the point. “I mean, how do you even know?” you said, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. 

“Is it love if you never said the word? If you just… keep showing up? Keep holding someone’s hand beneath the table, or letting them sleep on your shoulder, or fixing their portfolio without asking?” 

You glanced down, a faint crease forming in your brow. “Or is that just kindness? Infatuation? I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell the difference.” Your voice wavered, but never rose.

“I keep waiting for someone to define it. For you to define it. But maybe… maybe it’s not supposed to be defined.” You looked at him again his cheek resting on ink-smudged parchment, his expression gentle, the starlight of his hair softly spilling over the page like spilled magic. “I just…” You swallowed. “I hope it’s not something fleeting. Not something that vanishes when my part in your timeline ends.” 

Still, he didn’t move. And maybe that was a kindness too. You leaned back just slightly in the chair, curling your knees up to your chest, folding your arms loosely around them. “You’re asleep,” you said, barely audible. “So I guess this is safe.” A pause. Then, quieter still, as if confessing to the air itself 

“…I think I’m scared because it feels real.”

And there, in the hush of that quiet, starlit room with no answers, no definitions, and no one to hear you but the weight of your own words you let your thoughts drift beside his, just for a little while longer. You shifted slightly, careful not to make a sound. The wooden desk felt cool beneath your cheek as you rested your head down, facing him. Closer than you’d normally dare when he was awake. 

From this angle, you could see the subtle slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes. His lips were parted slightly, breath even and soft. He looked peaceful like this… reachable. You studied him in silence, your own breath syncing to his without you meaning to. And then, like a secret too heavy to keep, your voice slipped out.

“I don’t know what we are.”

It wasn’t bitter. Just honest.

“I mean, we’re clearly not just friends. Not anymore. Not after everything.” Your gaze lingered on his hands, one curled under his head, the other resting loosely near the forgotten quill.

“But no one’s said anything. No label. No definition. It’s just… this.”

A silence. One he didn’t break. Couldn’t. That was what made this easier. “I think I’m okay with it. Most days,” you whispered.

“But sometimes… sometimes it aches. Just a little. To not know. To not call it anything.” 

You shifted your cheek against the desk, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. “It’s easier to say this when you’re asleep,” you added, quieter now.

“When no one can hear. Truths are easier like that…when they don’t echo.” 

The ache in your chest pulsed again quiet, persistent. “I don’t need you to say it,” you breathed. “But… sometimes I wish I could.”

And still, he slept. And still, you stayed half-hoping, half-afraid that one day, the silence between you would have a name. You tapped him lightly on the shoulder gentle, careful, like a knock made from fingertip to sleeve. Shadow Milk Cookie stirred beside you, shifting with a soft, drawn breath as though pulled gently from some far-off dream. He blinked slowly, hair falling slightly into his eyes, his gaze still hazy with sleep as he turned toward you.

“…You’re here,” he murmured, voice rough and low, like a warm stone just beginning to cool from the sun. You gave him a small smile. “You were asleep when I got here. I didn’t want to wake you.” 

His brow furrowed faintly, more out of puzzlement than anything. “How long was I out?” You shrugged. “Not sure. I just… watched you for a while.” A quiet pause followed thick with something unspoken, something neither of you felt the need to put into words. His golden eyes lingered on you, still soft from sleep. You were close. Closer than usual. Close enough that you could count the stars in his hair if you wanted to. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he said, sitting up straighter and rubbing at his eyes.

“You didn’t,” you replied quickly. “I liked the quiet. And besides, I told you I’d come back.” He smiled faintly at that just the smallest shift of his lips. “So you did.” 

You leaned your cheek against your arm, resting on the desk beside him. “If you’re still tired, we don’t have to do anything. I could just stay. Or we could go for a walk, if you wanted. Or we can sit here and talk about absolutely nothing until we get tired of that too.”

“Talking about nothing sounds dangerously close to philosophy,” he teased, voice still soft-edged. 

You grinned. “That’s only if you do it.” He chuckled lightly under his breath, the sound rare and warm. The world outside hushed and still. Then, on a whim, you spoke. “Can I ask you some questions? Not serious ones. Mostly nonsense.” 

He gave you a wary but amused glance. “That usually means trouble.”

“Definitely,” you confirmed. He gestured with one hand, resigned. “Very well. Proceed.” You cleared your throat dramatically. “If you had to live in a teapot for the rest of your life, what flavor of tea would you want to steep in?” His brow lifted. “…What.”

“Answer the question.”

“Chamomile,” he said, without missing a beat. “Mild. Soothing. Unlikely to stain my robes.” You laughed. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’m simply fast on my feet.” You took another breath, letting yourself relax into the rhythm of your questions, the quiet between his replies.

“Okay, new one. Would you rather read every thought someone has about you or have to recite every thought you have about someone out loud?” He winced. “Neither.”

“Not an option.”

“…The first, if only so I could never speak again and no one would find it strange.” 

You were still laughing when the next question slipped out too quick, too curious. “Have you ever been in love?” The air between you stilled. You instantly regretted it not because it was a bad question, but because you hadn’t meant to say it so soon, hadn’t meant to ask it when his guard was still soft, when the edge between sleep and wakefulness made everything feel too close, too real. He didn’t answer at first. 

But then he turned slightly, eyes meeting yours with a look you couldn’t decipher right away. “If I have…” he said quietly, “I imagine it would feel like this.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t ruin the softness of that moment. So instead, you reached across the desk and gently nudged his hand with yours nothing more than a touch, light as air. 

And he let his fingers rest there, beside yours. Not reaching. Not pulling away. Just being. You felt the weight of his words settle somewhere between your ribs, the silence afterward stretching not awkward, but undeniably charged, like the pause before a leap neither of you were brave enough to take. His fingers still lingered near yours. Close, but not quite touching.

You didn’t know what to say. So, naturally, you said something else entirely. “…If you were a soup,” you asked softly, “what kind would you be?” He blinked once. Slowly. There was a twitch of his brow, almost a smile, but not quite. “A… soup?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, as if doubling down would make it seem like less of a cover. “Like, if you had to embody the spirit of a soup. What would it be?” He looked at you for a long, still moment. And then quietly, almost conspiratorially he said, “Miso.” You raised an eyebrow. “Miso?”

“Mysterious. Slightly salty. Best when warm,” he replied, ever composed, though his gaze flicked briefly toward your lips before darting back to the space between your hands. “Also widely misunderstood.” A breathy laugh escaped you, too quiet to be called anything more.

“Sounds about right,” you murmured. Neither of you mentioned the question you did ask. Neither of you dared to acknowledge how close you were to something that would change the rhythm between you forever. And so, you leaned into the ridiculous. Let the veil fall back into place. 

“Wrong answer,” you said at last, deadpan. “The only correct soup is tomato bisque.” He scoffed delicately, theatrically. “Of course you would say that.” And for a little while longer, the veil stayed intact. But neither of you let your hands drift apart. 

You stood from the chair slowly, your movements careful quiet. You didn't want to disturb the strange stillness that had settled over the room, the way the golden lamplight made the air feel soft and warm and a little heavy. 

Shadow Milk Cookie blinked at you, still emerging from the drowsy edges of sleep, and in the quiet that stretched between you, there was too much you both weren’t saying. You looked down at him, at the faint print his sleeve had left on his cheek, the way his hair was out of place ever so slightly from his nap. You could’ve reached out. You could’ve asked. But instead, you offered a small, lopsided smile.

“I think I’ll take my leave,” you said, voice light, a little too easy. “You seem too tired to be interrogated tonight.”

His gaze lifted to yours slowly, the corners of his eyes still soft from sleep. “You don’t have to go.” 

You hesitated. “I know. But you’re tired, and I…well, I’m feeling merciful tonight.” That got the smallest huff of air from him, barely a breath away from a laugh. You made it halfway to the door before glancing back over your shoulder.

“Oh, and just for the record,” you added, voice deliberately casual, “if you were a soup, I’ve decided you’d be a very dramatic miso.” 

A blink. “…Why?” 

You smiled faintly. “Because you always seem composed until someone stirs you, and then everything just… floats to the top.” 

His expression faltered not with annoyance, not with confusion, but something more like… hesitation. You weren’t sure. But he didn’t reply. And you didn’t ask again. You turned back to the door and rested your hand on the handle. There were questions you could’ve asked. 

Ones that weren’t dressed in metaphor. But neither of you were quite ready for that not yet. Maybe one day you’d say what you meant. When that day came maybe, he’d say it back. But for now? You slipped quietly through the door, letting it close behind you with a soft click, and left your feelings resting in the silence between them.

A/N Hey y'all! this chapter has been LONG overdue, I'm studying for finals nothing major (I'm coping) but no I promise I am a okay thank you to all of those who have asked, and not to worry I will bring this story to completion...Once all my exams are over I will have all the time in the world (for a bit) Anyways I will be replying to my inbox tomorrow!

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

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[himasgod]

Hi!

How are you? I hope you're okay. Well, this is the first time I've asked you for something, so I hope I'm doing the right thing… Anyways.

How about a story where the only way to Yuu/reader's heart is through food, but not just any kind of food, but homemade food, not fast food, not restaurant food, just homemade food? Imagine the boys discovering, either through a casual conversation with the reader or through Grim, that the only way to your heart is through food, because, for you, food represents a form of love, one in which feelings and emotions come out transparently and sincerely.

This story could be for both dorms and overblot + kalim, just thinking about the food the boys will prepare makes me hungry.

I hope my request didn't bother you, and I apologize for any spelling errors. Have a nice day/afternoon/evening.

Bye!

OVERBLOTS + KALIM X READER

Where they find out that the way to your heart is through home-cooked food.

When he hears from Kalim—loudly—that the only way to your heart is through homemade food, Jamil nearly drops his spoon.

"What? Yuu likes homemade food? Like, emotionally likes it?? Like—falling in love likes it??"

He wants to scream. Because food is his thing. Cooking is his chore, his comfort, his language—but he’s never done it for love. Always for duty. Always because someone expected it.

Now, the idea that you’d cherish a meal he made with intention—just for you—makes his heart skip a beat and his stomach twist.

So he stays up late one night in the Scarabia kitchen, making a dish his father once made for his mother during festival season: stuffed vine leaves with lemon, turmeric rice, and sweet tahini-drizzled dates.

The moment he places it in front of you, he does not meet your eyes.

“This isn’t a big deal,” he mutters. “It’s just something I made. You can throw it out if it’s not your taste.”

But then you try it. And close your eyes. And smile.

“This tastes like someone missed me before I even left.”

Jamil stops.

You look up at him gently. “Did you make this with your heart?”

His voice is low. Raw. “…I don’t know how to make it any other way.”

Malleus doesn’t understand at first.

“You prefer homemade food… over grand feasts? Even over royal delicacies?”

You nod. “Because homemade food carries emotion. If someone makes something with love, you can feel it in the taste. It tells you you’re cared for.”

Malleus becomes quiet after that. Thoughtful.

That night, he visits Lilia.

“…May I ask you to teach me to cook something… simple?”

The next few nights are a saga. Things are burned. The Diasomnnia kitchen is almost destroyed. Sebek has a meltdown. But Malleus persists.

Eventually, he brings you a single, quiet offering: a small bowl of barley porridge sweetened with honey and fruits—a common fae breakfast.

“It was my mother’s favorite,” he says softly. “Lilia told me she usually made it, once, before she… before the end. I’ve never tasted it. Until now.”

You sip the warm spoonful, and your throat closes up with feeling.

“Malleus,” you whisper, voice trembling, “this… is beautiful.”

His gaze softens—more tender than you’ve ever seen it.

“If food is a way to your heart, then allow me to offer mine first. One dish at a time.”

“Oh! You like homemade food? THAT’S AMAZING!! I love making food for people!!”

Kalim’s the one who runs full speed toward your love language without hesitation. He doesn’t even blink. His whole soul lights up with the idea of cooking for you—not because it’s a strategy, but because it’s pure joy.

He shows up the next day with a whole spread: lamb biryani, stuffed flatbreads, saffron rice with raisins, and a homemade rosewater dessert. Everything’s hand-cooked with a little too much enthusiasm and not enough restraint (he may have set off the dorm smoke alarms three times).

He watches you dig in like it’s the best moment of his entire life.

“You actually like it?!”

“It’s… incredible,” you say between bites. “Wait, did you make all this yourself?”

“I had some help from Jamil, but I really tried to do the important parts!” He leans in, grinning. “I wanted you to know I care. With every bite.”

You're about to respond when he just blurts out: “I’d cook for you every day forever if you let me!”

You choke. Grim laughs. Kalim beams. Jamil sighs in the background.

He panics. Absolutely loses it when he hears from Grim that you only open up to people who feed you something homemade.

"They must be joking—homemade, here, in NRC? That’s entirely unsanitary without proper kitchen regulations! You can’t just cook anything—"

He gets flustered. Because what if you don’t like his food? What if it’s improper? What if it has a lot of sugar?

Lots of sugar...

But you mention once, offhandedly, that your favorite kind of food is when someone makes something they ate growing up. A comfort dish. Something from childhood. And that makes Riddle think of strawberry tarts. Before everything changed.

So he makes you one. Follows the old recipe not from his mother’s strict cookbook, but from memory.

When he hands it to you, it’s in a porcelain dish with little red ribbon tied around it.

He doesn’t look at you directly when you taste it. But your eyes light up, and your expression softens, and Riddle feels something in his chest crack wide open.

“You made this just for me?”

“…Yes. I thought… well, if it’s your love language, then it should be done right, shouldn’t it?”

And suddenly, he’s not as scared of breaking the rules as he used to be—at least, not if it means winning your heart.

Internal screaming.

He overhears it from Ortho, who cheerfully tells him, “Yuu says food is their love language! Homemade food especially! You should make them something!”

SYSTEM ERROR: PANIC MODE ACTIVATED

“ME?! Cook?! Are you trying to make me perish in fire and humiliation?!”

Idia spends three days researching recipes on deep cooking forums and “how to not burn your dorm down”.

He programs a tiny kitchen assistant bot. He tries and fails to make something edible five times.

But eventually… he remembers a meal he used to eat: miso-butter ramen with soft egg and nori strips. Something warm and soft and kind. So he makes it. Shaking the whole time. Heart racing.

He doesn’t give it to you in person. He leaves it outside your door in a sleek bento box with an embarrassed little note:

“⚠️ WARNING: Contains feelings. Eat at your own risk. Is this too much cringe?–Idia”

You eat it. It’s clumsy but perfect. And you text him one word after:

“Home. <3”

He doesn't respond for a full ten minutes because he’s lying on the floor having a full-blown meltdown—but it’s the good kind.

Later that night, you find a pixel heart flashing on your phone.

You say homemade food equals love, and Vil hears:

“If it’s made with thought, emotion, and care… that’s what matters to me most.”

At first, he’s horrified. Not because he disagrees—but because he's never allowed himself to cook anything imperfect. For Vil, food is calories, presentation, discipline. Feelings? That’s… far too vulnerable.

But then he sees you. The way your whole face lights up when Grim gives you a sloppy sandwich he threw together with help from Trey. The little smile you get when someone talks about their family recipe.

He starts thinking: Have I ever cooked for someone without a camera crew or an aesthetic in mind?

So he visits Epel’s family cookbook. He goes rustic. Unpolished. Just him. He tries to recreate something his father made for him when he was young and sick: potato soup with dill and cream.

When he brings it to you, it’s in a plain ceramic bowl. No garnish. No edible flowers.

He clears his throat. “It’s… not glamorous. But it’s mine.”

You take one spoonful and exhale like you’re home.

“Vil,” you murmur, eyes shining, “this tastes like someone wanted me to feel safe.”

He’s silent for a long time before saying softly, “That’s exactly why I made it.”

At first? He scoffs. "Tch. Food? That's easy." But when you clarify—not takeout, not dining hall food, definitely not something a servant made—his expression falters.

“Homemade food,” you say quietly one afternoon, helping Grim finish his bowl of stew. “You can tell when someone put care into something. It’s… honest.”

Leona doesn’t say much in response. But that night, he sits awake in the botanical garden, tail flicking. The next few days, he’s just gone. Vanished between classes. Ruggie says he’s been in the kitchen wing of the dorms. That’s weird. No one ever uses those.

Eventually, he shows up with something in a wrapped container. It smells like a dish from the Sunset Savanna— stew, if you're not mistaken.

Leona thrusts it toward you. “Here. Eat it. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

But he watches. He definitely cares. You taste it. It’s a little salty, a little smoky. The meat’s tender. The spices are strong but familiar. It’s clearly not professional quality—but it’s his. You glance at him, and for once, he doesn’t look smug. He looks nervous.

“It’s… perfect,” you say softly. “You made this?”

Leona shrugs, ears twitching. “Told ya. Easy.”

But the smile tugging at the corners of his lips gives him away.

Azul takes this personally. He prides himself on having everything—the Mostro Lounge, the service, the charm, the business sense. And yet, you don't fall for any of that?

“Oh no, no. They want homemade food? I can do that,” he mutters, spiraling into business-planning mode.

At first, he thinks he can buy it. Hire a good chef to cook in the Lounge’s back kitchen. But when he tests the idea with you, you immediately frown.

“…Did you make this?”

Azul’s face freezes.

“Homemade means from the heart, Azul.”

The next time he tries, he doesn’t tell you. But he spends hours in the kitchen, burning his fingers, cursing the oven, covered in flour. Jade walks in, offers to help. Azul glares. “This is something I need to do myself.”

Eventually, he presents you with a beautifully imperfect serving of seaweed soup and grilled rootfish—a Coral Sea traditional dish.

“It was something my grandmother used to make,” he says softly, hands trembling as you take a spoonful.

You blink, surprised. “It tastes like the ocean. But… comforting.”

Azul exhales, suddenly sheepish. “That’s exactly what she used to say.”

You smile, eyes warm. “Thank you. This means more than you know.”

[brookghaib-blog]

The ghost I left behind

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I wrote this with Sunshine & Rain.. By Kali Uchis, feel free to enjoy this with that on repeat to really feel it burn. Also please somebody give me HD gifs asap. Also if you hadn't read the preview yet, I recommend it!

Word count: 4,7k

Preview

--

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an ugly green tinge over the already-drab walls of the 23rd Precinct. Y/N pushed the door open with her elbow, hands full—one holding a stack of wrinkled flyers with Bob’s photo on them, the other clutching the hem of her coat closed.

The front desk officer didn’t even look up.

The bell above the door had long since stopped ringing for her.

She shuffled to the counter. She was wearing the same hoodie she always wore—his hoodie, oversized and faintly smelling of old laundry detergent and smoke. Her stomach was just beginning to curve outward, subtle but undeniable beneath the fabric. Four months.

“Hey, Ms. Y/L/N,” the desk sergeant mumbled without meeting her eyes. “You’re back.”

She placed the flyers down with quiet urgency. “I printed new ones. Better quality. I added a note about the reward this time, in case someone’s seen him.”

The sergeant sighed, his pen clinking on the desk as he leaned back.

“I told you last time. No new leads.”

“I’m not asking for a miracle,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just—please check if anything came in since last week. A tip. A sighting. A… a body, no, not that, but anything really.”

A uniformed officer behind the counter—young, smug, cruel in that casual way people are when they forget you’re human—snorted. “Lady, you know the guy was a junkie, right? Odds are he got tired of playing house and ran off when the stick turned pink.”

Y/N’s heart splintered. Her hands clenched the flyers. “Don’t—don’t you dare say that about him.”

He shrugged. “C’mon. You don’t have to be a detective to figure it out. He got high and vanished. People like that don’t come back. Especially not to play Daddy.”

“He’s not like that!” she shouted, her voice cracking.

The room went quiet.

A throat cleared gently behind her.

“Y/N?” came the familiar rasp of Officer Cooper, stepping out from a side hallway. Silver-haired and weathered, he’d been on the force longer than most of the others had been alive. He always spoke softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever kindness he still believed in.

Y/N blinked back tears and turned.

“Let’s take a walk,” Cooper said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”

--

Outside, the sky was overcast. Cold. Cooper lit a cigarette but didn’t offer her one.

They stood in silence next to the station’s rusted bench. She stared down at the pavement, at her frayed shoelaces, at the grey world around her.

Then she broke.

“I can’t sleep, Mr. Cooper,” she whispered, voice small. “I dream about him every night. I wake up thinking maybe he’s home, maybe I missed a call. But then it’s just me. Just me and this baby. I don’t know what I’m doing—I don’t have money, I don’t have family. He was my family.”

Cooper nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I know you’ve been kind,” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve listened. But I need more. I need you to put more people on this. I need you to look for him like he’s not just some addict you all gave up on.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her tears soaked through it instantly.

“Please. Just… just try. For me. For him. For our child. Bobby wouldn’t leave me. Not like this. Not without a word. Not him.”

Cooper took a long drag from his cigarette. Then sighed.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

She froze.

His eyes softened, like he wished he could lie. Like he hated what he was about to do.

“We finally traced a lead. Someone matching Bob’s description was seen boarding a flight out of the country.”

She couldn’t breathe.

“Where?”

“Malaysia,” he said quietly.

The word hit her like a sledgehammer.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s… no, he wouldn’t… He didn’t have money. He didn’t have a passport.”

“He did,” Cooper said, sadly. “We checked. It was valid. Bought the ticket in cash. No forwarding contact. No signs of foul play.”

She staggered back, her body suddenly too heavy. Her hand flew to her belly as if to anchor herself.

“So… you’re saying he left me.”

“I’m saying,” Cooper murmured, “that we don’t believe he vanished. We believe he made a choice.”

“No,” she choked. “No, he didn’t. He loved me. We were building a life. He called me his miracle. We were deciding on a name. He cried when I told him. He held me all night and said he’d never leave.”

Cooper looked down at his shoes.

“I know, kid.”

Tears streamed down her face now, silent and relentless.

“I waited. Every day, I waited,” she sobbed. “I believed in him. I still do. He’s sick, not a monster. You’re telling me he abandoned his child before the baby was even born?”

Cooper said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Finally, she whispered, “Is he coming back ? Did he buy two tickets? He did, right, to come back to me, to us?”

Cooper crushed the cigarette beneath his boot.

“One way ticket. Maybe it's better if u go home, take a breath, and just... you can call me, ok ? I have a daughter just like you and she's an amzing mother, you will be too. You have to go to work, just rest.”

She just looked at the flyers in her hand. For months he just disappear, all her money spent in paper, organizing searches, paying potential dealers for a tip of his whereabouts.

"So this is it?"

--

2 years ago

The Cluckin’ Bucket wasn’t exactly a place dreams were made of.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry flies, flickering over cracked linoleum tiles and chipped yellow walls. The scent of fried oil hung in the air like a second skin, clinging to every surface. It was 11:43 PM, just seventeen minutes before closing, and the only two souls left inside were Y/N, wiping down tables, and Bob, in the back room, peeling off the heavy, foam-rubber chicken costume that had been slowly cooking him alive for eight hours.

He winced as he pulled the beak off his head, his sweat-damp hair sticking up in odd places. His T-shirt clung to his back, his jeans sagged slightly on his hips, and his bones ached in that weird, chemically induced way that only came from a cocktail of meth and shame.

He hadn’t wanted this job.

He sure as hell hadn’t wanted the chicken suit.

But here he was—twenty-something, barely scraping by, dancing on a street corner in 95-degree heat to try and convince people to buy discount wings.

He tucked the suit away in its plastic bag, sighing, and padded into the dining area, rubbing the back of his neck.

And then he saw her.

Y/N.

The new waitress.

She was crouched in front of the soda machine, elbow-deep in the syrup line, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, earbuds dangling from her neck. She was humming something—Fleetwood Mac, he thought—but he couldn’t be sure.

She wore her name tag crooked on her chest, and there was a smudge of sauce on her cheek.

But to him? She looked like she belonged in a painting.

He froze for a second too long, just staring.

God, she was pretty. And he was in a chicken suit just minutes ago. And probably still smelled like sweat and fryer grease. Cool. Real smooth.

She glanced up—and caught him.

Her eyebrows rose a little. Her mouth quirked.

“Robert, right?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice was warm, amused, like she already knew the answer.

His throat caught. “Uh. Yeah. Bob, actually.”

“Bob,” she repeated, like she was trying it on. “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly.

She straightened, gesturing toward a box at her feet. “I’m trying to get this up to the top shelf, but it’s heavier than it looks and my arms are, like, noodles right now.”

He nodded and stepped forward, kneeling to lift the box without much effort. He was wiry, but stronger than he looked. She watched him, subtly biting the corner of her lip.

“Thanks,” she said as he set the box down on the shelf. “You’re stronger than you look.”

He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, well… spinning a giant arrow for eight hours a day builds muscles, I guess.”

She smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short. That costume? Kinda iconic.”

He turned bright red. “Oh, God.”

“What?” she teased. “I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I mean, it takes a certain kind of confidence to dance in a chicken suit and not die of embarrassment.”

He snorted. “More like a lack of options.”

There was a pause—just a second too long.

“Still,” she said, voice softer now, “You’ve got a good smile, Bob.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said, you’ve got a good smile.”

He swallowed, heart hammering for no reason he could explain. She was looking at him. Not through him. Not with pity. Just… seeing him. And it had been a long time since someone had done that.

They started talking more after that.

Little things. Jokes during their shifts. Late-night scraps of conversation while wiping down counters or restocking sauces. She’d bring him a free soda when she noticed him flagging. He’d sweep her section when her feet were too tired to move. Neither of them said it out loud, but it became something—a rhythm, a comfort.

He never told her about the drugs.

But she saw the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands shook sometimes. The way he chewed his inner cheek when he thought no one was looking. She didn’t ask, and he was grateful.

Until that one night.

They were walking out together. The parking lot was empty, bathed in yellow streetlight. The air was thick with humidity. Bob carried his bag over his shoulder, still fidgeting with the zipper.

Y/N was quiet beside him, arms crossed over her chest.

They reached the edge of the lot. Her car was parked beneath the flickering sign.

He stopped. She didn’t.

Then, she turned back.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked. “Uh. No. Why?”

She smiled—and it knocked the air out of him.

“Just wondering,” she said, stepping a little closer. “Because if you don’t… I was wondering when you were going to ask me out.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“I—I mean—I didn’t think you’d—why would you—” he stammered.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Bob. I like you.”

He swallowed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Even with the chicken suit.”

And then, because his body moved before his fear could stop him, he smiled—wide and real.

“I… would really like that.”

“Good,” she said, walking backwards toward her car, grinning. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood in the parking lot long after she drove away, heart pounding, a dumb grin on his face.

For the first time in years, the night didn’t feel so heavy.

--

Central Park in the early evening was dipped in gold.

The last fingers of sunlight threaded through the leaves like warm lace, casting dappled shadows on the grass. It was one of those rare New York days—cool but not cold, the air kissed with early autumn, the sky a watercolor blend of lavender and peach.

Bob stood awkwardly near a bench beneath a sycamore tree, tugging at the hem of his second-best flannel. His fingers twitched in his jacket pocket, where he kept the meth pipe he hadn’t touched in two days.

He was sweating.

Not from the weather.

From her.

Because Y/N was there, spreading out a gingham blanket on the grass near the edge of a pond, her hair tucked behind her ears, a small cooler bag next to her feet.

She looked like someone who belonged in the light.

He still wasn’t convinced he deserved to be sitting beside her in it.

“Okay,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from the blanket. “Don’t laugh. I made too much.”

Bob walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, watching as she pulled out a series of plastic containers and neatly wrapped foil packets. Sandwiches. Potato salad. Tiny cupcakes with blue frosting that had clearly been made with care. Even folded napkins.

“Holy crap,” he said, blinking. “Did you raid a deli or something?”

She grinned. “No, I made it. I… I like cooking.”

“For me?”

She looked at him like it was obvious. “Yeah. Who else would I be trying to impress, Bob?”

He knelt on the blanket, legs crossed, still a little stiff, watching her with barely restrained disbelief. “I just… I’ve never had anyone… you know. Do something like this. For me.”

She shrugged, setting a container between them. “Well, now you have.”

He picked up a sandwich, still stunned. “You made all this… for a guy who dresses like a poultry mascot?”

She chuckled. “I happen to like that guy.”

Bob opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He just smiled—a shy, crooked thing—and took a bite.

Bob sat on the edge of the picnic blanket, chewing slowly, trying not to look too shocked by how good the sandwich in his hand was. “Okay,” he said between bites, “you’re going to have to explain to me how you made this taste like something from an actual restaurant. What’s in this?”

Y/N grinned, tucking a napkin under her leg to keep it from blowing away. “Nothing fancy. Chicken, basil, a little Dijon, homemade aioli—”

“H-homemade? Who even makes aioli? That’s, like, elite-level cooking.”

“I like cooking,” she said simply, with a shrug. “It calms me down. Helps me feel like I’ve got control over something, you know?”

He nodded slowly, finishing the last of the sandwich. “Yeah, I get that. It’s like spinning that dumb arrow—kinda zen, if you ignore the back pain.”

She laughed. “That’s tragic. I cook to relax, and you give yourself arthritis.”

“Hey, I’m not proud.”

She passed him a small container of fruit salad, their knees brushing slightly under the blanket. There was a breeze picking up, threading through the grass, fluttering the corners of the gingham cloth. In the distance, a dog barked, and somewhere near the pond a violinist had started playing faintly.

“You live with roommates? Alone?” Bob asked suddenly, trying to picture what her place might look like. “Your kitchen’s probably better than mine. Mine’s got, like, one working burner and a fridge that sounds like it’s dying.”

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “Actually… I live alone now.”

His brows lifted slightly, sensing the shift in her voice.

“I didn’t always,” she continued. “My ex boyfriend and I used to live together, in this little apartment off Bedford. It was cramped, noisy, walls were paper-thin… but it was kind of cozy. It felt like ours.”

Bob stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“He left about nine months ago,” she said. “For someone else. Someone with shinier hair and a ‘real’ job, probably. I don’t know. One day he said he didn’t love me anymore, and that was that.”

Bob’s chest tightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She waved a hand, but her smile was tinged with something older than the moment. “It sucked. But if he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have taken the job at Cluckin’ Bucket. Wouldn’t have ended up on night shifts. Wouldn’t have met you.”

He blinked, thrown. “That’s… wow. You really think that’s a good trade?”

She shrugged again, but this time with a little smile. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Bob looked down at the cupcakes, the homemade food, the folded napkins. All for him.

He cleared his throat. “I just don’t get it. How someone could be with you and let you slip through their fingers. That guy had the f—freaking lottery ticket and he just… walked away?”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised by the fire in his voice.

“I mean it,” Bob said, quieter now. “If it were me… I’d never let you go.”

The moment stretched between them, warm and tender.

She looked at him for a long time, something soft and wounded behind her eyes.

“You’re sweet, Bob,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he replied without thinking. “Not really. But I want to be.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something else, but instead she reached for another sandwich.

They sat in silence again, this time heavier.

Then Bob spoke, his voice rough.

“I don’t have anyone either,” he said. “No family. No ties. Just a bunch of mistakes and a backpack that smells like old socks.”

She looked at him. “No one at all?”

He shrugged. “Not since my mom passed. My dad was… not really in the picture. I’ve kinda just been floating since then.”

“Me too,” she said. “It’s like… we’re both ghosts in a city full of people who have somewhere to be.”

That hit him harder than he expected.

He nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I always thought,” he murmured, “that maybe I was just built to be alone. Like I was meant to burn out early. Some people are just… too messed up to fit.”

She leaned toward him, brushing a thumb gently against his hand.

“You’re not messed up,” she whispered. “You’re just… lost. And that’s not the same thing.”

His heart nearly stopped.

“You’re the first person who’s ever said that,” he admitted.

“Then everyone else was wrong.”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the sunset or the food or the warmth of her fingers against his—but he turned toward her, and for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.

“Can I… see you again?” he asked.

Her eyes crinkled with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

--

present day

The apartment was still.

Still in the way a place only gets after someone is gone—not just physically, but really gone. Like the soul of the place had followed them out the door and taken all the warmth with it.

The late afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dusty blinds, casting long stripes across the bed where Y/N lay curled on her side. Their bed. His side still had the indent of his body, even after months. She hadn’t brought herself to sleep on it, like maybe the dip in the mattress could hold his shape long enough for him to come back and fill it.

Her hand cradled the curve of her growing belly. Just past four months. She was showing now. Her body knew, even if the world didn’t care.

Across from her on the nightstand were the pictures—cheap Polaroids and one dog-eared photo booth strip from Coney Island, taped crookedly to the wall. Bob’s stupid half-smile grinned back at her in every frame. The one where he was pretending to flex with a corndog in hand. The one where he looked away, caught off-guard, cheeks red from laughing at something she said.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the picture. Her throat burned.

“God, Bobby…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

A fresh wave of tears pressed from behind her eyes and spilled freely down her cheek, soaking into the pillow. She clutched the blanket tighter with one hand and her belly with the other.

“You left,” she murmured. “You really left.”

She bit her lip so hard it nearly split, the ache in her chest unbearable.

“I defended you. I told them you’d never run. I called every hospital, every shelter. Put up posters with your face in every goddamn corner of this city. I begged the police to keep looking because I knew something was wrong. I thought maybe you were in trouble, or hurt… or…”

Her voice broke, raw and low.

“Turns out you were just gone. Just—just done.”

She sat up slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of Bob’s old hoodie—still too big on her, still faintly smelling like him, like cologne and smoke and something warmer.

“You saved up that money. You actually planned this,” she whispered, hollow. “You looked me in the eye… kissed me goodnight, touched our baby, and you already knew you weren’t coming back.”

Her breath hitched as her hand moved over the swell of her belly, as if trying to protect the child from the truth pressing in.

“You knew I was pregnant. And you still left. That’s what makes it worse. Not the addiction. Not the lies. That. You knew, and it didn’t stop you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I gave up everything trying to find you, Bobby,” she said, louder now, choking on the grief. “I drained what little savings I had. Every cent I scraped together went to flyers, gas, private search sites. I even hired some guy off Craigslist who said he could ‘track people down for a price.’ That was three hundred dollars I’ll never get back.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears.

“I work double shifts now just to stay afloat. Still serving greasy food to assholes who think I’m invisible—coming home to this empty fucking apartment, sleeping in a bed that feels like a coffin.”

She fell back onto the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.

“I really thought you were different,” she whispered. “I did. I thought… maybe this time, it wouldn’t end with someone leaving. I really get left for everything else at this point, not good enough, prettier women, drugs. And maybe that’s worse. Because at least he looked me in the eye and said goodbye. Or maybe…did you find a better woman Bobby?”

Her lips trembled as another sob escaped.

“You said you loved me. You said we were in this together. We made something together, Bobby. We made a life. And you just… vanished.”

She reached for the ultrasound photo tucked into the drawer and held it to her chest.

“I swear he moves and grows everytime I cry,” she whispered. “Like he knows I need a distraction.”

She ran her hand down her belly again, slower this time.

“But I won’t let them grow up thinking he or she was a mistake. Or unworth staying for.”

The room felt unbearably quiet now. Still, again. But this time, colder.

She closed her eyes and curled tighter around herself, the photos, the baby. Everything she had left.

“I’ll do this without you,” she said softly. “Even if it breaks me.”

And in the stillness, in the tiny home they had built, she stares at the ceiling. Thinking. Doubting. Is this all that life can be ? How would she be able to take care of a little human? Maybe this baby wasn't meant for her. Maybe it was someone else's place to be their mom.

Maybe that's it.

Then I will wait. Just until the baby comes.

[rafesbabygirlx]

ꨄ︎ AFTER CARE ꨄ︎

𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜

Masterlist

a/n: by seasons + some aus. Also my first time doing headcanons don’t judge me.

ꨄ︎ S1 Rafe - Rafe was a playboy. A fuck ‘em and leave ‘em type of guy. There’s no cuddling, no remembering of any girls names. He’s probably too high to even realize that a girl might want that. If he hooks up with a girl at a party, he’s tossing them a box of tissues from bathroom and heading straight back to the party. If they’re at his house, he’s tossing them a dirty towel from his gym bag, telling them to get dressed and leading them to the door, shutting it before they even have the chance to turn around.

ꨄ︎ S2 Rafe - Rafe would invite them over as a distraction from everything. His dead dad, the pogues, that damn cross. They’ve hooked up before but it was nothing like this time. He was rough and disassociated. When he was done he’d lay with them for a moment before taking off to the bathroom where’d they hear a sniffing sound followed by a slight sob. Then he’d walk them out with a hand on their lower back and tell them he’d call, but he’d probably just call someone else.

ꨄ︎ S3 Rafe - Rafe would be on a new high from cashing in the cross. His mindset was clearer and his brain wasn’t foggy. He’d meet her at the party he threw at Tannyhill. After he’d hold her in his arm and let her spend the night. The next morning they’d wake up and it wouldn’t feel like a burden that needed getting rid of. They would exchange number and they would leave at their own pace.

ꨄ︎ S4 Rafe - Rafe was all in. He adored his girl. He was the boss at work and in bed but the after care was all about her. He’s make sure she was cleaned up and giving a pair of his sweats and a shirt to make sure she was comfortable. They’d lay in bed together and he’d rub circles on her back as she’d get settled in her stomach. They’d stare into each other eyes until one of them drifted off into sleep first.

ꨄ︎ Dilf!Rafe - Rafe worships every part of his wife’s body. The body he fell in love with and birthed their beautiful children. After fucking her hard in every which way, per her request just like they used to before the kids, he’d fly out of bed still naked to set up a warm bath. Heading back to the bed he’d lift her into his arms so she didn’t have to walk on unsteady legs and he’d set her in the tub and slide in behind her.

ꨄ︎ Stepbro!Rafe - Rafe got her to cave again. He loved it, she secretly loved it, but she was terrified of anyone finding out and he loved to mess with her about it. He’d her in, her head on his chest, while he brushed his hands through her hair. “Y’know I love what’s going on between us so much, I could run downstairs and tell our parents right now, because I’m so proud.” He’d smile when he’d feel her breathing speed up at the thought. “Don’t worry Angel, I won’t…yet.”

ꨄ︎ Rafe with Pogue!Reader - In the heat of the moment caused by drunken flirtations all night Rafe and Pogue!Reader ended up sleeping together. They stared at the ceiling breathless, slightly laughing at what just happened. It was incredible but they’d never admit it. His hand would meet her wrist rubbing soft circles into it. Rushing out once reality set in because it was a mistake and his reputation could be on the line of that ever got out. “Keep your god damn mouth shut about this.”

ꨄ︎ Rafe with Pogue!Reader - OR he actually likes her. He found comfort in her. Aftercare with her was completely different to anything he’s ever done before. They’d take turns soothing each other. Creating a calm moment in a storm that would brew up from their secret affair. “I wish things could be different.”

ꨄ︎ Boynextdoor!Rafe - Rafe had watched her for the longest time. To finally be invited over and have all of her was a dream come true. He got his chance and he didn’t want it to end. He’d help her up and over to her bathroom, and offer to order food while she’d shower. He’d remake her bed and fluff up pillows setting up their food and putting a movie on. Comforting her for the rest of the night.

an: I love how you can see the progression Rafe goes through in the season. It’s slowly them and him not caring to her being his whole world. I need.

Tags - @rafestoothbrush @weluvwbb @itsforeverandalwayz @butterfly-ibuki @megiiite @siredbtches @bigenergy777 @aupernatural-teenwolflover @rafegf-real @skywalker0809 @snowtargaryen @kieeslove @leather-n-velvet @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @diasnohibng @slurpdew @alphabetically-deranged @whydoesthemirrorhateme @currentresidentinhell - @slut-4-rafey @akobx @rafesheaven @laniirackssss @jjmaybankmylovee @slut4you @littlelamy @nemesyaaa @inthelibrarybtw @writingroom21 @maybankslover @rafeysvenicebitch

[sourle]

I actually love the yearning touch au you made like nearly everyone dislikes or just don’t wanna be involved with the reader and that’s something I don’t see much people do! And do you think the reader will snap? Like from to much pressure, or when their being left to die?

Something amidst.

Tick tock tick—

WARNING: Gore, etc(THAT IDK HOW TO CALL SO FORGIVE ME IF I MISS ANY WARNINGS THAT I SHOULD'VE WROTE). I also didn't proof red these, so i apologize for any misspelled or mispronouns

Note: Snapping? Oh no, Dear Soup. No, no, no, no, no..

During one of the rounds, others would leave you behind whenever you hopped on a generator to go spawn knows where. Yet as the round progresses, you can't find where they are.

You limp, barely escaping death. You're low and bleeding from the wound Jason left on your body. You hope Jason did not follow you inside the mansion.

You sob, leaning on the walls near the closed door and sulk into yourself. The wound gasses and bleeds, you sadly don't have any medkit to patch yourself with.

With a heavy weak sigh, you slowly got up. Walking out the mansion careful not to be detected to try and find a medkit.

You hope and wish someone would find you and help, maybe Elliot? No— he would never help.

You reached the high mountain-like place, seeing Elliot and Builderman. Great, just great. Two people you hoped to avoid.

Builderman caught a glimpse of your limping form and furrowed his brows, watching as you climb up the steps to the top.

Upon reaching the top, Elliot let out an annoyed sigh but kept quiet as he sat next to the dispenser. You approached, sitting the opposite of where he sat. You could feel the glare burned on the back of your head and on your side, but you just ignore it, focusing more on resting and healing.

I'll just go once I feel a bit better.

Hearing a shuffle, you saw Shedletsky got to the top and once he met your gaze he put on a grimace but it quickly left his face. He turned to Builderman, mentioning how Chance and Guest is helping Dusekkar.

You decide to get up once you feel a bit better. Though you can't help but listen to them talk a bit longer. You listen as Elliot offers Shedletsky a pizza which he gladly took even as he has more health than you. You just shrugged it off and left. Hearing their relief sigh.

The timer was almost down, seeing as your cooldown finally gone you decided to help the two sentinel protect Dusekkar. Arriving at the graveyard, you took one glance at how tired Dusekkar was and heavily injured Guest is whilst Chance gamble away.

Quickly you took out your gun, aiming it precisely to stun Jason. Letting Dusekkar escape. And without a thank he left with Guest, though you don't understand why Chance lingered.

Seems like Jason precisely or knows how much weakness Chance has and turns his attention to the gamble addict. Chance would still gamble while being chased, he runs up you and—

SPLAT

You choked, feeling the burning pain of the machete making contact with your neck. Unfortunately, it didn't go through. Staying lodged into your neck, half way into cutting it.

Jason tilted his head before pulling it back with a quick motion, deepening the graze of the wound. Blood spray out from the gashing wound like a fountain. Some skins surrounding the wound were torn and some barely hanging.

You choked out bits of blood as it flowed out your mouth. Jason, oh seeing how sweetly nice to see you suffer, left you to bleed out and resume his chase with Chance who, I remind you, still gambles away with a blank face. Though you cannot lie he has bits of guilt etched at the corner of his lips.

You fell to the ground, covering the wound with your hand as if it would stop the heavy bleeding, draining your body from its source of oil.

The time ticked to zero, but— it didn't end.

You've had enough, your feelings were mixing with grief and agony. You just wanted to move on and yet the people around you treat you as if you're the same old you.

The hatred in their eyes and the disapproval glance would keep you awake at night. Spinning your head makes it hurt to the point you can't think of anything else other than your unwelcome presence.

You want to repay, you want it to end. You put more pressure onto your wound, finding the strength in your to get up.

Now. Do it. End it. STOP IT.

Shedletsky looks both confused and worried, the round supposed to end. And yet there they are, still in Yorick's resting place. The other ex-admin and the owner looks as confused as he is, they don't remember any extra rounds for today.

"Where are you?"

The words caught everyone's attention, it echoes through the map with an eerie underlined tone. It sounded familiar, yet he can't recognize it due to the gurgling over the voice, like they're chocking.

Taph was the first to recognize, his body shift with nervousness, hoping it was not the person he knew.

He watched as Builderman , Shedletsky, and Guest left the mansion— to investigate— leaving him with Chance and Elliot. Two time had left long ago.

At first he heard a shout, then screams followed by someone choking on something and Builderman running inside in a hurry. "Everyone go and run out through the ba—"

A sword, specifically Shedletsky's sword, penetrates through Builderman's eye socket. The eyeball hangs on the tip of the sword out of its socket. A glitch seems to seep into Builderman's body, covering his face as the sword was pulled back.

The said support limped before reanimated to life, judging it's due to the glitch. It stares.. no.. it watches Taph's and rest movements. Both Reanimated Shedletsky and Guest peeked on either side.

They're nothing but puppets controlled by the gui. Forced to hurt their once fellow survivors.

The rest didn't stand still as Elliot yelled for Taph to move it as he ran out the back door with Chance.

Taph turns back, the traps triggered by the reanimated corpse. He runs out, following behind Elliot's and Chance, he tries to keep up with their speed but he's slow from his worries. Where are you?

"There you are..!"

That familiar voice echoed and glitched from the owner behind him. It carries cold winter instead of the warm summer it used to have. The tone felt hard and not soft in the way they would always talk.

Taph slowly turns and there you are, standing, watching his movements. Your smile widens once you finally get their attention.

"Tap— THAT HURTS!!?!"

You screech as a bullet hits your head, you cover your face to try and regain your sight. Once you recovered from the injury you saw Chance behind Taph.

"oh. You're with them."

The next second was a blur, all Taph could describe was a chase before his end. The last thing he saw was their face, softening into guilt before they whisper in that ever so warm tone,

"I'm sorry."

[pankowcrumbs]

Teacher X Max Verstappen (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Max Verstappen x Reader Reader is Ps teacher and Max falls for her kind personality and they start texting and he invites her for a grand prix. 

Being a teacher to a classroom full of five-year-olds meant most of my days were filled with untied shoelaces, dramatic tumbles, and lots of giggling. I loved it. Especially when P Verstappen bounded into my lesson like a ray of sunshine, her ponytail swinging and energy contagious.

Her dad, Max, was often the one to pick up her and her little sister Lily. He wasn’t flashy or arrogant like I might’ve expected from a world champion. Just quiet. Respectful. Always smiling softly when the girls showed me a drawing or babbled about the obstacle course we’d set up that day.

The first time he stayed longer than a polite “thanks” was when Lily tripped and scraped her knee. He crouched beside her as I dabbed the graze with antiseptic, his brow furrowed in concern.

“You’re really good with them,” he said quietly, eyes flicking from Lily to me.

“I like to think so,” I replied, offering her a sticker from my pocket.

P piped up, “Miss Y/N’s our favourite!”

Max smiled at that. “Mine too,” he mumbled. I wasn’t sure I was meant to hear it.

A week later, a note arrived tucked in P’s backpack. Scribbled in neat handwriting:

Hi Y/N this might be completely inappropriate, so feel free to ignore this. But if you ever fancy texting about something other than foam mats and scraped knees… Max.

His number was written underneath.

I stared at it for ten full minutes. Then I texted.

Just something casual. A thank you for the note. That turned into a conversation about childhood sports injuries. That turned into memes about dodgeball. That turned into a nightly routine of checking my phone and smiling at whatever Max had sent.

He told me about his daughters. How different they were. How P was the daredevil and Lily was the quiet observer. He told me about racing, too, but not the way a man boasts about trophies. Just as someone explaining what they loved.

Then one evening, he asked: Would you ever want to see it for yourself? A Grand Prix? Maybe… in Monaco?

I stared at the message, heart thumping.

Would I be there as a guest or… as someone special? I texted back.

His reply came quick. I’m hoping the second one. But only if you want to be.

I typed and deleted a dozen versions of “yes” before finally settling on: I’d love that, Max.

The next day, P was dancing in circles at pick up.

Max gave me a soft smile, one hand resting on Lily’s shoulder. “Still up for grand prix?”

I nodded, heart already halfway there.

“Brilliant,” he said. “I’ll save you the best view. And maybe… dinner after?”

I grinned, cheeks warm. “Only if there’s dessert.”

He laughed then, and in that moment surrounded by chalk dust, whistles, and a crumpled netball I realised something strange and wonderful.

I was falling for Max Verstappen.

[undertalethingems]

honestly I’m just glad that u have a schedule for posting new pages of unexpected guests tbh

like so many fan comics are just posted randomly, which, fair, but you’ve been doing this for yeeears, and not with multiple comics, but just this singular one! idk exactly how long unexpected guests has been going for, but I’ve personally been following for about 5ish years now, and there was already a good chunk of comic I was able to catch up on at the time! the dedication is insane!

and you do this all FOR FREE??? like, that’s crazy?? this is probably one of my favorite pieces of undertale media, and it feels illegal that it’s free smh

so what u miss some uploads or are late sometimes? you literally have a life outside of this comic, and this is probably something that you just do for fun. all of y’all who get impatient, i get it, u like the comic and want to c more, but plz, have some patience 🙏. it’s kinda rude and annoying to pester someone about this kinda thing, even if done with non malicious intentions.

anyway, sorry if i’m overstepping, but i just love ur work, and i felt bad seeing all the people complaining about the late chapter. take all the time u need!

oh yeah, I've mentioned in the past that when i was first planning how to make unexpected guests as a comic, i knew I'd need a posting schedule just for my own sake. I procrastinate a lot, even on things i like doing, and a regular deadline has (usually) helped me stay on top of things, while also giving my readers an 'anchor' so that yeah, they're not left wondering when the next update will be. I'd seen how that affects other comics, and knew i wanted to avoid it if i could. The first page was posted March 2nd, 2017, and somehow, I'm still at it??? I'm surprised too :'D

And yeah, it's all just because i had a story i wanted to share, and had the time and skill to do it in comic form. I really do appreciate when people deign to give me money over it, that's their hard earned cash they're handing over for pictures of silly skeletons. But I'd be doing it anyway because it's more fun sharing pictures of silly skeletons with other people.

And yeah, sometimes I'm busy, or my brain won't cooperate with me for one reason or another, and that means the comic gets put to the wayside a little. I don't think there's a single artist this doesn't happen to. But i really appreciate that for every impatient or entitled person that comes along, there's many more people who are understanding and offer their rebuttals and support. I have waaaay more positive messages like this one hoarded in my inbox than I've ever had negative, haha.

so thank you for the kind words, they genuinely mean a lot to me ^^

[jamiedc-they-them]

I’m here (Platonic)

Summary: You survived the void with your new friends, but part of you still feels trapped there.

Note: Spoilers for Thunderbolts :) also a comfort fic as my brain is being a cunt.

Warning: Survivors guilt and suicidal thoughts. Violence.

You had survived. You had fought for Bob, helped him with his demons, and saved New York.

It hadn’t taken long, but it felt like a while. Being trapped in the void before you all fought for and found each other.

You weren’t angry at Bob, not at all. You meant the hug you gave, and the promise that it gave: I’m here.

The New Avengers was an odd title, but you were working with it.

Friends was a concept you were working on as well. Having people stay and have your back.

Your mind was never kind to you. Maybe it was what made you sign up for Valentina’s project. You were like Bob, but a failure. One of the last ones alive.

You had a power, one of projection. You could show people things.

When you were escaping, you made sure not to touch Yelena or anyone. You did, however, touch Valentina’s people, showing them your anger.

And yet, you weren’t judged for it.

Not even Walker did. He just moved on, saying “just don’t pull that crap with me.”

You didn’t.

You had to fight yourself every day. Especially when you were in the lab, watching poor souls die (and having to fight others).

Survivors guilt was a term thrown around. Ava had said it to you one time, saying that she recognised the look.

She didn’t push you, however, she just smiled brokenly at you.

You didn’t know it, but Yelena was watching you, watching you look out of the window - but glad it was there. She remembered seeing John at the massive hole, when Bob had shown him his demons.

You didn’t need to be shown yours, it seemed, they seemed to always hurt you, attack you.

So, as saying, she was glad the window was there. A barrier.

She approached you slowly, standing next to you.

“I can still hear them, you know,” you say, “the others.”

“I can hear them as well. The ones I hurt.”

“I didn’t hurt them, Valentina did.”

She nodded, “I know. Sorry.”

You shake your head, “I know what you meant. It’s just….I saw one I had to fight, when in the void. I had to do it over and over again…I was just, so tired. I almost let them beat me.”

Yelena was still, watching you with hawkish eyes, but empathy coated them.

“That’s why you looked the way you did.”

“I just thought that…if I let it happen, maybe the voices would stop. Maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about hurting anyone else either my ability.”

“We got Bob out. He’s a good person. We helped people, and that felt good. But I’m just…I’m stuck. I don’t know what he saw when I hugged him…he hasn’t told me.”

“Love,” Yelena argued, “he saw love. He saw us fighting for him. But,” she said as she looked at you, hand hovering over your arm, “but now it’s our turn to help you.”

You shook your head, “it’s not that big of a deal. I just…hit a wall sometimes.”

“Show me,” she said, voice gentle, “if you are ok with it. Show me the wall you hit.”

“It’s nothing compared to yours…” you said, eyes holding guilt and voice trembling a bit.

Her eyes hardened, voice becoming firm, “comparing trauma doesn’t help us fix it. Comparing it does nothing. Your pain is your pain, and I want to help you with it. I want to help you break through this wall.”

“Why?”

Her heart felt like it shattered at the confusion and meekness of your voice. You were there for Bob, and there for each other and the civilians, but not there for yourself.

“Because what I said to Bob is true for everyone here, including you. Especially right now.”

“What did you say?”

“That I was there. That he wasn’t alone.”

Her hand lowered, now being an offer you: a hand to hold, a connection. Someone to stand with you in the dark.

“You’re sure?”

“I have never been surer of anything in my life.”

She was honest, words holding nothing but truth to them.

Slowly, your hand met hers.

She gasped, world transforming around her. Pitch black, until a spotlight turned on.

You, on your knees, blood dripping down your forehead. Someone above you, in a similar state, with another spotlight on them.,

The fight wasn’t clean. Two civilians forced to fight for survival. It wasn’t choreographed, it was vicious. Biting, scratching, you name it.

The red room was viscous, yes, but they were trained to fight in a clean (as clean as one can be) way. Flips and what not.

The fight ended with the person’s eyes being pushed in on by your fingers.

She felt something. Looking down, she saw blood on your fingers.

She looked back, your past self - showing just how young you were - and this person disappearing.

Your hand left hers the next moment - yet the connection stayed - as you were flung to the floor. Yelena saw who it was - the person you killed.

The memory was replying, like how it had happened in the void - only more brutal. This was your personal void, one where you made the rules.

She was quick with her actions, grabbing the person and moving herself between yourself and them.

The person didn’t have a face, but Yelena put her hands up, “it’s ok,” she said.

The person disappeared. Maybe progress —

She was the one tackled this time. She was quick in her escape.

More appeared. Your biggest demon, the life you took to save your own.

She fought, as did you. But she could tell you were getting tired.

She fired her electric bolts. She stunned, she kicked. Her instincts coming back.

Old habits and all that.

But she then remembered the promise to Bob, how she helped him.

You were fighting, but not the way you needed to. You were trapping yourself, no fault of your own, in a mental loop.

You just wanted it to stop., desperation leading to the permanent option. She wouldn’t let you. She knew the loop would never fully be broken, you would slip as much as you would move forward.

Healing wasn’t linear, it had ups and downs. Good days and bad ones. Today was a bad one, the last few weeks had been that.

It led to you standing by a window, head against it, looking down. It lead to you being in a bad state in the void and she missed it.

That was then. She knew now, she was in a place to help.

She put her hands down, turning and seeing you kill another demon. It appeared again.

Yelena was in between again, but this time she did something different: she embraced you, just as she did with Bob.

“It’s ok,” she said to you this time, “I have you. I’m not going anywhere. I can’t undo what happened —”

“I killed someone,” you sounded so defeated and shattered.

“I know,” she wouldn’t sugarcoat it, that would only make it worse.

“I made it and they didn’t. I don’t deserve that.”

She tightened her hold, “if you hadn’t made it, they would be saying the same thing. You’re not a monster, you’re human, and you were exploited.”

Your fist grabbed her shoulders, “it should mean something that I made it. All it meant is that I relive this over and over again.”

“Not alone,” she said, “not while I’m here.”

She felt you still. She knew what you were thinking.

“I will find a way to enter this place again. I will tell you as many times as I need to.”

You looked at her, tear-strained and tired. You sniffled, “You’ll get tired, everyone does. Even Valentina did. Put me in a coma before I woke up and met you all.”

She held your face in her hands, “I won’t,” she promised, “yes, we all have our demons, but right now your demons have you in a hole. I may only be able to offer rope, but I will hold it as long as you need. We all deserve a chance to deal with our demons, and someone to be in our corner. I will be that for you.”

“For how long?”

She softened, forehead going to yours, “as long as you need. As many times as you need to hear it. You're human, but you're also my friend.”

You sniffled, eyes opening and meeting her’s. Her eyes were filled with love and patience.

“All of us have things we are ashamed of. Sometimes we fall, but we have somethjng we've never had before: someone to help pick us up.”

“But…what if I can't help you like you are helping me.”

“Company can help. We all need something different. Your ability can help, but only when you are open to showing us. We won't judge you, but we’re here. To talk, or just sit with you. Or even helping you find someone professional.”

You wrapped her in a hug. She held you just as tightly, “Thank you.”

She kissed your head, “always. We’re all getting used to having each other, but were stuck with each other.”

She felt you chuckle a bit. She smiled.

You pulled back, holding hands.

“Ready?”

You nodded, wiping your eyes.

The world returned to normal, and she was holding your arm.

She squeezed your arm, “I have you. But, you don't live for them, you live for yourself. You keep making choices. You can't undo the past, and its clutches may never fully leave, but we’re here to help you hold on and keep moving forward.”

She did. She still did.

[heartz-for-de]

sunshine!reader and grumpy katsuki throughout the academy... i need headcanons or a oneshot pls

Love this sm! I feel like there’s so many different variants of y/n and I love experimenting with them all:))) just a quick little ramble abt these two!!

Requests: open!

Sunshine!reader X grumpy! Katsuki

•Contrary to popular belief, katsuki was not always nice to you. It took months for him to even crack a HALF smile at one of your compliments. I feel like at the beginning he’d find you annoying, like why tf this bitch always smiling… but I think that eventually that annoyance would turn into endearment.

—“hey bakugo!!” You greeted him with a sweet smile. Sickeningly sweet, he thought.

“What do you want?” He grumbled, giving You a quick scoff to truly convey his dismay that he held .

“Well, me and Mina are going out for ice cream with Kiri, and I was wondering if you’d like to join? It’s totally okay if not though!” You reassured. He stared at you with a hard glare. Why were you so nice to him when he treated you with nothing but harsh words. He felt a weird tenseness in his chest as he grumbled out a short ‘fuck off’.

•once the two of you become friends, every body who has eyes can see the difference in the way he treats you compared to his regular friends.

- “Oh my gosh, yall took so many notes while I was gone! I think aizawa has it out for me.” You pouted slightly when the group had described you the work for the day.

“Tch, jus’ borrow my notes and copy ‘em.” Katsuki had mumbled out without a second thought.

“The fuck?!— last time I asked you for notes you blew up my journal.” Sero let out a salty huff, watching as you thanked Katsuki for his kind offer.

•I think he was in denial for awhile, like all he gaf about for the longest time was being the best and bettering himself. So when he gets to know you, and suddenly you’re infiltrating all of his thoughts 24/7? Oh he’s so pissed.

•Kirishima lowk crashed out on him a couple time just because he wanted him to confess so bad.

-“Maybe just tell her how you feel? That would simplify this a shit ton, bro.” Kirishima sighed.

“Simplify? The fuck it would— you give terrible advice, shitty hair.” katsuki responded shorty.

“I’m about to tweak out, what the hell else would you do? Hope she’ll telepathically understand your half asses ‘affection’?”

•you weren’t oblivious to his behavior either, you had the teeniest inkling that he felt a certain type of way about you, but you were too scared to take the leap of faith and ask.

•once he finally does get the balls to admit he is smitten, he’s like a big mean guard dog. Which you thought was hilarious because it’s not like you couldn’t handle yourself, you were training to be a hero aswell. But nonetheless you welcomed his behavior.

•Grumpy! Katsuki was a toucher. His hands always found there way somewhere on you, whether the two of you were alone or not. In a lecture? Hand on you thigh. In the common room? You’re sitting in his lap. Literally fucking anywhere? His hands resting on your waist and lower back. It was comforting for him, sort of like a reminder that you were safe and next to him.

•He doesn’t understand how you never seem to get angry, even when someone had done you wrong. You sat with a smile and reassured them, telling whatever asshole it was that it would all be okay. That pretty smile he loved sitting on your face like someone hadn’t just been a dick in your face. He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

•as we know, grumpy!Katsuki has a nasty mouth. Every sentence was littered with a few harsh words here and there. I think it would be hilarious if one time he was cussing out somebody—over something minimal obvi— and you just sit there your eyebrows furrowed while you tell him to please not yell so loud. AND HE LISTENED. the room was stunned.

“Shut the FUCK up, stupid bitch.”

“Katsuki, please don’t yell, that was right in my ear!” You whined slightly.

He looked down at you.

“M’sorry, was jus’ tryna tell this fucker off.” He side eyed denki.

•you praise him all the time and he cannot take it, like wdym you’re fawning over him for doing the bare minimum??? And why does he live for your little compliemnts???

-“Thank you so much for the flowers kats!” You thanked the blonde boy with a kiss to his cheek.

“Don’t gotta thank me, jus’ felt like getting you some.”

“You’re like the best boyfriend ever, Katsuki. I might just burst from how sweet you are, baby!”

You didn’t miss the way the tips of his ears heated up at the praise…

•He doesn’t like change but you entering his life changed a lot, and he doesn’t seem to complain much about that.

———

Hope these were okay!!!! Again sorry for grammatical errors I am so ass at proof reading;)

[jude457]

I've been thinking about what you said with In-ho and the younger pink guards, and that just really struck a chord with me.

To me, In-ho is a character who lost his birth mother young, and then his father. He was forced to grow up young, and even if his stepmother loved him and didn't want to cause him pain, at the end of the day he was parentified. He was thrust into this role of adult and provider as a teenager, never getting the opportunity to mess around like everyone else at school.

This experience greatly affected how he perceived love, both in how he receives affection and how he gives it. For In-ho, giving love is providing, caring for someone, sacrificing for them. Receiving love is the gratitude for his care and sacrifice. Jun-ho was too young to ever care for him, and his stepmother was too overwhelmed with being a single mother to dote on him. She tried his best, she really did. He would never hate her. But he can't remember the last time he cried in someone's arms, the last time someone else told him they would figure it out, that he doesn't need to worry.

With his wife, there was finally some equality in how she would reciprocate love. She was a partner, not a helpless child. And he struggled with this, struggled to let her love him. Then, she got sick, and suddenly he was in his early twenties again. Spending long days at the hospital, stroking her hair, telling her it will be okay, that he'll manage, that he'll find the money.

When he first joined the squid game as a player, he had this fatherly instinct toward the younger players, this urge to wipe the despair off their faces, to see them smile. And then they all die, one by one. Either because he can't save them, or because he has to kill them.

So as the front man, he has this inexplicable urge to not lead them astray. Yes, the punishment for disobedience is death. But a machine that isn't well-oiled will break. Order must be kept. But within that order, there can be allowances.

He kills as quickly as he can, a shot to the head. No drawn-out suffering.

This part of him comes out when Thanos and Nam-gyu are harassing MG Coin.

It comes out when he offers his milk to Jun-hee.

At the end of the day, he is going to let these people die. He is responsible for their deaths. But emotions don't have to make sense. Human actions are contradictory all the time. His need to nurture, driven by the child he never got to care for, compels him until he stands at a crossroads with the beliefs he adapted in order to survive the games.

YOU ARE GOING TO MAKE ME CRY AT WORK.

thinking about how Inho was parentified so young just breaks me. like—he never got to be a kid. not really. one illness after another, one financial crisis after the next, and suddenly he’s seventeen and not worried about grades or friends or dreams but about bills, hospital visits, making sure Junho has food on the table. and it just never stopped.

he gave up everything — every friend, every hobby, every quiet joy — not because anyone told him to, but because it felt like the only choice. Junho had to come first. always. and his stepmother, barely hanging on herself, leaned too hard on him without realizing. so he stepped up. kept stepping up. until “provide” wasn’t just something he did, it was who he was.

and so Inho grew up fast. too fast. worked himself down to the bone, probably didn’t even think too much about if joining the police was something he really wanted to do. every decision filtered through: will this help Junho? will this keep us afloat another month?

i imagine that’s why he got married really late — late thirties, maybe — not because he didn’t want love, but because he didn’t think he deserved it. it felt selfish. like choosing himself when Junho still needed so much. he was still sacrificing things long after Junho would’ve wanted him to stop.

and when the kidney transplant happened? yeah, Inho absolutely didn’t care what it would do to him. didn’t even pause. signed the forms like it was nothing. like it was expected. and afterwards? he definitely downplayed the pain. definitely went back to work weeks too early. definitely ignored every warning sign because all he could hear was provide, provide, provide.

and that’s the tragedy — he lost so much of Junho’s life. missed the small moments. because he was trapped in his own despair, breaking his body and spirit to keep the family afloat.

that’s why i love writing the reversal — imagining that, after the second rebellion, when they finally meet again, it’s Inho who’s fragile. who’s traumatised and worn thin and barely holding himself together. and Junho is the one who steps into that caretaker role. not because he owes Inho anything — but because he loves him. because Inho gave everything, and now it’s Junho’s turn to say: rest. I’ve got you now.

[allonsysilvertongue]

Hate That It's true

Hello, hayffie fandom! sotr resurrected me and i finally found the urge to write again. so please bear with me, my writing skills are rusty.

Hate That It’s True

It was horrible.

The again, most of their fights were. The vase laid broken on his feet where she had hurled it in his direction. Haymitch clenched his fist, feeling the warm trickle of blood seeping through his fingers where the wine glass had shattered from the strength of his grip. He had nearly thrown the glass at her head but stopped himself. Better him injured than her, he figured. Enough people had been hurt in his name.

“You asked for me,” she stated, eyes cold and hard. “You asked for me.”

That was true. Haymitch looked away, refusing to face her.

She had been there during his Games – the last face he saw before the arena and the first to greet him after he woke up. She had turned up again during his Victory Tour and been by his side. Her presence was familiar and comforting.

He had been told it was temporary – that it was only for the Tour – and that she would be joining an up-and-coming new fashion label once the Victory Tour concluded.

Twelve would be appointed a new Escort for the 51st Games and Haymitch blanched at the idea of having to deal with someone like Drusilla Sickle.

“Get Effie,” he blurted, almost with a hint of desperation.

“For Escort?” Plutarch frowned.

“Yeah,” Haymitch said. “You got her for the Tour.”

“Yes – a temporary position as I’ve mentioned.”

“Fine. If she agrees, does she get to stay?” Haymitch queried. “I want Effie Trinket.”

He hated the fact that it came off as though he was begging to the Capitol and maybe he was, but Effie was one of the only remaining friends he had. In an attempt to keep them safe, he had driven away almost everyone in Twelve and he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss having Burdock around. He figured Effie, who bought into every propaganda fed her way was harmless and safe, and Snow wouldn’t touch her given how she played by the rules.

Plutarch matched his gaze. “If she agrees then I will see what I can do.”

Haymitch asked and he could see she was not prepared for the offer.

“Come on, Effie, you love the glamour and the glitz. Listen,” he said, “could be a great opportunity for your sister to have someone already working in the games. Probably need some connections once she graduates.”

She didn’t give an answer straightaway but on the last night of the Victory Tour in the Capitol, she found him in his bedroom gripped in the middle of a violent nightmare, drenched in sweat, muttering about “gumdrops” and “cistern”.

“Haymitch,” she shook his shoulders. “Wake up. Please, you’re scaring me. Haymitch!”

He jolted awake, breathing heavily and stared at her. Haymitch raised his hand to touch her cheek and then her hair, almost tenderly.

“Maysilee?”

“Wh – “ She touched his hand that was twirling a strand of her hair. “No, it’s just me. Effie.”

An unreadable expression crossed his face. “I – For a moment I thought you were Maysilee. Same hair colour – sorry,” he mumbled. He had no idea what came over him but in the soft glow of night light, he admitted, “She’s like a … was like a sister I never had. We didn’t split up, you know. It wasn’t how they showed it. She… She wanted to check on the potatoes and the Gamemakers targeted – fuck,” he took a deep breath. “You should have seen her with Drusilla on the train. They never got along,” he smiled wistfully. “Wished we had you – you would have treated us like we’re … people.”

Haymitch didn’t see her again until he was at the train station the next morning and even then, he nearly walked past her. She was dressed in a swirl of colour, as usual, but this time, she had on a wig – bright pink with splashes of blue. It was ridiculous.

“Now you’ll never mistake me for Maysilee,” she said cheerfully. “She’s special to you so let’s honour her memory that way. Besides,” she added when she saw him opening his mouth to get a word in, “if I’m going to be Twelve’s escort, I should have a new look.”

A movement to his right jolted him back to the present. An Avox had entered the room and was standing silently, waiting for them to leave so she could clean the shards on the floor.

It was their tenth year in the Games together. Ten long years of losing tributes and drifting further away from each other. Their relationship which had started out civil, almost friendly, had been eroded and strained by despair and misery, and in Effie’s case, desperation.

She was desperate to save him but each year he drank more, he pushed her farther. His insults grew more corrosive and hurtful.

She thought if they could save at least one tribute he would be better. He had snorted, called her delusional and asked if her sleeping around with sponsors had been worth it, and that was how Haymitch had narrowly avoided having his head cracked open by a flying vase.

“Having regrets, are we?” he sneered in her direction. “Can’t quit now, sweetheart.”

“Says who?” she challenged, narrowing her eyes at him. “If I want to, I can get employment elsewhere.”

He snorted and plopped down on the sofa. “Go to bed, sweetheart. Another year, another loss. I’ll see you next year.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her taking a step forward, moving closer to him. He ignored her and poured himself a drink, a clear sign that the conversation was over. He wasn’t worried about her leaving and getting a job elsewhere. He knew she can’t.

Snow would never let her leave - her job was to keep the unruly District Twelve victor in line. And he had to behave, Snow had implied to him that Proserpina Trinket with her love for oysters could suddenly... disappear. Haymitch knew Effie love her sister more than anyone, and even if he found Effie annoying lately, he wouldn’t wish the pain of losing a sibling on her. He knew the pain. Let him alone live with it.

He hated the fact that he had trapped Effie in this life, in these Games, but he hated it even more that Snow had something else to dangle in front of him.

Hope you like it! let me know :)

[metalmonki]

Supernatural, Hunting, Living and Love Part 20 Finale

Dean Winchester x fem!reader

4.7k word count

fluff, idiots in love, friends to lovers

warnings none

Authors Note: We've reached the end!

Original / Previous Chapter

The days blurred together in a haze of crying—sometimes the babies, sometimes her. Most of the time, it was both.

Y/N dragged herself from one moment to the next, barely hanging on, snapping at anyone who dared try to help. She didn’t care that everyone meant well. Didn’t care that Theresa gently offered to take one of the girls so she could rest, or that Sam would cook and leave meals outside her door, uneaten and cold. She didn’t want help. She didn’t want them.

She wanted Dean.

Her girls—Mary and Jody—deserved to know him. Deserved his rough voice humming lullabies, his arms rocking them to sleep, his wide grin when one of them smiled for the first time. But he was gone. And pretending otherwise only made the ache worse.

She kept the nursery pristine, almost obsessively so. Every bottle in its place, every onesie folded just right. The twins were fed, changed, held, and loved. But not once did she hand them over to anyone else, even when her hands trembled from exhaustion. They were all she had left of Dean, and she wouldn’t let them go.

Mornings were the worst. She would wake with one or both babies curled against her, and for a split second, she’d roll over expecting to find Dean beside her. And every time, that moment of Jody shattered like glass.

She’d sit up, hold the girls tighter, and pretend she hadn’t cried again.

It was sometime after midnight when the knock came. Not loud. Just a soft, almost hesitant tap at the door.

Y/N didn’t answer.

She was on the floor beside the crib, one arm resting against it, cradling Mary to her chest while Jody slept in the bassinet behind her. Her body throbbed with fatigue, her shoulders tight from days of tension, but nothing compared to the ache in her chest. The empty space beside her—where Dean should have been—felt unbearable.

Another knock. Then, silence.

“Y/N,” came Castiel’s voice—quiet, careful.

She shut her eyes, jaw tightening.

“Go away.”

But the door opened anyway. Of course it did. Angels didn’t need permission.

Castiel stepped inside, his presence soft but undeniable. He moved slowly into the dim room, scanning the shadows until his gaze landed on her. She didn’t bother to look up.

“You haven’t left this room in four days,” he said.

“I’m aware.”

“You’re not eating. You’re barely sleeping. The girls—”

“What I need is Dean,” she cut him off, sharply. “Not you. Not a report on how I’m doing. Not this constant hovering.”

Castiel didn’t move. “Dean is gone.”

She turned her head toward him, her eyes blazing despite the exhaustion carved into her face.

“And you can just go see him, can’t you?” she said, voice trembling with restrained fury. “You can just pop into Heaven like it’s nothing. Visit him. Talk to him. While I’m stuck here—trapped—with two babies and no answers.”

Castiel’s expression faltered.

“Don’t deny it. Don’t lie to me,” she pressed, her voice cracking. “I know what you are. I know what you can do. And yet you come here with your sympathy like that’s supposed to make it better.”

“I didn’t go to see him,” Castiel said quietly. “Not once. Because I knew it would be unfair to you.”

Y/N laughed bitterly under her breath, tears welling. “Unfair to me? He’s your friend too, Cas. Don’t pretend it doesn’t eat you alive. But at least you can. You could just walk through those gates and see his face again. Hear his voice. I would give everything for that. Do you even realize what that kind of power means to someone like me?”

Castiel looked down, then slowly crossed the room. He didn’t touch her—he never did without permission—but he knelt beside her, his tone solemn.

“I hear him in Heaven,” he admitted. “Not his voice. Not like before. But the peace? The light? It’s stronger when a soul like his is there. I feel it. It radiates outward.”

Her face crumpled. “Then tell me he’s okay. Please, just—tell me he’s happy.”

Castiel’s eyes softened. “He is. He is more at peace than I have ever seen him. But he misses you. He misses you and the girls. That pain lingers, even in a perfect place.”

A sob escaped before she could stop it. Mary stirred, whimpering, and Y/N instinctively hushed her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m drowning down here,” she whispered. “I can’t do this without him.”

“You are doing it,” Castiel said gently. “And not alone.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter how many people are around. None of them are him.”

“No,” he agreed. “But they love you. And so did he. So does he. That love hasn’t left you, Y/N. It’s in every breath your daughters take.”

She didn’t respond for a long time. Just sat there, rocking Mary slightly, the pain raw and exposed between them.

“Stay,” she said finally. “Just for a while. Not because I need help. Just… don’t go.”

“I won’t,” Castiel replied.

And for the first time since Dean died, Y/N let someone stay.

The descent was gradual—so slow that at first, no one noticed.

Y/N stopped sleeping entirely. She only ate enough to keep up her strength for the twins. And when they slept, she didn't. Instead, she read. She read until her eyes burned and her fingers trembled from turning pages.

Every book in the Men of Letters library on angels, resurrection, lore from apocryphal texts, fragments from Heaven’s war, rare Nephilim accounts—she devoured it all. A growing storm of theories and possibilities formed in her mind, fraying at the edges with every passing day.

She stopped seeing Sam and Theresa, stopped letting them into her room. She only emerged to feed the girls, bathe them, rock them. And then she disappeared again, always clutching another volume.

The girls were thriving, healthy and strong—but their mother was unraveling.

Then came the night Castiel appeared again.

He had felt it—the pulse of her energy across the bunker like a beacon, unrefined and full of intent. He found her standing in the war room, her hair unbrushed, circles under her eyes, books scattered across the table in a chaos that had once been meticulously organized.

"You knew," she said as he stepped closer. Her voice was low and brittle, like a fraying wire stretched too tight. "All this time, you knew. You can bring him back."

Cas stiffened. “Y/N—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted, slamming a book down. “I’ve read it all. The Enochian rites. The resurrection rituals. The divine exceptions made during the Fall. Even the lore on Nephilim interference. Don’t you dare stand there and pretend it’s impossible.”

He moved slowly toward her, hands at his sides, calm and cautious. “There are rules.”

“You’re an angel,” she spat. “You break rules. That’s what you do. You raised Dean before, didn’t you? You pulled him from Hell.”

“That was Heaven’s will,” Castiel replied. “I was ordered to. Now? There is no order. No divine instruction. I cannot act on emotion alone.”

“Then lie,” she whispered. “Lie to them. Trick the Host. Steal him out if you have to. You’ve done worse, Cas. You’ve done so much worse for less.”

He stepped closer, voice softening. “You don’t understand what it would cost.”

“I don’t care,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’d give anything. I’d die right here, right now, if it meant he could hold his daughters.”

Castiel’s face twisted in quiet agony. “Y/N—”

“You get to see him,” she snapped. “You walk in and out of Heaven like it’s a hallway. You get to know he’s safe. You get to feel his peace. And me? I get nothing. I get to hear his voice in my dreams and wake up with my arms empty.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Y/N’s breath came in hard, shallow gasps. She clutched the edge of the war table like it was the only thing holding her up. Her mind raced with every word she’d read, every ritual that might be twisted into a loophole.

“You owe me,” she said. “You owe him. Bring him back, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes shimmered, but he didn’t speak.

“I swear to you,” she said, voice cracking, “I’ll find another way. If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself. I don’t care if I have to summon every goddamned archangel in existence. I’m not raising them alone. I won’t.”

The twins cried from down the hall.

Castiel turned his head, just slightly—toward the sound, toward the reminder of what Dean left behind.

“I will not desecrate his peace,” he said quietly. “Not even for you.”

Y/N stared at him, her face crumpling, fury collapsing into anguish.

“Then leave,” she whispered.

He did.

And she stood in the center of the war room, books scattered like broken promises around her feet, and let herself fall apart.

…

Castiel entered Heaven not with ceremony, but with solemn weight.

He stepped through the veil in silence, the hum of celestial energy thrumming faintly in the distance. Heaven had changed since Jack's ascension. The cold bureaucracy of the old Host was gone, replaced by something softer—more open, more human.

But even still, some doors were not meant to be opened lightly.

Castiel stood in the Garden—Heaven’s heart, where souls wandered freely beneath ever-blooming trees and gentle sunlight. Everything here was serene. Peaceful.

Except for him.

Jack was already waiting. He sat barefoot in the grass beneath an arching willow, sunlight dancing on his skin. He looked young, impossibly young for someone bearing the mantle of God. But his eyes—his eyes held eternity.

“I knew you’d come,” Jack said quietly, not looking up. “You’ve been wrestling with the question since the moment Dean died.”

Castiel didn’t speak right away. His trench coat barely stirred in the celestial breeze. He watched Jack closely, searching his face for a trace of the boy he once knew—the child he raised, protected, mourned.

“Y/N is falling apart,” Castiel said at last.

Jack nodded, fingers idly brushing the petals of a flower near his knee. “She’s grieving. And she’s not alone in that.”

“She’s beyond grief now. She’s... desperate.” Cas took a slow step forward. “She’s reading resurrection rites, apocryphal scrolls. She’s going to burn herself out trying to find a way. She thinks I’m holding back. And maybe I am.”

Jack’s gaze met his then—gentle, but immeasurably ancient. “Are you asking me for permission? Or for power?”

Castiel swallowed. “Both.”

Silence hung between them, thick and sacred.

“I could bring Dean back,” Jack said, voice steady. “With a word, I could restore his body. His soul. His memories. He could walk back into that bunker like nothing ever happened.”

Cas felt a flicker of hope, painful and sharp.

“But,” Jack continued, “there is a balance. Dean died fulfilling his purpose. He died at peace, surrounded by love. To bring him back would mean unraveling that final thread.”

“He didn’t get to meet his daughters,” Cas said. “He didn’t get to live the life he earned. That wasn’t peace—it was unfinished.”

Jack looked away again, toward a distant hill where a soul wandered alone, humming some long-forgotten tune.

“Sometimes peace isn’t a full story,” Jack said. “It’s a quiet ending. And sometimes love means letting go.”

Castiel stepped forward, his voice quieter now. “She’s drowning, Jack. The girls—Dean’s daughters—will grow up without knowing him. If there is a way, if there’s even a chance... I have to ask. What would it take?”

Jack was silent for a long time. The wind whispered through the Garden, and for a moment, everything was still.

Jack looked up at him again. “It would take sacrifice. A life for a life. Or something greater. Dean’s return would echo across realms—it would upset the natural order, fracture the peace of countless souls. He would not come back without cost.”

Castiel stood still, the quiet words settling over him like snowfall. He understood. He had always understood.

He looked at Jack—really looked at him. The boy who had become God. The child he had raised. The one who had once looked to him for guidance, for love, for identity.

Now Castiel looked with nothing but certainty.

Jack didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.

And Castiel didn’t speak. He only bowed his head.

Just once.

A silent agreement passed between them—wordless, sacred, irreversible.

The wind in the Garden shifted.

The light grew warmer.

Jack closed his eyes.

And Castiel disappeared.

…

The night air was cold, biting at my skin as I stood in the center of the old crossroads.

It was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that made you feel like the world was holding its breath, watching you with wide, unblinking eyes. The box in my hands felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Inside it, every piece of me I had left to give. Dirt crusted my boots. My hands shook.

I was really going to do this.

I fell to my knees, digging. Just like the books had said. Four corners. Unmarked earth. Blood if needed.

I wasn’t afraid. Not of the demon. Not of the deal. Not of what it would cost.

Dean was gone. And there wasn’t anything left of me without him.

The girls were safe. Sam and Theresa were doing everything right. But I couldn’t do this anymore—pretending like my soul wasn’t already six feet under with him. I needed him back. I needed to be whole again.

I pressed the box into the earth. A tear slid down my cheek as I whispered the words.

But before the last syllable left my lips, the air cracked like thunder.

Grace.

The light around me shimmered with gold.

“Don’t,” came a voice, quiet and calm but firm as iron.

I spun around, stumbling to my feet.

“Cas—” I nearly choked on the name.

He stood just outside the circle, trench coat fluttering, face drawn tight with something I couldn’t place. Grief. Resolve. Love.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You were never meant to.”

My voice cracked. “Then who was? Who’s supposed to live like this—raising his daughters without him? Pretending everything’s fine when I feel like I’m drowning every second of the day? I need him, Cas.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t,” I snapped. “You can go to Heaven. You can see him. I’ve read every book in the library. I know you can visit. And yet you let me rot down here with nothing but memories. You let the girls grow up never knowing their father!”

Cas didn’t flinch. He just walked closer.

“I did visit,” he said softly. “And I spoke with Jack.”

I froze.

“What?”

He looked at me then, and something passed between us—something deep and ancient. The kind of weight only an angel could carry.

“You were never meant to carry this pain alone. And you won’t have to for much longer.”

I stared at him, hope and fear clashing violently inside my chest. “What are you saying?”

“I can’t promise when. Or how. But I made a vow. To Jack. To Dean. To you. And soon… you won’t have to call the dark things anymore.”

My knees gave out. I dropped to the ground, sobbing into the dirt. The box spilled beside me, its contents scattering—photographs, Dean’s amulet, his old flask.

Castiel knelt beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

“I will not let you be alone forever,” he said.

For the first time in weeks, I believed him.

…

The sun was just starting to rise, washing the sky in soft strokes of pink and orange when Cas brought me to the house.

It didn’t feel real.

Two stories. White shutters. A little porch swing that creaked softly in the breeze. There were flowerbeds, already blooming, and a patch of wild green yard out back that looked big enough for the girls to run wild in.

It looked like something out of someone else’s life—somewhere safe. Somewhere still.

“Where are we?” I asked, voice thin, like I was afraid speaking too loud might break whatever fragile thing was happening.

Cas didn’t answer right away. He just looked at the house with that quiet reverence he sometimes got when he looked at the sky or talked about humanity. Then he turned to me.

“This is your home now. Yours, the girls’, and Dean’s.”

The world stopped moving.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I spoke to Jack,” Cas said, stepping closer, his voice soft but sure. “We reached an agreement.”

I could barely breathe. “Dean…?”

Cas nodded. “He’s coming back. But there’s a condition.”

My heart pounded so hard it hurt. “Anything.”

“You and Dean have to let go of hunting. No demons. No ghosts. No monsters. You live a normal life. This house is warded, protected by Jack’s power. No supernatural being can enter without your permission.”

My knees went weak. I grabbed the porch railing to steady myself.

“A normal life?” I whispered, like I didn’t quite understand the words.

“You raise your daughters. You rest. You heal. Dean gets to be a father, and you get to be with him again. But this is your only chance. If either of you return to hunting… the deal ends.”

I didn’t respond. I just stared at the front door like maybe if I looked hard enough, I’d see Dean stepping through it already. Alive. Whole. Real.

Cas placed a hand on my arm. “He’ll be here soon.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until he gently wiped a tear from my cheek. I turned and looked up at him.

“Why?” I asked. “Why did Jack say yes?”

Cas hesitated. “Because he saw you. Saw what this grief was doing. And because Dean—he earned peace a thousand times over.”

“And you?”

Cas offered a faint smile. “I believe in second chances. Even for the broken.”

I nodded, unable to speak. My chest felt cracked open, all the pain and rage and ache pouring out, replaced with something softer. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in months:

Hope.

Cas gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Go inside.”

I opened the door and stepped into a home that already smelled faintly like cedar and lemon. There was furniture—simple, warm, familiar. Two bassinets sat by the window, facing the sunlight. The couch had a dent in it, like someone had already spent time curled up there. There were picture frames on the wall—empty now, but waiting.

Waiting for a life to begin.

And then I heard it.

Footsteps on the porch.

My heart slammed into my ribs, and I turned so fast the world blurred.

The door creaked. The air shifted.

And there he was.

Dean.

His eyes locked on mine, and everything inside me broke and stitched itself back together in the same breath. He looked exactly like I remembered—tired eyes, crooked smirk, soul-deep weariness tucked behind every glance—but alive. So vividly alive.

He crossed the room in two strides and wrapped his arms around me. I clung to him like I’d never let go again. My hands tangled in his shirt. His lips pressed against my temple.

“I missed you,” he murmured, voice rough.

“I love you,” I breathed.

He pulled back just enough to cup my face. “I love you too.”

Outside, the sky kept shifting, the world kept spinning.

But inside our little house, time finally stood still.

The world felt like it was moving in slow motion. Everything around me—Dean, the house, the air itself—was just… perfect. The kind of perfect you don’t ever really expect to happen in your lifetime, but here it was. Here he was.

Dean.

He was holding me, holding on like he wasn’t sure if he could, like maybe he’d disappear again if he let go. But he didn’t. We just stood there, breathing each other in, feeling the weight of the moment settle around us like a soft blanket.

“Dean,” I whispered, pulling back slightly, just enough to look up at him. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” he said, voice thick, like he couldn’t believe it either. “I’m not going anywhere.”

My fingers trembled as I reached out to touch his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw as if making sure this wasn’t some dream I’d wake up from. “We’re really doing this. We’re really—”

Dean’s lips pressed to mine, cutting off the words I didn’t know how to finish. When he pulled back, I could see it in his eyes—the promise, the relief. “We are. You and me, and the girls.” His voice dropped a little, as if the weight of it hit him too. “We’re a family.”

Tears burned my eyes again. This time, they weren’t from grief—they were from something deeper, something quieter. I nodded, feeling it in every part of me. “Yeah. We are.”

And then, like a gift, like a miracle, the sound of tiny coos filled the air. The soft gurgling noise that was both a question and an answer, coming from the other room.

“Come on,” I whispered, taking his hand and tugging him toward the nursery.

His steps faltered just slightly, but he followed. We passed through the living room, where the sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow on everything, and into the room where our daughters were sleeping soundly in their cribs.

Dean paused in the doorway, his breath catching as his gaze landed on them. The twins—our girls—lay there in the soft pink blankets we’d picked out weeks ago. Their tiny faces were peaceful, round, perfect.

I stepped into the room, guiding Dean with me. Slowly, he approached the first crib where one of the girls lay. His hand hovered just above her, like he wasn’t sure how to touch her, but then he reached down, his fingers brushing gently against the baby’s tiny hand.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, looking up at me, his face full of awe.

“You’re going to be a great dad,” I said, voice thick with emotion. “They’re going to know how loved they are.”

Dean’s lips trembled, his eyes shining with something I hadn’t seen in so long. “I can’t believe this,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I’m finally getting to be their father.”

I stepped beside him, wrapping my arm around his waist, and together we looked down at the girls, at our daughters. I could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and I knew mine was matching his beat for beat.

And then, Dean did something I’ll never forget. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the forehead of the girl in the crib. He whispered something, so soft, so tender, that I could barely hear it, but I knew what it was.

“I’ll always be here, baby girl. Always.”

And just like that, the world shifted. The pain, the loss, the years of fighting, of struggling—all of it seemed so far away in that moment. Because in front of us, right there, was everything we’d ever wanted. A family. A home. A future.

Dean stepped back, standing straight again, but still keeping his eyes on the twins. “They’re gonna be alright, right?” he asked, as though it was the only question that mattered.

“They’re going to be perfect,” I said, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. “Just like you.”

We stood there together for a while, just watching them sleep. The sound of their breathing filled the room, soft and rhythmic, like a lullaby that was just for us. And for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe in the possibility of peace. In the possibility of something real.

For the first time in a long time, I felt whole.

…

It’s strange how life has a way of weaving moments together. The simple, everyday things that used to feel like they were just part of the grind—things I didn’t even notice—now feel like a blessing.

Like the soft click of the front door opening and closing. Like the way the air smells after a spring rain, fresh and clean. Like the sound of tiny feet shuffling on the hardwood floor.

And then there’s Dean.

Every moment with him feels precious now. The way he moves around the house, the way he looks at me as though he can’t quite believe we’re here, together. It’s like we’re both waiting for something—waiting for the world to remind us that this is real. But I don’t need a reminder anymore.

We’ve settled into a routine, something I never thought I’d have. Dean helps with the twins when he’s not working on the house, and we’ve even started making plans for things we never thought we’d get to do.

Like a trip to the beach.

“Alright, baby,” Dean says, his voice rough with exhaustion but soft with love, as he reaches for one of the babies from the crib. “Let’s get you ready for your bath, huh?”

I watch him from the doorway, my heart swelling in my chest. His hands are steady as he lifts our daughter into his arms, cradling her with such care that I can hardly believe how far we’ve come. His touch is gentle, like he’s still learning how to be her dad, but he’s getting better every day.

When he looks up at me, his eyes are full of warmth. “You doing okay?”

I nod, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah. Just taking it all in.”

Dean walks toward me, his steps slow and deliberate as he carries the baby. “You sure you’re okay? It’s been a lot, I know.”

I smile softly, feeling the weight of the words in my chest. “I’m better now. I just… I never thought I’d get to see this. Us. Together. Our girls.”

He stops in front of me, his free hand reaching out to touch my face. “Me neither,” he admits, his voice quieter. “But here we are.”

I lean into his touch, closing my eyes for a moment, allowing myself to just feel. To feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin, the promise of a future we thought was lost.

Dean presses his lips to my forehead, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, Y/N. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.”

I open my eyes and look up at him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I believe him. I believe in us.

We’re a family now. And nothing—no matter what came before, no matter what might come next—could change that.

The sound of the babies gurgling softly in the other room pulls me back into the present. Dean looks toward the nursery, and we both share a quiet laugh. It’s a laugh that says we’re in this together, no matter what.

“We should probably get them fed,” I say, my voice light, teasing.

Dean smirks. “I’m on it. But you’re doing the diapers.”

I raise an eyebrow, mock-horrified. “Oh, so we’re trading roles now?”

“You bet,” Dean says, the grin on his face wide and full of that familiar cocky charm. “But you’re better at it. Trust me.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Alright, alright. I’ll take it this time.”

Dean chuckles, and as he walks away, I watch him with a softness in my chest. It’s a feeling I never thought I’d get to have again. Not after everything.

We’re here. We’re safe. And I know, deep down, that we’ll be okay. We’ll face whatever comes next together. As a family.

“Ready for this?” I ask as he turns back to look at me, baby in his arms.

Dean smiles. “Always.”

And with that, we walk into the next chapter of our lives. Together. No more demons. No more hunts. Just us and our girls, building a life we never thought we’d have.

And I know now, more than ever, that this is where I was meant to be.

[tocara]

A reader, who doesn't believe in love and then they met Satoru.

Part 8

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7.

Satoru’s POV

It wasn’t supposed to linger.

But it did.

That night. Your confession. The way you had spoken—so calm, so sure, like it was a casual admission, not a heavy confession. It wasn’t the words themselves that stuck with him. It was the way you said it, like you had needed to get it out, but had no real expectation. No demand. Just pure honesty. And that? That felt… different. So different from the usual attention he was used to.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

He thought about it, more than he expected. He’d spent most of his life just living at the moment, never really reflecting on the weight of his actions or the impact they had on people. But that confession? That felt like it left a mark, not just on him, but somewhere inside you too.

It had stayed with him. The simplicity of it. The rawness. He hadn’t known how to respond to you back then. He was still caught in the aftermath of his breakup, still figuring out what he wanted, and you—you—were different. Not in a way he could explain. But there was something in the way you had expressed yourself that made him think, maybe there’s more to this than just the surface.

He didn’t know what this was. Not yet.

Now, here he was.

The airport. Of all places. Of course, he had to run into you here.

And the moment your eyes met, he saw the panic in your eyes. He saw it, plain as day. It almost made him laugh, but he kept it to himself. Maybe he wasn’t ready to confront whatever was brewing between both of you, either. He didn’t have answers, and you definitely didn’t look like you were ready for one.

So, when you got up and walked away so quickly, he didn’t push it. He followed, but only as far as the quieter part of the terminal, not wanting to crowd you. You were sitting there, looking lost in your thoughts, and for a split second, he hesitated. Then he made his move.

“Running away again?”

He saw you flinch. He grinned, leaning casually next to you. As much as he wanted to tease, something about the moment felt too genuine to mess with. He couldn’t quite explain it, but there was a softness to you now. Not the guarded, distant quiet from before. You seemed present. Like you were ready to talk.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” he said, not making it weird. Just stating the obvious.

“I wasn’t ready,” you muttered.

That, he understood. He wasn’t sure he was, either.

“Well,” he continued, glancing at her sideways, “I wasn’t expecting to see you either. But now that we’re both stuck here…” He shrugged, offering her a small smile. “Guess we make the best of it.”

For a moment, there was only the hum of the airport and the occasional PA announcement. But he didn’t feel uncomfortable. Instead, it felt oddly natural, like catching up with someone who knew you in a way that felt deeper than just surface-level small talk.

“So…” He hesitated, but then pushed on, “It’s been a while. You’re doing alright?”

You nodded, taking a sip from your coffee. “Yeah. I’ve been busy. Trying to keep things steady.”

He leaned forward slightly, studying your face. You had that same reserved expression, but something in your eyes told him that there was more beneath the surface. More than you let on. And for the first time, he found himself genuinely curious about your life, your thoughts, everything.

“You’ve changed,” he said softly, but not in a judgmental way. “You seem different from before.”

Your gaze flickered up to meet his. “People change,” you replied. It wasn’t dismissive. Just… matter-of-fact.

“You look more sure of yourself,” he added, carefully. “It’s a good look on you.”

You looked away for a moment, like you were considering something. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter, more introspective. “I just… I guess I had to. I couldn’t stay where I was forever.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean, like before? The woman who liked me but didn’t need anything from me?”

You stiffened slightly, but your lips tugged into a small smile. “Something like that.”

There was a pause. Then he had to ask, the question nagging at him in a way that wouldn’t let go.

“Why didn’t you need a response from me?”

Your eyes softened. “Because I didn’t. I knew it wasn’t something you had to answer. I just wanted you to know. I just needed you to hear it.”

Satoru blinked. That answer hit him harder than he expected. And for a brief second, it was like the world slowed down. He realized—you weren’t looking for a fairytale or a promise or even anything from him. You just wanted to be seen. And in doing so, you’d seen him too.

That feeling of being understood was something he didn’t realize he needed.

“You’re not the kind of person who hides, are you?” he said, his voice quieter now.

“No,” you replied with a small smile, meeting his gaze. “I’m just trying to find a way to be… honest with myself.”

He didn’t say anything after that. He just sat there, letting the quiet of the airport fill the space between both of you. 

He wasn’t expecting you to keep talking.

“I don’t think liking someone should be demanding.”

He turned toward you, brows slightly raised. You weren’t looking at him—just ahead, eyes focused on nothing and everything all at once, like your thoughts were playing on some screen only you could see.

“Like—it's not supposed to expect anything, or weigh someone down, just because you care about them.”

You said it so gently, so matter-of-factly, it nearly knocked the breath out of him. No anger, no bitterness. Just your truth.

“Movies, books, even the world around us always say that if you love someone, you should fight to be with them. That love is about claiming, chasing, holding on. But for me, it never felt like that.”

Your voice didn’t waver. You weren’t fishing for pity. This wasn't self-deprecation for attention. This was someone who had felt deeply, quietly, in the shadows, and had come to terms with it on her own.

“I don’t want anything in return. Part of it is because… I honestly don’t think I have much to offer. My world is small—quiet, messy, mostly empty—and I don’t want anyone to have to shrink their own world just to fit into mine.”

“I don’t want to be a burden to someone I care about. I just want them to be happy, and I truly believe they’re more likely to find that happiness with someone else… someone who isn't me.”

Satoru stared at you, lips slightly parted, unable to look away.

He'd met thousands of people. That was part of the job—strangers every week, small talk and surface-level warmth. He was used to people trying to impress, to charm, to ask, to want something from him.

But not you.

You had done none of that. Not the first night you met. Not at the wedding. Not now.

And yet you were the one who lingered in his head. The one who stuck.

He finally spoke, voice quieter than before. “You really believe that, huh?”

You glanced at him, a small nod. “Yeah.”

“You don’t think it’s a little sad?” he asked, not accusing—just genuinely curious.

“It used to feel that way,” you admitted. “But now? Not really. I think... some people are meant to love in silence. From a distance. And that’s okay. I just don’t want my love to be something that cages someone else.”

Satoru looked at you for a long moment.

You didn’t realize it, but you had just explained something he never understood about himself. Why his last relationship failed. Why being adored wasn’t always enough—why it felt like he was suffocating, even in the arms of someone who said they loved him every day.

Because love without freedom wasn’t love at all.

And here was this woman, sitting beside him, telling him you had loved him—maybe still did—and you hadn’t tried to keep him. Hadn’t tried to chase him.

You let him go, even when it hurt.

Because to you, that was love.

Satoru turned his gaze back to the ceiling for a moment, breathed in deep.

“I used to think love was something you had to fight for,” he said. “That if you didn’t, you’d lose it.”

“And now?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Now I think... maybe the right kind of love doesn’t need to be wrestled into submission. Maybe it’s quiet. Maybe it just sits beside you at a canceled flight and tells you things you weren’t ready to hear.”

You didn’t reply. But he felt your stillness. Felt the weight of the moment settle between both of you.

He glanced at you again. “You say you don’t have much to offer... but, you have something most people don’t.”

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

“Clarity,” he said. “You don’t pretend. You don’t lie to yourself. That’s rare.”

You lowered your gaze. “That’s not much.”

“It’s more than you think.”

He let that hang in the air.

And somewhere deep down, he realized—maybe he didn’t have all the answers yet. Maybe this wasn’t the start of anything. Or maybe it was.

But for now, it was something real.

And that was enough.

[suhosumi]

Stanley snyder x oc - Chapter 1

English it's not my first language so please be indulgent !

This chapter content smut !!!!

When class finishes, a young woman quickly leaves the university, taking a few narrow alleys. She hurries home, knowing that once the day begins, everything becomes a matter of timing. She wakes up at 6 AM, and her day doesn’t end until 2 or 3 AM the next morning.

She quickly enters in her 160 squares foot studio appartement ,she changes her clothers and flops onto her bed. She open a video on YouTube about a well-known forensic pathologist. She fall asleep et wake up around 8 pm. Slowly, she emerge of her sleep, she grabs a red bull in her fridge, she open it avoiding to break her nail and start to sip, knowing she needs it to keep going.

She heads to the bathroom, get dressed, puts on makeup, and one half an hour later and go to her bartendin job.

- How are you Kayla ? Exclaimes his boss, giving her a thumbs-up.

She replies imitating him a litlle smile on her face. The hour pass and she avoids drinking whats customers offer her. Had a attractive face and body, its not uncommon that some boring men thats would her compagny.

But today its different.

Tonight a handsome man approche the bar with charismatic way and take place on the high chair with a toothpick between his colored lips. Kayla remains hypnotized for a moment by this man. He's tall and slender but his tight black t-shirt betrays a well-honed muscular Il est grand et élancé mais son t-shirt noir et moulant trahit une. The man seems to notice that the girl stare at him and smirk of.

At his smirk, Kayla understand that's she's not the first person who this man do somthing to her.

He don't do anything excepted looking Kayla and she comes naturally to him for his order.

- Can i get you something

The blond man take a moment to analyse the woman, then grabs his toothpick in one hand.

- An Amercian, he demands.

Kayla does so n front of him and start with the ice cubes then the rest of the drink. When she puts the drink down, the man places a 50$ bill on the counter.

- Keep the change.

Hesitant at first, she thinks about paying her studies and takes the to drink without thinking more at. the man Sips his drink stare at kayla who feel his eyes on her. She dosen't confront him so she act like nothing until he start to speak.

- What's a pretty girl like you do in this kid of job?

This phrase... its always the same, and she's heard it a lot of time but from him its sounds different.

- I have to pay for my studies, sir.

Why did she call him sir ?? she curses herself

But this simple word seems to make him feel something cause of his smile growing.

- What kind of study ?

- Medecine. Answer Kayla.

- Interesting. He finish his cocktail in one glups and take bakc his toothpick between his lips.

Kayla stare his purple lips. The man notice it.

- Get me an other one my love.

- Don't call me like that i have a name. she repply crossing her arms on her chest suddenly feeling confident in front of this man with a breathtaking charisma.

- Oh really ? And what's your name love ? He asks making the toothpick rolling to the other side between his lips.

Kayla rolls her eyes.

- You don't need to know.

That's make him laugh.

- I don't see waht is funny, She say most for herself.

the blond man rests his elbow on the counter and he's rests his head in his hand and one leg over the other. He's looking at her durnat on eentire hour and that's was stange because that's dosen't bothering Kayla.

The women come back to the man with a question on her mind.

- And what do you plan to do with your evening ? She asks.

- Have fun. He replies taking a sip of his drink.

- Drinking alone at the bar ?

He laughs.

- You're keeping me compagny, right ? Maybe until the end of the night. He smiles.

Kayla turns her back to him, hiding her face as she start to blush.

This isn't the first time she's been made to understand that someone wanted her body, but this time the desire was mutual. Kayla also coveted him, but in a much less direct way. Perhaps it was time to think, she thought, but feeling playful, she stopped herself.

- Oh wow, how original ! you're only the fifth today.

- I'll be the last one don't worry, He asserts taking an other si.

Her teeth sink gently into her lower lip as his confidence catches her off balance.

- Can i ask why ?

- Because im better then 99% of the men that you meet.

- Better? She asks.

- In bed, Stan closes his eyes, savoring his drink, before opening them to look at the young woman, completely red. And you will understand what i mean.

-I-I have to take care of the other customers, she says suddenly, much too muffled by his intimidating aura.

ke different drinks for customers. And then return to the man like the waves returning to the shore. Something about him desperately attracts her.

- I'll be done in 30 min. She tells him.

He smiles at her in a confident way.

When her shift is over, Kayla grabs her bag and quickly changes before joining this stranger. She tightens her bag in her hand and takes the first step towards him.

The blond man raises an eyebrow, eyeing her up and down. The tall man bites his lip predatorily.

In the end, maybe that was what was happening. Kayla felt like prey facing her predator, and yet it didn't bother her. She would let him do what he wanted with her.

-I live a thirty-minute walk from here, she warns.

-Give me your address, he asks, opening the GPS app on his phone with one hand and grabbing his car keys in the other.

Kayla gives it to him without flinching, far too absorbed by this man to be suspicious.

He gets into his car, watching Kayla follow him. Once seated, the man grabs a blue and white pack and pulls out a cylindrical stick that Kayla recognizes as a cigarette. He lights it in his car, not asking his passenger if it bothers her, Kayla hates the smell.

The man turns the key in his car, and the engine immediately roars, making a noise that sounds expensive. Kayla fixes her right hand on the steering wheel, her other hand resting on the edge of the window. Kayla bites her lower lip, her heart pounding, dreading what's about to happen.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, for her, the trip is quite short. The man quickly parks in a space on the street before turning off the engine.

-Well, that's a nice building, he says, taking his cigarette out of his mouth, his voice filled with irony.

Ashamed, Kayla sinks back into her seat, knowing she can't argue. She quickly opens the door as if to escape, hoping he'll follow her quickly. He doesn't need to be asked twice and gets out of the car as well, as charismatic as ever.

He falls into step with her, quickly climbing the stairs while following her. Kayla jams her keys into the lock, and as soon as the door opens, the blond man grabs her hips, pushing her inside the apartment. He slams the door shut with his foot and pins the young woman against the wall.

The man grabs her chin with his right hand, lifting her face upwards so he can gaze into her lust-filled eyes.

-Stan, he says.

Kayla frowns, not understanding.

-Call me Stan, he says in a whisper, a few centimeters from her lips.

The man named Stan lowers his face to her neck, letting Kayla's floral scent coat it. He pushes her sweater back over her shoulder, leaving the skin exposed. He sinks his teeth into it, eliciting a gasp from the young woman who hadn't expected it.

Kayla, not really knowing what to do, places her hand in Stan's hair, encouraging him in what he was doing.

Stan decides that his shoulder is no longer enough and slowly moves towards her lips. Before snatching a kiss from her, the young woman enters, opening her lips, giving him full access to her.

She lets him take possession of her mouth and places her trembling hands on his slender but sculpted chest. As their kiss took on a possessive and demanding tone, Stan grabbed her thighs so she could wrap them around his hips, to which she obediently obeyed.

-Your room, he asked between two kisses in the hallway.

-Here, she indicated, pointing to her living room, which doubled as her bedroom.

He let the young woman fall gently onto the bed. Feeling a sensation between her legs, she squeezed them together, her cheeks burning. At her reaction, the blond man frowned, a predatory smile plastered on his lips.

He spread her legs, settling between them.

-Are you sure? he asked softly, feeling resistance in his gesture.

Kayla nodded gently. With a slight hesitation, Stan finally grabbed the hem of Kayla's sweater to remove it. Stan kissed her jaw, slowly moving down to her skirt, exploring her body. He looks into her eyes, slowly pulling the zipper to reveal her underwear.

Before he can remove anything else, Kayla stops him in his tracks.

Under Stan's curious gaze, the young woman beneath him grabs him in another kiss, this time taking the lead, before grabbing Stan's black t-shirt to pull it off, revealing his toned body.

Once shirtless, the man smiles amusedly at Kayla, who looks a little more engaging.

Just as he was about to prepare the young woman, she stops him in his tracks again.

-I'm... I... Stan… I'm scared… she confesses.

-Do you want to stop ?

She shook her head from side to side, wanting to continue.

Stan's eyes widened, finally understanding what was bothering him about this woman.

-Are you a virgin ?

Kayla began to blush with shame, hiding her face from Stan. He grabbed her hands, moving them away from her face.

-Are you sure you're okay ? He asks don't want to stop there.

She nodded.

-Fine, I'll just be more patient.

So that's what he did. Stan took his time introducing Kayla to his body. He went slowly, never rushing her at any point. He, who was used to being rough and wild, showed gentleness and understanding.

When their bodies met, Kayla felt a terrible pain, as she had expected. Stan had warned her that the first few seconds wouldn't be pleasant. Then, as the seconds ticked by, Kayla gave in to the pleasure that was beginning to build within her.

-Are you still okay ? he asks, ready to stop.

Kayla breathes a small yes, brimming with pleasure, raising her hips, encouraging him to continue. This delights Stan.

As the two reach their limits, Kayla digs her short nails into the man's broad back.

He moans softly at the sensation of giving in to the pleasure.

Exhausted, Kayla lets herself fall completely back onto the mattress, which seemed so inviting at that moment.

Stan, for his part, pulls out of the young woman before standing up.

-Are you leaving already?

-I'll be back, he assures her. And by the way, don't give out your address so easily again.

Kayla nods, not really heeding the advice, which sounded more like an order than anything else. Stan is back two minutes later with a glass of water for Kayla. He had no reason to take such good care of this woman, whose name he didn't even know, but something about her made him want to watch over her. Maybe he hadn't had a relationship for too long?

Kayla thanked him and downed the glass in one gulp before diving back into the covers, making way for Stan. He settled down next to her, and unlike his previous conquests, Kayla didn't come and cuddle up to him.

Surprised, he asked her again if she was okay, but Kayla seemed to have already fallen asleep. He sighed, feeling lonely despite the woman's presence. He was used to this feeling; it took over him after every sexual encounter.

-Take me in your arms, ​​please.. she told him.

This surprised the man even more. He put one arm under her breasts and the other around her hips to pull her closer.

Kayla fell asleep this time, completely naked, in the arms of this stranger. Stan stayed up for a few more hours, thinking about her day ahead. He fell asleep a few hours later.

When she woke up, Kayla stretched her entire body, still drowsy. She had had one of the best nights she'd ever had until her classes came flooding back to her. She rushed to her phone, lying on her coffee table. Yet, she hadn't taken it out of her bag, she remembered.

Then she remembered Stan, but she didn't see him anywhere. He must be gone, Kayla thought, disappointed. She grabbed her phone and landed directly on a contact card named Stan.

She smiled, happy to keep in touch with him, but decided to deal with it later; the emergency was her classes.

She got up, took a shower, poured a cup of coffee to which she would add soy milk, then brushed her teeth before leaving home for the university. Arriving in front of the lecture hall, she hesitated for a moment before going in; she couldn't miss a class, not with the kind of classmates she has in medical school.

Taking a seat, she took out her computer to type the lecture, but during the hour, her mind wandered here and there until she remembered last night. Had he enjoyed it too? She hadn't asked him…

She turned on her phone, tapping on Stan's profile, then on the messages, but no messages came to mind… What should she write? Kayla ignored the message and returned to the lecture.

In the next lecture, which was a tutorial, she received the grade for a test, a nice little 18/20. Satisfied, she put the paper in her bag. Unfortunately, she wouldn't have anyone to celebrate with except maybe her boss…

Once the day was over, she repeated the same routine as yesterday: sleep then work.

-How was your day, miss? her boss asked while he prepared the bar.

-I got an 18 out of 20 in Chemistry, she smiled.

-Very good ! he exclaimed.

Kayla thanked him. Indeed, Mr. Bob was her only point of reference in life. She didn't really have any friends, no boyfriend or girlfriend, and even fewer parents to visit from time to time. They were always there, though, they didn't even live particularly far from her, but Kayla was on very bad terms with them.

She spent her evening distributing drinks here and there to the customers, receiving some from time to time, occasionally glancing at the bar, not to check on new customers but more to see if the famous blond guy would return.

Unfortunately for her, he showed no sign of being there.

The week was going on as usual, and Kayla was feeling tired of this habit. Her life seemed terribly empty since that evening with Stan.

One day during class, Kayla decided that after two weeks without seeing him, it was time to send him a message.

-Hi, she said, forgetting to introduce herself.

She gave him time to respond, but after a few days without a reply, she finally got angry. Why had he given her his number if he wasn't planning on getting back in touch with her?

She looked at the message in the middle of Biology class and decided to send him another one.

-It's Kayla, the girl from the bar.

Still no answer.

On her way home, she cursed him. She really shouldn't have done what she did; that bastard didn't deserve the privilege of her first time!

He had warned her that he only wanted to have fun…

The next day, when she woke up and her phone started ringing, telling her it was 6:00 a.m., she saw a message from him.

"I know."

That's all?

She waited a week and a half for two words?

She was going to poison him if she ever saw him again. "If ever," which she hoped would turn into "soon." However, she couldn't force things. If he didn't want to see her, then she couldn't force her presence on him…

Thank you so much for reading my story, don't hesitate to correct me or give me your opinion !!!

There is 7 chapter on my wattpad if you want but it's in french t the moment !

[chock-and-bates]

hiiiii! i saw someone send in a scenario they imagined for "roar of the fire" and realised i wanted to get my two cents in as well lol. if like, there was a plot to poison max and charles found out about it, and it was backed by former supporters of ferrari or something, how would he deal with the dilemma? how is he feeling? because i imagine he won't abandon the man that's dicking him down on the regular and also giving him some measure of power, but i also imagine that it won't be easy for him to just let go of his past especially if he's not like, in love with him yet.

you sent me on a little 1.4k word adventure today, anon.

there actually is a scene somewhat similar to this situation in the outline, but it's quite spoilery, so i wrote a little side story instead :)

roar of the fire ficlet under the cut. (rated t)

It’s a seemingly dull day in court when Charles receives the unexpected guest.

He’s lounging in the corner of the Great Hall, playing a game of chess with Ollie while Lando drapes himself on the chair next to him, moaning about how bored he is. It’s tedious, as is the way Lord Russell is glaring at Charles from across the hall, standing at attention near where Max sits on the throne, who is looking quite bored himself as he listens to yet another dispute between Sir Alonso and Sir Lawson. 

Lord Russell should be glad Charles excused himself, he thought to himself as he captured Ollie’s rook. If he was a part of the discussions he would be tempted to tell Max he should just stick the knights in the stocks and only release them when they’ve resolved their endless feud themselves. George would be sure to love that-

“Oh, who do we have here,” Lando’s sudden purr breaks Charles out of his musings, and he looks up to see a surprisingly familiar face.

“Lord Giovinazzi and his lovely wife would like to say hello,” Lando continues, sitting up to primp himself as the lord and his lady approach.

Antonio Giovinazzi and Charles had known each other for years, growing up together in Ferrari’s court until he left some years ago when he married the eldest daughter of a Sauber duke, inheriting some land in the process.

Charles frowns slightly as they come closer, fighting back the usual shame that rises when someone from his past sees him in his new life…

But Antonio keeps his face neutral, the perfect lord as he and his wife offer their congratulations on his marriage and his coronation, with his wife simpering over Charles’ jewels while Lando shamelessly flirts with the both of them.

There is nothing untowards, nothing to arise Sir Albon’s concern where he watches from his spot behind Charles and his lords, nothing for Lando to go gossiping about, nothing to draw Max’s ire as he repeatedly glances over at them.

But when Antonio takes his hand before giving a low bow to bid goodbye, Charles quickly understands the facade when he feels the lord slip a small scroll of parchment into his fingers.

Clever man.

Charles keeps his own mask on, giving no indication that anything has transpired as the couple takes their leave and Charles discreetly slips the scroll up his sleeve.

* * *

A few hours later, when he finally has time for himself, Charles is frozen, still as a statue as he stares at the small message in his hand.

There are only a few hurried sentences scribbled onto the small paper, but it is more than enough.

It is well known the hatred you carry for your brutal husband. Lord Giovinazzi, Lord Zhou, and Lord Fuoco would like to offer you deliverance. With your help, we can slip wolf’s bane to the lion, and seize on the chaos that follows.

You could save Ferrari, Il Predestinato. Fulfill the prophecy.

Send someone you trust to the North Tower at midnight for instructions.

A plot… a plot to poison the king.

Charles re-reads the short message again and again and again, stumbling to a chair as he feels his knees go weak.

The three lords are already in the castle for the banquet in four days’ time. All three are former members of the Ferrari Court, ones who clearly have ambitions to return. Charles knows them, worked with them, fought with them-

And now they ask him to help them poison his husband, and they do so by invoking the fucking prophecy.

Save Ferrari…

Head spinning, Charles tries to think clearly, but it’s useless. His head is a maelstrom of screaming thoughts and images flashing by:

He could return home- Ferrari betrayed him- Blood on his hands- Ollie would go to the Tower at midnight, no questions- Giovinazzi’s blank face- Charles and Fuoco swimming in the sea as children- Chaos at court, screams and accusations- Sitting on Ferrari’s throne- Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal- Zhou and him in the training yard- Sitting on Red Bull’s throne- He could burn for this- Seeing his family once more- A destroyed countryside- Everyone would be suspicious- Sebastian’s proud smile- Lord Horner’s angry glare- His crown, heavy on his head- The prophecy- Crying out as his face is pushed into the sheets, Max pounding into him from behind- Max chasing him through the halls- Max’s gentle hand on his face- Their blades clashing- A tight grip on his waist- Max’s cruel laugh- His husband’s face while he slept…

Without even coming to a conscious decision, Charles' body makes up his mind for him, springing to his feet and racing to throw open his chamber doors.

“Alex! Get me Sir Riccardio. Now.”

* * *

Hours later, Charles sits in his window sill, staring up at the moon and trying not to think about all that has happened today.

Until the doors to his chamber slam open, the dramatics tearing Charles away from the night sky and his meditation.

Max strides into the bedchamber, looking a little… frenzied. His clothes are askew, as though he rushed here, and there’s a wild look on his face that makes Charles’ stomach swoop.

“Daniel told me,” Max says breathlessly, heading towards Charles with a purpose.

Scowling, Charles quickly turns away, looking back to the moon, “And what did you do to them?”

“They’re in the dungeons, choking on the wolf’s bane they meant for me.”

His eyes fall shut, a flare of pain passing through him at the thought of his old Ferrari men dying in the dark dungeons. Gritting his teeth, he tries to push the thoughts away.

Surprisingly, his husband’s hands on him help the matters along, as Max insistently tugs him down off the sill despite Charles' indignant protests, wrapping him up tightly in his arms.

“You saved my life,” Max sounds utterly awed.

Squirming against his hold, Charles glowers, refusing to look at him, “Hardly. It was clearly a sloppy excuse of a plot. They never would have succeeded.”

“You don’t know that,” his husband’s hand comes up to his cheek, firmly turning Charles' head to face him, to see what he would rather avoid. Those blue eyes are burn into his, a wonderstruck look glinting in his expression, “Why did you give the note to Daniel? Why did you not at least wait to see if they would succeed?”

Pinned in place by his husband’s arms and gaze both, Charles feels something rabid trying to break out of his chest, the confusing emotions of the past few hours overcoming him.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he snarls at Max, “I did it because I could not stand the thought of some half-rate former Ferrari idiots tossing the realm into chaos.”

“Is that so,” Max breathes, leaning closer, his eyes drifting down to Charles' lips.

“Obviously.” 

“I don’t think I believe you, sweeting.”

Before Charles can retort, Max’s mouth crushes down onto him in a hungry, relentless kiss. Caught up in a daze as his mouth is claimed, Charles only vaguely realizes Max is forcing him backwards until his back is suddenly flat against his bed, his husband quickly and eagerly climbing on top of him.

“Let me thank you anyway,” Max says, straddling Charles as he quickly begins undressing himself, stripping off his belt and doublet as Charles watches, “No matter the reason- you still may have saved my life.”

“You’re impossible,” Charles snaps at his husband, even as his gaze travels along the skin that is being revealed. As Max is preoccupied with unlacing his breeches, Charles’ hand drifts up, thoughtlessly, to trace one of his husband’s many scars, the one on his chest that is much too close to his heart, courtesy of Sir Hamilton during the Mercedes War. 

Charles touches the mark with a frown, telling himself he only did so because it was a shame it had not been fatal.

Max pulls his hand away from his chest, raising it to his face to lay a soft kiss against his palm.

The tenderness jerks something inside of him, vicious and hot, and Charles pulls his hand away, only to fist it in his husband's hair to yank him down on top of him, ignoring Max’s pained grunt. He pulls their mouths back together in another kiss, rough and biting.

“I’m the only one who gets to kill you,” Charles hisses into his mouth, punctuating the statement with a sharp nip to Max’s lower lip, “Me. I’m the one who will take your life.”

It’s a ridiculous statement. If Charles ever killed the king it would be akin to signing his own death warrant, surrounded as he was in the lion’s den. Still, he says it, something underlying in the words ringing true… 

It makes Max moan, and he kisses his wife again as his hands fumble between them, grasping Charles night gown and tearing-

“I completely agree.”

[bella-baby22]

Cluemaster is out of jail, batfam feels

Gotham's never quiet, not really it just tones down the loud from time to time. Bruce actually quite enjoys that about the city he's never really cared for the quiet, but on slower nights like this he knows its only a matter of time before something/someone ruins the break he's having.

"Oracle to Batman you available?"

He breathes out a chuckle before composing himself into Batman once again, "What is it Oracle?"

"There's an... incident happening over in the Bowery I think you need to step in."

He starts his way over, "Who is it this time Hood? Red Robin?"

"It's actually Spoiler."

That actually makes him pause there isn't usually a reason for him to step in with Stephanie. She may work with the bats but she's always been independent and if anyone needs to help her out would take Batman last on any occasion.

"Oracle what am I walking into here?"

There's a tense pause before the answer comes, "Cluemaster is out of jail."

That has Bruce sprinting even faster to the Bowery where he comes across the young vigilante in a screaming match with the rogue.

"Listen here you shitty Riddler rip off! You don't know shit about me or my choices! You were too busy being in jail to remember?!"

"I know enough to know that I should've convinced your mother to get rid of you one way or another, you such a disappointment Stephanie, or should I say 'Spoiler'? Absolutely pathetic..." He sounded drunk but that didn't seem to matter because it hurt her just as bad as far as he could see.

Stephanie's head was down she was quiet had nothing to say and that wasn't like her she was shaking and probably on the brink of tears.

He'd seen enough and dropped between the two, "You should go Arthur. You're not needed here."

"And what do you know bat? This is between the two of us bet you can't tell me anything about her more than I can!" Cluemaster cackles like hes the worlds best comedian.

"She's impressed with the barest hint of support from me or my team, and surprised when I think she can contribute anything because she thinks she's got nothing to offer anyone."

He hears multiple boots on the roof top behind him, "She looks at us like we've shown her a new element when we tell her we love her." Red Robin speaks as he wraps an arm around her.

Red Hood comes up next to Bruce, "Anytime things are going really well she runs, wonder why she's scared of getting attached?"

Nightwing is the next to speak, "She loves waffles and eggplant purple and remember stuff like that? Being patient? that's how we show her she can trust us and care."

"You let her believe those lies you said for so long its hard to show her they aren't true..."

"Black Bat?" Stephanie whispers.

"Not that it's her fault of course, its yours."

"Robin you don't have to," Spoiler starts.

"Tch, of course I don't but this is because of the man child who loved you before we did."

Her breathe hitches and the youngest of them standing up for her so blatantly. She looks to Batman to see what he was going to say after all of this.

"You tried to break her, but she's smart."

"she's pretty." Black Bat adds.

"And super funny," Red hood chimes up from where he's looming in front Spoiler and Red Robin.

"so it's a real pity that you can't see that Arthur," Bruce continues, "When you sober up and change maybe you should call her."

He turns ready to leave and tell his kids to head home for the night.

"And who do you think you are to tell me all this huh, Batman?!"

"We're the ones who love your daughter."

With that they all disappear into the night and head home.

In the cave

Bruce sits on his chair after his shower and sighs waiting for everyone to be done for post patrol debriefing. when he's hit with a fury of muscle and blonde hair as Stephanie wraps her arms around him.

"You didn't have to stand up for me like that, B."

Bruce gives a small chuckle, "Yeah I did, I'm not your dad Stephanie but you're one of my kids and I'll be damned if someone makes you feel like you're anything but the amazing young women and vigilante you've made yourself into."

She gives a wet laugh before nodding," You're pretty great too, B"