#like shallow as hell and maybe stupid!!

[tooate]

if i were to make an observation as to maybe why a ball player in particular is showing signs of distress, are you guys going to think critically about it and weigh the option of it being true or false or are you guys going to fucking bite me

[grilledkatniss]

Just thinking I'm never gonna be able to hug the one person that's kept me company for so long to the point I can without a shred of doubt say is literally the reason I'm still alive.. is killing me right now.

[mygnolia]

A HUNDRED HIDDEN KISSES | s. jaeyun

୨୧ -› so, the story goes that you’re supposed to feud with Sim Jaeyun, with his perfectly handsome face, his foreign exchange student accent, or his flirty remarks. but the story has a plot twist; somewhere along the way, you fell for his winks and charm.

pair -› (BLONDE.) soccer player!jake x top student!fmr | trope -› one sided enemies to lovers | wc -› 1.7k | cw -› kissing but idk how to write two ppl kissing oops anyways downbad HORRENDOUSLY down bad jake here | library

the weird thing about a crush is, it happens unexpectedly. 

maybe not so unexpected- because your heart has an attraction to the lamest soccer player on the team before your head even tolerated him. you hated sim jaeyun and you swore you did- but maybe you didn’t swear hard enough, because at some point, you could see your sense of rational floating above your head before it pops like a bubble and disappears into thin air. 

see- you’re supposed to hate sim jake. he’s obnoxious and loud and always says ‘no’ in the accent that makes it incredibly clear that it’s him (and only him) who’s said it. and not just that- he’s become best friends with sunghoon in an instant. park sunghoon, aka, your study buddy since beginning of high school. so yeah- maybe you hate that sunghoon has started hanging out with jake more and you swear you always catch the new exchange student looking in your direction whenever he’s with sunghoon. he definitely talks about you, but sunghoon is as quiet as a mouse when you two study for exams- which is infuriating, and so unlike him. but there’s another huge huge problem. 

jake is probably the prettiest boy you’ve met in your life. 

he came to the school with shorter hair, but sunghoon’s ability to change someone’s entire look is blessed by the gods- and sunghoon himself was kissed by eternal beauty, so of course, when they started hanging out, you noticed the change in clothes to be more baggy, his walk to be much more confident, his grin to be sly, and his hair to be so much cuter when styled. you were royally fucked from the day you saw jake wave in your direction when he entered class, with a confident smile that you weren’t sure he only showed to you. 

and that made you all the more irritated with him. “I am not going to teach him anything, hoon.” you state firmly. “he’s like- the most annoying younger brother you could ever ask for.” and there’s a worrying look that flashes in the boy’s eye, leaving you confused and pondering on the way home. “why don’t you teach him art history?” 

“we goof around too much.” and you roll your eyes at his lame excuse. 

and yet another problem arises. see, park sunghoon knew much more than you did when it came to jake. he knew that he played soccer in his backyard before heading to school, that his dog was a border collie, and that sim jake had a crush on you- aka- the most unavailable girl ever, who’s never dated anyone, thinks boys (especially boys who play sports) are stupid, and has a hatred for jake and only him. so sunghoon thinks his friend is utterly hopeless, and wants to tell him to give up, but when sunghoon hears how the boy raves about you and how pretty you looked in class today, he smacks jake on the arm and whines to him about shutting up and to stop being a loser. 

“do you think she’ll like it if i dyed my hair blonde?” 

sunghoon sighs, “you could dye your hair any color and she’d still want to cut it off.”

jake blinks. “but blondes are hot, right?”

and that’s how he shows up the next day, making you shrink in your seat from just how much better he looks and how much more annoying that makes him. 

jake has heard about the guys you’ve rejected for liking you because they’re shallow. and jake sees how you scowl at him- but he’s determined to make you his girlfriend, so once again, he tells you good morning with that accent of his and that grin on him, and you mumble a good morning back, wondering why the hell he’s always trying to talk to you. maybe he still wants you to tutor him for art history. maybe that’s why he intercepts you on the way out of the school gates with heavy breathing after running across campus.

“please- stay after practice.” he begs you, and you recognize a fresh ocean scent that compliments his bubbly personality with how he’s run up to you and leans down to make eye contact. and there’s only one thought in your head, one that manifests into stupid words that stupid and now blonde sim jaeyun hears. 

“you’re so pretty.” and you think if an alien ufo were to suck you up into space and carry you away from the pit of shame and embarrassment you’ve carved out for yourself, you would embrace extraterrestrial life without hesitation if it meant getting away from him. “fuck, sorry, i didn’t mean to say that.” 

and fuck, his laugh his so cute when you hear it, so much so that it momentarily distracts you from the blaring truth that his efforts to look good for you have paid off. “you think i’m pretty?” 

“pretty stupid.” and you try to say it with malice, but it comes out small and he knows you mean none of it. “i’ll be waiting with sunghoon on the bleachers.” 

yeah- it’s safe to say that jake has never scored that many times against his goalie in his entire life. but his excitement is infectious, and when sunghoon sneaks out of the sitting area to meet his friend during a break, the latter knows something is up. “she called me pretty, hoon. like, she actually meant it.”

“are you sure?” 

“and then she said i was pretty stupid, but liste-ow! what the hell?” he stops himself when he gets yet another smack from sunghoon- except this time, his friend’s eyes are shining. 

“no way. she meant it?” and jake nods in earnest. 

“that’s why she’s been waiting at the bleachers.” and sunghoon fake gags. 

“you’re disgustingly in love with her or something.” jake offers him a lopsided smile and bounces off in your direction, afraid you’ve left now that there’s no one on the field and the sun might start to set soon. but to his relief, you’re there, with your pretty hair and your pretty face and your pretty everything. 

“____!” he says running over with his bag. “sorry for keeping you waiting.” 

you close your notebook, where you’ve done half of your math homework between watching jake pass the ball and scoring. and you’re a little irritated at how long it takes for boys to run across the field to practice soccer, but you’re just more worried about getting home safely. “tell me what you need. it’s cold, and it’s getting dark, sim.” 

“you walk home?” and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t noticed something like that sooner. and you nod, packing your things slowly. “i’ll go with you.” 

“why?”

“because i don’t want a pretty girl like you to walk home alone.” he says, changing his shoes. 

“i’m not worried because it’s dark, i’m worried because it’s cold.” you argue, not ignoring how he calls you pretty. 

“then wear my hoodie.” 

“but my face will be cold.” 

“then kiss me.” he blurts. 

huh? kiss? jake? 

“kiss?” you reiterate, staring at him like he has three heads. 

jake’s eyes widen in panic. “well you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

“it’s not like i don’t want to.”

“so if you want to, and your face is cold, why can’t we..”

“well i don’t know what it’s like to be kissed!” you admit awkwardly, suddenly finding the dirt on the bleachers much more interesting than the way jake is probably looking at you like you’re a loser. 

“it’s okay, i haven’t either.” and his confession makes you whip your head around, face to face with a boy who very much looks like he’s had a girlfriend- or a few. 

“but-“ and you’re definitely taken aback. “but you’re so..” 

all of the playfulness floods back into his grin as he unabashedly observes your every reaction. “so…what, ____?” and despite a frown overcoming your features, your heart thuds rapidly with the proximity between you two, and you can’t help but lose your train of thought when he’s so close. “pretty?” and it refers to your slip of tongue, making you scrunch your nose in embarrassment. 

“i don’t know.” your murmur. 

“you don’t? come on angel, you aren’t the smartest in our class for nothing.” and you hear the way his accent permeates every few words, and unfortunately, it’s just painfully unfair how attractive he looks when he chuckles and reaches up. “may i?” he says, and you nod, letting him scoot closer and grasp your chin. and you give him permission because you don’t have a reason to say no, and even if you did, all protest dies on your tongue when he leans in just a little bit more, and your eyes flutter shut, tilted slightly for your lips to slot perfectly against his. and your face burns with how much you enjoyed your kiss with jake, so much so that when you part, it’s not for long, since you place your hands on his shoulders and whisper to no one but him, “kiss me again.” 

and you kiss sim jaeyun on the bleachers for the second time, your hands pulling him close as you both enjoy the spark of the moment. and jake can’t get enough of you- it's evident with now the time you spend apart from each other far less in comparison to the time he spends with his eyes closed and with your lips against his. 

you pull apart with a giggle and a boulder of bashfulness on your shoulders, unsure of how you even got here with your lip balm smeared across his lips. and you’re one of the smartest students there, but your train of thought probably crashed somewhere the moment you could smell the fresh scent of his cologne. 

yeah- maybe you were doomed from the start. 

“let’s get you home, yeah?” 

and even though your face is still cold, you wear his hoodie and hold his hand to make sure you’re not cold anywhere else. “what did you want me to stay behind for?”

“right- art history!”

“i said it a whole bunch of times! i’m not going to tutor you, jake!”

he pouts. "still?"

reblogs + interactions r appreciated!

[lost-in-lamentation]

failures, together.

a/n: (・・;)

content: not long after arriving at the devildom, you find yourself needing some affirmation from the representative of greed.

warnings: reader does kind of have a mental breakdown, but nothing intense.

mammon × gen!reader. hurt/comfort.

for @lulusupreme my beloved oomf (sorry i'm late)

“i just don't know what to do.”

“look, i don’t have any advice either. i'm only babysitting you cause lucifer threw you at me.” mammon clicked his tongue softly, turning away from your figure standing in the doorway. “if it weren't for him keeping goldie in jail, i would have tossed you outside already.”

“aren't you helpful.” with gritted teeth, you slammed the door and stormed further into his room, forcefully planting yourself on the other end of the couch.

mammon jerked at the action, whipping back around to face you. “oi, the hell you think you're doing?!”

grumbling, you crossed your arms and stared straight ahead of you at empty space. “i don't know, mammon. waiting to wake up from this nightmare, maybe?”

“we already told ya, human. this ain’t no dream or nightmare.”

“and i already told you, i have a name.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever. my only job is to make sure you're not in immediate danger so just… don't go outside, ‘kay? i don't wanna have to watch you all the time.”

you felt your anger starting to bubble over, your knuckles white as you balled your hands into fists. “it's not fair.”

mammon only snorted at your statement. “damn right it's not fair. how come i had to get stuck with you? why not asmo-”

“no- what's not fair, is that i had to be dragged down here! for some stupid program? asking me what i think i'm doing, well what about you? what are you doing bringing a human like me down here?!” your chest began heaving with the effort to breathe and yell, the heat behind your fury turning white as you snapped at the demon.

the second born barely gave you a glance, his voice raising to match yours. “hell if i know! i didn't want some useless ragdoll with me here anyways!”

the words echoed in your brain, causing the last string of composure to snap. “useless… ragdoll…”

mammon finally turned his head to look at you, ready to let loose another string of harsh insults, only to stop when he saw the expression on your face. “uh… human? what's going on with you?”

you lifted your hands shakily, palms up as they stopped just before they could cup your own face. “that’s all i am, isn’t it? useless?”

“o-oi, you’re freaking me out here-”

“you agree, don’t you?!” with shallow breaths, you snapped at him, feeling your desperation spill out in the form of tears. “so then why did they bring me here…?” you curled into yourself slowly, hands wrapping at the base of your neck and gathering fistfuls of your shirt. “i’m not worth anything- i won’t be able to do anything,” you whispered out. “mammon, i’ve barely done anything yet and i’m already a failure.”

silence washed over you like an unforgiving wave. amidst your muted sniffles, you couldn’t make out any movements from the demon on the other side of the couch. after a few minutes had passed, you debated about getting up, hoping to run away to your room with no mention of this incident ever again. instead, when you opted to stand up, there was a much gentler voice than you imagined that broke through the quiet.

“i doubt it,” mammon whispered back.

ever so slightly, you shifted your gaze to the side to look at him. “... huh?”

mammon, now put on the spot, ran a hand through his hair awkwardly. “trust me. in lucifer’s eyes, there’s no bigger failure than me. most of the time, at least.”

“really?” feeling a little braver, you lifted your head back up. you were just in time to see the tips of his ears dusted with embarrassment.

“ya don’t have to sound so happy about that!” mammon spared you a gaze that only lasted a second, perhaps too aware of the way you looked at him the way he wished his brothers did once in a while. “if there’s one thing about those guys, it’s that they know what they’re doing. and if they say you can do it, then you can. probably.”

as the last of your tears slipped away, you returned mammon’s words with a shaky nod. “you don’t think i’ll fail?”

scoffing, mammon crossed his arms and returned to his usual demeanor. “i didn’t say that.”

“oh.”

“but,” he continued a heartbeat later. “if lucifer calls ya a failure for no reason… you can always come and find me.” as soon as the words left his mouth, mammon jumped up to his feet, crossing the room in a few quick strides.

“so that we can be failures together?” you asked, a smile breaking into your expression.

“hey, even if we’re both failures, i’m still more fun than that stuck-up brother of mine.” the demon grabbed his leather jacket from his coat rack, shrugging it on before fishing around in the pockets for a set of keys. “let’s get going; i’m still babysitting you after all.”

you cleaned your face with your sleeves, making sure your eyes were dry before hopping up to follow mammon. “where are we going?”

“you’ve been here almost two weeks and ya still haven’t seen the whole of the devildom." mammon said, half laughing at the absurdity of it all. "can’t have you getting lost before you can do anything else.”

a/n: season 23 of my life begins today! and episode one is with mammon apparently

comments and reblogs are really appreciated (´ω｀) ♡

[detroit-become-hurt]

Baby I'm Down Bad For You

Hi. Okay. Sevika fic because I have brain rot I tell you, brain rot! Also I haven't watched S2 of Arcane yet, I don't have my netflix sub anymore. But I've seen stuff on tiktok so I have a vague idea what happens. Modern AU Sevika x Reader

Sevika sighed as she peered around the bar, glass of whiskey in hand as she thoughtfully wondered if it was too late to back out now and go home. She had begrudgingly agreed to a stupid blind date, why? she wasn’t quite sure herself. Maybe she was tired of being lonely, tired of being disappointed by shallow and self centered women who wanted to get close to her for the sake of money. So when a colleague at work offered to set her up on a blind date, she thought to hell with it.

But now, as she sat in the bar overlooking the inhabitants, she wondered if this was a good idea. She didn’t want to admit that she really wanted this to turn into something good. She was tired of seeing couples around her, lovey dovey and shit. Though she never showed or voiced it, Sevika ached for companionship. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, and curl up on the couch with.

Downing the rest of the alcohol she pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep drag. She much preferred cigars, but in places and times like these, cigarettes would work. How much longer would she have to wait? She had no clue what you looked liked, so how was she supposed to know when you were here?

Almost as if hearing her thoughts, you make your way into the crowded bar. The music is loud, too loud really. And there’s too many people for your liking. Why couldn’t your friend suggest someplace more chill for a blind date? Your eyes scan the crowd, searching for the figure that matched the description your friend had given you.

“I’ll try not to give too much away. But she’s quite tall, broad shoulders, and muscular.” She adds, waggling her eyebrows in your direction. “Also, you can’t miss her with that shiny ass prosthetic she has.” This had caught your attention, and when asking about it your friend simply stated it wasn’t her place to say. “You can ask her about it, but I wouldn’t open the conversation with that.” She advised you. You can’t help but roll your eyes, like you would be rude and insensitive enough to ask that.

The dress you wore clung to your body, and it was hard not to feel self conscious even though no one had even spared you a second glance. You rarely dressed like this, opting for looser fitting clothes as you weren’t exactly skinny. You prayed that your date wouldn’t be so self centered to care about your physique. 

As you made your way farther into the bar, you finally caught a glimpse of someone who matched your friend's description. The light reflecting off her prosthetic gave her away, and it felt like the air had been sucked out of you. She was beautiful, definitely muscular and broad shouldered. Her nose curved downwards, face framed by dark locks pulled into a half assed bun. The most stunning thing about her though was her eyes, a steely gray that seemed to reflect light. God you were down bad for someone you haven’t even met yet.

‘Just stay calm.’ Is all you can think as you slowly make your way over to the bar. “Um…Sevika?” You asked and she turned to face you, looking down after a moment of realizing how short you were compared to her. She hasn't said anything yet, so you decided to continue talking. “I’m y/n. And I’m uh, your blind date hehe.” you can’t help but let out a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of your neck as your chest up to your face flushes red from embarrassment. You don’t know that Sevika thinks it’s cute.

You also don’t know that for once, Sevika feels excitement upon seeing you. She feels hopeful, already getting the vibe that you weren’t like the other women she’s talked to in the past. To her, you’re absolutely stunning, and she can’t help but rake her eyes over the curves of your hips to the swell of your tummy as the dress clings to it. It makes her absolutely feral.

Adorning a cocky smirk she straightens up to her full height, and you have to crane your neck back a bit to keep eye contact. “Pleasure to meet you,” her gravelly voice sends a wave of warmth to your core and it takes everything in you to not turn around and run out of this damn place. “Can I buy you a drink?” She asks, pulling a stool out for you.

Hopping onto the seat you shyly admit you don’t drink very often, asking her what’s good. Sevika lets out a boisterous laugh, asking if you prefer something sweet to something stronger. “Definitely sweet.” you confirm, nose wrinkling at the thought of straight liquor, and Sev can’t help but think how cute that is. 

Drinks ordered you both sit in a comfortable silence for a moment til Sevika spoke up, “I’m going to be honest,” Oh no. here it comes. The “you seem pretty great and all but you’re not really my type” speech. Sevika takes a sip of her second glass of whiskey, hoping it will give her the courage to remain confident, and honest. “I’m not very good at these kinds of things. Dating has never been my…forte. So I apologize if I make you uncomfortable in any way.”

Oh. That’s not what you expected at all. 

“Dating has never been my strong suit either…” you admit sipping on your own drink. You miss the look of shock on Sevika’s face. To her, she can’t believe that you’re even single. 

“Perhaps then this is a chance for both of us…”She states sincerely. You look at her and give her a warm smile that causes her stomach to summersault. Throughout the rest of the evening the two of you chatted about anything and everything, divulging secrets here and there. You felt comfortable with Sevika, like you had known her a long time despite it being your first time meeting her now. Eventually the two of you were kicked out as the bar had to close down.

Sevika walked you to your car, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to keep you out so late doll.” her voice is low and gravelly, and god you could scream at how fine this woman was. 

“S’kay. I don’t mind. I had a great time tonight. Could I get your number?” You felt emboldened by the several drinks you had, normally you wouldn’t ask such a thing. Swapping contact info the two of you are then left in a comfortable silence, just admiring one another. “Well, I suppose we should part ways.” You finally break the silence. With your heart pounding in your chest you take a step closer to Sevika, and she watches your every move, wondering what you’re going to do next. Standing on your tiptoes you lean in and give a gentle kiss to Sevika’s cheek, both of your faces burning. 

“Goodnight doll. I’ll see you around.” Sevika smirks despite her face flushed red as you get into your car. You can’t help but spare her one last glance before pulling away, at which she gives you a small wave. 

If Sevika was sure of anything, she had it bad for you.

[goblin-jr]

And then i go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like i love you. 

Part 12 of 12

Synopsis: endings

Pairing: unrequited JJ x Reader, Eventual Rafe x Reader

Warnings: violence?

masterlist

—

The sun was beginning to dip low on the horizon, casting an amber glow over the beach as the Pogues lounged in the sand, kicking back after a long, quiet afternoon. Pope and Kie were in the shallows, talking softly while John B. tried to fix an old boat motor that had been giving them trouble. JJ sprawled on a towel beside Y/N, tossing a small rock into the air and catching it absently, his usual energy subdued.

Y/N hadn’t missed the shift in his mood since the Midsummer’s Ball. He’d grown distant, quiet, like he was keeping something to himself. She couldn’t decide whether to be grateful that he hadn’t confronted her or frustrated that he couldn’t just say what was on his mind.

"Hey, you guys hear about the Kooks causing trouble around here again?" Kie asked, breaking the silence, her voice laced with annoyance.

Y/N glanced over at Kie, eyebrows raised. "What do you mean?"

"Just… they're getting bold," Kie muttered, shaking her head. "Topper’s been running his mouth about us. Can't stand the guy."

Before anyone could respond, the sound of an engine rumbled in the distance, cutting through the calm evening air. Y/N’s heart skipped as she looked up to see a familiar Jeep coming down the winding path toward the beach. Topper, Kelce, Ruthie, and—Y/N's stomach twisted—Rafe.

"Ugh, speak of the devil," Kie muttered under her breath, pushing herself up from the sand.

Y/N felt the tension immediately. The Kooks had no business being here, especially not now, not after everything. The last thing they needed was a confrontation—yet, it seemed like they were heading straight for it.

Topper’s voice rang out first, full of mockery. "Oh, look at this—Pogues on the beach, doing what they do best—being poor and pathetic."

Rafe climbed out of the Jeep, his eyes scanning the group, but instead of the usual smugness, there was something more measured in his stance. He was trying to play it cool, trying not to make things more obvious than they already were. Y/N could almost see the internal battle on his face.

"Not today, Topper," Rafe’s voice was low but firm, a hint of an order laced in the words. “We’re not here for this.”

Topper ignored him, turning to Pope with a sneer. "You think you're better than us, don't you? Maybe it's time we teach you a lesson."

He shoved Pope roughly, sending him stumbling back into the sand. Pope scrambled to his feet, but before he could get a word out, Topper’s fist was already in motion, landing a blow square to Pope’s jaw.

"Hey!" JJ was on his feet in an instant, charging toward Topper, but Rafe stepped between them before the fight could escalate. "Knock it off, all of you," Rafe said, his voice harder now. He glared at Topper and Kelce, his posture tense as he put a hand on Topper's chest, holding him back.

Topper’s eyes flicked to Rafe with confusion, then to Pope, who was trying to regain his balance. "What the hell is this, Rafe? You’re gonna side with these losers?"

"Just get out of here, Topper," Rafe repeated, his voice colder now. "You don’t want this fight. Not today."

Kelce, still looking a little too eager for a scuffle, tried to lunge forward, but Rafe’s hand shot out, grabbing his shoulder and pushing him back with surprising strength. "I said leave."

Topper glared at him, but the warning in Rafe’s tone was clear. Without another word, they backed off, getting into the Jeep and peeling away from the beach. The Pogues were left standing there, still in shock, the tension hanging thick in the air.

Y/N rushed over to Pope, checking on him. "You okay?"

He nodded, brushing sand off his clothes. "Just a scratch, I’ll be fine."

The others gathered around, murmuring in confusion. It was obvious that Rafe had done something none of them expected—he had sided with them, helped them out. But why?

"Why the hell did he do that?" Kie asked, looking out toward the retreating Jeep. "That’s not like him. Why the sudden change?"

Y/N stood still for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. She took a deep breath before stepping forward, speaking calmly but firmly. "I… I’m the reason."

The group turned toward her, eyes wide with confusion. "What do you mean?" Pope asked, frowning.

"I’ve been… I’ve been seeing Rafe," Y/N admitted, feeling the weight of their stares. "We’re together."

Silence hung in the air for a long moment as the group processed her words. Kie’s jaw dropped, and she let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Wait, what? Are you serious?"

Y/N nodded. "I know it’s not what you expected, but he’s different now. He’s changed. He’s not the same person he was."

Kie’s eyes narrowed, her face reddening with anger. "Are you serious, Y/N? After everything that guy’s done, you’re dating him?"

Y/N took a step back, feeling the sting of Kie’s reaction. "I know it’s hard to believe, but—"

Pope cut her off, his voice quieter than usual. "You’re really with him? After everything? Even knowing who he is?"

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to find the words. "It’s not easy, okay? But he’s not like the Kooks anymore. He’s not like Topper or Kelce. He’s… trying. And I believe in him."

John B. was oddly quiet. Too quiet. He stared at the ground, his hands shoved into his pockets. His silence didn’t escape Y/N’s notice. There was something in the air between them, a silent understanding that was hard to place.

Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. "JJ," she said softly, turning to him. "What do you think?"

JJ looked up at her, his face unreadable, his eyes too calm. Too calm. Y/N felt her blood run cold, the realization dawning on her slowly.

He already knew.

"JJ?" Her voice trembled now. "You knew?"

He gave her a small, tight-lipped smile, shrugging slightly. "I figured it out. A while ago."

Y/N felt a chill creep through her. "Why didn’t you say anything?"

JJ didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her for a long moment, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. "You didn’t need me to say anything," he finally replied, his voice thick with regret. "I thought you had it under control. But I guess I was wrong."

The words hit Y/N harder than she expected. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from him, but this… this quiet acknowledgment made it worse.

Without another word, JJ turned away, walking toward the ocean, his figure slowly disappearing into the fading light.

Y/N stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to go after him, to fix things, but something told her she couldn’t. Not now. Not like this.

As the sun set, casting the beach in hues of orange and pink, Y/N realized that the silence between her and JJ might be the loudest thing she’d ever hear.

—

The sky had darkened, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was the only noise filling the night air as Y/N walked along the beach, her feet sinking into the wet sand. She hadn’t planned to come here—hadn’t really planned anything—but the need for space, for clarity, had led her here, away from the group and their questions.

But she wasn’t alone for long.

“Hey,” JJ’s voice broke through the quiet, and Y/N looked over to see him standing a few steps behind her, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. His hair was messy, his face unreadable.

“You found me,” Y/N said, managing a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She had expected him to follow her. She’d known it was only a matter of time.

“Couldn’t stay away, could I?” JJ replied, a hint of his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it faded quickly. “We need to talk.”

Y/N nodded, stepping aside to let him walk up beside her. For a few moments, neither of them spoke, the rhythm of the ocean filling the space between them. Y/N’s thoughts were racing—this conversation had been inevitable, but she wasn’t sure how to even start. There was so much she wanted to say, but part of her didn’t know where to begin.

“How long have you known?” she asked, her voice soft but steady as she turned to face him. “About Rafe and me.”

JJ glanced over at her, a sad smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his posture defensive but tired. He didn’t answer immediately, instead choosing to stare out at the dark water rolling in front of them.

After a beat, he sighed deeply. “Since Midsummers,” he said quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. Her blood ran a little cold at the calmness in his voice. “For weeks?” she asked, almost in disbelief. “You’ve known about us for that long?”

JJ was silent for a moment, his gaze flicking to the water before locking with hers. “I saw you two at Midsummer’s. I saw the way you looked at him, the way he looked at you.” His voice wavered slightly, but he pressed on. “I thought I knew what was going on. I thought you were just caught up in something with him, like maybe it was just a stupid mistake. But when I saw you laughing—like, really laughing, for the first time in so long—I realized... you don’t need me, Y/N.”

“You know, I thought I had it figured out. But when you told them about you and Rafe… I guess I didn’t expect it to hit like that.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, letting the words hang in the air between them. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to hear. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

JJ chuckled softly, but it didn’t sound like his usual laugh. It was empty. “Hurt me? Nah. I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be the one to push you into saying something you weren’t ready for.” He looked over at her then, his eyes searching. “And now... now I just feel like I pushed you away.”

Y/N frowned, her chest tightening. She hadn’t expected him to say that, hadn’t expected the guilt that weighed heavy in his tone. "JJ, no. You didn’t push me away."

“I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I was too busy with my own stuff, too wrapped up in whatever was going on with me.” JJ’s voice cracked slightly, and for a moment, Y/N thought he might say more, but instead, he just exhaled sharply. “I didn’t even see what was happening between you and Rafe. I should’ve been there for you. But I didn’t—"

"JJ," Y/N interrupted gently, her voice soft but firm. She stepped closer to him, meeting his gaze. "You didn’t do anything wrong. What happened between me and Rafe—it’s not about you. It’s about me. I had to make my own choices, and I did. But it wasn’t because of you or anything you did—or didn’t do. It was because I needed to figure out who I am. I can’t keep waiting for people to tell me who I should be or what I should do."

She paused, watching him carefully. "I know it’s hard, but I’m not doing this to hurt you. It’s not about you."

JJ seemed to absorb her words for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His lips pressed together in that familiar tight line, but his shoulders had relaxed a little. “I get it. I think I do, at least. I just… I’m not used to you being like this. I’m not used to seeing you with him, of all people.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her gaze softening. "I get that. I don’t expect you to understand everything, but I don’t want you to think it’s something you did. You’ve always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it."

JJ looked at her for a long moment, then exhaled, scratching the back of his neck, his signature half-smile tugging at his lips. "I guess I’m not as good at this whole ‘being a friend’ thing as I thought. But hey, if Rafe makes you happy, I’ll deal with it." His voice grew more serious. "I just want you to be okay, Y/N. That’s all I’ve ever wanted."

JJ seemed to absorb her words for a long moment, his expression unreadable. His lips pressed together in that familiar tight line, but his shoulders had relaxed a little. “I get it. I think I do, at least. I just… I’m not used to you being like this. I’m not used to seeing you with him, of all people.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her gaze softening. "I get that. I don’t expect you to understand everything, but I don’t want you to think it’s something you did. You’ve always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it."

JJ stared at her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them like an insurmountable wall. Finally, he let out a long, tired sigh. “I get it,” he said, his voice quiet now. “I just—I guess I didn’t expect to feel so damn useless.”

Y/N’s heart twisted in her chest. She stepped forward, closing the gap between them, her hand resting gently on his arm. “You’re not useless, JJ. You’re not. You’ve always been there for me. Always. But I have to figure this out for myself. And I’m sorry if that’s hard to hear. I never meant for it to be this way.”

He looked down at her hand for a moment, then met her gaze. His eyes were still filled with that mix of sadness and understanding, but there was something else there now—a hint of resignation, like he was finally accepting the way things had to be.

“I know,” he said softly. “And maybe I do need to let go a little. It’s just... hard.” He shrugged, a weak attempt at a smile tugging at his lips. “But I’ll get there. Eventually.”

Y/N nodded slowly, relieved that he wasn’t angry with her. There was still pain between them, but maybe this was how they moved forward. Not together like they used to be, but still a part of each other’s lives in a different way.

“I’ll always be your friend, JJ,” she said softly, squeezing his arm. “No matter what. That’s never going to change.”

He gave her a small, tired smile, but it was enough. “I know.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the air thick with the understanding between them. Y/N’s heart was lighter now, and she felt a sense of relief she hadn’t realized she needed.

“Hey,” JJ broke the silence again, his voice a little lighter, “You’re still my favorite pain in the ass, you know that?”

Y/N chuckled, the familiar warmth creeping back into her chest. "Right back at you, J."

JJ nudged her playfully, the first spark of mischief returning to his eyes. "So, if you’re dating Rafe, does that mean I get to punch him in the face next time he pisses me off?"

“You’re impossible,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

JJ’s expression softened, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, if Rafe goes back to his old Kookish ways, you know where to find me, right?”

Y/N chuckled lightly, a mix of relief and affection in her gaze. “I’m not worried.”

“Good. But just in case,” JJ added with a wink, “I’ll be waiting.”

As they stood there, the waves crashing softly behind them, it was like a weight had been lifted—some unspoken tension between them had finally been laid to rest. They weren’t where they used to be, but maybe that wasn’t so bad after all.

—-

It had been a few months since that tense evening at the beach, and things had slowly started to shift. The Pogues and Kooks still didn’t exactly mingle like old friends, but the air between them wasn’t as heavy as it once was. The days of outright hostility were behind them—well, mostly. It was a work in progress, but progress had been made.

The group had gathered again at the Boneyard, and this time, things felt almost normal. The waves crashed lazily on the shore, and the sun dipped into a mellow orange hue, casting the evening in that perfect, golden light. Y/N sat on the hood of a car with Rafe next to her, his arm casually draped around her shoulders, while the others hung back a bit, trying to bridge the divide in their own ways.

Kie and Pope had softened considerably, their initial distrust of Rafe and Sarah finally easing. It wasn’t that they were best friends yet, but there was a mutual understanding. Kie, ever the realist, still threw the occasional side-eye toward Rafe, but it wasn’t venomous anymore. Pope had accepted the change in Rafe, or at least, he was trying to.

“You know, this is weird,” Kie said suddenly, breaking the silence. She was sitting beside Pope on a weathered old bench, eyeing Rafe and Y/N. “I can’t believe we’re all just hanging out like this.” Her voice was a mix of disbelief and something else—like she was letting herself believe this might actually work.

Pope, who had been quietly observing, nodded. “I get it. But... I think it’s okay. Rafe’s trying, and Sarah, too. They’re not exactly the Kooks we remember.”

“Yeah,” Kie said, shifting her weight on the bench. “They’re... trying.”

Rafe, who had been chatting quietly with Y/N, glanced over at the two of them. He smiled slightly and gave them a small wave, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. He didn’t expect them to be best buds, but there was something reassuring about not being treated like a villain at every turn.

Y/N caught his eye and smiled, her expression warm. She knew the weight of the situation, and though it hadn’t been an easy road, this felt like progress. Rafe had come a long way from the arrogant, entitled guy he used to be, and that was enough for her, for now.

The awkward tension in the air was still there, of course, but it wasn’t quite as suffocating. It was almost... manageable.

“Hey, anyone up for a game?” John B. called out, tossing a ball in the air. He was trying his best to lighten the mood, despite still avoiding eye contact with Rafe. There was a long-standing tension there, one that wasn’t easily erased. But John B. had accepted the reality of the situation. If Rafe was going to be in Y/N’s life, then he was going to have to get used to it.

A few people started moving toward the makeshift volleyball net that had been set up, and Sarah, noticing the change in the mood, made her way over to join them. She was surprisingly easygoing these days, something Y/N hadn’t expected but had grown to appreciate. It was clear that Sarah had softened, too—maybe because of her relationship with John B., maybe because she was finally trying to find a balance between her Kook world and the Pogues’ chaotic one.

As the group began to get settled into the game, Y/N and Rafe stayed back, watching. They had their own quiet moment—just the two of them, away from the noise. It wasn’t uncomfortable, nor was it tense—it was just... peaceful. The soft hum of the conversation from the others, the laughter echoing across the sand, the gentle rhythm of the waves—everything felt a little more settled than it had in the past.

“How long do you think this will last?” Rafe asked, his voice low as he looked over at the group.

Y/N didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she leaned back against the car, her gaze following the others as they huddled together, already bickering over who would serve first. It was the kind of bickering that felt like home. She was used to it—hell, she was part of it. But there was something about tonight, about how everyone was just... trying to make it work, that felt different.

“Longer than you think,” she replied after a beat, nudging him playfully. “You’re not as bad as they thought. Just give it time.”

Rafe looked over at her, his expression thoughtful. “You really think that?”

Y/N’s smile softened. “I know that,” she said, her tone confident. “Besides, I’m here, right?”

Rafe’s gaze lingered on her, a small, genuine grin forming at the corners of his lips. For a moment, he seemed to relax, as though her words were enough to settle something in him. It wasn’t about winning everyone over immediately—it was about doing the right thing and letting things happen in their own time.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost to himself. “I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to screw up... us.”

Y/N’s hand found his, her fingers lightly brushing against his. She squeezed it gently, reassuring him without words. The quiet moments between them had always been some of the best. She wasn’t in a rush to prove anything, and neither was he. They were building something slow and steady—something that would last.

“I know you won’t,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. They’ll see the change eventually.”

Rafe nodded, taking in her words. “Yeah,” he said, his smile growing a little more. “I think they will.”

As the game kicked off with loud laughter and friendly arguments over the rules, Y/N and Rafe stayed in their little bubble, watching the others interact. The group wasn’t perfect, but they were getting there. 

---

JJ stood for a long while, lingering by the edge of the Boneyard, his eyes fixed on the group. They were laughing, sharing stories, the sound of their voices blending with the rhythm of the waves, but he was still on the outside, watching quietly. The way Y/N’s smile brightened when Rafe said something to her. The way she leaned into him, her hand resting gently on his. There was a comfort there, an ease between them that made JJ feel like he was witnessing something both familiar and foreign at the same time.

He wasn’t jealous. At least, not in the way he used to be. It wasn’t the pang of unspoken longing anymore, the ache of what he thought could have been. No, this was different. This was the realization that Y/N had found something, someone, who made her light up in a way he hadn’t been able to.

JJ’s gaze flicked over to the rest of the group: Pope and Kie chatting with Sarah, the way they were making an effort now, and even Rafe, who—surprisingly—seemed to be fitting in, not as a villain but as someone who had done the work. He saw the way they had all softened over time, not just with each other, but with themselves.

And then there was John B., his best friend, his brother. The two of them, the ones who had always had each other’s backs, even when everything else seemed to be falling apart. John B. had grown up, too. He wasn’t the same reckless, carefree guy he used to be. He was still John B., but there was something different about him now, something grounded. And JJ could see it in his face—the way he was looking at the others, at Y/N and Rafe, without that old edge, without the tension that had always been there. It was like John B. had figured something out, too.

JJ’s eyes lingered on them, on the way the group was finally fitting together. There was a part of him that wondered if it would have been the same if he hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t realized that what he’d been holding onto wasn’t his to keep. But watching them now, laughing and comfortable in their own way, he knew that sometimes the hardest part was letting go. Letting go of expectations. Letting go of guilt. Letting go of a version of himself that didn’t fit anymore.

JJ realized, without fully understanding when or how it had happened, that things had shifted. Not just with Y/N and Rafe, not just with him, but with all of them. They were moving forward. They were different, but they were still together.

The breeze swept over him, cool against his skin, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel the weight of the past dragging him down. The guilt, the regrets, the missed chances—all of it felt distant, as if they were things he had outgrown. There was no need to keep carrying them, no need to keep pushing himself to be something he wasn’t. He could just be.

He stood there for a while longer, letting the quiet settle in, until his feet moved on their own, pulling him toward the firelight. He wasn’t sure what had changed exactly, but it was something big. Something important. Maybe it was the way he had let go of the things he couldn’t control. Maybe it was the way he had learned to accept that Y/N’s happiness wasn’t tied to him. But whatever it was, it felt like the first step toward something new.

When he finally rounded the corner and rejoined the group, Y/N’s gaze caught his. She didn’t say anything, just gave him that small, knowing smile—the kind she always had when things felt right, when everything clicked into place. It was a look that said, I see you, and for once, that was enough.

JJ didn’t need any fanfare. He didn’t need to make any grand gestures. He simply slid into his place in the circle, joining the easy rhythm of their laughter, the unspoken comfort of being together. There was no pressure, no need for explanations. The air felt lighter now, and everything, somehow, seemed to fit.

As he settled into the group, his heart wasn’t heavy anymore. There was peace in that, in knowing that he could just be himself, that he could let things be without needing to control them.

Things were changing. Slowly, but surely, the pieces were falling into place, and JJ  felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

------

Taglist: ​​

@hockeybabe87 , @idiotussupremus , @certifiedhaters , @oatmealisweird, @sluggmuffin , @maybankslover , @ren-ni, @wh0reforbucknasty , @enjoymyloves , @bilssturns , @dragonslight , @willowpains , @sidney-86 , @urbrunettebombshell, @fluffybunnyu

[pumpkin-mines]

My request is trans dirk joy <3

explanation/vent under cut

this ask was weird for me, not because it's actually weird of course, but because it really should have been easy; draw one of my favorite characters experiencing joy. Choosing whether it was joy and reveling in his transness or just existing as a trans man in joy should have been the hardest choice, but in reality it was the 'joy' that stumped me. I'm not joyous, I'm not even particularly happy, so how the hell was I supposed to draw that? for Dirk no less?

Maybe it could have been a special, shiny moment where he was playing ponies, rapping with Squarewave, hanging out with Dave, shit maybe even a section of time where he was showing his happiness with his body. But my ideas felt shallow, like I was copying what I was told joy was supposed to look like.

so I took longer, thought about what happiness could mean for someone. And I thought about a time that wasn't special in it's uniqueness, but because it was a mundane kind of happiness, where Dirk, as a trans man, lived through his worst moments. Where even though everything was going wrong and it all seemed worthless he kept pushing and now he's at a point where joy isn't rare or hard to come by. A life where he has himself and in addition to that, has a Jake who can love him the way they both need.

I don't really understand still, but maybe when I'm softer and my hair is longer and my stupid horse pj's are more worn, I can.

[jimmywhore]

okay this is going to be an extremely shallow or maybe painfully obvious dumb take on jimmy from mouthwashing,im stupid and I like to write so bare with me folks.

I like to think, atleast from how the game paints it, jimmy and captain curly had known each other wayy prior than boarding the tulpar,we see how curly mentions how jimmy has 'gotten through difficult situations before' i like to believe that at some point jimmy was in some pretty hot water ( maybe he is infact a formal inmate ) and curly was the one to pull him out of that life or death situation,curly may have helped him through all aspects of his life ( emotional,personal, financial ) which he ( curly ) doesn't pay any heed to because in his eyes he is helping his best friend.

maybe jimmy knew,that there is no way in hell he would be able to repay curly for all he has done for him,maybe that is where the insecurity lay within him,eating him up from the inside to the point he mentally despised ,hated, absolutely loathed curly. and seeing curly always be so utterly empathetic,kind only made his blood boil even further.

I have seen some curly x jimmy fanarts and I do believe that maybe jimmy did feel something for curly,but not in a 'oh sexy bestfriend bl yaoi' kind but a 'i fucking hate you to the point that I want to live inside your skin' kind. jimmy hates curly so much that he is all that he can think about. He is obsessed with curly, obsessed with the idea of tarnishing his 'perfect person, perfect captain' image.

he didn't do what he did to anya for his own sexual desires,no no no,he only did it to punish curly,to make him feel helpless in an enclosed compartment floating through space where his entire crew was his own responsibility.

I've also seen people headcanon that jimmy has internalised homophobia,so if he does truly feel something for curly he represses it so hard that it turns to hatred.

Idk if any of this made any sense or if i just reiterated what was clearly mentioned in the game. pardon me😔 also sorry for my english.

[jeonqkooks]

a little taste | jjk (m.)

the one with just the tip.

[ ‘ a little taste ’ series masterpost ]

pairing: jungkook x f!reader

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

genre/warnings: established relationship, smut (pwp), unprotected s✩x (this is fictional, don't do it irl folks), cre✩mpie, jungoo is an ✩ss grabber, he's also a lil shit, 2 secs of dirty talk?, swearing, they're both frustrated lol, zero editing pls forgive me

word count: 1.3k

note: happy sunday errbody! we got a surprise ALT drop 🥳 i have no excuse, i woke up this morning and wrote this in one sitting before i even got out of bed lmao. have fun all u horndawgs <3

— as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

You know how you got here, and the reason is very stupid.

It always starts with a meaningless discussion, really.

You two were having a quiet night in, cuddling on the couch and watching a rerun of your favorite TV show when a raunchy joke popped up, which somehow (because bless Jungkook’s brain and his useless ability to jump from point A all the way to point Z in a blink of an eye) led to the infamous “Just the Tip” debate.

You were taking the Negative, for obvious reasons, and he was on the Affirmative side. Jungkook wasn’t arguing that all men could handle themselves when their literal dick is inside of a woman; more so that he, this one specific individual, easily could.

And you suppose that’s why you’re here, trying to settle the argument, the both of you naked from the waist down. His hard cock pokes at your entrance as his eyes twinkle with a mischievous glint. Jungkook is always so competitive, but he sometimes forgets that you are too, and you’ll try your goddamn hardest to make sure he loses this one.

Okay, maybe it’s not just a silly little debate. It might have escalated into a silly little bet, one that involves the loser having to fold the laundry for a whole month.

Which so happens to be your least favorite chore.

Which only gives you more incentive to win.

Men are simple creatures, how hard can this be?

You bite your lip as he pushes in, just the tip, then stills. The stretch is a little dry at first, and a tad uncomfortable. You barely prepped before both of your shorts flew off somewhere in favor of you wanting to prove a point. Jungkook’s fingers slip through your folds to find your clit, fondling the nub until he could feel you getting wetter by the second, coating the tip of his cock in your slick.

“Ready to lose?” you ask coyly, to which he only responds with a playful scoff before he pulls his hips back, nearly slipping out of you in the process. He bucks forward again, and you can already tell that he’s trying to hold back, to be mindful of how shallow his thrusts have to be lest he wants to give you a few more inches than necessary.

“Fuck,” a tiny, whiny, moan escapes your lips, barely audible to your own ears but Jungkook catches it. He smirks at you triumphantly, never stopping his movements down there. God, you’re really not used to this. Whenever you two are on each other, it’s always hard and unrestrained, purely focused on making the other feel as good as possible.

How the hell is he so good at this? 

Maybe you should’ve known. What can’t Jungkook do?

You keep expecting more every time he pulls back, anticipating that his cock will fill you to the brim like it always does. But then he gives you just the fucking tip - which you suppose is fair; that’s the whole point of this idiotic bet after all - and you swear you could burst from frustration.

Jungkook senses your inner turmoil, how you’re trying to keep yourself from begging him to fuck you silly. You can’t say you’re surprised when he tugs his t-shirt over his head - in that insanely hot way that guys do! - and throws it recklessly across the room, flexing his abs and biceps at you. It’s like his tattoos have a mind of their own, the intricate ink winking at you with his every move like it’s mocking you, tempting you.

What’s on the line again?

Oh, right, laundry. Fuck!

You’re positively dripping with arousal, a want - no, a need - that he just won’t satiate. “That’s not fair,” you complain, even though your hands are already reaching for him, pulling him closer so you could touch him all over. 

“Who said anything about fair?” he says before he kisses you, his tongue slipping past the seal of your lips to taste you. He moans against your mouth as his fingers sneak down to squeeze your bare ass.

So he wants to play dirty? Well, you can do dirty too.

You time his thrusts so that when he ruts forward, you clench around his cock. 

That’s when you feel it. Him, deeper and throbbing inside of you.

For the first time since this started, you have the upper hand.

You break the kiss only to narrow your eyes at him. “That felt like more than just the tip,” you purr.

Jungkook groans, but it sounds more like a growl than anything. Okay, he’s really competitive. His hands dig into your ass so roughly that you’re pretty sure it will bruise in the morning. His hips stop moving entirely, trapping his cock within your walls where it’s achingly, deliciously hard.

You can practically feel his self-control slipping away, and all over a single clench?!

It might’ve taken you a bit longer than expected but alas, men are simple creatures.

You squeeze around him again, just for kicks. “What’s the matter, baby?” you tease, enjoying the way his eyebrows knit together tightly, almost like he’s angry. “Ready to admit defea– Oh!”

Then, that motherfucker shuts you right up. Jungkook shoves his whole length inside of you until he bottoms out, aided by the wetness that gushes out of you. He gives you a single grunt as the base of his cock rubs against your clit, the tension in your belly amping up tenfold when you feel him, so fucking deep in you because that’s where he belongs. This is what you wanted.

“What’s the matter, baby?” he mocks you with a sly smirk, though he doesn’t give you any time to answer before he starts fucking you with fervor, pounding you into the couch - or the next dimension - like he’s got a personal vendetta.

“I– fuck–!” If you could formulate a coherent response, you would shoot him back a retort - You lost! - but whoops, all rational thought flew out the window the second he rewarded you with his cock. It’s absolutely insane how easily he’s able to render you speechless just like that.

You struggle to even moan his name, for crying out loud. Jungkook holds your legs open so he could fuck you better, the tip of his cock kissing your g-spot with every thrust, sending you embarrassingly quickly to the edge you’ve been looking for. You hold onto him for dear life, nails digging into his shoulders and making him grunt from the added pain. It’s right there, you’re so close…

“C’mon,” he purrs, ducking down to suck a mark into the skin of your neck, “come for me. I know you want to.”

Just a few more thrusts and you’re falling right into that sea of bliss that awaits you at the bottom of the cliff. You come hard around his cock as a shout rips itself free from your throat - not even of his name, or anything in particular - and Jungkook is falling right behind you. He empties himself inside of you with a broken moan, warm ropes of his cum painting your velvety walls white. 

You hold onto each other like that for a while longer, neither of you caring about how his softening cock is letting your combined release trickle out of you and onto the material of the couch. You play with his hair as he kisses your neck softly, and when he finally props himself up on his forearms to look down at you, there’s something so sweet in his gaze that makes you flush all over.

It almost makes you forget about what you’ve been playing for. Rationality starts crawling back in again after the dicking down you just had.

Almost being the keyword. Too bad for your boyfriend though.

“I won,” you say happily, giving him your brightest grin.

“Did you really win though?” he asks, eyes narrowing playfully at you. Always the negotiator, this one. “Or did you want me to fuck you so badly that I let you win?”

“I won. You said just the tip and then you gave me your whole dick. Now prepare to fold the laundry for a whole month.”

— all rights reserved © jeonqkooks. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 14.05.2023]

[flowercrowngods]

yearning hours (b-side) — in which being in love can feel like the greatest tragedy of all until you learn that you’re not alone (or: bravery, despite everything)

🤍 also on ao3

Steve comes to the quarry when he needs to think. He comes to the quarry when he needs to not think. When he needs to feel this rush of adrenaline that feels so much like monsters are real and the world has turned upside down. Except he isn’t going to die here, sitting on the cold ground, legs dangling over the abyss.

He’s not going to die, but life stops for a moment all the same. 

And Steve relearns how to breathe. How to think. How to not think. While the darkness below him swallows it all. The pale light of the moon is not enough to reach the ground hundreds of feet below, or to chase away the complete and total darkness that meets his eyes when he looks down there. 

It’s all-encompassing, this darkness, the vastness of it; Steve sometimes feels like he becomes part of it. Just for an hour or two. Just for the night. 

The cold air that hits his face makes him shiver for a second, and reminds him that he used to think the darkness at the bottom of the quarry had a life of its own. Hell, maybe it does. With what they’ve seen, what they’ve fought, who’s to say there’s nothing down there? Maybe that’s what draws him here so often. 

Does the living darkness know his secrets like the darkness in his room does? Does it listen to him, does it care? They’re stupid questions, Steve knows. But they carry a hopefulness he wants to preserve. Something that survived the Upside Down, that survives the nightmares and the flashbacks and the post-traumatic stress, as Hopper and Owens call it. 

There’s something primal about sitting on the edge of such vastness, so much so that it makes his heart beat faster, his breath come shallower, like he is just a second away from falling. Like he has to savour this; this second, this moment, this life, because beyond it, around it, below it, there is only darkness. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and lets it all out until his lungs ache. The silence is absolute. He feels like the only person on the planet — but not in the bad, painful way that’s been hiding in the back of his mind for as long as he can remember. 

If he only breathes like this for a while longer, lets the feeling settle, lets the thoughts come and bring emotions with them, he knows that soon the tears will fall.

Tears, because he shouldn’t have to sit at the edge of the quarry in the dark of night just to be able to feel. Tears, because he forgot how to be a boy, how to be a person, about three years ago. Almost to the day. Tears, because they all did; but he’s Steve. He can’t let them see. Wouldn’t know how even if he wanted to. 

And tears, tonight, because just hours earlier, Eddie fell asleep while Steve made dinner. His arms were curled around the pillow Steve had leaned against all afternoon, and Steve just stood there in the doorway to Eddie’s room, the smell of fresh pasta mixing with that of leather, paperback books, tobacco and laundry detergent that is so purely and wonderfully Eddie that Steve just wants to catch it in a mason jar and open it whenever he needs a dose. 

Eddie had fallen asleep, and all Steve could do was look at him. Smile on his lips, ache in his heart that only grew in ferocity until all he could do was leave. Because friends don’t watch their friends sleep. Not like this. Not with their hands twitching by their sides, curled into fists to stop them from reaching out and trailing over soft, warm skin. Friends don’t… They don’t. 

So Steve left, pasta untouched. Heart unravelled. Words unspoken. 

He left and sped off until he reached the quarry, a safe place to piece himself back together again — but he doesn’t have the heart to leave out Eddie. So every time he comes here and puts the pieces of himself back together, he puts Eddie in the centre. He always does. It’s what keeps getting him in this mess. 

But it’s still the closest he’ll get to bravery after the Upside Down; admitting, if only to himself, that he likes a boy. Allowing himself to cry about it. To breathe in and breathe out and have the truth unchanged, unchallenged, undoubted.

He’s still breathing when the all-encompassing silence is interrupted, joined by the unmistakeable sound of tires on gravel. Seconds later, headlights illuminate the night, his arms, the edge of the quarry, but still not reaching beyond that. The car comes to a stop but Steve still doesn’t move, doesn’t turn around, just hopes that whoever it is will just leave him alone. 

Lights go out, the engine is killed, followed by the sound of a car door opening and being closed far too gently. 

Steve isn’t too surprised when steps approach him slowly, nor when they come to a stop beside him, chasing away some of the cold that’s been resting over him like a blanket.

Instinctively, he knows it’s Eddie. He just doesn’t know why. 

“How’d you know I’m here?” he asks into the void, still unmoving. 

“Just knew,” comes the reply, and it sounds so soft, so gentle, so understanding that Steve fears he might fall apart and have to rebuild himself once more. Twice in one night. Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. “Why’d you leave?” 

Because otherwise I’d have crossed the distance and fallen to my knees, brushed a kiss to your forehead and told you dinner was ready. Because otherwise I’d have slid down the doorframe and watched over you, watched you, and the firework of a person that you are even in your sleep. I’d have fallen in love and I’d have fallen, fallen, fallen. So I needed to go where falling is not an option. 

Instead of saying any of that, Steve only shrugs. “Just did.” 

It’s lame and unfair, he knows, but talking to the darkness is so much easier when there’s not an audience, and Eddie just… he can’t know. Any of that. 

“Can I join you?” Eddie asks then, and Steve can hear it in his voice that he would leave if Steve said no. 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t; just nods and scoots to the side a bit even though there’s enough room for Eddie to sit just anywhere. 

But he doesn’t sit just anywhere, no. He sits down rather clumsily — for which Steve can’t blame him, it is a little scary in the dark, and one wrong move could be your very last — and ends up with his arm and shoulder pressed to Steve‘s, their legs so close he can feel Eddie‘s warmth through the denim.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s dangerous, so close to falling, and Steve scoots to the side, breaking contact. Breathing carefully.

Eddie‘s eyes are on him, he can feel it. He doesn’t react. It hurts, his entire body aches with how close he wants to be. But it’s too much, even for himself to bear. Putting all that on Eddie would be enough to take them both down to the bottom of the quarry, and lower still.

So he swallows. All the words he cannot say, all the thoughts that lump together and clog his throat.

“Are you okay, Stevie?” Eddie asks, and Steve just shrugs again.

“Sure.”

“Right,” Eddie whispers, then sighs. It’s not a heavy sigh or a judgmental one, but it makes Steve flinch all the same.

Too much. Too fucking much even unknown.

Silence falls over them, the quarry working its magic — or its curse — even on Eddie Munson. Steve wonders if it suffocates or liberates him, but he doesn’t dare to ask. It would take too much explaining for the question to make sense, too much revealing himself, too much of… Just too much.

He wants to ask. To say something. To scoot back over again, closer to Eddie, and lay his head on his shoulder, bask in his warmth and withstand the magic, the curse, the darkness.

Withstand it, because that’s what Eddie does. He is brave, despite everything.

And Steve is just the boy who sits with darkness at night because he doesn’t know how to be brave anymore, not when there’s no question of life or death. He forgot all about everyday-bravery.

But Eddie didn’t. He’s still there, still smiling and laughing and teasing his way through life and into Steve’s heart and soul.

And Steve doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know what he can do with it. Doesn’t know how to ask.

It’s no surprise, then, that it’s Eddie who does.

“What are we doing, Steve?” He sounds a bit resigned about it, and it makes Steve hide away in himself even more, focusing on the darkness beneath him rather than the light beside him — they both leave him blinded at equal measure, but one of them doesn’t ask him questions to which he doesn’t know the answer.

“What do you mean?” he asks after a while, his voice a little off. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Apprehension, maybe. Caught. Uncovered. Exposed.

Beside him, Eddie sighs again, just a little bit, but Steve has always hated that he keeps making people sigh. Makes him feel so fucking small, so incredibly useless.

He raises one leg from the abyss to rest his chin on his knee, because suddenly he feels so heavy that he needs the physical reminder that he’s not about to fall. One foot on the ground. Steady, secure, a great illusion for now.

“Sorry,” he whispers at last, because Eddie hasn’t said anything, has only sighed and created a silence that’s so loud it can probably be heard at the bottom of the quarry, and Steve feels like the silence is his fault this time.

“What for?”

“Dunno,” he confesses, lies, concedes as his house of cards begins to crumble for some reason. The heaviness wanders from his throat down to his heart and settles there, making a home for itself, casting out all the lightness that usually comes when he’s around Eddie.

But it seems he’s reached his breaking point. It seems he can only pretend to be okay for so long, pretend not to yearn and ache and long for intimacy and tenderness. It seems he can only put himself together again, rebuilding himself around Eddie at his centre, until it would break apart for good. Burst out of his heart, dismantle him piece by broken piece until all that’s left is a broken boy, yearning.

And so he can’t stop the tears even if he wanted to. They’re kind in their silence, streaming down his face without demand for sobs or sniffles. Just breaking free, a simple displacement reaction. Following the physics of emotions.

“Hey,” Eddie whispers, reaching out to wrap an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. There’s that warmth, that touch, that gentleness he’s been craving — and there’s that sob he’s been suppressing. “Hey, Stevie, it’s okay. You’re okay. You can talk to me, you know that, right?”

He shakes his head into the warmth of Eddie’s neck, wiping dejectedly at his tears.

“No?”

“No,” he whines, sighs, groans, annoyed with himself.

“Don’t want to? Or can’t?”

Both. Neither. All at once.

He shrugs again, still leaning against Eddie.

Eddie, who turns his head slightly and brushes his lips over Steve’s hair in what can only be described as a kiss. Except, it can’t. It couldn’t. It isn’t.

Steve begins to shiver against him — maybe he’s cold, maybe he’s overwhelmed, maybe he’s both and neither and everything all at once.

“I’ve got you, Stevie.”

And then Eddie kisses his head again, and he stills.

“You can’t kiss me, Eddie,” he says, voice still thick, but steadier this time. No more sobbing, no more whining. Just a broken boy, yearning. Always, always that.

Eddie freezes where he’s holding Steve, only his arm still moves in soothing, rubbing motions — warming him, holding him, saving him. Always, always that.

“Sorry,” Eddie says this time. Except it’s wrong. It’s so wrong, and Steve leans back to look at him. It’s impossible to make out his expression in the darkness, but he tries nonetheless.

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispers. “Just…” He gestures vaguely, not quite sure what the just entails. Just mean it. Just do it right. Just don’t do it out of pity. Just leave me alone until I’m over you even though we both know I never really will be.

“Just?”

Steve shrugs. Whispers, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t hide, Stevie.” Be brave, Stevie. Be brave like me.

God, how he wishes. How he longs. How he aches.

“You don’t have to hide, not from me.”

Steve huffs and says, before he can stop himself, “Especially from you.”

Eddie pauses and Steve freaks out a little bit, even before Eddie asks, “Why?” He sounds wounded. Small. He shouldn’t sound like that. Never.

“Because you’re gonna see otherwise.”

“See what?”

That I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Besotted. Enamoured. All the big words you like to make fun of. All of them and more.

“Me.”

There’s a beat where nothing happens. Maybe time stops, maybe reality resets itself, settling in more comfortably in anticipation of vulnerability’s fallout.

And then Eddie takes his hands, reaching for them in the darkness and finding them with ease. Like he’s done it many times before. Because he has. Just never like this.

“Steve,” he begins, and Steve wants to run again. To hide, to confess to another void, and make Eddie forget this conversation ever happened. “I think I already do.”

What? No. No, you can’t.

When Steve doesn’t respond, Eddie continues, seemingly gathering himself and his thoughts as he goes. Always so much stronger, so much braver than Steve.

“I already do see you. The way you smile at me, light up the whole room with it. The way you hug me, always a little too long, but never long enough if you ask me. I see you blushing, I see you going out of your way for me, and… And I think, if you knew how to look, you’d see the same in me. Because, uh. Because I like seeing you. And I like… I like you. Not in a friends kinda way. In a way where I wanna sit beside you all night and talk about deep shit, but I wanna run my fingers through your hair when we do. I wanna play with your fingers when we do. I wanna kiss you when we do, because there’s deep, heavy, traumatic shit everywhere, but there’s also you. And I don’t want one without the other. I want you. In that exact way that I see you looking at me, wanting me, too.”

Eddie swallows, a little breathless beside him like Steve’s not choking on emotion himself.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Eddie whispers then, pressing and desperate and knowing. “Tell me you don’t like me in a way you think you shouldn’t. Tell me I don’t see you.”

He shakes his head, slowly, frantically. “I can’t.”

“Because it’s true?”

Steve’s nodding now, just as frantic, leaving him disoriented and falling, only anchored to Eddie who’s still holding his hands.

“Yeah,” Steve gasps, rasps, whispers. “It… I’m. I don’t.” It’s he who swallows heavily now, needing a second or an eternity to process Eddie’s words. “You really mean that?”

Eddie nods. He can feel it, somehow.

“I don’t know what has you so scared,” Eddie begins. “Except the obvious, of course, but I feel like that’s only a small chunk of it. But you gotta believe me when I say that I mean it. I like you. So much it makes me stupid sometimes.”

Steve huffs, but it’s a smile this time. A real one. Tinged with sadness and heaviness and disbelief still, but a real one nonetheless.

“I wanna tell you. All of that. Everything, in my own words. And I will, but… Eddie, I’m—“ Steve starts with a quivering voice but shuts himself up before he can ruin this.

I’m broken. I’m not sure if I can let you. I’m just Steve. I’m bullshit. I’m…

“I’m tired.”

It has a double meaning, here at the quarry — but he doesn’t mean it like that. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He won’t.

“Can you just hold me?” It is perhaps the closest to bravery he’s going to get. Tonight, or always. But it’s enough. It can be enough.

Eddie hums and Steve can hear the smile, can feel how some of the heaviness inside him dissipates with it.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Steve shivers again as he shifts, lying back so it’s only his legs, bent at the knee, that dangle over the abyss now. Eddie joins him, wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle and rearranging them so Steve rests half on top of him. It can’t be comfortable, but Steve doesn’t mention it.

They lie there in silence, and Steve allows himself to let go of the tension in his bones as he feels Eddie’s hands travelling across his back in a tender caress. He doesn’t quite believe it’s real, doesn’t believe he’ll get to keep it beyond this moment, and can’t quite savour it the way he wants to because surely he will lose this, too. Surely Eddie will realise and come to his senses and—

“Do you really mean it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, leaning up slightly to brush his lips over Steve’s temple. “Yeah, Stevie. I really, really mean it.” And then, after a while, “Will you come back home now?”

Back home. Home to Eddie and Wayne. Home, because Eddie cares and wants and bravely, bravely asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

Another kiss to his forehead. “And will you stay?”

It is Steve now who leans up, hovering above Eddie to meet his eyes through the dark. “I will. I do.” And then he slowly, carefully captures Eddie’s lips with his own, sealing the promise and receiving one in return.

Kissing Eddie is a lot like falling, he realises. But there are arms wrapped around him, holding him, never wanting to let him go — so maybe it isn’t falling after all. Maybe it’s flying.

At home in his bed, Eddie holds him some more, running fingers through his hair long after Steve has fallen asleep.

They’ll make it work.

[dameronology]

moment's passed (matt murdock)

summary: based on say don't go by t.swift (x)

warnings: excessive use of the f-word. angst.

this is one of the from the vault songs that just fucking HITS me. i have been crying to this since it came out tbh. i hope you enjoy xx

-jazz

You had Matt Murdock.

Until you didn't.

Things had been sweet at first; he was a weathered lawyer who needed some light in his life. Somebody to come home to; somebody to properly love for the first time in his fucking life. It wasn't like the high he was chasing with Eletkra Natchios, or the familiarity he'd sought out with Karen Page. He got both things from your relationship, but you were...different. You gave him highs; you could make him feel like he was home and on a rollercoaster all at once. It was a feeling Matthew wanted to keep for the rest of his life. He would have been stupid not to. But wasn't that the thing about Matt? He was incredibly smart, but also incredibly fucking stupid. Almost bound to take someone for granted. He'd done it with Foggy, hadn't he? 

Five years. That was how long you made it before cracks began to appear in your foundations. You'd loved Matt for his Daredevil side at first; maybe he could go too far, but he'd always known when to stop (right?) and you admired him for it. For his bravery, for his candor, for the way he protected the city. It was like a dark and sexy secret that you prided yourself on keeping. It tied you together. You were part of it now. You were the person that Matt could come to about his darkest fears and worst nights. You were the person whose side he would curl up into during the night, craving someone to protect him for once. There was always the worry that he would go into deep and truly lose himself, but every time Matt found himself on the precipice of doing so, you would be there to hold him back - to keep him sane and to stop him letting Matt Murdock and Daredevil blur into one person. 

You were only a human being, though. So was he. Matt could save the city and everything in it but you couldn't save him from himself. Save him from coming home at 6AM - your agreement had always been 3AM at the latest - and sliding into bed beside you without a word, or save him from waking up in a bad mood and refusing to talk to you about it. No matter how many times you begged him to just spend one night in, or to not leave himself three hours to sleep before work. It all fell on empty ears and that hurt when he had fucking super hearing. Comforting cuddles at night turned into whispered touches and soon, those touches became backs turned to one another. Long conversations turned into polite niceties than eventually faded into silence. The happy relationship - breakfast together in the morning at the table and takeouts on the sofa at night - became a burden. A horse you were both flogging because staying together in silence was slightly less terrifying than whatever the alternative that left you alone was. Soon, you were the only one flogging said horse. Matt had dropped his stick a long time ago and turned away. He'd walked into the depths of Hell's Kitchen and you weren't sure he was ever coming back. 

This wasn't your fault. Maybe it wasn't his fault either but hell it was his burden to bear. You'd done nothing but love and support him and what did you get in return? Silence. Iciness. Long, tense moments of forced conversations. 

You got used to it eventually. Every night, he'd come stumbling in at 4,5,6AM, skin littered with bruises and wounds; some from that night and others reopened. Matt's skin was thick with scars now. They were forming a new Daredevil suit across his arms and legs and back and there was no taking it off. It was always there. Always a reminder. 

Matt was laying with his back to you; you watched with open eyes, as his breathing went from shallow and tense, to something a little deeper and softer. He was falling asleep. Tough fucking luck, Murdock, you thought, it's time to talk. 

You brushed a hand down his back - Matt arched like a cat, suddenly waking.

"Hey, Matty."

He sighed heavily. "I was sleeping."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just wanted to see how you were-"

"- I'm tired," Matt huffed. "Go to sleep."

"I'm tired too," you murmured. Tired of this. Tired of this silence. Tired of you.

"Sleep too, then."

"I will," you whispered. "What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?"

"I'm working all day. Probably late."

"Okay, goodnight," you said. "I love you."

Silence. 

The morning came and still, Matt barely spoke to you. He ghosted past you in the morning, hands fumbling for a clean shirt and pants. His shoes were pulled on and coffee made, and he was out the door before you'd even risen for work. That was purposeful. He never left earlier than 8AM and it wasn't even gone 7:30. Maybe he didn't want to talk. Maybe he just wanted to talk to anyone that wasn't you - which was funny, because you'd barely had a conversation in weeks. 

You had lunch with Karen later that day, about four doors down from the Nelson & Murdock office. Whatever dalliance she'd had with Matt was in the past - you two were good friends. She was level-headed and candid. You needed that in a friend. She always said what you needed to hear, even if you didn't want to. 

"So, I'm gonna see this guy for a second date, I think," Karen was saying something. You were gone, eyes blankly staring past her. "But I'm not sure, because - hey, are you listening to me?"

"No," you admitted. "I'm sorry. I had a really shitty night."

Her face fell with concern. "What's going on?"

"Matt's losing himself to his night job," you admitted. "I haven't had a proper talk with him in fucking months. I don't think he's touched me since people liked James Corden, Karen. Do you know what a long time that is?"

"Jesus," she muttered. Without another word, she pulled out her diary and flicked through it. "Look, it says he's got his whole afternoon wide open today. He went home at midday I think."

You faltered slightly. Either Karen was mistaken or Matt was a fucking liar and had fed you bullshit about being busy this afternoon. The worst part was that you knew Karen never made mistakes when it came to her secretary job. She had a Pinterest board for everything and her Google calendar synced up to ten different devices. She probably wasn't wrong and lying to you, although a new development, was pretty in line with how Matt had been lately. It felt like the final nail in the coffin. The thing that sealed your relationship's fate.

"I..." you muttered. "Okay. Will you hate me if I ditch early to go and talk to him?"

Karen shook her head. "No. Go."

That subway ride was the longest of your ride. It felt like every stop was twice as long; like every red signal lasted ten years. Had the walk from the platform to the barriers always been this long? Had the street from the station to your apartment been this stretched out? Your feet had never hurt more as you sprinted up the stairs from the lobby to your apartment. The door was on the latch - Karen was right, he had been home - and you booted it down with ease. Matt jumped up from the sofa as you did.

"What are you-"

"- you're a fucking liar!" you snapped. 

There was a lingering silence for a moment. Matt was a man of few words but he had very rarely found himself speechless.

"I'm done," you muttered.

"Done with what?"

"I'm done with you," you said. "I'm done with us. With this shitty relationship. Do you know how long I've been trying? How long I've been begging you to give me some kind of attention? Months, Matt. I've been dying for MONTHS and you haven't cared."

"I haven't been ignoring you-"

"- please don't lie to me," you cut him off again. 

The silence returned. You might have been half way out the door for months but Matt had been the one holding it open. The worst part was that you loved him to your very core and if he just said the words then - stay, don't go - or even any fucking word in the human language that hinted at a glimmer of hope, you would have thought twice. Maybe your apartment was a ghost town now but it was haunted with what used to be. Maybe there was a chance to go back to that. Just maybe. You would take maybe. 

The seconds passed. One, two, three. You counted them as they went, right up until you hit sixty. The dreaded one minute mark. That was more than enough time to beg. You could have done it in thirty. But he'd said nothing. The silence now said more to you than Matt had in the last three months. 

"Do you have nothing to say?" you quietly asked. 

"Right," you murmured. "I'm really done then."

"Just...think about this?" Matt said. His voice wavered slightly. There it was. The thing you'd been wanting to hear. It was just one minute too late. 

"Moment's passed, Matty," 

[amhrosina]

Feelings are Fatal (Javier Peña x f!Reader)

MASTERLIST // JOIN MY TAGLIST

A/N: omg whatttttt amhrosina writing a fic about someone not in a marvel show/movie???? whatttt???? the people who know me in person (& one of my fav mutuals) knew this was coming. what can I say? it’s pedro fucking pascal and i've been in love with him since GOT lol enjoy this angst fest!  

request: rosi i noticed that you added pedro pascal to your writing list so im requesting a fic with javi comforting dea reader after a family member/friend dies. soft javi, maybe reader is drinking and theres an established but secret relationship. feel free not to write it if you dont like it but i saw your authors note about pedro and figured i would ask

Summary: Javi comforts reader after she gets terrible news and is forced to confront the depth of his feelings for her. Steve confronts Javi about his secret relationship.

(Warnings: angst, mentions of death, grief, minor injuries, alcohol, Javi is a grump but is a soft!boy w reader, cursing, lots of cigarettes lol, feelings are hard for javi)

The second you heard the receiver click on the other end of the line, the bulky phone slipped from your hand and tumbled to the floor. The booming crack of the plastic smacking the tile, followed by the trinkle of the pieces cascading across the floor, were the only sounds you could hear in the bullpen. You tried to find something to focus on, eyes glazing over as your heartbeat pounded in your ears. You scanned the area around you, skipping over Murphy’s concerned gaze and landing on Javi’s empty chair.  

Mierda. (Shit.) He was still chasing a lead in Cali, and he wasn’t supposed to be home until early tomorrow morning. It’s not like he would be able to do anything for you right now anyways, considering you were surrounded by people who would out your relationship in half a second if it meant their career might be boosted because of it, but his reassuring presence was something you sorely needed at the moment.  

Your chest tightened as you processed what your dad had just murmured through the phone. You had been sitting when you answered the phone, but at some point, you must’ve stood, because you were currently white knuckling the back of your chair.  

Murphy rolled his chair into your eyeline, waving his hands in the air. Everything around you sounded muffled, almost like you were under water, and you couldn’t focus on anything for longer than a few seconds. You ran through the tricks you knew off the top of your head to stave off a panic attack. You tried to take a deep breath, you counted the tiles on the floor, hell, you even tried to find five things you could see, but the rapidly rising pace of your heartbeat, and the shallow breaths you could barely manage told you your panic attack was in full swing already. 

A gentle presence on your wrist sent a shock through you so prevalent that you snapped to attention and the world suddenly got very loud. Murphy was standing in front of you with wide eyes, murmuring your name, while the lucky few agents that happened to be in the bullpen when your phone rang stood a few feet back, observing you with keen interest. You weren’t stupid enough to believe they cared about your wellbeing. Nosy fuckers.  

Your hands clenched into fists, shaking slightly. The indent of your nails pressing into your palm was a steady ache, one that you absolutely needed if you were going to walk out of the office without incident. And you knew that was where you needed to go. Away from here, away from the DEA’s bullshit bureaucracy, away from Pablo Escobar and his sicarios. You stumbled away from Murphy, turning on your heels when you reached the lip of the bottom stair. You would explain everything to everyone later, when you could think again. ‘If you still have a job later, pendeja (asshole/idiot),’ you thought miserably. 

You barely remember jumping into your front seat, nor starting the car, nor pulling out of the police headquarters lot. You had a vague awareness that you arrived home when you unlocked your front door, but you were stuck in autopilot, and couldn’t bear to think about why you were stuck in autopilot.  

You eyed the bottle of liquor Javi had left in your kitchen the last time he was here and sighed. Yes, you thought, that’s perfect. 

- 

Javi was driving like a maniac, and he didn’t give two shits about it. When Steve had called earlier, he hadn’t been able to give any details about their partner’s bizarre behavior, other than her hasty departure from DEA headquarters after a strange phone call. Steve was puzzled, but otherwise not too concerned about her. Javi, on the other hand, had carefully untangled himself from his business in Cali and hopped on the next available and inconspicuous flight home he could manage.  

He could feel in his gut that something was wrong, and he couldn’t leave his girl hanging, job or no job. He wasn’t any closer to capturing Escobar anyways and had already determined that his trip to Cali was a colossal waste of time and resources before Steve had called him.  

He’d been pulled away from DEA headquarters for long enough, and this was the perfect excuse for him to high tail it out of Cali and come home. He was tired, and he missed his conejita (bunny – term of endearment), and even though he’d never admit it, he missed Murphy’s early morning grumblings too.  

He peeled into the nearest parking spot he could find to the apartment building and hurdled himself out of the driver’s seat. When he entered the building, he eyed the door at the top of the stairs. Dark – either Murphy was still at the office, asleep, or sitting in his apartment in complete darkness. His apartment was also dark, but a soft glow emitted from under his conejita’s door, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  

He considered using the key she had given him for emergencies. Did this count as an emergency? He sure thought so, but he didn’t want to startle her, so he knocked on the door with anxious trepidation. He waited, straining to listen through the door for any sign of life inside the apartment. There was nothing, and then there was the loud crash of something glass hitting the floor, and Javi was through the door before she could let out a yelp.  

She was on her hands and knees, hunched on the floor by her couch. Broken glass was all over the floor around her, though Javi couldn’t tell what she’d broken. He was more concerned for her palms and kneecaps, all of which were being pushed into the broken glass shards with little resistance on her end. He rushed to her side, lifting her off of the glass and into his arms.  

“Javi?” She slurred, raising her chin in a defiant gesture.  

“Cariño (honey), what happened?” He noted the way she slurred her words and the fact that her cheeks were tinted pink. “Have you been drinking?”  

“Have you been drinking, Agent Grumpy?” She pouted, trying to mimic the way Javi’s lips would poke out when he was upset about something.  

Clearly, she’d been drinking, but Javi couldn’t figure out what might’ve spurred this behavior. Out of him, Murphy, and her, she was the most levelheaded of the trio, and the least likely to drown her sorrows in a bottle of liquor. Dread coiled in his gut. Something awful must’ve gone down while he was gone, and he couldn’t help but feel like the idiot that couldn’t keep up. 

“Baby,” he murmured, carefully navigating through the millions of tiny glass shards all over her living room floor, “¿Que paso (what happened)?”  

“I dropped the bottle.” She breathed, clutching onto his shirt with her bloody hands. He didn’t care. He’d use a hundred of his shirts to stop her bleeding. He carefully set her down in a kitchen chair, untangling his limbs from hers. She seemed more alert now, more awake than when he’d busted through the door moments before. The cuts on her hands and knees were probably to blame for that, but Javi couldn’t breathe a sigh of relief yet. First, he had to find a first aid kit.  

Every agent was trained in basic first aid, and if they felt like being kiss-asses, they could take classes to get certified in trauma response. Javi hadn’t felt like being a kiss-ass, but he knew he way around a first aid kit. As he poked around her kitchen and bathroom cabinets, he stuck his head in the hallway every few seconds, checking on her. She was waiting patiently at the kitchen table where he’d left her, but she’d adopted a look that could only be described as “far away”, and his concern was growing by the minute.  

Javi couldn’t figure it out. When they’d talked on the phone this morning, she was fine, chipper even. She was excited that he’d be home soon, and he had promised that he’d make up for the nights they’d lost while he was working in Cali. When her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she revealed that Murphy had just walked into the bullpen thirty minutes early, his breath had hitched in his throat as he almost let the words “I love you” slip from between his lips.  

Javi wasn’t inexperienced with women, but he was sure that she was the only woman in the world that could get him that tongue tied. When the receiver clicked, indicating that she'd hung up, Javi had spent entirely too long staring at the phone in his hands, listening to the dial tone drone on and on as he searched his brain for wherever the hell that had come from.  

But that couldn’t be what was bothering her. Steve had mentioned a phone call, but she’d hung up the phone with him before 8am, and she didn’t start acting weird until almost ten hours later. There had to be someone, something bothering her, and Javi’s chest ached with rage about it. The only person allowed to bother her was him, and he took that job very seriously. 

“Bebé (Baby),” he sighed, propping the medical kit open on the kitchen table, “Will you tell me what’s going on?” 

She swallowed thickly, sighing as he pulled up a chair in front of her. He gently lifted her hands to the light so he could see the cuts. They were shallow, but hands always bled a lot, so both of her palms were stained a deep crimson. She watched him as he began to remove pieces of glass from the cuts, and he waited patiently for her to explain herself. He’d wait for as long as she needed him to. 

- 

The stinging sensation hadn’t left your trembling hands, but you wanted to be tough in front of Javi, so you watched quietly as he wrapped your hands in thick gauze. He’d lit a cigarette two minutes ago, puffing smoke in the air at regular intervals as he worked. When he finally moved on to your knees, which had stopped bleeding ten minutes ago, you tried to figure out exactly what to say to him.  

It wasn’t every day that your significant other’s mom suddenly and inexplicably dies during an evening nap, leaving everyone, especially your significant other, baffled and choked by her loss. His mom had quietly passed away earlier the year before, and he was only gone for two days before returning to Colombia. He hadn’t broached the topic since then, and you weren’t as comfortable with him then as you were now. You could confidently say that you had no idea how this was going to go. 

You took a breath, and before you could talk yourself out of it, mumbled the same words your dad had spoken hours before, causing your world to crumble around you. 

“Mi mamá está muerta. (My mom is dead.)” 

Javi sucked in a breath, lifting his gaze towards yours with a pitiful expression. Tears welled in your eyes, and for the first time since you’d heard the horrible news, you allowed yourself to cry. Javi dropped the gauze on the table and wrapped his muscular arms around your neck, pulling you into his chest.  

“Oh, Cariño,” he cooed, kissing your hair as you sobbed into his shirt, “Lo siento, bebé. (I’m sorry, baby.)” 

His shirt was sure to be irreparably stained now that your blood and tears were soaked into it, but he didn’t seem to mind. He stroked your back, kissed your head, and held you close while you cried and cried into his chest. He’d never seen you so vulnerable before, and a rush of fear shot through you at the thought of him scaring away because of that, but every time you tried to push away from him, he’d tighten his hold on you and urge you to let it out. 

When you finally got a handle on your sobs, Javi pulled back, searching your expression for any further breakage. He’d weather it, this awful storm, for as long as you needed him to. You knew that, and even still, when he began to put the pieces of you back together again, your heart melted at the thought of him.  

Javier Peña was not the guy that women came crying to in the middle of the night. He was the guy you picked up for the one-night stand, the one you’d talk about for years afterwards, the one you’d think about as ‘the one that got away’ until you were too old to remember his name and where he came from. That was Javier Peña, and yet, he was in your kitchen, cleaning up your wounds, healing the part of you that was inexplicably broken. If only Murphy could see you guys now. 

“Cuando es el funeral? (When is the funeral?)” He asked, blotting at the scabs on your knees.  

“Next weekend.” You murmured, wincing as he taped gauze over a particularly deep cut. 

“When mi mamá died,” he started, and you stopped breathing, unwilling to be the one to fuck this conversation up before it even started, “I didn’t let myself mourn the way I should have. I tried to sweep it under the rug, ‘ya know?” 

You nodded, remembering the weeks after his return from Texas. He had thrown himself into his work, which made yours and Murphy’s lives a little easier for a while, though neither of you preferred it that way.  

“Let yourself mourn, Cariño. It’s my biggest regret.” 

“Okay.” You nodded, though you weren’t sure exactly what he meant by that. You spoke before you could stop yourself. “You can still mourn her. There’s not a time limit on grief.”  

It sort of felt like the air was sucked out of the room. You’d never said something so bold to Javi, especially not about his personal life. You were five seconds away from blaming your brashness on the alcohol you’d consumed, even though you’d sobered up fairly quickly once he’d arrived, when he nodded. 

“That’s true, Cariño.” 

You blinked. You must really look like shit if Javi wasn’t actively building walls around himself. Sure, he’d opened up a little throughout the relationship, but he was still working on being vulnerable with you, and he had a lot of work left to do. You knew he was plagued by nightmares – you were too, and who, working this job, wouldn’t be? – but he wouldn’t talk about them with anyone. Instead, he’d pull you closer, kiss you harder, and make you forget why he’d woken in the first place. It was a coping mechanism that both of you recognized as ‘not actually coping’ but neither of you had the resources or the energy to work through that trauma. At least, not yet. 

He lit another cigarette, and you watched him breathe in the smoke deeply. He lifted it toward you, and you eagerly parted your lips, taking a much needed drag. Before Colombia, before Javi, you hadn’t touched a cigarette in your life. After being assigned to team Murphy-Peña, you felt like you had a perpetual cloud of smoke hovering over you at all times.  

Javi brushed his hands together and threw the remaining unused gauze back in the first aid kit. He gently pulled you from your seat, and the slight movement sent a sting through your legs. You were already regretting the alcohol and your hangover hadn’t even started yet. 

“Let’s sleep at my place tonight, Cariño. We’ll clean this up tomorrow.” 

You nodded, teary eyed again. You didn’t want to think about tomorrow, or next week, or any time in the future that didn’t include your mom. If Javi noticed your tears, he didn’t say anything about them, and you were grateful for his wherewithal. He always knew exactly how to handle you, and that was part of the reason you’d fallen in love with him.  

Love. You blanched. Nope. Not thinking about that right now. 

You shrugged the thought away as Javi lifted you bridal style in his arms. Javier Peña didn’t fall in love, and you certainly weren’t going to be the woman to challenge that. 

- 

Bonus Scene: Steve confronting Javi about his secret relationship with you. 

“Are you fucking stupid? You’ve got to be, to pull this bullshit.” 

Javi watched Steve pace across his living room. Again. He’d been walking a hole in the rug for half an hour, and Javi wasn’t sure Steve would be stopping his rant anytime soon.  

Technically, Javi deserved this. Everything Steve was saying was true. He was jeopardizing not only his career, but hers too. The integrity of the investigation against Escobar would be questioned if word got out that two of the three agents assigned to his case were fucking each other. Not to mention how quickly procedure would be thrown out the window if either of them were in danger. There’s a reason why those rules existed. 

But like most things, it wasn’t that simple. Javi hadn’t been able to offer an excuse for when Steve caught him carrying her into his apartment, taped to high hell with gauze and tipsy as all get out. He’d simply shrugged, unlocked the door, and carried her through the frame without a second glance. 

Now, Steve wasn’t stupid, but he chalked up that incident to her being overwhelmed with grief. What friend wouldn’t offer their couch up to their drunk, mourning partner when she needed it? What he didn’t know was how often she slept at Javi’s already. She even had a toothbrush in his bathroom and a stack of books piled on one of the nightstands in his bedroom.  

Steve’s suspicions might’ve grown a little the weekend that she went home to Oceanside for her mother’s funeral. Weekends meant little to the DEA agents working Escobar’s case – every day was another day they could possibly learn information that may or may not give them someone who might know something about Escobar, or not – but Javi was especially fidgety the two days she was off on leave. 

Steve finally demanded to know what the hell was bothering Javi when he caught him staring at her empty seat for the third time in an hour. Javi brushed it off, claiming he hadn’t been sleeping well, but Steve wasn’t so easily persuaded to look the other way again.  

The final straw, the one that prompted the yelling and the insults and the pacing, made Javi’s relationship with her so obvious that there wasn’t a chance in hell he could talk his way out of it. Steve, being the hero best buddy that he was, had heard an alarming thump from Javi’s apartment, and taken it upon himself to investigate. What he hadn’t been expecting to find was his two partners, tangled in each other’s limbs, going at it on the kitchen counter like rabbits.  

Hence, the yelling. 

“I mean, seriously Javi? You could fuck any woman in the world, and you chose the one woman that’s off limits!” 

“Listen, man. I-” 

Javi tried again to interrupt Steve’s rant, to explain himself and what he felt for her. Steve was missing the bigger picture. Javi wasn’t just fucking her, he loved her. He couldn’t figure out if that would make Steve more or less angry about it. 

“You what, man? You what?!” Steve threw his hands in the air, beckoning an excuse that might help him understand why his partners would be such idiots. 

Javi struggled to translate his feelings into words. He hadn’t even told her yet exactly how he felt and saying it now felt weirdly similar to a trial run. He searched his head for the right words to describe what she was to him. 

“I’ve been sleeping.” Javi rested his hands on his hips and sighed, eyes flickering across the ceiling as he realized how incredibly stupid that sounded outside of his brain. “I know I love her, because I can sleep after I’ve talked to her.” 

Steve studied Javi, searching for any signs of deception. He narrowed his eyes when he couldn’t find any. 

“What do you mean you ‘love’ her?” 

“I mean, I fucking love her, man. I don’t know what you want me to say.” Javi was growing restless, tugging at the neckline of his button-down shirt. Conversations like these always made him antsy, and he could feel the temperature in his cheeks rising. 

“You.” Steve cocked a grin, “Javier Peña. In love? I’m not buying it man.” 

“Well, I’m not going to try and convince you.” It was Javi’s turn to throw his hands in the air in distress. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. 

“You actually care about her?” Steve’s expression morphed from disbelief to genuine shock. Javi wished he could take a picture to savor the moment. 

“Are you going to say anything to anyone?”  

Javi would normally never be so obvious about his fears, but he was thinking about her, back in her apartment, probably walking a hole into her rug as she waited for Steve and Javi to hash their shit out. The look on her face when Steve started yelling was enough to make Javi panic, and he was not above begging if it meant keeping her out of trouble. 

“Nah, man.” Steve shook his head, plopping down on Javi’s couch. Javi sagged with relief. “Just don’t make it so obvious. I was suspicious before I walked in on you two.” 

“Yeah, man.” Javi took another drag of his cigarette.  

“Have you told her?” 

“Told her what?” Javi couldn’t keep the bite from his tone. 

“That you love her.” 

Javi envied the ease that Steve managed when he talked about love. Before she’d been transferred to Colombia, Javi had never, in his life, been able to understand why anyone would choose to fall in love. He recognized the signs of it from the years of watching his parents interact, but he’d never experienced it before. When Steve talked about Connie, whether it was a complaint or not, there was always an underlying tone of love in his words. When she showed up, everything Javi had ever thought about love was scrambled, and it terrified him. 

“No.” He blew out a slow trail of smoke. 

Steve nodded slowly in understanding. If anyone in the world could comprehend Javi’s mindset right now, it was the guy he’d spent hours and hours with every day for years. 

“Maybe you should.” 

“Yeah, maybe I should.” 

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

Click here if you want to join my tag list! <3

Thank you for reading!

[inmyheaddd]

your lips my lips, apocalypse - jameson hawthorne x reader

wc: 2.3k warnings: kissing, friends to lovers, very fluffy masterlist

you were two young and dumb teenagers, finding solace in each other's company.

your relationship with jameson was a long one, stretching back years into early childhood.

you two never really talked before; you both assumed the other was like all the other people in your social circle. too rich to care, not a worry in the world, and about as deep as a kiddie pool. 

that all changed one night a year or two ago, at a fundraiser event your family and his were hosting together.

you hated things like this sometimes—the way your parents showed off as something to look at, a trophy, instead of someone to know.

after one too many introductions and sticking to your mom's side feeling like a lost child, you excused yourself, and maybe the tears that flooded your eyes wouldn’t have been so immediate if you didn’t see the relief that washed over your mothers face. 

you walked to the one place that was yours, tears threatening to spill with each step. it felt stupid, really. nothing particularly bad happened, so why did you feel bad? 

you finally reached the bottom of the stairs of the wine cellar, only to find a figure sitting on the last step. 

what?

the person's head turned immediately, hearing the clicks of your heels. 

even in the faint lighting, you recognized the boy. jameson hawthorne.

the troublemaker of the hawthorne grandsons, endless green eyes, and a charming smile that could kill. 

his eyebrows raised as he noticed you, holding a bottle of something in his hand. "what are you doing here?" he asked, his face otherwise expressionless.

your sadness made way for frustration. who did he think he was, sitting in your spot, asking you what you were doing?

“this is my house?” 

“okay. what are you doing here?” 

you scoffed, “i could ask you the same thing. all your brothers are upstairs, why aren’t you?” 

he turned to face away from you, taking another swig from what you now recognized to be a flask. “well i’m not my brothers, aren’t i?” 

you stayed silent. 

he must’ve realised how hurt he sounded, so he spoke again, “just needed a breather, that’s all.” 

maybe he wasn't as shallow as you thought.

you had so many questions, one of them being “how the hell did you even find this place?”. after a few beats of silence, you settled on a different one.

“well, mind if i join?”

he gestured to the spot next to him, “be my guest.” you tentatively took a step closer, smoothing out the bottom of your dress before sitting down on the step.

“aren’t you my guest? you’re in my house after all.” you fought the smile that found your face, then he turned to look at you, a similar grin on his face as well. 

“you’re not what i expected,” he said, tilting his head to the side, slightly narrowing his eyes. 

now it was your turn to turn away and look forward, shrugging your shoulders as you did so. “i try.” 

minutes turned to hours, and you found out that you and jameson were actually quite similar. 

as cliché as it sounded, you often felt older than you were. adults didn’t take you seriously, but kids your age around you didn’t get you. 

jameson did though, and he found himself actually being understood by anyone other than his brothers for once. you found comfort in eachother, and soon enough your bond was unbreakable.

you and jameson running off from events together became a common occurrence.

one particular time, the event was at his house. 

your cheeks began to hurt from all the fake smiles you’d been giving out. that was one of your key signs it was time to leave.

after a few minutes of mindless strolling around the hawthorne house, you settled on sitting by the pool.

you couldn’t swim right then, obviously, but it felt heavenly to take off your heels and dip your feet in the water.

god knows how long you were out here for. it was completely dark now, apart from the lit-up pool and windows from the house. 

you took your gaze up to the sky, leaning back on your arms to fully see the stars. 

when you looked back in front of you, you noticed jameson 50 feet or so away, walking towards you.

you look back at your lap, only letting your eyes find his once he sat beside you, rolling up his suit pants to dip his feet in the water. 

“hey, stranger,” he said to you, his grin starting to make an appearance.

“hey there yourself,” you responded back, slightly nudging your shoulder with his.

“what finds you here on this fateful night?” he eyed your high heels you placed on the floor then looked back to you.

you snorted, “you really want an answer to that?” 

“not really,” he grimaced, “i can assume it’s the same reason i’m here.” 

you looked back at your lap, "yeah, you’re probably right on that on that.” your fingers were mindlessly fidgeting with your skirt that ended just at your mid thigh. 

he noticed the sadness on your face; he couldn’t take it anymore.

he gasped dramatically.

“you’re also here as an underco-“

“—please don’t finish that sentence,” you said with a laugh. 

you always knew when he was going to make a stupid joke to make you feel better. or maybe it was the dramatic gasp, mixed with the mischievous glint in his eye, and his widened grin that you noticed all before he spoke, that gave it away.

but hey, he made you laugh. mission accomplished.

“sorry, cinderella, not in the mood for jokes?” 

he started calling you cinderella a while ago, because “you’re always mysteriously running off from parties early.” you asked if that would make him your prince charming, to which he shrugged and said, “i’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

you responded, “i’m in the mood to get the hell out of here, then maybe a few dumb jokes wouldn’t be so bad.” you tilted your head as you spoke, and you couldn’t help the smile that found your face when jameson's hand laid on top of yours, his thumb drawing small circles. 

“then we’ll get the hell out of here.” 

you looked down at your knees, noticing how yours and his were touching, but neither of you made an effort to move them apart. 

you also noticed the soft hum of the music coming from inside the house, the warmth coming from jameson's side, the dim lights, and how everything felt so still, your previous worries long gone. 

you wondered why you only felt this peace with jameson next to you. 

“actually i changed my mind, we don’t have to get the hell out of here. 5 more minutes?” 

you looked up at him expectantly, and you were pretty sure a smile was permanently etched on your face.

well, atleast that's how it was with jameson. 

“whatever you want. 5 more minutes it is.” he replied with a wink.

“actually, i wanna go.” 

“then let’s go.”

“i changed my mind, i wanna stay.”

he chuckled, “then we stay.” 

“are you seriously doing whatever i say?” 

“of course i am, why wouldn’t i?” he responded without missing a beat.

“you’re crazy.” a light giggle escaped your lips, and you leaned your head on his shoulder.

“only for you.” he responded half jokingly.

you weren’t too sure when you and jameson got like this: jokingly flirting, meaning nothing on the surface, bearing your soul and deepest secrets to each other, not seeing each other for days— weeks even, then meeting again feeling like no time has passed.

maybe soulmates were real.

or maybe, you were just two good friends. 

maybe, he was just a nice person to talk to. 

or maybe, you were falling for jameson. 

jameson's arm around your shoulder and the trail of his hand running up and down your arm brought you back to the present moment. 

with your eyes trained on your legs that were now pressed against his, you mumbled, “you know, i made progress today. i didn’t stick by my parents the whole time. i actually tried to make conversation with people.”

you took a deep breath in before continuing, exhaling as you spoke. “granted everyone was like 40, and i was deeply uncomfortable, i still made progress.” you couldn’t bite back the sarcastic undertone in your voice.

jameson seemed to find that funny, or maybe he just wanted to make you feel better, either way, you felt his chuckle vibrate through his chest. 

“hey, any progress is still progress. if it helps, i only did three things possibly detrimental to my mental and/or physical health this week instead of my usual 7.” he added casually.

you wish you could take away all of his hurt, to kiss him all over until he felt a little better. 

but friends don’t do that. 

you knew he hated feeling like he was broken. so instead of telling him every little thing you love about him and how he deserves better than how he’s treating himself, you just laughed along. 

“how motivating of you, thanks.”

“of course, cinderella.” 

you turned your palm upwards and intertwined your fingers with his.

you squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. 

in his eyes, that was consolation enough. you never saw him any differently, even after everything he’s been through and everything he’s told you. you were quite possibly his favorite person. what did that mean? 

when you decided it was a good time to get going, jameson got up first, then put out a hand and helped you up. 

you dried off your feet, put your shoes back on, and he did the same.

“where do you wanna go?” he asked, briefly glancing down at you as you walked together. 

you hummed for a second before an idea sparked up in your mind. “why don’t we go to that one ice cream place?”

“is it open this late?”

“pretty sure it’s 24/7.”

“perfect.” he responded. 

then he had another question, “isn’t it a 30 minute walk?”

you smiled at him, “perfect.” you echoed.

he laughed at that. but honestly, he was as glad to be as far away from his house as possible. he wanted to spend as much time with you as he could.

your hand was brushing against his, and in an instant like he knew what you were thinking, he subtly grabbed your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours once again. 

30 minutes of breathless laughs, butterflies in your stomach, stupid jokes, and random questions later, you arrived.

you two got an oreo milkshake, instead of getting one each, you decided to share.

jameson got two straws and put them both on the cup at the same time. 

he angled one towards you, then you realised what he was trying to do.

“there’s no way,” you almost snorted.

“what?” he looked at you with a smile. 

“i’m not doing that, jameson.” you stated. but inside, you were screaming. you swore your stomach did 50 flips. 

“just this once?”

“no.”

“suit yourself,” he grinned at you, and then took a sip of the milkshake. 

you gave him a fake dirty look, which he returned, before you both starting laughing.

20 minutes later you two were in deep conversation, the milkshake long forgotten.

you two were talking about everything and nothing. from your moms, times you met but didn’t even realize it, childhood stories, debating if avocados or mangoes are better, to “if you could be a planet, which one would you be?”

that’s how it always was with jameson, there was never any pressure. talking to him was the easiest thing in the world.

the air conditioner was hitting your table directly, and you didn’t have a jacket.

jameson eyed you, cutting off his sentence. “are you cold?”

“no, i’m fine.” you wish your body didn’t choose right then to shiver. 

without hesitation, he got up from his seat and sat next to you in the booth.

jameson wanted to slap himself for leaving his jacket back at the house, but it gave him an excuse to wrap his arms around you. 

the laugh that left your lips when he did so made him feel like his heart was on fire, and his face too. 

you noticed the milkshake on the table, and noticed how jameson had barely even touched it. 

“you know, im kind of feeling that milkshake now.” you mumbled. 

“yeah?” he leaned forward and grabbed it with his free hand and handed it to you.

the two straws were still inside, and you angled your body so you were facing jameson. 

you tilted milkshake towards him, and then he started to take a sip. 

you leaned in to drink some as well from your straw, your foreheads were basically touching now.

then he smiled at you. 

god, his smile was dangerous. 

and it was damn near impossible not to smile back. 

you both finished the milkshake with slightly too much eye contact to only be friendly, and jameson took the cup from your hand, placing it back on the table without tearing his face away from yours. 

your gaze landed on his lips, which were slightly parted, then you looked back up at his eyes. 

his hand found its way to your jaw and he captivatingly held your gaze, asking a silent question.

you answered by leaning in, finally crossing that boundary of friends-or-something.

your arms wrapped around his neck, and your head tilted to the side.

he tasted sweet, the remnants of the milkshake still in his mouth.

every single nerve in your body heated up, you felt like you were burning, despite the freezing temperature. 

you pulled back with a smile, and he chased your lips. you let out a chuckle, and then your forehead was resting on his. 

the walk home was even better this time.your hand in his, talking about how stupid you both were to not see the obvious feelings you had for each other.

when it was time for you to go home, he kissed you once again. 

you officially discovered your new favorite activity.

[wren-kitchens]

it was not your fault but mine

in which joel tries to kill scott and ends up having a panic attack. (3641 words)

content warnings: panic attacks, lots of mentions of death

i’m being so normal about traffic scott and joel rn guys

joel’s breath is coming too fast and too shallow for him to be able to convince himself that he’s fine, even as it tears at his throat. tears blur and warp his vision, welling up in his eyes faster than joel’s ability to wipe them away with his sleeve. his ribs threaten to crack against his heart, hammering against the inside of his chest like it’s trying to escape. joel can’t blame it.

it’s been hours- okay, it’s been four stupid hours, and he still can’t calm himself down from today’s events. everyone else has been able to sleep, to rest, to patch themselves up and recuperate with their team- or what’s left of it. everyone else is fine, they’re all fine, and they’re going to be fine until they die in whatever unjust, careless death they can’t escape anymore.

for the past four hours (four fucking hours- it’s so stupid-) joel has been failing to get a firm grip on the last remaining threads of his sanity. he thought he was fine- he thought he was safe from that bloodlust, that agony, that grief. but as always, the looming threat of his inevitable breakdown hangs over his head like an anvil-

(mumbo tried to turn on them, mumbo tried to send them to their graves with anvils, mumbo failed and then he died-)

not an anvil. just- anything but an anvil. dripstone- hangs over his head like dripstone-

(joel can see the spot where lizzie dropped dripstone on his head, lizzie dropped it on him because he was the last resort, lizzie was here and joel asked her to hurt scott, and she tried and was killed-)

scratch that metaphor entirely.

just- void, he’s so tired of waiting for that snap, of fearing what will inevitably make something inside of him break and lose himself in the grief-fuelled bloodlust. maybe dying first wouldn’t be so bad; you don’t have to watch as everyone else leaves you.

even through his yellow sanity, joel’s mind seems to be on its way out, and he finds himself wanting to give in. just give in- kill some people, lose a battle and die in a crushingly painful way. it’s easier, isn’t it, than trying to hold onto the threads that slice at his hands once he has a secure hold. besides, if he dies, he can be with them again.

before he even registers the action, joel finds himself gripping his axe with a kind of determination he hasn’t felt in a little while. sure, he’s yellow, but he can’t imagine the big winged fuckers getting too pissy if he went and killed someone. he’s just starting the party early, after all.

joel seems to be zoning in and out, as moments later, he finds himself treading the well-known path to scott’s, knowing that- well. if he’s going to kill anyone, it may as well be scott, right?

smug, crude, stupid scott; who stood by and watched as lizzie was flung into the void, who laughed as joel failed his tasks, who has either won or almost won three out of four of these stupid games. he deserves to be knocked down a peg or four, really. it’s only fair.

out of the corner of his eye, however, joel spots scott’s nametag behind the secret keeper’s statue. oh, of fucking course. scott ‘30-full-hearts’ smajor just couldn’t resist a chance to show off by walking around in the dead of night, huh? piece of shit- like he doesn’t even care that he just let lizzie die.

well, if scott wants to play with fire, he ought to know he’s going to get burned.

-

he’s making a fucking grotto.

scott smajor, winner of one of these stupid games, top three in all games but one, is out in the middle of the night after a wither and warden fight, building a goddamn magic grotto underneath the secret keeper statue. of fucking course he is- fucking show off.

joel watches with utter distain as he prances about with his stupid azalea bushes and his stupid moss and- where the hell did he even get moss in the first place?! honestly, does he not realise this is a death game? they don’t have time to be making places pretty.

finally- finally, scott backs up against one of the stone walls, surveying his stupid pond like it actually means anything. joel creeps along the shadows, the (surprisingly still alive) grass muffling his careful steps towards scott- towards where joel is going to put an axe through his stupid throat and kill him.

“is this really worth the time?” joel says, because he has to- he can’t let scott have all the stupid quips and one-liners, because he would just go insane.

joel might already be insane.

scott looks up, eyes widening in fear as they land on joel’s figure. his whole body lurches away, but joel is too quick—in an instant, joel is in front of scott, pinning him against the wall with the blade of his axe pressed against scott’s throat. joel grins; all manic eyes and sharp teeth and the sweet smell of blood on his breath.

“looks like someone wanted to push his luck, huh scott?” joel says—and even he can admit he sounds a little hysterical now—but scott is trembling, eyes darting all over to find a way out, and that’s all joel cares about right now. “got a little big for our boots on our midnight stroll?”

“joel-“ scott gasps, and even his voice is shaking. “please-“

and- okay, it’s not exactly what joel was expecting. don’t get him wrong- he loves the fear and the trembling and the pleading, but- it’s weird. scott doesn’t fear joel, and he especially doesn’t plead with him, and- now that he’s actually looking at scott, the guy seems kind of- well, pathetic seems too cruel a word. disheveled. weakened. whatever.

“what’s wrong with you?” joel spits, looking him up and down with a distinct sinking feeling in his chest.

the tips of scott’s fingers—currently grasping at the axe’s handle—are a poisonous black, tendrils spidering up his veins. he looks exhausted, as if he’s been up all night, but- scott isn’t that dumb to have not slept. as irritating as it is, scott is a survivor, a strategist. he wouldn’t be in this state if there wasn’t something wrong.

“wither.” scott manages, and joel can’t pretend to himself that he didn’t know- “what’s wrong with you.”

joel’s rage seizes him like a fist again, and he shoves the axe further into scott’s throat. “nothing’s wrong with me you piece of- who the fuck do you think you even are? coming here, middle of the night, flaunting your thirty goddamn hearts-“

“half a heart.” scott breathes, and joel’s mind goes searingly blank.

“what?” joel’s voice is infuriatingly quiet.

scott’s hands have stopped clawing at the hilt of the axe. when did that happen? “i’m- i’m on half a heart.”

“you’re- no you’re not.” joel half mutters because- he can’t be. scott was going to die a long and painful death by his hand, but if he’s going to fall the second blood is drawn- what’s the point? “no, you’re- you’re not.”

“why do you even care?” scott says. “you’re going to kill me anyway.”

“i don’t.” joel says, far less certain than he ought to be. “I don’t care, i’m- i’m happy.”

“tell your face that.” scott mutters.

joel slams his fist against the wall, inches from scott’s face, practically breathing smoke. “you can shut the fuck up, or i’ll kill you where you stand.”

“oh, so you came here and put an axe to my throat because you wanted to protect me?” scott sneers, and- this is all wrong- how has scott gotten the upper hand? joel is threatening to kill him, and scott has the goddamn upper hand.

and it’s so easy- it’s so easy. push the axe in, slide it across scott’s skin and slit his throat. he’d be dead in an instant—it’d barely take a second—it’s so easy. the axe is firm in his grip, there’s no danger of someone interrupting, scott is far too weak to push him off and get away- it’s all so fucking easy.

there’s something distantly satisfying about the way scott flinches as joel gives a scream of frustration, flinging the stupid axe across the goddamn secret grotto. it sticks in the muddy banks of the river at an odd angle, sinking ever so slightly as the earth gives way.

he can’t do it.

he can’t fucking do it.

joel’s breath is coming too shallow again, tearing at the inside of his lungs as he gasps against this invisible force that seems to be sucking the wind from every breath he takes. tears burn in his eyes and it’s only after joel notices how damp the knees of his trousers have become that he realises he’s dropped to the ground, hyperventilating.

is this what a panic attack is? joel is pretty sure this is a panic attack. he is having a panic attack. how does he stop having a panic attack?

he tries desperately to slow his breathing, to straighten up and pretend it never happened, but his thoughts clamour inside his mind far too loudly for him to even begin to calm down. lizzie dead, jimmy dead, mumbo dead- joel nearly killed scott. what if he had done it- what if he killed someone else? there’s too much death, joel can’t be the cause of another death. joel nearly killed scott. lizzie is dead because of scott-

no- lizzie is dead because of joel. he let her- he didn’t tell her he failed- she tried to kill scott and then she died and now she’s gone and joel killed her just like he was about to kill scott and he still can’t fucking breathe-

there’s a hand on his shoulder (he can’t breathe-), squeezing gently through the fabric of joel’s hoodie (lizzie is dead-). scott is saying something- scott is telling him to look at him, and joel thinks his hands are going numb.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t-” joel’s voice is nothing but a broken whisper. he can barely hear himself over the rush of blood in his ears, the taste of iron in his mouth. “I can’t-“

“it’s okay.” scott is saying and he’s wrong because it’s not okay- it’ll never be okay. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay.”

“they’re all-“ joel chokes on his words. he can’t even say it. fucking pathetic.

scott takes a trembling breath, which- void, it’s so strange to see him having any emotion at all. “yeah.” he glances down, and the uncertainty of it all is what brings joel back to the present.

joel’s hands are shaking uncontrollably, regardless of how much he tries to stop. scott holds his own out in an unspoken offer, and joel grabs them embarrassingly quickly. their eyes meet, and joel doesn’t look away.

“but they’ll be back.” scott says, quiet. “they’re not lost—they’re still here.”

“but they’re not here.” joel almost winces at how raw he sounds, but he can’t bring himself to. now is not the time for embarrassment, however deeply he is going to regret that later.

scott’s eyes seem somehow more sunken, the bags underneath more pronounced—the scars of nightmares. joel knows those scars well. “I know.”

and- despite it all, it just seems so strange for scott to share that sign of grief with joel. scott, who hides his feelings so well from the outside world, not even jimmy knows all of him; whom joel has contemplated on numerous occasions if he is a robot or not because of this fact; who won’t let himself die to anyone but his allies’ hands since double life.

so joel decides to do what he does probably the worst, and tries to lighten the mood.

“you- maybe he is here. jimmy, I mean.” he blurts. “he- y’know when you wake up after you die and he’s laughing at you for whatever dumb death you just had?”

something flickers in scott’s eyes—almost like candlelight. “usually he’s just annoyed I lasted so long.” he says, a note of amusement lacing his tone. joel jumps on it.

“I reckon he’s here- with lizzie maybe.” joel says, scrutinising every detail of scott’s expression for any signs of reassurance. when did he start caring about scott? “they’re both making fun of us for being so sappy about them- and they’re gonna go tell mumbo so he can join in.”

scott glances down at his hands—still holding joel’s. when he looks back up, there’s something warm in his eyes. “you don’t comfort a lot of people, do you?”

“I- what’s that supposed to mean?” joel says, but it’s too softly spoken to come across as a threat.

“nothing.” scott says, and he sounds like he means it, which is- fucking weird. “you’re doing a good job.”

“yeah, too right I am.” joel says haughtily. he can feel his hands again; his mind isn’t so loud anymore. “thanks.” he says, quieter.

“you’re- you’re welcome.” scott says, apparently taken aback by joel’s humility.

there’s a long pause, and a silence stretches out between the two. it’s not strictly an uncomfortable silence, but it’s extremely strange—silence in these games is a luxury that too often means trap to be trusted.

“this is- this is fucking weird, right?” joel says, barely managing a grin.

scott rolls his eyes, but a smile plays at his lips. “you always have to ruin the moment, don’t you?” he pauses. “but- yes, this is very strange.”

“I don’t like it.” joel says, and.. maybe that was a tiny lie. okay- a big lie, but. just- oh, whatever. shut up. “feels unnatural.”

“I can go back to killing you if that makes you feel better.” scott grins.

joel scoffs. “how about I kill you and we call it even.”

scott huffs a quiet laugh, and the two drift back into a comfortable silence. only- there’s something in scott’s eyes that makes joel think he hasn’t said everything he wants to say. how does he know this, you may ask? well, joel isn’t exactly the most.. open with his feelings; he’s seen that look in his own eyes too many times not to recognise it.

“what?” he asks, and scott practically startles.

“I- what do you mean?” scott says, that look still plastered all over his face. joel isn’t feeling anything at all about the fact scott has started to let his guard down around him. shut up.

“you have that look.” joel gestures vaguely. “like you want to say something but it sounds stupid in your head and you can’t decide if it’s worth it.”

scott blinks at him. “you- how did you-“

“I know everything, scott.” joel says, some of that swagger back in his voice as he half-grins. “but what is it?”

“it’s- I mean you hit the nail on the head.” scott chuckles. “it sounds stupid and I can’t decide if it’s worth saying.”

“well, in my expansive worldly knowledge,” joel says pompously, grinning as scott scoffs at him. there’s something very strange going on in his chest as he notes the fond undertone of it. is he having a heart attack or is he just happy? hard to tell. “it’s almost always worth it. and if it’s not- well, I just had a panic attack because I almost killed you, so.”

“okay, well- you’re not allowed to laugh.” scott preempts, as if joel even has any right to laugh after scott helped him through his breakdown. “but, um. can I hug you?”

joel’s brain seems to have gone entirely blank, and so it’s a surprise to even himself when he says, “yeah- yes. you can.”

scott seems to be genuinely scared of doing anything that might upset joel, which- okay, that’s a whole other thing to have a crisis over later, but it also is kind of funny. oddly enough, it makes it easier for joel to shuffle so he can lean against scott’s shoulder, grinning as scott practically freezes.

“y’know, you asked.” joel nudges him.

scott scoffs a little. “yeah- I know, I just- I assumed you weren’t very.. huggy.”

“why does everyone always say that?” joel huffs. “etho said it, grian and jimmy said it-“ joel is interrupted (very rudely) by scott snorting, and hurriedly covering his mouth. “what?”

“nothing, nothing, just-“ scott grins. “eefo.”

“wh- oi!” joel exclaims, digging an elbow into scott’s side. “i’ve heard enough about that from him, I don’t need you joining in.”

“you’re gonna end up killing me if you do that again.” scott says, exasperated. joel does notice him relaxing though.

“oh no, what a shame.” joel says sarcastically, cackling as scott elbows him back.

there’s a pause, and joel is beginning to notice that there are a lot of pauses with scott. he kind of appreciates it. before joel has time to unpack that, he takes the opportunity to shift into a more comfortable position, which apparently startles scott, if the momentary tense is anything to go by. joel doesn’t get a chance to apologise before scott relaxes and puts his arms around him.

“this whole.. murder thing,” scott starts. “it hasn’t been red bloodlust since- well, ever, has it?”

and- joel wasn’t expecting to be asked that by scott- probably ever in his life, in all honesty. but. he can’t lie and say he doesn’t have an answer.

“I don’t think so.” he admits, quiet. “how long ago did you figure that out?”

“limited life.” scott says, and- yeah. that makes a lot of sense. “I was surprised that you hadn’t gone- well. batshit. and then jimmy died, and you were losing time like there was no tomorrow.”

“yeah.” joel leans a little closer to scott, almost unconsciously. “jimmy is- he’s- well. you know what he’s like.”

“I do.” scott says, a little distantly.

“I don’t- it’s never really.. on purpose.” joel says. “I mean- suddenly someone’s gone, or i’m on my own, and then it’s kind of like- why does it just have to be me? and then that turns into, maybe I should just go. get it over with, y’know?”

“pick fights you know you’ll lose.” scott realises, and joel hums in agreement. “get someone to do it for you so you can pretend it’s accidental.”

“ding ding.” joel says, emotionless. maybe he should feel a little more.. anything about that. he doesn’t.

“fuck.” scott breathes. he squeezes joel a little, almost as if he wasn’t thinking about it- as if it was natural. “I didn’t- I never realised.”

“well, I only just realised.” joel says. “I never really.. clocked it, I guess.”

“and so now.. was that part of it?” scott asks, almost cautiously. oh. gently.

“might’ve been.” joel shrugs. “though, I might just not like you.” he manages a grin and scott rolls his eyes. “who’s to say it’s not both?”

“can I.. tell you something?” scott says, almost hesitantly.

joel gives a soft laugh. “somehow, I feel like you probably can. just a feeling.”

“you have a knack for making things so unserious.” scott tells him, but there’s a smile in his voice. “well, I was gonna say that.. winning is probably the worst thing you can do in this game.”

joel frowns, looking up to peer at scott’s face. to his surprise, he’s entirely serious. “what do you mean?”

“just- it’s all fine until it’s just you, and everyone you know is dead, and you killed half of them, and then- and then it’s all gone.” scott says, suddenly quiet. “you never.. you don’t recover from that. when you’re the only person alive in a sea of blood and bodies that used to be your friends.”

joel gives a long exhale. “fuck.”

“sorry, that’s probably- a bit much.” scott says suddenly, apparently realising the depth of what he just said.

“it’s- well, it’s a lot.” joel says. “but what I- I mean, are you okay?”

scott is silent for a moment. “can you ever be okay in these games?”

“true.” joel says, more to himself than to scott. there’s a long stretch of silence, and joel finds himself wondering whether he should have more silences in his life. he’d tried to avoid them, especially when he was on his own; if he kept making noise, he couldn’t be entirely alone, right? now though, he thinks he’s starting to like them. “i’m sorry i’m always such a dick to you.”

“you- that’s- I don’t mind.” scott says, sounding slightly taken aback. he does sound pleased though, and joel decides to take that as a win. “I mean, I keep killing you. it’s fair enough.”

joel snorts. “yeah, well. still.” he closes his eyes. “I am sorry.”

another stretch of silence fills the little cavern, but this time, it isn’t broken. as the quiet settles on them both like a flurry of snow, it dawns on joel just how tired he is. after all, he’s had a hell of a couple days with very little rest in between them, and- yeah, he definitely needs a nap at some point.

as joel’s eyes begin to close and he nudges closer to scott, ‘at some point’ is starting to look a whole lot more like ‘right this second’. he’s about to sit up again, but scott wraps an arm around him and leans against him as well, and he gets the impression that he’s allowed to sleep here.

it is kind of bizarre that, just earlier today, joel was trying to murder scott—only half because of his task—and now here they are. void, death games are so weird.

joel kind of loves it.

[nanaminokanojo]

BAD NEWS (part 50)

-just when you thought you were over your humongous crush on your older brother’s best friend, geto suguru, you couldn’t have been more dead wrong, except satoru doesn’t like suguru for you because he knows his kind all too well: a huge ass playboy who breaks hearts like he changes socks. but you think, MAYBE you’ll be the exception…maybe not.

CHARACTERS: drummer!geto suguru x you/afab reader | gojo satoru | various jjk characters

GENRE: full-length smau + prose | band au | college au | stupid pining | aged-up characters | friends to lovers (?) | smut

TW/CW: strong/mature language | adult content so mdni on some parts | mentions of alcohol, drugs | mentions of cheating, promiscuity, mild dubcon, etc. | god-awful pet names | toxic behavior | will add more if something arises

MASTERLIST | CHAPTER INDEX

<<prev part 50 next>>

A/N: Panels at the end of the narration.

The heavy thuds in your chest accompanied each step that you took from Sukuna's car to your doorstep. The deep breath you took remained baited in your lungs up until the moment you reached the door and had to turn around to wave goodbye at him. And the moment he drove away, you exhaled loudly, tapping at your chest as you adjusted the nylon mesh bag for your soccer ball over your shoulder.

What he did in the car was absolutely unexpected, and though you didn't want him to see just how much it had affected you, your ears and cheeks had been warm long before you exited his car. The image of his smug grin drove you crazy, knowing that he was fully aware of the fact that he had that effect on you. The feeling was so weird, considering what he had always been to you for as long as you could remember.

Shaking your head, you unlocked the front door, distracting yourself with your phone to check messages as you blindly made your way up to your room.

The silence as you traversed from the first floor to the second pretty much told you that Satoru wasn't at home. He usually wasn't at that time of the day. Just as well. You didn't want to face him when you're getting all confused with Sukuna.

You haven't even made it halfway through the long hallway when you heard the sound of a door opening to your right. Before you knew it, you collided with something, startling you and making you lose your footing. But nothing could have prepared you for the sight that greeted you when Suguru suddenly came into view, eyes as wide as yours were as he kept you on your feet. He felt warm and damp against the skin of your arms, his hard chest pressed against yours, droplets of water saturating the fabric of your jersey from his raven hair that hung around his face.

"Careful, kitten." You felt the soft purr of his voice through his chest instead of hearing it through your ears. "Didn't know you were home."

You just stared at him, unable to form words, the smell of his shampoo invading your senses with every shallow breath you took. Suguru just looked so mesmerizing fresh out of the shower with his luscious hair down and his slightly tanned skin so smooth over his hard, well-defined muscles on full display –

Realizing that, you jumped back, swallowing hard as you finally got a look of the whole picture. You've seen him shirtless before, but not in just a pair of tight-fitting, black boxers that accentuated his...

You shook your head, chuckling nervously – why the hell were you chuckling? – and stepping back to pick up your ball and gym bag. "What are you doing here?"

"Satoru and I have stuff to do tonight so he told me to come here ahead of him. I'm on break."

You rolled your eyes when you saw him smirking at you. You just know your ears were all red again. "Well, don't go walking around like that." And for some embarrassing reason, your next move was to level your expression to his, openly checking him out as you leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"What?" he said between soft laughter.

"Don't go parading about like that."

He scoffed. "Says the little kitty who's ogling me right now." He took a step towards you, making you move back jerkily when he bent down to your height. "Wanna touch?"

"What the hell –"

"Or take a photo. Lasts longer, mm?"

Gathering all your wits, you made a face at him and even made a show of pushing past him as you walked to your room like he didn't affect you. "Get dressed, Geto." You looked at him behind your shoulder. "You look indecent."

At that, he scoffed but still retained his sly grin. "You and your dirty mind, kitten."

TAG LIST: @lilc77 @strxkbylightning @lavender-hvze @maya-maya-56 @kibananya @nerdisthenewcool @darkstarlight82 @lysaray @ti-mame @ri-sa20 @diogodxlot @starlightanyaaa @sugurubabe @guacam011y @yeehawslap @luvvmae @s-j320 @ichorstainedskin @iaminyourfloors @tanchosanke @hellyyy06

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI’S “JUJUTSU KAISEN”. [20240602]

PHOTOS/IMAGES/GIF/FANART/ANY MEDIA CREDITS GO TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[deputyrook]

Impressions- 5/? Mark Hoffman x Psychic!Reader

PART 1. PART 2. PART 3. PART 4.

You're a psychic. He's a detective. And a serial killer.

(You're a team.)

Word count: 4050

WARNINGS: CORRUPTION, stockholm syndrome, abusive dynamics, general Saw-levels of horror & violence. Reader is drinking the Jigsaw Kool-Aid.

“God, you’re persistent,” you tell Kerry, laying back on your couch and rubbing your temple, “Fine. Yes, I’ll go to therapy and I'll check out the community resources for Jigsaw survivors. Are you happy?”

It's not exactly a lie. You might check out the resources. Kerry's voice crackles across the line in reply: “Good. And if you’re able to remember anything while you’re there-“

Of course. It’s not that she wants you to get help, but rather, she’s hoping that you’ll pick up on some kind of psychic lead from discussing your capture and trauma with a therapist.

A swell of bitterness fills your chest, though you wish it didn't. You’d asked her to come and help you with groceries and chores today, but she’d declined, saying that she was too busy working on the case. Somehow, Mark had been coming around to help more often than she was, and he was balancing his job with being a serial killer.

Kerry’s work has always come first, and her dedication is something you had often admired. The two of you had bonded in university over a shared discomfort at parties and social events. Neither of you had ever quite fit in with the crowd. But even knowing her for as long and as well as you did, it still hurt to know the obsession came before your friendship.

“When are you going to take a break?” You ask, instead of voicing your frustration.

“When I find Eric,” she replies, steadfast. You must make some kind of a critical noise in response, because Kerry adds, “What? Do you believe it’s hopeless? That I should just give up?”

“It’s not that,” you mutter with a sigh, already regretting this line of conversation, but knowing that Kerry won’t give it up until she pulls the truth from you.

“Then what?”

“Just that maybe Matthews shouldn’t have gone and played Cowboy Cop, shooting from the hip.” You finally snap, to Kerry’s stunned silence. “You play stupid games and you win stupid prizes, Ally. If he had just listened to the rules he’d been given-"

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you right now," She says, voice sounding more shocked than angry, "Jigsaw took your eyes, put you through hell, and you’re defending him?” 

“I’m not defending him,” you bite back, wondering if you are, “But Matthews was corrupt. You know that, even I know that. Sometimes, you get what you deserve."

There's a beat of silence over the phone line, and you wonder if you've taken it a step far. It almost surprises you, to hear the words coming from your mouth. A month ago, you wouldn't have believed you would feel this way, but it's true, isn't it?

Matthews had a way out, just like everyone else did. Just like you did. If he hadn't fucked around and found out, he would have been fine.

Your sympathy for the other Jigsaw victims- the other subjects- has become somewhat muted since you became one yourself. Being able to intuit all of their faults in high definition had only dulled it further.

“You think he deserved to be murdered, is that it?" Kerry asks, and if she wasn't angry before, she definitely is now. Thankfully, you know from experience that she tends to anger quickly, and cool off just as fast. "What about you, then? You got tested, too. How the hell can you say it's deserved?”

Because I deserved to be tested, too.

Something about the topic of conversation turning to you causes a vision to spring forward from the recesses of your mind, like it had simply been waiting for the most opportune moment to reveal itself.

You see yourself, standing in what appears to be a shallow pool of water in the middle of a dense forest. It is quiet and still, save for the ripples in the water caused by your movement. You can't hear any animals- the forest is silent.

You look exactly as you remember, save for a few key details- wide, white globes for eyes stare wildly back at you, and you are drenched in the water. You are soaked through and dripping, the water running down your forehead in rivets. On your head, twisted and gnarled, is a crown of some sort. At first, you think it's a crown of branches- fitting for the forest that you've found yourself in- but once you approach and look closer, you realize it's a crown of rusted, jutting metal pieces.

In your hands, you hold out a crumpled piece of paper, one you’ve somehow kept from dissolving in the water. Carefully, you take it from yourself and unfurl it, to see a wrinkled advertisement for a Jigsaw survivor support group.

Interesting. You file that piece of information away for later. Your lips are moving, but you can't hear the words. You lean in, trying to listen. It seems you're repeating something, over and over, mouthing along to an inaudible refrain.

“Hello?” Kerry's voice pulls you out of it.

“I'm sorry,” you reply. Any anger you'd been feeling is gone, shaken out of you, “My head's been all over the place."

"I know," She sighs as well, and you can feel her unspoken apology in return as she continues, "The FBI's getting involved. I've been in contact with one of their agents."

Immediately, you think back to your vision of the two dangerous people- the man and the woman.

"Damn," you remark, before you note, "He's a lot to deal with, isn't he?"

"That's putting it lightly," Kerry huffs, and you can feel her frustration not only at you, but at the FBI agents getting involved before she's been able to find Matthews herself. She feels embarrassed by it, the scrutiny and criticism only mounting the pressure she feels to find an answer, quickly.

"Tell me this," She asks then, weary, "Is everything going to be okay?"

There's a sinking in your stomach, but you lie to her, and say, "I think so."

Your words hand in the air, as if from a hangman's noose.

"Thanks," Kerry replies, and you're not sure if she believes you.

"Hey, Ally?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful out there. Keep your head on a swivel." You feel like you can hear the smile in her voice when she responds to you, though her tone remains grave.

"Always. You too."

---

[11:47AM - Outgoing] Did you know about the FBI getting involved in the Jigsaw case?

[11:48AM - Incoming] no.

[11:48AM - Incoming] fuck.

[11:50AM - Outgoing] That one isn't a vision either, straight from Allison

[11:51AM - Outgoing] But I've seen them, too.

[11:51AM - Outgoing] Two agents I think. They look like trouble.

[11:53AM - Incoming] thanks for the heads up

[11:54AM - Incoming] fbi... what a pain in the ass

[11:55AM - Outgoing] If they start poking around, it could be a lot worse than that

[11:55AM - Outgoing] Be careful

[11:59AM - Incoming] well how about that. you do care.

[11:59AM - Outgoing] Don't let it get to your head

---

The Jigsaw Survivor Support group meeting is held in a church basement. It's the first time you've been in a church for a long time, and the atmosphere feels weighty with the desperate prayers of its inhabitants.

Of course, there isn't an elevator. Down in the cool of the basement, a circle of chairs waits for you, and you get the sense that several men and women already seated when you arrive. Hushed voices quiet to silence as you approach, tapping your cane ahead of you.

"Oh! Hello!" A woman's voice calls out as you approach, nervous but excited. From her tone, you guess that she's an older woman. "You're new! Normally, Dr. Gordon would greet you, but he's actually away this week. He's the one who organized this group."

Doctor Gordon. Why did that name seem to strike a chord of familiarity with you?

You wince as someone takes your arm. You've learned that one major difference about being blind is that strangers are all too willing to touch you, now that they think they're being helpful.

You sure wish that they wouldn't.

The person who grabbed you by the arm leads you further into the room to a chair, "helping" you sit down. They seem a bit offended when you don't thank them, instead setting your cane beside the chair and folding your hands in your lap.

"So? What'd he take from you?" A male voice asks from across the circle, after you've settled into your seat.

"Take a guess," you reply dryly. No one in the room laughs, and you're not sure if it's better or worse that you can't actually see them all, staring and judging you. You clear your throat, and try again. "My ability to see."

"You don't need to talk about it, if you don't want to," the woman placates quickly, a note of admonishment in her tone. "Ned, you can't just ask the new people what was taken them-"

"It's okay," You interrupt, feeling surprisingly calm. Between the woman who had grabbed you, and the man who interrogated you, she had bothered you more than he had, "Not much throws me off, these days."

Reaching out with your senses, you survey the circle. A tangled mess of self-pity and loathing hits you, and you have to keep your lip from curling in a sneer of distaste. These are the survivors? You only get a hit off of one of them that doesn't repulse you- a reluctant, begrudging respect, an acknowledgement that he's made changes in his life that have improved things, since the game that he was in.

Feelings of ownership, control, responsibility- could the Jigsaw games really inspire them? Mostly, it just seemed to have traumatized these people-

These people, who were so miserable and desperate to begin with, their sins writhing inside the marrow of their bones. You have to free the sins, get the them out of the marrow to save them-

Your head throbs. The headaches have lessened considerably since you... refocused your senses, but they hadn't completely disappeared.

Briefly, you itch for a painkiller, but you ignore the craving as best as you can as you listen to each subject in the group introduce themselves.

The only name you fully register is that of the young man who you'd felt the sense of kinship with- Daniel Matthews. Hm. Isn't that ironic?

"I'm still processing everything," you say, after you introduce yourself. "But to be honest... I guess I have been seeing things in a different way."

"I'm sure you've learned to appreciate your life, and be grateful," you can hear the scowl in the man called Ned's voice. You have no idea what his test was, or how he survived, but you can hear the sarcasm in his tone- if someone here is grateful, it isn't him.

You consider the words seriously instead of taking the bait.

Had you?

"I've learned to appreciate the life that I have, rather than the one I used to wish I had," You say. You can feel the attention of the others burning on you, and it makes your skin crawl. Their judgment is like a heavy blanket over the room, and its almost suffocating. But still, the words pour out of you, too honest, too raw.

"I'm the only person who can do what I do, and the only person who can see the world from my perspective. Wishing and hoping for things to be different is pointless- it's pathetic."

No one says anything, so you continue, trying to explain further how you feel. Maybe you hope that you can convince someone here to see their game in a new light. Maybe you just need to say the words have have been stuck in your throat for so long.

"I am who I am. I'm the person I love and the person I hate. Good, bad. It doesn't really matter. I don't care anymore, and I'm so tired of making excuses for being myself."

The room sits in quiet silence, until finally, Daniel Matthews speaks up for the first time in the session.

"But do you know... who that is? Yourself?"

The version of you in your mind's eye- the version from the forest lake with the jagged metal crown- looks at you and grins with teeth.

Your words in response seem to be carried by an incoming chill.

"I think I'm figuring it out."

---

You're not sure what you expected, but a house in the suburbs is not it.

"I'm renovating it, so careful where you step," Mark says, leading you through the front door with a hand on your waist. "Would be a hell of a waste if you died tripping over a brick."

"Hey, you're not allowed to make fun of me for being blind," You reply back, without any real venom. His hand squeezes your waist, playful but dominant.

"Who said anything about you being blind? I was talking about your two left feet." You jab him in the side with your elbow, and he chuckles to himself, pulling you along with him.

It feels altogether domestic- far easier than it has any right to feel. You can imagine a life together, in this home. Taxes and fighting over chores and going on trips. Putting on music as the sun goes down, brewing coffee in the mornings as it rises. You allow yourself the indulgence of it, for just a moment.

The house smells like sawdust and paint, but there's a metallic undercurrent of blood. It's hard to tell if that scent is really there, or if it's just something your mind has picked up on, independent of your objective reality. Mark seems to lead you on forever, around too many corners to count.

There it is again, that sixth sense nagging at you. Something bad happened here. Something bad will happen here. Layers of pain, like the rings in the centre of a tree. You think back to Daniel Matthews, and his nervous, angry energy. So much like his father's, but still so different.

The coffin of glass swallows the target, but he doesn't know what it means. He thinks he is safe inside, but he is wrong. The walls are closing in on him, not his opponent, who is pulled through to the heavens. This isn't how its supposed to happen.

"Is this place a maze? What kind of architect designed this?" You mutter, as Mark stops walking and crouches down beside you. You tap your cane around, noticing a hollow sound ringing from part of the floor.

"Probably John. The layout's a nightmare. But the place is huge. It'll be nice, once its fixed up." Mark responds, and you hear a loud thud. "It's a trap door," he explains.

"Great," You reply, "Always a good sign."

Mark helps you through the trapdoor and down a ladder. Your tentative movements take time, but if he's annoyed by your slow pace, he doesn't complain. Once you're down the ladder, you reach out with your mind's eye, and survey your surroundings.

It is much colder, down here, somehow. Something bothers you about it, like an open sore in the back of the mouth.

"Hey, where are you going?"

You don't realize you're walking away until you hear Mark's voice, calling after you. Something is drawing you in like a beacon. It feels, suddenly, like you're on the cusp of completing something important, something you'd nearly forgotten about.

Drawn through the cold, damp, narrow tunnels, you somehow know instinctively which ways to turn. You don't trip, or run into walls, but keep moving, deeper into the dark. Until finally, you feel yourself stop in front of... something.

Reaching forward, you grasp the bars of a cell.

"Somewhere deep and dark. Low, inside the earth," you echo your words from weeks ago now, and hear a low, guttural groan in response.

Poor Eric Matthews, more animal than man by now.

"Yeah, he's not doing so great," Mark whispers in your ear, having followed after you. You get a brief flash of vision- Mark grabbing Eric by the hair, grown matted and shaggy, and dragging him back as he sobs and claws at the ground. Mark, punching him heavy in the stomach, throwing slop at his feet.

He hated it, at first. Then he grew to relish it.

Pure horror settles in you, uneasy in your stomach.

"Why... keep him?" You ask hollowly, feeling Mark's arm around your waist again, territorial.

"Kramer wants him for the next game," He replies, too quiet for Matthews to hear, "Needs him as an incentive. You know how bad the precinct wants to save him. Hell, it's why you're here in the first place."

"Is someone out there? Help me-" Matthews pleads, his voice broken, "P-please-" Your mouth is dry. You'd been brought in to save this man, and now here he was, begging for help in front of you.

"Huh. So he does remember how to speak," Mark mutters. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort Matthews, to lie badly to him and tell him it will be alright.

But this is what it is. Open wounds, dirty basements, and pain like the refrain of a prayer. The maw of Hell itself. This is what it means, to be a part of this.

To be partners with Detective Mark Hoffman.

You jump in surprise at a sudden, loud clang- Mark has grabbed your cane, and slammed it against the rusted bars of the cell. You hear whimpering, as Eric Matthews seems to retreat. You take a few steps back, away from the cell, closing your eyes as if it will help.

"It gets easier," Mark tells you, "I know, I know. It's alright to be uncertain. Too feel sick about it. I was at first, too."

You swallow, and nod. He presses his lips to your temple, in a gentle gesture, and continues to soothe you with honeyed words.

"Don't worry. No one's going to find out. You and me, we do this together. We help each other. Right?"

You nod again, and he kisses you, on the lips this time. It's almost forceful, as though by the action alone, he can make you forget your conscience.

"Come on," He says, "Lemme show you the bathroom."

---

Although you've never set foot in this room before in your life, you feel as though you're returning back to a place you grew up in. It has an air of nostalgia about it that's almost uncanny, like a place you've dreamt about a million times, but can't quite map the layout of.

Frankly, it's kind of fucking creepy in here.

The smells of decaying bodies doesn't help. It's unmistakable, almost sweet in its rot, and you clasp a hand over your mouth as you grimace.

"You're renovating, but you couldn't take out the bodies?" You ask, fighting the urge to gag.

"Yeah, let me just carry them to my car," Mark snipes back, and you suppose he has a point. "I don't really come down here. But hey, do your thing." You hear the scrape of a chair, and wonder- is he pulling up a seat?

With a deep breath, you calm your nerves, and try to dial in to your extrasensory perception. The first task you'd been given- find Eric Matthews- has been completed. The second- find the secret apprentice- has not. That's your goal, and the reason you came here. You know that this place has the answers you seek. The walls bleed with them.

You sense Mark, somewhere behind you, curious and sharp. But you need to reach something older. Glass crunches under your boots, and you slowly pace the room, stepping carefully as not to trip over anything.

Then, you catch hold of something. Before you can understand what you're doing, you're crouching in front of one of the bodies, taking his bony, brittle face into your hands. The skin is like tissue paper under your touch.

"Oh, Adam," You murmur to him softly, "How unfair. He didn't follow his own rules for you, did he?"

"Are you... talking to the corpse?" Mark asks, an edge of disgust in his voice.

You ignore him. The corpse doesn't speak, of course, but he answers you in his own way.

"He promised," you hear your voice saying, an echo from a thousand miles away, "He promised he'd come back to save him. A Knight in shining armour. But he never did. He dies down here, missing his mother and wondering if he'll ever see her again. He dies over and over again. He exists as a ghost, haunting the third. The fourth? The secret one, the guilty one, the one who got away."

You hold the skull delicately, with a care not to disturb him. Of course, he's just a body. Just a shell. But before that-

You smell cigarette smoke, hear the click of a camera snapping a shot. Despair, fear, loneliness. Despondency, hope. Bitterness, so much resentment. A cell phone ringing, a hacksaw, tearing into flesh, pain, pain-

"Who was tested in here?" You ask Mark, letting go of the body and standing. The room spins around you, seems to pulse in the darkness. You get the impression of patterns, swirling about- the kind you can read and understand, that you can use to tell the future, if you just focus. You wipe your hands on your pants.

"That guy," Mark replies, presumably pointing to Adam, "We strung up another guy in here at one point. And Matthew's game ended up in here, with the kid and Amanda."

"Who was with Adam?" The answer is so close to you. For some reason, you think of the Jigsaw survivor group, and briefly wonder if the secret apprentice is Daniel Matthews. It partially seems to fit, but your intuition suggests that guess is off base.

"A doctor, I think. We planted his pen light. I think he ended up surviving. What the hell was his name...?" As Mark thinks, the answer comes to you, bold, in flashing neon lights.

"Doctor Gordon," you whisper. You ankle aches in confirmation.

"That was it," Mark replies, and then he pauses. "Him?"

"Him."

"You're sure?"

You see a blonde man, pale and sickly looking, crawling away as blood pours from the stump of his leg. It flows like paint spilling from an overturned tub, until the man presses it to a boiling pipe. Flesh melts and blood coagulates. He survives.

He survives. But he is alone. He has no one else but the ghosts, and the King, omnipotent in his wisdom, sees a subject in the making. A knight to stand guard, to protect the most valuable pieces. To save, when he could not save before.

"I'm sure," You reply, and you are. You hear Mark stand up from his seat.

"What now?" He asks, walking back over to you, "Do we...confront him? Ask Kramer about him?"

It's curious, you think, that he's asking for your opinion now. But you shake your head.

"No," You answer. You've never felt so sure of something in your life. The impressions of the patterns spell out hints to you, show a chessboard with its pieces, ready for play.

"No, we sit on this. We'll need him, later. We don't let anyone else know that we know," You say and you hear Mark make a small hum of contemplation.

"We'll need him?" He asks, a note of skepticism in his voice, and you nod.

"I don't know how yet. But I can feel it. Trust me on this?" You ask. He sighs.

"You haven't been wrong yet," He replies, and you smile at him in thanks. The pieces are coming into focus now, starting to settle into place. John Kramer has been lining up these dominoes for half a decade.

And you can sense what's coming. Your sight will be your survival. You catch the sound of a buzz, coming from where Mark stands.

"It's John. He wants to meet with you again, one-on-one," Mark says then, and you hazard a guess that he's looking at his phone. Does John Kramer know how to text?

"When?" You ask back. Your intuition tells you this will be important- that it might be the last time you see Kramer, face to face. He's a tyrant, his dark shadow looming over you and Mark, and you know in your soul that even when he's dead, that isn't going to change.

"Now. You ready?"

You hope that you are. You think of Eric Matthews, rotting in the dark; and Daniel Matthews, living in the day. You think of Adam, resigned to the depths to die alone, and Ned, who survived to scoff at the notion of gratitude.

It makes you sick, and not out of guilt.

--

A/N- A bit plot heavy, but since I actually know where this is going now, I'm actually laying down the building blocks for the end! Thank you for waiting, I'm a bit nervous about this chapter so if you liked it, please leave a review <3

TAG LIST: @icarusinstatic @honimello @haven-is-happy @karmaswitch @the-jester-calamity @teamhawkeye @thebrideofcaliban @mjrkime @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @mrs-hotforhoffman @aliengutzstuff