#maybe something in there about Doing The Same Thing Again in a way that appears superior on the surface while not substantially effecting

[animeyanderelover]

Hi hope it's not to late to request for the prompt event please; would it be ok if I request yandere Jinu please with a half demon female darling maybe (K-pop demon Hunter )

"I'll love you more than they ever could! Patterns and all. Let me be your sanctuary!" (I was thinking a little bit on the steamy side not full NSFW; but if you think it works best with no steam no worries; you don't have to added any steamy moments ^^) please 🙏 🫶❤️

I was counting on at least someone requesting something for him. I wasn't wrong. Not sure if you did it intentionally or not but I also like how you included the word sanctuary which was also used in the song "Your Idol".

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, manipulation, more Nsfw-ish but not fully blown

First Sentence Prompt

You hated that tightness behind your ribs, hated how it made those purple marks on your chest and stomach pulse faintly. Feelings of any negative manner always did that. That's why you had suppressed most of them for your entire life. You couldn't afford to snap or break. Couldn't show others what you really were. You didn't even understand truly who or what you were. How could others possibly then?

Yet why...? Why had this one to be so persistent?

"Jinu, just leave me alone. I don't want nor need approval and love from someone like you. I am fine with the ways things are."

Brown eyes flashed golden, pale skin flickering with a familiar pattern you always spotted when you stood in front of your mirror, measuring how far your own marks already covered your skin.

"Liar."

It was one word. Yet it was enough to nearly dismantle you on the spot. Deep down you knew that he was right. That you were lying. To your grandparents. To your friends. To him. Worst of all though, to yourself. But what other choice had you when you had been alone with this secret the moment when those marks had appeared on your stomach?

"Don't talk like you know me. You don't know anything about me."

"Another lie."

You flinched the moment his fingers brushed over your bare arm. But it wasn't the touch itself. It was the gentleness behind it that burned so much worse.

"I know you better than anyone ever did. You hide from others because you're terrified they'll turn their back on you the moment they know the truth. They merely look at you but I am the only one who sees you. All of you. And I have never thought about looking away once."

Old habits and familiar fear made you tense the moment his gaze slowly traced down, over your chest and stomach where you carried the same patterns that he had all over his own skin. Your hand went up, resting right under your throat, clutching the collar of your half-buttoned shirt. Soon they would snake their way up here and then you would have to cover your neck up permanently. Either with turtlenecks or make-up.

"You told me that demons are meant to lead a life of misery. You were the one who said that demons aren't meant to be happy. I-" your voice gave in for a second, your fingers digging deeper into your skin as you closed your eyes shut so that no traces of him would fill your vision, "I don't want to live that kind of life. And if I have to live my whole life only as the half version of me, then so be it."

They were pulsing again. You could feel the otherness of it not only on your skin but in it. That strange and dark energy that contradicted the part of you that was human. It terrified you. You were neither though slowly you seemed to become more one part then the other. And you didn't know what to do. You were utterly alone.

Your eyes remained shut, teeth sinking into your lower lip as the ache of years clawed right under your skin, begging to be let out only for you to deny it like you had always done. The silence only amplified it all. It offered no distraction or kind words to distract yourself with nor did Jinu. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Maybe he had vanished. You didn't know what would be worse.

Yet you never had to find out.

Not when sharp claws suddenly tickled your cheek. When you flinched they paused as if worried that you had been hurt, hovering for a moment before the warmth of his entire palm cradled your face.

"Look at me."

So gentle. So soft. But not dishonest. Never dishonest. That was always the worst part of it all.

"(y/n), look at me."

You didn't want to but you still ended up doing it anyways. He had fully transformed. Yellow eyes with narrow pupils the shape of slits. Purple skin with even darker patterns decorating every part of his body. Fangs peeking out from behind his lips. A demon just like half of you was.

"My patterns are something I am ashamed of. They will always remind me of what I did. Of the day I chose to betray my own family. I still hear them. They will always haunt me."

He swallowed, the weight of that confession not lost on you either. Just for a moment he lost himself, perhaps because he relived the memories now that he had opened that secret he had buried for centuries. Then his eyes focused again though, meeting yours with an intensity that made you want to cry.

"I was selfish. I chose the easy path. I left my family and perhaps I became this before I even had my patterns. But you're not like me. You're not selfish. Gwi-Ma has no control over you. You are free. Freer than I will ever be."

His hand slid down, covering your own that was still resting right over the skin where the purple marks started and would only continue growing.

"Mine are patterns of shame, yes. But yours aren't. They are only because you think of them that way. And if you continue to feel like they are, they will only continue to grow. But they aren't. Not to me. They are still part of you even though you may want to deny that. And I love all of you. I shouldn't. You're too good for me. You fought all your life and you still do where I gave in to temptations. But I have always been selfish. Even now I am."

He easily moved your hand away from your chest. You didn't resist, instead allowing Jinu to do so. Claws intertwined with your fingers. The touch was unfamiliar, or rather the weight behind it. Yet you returned it quickly, clinging to whatever it was.

His other hand took its place but not to merely rest. But to reveal. To push aside the material and reveal the very patterns you had covered up your entire life. They were blossoming like roots of a plant from your stomach up to your chest, reaching for your throat and shoulders. Whenever you gazed at them in your won reflection, your eyes held quiet shame and sadness. When Jinu looked at them? It felt less like a curse and more like something to be treasured.

"Don't..."

"Don't what?"

Goosebumps arose when hot breath fawned the skin on your chest, the warmth traveling along the purple lines.

"Don't look at them like they are something sacred when they are the same pattern that you have too."

"They aren't. The ones I wear are ugly. The ones you do? They're beautiful."

He didn't break eye contact when his lips pressed the first kiss on them. You didn't stop him either. You watched quietly, holding your breath as he pressed reverent kisses against the patterns that had only ever known your scarce touch of shame. Perhaps you should have done. But the first person who now saw your patterns didn't recoil in fear or disgust like you had always imagined. Even if that person was a demon.

[ccupcakqs]

— the fifth wheel ✩‧₊˚

warnings: light swearing, protective lando, awkward group dynamics pairing: oscar piastri x lando’s sister reader a/n: im pumping these out like crazy?!

series master list

lando appears in your hotel doorway with his arms crossed and the expression of a man mid-mission.

“you,” he says, “are coming to dinner.”

you barely look up from your phone. “are you asking or commanding?”

“both,” he says, pushing the door open with his foot. “you’ve been in here for like, six hours. there’s a limit to how long someone can live off snack bars and scroll tiktoks.”

“i’ve eaten actual food today,” you lie. your stomach makes an unfortunate sound that disagrees.

lando ignores it. “we’re all going out. max, daniel, george, oscar. it’ll be fun.”

you raise a brow at that last name. “oscar?”

“yes, oscar,” lando says, already pulling open your suitcase. “you’ve barely spoken to the guy. consider this… team bonding.”

you sit up on your elbows, suspicious. “is this some weird social experiment?”

“you’ll survive,” he says, tossing you a wrinkled hoodie. “just wear that. you look fine.”

“thanks,” you mutter dryly, grabbing it off your lap. “i love being told i look fine like a c-minus.”

lando grins. “you’re my sister. it’s in my contract to bully you a little.”

he disappears into the hall before you can throw a pillow at him.

the restaurant lando drags you to is dim, cozy, and smells like heaven — garlic, herbs, the kind of warm air that clings to your sleeves. the hostess squeezes you all into a long wooden table by the window. the seating ends up chaotic and slightly lopsided. by the time you slip into your seat, oscar is already across from you.

he nods. “hey.”

“hi.”

you don’t say anything else. neither does he.

next to you, george starts pulling apart the bread basket. max is telling daniel some half-true story about a karting disaster. lando leans over and steals a butter knife from your setting like it’s his.

you barely notice. your focus is stuck on the boy across the table.

you pretend not to look. oscar’s the same — expression calm, polite, maybe even a little bored. you’ve barely spoken before. you’ve exchanged nods and maybe one shared smile last week when you made a joke in the garage that caught him off guard.

you shouldn’t care about the way he’s sitting now — forearms on the table, fingertips grazing the water glass in front of him, eyes scanning the menu like he’s memorizing it — but you do.

you feel too aware. like every movement of yours is under a spotlight.

lando bumps your leg under the table. “you okay?”

you blink. “yeah. why?”

“you’re doing that thing.”

you narrow your eyes. “what thing.”

“you get all fidgety when you like someone.”

you almost choke on your drink. “lando—”

“just saying,” he singsongs. “it’s a pattern.”

you roll your eyes and try to kick him under the table. he dodges with a smug grin.

oscar doesn’t seem to hear. or maybe he’s just pretending.

the waiter brings plates and plates of food — someone orders wine, someone else drops a fork, daniel tells the story again louder this time. it’s all very warm and golden and a little messy, like the best kind of night.

oscar still hasn’t said more than a few words to you.

it doesn’t bother you. not really. he’s always like this. quiet, thoughtful. but when george gets up to take a phone call, leaving you space to shift in your seat, you glance up.

he’s looking at you.

again.

and this time, he doesn’t pretend to look away.

you hold it. the stare. it’s barely a second, but it sends something sharp and fluttering through your chest.

you reach for the water. he does too.

your fingers brush.

just slightly. just enough to notice.

you pull away first. he stays still.

you’re not sure what to do with the heat rising in your face.

you don’t say anything about it. neither does he. but the silence between you feels charged now — not awkward, not empty. just waiting.

the waiter returns with dessert menus. george’s still gone, lando’s too busy with daniel to care, and everyone else is locked in their own conversations.

you go to reach for the menu — oscar beats you to it. he glances down at the list, scans it for half a second, then slides it toward you without a word.

you raise a brow. “what?”

“go ahead,” he says.

“you don’t want to pick first?”

he gives the faintest shake of his head. “you already know what you want.”

you blink.

you were planning to pretend like you were deciding, maybe even flip a few pages. now you just stare at the lava cake on the first line and wonder if he’s psychic.

“okay,” you say, slowly circling it with your finger. “is it that obvious?”

“you circled it earlier with your thumb.”

you freeze.

“you were watching me?”

he gives you the most subtle shrug. “it’s a small table.”

you try not to smile. you fail.

“good memory.”

“i’m a driver,” he says simply. “we have to notice things.”

you push the menu back. “anything else you’ve noticed?”

lando leans in at that exact second, interrupting before oscar can reply.

“what are you two whispering about?”

you don’t miss the way oscar instantly leans back in his chair. neutral again. like a wall goes back up.

“dessert,” you say lightly. “just being decisive.”

lando narrows his eyes at the two of you. “huh.”

he doesn’t say anything else, but you feel his gaze for the rest of the meal.

after dinner, the group spills out into the night. laughter echoes down the street. max is waving down a ride. daniel’s claiming he knows a shortcut. lando’s on his phone texting someone, distracted.

you step out last, pulling your sleeves down.

it’s colder than expected. not freezing, but enough to make your arms goosebump under the thin material of your hoodie.

you don’t say anything. you just cross your arms tighter and keep walking.

then — “here.”

you turn.

oscar’s holding out his hoodie. it’s black and a little oversized and smells faintly like fabric softener and something citrusy.

“you’ll get cold,” you start to protest.

“i’m fine,” he says. “take it.”

you do.

you zip it halfway and bury your hands in the sleeves.

lando turns just in time to see. he pauses mid-step.

“wait,” he says. “is that oscar’s hoodie?”

you don’t answer. oscar doesn’t either.

lando stares. “did i miss something?”

“probably,” you say, walking past him with your chin up.

“you’re so dramatic,” he mutters, falling into step beside you.

but he doesn’t press.

oscar lags a little behind the group as you walk. hands in his pockets. quiet as always. but when your gaze slips over your shoulder — just for a second — you catch him watching you again.

and this time he doesn’t look away.

© ccupcakqs. all work written by me. DO NOT PLAGIARISE!

@utopiakys @gayblagajpewpew @cieloclercs @satorinnie @kissatelier

[rivalsispunk]

20 Cigarettes pt. III (DBF!Joel Miller x reader)

part I, part II

summary: Joel can't get enough of you, which raises questions about what the hell this is you two are doing.

tags/warning: +18, mdni. Joel is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s. age gap. f!reader. unprotected piv. creampie. SMUTT. angst. slow burn. drinking, swearing.(if I've missed anything let me know and I'll amend),. no outbreak, non canon, mention of TLOU characters but nothing is in line with the show/game aside from the fact Joel is the dilf to end all dilfs

w/c: 9.2k

a/n: joel is back baby, not edited really, so pls ignore hehe enjoy!!

Over the years, there’d been countless Sunday afternoons exactly like this—football blaring on the TV, halftime pizza, your dad and Joel squabbling over whether an offside call was legit. And yet, there’d been exactly none like this one, either.

Because now you know the sound Joel makes when he’s about to come. How his voice drops when he’s wrecked and trying not to be loud. You know what he tastes like with your slick still on his lips. And every time you shift on the sofa, you can still feel the ache of his hands, his mouth. The solid weight of him pressing you into that workbench like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t press bruises into your hips. So yeah, this Sunday looks the same on the surface, but hums underneath. With glances that last too long, with his gaze flicking to your mouth when you chew your crust. With yours dropping to his hands every time he fidgets with the peeling label on his beer. He’s quiet, as usual. But he’s not cold or distant—not like after the truck. He’s thoughtful, maybe, almost watching you like you’re something fragile and breakable and his.

Your dad doesn’t notice a thing. Still hollers at the TV, still argues with Joel as if contentious ref calls are the only wedge in their friendship. He’d be a helluva lot less relaxed if he had even a sliver of a clue that less than twenty-four hours ago, his best friend had you bent over his workbench, in his shed, grunting your name into the crook of your neck before your panties were shoved in his pocket like a souvenir for the rest of the night. 

You press your thighs together and reach for another slice of pizza, trying not to squirm.

Last night, it had taken everything in you to act normal after what unfolded in that shed. To walk back into the party, arms full of firewood, pretending like Joel Miller hadn’t just tilted your world on its axis. Again. You’d taken the long way up the side of the house, brushing your dress free of any stray wood shavings, tucking away any sign that Joel had been balls deep in you moments earlier. The fire was still going, your dad laughing with Tommy. No one the wiser. Not even Sarah, curled up on the lounger, her cheeks tinged pink from cider and the heat of nearby flames.

Joel didn’t come back the same way.

He’d circled the entire property—full stealth mode, like a goddamn action hero—so he could slip back through the front gate unnoticed. By the time he appeared again, he had a beer in hand, slight sheen of sweat across his brow. For a second, you thought maybe the guilt of what you’d been doing had settled in. But then his eyes met yours across the yard, and it didn’t look like guilt. It looked like possession. Heat.

Like a secret he didn’t mind keeping if it meant he got to have you like that again.

You’re chewing on the last bit of crust from your pizza when your dad shifts in his armchair and glances over at you.

“So,” he says casually, like he hasn’t already asked you the following question. “You enjoy yourself last night?”

You freeze mid-bite. There’s a split second before you answer, your eyes pulling to Joel on instinct. He doesn’t meet them. Doesn’t even flinch. Just keeps his attention on the TV as Texas scores another touchdown. For all appearances, he’s not listening. Or he’s pretending not to. You’re not sure which is worse.

“Yeah,” you say finally, light. “It was fun.”

Your dad nods, satisfied, then looks to Joel. “How about you, Miller?

Joel’s grunt is more of a sound than a word. “Sure,” he says. “Always enjoy it when you’re on the grill.”

You almost want to laugh at the way he skirts the obvious.

Your dad leans back with a beer sigh. “Ran into Tess this morning at the market, actually.”

That gets Joel’s attention. Subtle, but you see it—the way his jaw stutters, the pause in his fingers on his bottle.

“Oh yeah?” he mutters, still not looking your way.

“Yeah. She mentioned you broke it off with her last night.”

Joel exhales through his nose. “Wasn’t much to break off.”

Your dad lets out a low whistle. “That’s a shame. Thought you two were really hittin’ it off.”

The silence that follows is somehow louder than the TV. Your skin prickles. You feel exposed, raw, even though no one’s looking at you, because in some ways, it is your fault. You’d watched Tess fawn over Joel, laugh at his jokes, arm looped through his, and still let him back you into the shed and fuck you senseless. 

You should feel worse about it than you do. And maybe you would if he hadn’t looked at you the way he does now. Like he’s not sorry. Like you’re the only one he sees. Still, you can’t push away the discomfort that curls in your chest. A slow, simmering twist of something that has you pushing up from the couch before the silence can stretch too long. You grab the empty pizza boxes and stack plates, busying yourself with the mess like it’s an urgent task when really, you just need an excuse to leave the room.

In the kitchen, you wash a plate under the tap, stare out the window, but all you can think about is the man sitting beside your dad in the living room.

You can’t walk in here without seeing him. Without feeling him—beer bottle in hand, up your dress, voice gravel-thick in your ear demanding to know whether your outfit was for him. In the last twenty-four hours, every time you grab a snack, or wipe down the bench, or rinse a damn glass, it’s like your body remembers it before your mind does. The press of his hand, the weight of him, the way your knees nearly buckled when he whispered your name. 

“Need a hand?” his voice cuts in low behind you, startling you from the memory. You glance over your shoulder, heart skipping. Joel’s already at the sink beside you, sleeves shoved up, taking the dish from your hand like he’s done it a hundred times. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just rinses the plate, stacks it.

But then—softly, like he’s trying not to sound as desperate as he is—“When can I see you?”

You give a little laugh, light, testing. “You’re seeing me now.”

Joel’s quiet for a beat, then he huffs something like a laugh, something that barely hides the strain in his jaw when his eyes flick to yours. “Don’t be a smartass.” He dries his hands on the dish towel that hangs off a drawer handle, his voice thickening around a no in a way that’s far hungrier than you’ve heard him all evening. “When can I see you?”

And then here’s there. Brushing up behind you, hips pressed to yours. Hard length unmistakable against your ass through the worn denim of his jeans.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately start taking stock. “Joel—”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, already sensing your concern than your dad’s still in view. “He’s outside. Got a call.”

You swallow, turning your head slightly until Joel’s breath fans over your cheek. “Still, you can’t just—”

“Come over tonight.”

“What—” “I mean it.” His hand comes down firm on your hip, thumb just slipping under the hem of your t-shirt to graze the skin there. “No more fuckin’ about in cars. Or sheds. Or wherever else we end up when I’m losing my mind over you.”

You turn in his grip, back pressing to the counter now. His eyes search yours—frenzied, frustrated, sincere in a way that makes your chest feel like it’s caving in on itself.

“Let me take my time,” he says. Almost begs. “Need you in my bed. Can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop.” A beat, then, “I’m not gonna stop.”

You swallow hard. Joel’s thigh brushes yours and your breath shivers, wracking your whole body.

Joel’s barely been hanging on since last night. Since he had to walk back into that party with your taste still on his tongue and pretend like he hadn’t just ruined himself for anyone else. And then today—sitting next to your dad like he wasn’t fantasising about stripping you out of the threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants you’re currently sporting. Watching you lick pizza sauce off your thumb like it’s nothing while his blood burns hot and low. 

He respects your dad. Has for years. That man’s his best friend. A constant in his life when everything else went to hell. But tonight? He wishes he weren’t here, because Joel’s tired of pretending this doesn’t mean something. Tired of biting his tongue and keeping his hands to himself. You’ve already let him in, clawed your way under his skin and left marks he’s not sure he’ll ever come back from. All day—through breakfast with Sarah and chores and paperwork—he’s been picturing how it could be different with you. 

Not rushed. Not secret. Just you, in his bed. Nothing between you but heat and time.

He wants that tonight. No—needs it, more than he cares to admit out loud. So when he asks you to come over, what he really means is please.

What he means is I’m not gonna make it through another night if I don’t have you.

So when you whisper back okay, Joel swears he feels it in his chest. And even though he knows your dad is outside, he doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t say anything sweet. He just steps back, like he’s afraid he might take you right here if he doesn’t, heading back to the living room just as the sliding door to the patio rattles open.

***

A few hours later, your dad’s half-asleep in front of the TV as a Law and Order rerun plays, and you’re pulling the door shut behind you with a quiet click. You’d told him you were heading to Dina’s to help with some last-minute wedding stuff. A simple, believable excuse, one that didn’t require too much eye contact or follow-up questions. Your dad had just grunted in his half-conscious state, murmuring for you not to stay out too late.

Now you’re moving quickly down the front porch steps, hands tucked into the pocket of your hoodie. The air is cool with a hint of dampness that settles in your lungs. The neighbourhood has settled into a late Sunday night hush, porch lights flicked off, most windows dark. You slip into your dad’s truck—the one you’re borrowing while your car waits in Charlotte—and back out slowly, headlights off, tyres squeaking on the drive. You drive just enough that your dad won’t notice you haven’t gone far, rounding the corner and pulling into the curb on the next street over. Killing the engine, you sit in the dark for a few long minutes. Your heart’s going a mile a minute. Sneaking over to Joel Miller’s house might just be the most reckless thing you’ve done in a long time. Maybe ever—aside from letting him fuck you over your own father’s workbench mid-party. That probably still takes the cake.

Readying yourself, you climb out of the truck and start walking. It’s only a few minutes to Joel’s place but every step pulses with something electric. Your ears throb with the thud of your heartbeat. The quiet of the street feels loaded, like it knows what you’re doing. Like the whole neighbourhood might wake up and point fingers if you walk too loudly. You pass Tess’ house, porch light out like the rest of the street, but a muted glow flickers behind her curtains—probably the TV left on low. Maybe she forgot to turn it off before heading to bed. Or maybe she’s still up, curled up on the couch with a blanket and that ache in her chest that only shows up after rejection. You wonder if she’s sad, sat there replaying last night in her head, pining after Joel. Something turns over in your stomach. Tess hadn’t done anything wrong. Her only real crime was liking Joel, and you’d both be guilty of that.

When your phone buzzed earlier and you saw Joel’s name, your breath hitched. The last message from him was eight years ago—a lone thumbs-up emoji in response to you texting him that you were taking Sarah for ice cream after picking her up from soccer practice. Since then? Nothing. Until tonight.

come through the side gate

That’s all he’d written. No punctuation. No pleasantries. Just direction.

And so, you follow. Slip down the side of his house, careful not to be too heavy on the gravel or brush too hard against the jasmine climbing the fence. The gate creaks—because of course it does—and you wince, freezing mid-step, looking around like the cops are going to jump out and bust you for breaking and entering. They don’t though, obviously, as you keep moving again. Light filters through the windows, casting a warm glow on the backyard. You spot the slow shift of Joel’s shadow inside. He’s not pacing. Not restless. Just waiting.

You exhale shakily. You haven’t been inside the Miller house in, god, years. You don’t really know what you’re walking into, if you’re being honest. All you know is it’s him, and you know that whatever this is, whatever this becomes, you want it. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s risky. Even if it’s just for tonight.

You step onto the back porch, and your eyes catch the faint ember of a cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray. Smoke curls lazily into the air, pale against the dark. The butt’s burned nearly down to the filter, still warm, still bleeding orange at the tip. You pause, think back to the night you found him with a cigarette hanging from his lips outside The Rusty Antler.

Just when I need to take the edge off, he’d said.

Your pulse ticks a little faster.

The back door slides open with a whoosh before your hand even touches it. Joel stands there—barefoot, in the same henley and jeans he’d been wearing just a few hours ago. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing tanned, veiny arms smattered in dark hair. His chest rises steadily, no match for the abnormal way his heart thunders against his ribs, eyes already locked on yours. He doesn’t say anything. Just steps aside to let you in and the soft zip of the door closing seals the night out behind you. Joel lingers for a beat before moving past you through the house, his musky oak scent hanging around even longer.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks over his shoulder, voice scratchy. 

You shake your head, toeing off your sneakers by the mat. “I’m good.”

When you meet him in the kitchen, your eyes catch on the lowball glass sitting on the counter, a faint amber sheen clinging to the bottom. Joel follows your gaze, then glances down at the glass like he’s surprised it’s still there.

“Was nervous,” he says with a shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t explain everything.

Raising an eyebrow, a soft laugh escapes you. “You, nervous? I didn’t think that was even in your DNA.” And it’s true. Joel always seems so sure of himself—stoic but steady, the kind of quiet confidence that wears like armour. The kind people mistake for arrogance if they don’t know him, if they haven’t seen the way he softens for the people he actually cares about. You’ve seen it. Felt it. And still, hearing he’d been nervous waiting for you tonight knocks something loose in your chest. 

Joel leans his hip against the counter. He tilts his head, watching you with a look that makes your stomach tighten. “Me neither,” he confesses. “Not ‘til you showed back up.” 

You stay quiet for a second, watching how his shoulders stay a shrug higher than relaxed, the way his jaw ticks as he works it, waiting for your response.

“That explains the cigarette out there.” The corner of his mouth lifts. You noticed the cigarette. That shouldn’t mean much. Definitely shouldn’t carry the weight it does, but it makes his gut flip anyway because it means that you’ve been paying attention. That you know him, better than you should considering his friendship with your father. But you’re still reading him. Watching him.

Even though you’re not his. Not really. Not officially. 

You’re not anything, he’s been telling himself all day, when he catches himself thinking about your smile, or how easy and at home his name sounds coming from your mouth. Still, the words ring hollow. Whatever this is, it stopped being nothing the second you clocked that cigarette on the porch and understood what it meant. That kind of observation, that intimacy, feels like more than he has a right to, and that terrifies Joel. Because he hadn’t expected this to turn into something. Of course he didn’t. How could he? He’d been so quick to dismiss you as drunk, trying your luck, pushing his buttons, but fuck, you got under his skin almost immediately. This was supposed to be a one-time exhaustion of late-night tension, hands fumbling in the dark. A stupid, misguided thing he could contain if he didn’t look at it too hard.

But… the shift. He feels it. In the air, in the way you’re watching him. Like you’ve been walking this edge too, wondering if what’s brewing between you could be more. If it should be.

Is that even an option? Could he be someone who gets something like this? Someone like you?

Fuck knows. But the thought’s there now, burning slow and steady in his chest.

“Yeah,” Joel says eventually. “Needed something to do with my hands.”

You smile, and your eyes light up. “I’ve got a couple of ideas.” He huffs something that resembles a laugh but doesn’t quite make it out. Truth is, he’d had a few—more than a few—ideas too. All of them circling one thing, one person. And they only worked if you showed up.

If.

But now you’re here, standing in his kitchen, watching him like you want the same damn thing he does. 

You don’t say a word, even as he pushes off the counter and closes the distance between you slowly. As he moves, you’re aware of every step, every breath. He doesn’t lunge for you, doesn’t crowd your space. Just reaches for your hand and walks you backwards until your spine meets the wall beside the hallway opening. His fingers lace through yours like it’s second nature, palm hot against yours, and his free hand comes to rest at your waist again.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs.

“Me too.”

The exchange is soft. Earnest. Yeah, this isn’t the first time you two have been intimate. But it is the first time it isn’t rushed, nor stolen. No one’s a room away, no one’s waiting for you to come back with an excuse. No car windows fogging up, no holding your breath in case you get caught. Just this: four walls, quiet, him. Joel.

He presses you into with his body, his cock already hard—or, likely, still hard from that moment in your kitchen—against your thigh. Nothing about it’s forceful, just firm. Grounding, even. There’s barely time to catch your breath before his hands slide under your thighs and lift. You react instinctively, arms looping around his neck, legs snaked around his hips. He carries you like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing. Like he’s carried you in a hundred different ways before now, while he weaves through the house towards the staircase—towards his room. The anticipation sweeps deep in your belly, cracks fire through you, heat swelling underneath the goosebumps that rouse on your skin. You’re too wrapped up in Joel to notice much—the creak of a stair, soft thud of each footfall—but just for a second you register the blur of old family photos as you pass them on the wall. One even has you in it, younger, smiling alongside your dad and Sarah. 

A snapshot of a time before this ever seemed possible.

In the darkness of the stairwell, his features shift so he’s more edges than soft touches. His cheekbones are sharp in the dim light, casting shadows down to the strong curve of his throat. You watch it bob as he swallows, his molten eyes flicking between yours and the steps over your shoulder, cautious not to drop you. Then he’s setting you down on the edge of his bed and the table lamp clicks on beside you, softening everything. The glow spills over his face, all warm golds and ambers that let you notice things that time hadn’t allowed you before. A tiny scar at his temple. The way one one of his wiry eyebrows arches a smidge higher than the other. His nose, uneven at the ridge. Completely imperfect and somehow, and you feel it deep in your gut, perfect for you.

Joel’s room is warm, clearly lived-in. The navy sheets, solid timber headboard, Tom Clancy book on the bedside—all of it feels like Joel. Smells like him, too. Woodsy, clean. Familiar. You let your gaze drift across the dresser, to the flannel shirt tossed over the chair, sweatpants puddled in the doorway of his ensuite. You’ve never been in here before. Not even when you were younger, sneaking glances whenever you were on your way to or from Sarah’s room. And now that you’re here—now that he’s watching you from the foot of the bed, eyes dark and burning with strangled restraint. His hands are warm when he moves closer and cradles your face, rough pads of his thumbs sweeping the blush blooming in your cheeks. He doesn’t speak at first, just looks at you, and you feel every lick of his gaze across your face.

His mouth opens, then shuts. Opens again.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” Joel says at last, voice barely there. Rough, jagged, like it’s caught on something sharp in his chest. “What the hell are you doin’ here… with me?”

He doesn’t quite say it to you. It’s quieter than that—like it slips out before he can stop it, like it was meant to stay in his head but found its way past his lips anyway. You blink. The question still lands heavy. Not because it demands an answer, but because it doesn’t. Because it sounds like he’s already decided there isn’t one that makes sense. Not to him.

You’re about to speak, but his hands drop from his face and he straightens up as he takes a small step backwards, as if the distance might make his thoughts clearer.

He swallows thickly. “I’m too old for this. For you. You know that right?” You shuffle your body onto his bed, pull your knees beneath you and kneel so you’re at his eye level, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“I just…” he trails off. Hands flexing at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “You could have anyone. Someone your age. Someone who’s not—”

“My dad’s best friend?” You say it without flinching, chin tilted just enough to show you’re not ashamed. Not regretful.

“I just mean—you sure this isn’t just somethin’ else? Like, maybe your ex. Maybe this is about him. Gettin’ back at him. Gettin’ even.”

The words sting, all over, like tiny pin pricks deep enough to draw blood. Your spine straightens, jaw tightening as defensiveness curls in your chest. “Is that what you really think this is?” you ask, voice low. “You think I’d use you like that?”

Joel’s mouth parts, like he’s about to take it back—but he doesn’t. Just scrubs a hand over his face and exhales. You blink, breath catching as your voice lowers to be just above a whisper. “You invited me here. I didn’t chase you down, Joel. You told me to come.”

He doesn’t argue. Won’t meet your eyes either.

“I’m not playing games” you continue. “And I sure as hell didn’t come here to prove something to someone else.”

That lands, and you can see it in the way Joel’s shoulders settle. Realisation. That he was being unfair. That he was this close pushing you away. He eventually looks at you again, eyes raw, searching.

So you spell it out for him.

“I want this. No one else. Not Jesse, not someone my age. You. Right now.” 

Your posture shifts to be straighter as you sit up taller on your knees. You don’t break eye contact when your fingers tug at the hem of your hoodie, catching the t-shirt beneath it too, and peel both over your head in one smooth motion. The cotton hits the floor in a soft pile, but the sound seems so loud in the otherwise quiet room. The heating’s on, but the change in temperature still brushes goosebumps across your skin, pebbling your nipples, yanking a sharp gasp from the hull of your throat. 

You don’t move again. You just wait. Let Joel sit in it. Let him choose how this goes. You can see him warring with himself, teeth trilling over his bottom lip, hands still restless at his sides.

Then he cracks.

The gap between you no longer exists after a breath, his palms sliding up to cradle your face. You lean into his touch, allow your eyes to flutter closed as he holds you there like he needs the simple contact to keep himself anchored. His left hand moves—down, languid, dragging the heat of his palm over your throat, thumb grazing your collarbone as he splays his fingers across your chest. Wide, rough fingers skim the swell of your tits, your nipples screaming to be touched.

“Christ,” Joel murmurs, his voice frayed. His eyes lift to meet yours again. “You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

And then he kisses you. Finally. It’s not soft nor sweet, but deliberate. Slow, controlled. His mouth moves with purpose, like he’s tasing every second he’s gone without you and is trying to make up for it in one long drag of heat and pressure. You kiss him back, hard, arms winding around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. You grip tight at the curls at the base of his skull, holding onto him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Joel’s hand remains flat to your chest, unmoving under the kiss shifts. Deepens.

His tongue slides against yours, and you taste remnants of the whiskey and nicotine he’d indulged in downstairs. The way he kisses you is sure, because by now, he knows exactly how you like it. Figured out the things that make you tremble, which is why his hand moves down your sternum to trace a line from your ribcage to your waist and back again until he’s skimming the underside of your breast and lingers. Testing. Appreciating, before he pulls back. His hand ghosts down your arm as he steps away before he reaches for the back of his neck, grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks it over his head in one clean motion. It joins your clothes on the floor with a quiet thud.

You press your shoulders back. It’s not like you’ve never seen Joel shirtless. You’d been around him sans shirt plenty of times in the past, at neighbourhood pool parties or on the few occasions you and your dad went up to the lake with Joel and Sarah in the summer. Still, you’ve never seen him like this. Not under the glow of the lamp where there’s nothing left to distract you. The hair on his chest is dark and coarse, trailing over his stomach—softening slightly at his centre. He’s broader than he looks in a flannel. He’s thicker now than he probably used to be, but it suits him. All of it does.

You’re staring, obviously, because Joel raises a thick brow and tilts his head. “You want a picture or somethin’? Might last longer.”

It’s a joke—but you consider it. A photo wouldn’t be so bad, would it? A keepsake, a memento. No, you couldn’t, you tell yourself, distracting yourself with an exhale, try not to smile at being caught out. “Sorry. Just realised we’ve never actually seen each other.” You shift on the mattress. “Like this.”

Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, not really, not when you see the way his expression softens, mouth twitching in the corners when the realisation hits him too.

You stand slowly, feet quiet against the hardwood, and hook your thumbs in your waistband. You peel your sweatpants down and step out of them, taking your panties and socks with them too, and let them lay with the rest of your abandoned clothes. The air ripples against your skin, and Joel’s gaze drops just for a second before finding your face again. He reaches for his jeans, but your hand comes up, stilling him.

“Let me.” You step closer, press up onto your toes to kiss the side of his mouth, the harsh line of his jaw. His hand moves instinctively to your lower back, to steady you. To ground him. You trail kisses down his chest—over the ridge of his sternum, to the slight curve of his belly—until you’re kneeling in front of him. Your hands rest lightly at his belt buckle, cool on your palm, and you look up.

“Is this okay?” you ask softly. 

For a second, all Joel does is stare at you—like he’s trying to commit this very image to memory. Then a low chuckle works its way up from his chest.

“Darlin’,” he says, the word crunching on gravel. “If I ever say that ain’t okay, I want you to slap me. Hard. Somethin’s clearly broken.” It makes your mouth twitch—a glimmer of a smile—but he’s already curling a hand around the back of your head, his gaze still locked on yours like he can’t look away. “Go on then, baby. Take it out.”

You swallow, the pet name thrumming low in your belly. Your fingers move before your brain does and you make quick work of Joel’s belt. It gives with a soft clink, leather through denim loops, and you don’t miss the way the man in front of you tenses ever so slightly at the action. His dick jolts against his jeans, the thick imprint of him unmistakable as his length begs to be freed from the fabric. He’s barely keeping himself from snapping as your fingers find the button next, pop it open with a flick, the zipper following with a groaning pull. He watches the whole time—jaw locked, breath shallow, eyes so heavy with heat that you actually feel it coat your skin.

You curl your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and drag the the material down his legs, your gaze following as you reveal strong, hairy thighs, scarred knees, the tent in his black underwear where his cock stands at attention, a small dot of precum attaching the thin fabric to its head. His jeans puddle at his ankles, and soon after, his briefs join them too as he springs free. He’s thick, flushed, heavy at the base, already leaking at the tip. 

And you bristle.

He’s huge. Girthy, which you knew, you’ve felt it, thought about it—too much—but somehow he looks monstrous when you’re level with it, flush against his stomach. When you’ve done this in the past, your partners haven’t been anywhere near the size of Joel. It never occurred to you that he might not fit.

He notices the way you freeze, how your fingers still where they rest at his hips. You’re not trying to hide your hesitation—and even if you were, he’d still see right through you. Joel murmurs your name quietly, and his hand, still at the back of your head, splays gently through your hair. No pressure, just reassurance. His voice rakes out, low, while his thumb strokes a line along your scalp.

“Hey. S’just me. You go slow, alright, darlin’? We’ve got time.”

You glance up at him once more, a tiny smile pulling at your lips as you plant your hands on his outer thighs, dig your nails in just enough, drag your touch down the muscles that ripple in his legs. Joel groans, his hips tipping forward just slightly, egging you on until your hand wraps carefully around the base of his cock. The coarse, dark hair there scratches the side of your fist. He’s warm, twitching in your grip, and the moment you press a featherlight kiss to his weeping head, Joel breathes out hard—almost like he’s been holding it in since the moment you dropped to your knees. “Shit.”

You lick next, slow, getting your bearings. He tastes salty, clean. Makes you wonder if he showered before you got here. You trace him tip to base with the end of your tongue, only flattening out when you’re back at his head and sink his cock into your hot mouth, easing him in inch by inch. You take him until the stretch makes your jaw ache and your eyes start to water at the corners. You’re halfway, maybe, when you pull back with a soft gasp, catching your breath, and Joel’s voice is ragged when it breaks through the haze of intimacy.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he tells you. It’s tender, the way his thumb brushes your temple. “If you can’t take it all, s’alright. I don’t need—”

You don’t let him finish. Your eyes lift, locking on his, and there’s something challenging, fire-bright in how you shift, how you take him deeper now. The pressure builds in the stretch of your mouth, the ache spreading, but you don’t stop. Not until your nose brushes the hair curling at the base and your throat tightens with effort.

A wrecked sound shakes out of Joel. His fingers tighten in your hair, not harsh. Just stunned. “My stubborn girl… So good. Always so good for me.”

You hum around him, proud. Determined to make him feel good. The vibration adds more burden to the heaviness already weighing down Joel’s balls, his head tipping back and chest rising with shallow breaths as he lets you continue. You start to bob your head, drag him out an inch, suck him back in, cheeks hollowing until you’re sealed around him. Your movements grow more confident, quicker, with every small reaction from him—the fractured swearing, the flex of his fingers, the tension in his thighs. All of it feeds into the heat blooming between your legs, into the electricity in your chest. Peering up at him through damp lashes, your view of him is slightly blurred, but you can still make out the lines that contort Joel’s face as his eyes clamp shut, hips twitching, his body right on the edge of losing its rhythm.

“Fuck—darlin’, if you keep goin’ like that—”

So you do, one hand leaving his leg to work in tandem with your mouth, spreading your saliva all over his throbbing cock before taking him all the way to the back of your throat, swallowing, gagging as you suck him impossibly deeper. Joel’s breath catches, he stiffens, mutters your name. For a moment, everything goes quiet—just the sound of your breathing and the faint creak of the floorboards under his shifting weight, his jeans brushing against his ankles. 

Then he exhales, long and broken as hot ropes of cum hit the back of your throat. You swallow, staying close as the tension bleeds out of his body, his hips gently rocking into you as the last of his release seeps out. When his hand moves to cup the side of your face again, it’s gentle. Thankful. You can feel him softening in your mouth, so you draw backward, lapping up any leftover cum as you pull off him with a pop.

Joel chuckles, still a little dazed. “If I don’t survive this, you’re givin’ the eulogy.”

You snort, eyes dancing. “I’ll make sure to say nice things. Make sure everyone knows how well endowed you are.”

“Watch it,” he says—warning, teasing— with a roll of his eyes as he helps you off the floor.

And maybe it is a little deadly, this thing you’re doing. But it’s alive, real. You can feel it in the way he kisses you—hard, consuming the second you’re upright. Like he needs to stake a claim. His mouth slants over yours, not the least bit shy about tasting himself on your tongue. If anything, it makes him hungrier knowing what you can do to him, how much you liked doing it to him.

Joel’s hands are greedy, gripping at your waist, your ass, your ribcage, dragging you flush against him, and you feel the urgency vibrating beneath his skin, like he can’t decide where he needs you most. He kicks his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off, muttering under his breath as they tangle around his foot.

“Jesus,” he grunts. “Can’t even get my damn pants off right.”

You giggle against his chest, and that—that, out of everything—makes him pause. 

“Keep laughin’, sweetheart,” he drawls, brow cocked, eyes hooded and heated. “You’re the one that’s gonna be beggin’ in a minute.”

You open your mouth, something clever ready, but Joel doesn’t give you the opportunity to try it out.

“Get on the bed,” he demands, no room for argument. For testing. Backing up, you climb onto the king-sized mattress with your eyes locked solely on him. And God, he’s fucking beautiful like this—naked, chest heaving, cock already stiffening again, like his body and age couldn’t care less that it just came two minutes ago. The second your spine hits the pillows, he’s on you—none of that slow, measured patience he talked about earlier. That we’ve got time line doesn’t stand a damn chance now. Not when he’s pawing at you, pushing your knees apart with a hand that spans too much of your thigh, kissing you with teeth, with tongue, with intent as his cock drags against the arousal already leaking from between your folds.

“Always such a wet mess f’me,” he whispers into the crook of your neck, biting then soothing the blooming red mark with a kiss. Joel’s weight settles between your legs and your body arches into him instinctively, heat pooling low as the mattress whines beneath you. He palms your breast roughly, thumb circling your nipple, and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts just enough to slide right into you with a grunt. Your body opens for him like it’s been waiting for this exact stretch, this specific pressure. Joel buries himself to the hilt and holds there, forehead against yours for a few beats while his breath comes out his sharp pants.

“You good, baby?”

You nod, barely managing the next few words out of your mouth: “Yeah. Move, Joel. Please.”

Guess he was right about the begging.

He slides deeper, excruciatingly slow at first with steady thrusts that make you clutch at him, nails digging into his shoulders. The sound of your bodies meeting, all wet and heavy and rhythmic, fills the space between his quiet groans and your broken mewls. The bed creaks under you, marking every little deliberate motion. Joel grabs under your knee to hook your leg higher around his hip, his fingers pressing delicious pain into your flesh. The new angle punches a feral sound from you, something that falls somewhere between a yelp and a sob.

“Fuck,” Joel seethes. “Right there. You feel that, darlin’?”

Your head drops back against the pillow, jaw slack. “Mmm. Don’t stop.”

As if he ever could.

It’s relentless, the drag of Joel’s thick cock, in and out. It’s a little rough, a little raw. The friction’s perfect. Just enough rough to sting. His hips drive forward again and again, setting a rhythm that feels endless and overwhelming all at once. You try to hold on—try to stay in the moment—but the knot in your belly’s already pulling taut, sparks rippling through you every time his pelvis grinds against yours. 

His hand finds its way between you, thumb pressing down on your clit firmly, working in lazy circles that sends your spine arching off the bed. His mouth finds one of your nipples, suckling and licking and flicking as he picks up his pace, and all of a sudden, every touch, he’s lick, every fuck of his hips is too much.

“Joel—” you gasp, clawing at his back. “I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he pants. “Go, baby, I’ve got you.”

Your orgasm crashes over you, your body locking up around him with a cry that’s impossible to muffle. Your back bows off the bed, mouth falling open, fingers gripping Joel’s arms like they’re the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your shaky breaths jiggle your tits against Joel’s chest, the air biting your sweat-slicked skin. Your climax is still wracking through you when Joel lets out a deep and guttural sound into your collarbone. There was no way he was lasting long after you. He couldn’t, not with how tight you are around him, still fluttering from your high.

His thrusts falter. Stutter. Then he chokes out a strangled Christ. One bearish hand fists in the pillowcase beside your head, the other curls around your jaw, holding you in place like he needs to feel every second of his orgasm anchored in your skin. Then he lets go. His hips jerk once, twice, then he groans again—louder this time—as he spills inside you, his body going rigid before melting against you. You hold him close, fingers threading into the damp curls at his nape. His lips brush your skin in broken patterns across your throat, your jaw, the curve of your shoulder. 

He’s heavy. Hot. Perfect, like he belongs here. 

And maybe he does. 

Maybe just for now.

Maybe longer than that.

Your head lolls to the side, eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bedside. Red digits blur in the low light. It’s getting late.

“I should probably get back,” you murmur despite making no move to do so.

Joel lifts his head from the crook of your neck slowly. “Stay a little longer,” he says quietly. Then, brushing it off, not wanting to come across as eager as he is: “If you want.”

You study him for a beat. There’s something in the warm honey of his eyes that stalls you—he’s uncertain, scared a bit. Joel’s had one-night stands before. A fling or two even. Over the years, there've been women who came and went, who left before sunrise without fuss, and he liked it that way. Always told himself he needed the space. That it was simpler. Cleaner. But now, with you beneath him, your hands still gentle in his hair, the idea of you slipping away feels…wrong.

He draws in a breath. “Let me clean you up.”

Before you can answer, he’s already easing himself off the bed. A moment later, he returns with a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He presses the rim of the glass to your lips first, watches you take a few sips before setting it aside. Joel stays quiet as he wipes you down, careful and precise as he drags the cloth between your legs, soaking up the mixture of your orgasms. It’s not clinical or distant, just present, and when he’s done, he places a hand on your hip and murmurs c’mon.

You follow him, even though your legs protest as they stretch their way to the bathroom where the shower is already running, the hum of water and steam filling the space and fogging the mirror. Stepping in, the heat hits your skin and rolls down your back and shoulders like balm. The ache Joel left between your legs flares under the scalding water and you relish in it, allowing a moan to echo into the air.

Joel steps in behind you a moment later. You feel him before you see him—his warmth pressed along your spine, his hands spanning your waist. He doesn’t say a thing, just reaches for the body wash and begins to lather your shoulders, your arms, down your back. His hands are steady. Familiar, and when he pulls you against his chest, water cascading over both of you, it’s not about sex. He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear—like the steam might swallow you up and carry you down the drain if he lets go.

***

Twenty minutes later, the two of you are standing at Joel’s back door again. Your hair’s frizzy from the steam of the shower, the night air cool on your skin, and your hoodie clings a little to your slightly damp skin. You won’t lie, it feels awkward now, standing here like this with the porch light buzzing above, both of you suddenly terrible at eye contact. 

Eventually, you glance up at him. “See you soon?” The question is quiet, like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to want that. It’s obvious there’s more to say, but neither of you reaches for it.

Joel’s mouth twitches with a sliver of a smile, nodding once. Slow.

“Text me when you get home,” he tells you. The request is lax, almost offhand, but there’s nothing casual about the way it makes you feel—wanted, looked after.

You smile. “I will.” Then Joel drops his head, presses a kiss to the spot just above your right eyebrow, and your skin hums at the affection. You step back and he watches you pad into the garden, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands against the chill. He doesn’t go back inside—not right away—not until he hears the clink of the side hate latch. Only then does the door close behind him.

The house is quiet when you let yourself back in. Lights off. Your dad’s already gone to bed, the flicker of the TV replaced by silence. You climb the stairs slowly, every tread a little reminder of the ache in your body, the press of Joel still lingering on your skin. You don’t bother turning the lights on. Just change into fresh underwear and a clean shirt, brush your teeth, fall into bed.

Then, true to your word, you unlock your phone and tap out a one-word text: Home. 

You don’t wait for the reply. You’re half-asleep already, the pillow cool beneath your cheek, body still humming in the places he touched. 

You don’t see his message until morning.

Sweet dreams.

***

On Wednesday afternoon, you’re actually heading to Dina parents’ place to deal with an actual last minute crisis.

“Another one?” your dad asks, not even looking up from his laptop as you pop your head into his office on the way out. “How many crises can one wedding take?”

“Unsure,” you laugh, adding: “But by the way things sounded on the phone, this might be the last straw.” The comment was meant to be dramatic, but turns out, you were right to be concerned.

You find Dina in the middle of her parent’s yard, arms crossed, glaring at what is very clearly the wrong arbour for the ceremony. You know this because you’d been party to a two-hour back and forth over whether she and her wife-to-be, Ellie, had a diamond-shaped arbour, or a circle. They’d landed on the diamond, but the ceremony piece sat at the far end of the garden was not that. Dina doesn’t say anything when she sees you, just gestures to the very standard, underwhelming arched wooden frame.

“Technically, an arch is just a very lazy diamond,” you offer.

She shoots you a look. “We’re three days out. THREE! I can’t even find it in me to scream about it properly because I screamed for like forty-five minutes yesterday because the florist said because of the time of year, the peonies are gonna be more coral than blush.”

“Well… coral is just a really confident blush.”

Dina says your name once. Firm. “Stop.”

You try and wrangle a smile. Growing up, Dina was never the girl who dreamed about her wedding day. She was lucky if she could decipher a daisy from a sunflower, and now here she is sweating over every minute detail. You kind of love it.

“Okay, okay,” you say, holding your hands up in surrender. “What do you wanna do?”

Dina gnaws on the frayed skin around her thumbnail. “We need a new one. Or we modify this one, make it look like what I ordered. Can we do that?”

“I don’t think we can. You’re talking about the girl who nailed her top to the table in Junior shop class,” you point at your friend, then to yourself, “And the girl who would rather take three AP trig programs than turn in any art class assignment. We are not doing shit with this.”

Dina turns her face to the sun and exhales. “God, you’re so right.” 

You’re already scrolling through Google on your phone, looking for local companies with next-day delivery on arbours (funnily enough, there aren’t an abundance of them) when you see her head tilt out the corner of your periphery. Dina’s eyes narrow. She’s got an idea.

“Joel Miller.”

That’s all she says. The air in your lungs short-circuits for a second.

You blink. “What about him?”

“He’s a builder, right? He could help. He could totally help.” She points a finger at you. “You used to babysit his daughter. So you’d have his number somewhere?”

It’s cool out, but you’re sweating anyway.

“Uh, somewhere, maybe? Probably. But I’m sure he’s really busy, my dad said he—”

“Busy with what? Building things? Perfect! This is a thing that needs building,” Dina says with a clap of her hands. She’s practically vibrating. “Please call him.”

“On second thought, I can probably fix it—”

“Call. Him.”

“Dina—

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Your phone is out of your hand and into Dina’s before you can say stop, and two seconds later the dial tone sounds through the speaker.

You haven’t seen or spoken to Joel since you left his place a few nights ago. That awkward porch-light goodbye still clings to your skin like static. You don’t even know what this is between you, not really, and now you’re calling him on speakerphone with your best friend watching? Great.

It rings once. Twice. 

Then: “Uh, hello?”

You flounder, unsure what to say as Dina jerks the phone in your direction, urging you to say something.

You don’t, which proves stupid when Joel speaks again.

“Darlin’? Everythin’ okay?”

Your stomach drops. Dina’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. Darlin’? she mouths.

Snatching your phone back, you take it off speaker before waving her off. Once you’re a safe distance away, you speak into the phone, your hey too fast, too bright.

“Sorry. Dina took my phone because she wanted to ask a favour.” “Uh, right.”

Wait, does he sound disappointed?

“Something wedding related, I’m guessin’? Your dad said they’re facing a whole hell of problems over there.”

“Yeah, well, she got sent the wrong arbour. It’s an arch instead of a diamond and apparently that’s a big deal.”

There’s a pause. A puff of air that slightly resembles laughter. “You want me to build one.”

“Could you? I mean—I know you’re super busy and I told Dina you probably wouldn’t be free and—”

“Darlin’.”

“You are good with your hands,” you tease, trying to play it light, play off the rambling.

He chuckles. “Uh-huh. You payin’ me in compliments, or…?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to a trade,” you tell him, voice low. Suggestive.

“I’m listenin’.”

You straighten your spine, try and quell the grin on your face when you notice Dina watching. “So you’ll do it?”

“Anythin’ for you,” he tells you, and he means it. Clearing his throat, Joel adds: “Send me a photo of what she originally wanted. I’ll swing by the hardware store.”

An hour later, Joel pulls up, toolbox and supplies in the back of his truck, and steps into the chaos that is Dina’s parents’ backyard—a minefield of drop sheets, crates of candles and at least three half-assembled centrepieces.

“You got here quick. Thank you so much, Mr Miller,” Dina says, extending a hand.

He shakes it. “Call me Joel, please. And it’s no problem. You got a good friend here. Real persuasive.” His eyes flick to you, and you catch the glimmer of amusement in them. “So, where can I set up?”

Dina waves a hand. “Wherever you can find a spare spot. Thanks again, Joel. Seriously.” He offers a tight-lipped smile and gets to work, unloading timber and tools on the other side of the yard. You watch him for a minute—his sure hands, the ease in his movements, how the sun hits the back of his neck just above the collar of his flannel. As if he can feel you, Joel glances up. His eyes meet yours. Just for a second. And something warm flickers there.

Dina leans into your side and slaps your arm. Hard.

“You little liar.”

You flinch. “Ow! What?!”

“You two totally fucked.”

Your eyes bulge. “We did not—”

“Oh my god, don’t lie to me now,” Dina warns. “That was a darlin’ with seasoning. And I saw those eyes you two were making just now. Those were looks that scream I know what you look like naked.”

Fuck. You hate how she can read you like a book. “Dina—”

“He’s your dad’s best friend.” You wince, brace for judgement, but all you get is: “That’s kinda hot.” A pause. “Was it?” Your face heats like you’re holding it over the open flame on a stove. You glance towards Joel—whose focus is solely on his measuring tape and mercifully out of earshot—and mutter, “Yeah… every time.”

Dina balks. “Every—you mean you fucked him more than once?!”

A couple of nearby family members helping out with wedding preparations turn to stare. You and Dina both flash tight smiles and disappear into the house, where, once inside, you spill everything—well, almost everything. By the time your best friend is finished squealing and asking for intimate details, Joel is halfway done putting the diamond frame together.

By the time he’s done, the new arbour is tenfold better than anything Dina could’ve ordered. She’s so impressed that she insists—

“You’re coming to the wedding.”

Joel shakes his head, already refusing. “Thanks, but I don’t wanna intrude.”

“No, please, you literally saved it,” she says. “Plus, we’re down a seat since my cousin caught the flu. Come, eat, do a little dance.”

Joel opens his mouth to protest again, but Dina cuts him off with a don’t fuck with me look that darts from you to him. “Seriously. It’d mean a lot.”

She walks off before either of you can argue, but not without tossing you a sly smile. You know that look. It’s the same one she gave you when she set you up with your high school crush. She’s doing you a favour, in some roundabout best friend way.

Joel leans in to you, voice low, amused. “Does that mean I get to go home with a bridesmaid?”

You peer up at him, flutter your lashes and smile sweetly. “Only if you’re lucky, Miller.”

***

masterlist

taglist: @hotmess-x @callmeknife @leesromanova @brinapedroswife @joelmillersgffff @lilasskicker2 @yslgreen @akah565 @justobsessedwithyou @winyourheartemma

[alwayssassydreamer]

Show Me Your Desire pt. 2

A/N: Heartbreak Edition, so many of you asked for more of this and now you get this one followed by two dilf editions, god I was so sad writing this. First time writing Cora and Thatch so sorry if it's OOC, and this is GN but at one part there is talk about a daughter so - choose for yourself if she's from a pregnancy or an adoption, oh and i know thatch's is shorter than the others but i got so fucking sad that i didn't want to do more 🙈

Part 1

Plot: you ate the Yoku Yoku No Mi - the desire desire devil fruit - that shows you glimpses of someones deepest desires when you touch them. Therefore you made sure to avoid touches and insight into those personal moments. But things get unwillingly touchy.

Warnings: angst, hurt, no happy ending for these 4 beautiful men 💔, maybe some spoilers if you're not familiar with the marineford or dressrosa arc, not proofread

Characters: Corazon, Whitebeard, Ace, Thatch (separately) x GnReader (though written with freader in mind)

Corazon

You had known him for years.

You met him during a meeting arranged by his brother Doflamingo. Rosinante had appeared from the shadows in a swirl of red feathers, clumsy yet somehow silent, a towering man with sad eyes peeking out from a painted grin.

You weren’t sure why he stood out. Maybe it was the way he hunched his shoulders, as if he could hide from the world even while standing six feet tall. Maybe it was the glint of kindness you thought you saw beneath the black makeup.

From  that day on though you and him shared a special bond. Not physical, not yet maybe, but emotional.

Rosinante was unpredictable, clumsy, secretive and yet, maddeningly kind. The kind of man who made you coffee when you were sad, then spilled it all down his pants in the same moment. He smiled through bruised ribs and burned trust and always was there for you when you needed him the most.

But he also never let you touch him. Not really.

Not even once.

You assumed it was part of the act. Some odd quirk of his Devil Fruit.

But the truth came during a storm.

You slipped during a mission too dizzy to see straight and you collapsed but before you could hit the floor he caught you.

His hands closed around your arms, large and gentle. Your palms pressed against his chest.

Skin met skin.

And that cursed power surged through you.

He held you in his arms, barefoot on the sand, laughing under a sunset. Your head rested against his chest. No Marines. No Doflamingo. No war. Just peace. The vision switched and you saw yourself smiling up at him, untouched by blood or betrayal, wrapped up in his oversized coat, tucked beneath his chin. It wasn’t a vision so much as a flood. A torrent of feeling, thick and suffocating. You felt his desire like it was your own: a desperate, screaming need to protect you from everyone, he wanted you yes but more than that he needed you to be okay. And the thought he tried to bury so deep it cracked his bones “Please let me live long enough to tell them I love them”

You gasped as the vision faded, his eyes widened, looked wounded, and he quickly stuffed his hands into his pockets, stepping back.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low and raspy, almost inaudible over the noise around you.

“I’m fine,” you lied, breathless. “Just… dizzy.”

He nodded once, but his gaze flicked around then he pulled something from his coat - a scrap of cloth, a bit of bandage. He offered it with both hands, avoiding your skin.

“For your hand,” he mumbled.

You looked down. In your panic, you had cut your palm and blood welled up in a small crimson pool.

Before you could protest, he crouched delicately wrapping your hand with the same tenderness you had felt in his desire. His fingers never brushed your skin again. He made sure of it.

But when his eyes found yours after he finished wrapping everything up he saw it, the ache in your eyes and he knew something had happened, he didn’t know exactly what it was but he knew something was different now.

After that… everything changed.

He avoided you. More than before.

Disappearing for days, coming back with scraped hands and tired lies.

And you, you tried to understand.

But it was like watching someone drown in a glass tank, fists pressed to the walls, refusing to let you in.

Until one night, the tension boiled over.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” he whispered, voice cracking. “When you touched me.”

Your breath caught. He had figured it out.

You nodded slowly.

His shoulders sagged as if the weight of the entire sea had landed on him. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice breaking. “I shouldn’t….I shouldn’t feel that way. But I do. And I… I can’t stop.”

Tears stung your eyes. Because you understood now that this wasn’t lust, or selfish obsession like the others. His desire was pure, painful, and impossibly kind. And it was tearing him apart.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you blurted, before your fear could catch up to your honesty.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and vulnerable.

“I’ve seen what the others want,” you went on, voice shaking. “They want to break me. Own me. Use me. But you… you just want to save me.”

His cigarette fell from his lips, landing at his feet.

“You love me,” you whispered, cornering him in the hallway of some run-down safehouse.

His smile twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You stepped closer. “I saw it, Cora. You were holding me. Laughing. Wanting a future. Yours. Mine. Ours.”

His expression finally cracked.

“You know that this can never happen,” he suddenly said.

You froze not expecting these words from him.

“Why not?”

“Because this is dangerous, being with me is dangerous,” he said simply. “And if you get too close, you’ll go down with me.”

The silence between you hit like a gunshot.

“You’ve already decided, haven’t you?” Your voice trembled. “You’ve already written the ending without even giving me a choice.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need to go,” he said softly, voice raspy as ever. “There’s a Devil Fruit I have to steal. It’s the only way to save him.”

You turned to him, tears already welling up. “And if it gets you killed?”

He flinched. Then he reached out hesitant and cupped your cheek. His fingers brushed your skin. The curse activated, and his raw, desperate desire poured into you like fire.

“I wish I could stay. I wish I could take you far away from this world. I wish I could give you a life where you never have to run again. But I can’t. I’m sorry.”

It shattered something inside you.

You grabbed his wrist, pressing his hand closer. “Then don’t go. Stay with me. We can hide together. Please.”

He let out a quiet laugh—sad, hollow. “You know I can’t. If I don’t do this… that boy dies. And if he dies, everything I’ve tried to do will be meaningless.”

You leaned your forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of his coat, the lingering smoke.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Because some people were meant to save the world…

…but never get to stay in it.

The next morning he was gone and you found Corazon’s goodbye letter.

It was folded carefully, tucked inside the coat you used to mend for him, sealed with a stain of black coffee (he spilled it. Of course he did).

But the ink? The ink held his truth.

To you, The one I wanted to choose, But never could— By the time you read this, I’ll be gone. Not forever, I hope. But long enough that it might feel that way. I want to start with this: You didn’t imagine it. What you saw through your cursed fruit, my desire to hold you, laugh with you, build something gentle with you it was real. It is real. You are the one place I ever felt… human. Not a spy. Not a Donquixote. Not a broken mess in clown paint. Just a man. Just yours. But here’s the part that never stopped clawing at me: I don’t get to keep you. Because if I choose you, I can’t protect him. And if I choose him, I can’t come back to you. You always saw too much. The way you looked at me like I was already forgiven. Like I wasn’t a walking graveyard of secrets and second chances. But I am. And I know it. And I won't let you bleed because I was too selfish to walk away. So here’s the deal: If I come back, I’ll come with clean hands and a promise. If I don’t… then let this be my truth, buried in paper and ink: I love you. I loved you when you laughed at my coat. I loved you when you yelled at me for disappearing again. I loved you when you touched my hand and saw everything I tried to hide. And even now, I love you too much to drag you into this war. Take care of yourself. Find someone who chooses you with both feet planted. Someone who’s not always halfway out the door. But if you ever feel like waiting for someone foolish, You know where to find me: Somewhere between a lie and a last hope. Yours quietly, always, Cora

Weeks later, you learned the truth. The Ope Ope no Mi was used to save Law but Corazon was gone. Killed by his own brother.

They said he died smiling.

You wondered if, in his last moment, he thought of you. You wondered if he felt your heart break as his stopped.

And you promised, as you read his letter over and over beneath the dawn light, that you’d keep living. That you’d carry the memory of the man who taught you love and the price it demanded. And you promised to keep looking out for the young boy Cora gave his life for.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Whitebeard

You had joined the Whitebeard Pirates on a whim. Not as a fighter but as a mapmaker, someone who could laugh too loud and carry a bottle of sake twice their weight. Pops had taken you in like he did all the others: without question, with that massive grin and a hand on your head like a crown.

The first time Whitebeard touched you, it wasn’t grand.

It wasn’t a crushing grip or a possessive reach. It was the brush of his knuckles down your back after you slipped in the ship’s hallway.

“Careful, little one,” he said, voice a low, weather-worn rumble. “Wouldn’t want you crashing through the deck.”

That was the last thing you heard before your knees buckled and the vision hit you.

A vision so vivid your ribs ached from the weight of it.

You saw yourself, years older, laughing. Sitting at a massive table beside him. His hand in yours. A feast. A family. You saw his sons, your “brothers” and a small little girl. You felt the crushing warmth in his chest, the longing, the bone-deep ache that wanted nothing but time and a family…..time to grow old with you and his family.

The vision shattered as you gasped and almost stumbled again.

He caught you with a frown this time no skin to skin contact. “You alright?” he asked a little worried.

All you managed was a small mumble he didn’t quite understand before you turned and fled the deck, your heart in your throat.

Because that vision wasn’t lust. It wasn’t even really romance.

It was something more dangerous.

He wanted a future with you and the crew. A quiet one.

And he knew, you both knew, that the world would never allow it.

He didn’t come after you at least not at first. Whitebeard was many things but he wasn’t reckless. He waited. Watched. Gave you space.

And you… You avoided him like he was fire and you were soaked in oil.

But even from a distance, the vision clung to you. You saw it in the way he sat in silence after he watched the crew, after they laughed and smiled. You saw the way he glanced at the empty chair next to him – your chair.

He wanted you there beside him.

“You’ve been runnin’.”

Marco found you perched on the edge of the ship’s figurehead one evening, staring at the sea like it might swallow you up and keep the truth down with it.

“I’m not running,” you murmured.

“Then tell Pops why you can’t look him in the eye anymore.”

You clenched your jaw. “I touched him.”

Marco blinked and then frowned.

“I saw it. The desire. The future he wanted. It was…” You looked away. “Too much.”

Marco sat beside you, voice gentle. “He doesn’t want to scare you.”

“He didn’t,” you whispered. “That’s the worst part,” you whispered softly with that familiar ache in your chest.

Marco looked at you and then placed a hand on your shoulder giving it a slight squeeze. “You should talk to him” he said before he turned and walked away leaving you with your thoughts.  

Later that night though, Whitebeard came to you.

He waited until the ship was asleep. Until even the ocean seemed to hold its breath.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him, slow, heavy, deliberate and unmistakable.

He came to your side, towering over you as you sat there. His presence wrapped around you like the tide inescapable, steady.

“Why do you avoid me little one?” he asked cautiously.

“I didn’t mean to…I just when you touched me I..” you stopped yourself from revealing too much not wanting to bother him with this or have him know. He already had enough on his plate you didn’t want to add up on it.

“I saw it,” you said, finally. “What you want.”

“You what?”

“I felt safe and you caught me a little off guard, your hand is really warm and it felt not bad” you said not outright a lie but also not the whole truth.

A beat of silence spread between you two and the he smiled at you.

“You know sometimes I dream about peace, just us, you, me, the boys, sailing across the sea without all the chaos in the world. Living a peaceful and long life. Watching you and those idiots grow old together and see who will have the most wrinkles” he confessed suddenly.

“I know” you said “I mean I know that feeling I…..I’d want that too” you added.

“It’s a desire, a wishful thinking,” he said carefully before he closed his eyes, his massive frame casting long shadows over the deck.

“Don’t say that”

“Little one you know as good as me that the world won’t let us have this. Not now. Not with all this chaos. I’m not saying that there will never be any peace but I’m saying that when this will happen I will no longer be with you,” he explained voice firm and yet you could hear the yearning in it, the sadness.  

You were crying now, not loudly, not brokenly just… quiet, unbearable tears because you remembered the vision and now hearing him talk about the fact that he had already made peace with the fact that his desire will never come true was heart-breaking.

He looked down at you, his eyes for once looked human. Not like the eyes of the world’s strongest man, not the Yonko.

Just a man who was tired.

“Don’t cry little one, we still got some time together before you get rid of me” he joked softly and you let out a small chuckle through the tears.

Gently, so gently, his hand came up to your cheek to brush the tears away.

And this time you let it happen let the vision, painful as it was, consume you.

Once again you saw yourself older, the crew older and him sitting on his usual throne like chair on the Moby Dick, a little girl on his lap, a girl who had his smile. The crew was being a chaotic mess but his chaotic mess and you felt the warmth, the safety and the feel of home.

When the vision ended you blinked a few tears away and looked up at him smiling before you leaned into him fingers curling around his coat as you held onto it like a lifeline.

“I’ve fought gods, demons, and kings,” he said, voice low and broken. “But I don’t know how to fight the part of me that just wants to be yours,” he suddenly said as his hand came to rest at your back holding you.

“You don’t have to fight it,” you whispered. “You just have to let yourself have it”

After that night everything changed.

Not out loud.

He didn’t call you his lover. Didn’t pull you into his bed or kiss you in front of the others.

But he always looked for you when he laughed and you always found him when he was quiet.

You started sharing sake just the two of you in shared private moments were words weren’t needed. A ritual for two ghosts in waiting.

And every time your fingers brushed, your Devil Fruit showed you the same vision: A future full of love, peace, you, the crew and a little girl by his side.

But then came the war.

You knew no matter what you said he wouldn’t stop from rescuing Ace because that was just how Whitebeard was.  

He looked at you with that old grief. The kind that said he had already made peace with dying.

And he touched you again.

Not by accident, not to steady you.

His massive hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

The vision flooded back.

The two of you on the Moby Dick. Older. Scarred. But alive. A daughter on your hip. Laughing. And the crew behind you. He looked… happy, peaceful and like he finally found his own personal One Piece.

“I dreamed of that once,” he murmured.

You looked up, startled. “You… know?”

“Aye.” His thumb lingered. “I knew the moment I touched you. The fruit… showed you what I buried.”

You wanted to cry but fought the tears. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He smiled, tired and soft. “Because I’m not a man who gets to want things, little one. I’m a man who protects them.”

You wrapped your fingers around his wrist. “Then protect me by living.”

He laughed quiet and rough and heartbreakingly fond.

“I’ll try. But if I don’t come back, know this,” he said. “I never regretted loving you.”

The night before he left to save Ace you ended up in his bed for the first time, giving in to the desire between you two.

Whitebeard died standing, died protecting his family.

And in his final moments, he held something in his hand: a folded scrap of parchment.

You recognized it when it washed ashore weeks later.

It was your handwriting.

One line.

“If ever you forget yourself, remember there’s a man inside you a man I loved, a man the world never saw but I did.”

You sat long nights at his grave, hand on your belly and sometimes when you were quiet, when the sea was still, you swore you felt a hand at your back, steady as the world, whispering "I never regretted loving you."

Years later, on Sphinx island, you sat by a dock with a little girl who had his smile.

Your daughter.

Your only treasure.

And when she asked why you cried when it rained, you told her a story.

About a man who was the strongest man in the world and was called a monster for that.

But you?

You knew better.

He was a man who once dreamed of peace, a family and loved you so quietly, it nearly broke your heart.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Ace

You didn’t mean to brush against him. The table was too small. The conversation too loud. The meeting too crowded. One wrong lean, and his hand grazed yours.

Bare skin touching and that was all it took.

A vision flooded your brain, no, not a vision. A need. A longing so powerful, so raw it made you gasp before you could hide it.

You saw his hands on your cheeks, trembling—not with lust, but desperation. His voice hoarse, whispering your name like a prayer. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes shimmering with something like relief… or grief. His whole body shaking with the desire to keep you. "Don’t go. Please… don’t leave me." It wasn’t desire in the way you had expected. Not hunger. Not lust. It was deeper. It was love. But not the sweet, easy kind. This was haunted love, fragile and fierce and terrified. He wanted you like a dying man wanted air. Not because it was beautiful but because he didn’t know how to keep breathing without it. He never thought and never let himself believe he deserved this, deserved you.

And when the image vanished and you were back, staring at the man across from you, you couldn’t breathe.

Not when Ace was still looking at you with that dumb, sunlit smile, oblivious to what you now knew. What you now carried.

You avoided him for days.

You said you were tired. Sick. Busy. Anything to keep from touching him again.

Because how could you look at him when you knew? Knew that behind every laugh, every teasing nudge, every casual, friendly grin was a heart that ached for you?

And he didn’t even know you knew.

That was the cruellest part. You knew too much while he didn’t know at all.

He found you three nights later, sitting at the edge of the deck under a moonless sky.

“Hey,” he said softly, voice without its usual spark. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You didn’t answer.

He walked closer and sat beside you, letting his legs hang over the edge like yours.

Silence stretched between you. Wind tugged at your shirt. The sea below shimmered, black and restless.

“You mad at me or something?” he asked.

“No,” you whispered.

“Then why won’t you even look at me?”

You hesitated and you could feel him watching. Waiting.

Finally, you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I just…” You swallowed. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

He blinked. “What? Why would you—”

Your voice cracked. “Because I know.”

He froze. “Know what?”

You turned away. Hands clenched in your lap.

“Ace… when you touched me. I—I saw it.”

His voice dropped. “Saw what?”

You looked up at him. Moonlight caught in your eyes, even if there was no moon.

“Your desire,” you said. “What you want. The Yoku Yoku no Mi... it showed me.”

He stared at you like you had ripped the air out of his lungs.

You kept going, voice barely a whisper. “You want me. Not just like that, not like the others. You want me like it’s killing you. Like you’re scared if you ask that I’ll disappear. Like you’d rather burn than be the one to hold on too tight. I saw that you were afraid to let yourself feel loved because you think you don’t deserve it.”

You saw it all of it. Every moment he kept buried under fire and smiles. The loneliness. The fear. The way he’d convinced himself you deserved better. The way he wanted to stay beside you but never dared to hope.

“I saw it,” you said again, softer this time. “I felt it.”

He looked away, his shoulders tense.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

When he finally did, his voice was low. Barely there.

“…Guess there’s no point lying, then.”

Your heart clenched.

“Ace—”

“I didn’t mean for you to find out,” he muttered. “I thought… if I could keep it quiet, maybe it wouldn’t ruin anything.”

“It didn’t ruin anything,” you said quickly.

He laughed bitterly. “Didn’t it?”

You reached out with a trembling hand. Slowly, you touched his fingers brushing his knuckles.

It was enough.

The desire flared again, faint but familiar. That same image. His lips against your forehead. That quiet, desperate plea:

“Don’t leave.”

But this time… it didn’t hurt.

Because now, you wanted it too.

“Ace,” you said gently. “You don’t have to be scared. Not with me.”

His head dropped forward. Hair hiding his eyes.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered. “People leave. Or I leave them. It’s just how it goes.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You say that now.”

“I mean it.” You turned his hand over and placed your palm flat against his. A full contact.

He closed his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping.

“You think I deserve love?”

Your heart shattered at that stupid question.

“I know you do.”

But you felt it the way the distance between you two seemed to suddenly grow. The fear of being vulnerable was a wall you couldn’t break at least, not yet

“I’m sorry,” he whispered pulling away. “I can’t be what you want, what you deserve.”

You wanted to scream, to beg him to stay, but all you could do was watch him walk away fire burning behind his steps, and your heart burning with him.

Later that night when everything was still, but your world felt shattered, you stood alone on the deck in a small corner until you saw Ace walking up to you stopping before you, the flickering lanterns casting shadows on his face the same face that once smiled so freely, now etched with pain and resolve.

His eyes searched yours, desperate, but guarded.

“I can’t,” he said softly, voice breaking. “Not like this. Not with all this… inside me.”

You reached out, fingers trembling, but he stepped back, avoiding your touch.

“I’m not the man you deserve. I’m fire that burns too fiercely, too recklessly, there is so much bad blood in me.”

“Please,” you whispered, tears blurring your vision “don’t leave.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile flickering.

“Sometimes love means letting go. For your sake… and mine.”

His hand brushed your cheek, gentle, warm, a fleeting touch that said everything words could not.

A small vision that showed you how much you meant to him but how much he feared letting you close

“I’ll carry you with me,” he promised. “Even if we never meet again.”

And with that, Ace turned away, the weight of his pain heavier than the sea wind that tore at your hair.

You stood frozen, the echoes of his footsteps fading into the night, and the silent ache of goodbye settling deep inside you.

Time passed until you found yourself on the battlefield, the roar of battle thundered all around. Smoke choked the air - screams tore through the chaos. You found yourself pressed between chaos and desperation only one thing was clear, save Ace.

You had to reach him.

Through the blood and fire, you pushed forward, heart pounding.

And then there he was standing next to his younger brother Luffy. Ace’ proud, fierce eyes locking onto yours, a flicker of hope in the storm.

He smiled just for a moment but it was enough to make your heart flutter.

“I’m okay,” he said, breath ragged. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

You swallowed tears. “I’m not leaving you.”

He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek, skin against skin, and your cursed fruit flared.

Not battlefields. Not dying screams. Just you and him, safe. A quiet smile, a gentle touch, a whispered promise. “I want to live for you because I finally see that I deserve it, I deserve you.”

But fate was cruel.

Before you could hold him, the world tilted, the strike came fast and then Ace fell.

You screamed, reached for him, but the weight of the impossible dragged him away as he collapsed against Luffy.

His eyes found yours one last time as you rushed to his side, pain, love, and regret mingled there.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t stay.”

And then the light faded.

You collapsed beside him, tears burning hotter than any flame.

The cursed fruit’s visions haunted you, not just desire, but loss, the unbearable cost of love in a world broken by war.

💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔💔

Thatch

Most of the time the things you saw when you touched one of the crew, it was harmless. Boring. A snack, a promotion, a quiet nap, a woman for a night.

But then came Thatch..

You had tripped on the stairs. He had caught you, calloused hands gripping your bare forearm.

It was instinct. Reflex. He held you like it was nothing.

But it hit you like a cannonball.

A vision, a future you didn’t know he imagined.

You laughing in a kitchen filled with light. A ring on your finger. His jacket over your shoulders. His lips on your neck as he hugged you from behind. A home. A love. You and him. Happy.

You jolted, gasped, scrambled away like he burned you. The tray crashed to the ground. He blinked, confused.

“…You okay, sweetheart?”

You stared at him. Too long. Too hard.

And he looked at you like you were precious, like you were the One Piece.

“You’ve got eyes like a trap, sweetheart. I walk in, and I don’t wanna leave.” He said with a charming smile.

And you suddenly couldn’t bear it.

You thought maybe if you gave it time, the feeling would pass. His desire would fade. He’d meet someone else, flirt with some girl at a port bar like he always did.

But it didn’t fade no in fact it only grew stronger.

Every time he touched you, you saw more and more and always you and him together, always a ring on your finger, always him cherishing and loving you.

And the worst by now you wanted it too.

But what if it was just a fantasy? A fleeting thought sparked by the fruit? You couldn’t trust what you saw. You shouldn’t trust it. So you kept your distance because you were a coward.

And Thatch noticed.

“Did I do something?”

His voice was quieter than usual. No teasing. No smug grin.

You looked up from your mug. You hadn’t even realized he was in the galley.

“…No,” you said quickly. “I’ve just… had a lot on my mind.”

He nodded slowly.

Then, he walked to you, stood close and gently placed his hand on yours.

The heat surged and another vision flooded you.

You and him under the stars and him leaning in kissing you underneath the moonlight. Whispering your name like a prayer, his eyes full of love. “You’re the only one I’d never stop chasing because you’re worth it.” And then he knelt and pulled out a small box with a ring inside, it was his dream idea to ask you to marry him.

You bit your tongue when the vision ended.

“I think about you a lot,” he said. Honest. Low. “Not just in the way you probably think. Not just for a night.”

You swallowed.

“I know you’ve got secrets. Everyone here does.” His thumb brushed your knuckle. “I won’t ask for them. But if you ever want to talk, or, hell, even yell at me, I can take it.”

You didn’t respond.

You were afraid if you opened your mouth, you’d tell him you saw every secret he didn’t know he had.

And god how you loved him for it and that was eating at you.

A few days later Thatch burst into your quarters with the giddy energy of a boy who found buried treasure.

“You won’t believe what I found”

You blinked blearily from your hammock. “If it’s more spiked jam, I swear I’ll kill you.”

“Nope. Better.” He held out the chest.

Inside sat a strange black fruit, spiraled and sinister. It gave you a strange feeling.

“…Is that a Devil Fruit?” you asked cautiously.

He nodded. “I checked the book. Yami Yami No Mi. Darkness. Gravity. Crazy stuff.”

You sat up. “Where did you get this?”

“Found it,” he smirked brightly.

“You wanna consume a Devil Fruit that gives….really bad vibes” you asked carefully and he just gave you that charming smile.

“Probably, you should have seen Teach I think he’s a little jealous that I found this beauty” Thatch joked but you didn’t think this was a joking matter.

“…Thatch, I don’t like this”

He waved you off. “Ah don’t worry sweetheart, I’m still debating when to bite into it, by our rule – finders keepers.”

“Just be careful,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “Aren’t I always?”

You looked at him.

“No. You’re not that’s why I said it.”

He smiled and stepped close and before you knew it cupped your cheek. His thumb grazed your skin and the desire hit again.

He wanted to tell you he loved you. Not someday. Tomorrow. Out on the deck. You and him the morning breeze the sun rising and him holding your hand, kissing you and telling you those three words.   

Your heart was racing, your cheeks heating up and you almost said it back.

But fear won again and you still didn’t dare telling him about your power about the fact that you felt for him, what he felt for you. You sighed….tomorrow, tomorrow you’d tell him, tomorrow when those three words would leave his lips you would tell him everything you decided.

The next morning you woke up to shouting. Marco. Vista. Ace.

You staggered out of bed barefoot, heart thundering.

You knew, you felt it that something was wrong.

“Where’s Thatch?”

No one answered you but the looks on their face said enough.

You stormed onto the deck and found him there. Face down. Crumpled. Bleeding.

Your knees gave out.

The Yami Yami no Mi was gone. So was Teach.

Thatch’s lips were still. His body still warm.

And all you could think was: He died wanting me. And I never said it back.

They buried him at sea. You didn’t cry. Not at first. You were too angry. At yourself. At Teach. At fate.

But that night, alone on deck, you finally whispered the words:

“I saw you. Every time you touched me. I saw how you felt and I loved you too. ”

The stars said nothing.

You swallowed, grief and regret washing over you. Regret you never told him, you never let him in on your secret, on the fact you felt the same, that you wanted to kiss him as badly as he wanted to kiss you.

“I felt it too. But I was afraid… that maybe it wasn’t real. That it was just the fruit messing with my head.”

You touched your own arm, where he used to hold you.

“…But it was real, wasn’t it?”

You smiled. Broken. Tired.

“I would’ve said yes, Thatch. If you had asked.”

The wind carried nothing back but salt and silence.

“If you ever want to catch me,” you whispered to the waves, “you’ll have to come back first.”

[cardiohiphopgroovesitisthen]

For you, dear? Anything.

Eddie/Volt x reader

Angst, slow burn 🔥

Part 7

Master list here

When Bev asked you to help her run the game night at the Breaker Box, you couldn’t find a good enough reason not to - at least not one that you wanted to say out loud. After all, you couldn’t deny that people don’t always visit the minibar because they’re drinking at the club, so it was a great idea to meet the people where they are and run a game night that features some brand new mini bar exclusive drinks. After Eddie’s awkward permission was given, the plan was easily set. Chance, Maggie and Parker would provide several games, Bev would work on some new drinks to feature and all you had to do was spread the word.

Now that it’s the day of the event, you’re mulling over the possibility of being around Eddie again. It seemed like he could barely stand the sight of you the last time you were in the same room. You do your best to brace yourself for the evening.

When you and Bev arrive at the Breaker Box, Volt greets you both. Bev’s so occupied with arranging the event and making sure the tables are at just the right angles, she hardly seems to notice Volt’s worrying appearance. Volt’s eyes have dimmed from their usual vibrant white to an almost glassy blue. His hair has lost much of its sheen and his posture is somewhat deflated. As Bev starts pushing tables and moving chairs out of the way, Volt must have been reading the concern in your face, because he whispers at you, “I am fine.”, before you get the chance to even pose the question.

You tell him that you don’t believe him but he just flashes you a winning smile and leaves you and Bev. You reluctantly drop the subject to go help Bev with the rudimentary set up.

“Hmmm…something is ... missing…there’s a…there’s something not quite ‘game night’ about this. It sort of just feels like we rented the club.” You give her a placating nod. “Okay, yes we did just rent the club but it doesn’t have to look like it. Something…” As she ruminates, you suggest that maybe the lighting could be changed. “Yes! I love it, okay, you go see about changing the lighting, and I’m going to start on the displays.”

When you first met Bev, you thought her bouncy attitude was from some kind of overflowing well of positivity. Now that you’ve gotten to know her a bit, her persevering smile looks more like she’s trying not to sink in quicksand that only she can see. You do your best to reassure her that everything is going to go well. In this moment, helping her feels good, no matter what happens today.

You look around the walls for light switches or sliders but you can’t seem to find any. “Figures.” You go to the office to try to find some type of control panel. When you open the office door, your heart sinks; you find Volt, struggling to stand, bracing himself against a desk.

You spring into action and help him into a chair. Through his mumbles, he tries to tell you he’s fine but you won’t hear it.

“Volt, what is this? I tried to respect your privacy and give you your own space when you’re looking tired, but whatever this is is not healthy; what is going on?”

“Why, live wire, what-“

“No, don’t ‘live wire’ me, Volt. Talk. Now.”

He keeps trying to right himself, keeps trying to arrange his face into something that isn’t agony. “It is only a temporary thing.” You continue to stare at him, urging more information. “Aren’t you busy? Couldn’t there- doesn’t Beverly need help?”

You lean down to meet his eye. “Don’t. You don’t have to do that, Volt. Stop. No more misdirection. Tell me what is going on.” He starts to say something but you cut him off. “Tell me what is going on or I will ask Eddie.”

His eyes go wide. “There is no call for that.”

“No? Are you sure? Because Eddie lives with you, Volt. I laid eyes on you for two seconds and I can’t stand this. So if he thinks this is okay, then he’s more of an ass than I thought.”

“Now, you just watch it.” Even in this state, Volt’s voice is booming and sizzling with threat. But you are simply too concerned to be afraid.

“I am watching, Volt. I’m watching you struggle to sit up straight. Tell me what’s going on, or I will ask Eddie. I mean it.”

“Eddie doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what? Eddie doesn’t know what you look like? It’s plain as fucking day, Volt.”

“Eddie doesn’t ever have to see it.”

“Volt, please…I…I can't let whatever is happening to you keep happening. So if you don’t tell me, I’m calling Eddie regardless.”

Volt puts a shaky hand up, begging you to wait. Some kind of acceptance falls over his face and he sits up as straight as he can, looking you in the eyes. He takes a deep breath. “Before the reset, Eddie was barely holding onto any power at all. It was up to me to keep him…sustained, regulated. I had to monitor how much I used for the house, because if I ever overdid it, he would feel it. He wouldn’t know that it was from me; he just assumed the bar was taking its toll. But it was the house, the demands…the power I was using for both of us. I had to regulate everything, including Eddie. And now, with the reset, Eddie can pull as much power as he needs for himself. The trouble is…we can only expend so much before we start pulling from each other.”

“He’s…siphoning you-“

“No. It‘s not his fault. He doesn’t know. It’s not quite intuitive. It takes time to attune to the feeling. And at the moment, Eddie has a lot more to focus on with himself than trying to think about me. Live wire, I know what’s happening. I can tell him if it ever gets too much.” The concern never leaves your face. “I will tell him, my dear. If it ever gets too much to bear, I will tell him. And even if it never does, whenever he is better, I will tell him. It just needn’t be right this second. See?” He puts a hand on your cheek. “I’m fine.” He slowly takes his hand back when he sees that you are unconvinced.

“That day - when he ran up to I, Ronaldini, he’d never moved that fast before. You felt it then.” Volt just looks at you, almost seeming relieved that you’re finally putting the pieces together so he doesn’t have to say it out loud. “And you felt it when he told me to get out of the Breaker Box. I thought it was just him…being angry. But he was using you-“

“He doesn’t know.”

“How can you just…”

“The same way you do. The same way you keep coming back. He needs me.”, he says with a proud, pained smile. “When Eddie is here, he is using less power. So, he never has to see me…like this.” After a moment, Volt stands back up to his full height. “Live wire, what Eddie needs right now is support. Will you let me be that for him?”

You feel like this is an impossible decision. He is asking you to trust in him. He looks as if he believes that he is okay. But you’re not sure if that makes it true. You decide that after today, after this event, you’ll keep a closer eye on him. You’ll manage the appliances better. You’ll talk to Eddie, if only to make sure that he keeps an eye on Volt too. After today.

“Yes. Yes. He won’t hear it from me…”

Volt lets out a long sigh. He holds your head to his chest and lays his cheek on the top of it. “Thank you, live wire.”

By the time Volt is done helping you with the lighting panel, you can already hear people in the club. Volt tells you to go help Bev.

“You know where to find me”, he says. “I think it’s probably best if I just…stay back here for now. Just to…you know.”

You nod at him and head out of the office. Before you open the door, you tell him, “You cater to him too much.”

“Darling, I am sure I don’t need to call Amir in here to show you the irony of that statement.” You laugh despite yourself. “Go have fun, my dear. I’ll be right here.”

When you leave the office, you’re surprised to see so many people have shown up already. Right off the bat, the night seems like a success. You stand by Bev at the bar and help make drinks for everyone there - alcoholic and nonalcoholic. People seem to love the drinks, which is perfect because the constant wave of customers helps to pass the time with minimal opportunities to think about how nervous you actually are. When it comes time to play the games, Maggie approaches you and Bev, looking slightly flustered. “Oh, I’m in a pickle, ladies. My game is a two-person player and there’s only one person left to play. Could you possibly…?”

“Why don’t you play, Maggie? It’ll be fun!”

“I’m already signed up for whatever Chance has brewing! I’m hoping it’s a strategy game. Or an escape room!”

You laugh. “Bev? You wanna play?”

“Are you kidding? And miss out on watching the absolute SUCCESS of this NIGHT?! Absolutely not. You go ahead. I'm already having more fun than I can handle.” Bev’s joy is contagious.

“Okay, I guess it’s me.” Maggie is elated. She tells you to grab a drink and says that your partner already has the deck of cards. She leads you to a two-seater table, not too far from the others. You stop when you see a figure with shaggy dark hair and a wiry waistcoat standing by the table with his back to you. “Maggie…”, you start to say, but she doesn’t notice.

“Eddie! I found you a partner!”

“Maggie, I told you. I didn’t even mean to volunteer for your game. We don't have to go find a-“ He seems like he’s preparing to leave but he stops when he sees you behind him, drink in hand.

“Come on!” Maggie says to you, enthusiastically patting the chair opposite Eddie.

You walk over and sit down, trying not to look as awkward as you feel, the whole while thinking ‘What are you doing? Why are you walking over? Why are you sitting down? Where is your backbone; have you no agency?!’

The indignant voice in your head is silenced as Eddie slowly takes his seat and says “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Oooookay. So the game is Truth or Drink!” ‘Of fucking course it is.’ “You just take turns picking a card, you read the card, and then the other person either answers the question, or they take a drink!” You and Eddie both look as if you’re searching for the nearest exit. “Okay, have fun!! I’ll be right over there watching!” And she leaves.

You and Eddie both look at the deck of cards like at any moment it could sprout a scorpion tail and spit venom in your eyes and also shoot laser beams. It might as well have been blessed by gods too old to name and too terrible to worship. Eddie is the first to cut through the tension.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine. Good. How are you?”

“Yeah, good, too.”

“Cool”

“Cool.”

You instinctively take a sip of your drink.

“You’re already refusing to answer the first question? I haven’t even read it yet.”, he says, looking at the other tables.

“I’m thirsty.”

“Mhm.” He still won’t look at you. “Just don’t get drunk before the game even starts.”

“Well, first of all, don’t tell me what to do. Also, it’s a mockfail. We’re workshopping some them for the minibar.”

“I…think you mean mocktail.”

“No, no, it’s like…like a non-alcoholic drink that’s good for you, but…we can’t get them to taste any good, so…mock….fail.”

He gives a pandering nod. “Oh. Cool, yeah, I like it.”

“Yeah, we’re also workshopping the name, it’s…it’s stupid.”

“No, it’s funny.” Unspoken words rattle between you with every break in the conversation. You’re both eager to distract yourselves from them. “Why did you pick a mockfail? Not drinking today?”

You shake your head and study him, wondering if it’s worth even telling the truth. “Just following my own rules.” You told Eddie about your drinking rules the first time you shared a drink - don’t drink when you’re alone and don’t drink when you’re sad. He looks confused at first, looking around the room full of people, but then you get the feeling he understands what you mean. “I guess I haven’t always followed that rule..”, he admits.

“Right, you do as you please, huh?”

“What?”

“Just something Volt said one time. ‘The Breaker Box belongs to Eddie. He does as he pleases.’” You give a small chuckle at your impression of Volt, but Eddie just looks at you. There’s something barely restrained in his eyes. It looks almost helpless. It melts something in you. “Well…I guess we might as well get this going. Maggie wasn’t kidding about watching us.” You look over at Maggie who is giving you a double thumbs up from Chance’s table. You return the gesture as Eddie tentatively picks up the first card.

He reads, “Have you ever taken one of Mateo’s inanimals to snuggle and pretended to look for them with him later?” He rolls his eyes, but you stifle a chuckle. “Seriously?”

“I haven’t done it. That would be kind of mean. But also, that’s really funny.” His face is stoic. You reach over and pick up a card. “‘When was the last time you put something in Harper that wasn’t laundry?’ Oh, no, Maggie. Oh, you didn’t let anyone proofread these, did you?”

“Geez, Maggie.”

“We can skip it, I’ll pull a new one.”

“What, why would we skip it, I’ll just be honest. Never. There, my turn.”

“Well, sure, but I could have guessed that.”

“Yeah, well, good. Too bad you got the sucky question.”, he says playfully as he pulls the next card. “Do your best…impression…of your opponent.” He stares at the card with a defeated look on his face.

Your eyes light up. “Oh, that would be you.” He nods. “Do an impression of you, to your face?” He nods once more. You break out in roaring laughter. You don’t see Maggie a few tables over, beaming at the fun you seem to be having playing her game. “Oh my god, yes.”

“All right, all right, let’s get it over with.”

“Well there are so many options. I can…be moody and distant. Or should I be distant and moody…?”, you say, lightly tapping your chin in mock contemplation.

“You are not funny.” There’s a small smile playing at the corners of Eddie’s lips.

Your chest flutters at the hint of his smile. It makes you feel weak. You remember when being around Eddie meant it was safe to be weak. You’re not so sure now. You speak before you think about what you’re saying. “Or I guess I could just leave…that would also be pretty spot on.” You don’t look at him. You just take a drink to end his turn. In your periphery, you see him nodding to himself. You pick up a card and read “What is your scariest nightmare?”

Before you can look up at him, Eddie is already taking a drink and pulling the next card. He reads “Have you ever helped Bobby commit a crime?”

“Despite my best efforts, no. She talks a big game but her heart’s not in it.”

“Yours is?”

“Depends on the crime.”

“Have you ever even committed a crime?”

“I bootleg a lot of media - like a lot of media.”

“That’s…lame.”

“Says you. Mac was a hypochondriac before I got proper virus protection.” You pick the next card. “Say…a nice thing…about your opponent.” You keep your eyes on the card, waiting to get his response over with. You wait for what feels like a full minute, but Eddie doesn’t speak. When you look up at him, he is already looking at you. A thousand thoughts seem to cross his mind before he settles on one.

“You make me laugh.”

“So I am funny?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Mmm so you laugh at things that aren’t funny?”

“I can’t control what I laugh at.”

“So you can’t help but laugh at me?”

“With you.”, he corrects. “And yes. With you, I…can’t help it.” His brow twitches and he chews on his lip, as if eating words before they can fall out of his mouth. His breathing looks different. The posturing is gone. He pulls the next card. He almost looks like he doesn’t want to read it out loud. “What do you remember about the first time you met your opponent?”

You study him. You can’t help but smile when you recall the memory. “I thought you actually hated me.” He just silently nods. “That first night, when you told me to get lost, I'm pretty sure I cried about it to Betty.”

He breaks his stoic demeanor and looks genuinely concerned. “No”

You just laugh. “Yeah! I had already disappointed a couple of people that day. I completely forgot some coffee lore that Kopi told me - Irish whiskey tastes like vanilla, by the way. And I was just trying to get to know everyone and be helpful and, umm…and then I got told off for it.” You’re laughing as you recall it, but Eddie doesn’t join in. “Anyway. I thought you were just hard working and busy.”

“And an asshole.”

“Not an asshole.”

“Well-“

“You looked like you were in pain.” You look at him as softly as you can, but he looks like he's getting gradually more uncomfortable in his own skin. You pull the next card. “How are you?”, you ask with a straight face.

“It does not say that.”

“You don’t know, it’s not your card.”

“Can you just read the card?”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“You calling me a liar?” The way you say it, it sounds like a dare.

“I would never call you that.” He leans into his words, eager for you to believe him.

“Then answer the question.”

“You know me. I’m always okay.” His voice is smooth but you’re attuned to the feel of his nervous static. You feel it playing at the tips of your fingers as you rest your hands on the table.

“Drink.”

“What?”

“Those are the rules, if you don’t want to answer the question, you drink.”

“You calling me a liar?”, he asks, mimicking your tone.

“Yeah.”, you say, stone-faced.

He drinks.

You bring the card back up and read “What is the hardest part about your job in the house?”

He scoffs at how you’re blatantly toying with him. He studies your face. Finally, he says, “Socializing.”

“You’re away all the time; you seem good at it now.”

“Seeming good at it is also part of the job.” He picks up a card and, looking into your eyes, asks, “What were you doing at the Breaker Box?”

You can’t help the switch that flips within you. “Do you mean for the last week when I’m here with Volt and you’re too spiteful to come talk to me? Or do you mean before?”

His jaw clenches. You can feel the heat under the table. “Before” He pushes the words through his teeth.

You shake your head, already tired. “Eddie, don't ask questions if you’re not willing to listen to the answer.”

“Would you stop assuming you know everything about me and what I’m willing to do? You want honesty from me, I’m asking you for the same.”

You look him in the eyes, not angry, not sad. It’s almost a look of resignation. “Are you going to believe me if I tell you?” He gives an exasperated nod. You tell him the truth. “I was helping you.” There’s an ‘I knew it’ look on his face that carves into your chest. He looks as if you’ve said something that justifies him avoiding you for the last week.

He starts to say something but you shake your head at him. Your voice becomes raspy with restraint. “Let me answer something that I didn’t get to before.” You lean in to prevent the people in the next table from hearing you. Your eyes are trained on Eddie’s. Eddie’s posture is guarded; he looks like he’s bracing to be struck in the face.

“I told you there was something I wanted to do, but I was too scared to do it. And you asked me what it was. I refused to tell you. Do you remember that?” He nods, that guarded look still on his face. “I wanted to stay here, Eddie. I wanted to forget about Skylar and Valdivian, and the entire world outside of the Breaker Box. And you know what, in a way, I have still never really left.” You can feel your eyes turning red, mirroring the bright copper coils in Eddie’s. “I go to the Breaker Box every single day. I don’t go when the club is open because I don’t want you to feel cornered, or ambushed, because I want you to be able to talk to me in your own time, because how you feel is important to me.” A sort of crazed, cathartic laugh rumbles behind your words. “And you know what’s insane? just gut-wrenchingly hilarious? The chuckle cherry on top of this absolute horseshit pie? When I’m running around this house doing favors for everyone, doing what used to be enough for me, I am still looking for you. Because when you’re away from me, Eddie, I’m the one who doesn’t feel like a person. I feel like a thing being used, piloting myself around to the next job that helps everyone but me. And you know what, that might be the very last thing we have in common.”

You can’t tell if the vibrations in the table are from his radiating energy or your shaking body. You and Eddie are in your own world for a few seconds - a world with no gravity, a thick atmosphere, and predators that will rip you apart if you make any semblance of a sound.

You are jettisoned back to earth by the sound of Parker screaming. “You filthy fucking cheater!” You whip around to look.

He is sitting with Lux and Maggie at Chance’s table. Lux is nonplussed, phone in hand. “What? Is it the right answer or not?”

“The point of the riddle is that we work together!”

“And I did my part by giving you the answer, relax.”

“You got the answer from someone not at the table!”

“Ummm my chat is in my hand? And my hand is at the table? Duh?” Chance tries to calm Parker down and tell him that there’s a lot more to do in the grotto, but Parker insists that Lux be thrown from the table. “You’re literally just jealous you didn’t have anyone to tell you the answer and that is embarrassing.”

When you turn back to Eddie, there is only an empty seat. You scan the room and see Eddie make his way outside of the bar. You chase after him, catching up to him outside.

“Are you serious?”

“There’s work to do. I can’t hang around all night.”

Realization hits you. “Oh my god. This is why? You’ve been using work to make excuses for why you can’t just fucking talk to me? This is why you’ve been hurting Volt?!”

He whips around and is face to face with you in the blink of an eye. “What the hell are you talking about?”

You don’t flinch. “You selfish ass. You really haven’t even noticed, have you?” Worry begins to creep into Eddie’s eyes. “You’ve been so hell bent on working so that you could avoid me, that you’ve been siphoning power from Volt.”

“What?” He looks as if he’s dropped two inches in height. His voice is so small. “No, I haven’t-“

“Where do you think it comes from, Eddie?”

“The reset-“

“The reset gave you and Volt equal power. But you feel better than before, don’t you? Stronger? What do you think that leaves Volt with?”

You lay into Eddie some more, telling him how irresponsible and self centered he is, but Eddie doesn’t seem to hear you. Everything suddenly turns cold. The disbelief on Eddie’s face turns to acceptance, and then fear. He spins around, returning to the Breaker Box, you in tow. He beelines for the office. When you open the door, you find Volt slumped over on a chair with his eyes barely open.

Part 6

[preemptivejustice]

The compliment was odd, and was ignored somewhat on purpose. Arthur had never been one for compliments - praise slipped through him like sand through an hourglass. It was heard, it was absorbed, it even meant something - but it typically just passed through. This one, however, the praise for how he handled his words, settled somewhere strange in his chest. It was a warmth that tightened at first, before relaxing into something gentle again. 

He nodded carefully. “I’d be happy to. Tea, poems…” he shrugged a shoulder. Maybe there was something to this, in a way he didn’t want to put thought into. Maybe he was helping Kane create a sort of mosaic for himself, helping him find the right pieces he wanted to click together. 

Maybe creating a personality was the same thing as Kane making his creation with the puzzle - Arthur hoped so. He was familiar with the pieces, but he was eager to see what shapes could be made. 

He loved that Kane had shown him new shapes, in more than just the puzzle. 

His gaze shifted back to the man’s arm, still outstretched into the wind and rain. Still desperate to touch something; the droplets ran in gentle stripes across Kane's skin, and Arthur traced the movements like they were points on a map. He wasn’t allowed to follow it, he knew - but he wanted to. He was fascinated by the other, deeply and truly.

Perhaps even an adoration. 

There was a kind of peace here, that Arthur hadn’t felt in a long time. Not just comfort, nor was it safety, but peace. The room hardly contributed - Arthur had stared out at the wetlands so often that it was practically the same as the screensaver on his laptop - but because of the man. Because of Kane, who fit so perfectly with the backdrop of nature that it almost felt criminal to know they couldn’t stay here. 

The appearance of Kane didn’t matter, of course. Arthur was far past caring about the appearance of others - but his mind, the interior of him, that was what was fascinating. The strange and delicate soul that lived behind those eyes, the being who he had only just met and yet already found himself caring so deeply for. 

Arthur had spent decades studying men, studying grief and horror. He knew trauma like the back of his hand, he had saved a dozen men from falling apart or hurting themselves - and this, by comparison, was nothing short of miraculous. Not surviving trauma, but becoming something despite it. Living softly, despite having no reason to. A choice of creation. 

Arthur stood carefully, his knee making the familiar sound that it always did when he stood. His hand pressed against the seat just to give him balance as he rose, using the cane for the short walk across the room. It wasn’t threatening, nor even rushing - he just sat down carefully next to the other. Not too close - just enough to share the view. 

The breeze moved through him a bit more, now, damp and cold. It smelled a bit stronger, too - the scent of water and soil, ozone and pine. It was a good smell, of course. He had always liked pine. 

Arthur inhaled gently before exhaling, looking out at the world. He watched Kane’s outstretched arm, before shifting focus to his face; he wished they could go outside fully. He would suggest it, even, if he didn’t worry that taking the man outside entirely would risk him losing his job. 

“Why are you doing that?” he asked, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t being judgmental. He was only curious, he was only ever curious - and Kane had had his arm outside for longer than Arthur had expected. It was more than just feeling what the rain was like, perhaps? It was enjoyment in the feeling? 

Arthur debated only a moment longer, not needing much time to think it through before he moved. He shifted his weight enough to bring himself closer to the next window, opening it with far more ease than Kane had - the window swung open, the sound and smell of rain only getting more prominent around them. 

Arthur had to roll up his sleeve, undoing the button and scrunching it up to his elbow, but he followed the motion all the same. His arm reached out, allowing the rain to catch on it - cold drops hit his skin, warming as they began rolling down his arm.

Even though Kane doesn't really understand - at least not fully, not yet - he enjoys to listen to Harrow's spoken words, the poem he's reciting; It sounds beautiful to him, the flow of syllables, the way they fit together and seem to bring an emotion across all by themselves. A way to explain what might be impossible to explain otherwise, a sensation, a feeling carried by words in an almost dreamy way.

Kane likes poems, he decides. Granted, he's only been listening to a small fraction here, supposes that there are tons of others existing - but he's fond of what he's been given here, something... romantic, that's what the other had called it before. Perhaps Kane likes poems that speak about emotions in such a way, simply because they seem to carry a truth he cannot define but feels somewhere deep within his own heart.

Dr. Harrow's smile is noted, that's what causes Kane's own smile to grow in return.

"...I would like that. All of it." A blink, a soft exhale, a gaze that rests on the other for a bit longer - the shimmer a bit more gentle now within those irises, allowing brown to appear in between, similar to an oil slick again - before that very same gaze flicks away and back to that hand that still exists outside of the room, continuing to collect the water that keeps falling from the sky.

The heron finally flies away, catches Kane, not-Kane, it's attention, and he follows the bird's motions before it disappears around a corner, unable to be watched by curious eyes anymore. They return to his digits instead which spread out and straighten, letting go of the puddle in the process, just so that the whole of that hand can turn around and have the back face upwards now.

Bronze skin is glistening, light reflecting in a pretty way because of all the water that's covering him. Perhaps Kane should pull back, but... he doesn't want to, not quite, not yet. Just a little bit longer, a few more minutes; Kane wished that the whole of him could go outside and stand in the rain, experience the sensation of those droplets coating his face, his hair, his whole body.

He doesn't really know why he wants to do it, but he imagines it to feel amazing - freeing, almost, similar to what he experiences now, just... more intense, perhaps.

An expression turning thoughtful again, smile having long softened, faded a bit, replaced by something more deep and profound. Kane inhales and enjoys the scent of nature and moisture, before he allows that breath to leave him in a long and steady motion...

"...I liked the poem you were reciting." A brief pause. "...And I enjoyed listening to you speaking it out loud. The way you handle those words - there's something... calming to it. Something comfortable."

Harrow's voice combined with that poem just... seems to work really well. It's hard to explain, Kane just enjoys the sound of it - of both, honestly. He hums, tilts his head a bit, turns his hand the other way around again...

"Perhaps you could find similar poems to show me, yes - I wouldn't know where to start. You, however, are experienced... seem to have read a lot, can give me some recommendations." ... "...Just like you did with that tea." That smile returns and Kane's attention does as well, finding its way back to Dr. Harrow, eyes meeting the other's own - a nod follows, a brief lift of brows, almost a little... challenging, perhaps? Expectant, maybe? But soft, gentle in nature - nothing harsh, nothing too forward.

"You spoke about peppermint tea before - I'd like to give that one a try as well. It sounds good to me, the concept of it. Would you make one for me, once we're going back? ---A cup of peppermint tea?"

Another pause, gaze trailing away, back to that arm, smile vanishing.

Kane wants to stay for a bit longer, still... but knows that, at some point, he has to go back to his own room. Has to exist within white and sterile, as he did before. ---Somehow, though, the thought of it doesn't feel as neutral anymore as it did mere hours ago. It has... changed, again, like so many things seem to change recently.

[imhalfplastic]

i remember you differently

⊹ overview - pairing: wonwoo x f!reader | one shot genre: soft angst · alternate reality · introspective slow burn themes: quiet connection, fragmented memory, second chances across timelines cw: light existential themes, emotional ambiguity, sfw

summary: a notebook appears with memories that aren’t quite yours, a name that feels both familiar and strange. he shows up in quiet moments, like a shadow from another life. and between what’s remembered and what’s forgotten, something is waiting to be found if you’re brave enough to keep looking.

from kai: humm... i was trying to write something a little different these days. never really did anything like this before, so i hope it’s enjoyable :)

now playing: lejos de ti - the marias

the town is smaller than you remembered. or maybe you're just larger now. not in size. in noise. in weight. in the way you hesitate before entering places that seem to already know you.

you arrive at the edge of dusk. the sky folds itself into shades of lavender and rust, the hills casting long shadows like tired ghosts. the cab driver helps you with your suitcase, then disappears without a word. the gravel crunches under your feet as you climb the short path toward the house.

the house.

you never lived here, but you’ve dreamed of it. or maybe you’ve only dreamed inside it. versions of summer that never happened, imagined in your childhood bedroom with the window cracked open.

your great-aunt left it to you after she passed. you were the only one left who didn’t object to silence.

it’s a strange thing, stepping into a place that’s been waiting for you without knowing your name.

the air inside is thick with the scent of old wood, mothballs, and lemon soap. not unpleasant. just real.

you walk through each room slowly, fingers grazing the edges of furniture like you’re reading braille. everything’s exactly where it belongs. which is what makes it unsettling. you feel like you should know this place better. but your memory offers only flickers: a blue teacup, a song hummed near the kitchen sink, someone calling your name softly but not quite reaching you.

you unpack half-heartedly, then climb the narrow staircase toward the study. you don’t know how you know it’s a study, but you do.

the third drawer of the desk sticks. you tug once, twice. it gives suddenly, throwing your balance.

inside: a mess of papers, yellowed receipts, curled photographs. a thimble. a playing card. and at the bottom, tucked flat like it didn’t want to be found

a leather-bound notebook. soft. familiar.

you hold it in your hands for a moment. it’s warm.

the handwriting on the first page is neat, slanted slightly to the right. it looks like yours. or like how yours would look if you stopped trying so hard.

you read:

i saw him again today. same place. same time. he looked tired. i think he always looks tired. but i’d recognize the shape of him anywhere. even in a dream.

you stare at the page. reread it twice.

there’s something wrong about it. but not in a bad way.

it feels… intimate.

you flip through the rest of the notebook. the entries are fragmented. not dated. each one reads like the inside of a thought you might’ve had, but never written down.

you set the notebook down carefully, like it might bruise.

that night, you dream of someone standing outside a bookstore. navy coat. head bowed. a book in his hand.

you wake with the image still sharp behind your eyes. you’ve never seen him before. you’re sure of that. and yet the ache is there.

the bookstore is on main street. you don’t go there for the dream. you go because you need something to read that isn’t your own mind.

the bell above the door rings soft and quick. the air smells like cedar and dust and something faintly citrus.

you walk slowly through the shelves. you don’t expect to see him. you certainly don’t expect him to look up.

but he does. his eyes meet yours. and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

he blinks first. then offers a polite smile, quiet, like an afterthought.

“hi.” he says. his voice is lower than you expected. gentle. a little hoarse.

you nod. you try to smile back, but your mouth feels far away.

he doesn’t say anything else. but he keeps looking.

you turn down the next aisle without picking a book.

you read the notebook again that night.

his voice is lower than i expected. like it's been raining inside him. i wonder if he dreams about me the way i dream about him. as if we’ve already said goodbye.

your hand trembles slightly as you flip to the next page. but it’s blank.

you see him again three days later. this time, it’s the café on the corner. the kind that’s trying a little too hard to be charming, but pulls it off with chipped mugs and the smell of cinnamon.

he’s seated by the window. a paperback open on the table. one hand resting on the spine, the other curled around a ceramic cup.

he glances up once. does a double-take.

you expect him to look away. but he doesn’t.

you take the table across from him, a few seats down. you don’t know why.

halfway through your tea, he says, quietly, “sorry... have we met before?”

you turn. his expression is calm. almost embarrassed. like he’s not sure he should’ve asked.

“i don’t think so...” you say.

he nods. then, “you just look familiar.”

you smile, even though it feels like a lie. because you were thinking the same thing. and you still are.

the name comes to you before he ever says it. a few days later you're at the same café, third table from the window, pretending to read. he’s paying for something at the counter. he laughs. soft, barely audible. and you flinch like you’ve heard it before in a dream.

the barista hands him change. “thanks, wonwoo.”

and you freeze.

wonwoo.

the sound folds into itself. it fits.

like it’s always been there. just tucked beneath something softer.

you whisper it later to yourself as you walk home. wonwoo. wonwoo.

you say it like a spell. like it might open a door. and maybe it does.

you don’t write it in the notebook.

you open it that night, thinking you’ll try. just his name, in ink. but the page is already filled.

i know his name now. but it doesn’t feel new. it feels like an echo. like it’s been stitched into my ribs for years. wonwoo. i think i used to say it out loud in the dark.

your hands tremble.

you close the notebook. but the name doesn’t leave you.

the next time you see him, it’s raining.

the kind of rain that starts slow and indecisive, like it’s asking permission to fall. it leaves streaks on the bookstore windows, pools at the edge of the sidewalk, clings to your sleeves like it wants to stay.

you’re holding a half-broken umbrella. he’s holding nothing, already wet, like he didn’t expect the sky to keep its word.

you almost don’t say anything. but then he notices you through the door and lifts a hand in that half-wave kind of way that people do when they’re not sure if they’re allowed to miss you.

you walk in. he’s wearing a navy sweater this time. glasses. rain on his collar. his hair is messy in a thoughtful way.

“you’re back.” he says. and it sounds like more than small talk.

“so are you.” you answer.

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to solve a riddle you didn’t mean to give him.

that night, the notebook isn’t where you left it.

you find it later. not tucked under your pillow, not on the nightstand, but sitting quietly in the middle of the kitchen table. open.

you don’t remember placing it there. but you’re no longer surprised by things like this.

a new page. your handwriting. but not your memory.

he was wearing a navy sweater today. the sleeves were too long. he smelled like the kind of rain that stays in your clothes. i think he knew me. i think he didn’t know how.

your breath catches. you close the notebook carefully, like it might shatter if you move too quickly.

you don’t sleep much that night. but when you dream, it’s of hands brushing in a hallway. eyes meeting under bookstore lights.

you don’t see him for four days.

and then, the library. he’s in the quietest corner, reading something thick and serious-looking, but he’s halfway through a yawn when you walk in.

his eyes light up just a little when he sees you. not enough to be obvious. just enough to make something in your chest ache.

you sit across from him without asking. he pushes a book toward you without a word.

“i thought you might like this.” he says, softly.

it’s a book of poetry. you try to read the first stanza but keep getting distracted by the way he turns his pages. slow, almost reverent.

“do you believe in… timelines?” you ask suddenly.

he looks up. not surprised. just curious.

“like alternate ones?” he asks. “yeah. like… what if there’s a version of us that already did this?”

his gaze lingers.

“i think about that more than i should.”

you don’t speak again for the rest of the hour. but when you leave, he walks with you to the door, and your arms brush in the narrow aisle.

he doesn’t apologize. you don’t look away.

when you get home, the notebook is on the windowsill.

open.

you walk toward it slowly, like it might vanish if you blink too fast.

he gave me a book today. said he thought i’d like it. he doesn’t know he’s said that before. he doesn’t remember me. but his hands still do.

you close the cover with shaking fingers. press it against your chest like you’re trying to hold something in.

the next morning, there’s a knock at your door.

he’s standing there with a paper bag and a look that says i wasn’t sure you’d open it.

“morning.” he says, soft. “i brought pastries. i didn’t want to assume, so i got one of everything.”

you blink at him, then step aside.

“you want coffee?”

he nods once. “i always do.”

you don’t remember him saying that before. but the smile on his face says he already did, somewhere.

you eat in the kitchen. you watch him across the table as the light filters in behind his silhouette. he reads the backs of sugar packets and tears the croissant in quiet halves.

you think he looks like someone who’s been waiting for this moment without realizing it.

he leaves around noon.

you walk back into the kitchen and find the notebook open again.

you didn’t touch it. you’re sure of that.

he likes orange marmalade. he eats it like he doesn’t remember why. maybe he liked it in another version. maybe he liked it because i did. maybe we learned it from each other.

there’s a rhythm now.

you see him. you talk. you laugh, sometimes.

and the notebook… responds.

like a mirror that only reflects the parts of you you’re not ready to admit.

sometimes the new entries are just a sentence. sometimes a paragraph. but they’re always right. always one step ahead of your understanding.

we never said “this is real”. we didn’t have to. the universe kept giving us the same lines. we just learned how to say them softer.

-

he smiled today. the kind that comes from the chest. not the mouth.

-

he remembers the smell of my shampoo. even though he’s never been this close before.

one afternoon, you bring the notebook with you.

you don’t show it to him. you just want it near, like a talisman.

you’re sitting beneath the elm trees in the park. he’s sketching something in a small notebook of his own. you think it’s the shape of your hand, but you don’t ask.

after a while, he says, “you feel like a memory.”

you look up.

“what do you mean?”

he shrugs. “like someone i already miss. even while you’re still here.”

you swallow hard.

you don’t say it but you feel the exact same way.

that night, the notebook opens itself again.

you already know what you’ll find.

he said he misses me before i’m gone. i said nothing. but i wanted to ask: what if i’ve always been leaving? and you’re the only one who noticed?

the next time you see him, it’s late afternoon. the sun is low and heavy, casting golden slants through the bookstore windows. he’s stacking paperbacks on a center table when you walk in.

he looks up, and there it is again. that smile that barely reaches his mouth, but completely transforms the air between you.

“you always come in when i’m doing something inconvenient...” he says.

“maybe you’re just always doing something inconvenient.”

he grins.

you stand across from him for a second too long. and then, impulsively, you reach into your bag and pull out the notebook.

you don’t hand it to him. you just hold it in both hands. like an offering.

“i want to show you something.” you say.

you sit together in the back corner of the bookstore. the lights are dimmer there. time feels like it breathes slower.

you open the notebook to the first page. then another. then one of the entries that wrote itself.

you slide it across the table. he reads.

he doesn’t say anything for a long time.

you watch his face. the way his brow furrows, then softens. the way he leans in just slightly, like the words are something he doesn’t want to miss.

finally, he looks up. his eyes are wide, but calm.

“did you write this?”

you shrug. “i… maybe. i don’t remember. but some of the pages appeared after we met. i swear i didn’t write them.”

you expect him to laugh. or pull away. but he doesn’t.

he nods slowly. his thumb brushes the edge of the page.

“this is going to sound strange...” he says, “but i believe you.”

your throat tightens.

“sometimes,” he continues, “i feel like we’ve done this before. like this exact moment. like i knew what you were going to say before you said it. like i’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

you blink hard.

“catch up to what?”

he leans in. “to us.”

you spend the rest of the evening reading through the notebook together. some entries he reads aloud. others you both sit in silence with, letting the weight of them settle in your chests.

at one point, he pauses on a sentence halfway down the page.

i think he knew me before i did. i think he’s always been waiting.

he glances at you. you look away.

you don’t know what to do with something that feels like fate.

when you get home, the notebook is heavier. literally. it takes both hands to lift it. you flip to the newest page, heart already hammering.

i showed him. he believed me. or maybe he believed in me. which is worse. which is better. which is terrifying.

you run your fingers over the ink. it’s still slightly wet.

you close the notebook and place it gently on your nightstand.

you don’t sleep. you don’t need to.

a week passes like a fog lifting.

you spend time with him in pieces. bookstore mornings, park bench afternoons, café windows glowing gold. he tells you about books he read as a child. you tell him about dreams you used to have. the ones where someone was always almost there.

he listens like every word is a clue. like he’s building a map with his eyes. and you’re the compass.

sometimes, you find new pages in the notebook hours before they happen.

he’s going to touch my hand today. not accidentally. not casually. and i’m going to let him.

you read it. you pretend you didn’t.

that afternoon, you reach for the same sugar packet, and his fingers wrap around yours. he doesn’t let go right away.

neither do you.

you sit on the edge of your bed that night and say his name out loud again. wonwoo. you don’t cry. but you feel like something inside you does.

you open the notebook one last time.

there are so many versions of love. this one is the quiet kind. the kind you grow into. the kind you remember before you begin. i think this time, we’re going to stay.

the last time it rains, you’re with him.

you’re both seated on the old front porch of the house. two chipped mugs, one blanket between you, the sky stitched with silver above the hills.

neither of you speaks for a while.

he watches the horizon like it’s holding something for him. you watch him.

he turns, eventually.

“do you think it’s over?” he asks.

“what is?”

“the forgetting.”

you consider this.

“i think maybe we remembered just in time.”

he smiles. it’s soft. real. you reach for his hand. he meets you halfway.

the air smells like damp leaves and something blooming out of season. you wonder, for a moment, if this is still the version of your life you were meant to find or if you both chose it, simply by staying.

inside, the notebook lies closed on the desk.

you don’t need more pages. just the ones you already have.

but if you opened it now, you’re sure it would say:

this time, we didn’t lose each other in the dark. this time, we held on. and we’ll keep the memory alive.

[streamdotpng]

Bite back.

“I can hear your thoughts, Niddy,” Wednesday says, her usual deadpan voice dipping into something almost sing song, laced with that same detached mockery she’d always weaponized.

The nickname felt like a strike, saccharine and cruel.

As kids, it passed. It could even be considered endearing in that strange twisted way things felt safe before you realized they weren’t.

But now? As teenagers? It felt humiliating. Like being dressed in a skin you outgrew but were still expected to wear with a smile.

Enid's jaw tensed so hard she worried it might crack. Her breath caught, her spine pulled tight and she had to fight the instinct to bare her teeth.

She knew what Wednesday was doing. Of course she knew.

Knowing didn’t stop it from working however.

Enid turned away from the bed with the sharpness of a knife unsheathed, her arms locked behind her back, nails pressing against the skin of her palms like a warning. Not yet. Not again.

There Wednesday laughed. Not loud. Barely heard, even. But it was the kind of laugh that didn’t belong in anyone’s throat unless they meant to draw blood with it.

“Speak of the devil and she shall appear,” Enid muttered dryly.

“Do we have a problem, Niddy?” Wednesday asked, stepping forward. Not quite over the line of tape on the floor but just enough to make a point. Her boot nudged the edge. Daring. Disrespectful. Deliberate.

Enid stiffened. The line wasn’t much but it was something. A boundary. A pathetic one but all they had left.

“If so… what are you going to do about it?” Wednesday's voice dipped low. Almost curious. Almost hopeful.

Then without hesitation she stepped on it.

Enid couldn’t look away. She never could. Not when Wednesday was like this. Cool, calm, cruel. The kind of cruel that smiled without ever moving her lips. Her steps slow, her head tilting as those unreadable eyes lit with something almost gleeful.

“Are you going to put your hands on me again?” Wednesday asked, her tone infuriatingly light. Casual, almost bored. Like she was asking about the weather that she knows Enid wouldn't give an absolute damn about. “Are you?”

There it was. Dragged into the open with all the grace of a knife across skin.

Enid’s throat tightened. Her heart kicked against her ribs hard enough to hurt. She knew this game, this trap. Wednesday’s favorite kind. The one where she prodded enough to make you act first.

Still Enid fell right into it.

“Do you want me to?” she snapped, the words sharp, too loud in the quiet. It came out faster than she meant, bitter and blistering. The kind of anger that only existed when you hated how much someone could still get to you.

Wednesday went still, that maddening glint in her eye catching the light. A flicker of something unreadable and at the corner of her mouth, there it was again.

That almost smile.

Not kind.

Never kind.

“I’m pulling your leg,” she said, like it meant nothing. Like she hadn’t just picked at a half healed scab and watched Enid flinch. “It’s all in good fun.”

Enid exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through her hair as if that could dislodge the building heat behind her eyes. Her claws ached beneath her skin but she kept them buried. She always did.

“Why are you like this?” she breathed out, more to herself than anything. “I thought we were fine.”

Wednesday shrugged. Or rather, did the closest thing she allowed herself to a shrug. That deliberate, lazy shift of her shoulders that always came with the implication that nothing was ever that serious.

“We are. Because like all good friends,” she said, voice flat, almost rehearsed. “We’re just messing around.”

She looked away then, eyes drifting off like she was already bored of the conversation or like she didn’t get what the big deal was in the first place. Maybe she really didn’t. Or maybe this was just another part of the act.

“It’s just a nickname,” she added, uncaring.

Enid clenched her fists so hard her knuckles ached. Swallowed the rising burn in her throat. She covered her face with both hands, not to hide but to keep herself from doing something she’d regret.

No. No claws. No shouting.

However her voice cracked with fury when it came out anyway. “It’s the one thing I asked of you.”

Wednesday didn’t even flinch. “I ask plenty of things from you too. You don’t see me crying about it.”

Enid’s jaw clenched. God. She tried, really tried not to bite, not to snap, not to rise to it but Wednesday’s voice had that tilt again. That unbearable flatness that sounded so self assured that it can't help but grate at Enid's brain.

“That’s because unlike you,” Enid spat, stepping forward without thinking, “I actually do it!”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked upward. Something cool and unreadable passing over her face before she stepped closer.

And Enid’s brain blanked.

Because there was something about the way Wednesday moved. Measured, clean and deliberate that made her hard to look away from. Enid hated that. Hated how aware she was of the space between them shrinking, of the scent of old books and something faintly sweet like lavender and blood. Hated the way her pulse started to quicken.

“You make me sound so awful,” Wednesday murmured and then, a shift. Her voice dipped, smooth and dark like the start of a threat or a dare. “Would you like to see what it’s actually like when I’m bad?”

Enid stepped back. Not out of fear. Just… reflex.

Another step forward from Wednesday.

“You do realize,” she said, her composure terrifying in its calm, “that I could be so much worse.”

Another step. Closer.

Enid tried not to breathe too loud. Tried not to look directly at her mouth when she spoke.

Another step. Enid’s legs hit the edge of her bed.

The glint in Wednesday’s eyes sharpened and the worst part? She didn’t even look angry. She looked intrigued.

“Should I show you,” she asked, soft as velvet, “what awful really looks like?”

And something inside Enid snapped.

Her hands moved before her mind did, clawed fingers curling around the too thin collar of Wednesday's uniform as she pulled the girl up and close.

“Go for it,” Enid growled, manic grin tearing across her face. Her breath was shaky, too aware of the way their breaths could almost intertwine. “But you’re gonna find me a lot less accomodating than ‘Niddy.’”

Wednesday’s eyes widened, the glint finally gone.

Good.

Let her see how it feels when someone bites back.

[maladaptive-daydreamer-23]

Ask Me Again

A/N: Today’s dose of Hotch angst was brought to you literally by a Disney song. Did I cry writing this? Maybe. Was my intent to make you cry? Of course not! 😉 Do I really hope you enjoy it? Absolutely!

Love,

Mal 🩶

Thank you for being so supportive and beta reading @cringeiknow

Warnings: Age gap of ten years, mentions of weight loss and poor eating habits, failed proposal, breakup??? Kinda, miscommunication and misunderstandings. One mention of unprotected sex that did not occur on page.

Tags: ANGSTTTTT, Fluff at the end, these two idiots are so in love, they just need a little help figuring it out. Reader is female. Appearance is nondescript.

WC: 8k

Ao3

Back to Mal’s Masterlist

It’d been two months since you’d broken Aaron Hotchner’s heart. Two months since you’d just stood there and looked at him, in complete shock and silence. Two months since you should have said something, anything! It didn’t have to be yes or no. Just “I love you, but I’m not ready.”

He would have understood.

Of course he would have! He was the most understanding and patient man you knew.

But you froze.

Panicked.

You had seen the light fade from his eyes, the smile fall from his lips. The tears that filled his eyes.

It hadn’t been a “no.” Just a “not yet.”

But you hadn’t spoken up in time, couldn’t get your heart, mind, and mouth on the same page.

You were… confused.

It had blind sided you, truthfully. You hadn’t ever suspected that he was even thinking about…

Marriage.

You certainly hadn’t been.

Sure, in the future, of course! But you had thought you had a few more years, not months. You were so much younger than him, your career was just starting, you had so much left to do and accomplish before settling down. You had definitely contemplated marrying him, someday, but you hadn’t been ready!

And now… things would never be the same.

He had gotten up and then he had walked away.

And you had watched him go.

You hadn’t known what to say. You still didn’t. So you hadn’t.

He hadn’t reached out either.

There were so many times, over the last few months, where you had thought about picking up the phone and calling him. Late at night when you were lonely and the only thing you had to comfort you was a white dress shirt of his that he’d misplaced at your apartment. He would’ve answered, you knew deep down that he would have. Not once in your entire relationship had he failed to answer your calls. But you were too afraid of the possibility that this time he wouldn’t, so you would put on the shirt and cry yourself to sleep.

One day, about three weeks ago, you had made it all the way to his office door. But if he had wanted to speak to you, if he had wanted to hear an explanation, or entertain your excuses…

He would have asked you, and he hadn’t.

So you had just stood there, fist raised, ready to knock. Staring at his name on the door and wishing you had a spine. For five whole minutes. You had been able to feel the team’s eyes on your back. Rossi had even come out of his office, leaned back against the railing and watched you.

Then you had chickened out. Shook your head, with tears falling down your cheeks, and walked away.

The two of you had ignored each other. Kind of. It wasn’t… hostile. It was passive. You were both hurting. That was obvious to everyone. However, you didn’t take it out on each other, you didn’t argue. You were congenial and polite. You still went to team events and get togethers if the other was going to be there. For the sake of the team, you hadn’t let things become bitter or angry between you.

You just didn’t go out of your way to speak to each other either.

You used to be his field partner, he would always pair you with himself, just so he could spend a little more time with you on busy cases. Unless there was something he needed to send you with someone else for. He would rest his elbow on the center console in the SUV and either hold your hand, or grip your thigh. Only when the others weren’t in the car.

Not anymore though.

The Monday after the night you’d said nothing, he had paired you with Morgan, and he had taken Prentiss.

That had cut you to the bone.

It had tipped the rest of the team off too.

When he and Prentiss had left, your knees had buckled, and you had collapsed to the floor. Or you would have, had Morgan not had great reflexes.

“Woah, easy there.” He’d said as he supported your weight, pulling you to his chest and holding you while you sobbed. “What just happened?”

He hadn’t been asking you. You were too distraught to respond.

“I- I think they’re fighting?” Reid had murmured, unsure and quiet.

“This isn’t just a fight…” Rossi had whispered. “Give her some space.”

So no one had questioned you about it.

Not when you cried at random for the next month–like when you would think of something funny and go to text him, only to realize you couldn’t just do that anymore—they just tried not to stare. Not when you’d cut and dyed your hair—because you couldn’t forget the way it used to look when he would twirl it around his fingers idly—they had just told you it looked nice. Not when you’d stopped eating lunch with them—you couldn’t stomach sitting across from Aaron and remembering how he used to squeeze your thigh under the table—they always asked though, you just said you weren’t hungry. They had given you space… but they still offered you companionship.

But nothing they did could fill the gaping hole that Aaron had left in your heart.

You’d memorized that night, that horrible ten minutes that had altered the course of your life for good. You’d studied it, picked it apart in your head, gone over all the ways that the outcome could have been different.

You wished you could go back and make it right, you wished you could go back and say yes.

Never in a million years had he ever imagined that you wouldn’t say yes. He loved you, and he had been so sure that you loved him just as much. So when you had just… stood there, blinking at him in… terror?

He was confused, for a moment, and then he’d realized that you weren’t going to say yes.

So he’d waited… for a reason, an explanation, a simple not yet!

But you hadn’t said a word.

His heart had felt like it had been ripped from his chest and thrown in a blender. Still beating.

And he hadn’t wanted to cry in front of you. Not because he thought that was something to be ashamed of—he’d cried in front of you many times before—but because he hadn’t wanted his emotions to manipulate your answer. You were a fixer, that's what you did, whether you meant to or not. If someone was hurting, you did everything in your power to make it right. He didn’t want you to say yes just because he would be hurt if you didn’t.

So he had left.

He’d had the ring for months. Dave and Jess had helped him pick it out, helped him plan the proposal and everything. When he’d come home that night without you, they’d both been waiting in his living room, hoping to congratulate you. So when he’d sat the ring box down on the kitchen table, and walked past them to his room, they'd known it hadn’t gone according to plan.

He’d gotten in the shower, and he’d cried. He didn’t even bother to completely undress. Just wanting the heat and noise of the water so he could cry in peace.

He cried until the water ran cold.

Then he’d pulled it together and he’d gotten redressed. He’d gone to the living room, where Jess and Dave were still waiting, and he’d just sat down in front of them.

“She said no?” Jess asked, in total disbelief. “What happened? Did she say why?”

“Jess…” Dave had laid a hand on her arm. “Give him a minute.”

So he’d taken a minute to figure out how to even explain, when he didn’t understand it himself. He’d been so sure…

“She didn’t say anything.” He’d murmured after a moment. “She just stood there and looked at me… like she was terrified. I didn’t know what to think. I waited for an explanation, an answer, anything. She just stood there, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t take it. So I left.”

“Oh Aaron, I’m sorry…” Jess murmured. “But she didn’t say no… so maybe??”

He’d just shook his head.

“You didn’t see her Jess. She didn’t say no… but it was in her eyes.” He’d whispered.

“Are you gonna try to talk to her, Aaron?” Dave had wondered. “I think you should, this isn’t like her… she loves you. I’m sure there’s a reason.”

“I might, I don’t know. I feel like I need to wait for her to come to me…” He reasoned. “She obviously wasn’t ready to talk about it yet.”

So he waited.

He waited all weekend and you never called, you didn’t even send a text. He checked his phone obsessively. It was the first time in four years you hadn’t told him good night and good morning. He barely slept, not wanting to miss it if you called.

That Monday morning, you hadn’t sat next to him at the briefing, or on the jet, and he’d thought… this is it, we’re over, she’s done. And he figured, you wouldn’t want to be alone with him, so he had assigned you to be Morgan’s partner for that case, and he’d taken Prentiss. He’d walked away with tears streaming down his face.

He’d flinched every time she spoke in the car, each word a stark reminder that you weren’t where you should’ve been.

Prentiss–at least at first–had the good sense to let it be.

But over the next few weeks he’d had to come clean and tell them all what had happened, his version of it anyway. He didn’t know what you’d told them. Apparently nothing, because they’d been confused and shocked as well. They checked on him constasdntly, asking occasionally if he was gonna talk to you. He had told them he was waiting for any sign that you wanted him to.

Then he’d noticed you withering away…

You were only picking at your food—when he saw you eat at all—even things he knew to be your favorite. He knew if he were to wrap his arms around your waist, it would feel thinner than it had the last time he’d done it. The day you had come in to work after you’d cut and dyed your hair he’d been speechless. Not because he thought it looked bad—you would always look perfect to him, no matter what your hair looked like—he was speechless because he’d always told you how much it soothed him to play with the ends of it when he was anxious or bored. And you’d cut it off. He’d wanted to tell you it looked pretty, or that it suited you. Even just ‘your hair looks nice,’ would do! Literally anything that gave him a single reason to talk to you.

But you didn’t seem to want any attention from him and now it had been two months.

He just wished he could go back to that moment, and ask some questions… Like, why are you so scared? Or is it me you’re scared of? (He knew he’d never given you a reason to be, but the obvious fear in your eyes had made him doubt.) He wished he'd given you more time, more understanding.

He wished he hadn’t walked away from you.

It was your anniversary. Or it would have been.

Four years since your first date.

You were on a case—just like you had been that day four years ago—and Aaron was looking so good. (Much like he had back then.) Which clearly made things twice as hard.

He was wearing that stupid fucking navy button up, with black slacks. His sleeves rolled up to mid forearm as he sorted through case files and evidence on the table in front of him. The glare of sunlight from the window kept reflecting off the face of his watch and directly into your eyes, drawing them where they shouldn’t linger.

Soon you found yourself staring at his face, studying him, wondering why you hadn’t just… said yes…

His brow was pinched in that way that you knew meant something wasn’t adding up to him. His jaw flexing and his eyes squinting, you knew what that meant. He was getting a tension headache from staring at the small font and jumbled handwriting on all these files. You wondered where he’d left his reading glasses—he was horrible about keeping up with them—knowing they would help him, if only a bit. You would have JJ offer him some ibuprofen and a bottle of water later. You could trust her to make sure he drank it. Knowing him, he’d only drank coffee for the last several days. Running on caffeine and sheer will, as was his specialty. He’d be dehydrated. You had always been the one to remind him to take care of himself during tough cases, otherwise he wouldn’t… Even though he still took care of you.

He cleared his throat, and you realized he was staring back at you.

“Problem?” He asked, his tone soft even though he kept his question short.

“Uh, no… it’s…” You scrambled for any reason as to why you were staring, when you no longer had that right. You couldn’t ask him where his glasses were, or tell him he should drink some water, that wasn’t your place anymore…“Your watch keeps blinding me, I was trying to come up with a nice way to ask you to step to the left a little.”

“A nice way?” He queried, his voice full of confusion and maybe a little hurt. “You could have just asked, I would have moved. It's not a problem.”

“I know… I just…” You stammered, great, now you’d upset him. “I didn’t want you to think I was being rude, or that I was angry over it. I– Nevermind, it's not a big deal, I’ll just move…”

You got up to switch seats, but he was already moving.

“No, sit, it's fine. I can move.” He stepped to the left, blocking the sunlight from his watch face.

“Thank you.” You murmured, and offered him a timid smile.

“Of course.” He mumbled back, his eyes going back to the table in front of him.

The smile fell from your face and you looked away. Noticing, as you did, that the entire team was looking back and forth between you… very uncomfortably. All offering you comforting looks. You felt tears welling up in your eyes. One escaped without permission, rolling down your cheek like acid.

You wouldn’t do this again. You wouldn’t cry in front of them. You refused to subject him, of all people, to your tears. This whole thing was your fault… you had no right to cry. Not in front of him.

So you left the room, making your way to the station’s ladies room.

You had only been alone for thirty seconds when JJ came in behind you. You wiped at your face, trying to hide the tears that were rebelling against you.

“You okay?” She murmured, walking up behind you and wrapping her arms around you in a hug. Resting her chin on your shoulder.

And that was all it took for the floodgates to open.

You rested your head against hers and you sobbed. Violently.

She just held you, letting you get it out.

“I love him.” You whimpered pathetically after several minutes. “God, I love him. I fucked up so bad, JJ…”

“What happened?” She asked.

“He didn’t tell anyone?” You returned.

“He did… but I want to hear it from you.” She said, “I think, maybe… you two have your wires crossed.”

“I just stood there.” You murmured. “He asked me to marry him… and I didn’t say a word. I was, I don't know… Stunned? Shocked? Definitely confused… I didn’t think we were… I didn’t even know he was thinking about marriage! I love him! And I want to be with him! Forever, if possible! But I panicked… because… I’m not ready… JJ, I'm ten years younger than him… and I am just getting started and I have so many things left to accomplish in life, and I’m just not ready to be… married. But when I am… I want it to be him and if he were ever to ask me again… I would say yes… I can’t live with myself for losing him.”

“Oh, honey, maybe you should tell him that.” She suggested, stroking your hair gently.

You shook your head.

“No, that’s not fair to him. He’s obviously choosing to move on.” You disagreed. “He’s had two months to process his emotions and if he wanted an explanation he would have asked, he’s never been afraid of hard conversations. So I won’t force him to deal with my regret, I can move on like a big girl, I made my bed and I’ll lie in it.”

“Sweetie, you know I love ya… But that's a really stupid reason not to try…” She admitted. “I think if the opportunity presents itself, you should try.”

“I’ll think about it.” You told her, as if that hadn’t been the sole focus of your mind for the last two months.

“Good.” She squeezed you a little tighter, then let you go. “You ready to head back in there?”

You nodded, but then caught sight of yourself in the mirror.

“Oh God, I’m a mess.” You groaned and she smiled.

“I’ll help you.” She offered and together you set about fixing your makeup.

Today was harder than most, and he knew it was because of the date. Your anniversary.

On this day, four years ago, he’d finally decided that the reward outweighed the risk, and he’d asked you to go get a drink with him at the hotel bar. He hadn’t intended to end up in your bed that night—he wasn’t one to make a trip around all four bases on a first date—but he had never regretted it. His only regret was walking away.

He’d planned to take you on a trip for this anniversary, he had planned to tell you about it this morning and whisk you away for the week, having already approved your time off. But that was before…

And now here you both were, having awkward conversations about watches and sunlight, walking on eggshells like one of you might break if a wrong word was spoken.

He guessed that was fairly accurate actually, and apparently, ‘of course’, were the wrong words to say to ‘thank you.’

Because those words seemed to have caused you to flee the room in tears and he felt helpless.

He had tried to go after you, he’d taken two steps toward the door.

“Aaron.” Dave had said quietly. “Let her go. She doesn’t want you to see her cry, that's why she left.”

He hated that he was no longer the person you allowed to dry your tears. He used to kiss them away, then pepper your cheeks with kisses until you started to laugh instead.

But you didn’t want that from him anymore…

So he nodded and then he sat down, dropping his head into his hands on the table.

“What did I say wrong?” He murmured, to whoever could provide him with an answer.

“Nothing…” Prentiss offered quietly.

“Then why-”

“It wasn’t what you said, Hotch.” She interrupted. “She smiled at you… and you didn’t smile back. You always used to smile at her, even when you were stressed.”

He had… Your mere presence had always been enough to bring a smile to his face.

“I didn’t see it! If I had, I would have smiled too. God, I’ve been waiting two months for her to show any sign that she wants me to talk to her! I just didn’t see it!” He explained.

You had smiled at him? You hadn’t done that in months. Not since the night that started this mess. Maybe… maybe there was hope?

“Should I go to her?” He asked. “Tell her I didn’t see…”

“Well, she went into the women's bathroom…” Reid pointed out. “The one place you legally cannot follow her. So I would say, no…”

“I’ll go Aaron…” JJ offered, “Just to make sure she’s alright?”

Hotch nodded, and then murmured, “Please, I- I can’t stand that she’s in there alone. Not when I know she’s hurting…”

JJ nodded and followed you without another word.

“Ya know, if you’ve been waiting for a sign… You must be pretty blind… cause that girl has been throwing up flares and screaming sos.” Derek said bluntly.

The room went silent, and Aaron looked at Derek.

“What do you mean?” He asked, and he was not offended. He was too desperate for answers to worry about his own ego at this point. Too desperate to have you back in his arms, where you belonged.

“Look at her Hotch, she dyed her hair, she cut it. She’s noticeably lost weight. She's not eating lunch with us anymore, she never smiles—Christ, that was the first one I’ve seen from her in two months—she cries like six times a day. Not that you would know that, she hides from you when she cries. She follows you with her eyes, constantly… like a kicked puppy. She is a walking cry for help. Just freaking bite the bullet and go talk to her man! If it goes well—Halle-fucking-lujah—this whole mess is over! If it doesn’t, at least you tried.” Derek preached, each word a blow to Aaron’s heart.

He knew you’d dyed your hair, cut it, he could tell you’d lost weight… he knew you weren’t okay… but the other things, the signs that the help you wanted was still his to give… he’d missed them. He hadn’t noticed the toll it was taking on the team either…

“Amen!” Emily seconded as though this were church or something.

Hotch glanced over at Dave, wanting his opinion.

“I’m with them, actually.” He crossed his arms, “Just let her get her emotions under control first.”

“Okay…” He murmured. “I’ll talk to her.”

You and JJ were gone for nearly forty minutes.

In that time, they’d gotten a possible credible tip on the tip line. So he’d sent Morgan, Rossi, Reid and Prentiss to check it out. The press had gotten wind of it in the first five minutes somehow.

The first thing he noticed when you entered the room was that your face was bare, red and a little puffy. You’d cried so hard you’d had no choice but to wash your makeup off.

He cleared his throat and you looked toward him.

“JJ, I need you to manage the press, we’ve got a leak somewhere. They haven’t released anything yet, but they’re blowing up my phone.” He told her, without ever taking his eyes off of you.

“Yes sir.” She murmured and then left the room just as quickly and quietly as she’d entered it.

You and he just looked at each other for a moment.

In that moment he could see the regret and the grief and the longing in your eyes, and he knew…

The others were right, he’d been blind.

This was the first time you’d been alone with him in two months. Your heart was pounding out of your chest as he just looked at you. His expression unreadable, even to you.

You cleared your throat and looked away briefly, blinking back new tears.

“Where are the others?” You asked, anything to keep his piercing eyes from discerning too much.

“Checking a tip we got that might be credible.” He answered you quietly.

“Is- is there anything I can do?” You asked again, then looked back at him.

He was still just watching, studying.

“Yes, actually, I was going to ask you to help me run out to grab dinner for the team. I’ll need help carrying everything and I’m pretty sure Prentiss was about to gnaw her own arm off. She might sacrifice Reid if we don’t have food when she gets back.” He joked, and he almost sounded nervous.

So you laughed.

And he smiled.

“Of course.” You said through giggles, and then he walked at your side all the way to the SUV.

Where he opened the door for you and offered you a hand to help you inside, and you hoped it wasn’t just a habit.

The silence in the car was loaded. Both of you anxiously fidgeting in your own way. This felt so wrong. It had NEVER been this weird when you were together, even at the beginning. You used to make food runs like this all the time, sometimes chatting, others just enjoying the comfort of sitting together in silence. This was different, there were so many unsaid words hanging in the air between you…

“How have you–”

“You look nice tod–”

You both spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m sorry–”

It happened again. You looked over at him and scrunched your face up like, ‘this is so weird…’

“You go first.” He suggested, offering you a soft smile.

You blushed… What you were going to say had been… risky.

“I- uh- I was just gonna say that- ya know what, it wasn’t important. What were you going to say?” You fumbled, looking anywhere but at him, and picking at a loose thread on your pants.

“No, go ahead, I want to know.” He insisted. “I spoke over you, you know I hate doing that.”

He did… He always made sure that he waited patiently until you had completely finished your thought. Even if what he had to say was logically more important. He never treated it that way.

“Actually I’m pretty sure I spoke over you…” You murmured softly, absolving him of any guilt. “But I was just going to say that you look nice today, that was always my favorite outfit of yours.”

“Oh.” He said quietly. “You never told me that.”

You’d never told him because it embarrassed you that an outfit affected you the way this one did… and you definitely couldn’t tell him that now. The silence grew too tense and you didn’t know what to say so you changed the subject.

“What were you going to say?” You asked.

“How have you been? We haven’t really… talked.” He questioned, so, so carefully.

You glanced over at him, his eyes were on the road, but every ten seconds or so they would flit your way.

“I- Um.” You wet your lips and then bit the bottom one. “I’m alright.”

“Are you?” He asked again. “Truthfully.”

You nodded.

“Yeah, I’m good, Aaron. Really.” You insisted.

“Please don’t lie.” He whispered quietly. “I can take it.”

You felt a sharp pain in your chest, he had never accused you of dishonesty before.

You looked back over at him fully this time and there was this… agony, on his face.

“What makes you think I would lie to you about that?” You asked a little defensively. “I’ve never lied to you before, and even if I was, it's my problem, not yours.”

You saw the hurt on his face, as though you had physically struck him.

“You aren’t eating.” He said through gritted teeth. “And even though I’m not your… anymore. I am still your unit chief. So yes, it is my problem, you’ve noticeably lost weight and it’s my job to make sure that you’re fit for duty.”

Had you really lost weight? You hadn’t noticed… but for him to question whether or not you were fit for duty, it pissed you off. More than it should’ve.

“Is that what this is about? The job?!” You demanded. “You're gonna play that card?”

He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

“If that’s what I have to do to get a straight answer out of you and know whether or not you’re gonna be okay, then yes! I will play that card!” He insisted, his voice tense and quiet.

He wouldn’t yell at you. You knew that, he never had before and even now that wasn’t going to change. Even if you wished he would.

“Fine.” You muttered. “No, I am not eating much, I can’t. It makes me sick pretty much every time.”

His eyes grew wide and he immediately pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked.

“Are you pregnant?” He blurted, studying you even closer now.

“What?!?” You looked at him as though he were insane. You didn’t even know what to say about that.

“Four nights before I proposed, we had sex in the hotel during the case and I didn’t have a condom.” He said as though that cleared everything up. “And now it's been two months, you don’t have an appetite, you’re crying six and seven times a day and suddenly you’re watching me with this look! Like you have something to tell me but you’re scared! So what am I supposed to think?”

“Not that!” You exclaimed. “I’m not pregnant Aaron! I swear, I just got off my period.”

“Then why aren’t you eating?” He asked.

He was so thick headed sometimes.

“Because Aaron! I’m grieving! I know you probably don’t think I have the right to do that. But I cannot help it!” You knew you were raising your voice at him and you knew that wasn’t fair while he remained calm but you couldn’t help it.

“Grieving?” He whispered, that pained look crossing his face again and making you wish that you still had the right to smooth it away…

“Yes Aaron! Our relationship died overnight and I’m grieving it! I’m sorry that it's taking me longer than you to get over it, but some people can’t just walk away and not look back!” You accused, fighting back tears again.

You knew that wasn’t fair, but it wasn’t fair of him to do this to you either. It felt like he was torturing you. Acting like he still cared, when he hadn’t reached out to you… When he had been the one to walk away… You knew that at the root of it all, everything was your fault. He didn’t have to act like it wouldn’t affect you though.

“I can’t.” You muttered and got out of the car, slamming the door and walking back toward the station that was only about a mile back down the road.

Aaron got out of the car and followed you, closing his door much more gently than you had. You were angry at him now… good. You’d always been bluntly honest with him when you were angry, and he needed to know exactly what was going on inside your head.

“Where are you going?” He called, not letting his voice rise above a conversational tone.

“Back to the station.” You answered flippantly, not bothering to look back.

“No you aren’t. It’s a mile away. Get back in the car.” He said softly, but you didn’t stop. “Stop, please, and get back in the car, it's dangerous to do this on the side of the road.”

You kept trudging forward, gait a little unsteady as you walked on the uneven ditch bank.

“We’re not doing this at all Aaron, I thought we could, but I can’t. Not if you only care because it’s your job!” You tossed back over your shoulder.

He was stunned.

“Is that what you think?” He asked, how had you gotten that impression?

He had been trying to tell you how much he still cared this whole time!

“It's what you said!” You insisted. “You said, you had to make sure I was fit for duty!”

“That is not what I said! Not all of it!” He felt his voice rising, felt himself getting frustrated. “I said that if I had to play that card to make sure that you were okay, I would! That's entirely different!”

“Well I’m not okay, Aaron! Are you happy?! Is that what you wanted to hear?!” You shouted, marching down the side of the busy highway.

Traffic was zooming by and you were making him nervous, he couldn’t focus on the conversation when you were one wrong step—one distracted driver—from a fatal accident. He ran to cover the last few feet between you.

“Of course not!” He snapped back, finally catching up and grabbing your arm, pulling you away from the edge of the road to safety. “You think it wasn’t torture for me all these weeks, not being able to ask you myself how you were doing? Having to send the others back and forth to check on you!”

You didn’t fight him, just let him drag you up the other side of the ditch bank. Trusting him instinctively, as if this were a normal fight, and you hadn’t almost completely disappeared from each other’s lives.

“Why didn’t you just come talk to me?” You asked him, tears streaming down your face. “I waited for you to call me! To ask for an explanation! To want to talk to me about it! Why didn’t you just ask me yourself!”

Is that why you’d pulled so far away from him? Because he hadn’t brought it up?

“I was waiting for you!” He exclaims. “I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it, you obviously didn’t that night!”

You had that look in your eyes now, the one that said you were about to blow a gasket. You had only looked at him like that once, but if you were looking at him like that now, then it meant there was something left worth fighting for.

“You walked away from me! You left me standing there confused!” Your tears had soaked your cheeks, and were dripping down onto your blouse. He would’ve given anything to make them go away, especially knowing he was causing them.

“I waited for nearly five minutes in silence! I stood there, waiting for you to say something! Anything! And you just stood there! You clearly weren’t ready to discuss it and I needed some space! I poured my heart out to you and you just stared at me!” He could feel tears of his own running into his nose and mouth.

“I didn’t say no!” You yelled and the sound was so rage filled and agonized that he froze. “I was scared Aaron! I’m in my twenties! You’re nearly forty! I have not had the same amount of time as you to live! I still have things I want to do, places and things I want to see! Marrying you right now would probably end my career! Or at least put it on hold! We had NEVER talked about marriage seriously! I thought it was YEARS away! I was shocked, you blindsided me, I had so much to think about and you only gave me five minutes and then you walked! I agonized over it all weekend and I waited for you to call me and check in! Demand an explanation! Ask to talk! Ask me LITERALLY ANYTHING! You didn’t! So I figured you needed space! And then that Monday, you didn’t choose me! You chose Prentiss and then you walked away and left me with Morgan! That made it pretty clear to me that you were done with me! So of course I never said a goddamn thing!”

He couldn’t- were- were you… serious?! How could he ever be done with you? You were his whole world, you were EVERYTHING!

“I was not done with you!” He heard the disgust in his tone that his heart felt at that phrase. “I will never be done with you! I thought you needed space! You stopped sitting next to me, you wouldn’t even look at me during the briefing or on the jet! I tried to get your attention so many times! I did want to talk to you about it, but I didn’t want to corner you! When you started avoiding me I thought that you were done with me! And in my defense, I proposed to you and you didn’t say yes! That’s usually a pretty good indicator that you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with someone!”

You threw your hands up in the air.

“And I fucking hate myself for it!” You screamed. “If I could go back I would say yes! A thousand times I would say yes! Because I cannot live without you, Aaron! I don’t know how! So I am stuck here in this HELL, where I am so in love with you, but we’re not together and it’s all my fault because I couldn’t just open my mouth and say words!!!!”

“You still love me?” The breath left his lungs in a rush, and he wouldn’t draw another one until you answered.

“Of course I do!” You snapped, panting heavily, tears steadily falling.

He didn’t know when he’d decided to move, but before he registered the motion, he had you in his arms and was kissing you with all the built up longing and desire he’d been holding in for two months.

All you could taste were tears. Yours and his.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care as you tugged him closer, parting your lips for him and letting him kiss you breathless. On the side of the road.

“I missed you so fucking much…” He murmured against your lips, threading his hand into your hair and pressing you closer with the other. “I missed these lips, I missed this hair—no matter what color, or length it is—I missed your laugh, I missed your smile, I missed your hands, I missed touching you, I missed talking to you, I missed fighting with you! I just missed you!”

He punctuated every confession with a kiss and your heart was singing in your chest.

You whimpered into his mouth, and sobbed harder.

“I missed you too.” You whispered. “I’m so sorry!”

You would apologize a hundred times–a thousand times–if that's what it took to make things right.

“No baby, I’m sorry!” He murmured between kisses, holding you tighter. “I shouldn’t have sprung that on you and especially not without making certain we were on the same page. Clearly we weren’t. I wish I could go back and do that differently. If you don’t want to get married, we don’t have to get married. It’s just a piece of paper and a few legalities. You’re all I want.”

You pulled your head back and framed his face with your hands. Looking into those warm hazel eyes that had haunted your dreams for the last two months.

“I. Didn’t. Say. No.” You emphasized each word. “I just needed some time to think everything through.”

Tears were streaming down his face one after the other and you could feel them pouring down yours as well.

“Are you saying yes?” He breathed.

“I have some conditions…” You murmured.

“Such as?” He asked and he was trembling.

You stroked his cheek tenderly and he leaned into your touch, as though he were desperate for it.

“From now on, we always talk it out. Immediately. No matter what it is or how awkward it may be. Because I cannot do this again, the last two months were torture.” You whispered.

“Agreed.” He said kissing your forehead. “Anything else?”

You nodded.

“I want a long engagement, I do want to marry you Aaron, and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. But I’m still just a Special Agent. I want to at least make SSA before we get married, otherwise I won’t be able to unless I transfer to another unit and I don’t want to do that. I want to stay with the team, they’re our family.” You explained.

He nodded, taking your hands from his cheek and kissing your palm.

“I completely understand, Sweetheart. Your career is just as important to me as mine and I want you to know that. Is there anything else?” He asked again.

“Just one…” You murmured quietly, leaning in to him and he rested his forehead against yours.

“Anything baby, you name it. I’ll make it happen.” He swore.

“That’s a big promise, Mr. Hotchner.” You teased, but you knew he meant it.

“I mean it.” He insisted. “I will do anything for you, Sweetheart.”

“I want you to ask me again.” You whispered. “When we get home, I want you to ask again, so I can do it right this time.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong last time, baby.” He murmured. “Not a single thing. But if you want me to, I will.”

“I really do.” You admitted giving him a teary smile. “I love you, Aaron. So much.”

“In that case.” He said, and then he stepped away from you, digging in his left pants pocket and pulling something small out.

He got down on one knee, right there on the bank of a ditch, beside a busy highway.

You gasped in disbelief as he held out a ring. The ring.

“Y-you were just- just carrying that around??” You stuttered.

He nodded, giving you a sheepish grin.

“I’ve had it in my pocket every day since the first time I asked you.” He confessed.

“What? Why?” You asked, heart racing and breathless.

“I don’t really know…” He shrugged. “Hope, I guess.”

“Hope?” It was more of a sob than a question.

“I thought that maybe if I just held onto hope that you still loved me, then you’d come back to me.” He explained. “I think it worked…”

He had never given up on you…

“I never left, baby.” You were still crying, and now you were crying harder. “But I think it worked too.”

“Will you marry me? Not right this second, not even this year or the next… but someday, someday, Sweetheart, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” He asked, with tears and hope in his eyes.

“Yes.” You murmured, biting back a sob. “A million times, yes!”

He slid the ring onto your left hand and then you pulled him to his feet and kissed him again, and again… and again.

And again.

Aaron was on cloud nine.

He could not stop smiling and looking at you… and touching you.

The thing he found himself doing the most though, was kissing the back of your left hand—which he had barely let go of since you’d both gotten back in the vehicle—and staring at the ring that looked so much prettier on your finger than it had off of it. You smiled everytime you caught him.

God, had he missed that smile.

Together, you had gone and gotten plenty of chinese food for the whole team and while he remembered everyone’s orders from years of making these trips, it warmed his heart that you were quietly reminding him of the little details in his ear. Like how Emily liked the spicy sauce with her sushi and JJ didn’t. And how Rossi liked General Zhao’s chicken while Spencer liked the Orange, and Morgan’s absolute favorite was crab rangoon.

On the ride back, you had looked over at him with mischief in your gorgeous eyes.

“I know that look.” He murmured, with a smile. “What’re you up to over there?”

You giggled and his heart felt like it was going to combust.

“I was thinking…” You murmured, that mischief filling your voice too. “Should we tell them? Or… should we see how long it takes them to notice the rock, and the fact that we’re not making them incredibly uncomfortable with our pining and yearning and moping anymore.”

He chuckled.

“Hmmm, let's really put them to the test.” Aaron hummed, smirking at you playfully and kissing your hand again.

“Oh? What did you have in mind?” You asked, your eyes glowing with mirth.

“I’ll start a timer, and we’ll judge them based on how long it takes them.” He suggested.

You cackled maniacally and it made him laugh. He missed that sound.

“Wait, is this really fair? You technically have a rule where we’re not allowed to profile each other…” You reminded him.

“Yes, the rule that only I seem to follow…” He joked.

You scoffed.

“Yeah right!” You called him out. “You are literally the worst of us when it comes to that rule! You break it all the time!”

He chuckled guiltily.

“Okay maybe you’re right.” He admitted.

“Of course I am.” You preened.

Ten minutes later, you were walking beside him and carrying two bags full of food, while he carried the other two. There may have only been six of you, but the team ate enough to feed a small army. He still managed to get all the doors for you, and when you went into the conference room ahead of him he braced for the questions he knew were coming. Sitting down the bags he started a timer. He didn’t dare look at you for too long as you set about passing out food, drinks and chopsticks. He thought surely everyone would notice the ring as you rigged Spencer’s with a rubber band so he could actually use them.

No one said a word.

By the time you’d passed out all the food it’d been five minutes.

You tossed him a quick glance and he couldn’t help but smile at your ‘what the fuck?’ expression. As he looked away, he caught Emily watching him suspiciously. He just raised an eyebrow at her and then looked down at his own food gathering a bite to pick up with his own chopsticks. She narrowed her eyes, then leaned over and murmured in Morgan’s ear, who’s brows rose on his forehead.

It wouldn’t be long now.

“Did the tip pan out?” Hotch took a shot at distracting them.

“No…” Emily said slowly, not buying it. “It didn’t…”

He shrugged.

“Well they rarely do this early, we’ll keep looking.” He said easily.

You sighed contentedly across the room, pulling his attention.

Your left hand was wrapped around the box of takeout and the ring was sparkling in the light from the window… and he just couldn’t resist looking at it.

Apparently neither could you, because you were purposely flashing the light from the reflection in JJ’s eye. Who couldn’t seem to figure out where it was coming from.

“Sweetheart?” He murmured in amusement.

The room stood still, no one even breathed… waiting for tears or a fumbled apology from him.

They’d be waiting a while.

“Hmmm?” You hummed back, looking up at him with joy in your eyes.

He raised his eyebrow at you and flicked his eyes down to the ring. No one reacted but you, smirking mischievously as you blushed at having been caught playing with the ring. Everyone else was too busy looking back and forth between you and him. Holding their breath and waiting for it to all fall apart.

“Can you put your hand down? You’re gonna blind JJ.” He teased softly.

“Oh… You mean, this hand?” You asked, playing along by setting the box down and lifting your hand so the ring caught the light again. “My left hand?”

“Yes, that hand, the rock on it is shining light right in poor JJ’s eyes.” He said playfully.

And then you both waited… for the moment of realization to dawn on any of them.

“WAIT A MINUTE!” Emily leapt from her perch and was across the room in under a second. “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!?!?!?!”

That got everyone else’s attention and they all jumped up to look too. Except for Dave, who already knew what it looked like and was looking at Aaron with a tear in his eye.

“She said yes?” He asked quietly, over the excited chatter from the younger agents.

Aaron looked at you through the cluster of agents and smiled, he found you already smiling back at him as JJ and Emily turned your hand in a million different angles.

“She said yes.”

[ild-rllrcstr]

Remembrance of you part 3

Lando Norris X You / 3.6K / Slow burn

part 1 / part 2 / part 4 (coming soon)

Summary In this life, he’s a driver and you’re a girl trying not to fall for him, not again. You were supposed to be invisible, a cousin hidden under Ferrari red, tucked safely behind Charles Leclerc’s shadow. But fate never forgets its favourites. Once, in a life long buried by time, you stood on the edge of ruin, torn apart by duty, silence, and a falling legacy. Centuries later, under Monaco's golden sun and the scream of engines, your souls meet again, unaware of the story echoing in their bones. You dream of a forgotten crest, the piercing ache of sadness. He feels it in flashes, a phrase, the way your eyes hold storms and memories. As old symbols surface and the past claws its way into the present, an erased history, and love, quiet, steady, terrifying, beg for a second chance. If fate brings you together over and over, maybe this time, you’ll be brave enough not to run.

Warning None

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Fire, it was too hot, and the smoke was suffocating you. The corridors afar echoed with screams.

“You must go tonight,” a voice echoed, but you couldn't. Something was grounding you. Something about the crest. You needed to find it. You felt it, something tells you that you needed to find it before you go. 

“I’ve got a horse outside. We can leave before they come. Now. Please just come with me.” The begging was so desperate that it hurt. The crumbling sound and the screaming woke you up, panting heavily, sweat soaking on your back. 

That was one of the worst nightmares you’ve had. But it was not the first time. The same nightmare occurred three years ago, the first night you were back to Beausoleil from the McLaren office. 

A couple of days before that, you were still in the honey-sweet mood with Lando, yes, you were afraid, yes, you had doubts, but you knew something was real between the two of you. The effort he put in, that kiss under the rain, and how he paid attention and was careful when it came to you. 

Before anything, you decided to talk to Charles. He appeared in a hoodie and cap, eyes scanning for you before stepping into the shaded area. The quiet was thick.

“Tu aurais pu m’envoyer un message,” (You could’ve texted,) 

He said softly, arms folding. “Mais si t’es là, c’est que c’est sérieux.” (But if you’re here, it’s serious.)

You nodded, chewing on your lower lip. “Exacte.” (Exactly.)

He leaned against the metal wall, studying you. “C’est Lando?” (This is about Lando?)

You flinched. “Comment tu sais ?” (How do you always know?)

“Ça se voir. Je te connais. T’as toujours ce regard-là quand c’est quelqu’un qui compte… ou quand t’as fait une connerie.”

(It’s obvious. I know you. You only ever get that look when it’s about someone you care about... or when you’ve done something stupid.)

That made you huff a half-laugh. “Peut-être que c’est les deux en même temps cette fois-ci. ” 

(Maybe it’s both at once this time.)

Charles waited, patient in a way that only came from years of being your anchor. 

“Je crois que… je suis en train de tomber amoureuse de lui.”

(I think… I’m falling for him.) 

You looked down at your trainers, voice barely a whisper.

“J’ai essayé de garder les choses en surface… il est sympa et il drague tout le monde, non ? Mais il y avait tous ces petits détails. Partager des snacks, les sessions au simulateur, la façon dont il me repère toujours dans une foule. C’est comme si…”

(I tried to keep it surface-level. I mean… he’s nice and flirts with everyone, right? But then there were all these little things. Sharing snacks, the sim sessions, and the way he always finds me in a crowd. It’s like…) 

Your throat thickened. 

“C’est comme s’il me voyait vraiment. Et ça, ça fait longtemps que je ne l’avais pas ressenti.” 

(It’s like he sees me. And I haven’t felt that in a long time.)

Charles didn’t interrupt. He tilted his head, letting you untangle it yourself.

“C’est pas juste un crush de paddock. C’est pas une distraction. Et je crois que lui aussi, il sait que c’est plus.”

(It’s not just a paddock crush. It’s not a distraction. And I think he knows it’s more too.)

Your voice cracked around the last words. Charles frowned gently, stepping closer.

“Je ne sais plus ce que je fais. Un moment tout est normal, stable… et l’instant d’après, j’ai l’impression que je vais étouffer si je lui parle pas. Et aujourd’hui, le voir sur le podium, j’étais fière… Tellement fière. Mais j’ai eu peur aussi.”

(But I don’t know anymore what I’m doing. One second it’s safe, it’s normal, and the next it’s like I can’t breathe if I don’t talk to him. And today, seeing him on the podium, I was proud… I was so proud. But I also felt... scared.)

“Mais alors, pourquoi t’as peur ?”

(Then why are you afraid?)

You looked up at him, your throat tight. 

“Parce que j’ai l’impression que si je saute, y’a pas de filet.”

(Because it feels like if I jump, there’s no safety net.)

He exhaled through his nose, slow and careful. 

“Et si c’était pas une chute? Et si c’était juste… enfin, t��atterrir où t’as toujours voulu être ?”

(And what if it’s not falling? What if it’s finally landing where you’ve always wanted to be?)

You smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“T’as toujours les bons mots.”

(You always know what to say.)

Charles shrugged with that older-brother casualness. 

“C’est mon rôle. Je suis là pour te rappeler ce que t’oublies quand t’as peur.”

(It’s my job. I’m here to remind you of what you forget when you’re scared.)

You smiled, but then something reminded Charles.

“Tu lui as déjà parlé de nous ou pas ?” 

(Have you talked to him about us yet?)

You shook your head. 

“Non. J’ai passé tellement de temps à rester invisible ici, juste faire mon boulot, rester neutre. Je ne pensais jamais qu’il me ferait vouloir plus.”

(No. I’ve worked so hard to be invisible here. Just do my job, stay neutral. I never expect him to make me want more.)

Charles watched you for a moment, then spoke gently. 

“T’as toujours été forte à te cacher. Mais n’oublie pas, j’ai grandi en te voyant dessiner des royaumes entiers juste pour éviter de montrer ce que tu ressens vraiment.” 

(You’ve always been good at hiding. But you forget I grew up watching you draw entire kingdoms just to avoid telling people how you really feel.)

You laughed then, quietly and cracked. He leaned closer, holding your arm, lowering his voice, being serious. 

“J’ai vu comment il te regarde. S’il y a quelqu’un ici qui pourrait s’intéresser à toi au-delà des gros titres, c’est lui. Mais il ne peut pas se battre pour quelque chose dont il ne sait même pas que ça existe.”

(I’ve seen how he looks at you. If there’s one person here who might care past the headlines, it’s him. But he can’t fight for something he doesn’t know exists.)

You looked at Charles, sighed and nodded. 

“Je vais parler avec lui.”

(I’m going to talk to him.)

Charles gave you a hug and patted you on the shoulder.

“Je pense vraiment pas que ça va mal passer.”

(I really don’t think it’ll go badly.)

Before he leave the spot, Charles turn briefly and joked,

“Mais hé, s’il se passe quoi que ce soit, je peux toujours l’envoyer dans le mur à la prochaine course.”

(But hey, if anything happens, I can always put him in the wall in the next race.)

And when you saw the photos that night, while waiting for him to reply, you felt ridiculous. All those thoughts and worries seemed so stupid all of a sudden. And you took that as a sign to leave. Out of McLaren, out of his sight. 

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It was understandable how confusing it must’ve been for Lando, the way you reappeared out of nowhere, three years later, working for Charles. After that secretive conversation, he saw behind hospitality in Silverstone, after you vanishing without a trace... and now always hanging around Alexandra, too. The more he tried to rationalise it, the more off it felt.

So when he dropped by Charles’ place one quiet evening to return some paddle equipment, he didn’t expect much more than a quick hello.

“Ah! Lando,” Pascale greeted him warmly from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Stay for dinner, come on. We’ve got more than enough.”

Her tone left no room for argument, so he simply nodded, smiling. “Only if I’m not crashing anything.”

Charles shrugged with a smirk. “It’s just family.”

He settled into the living room with Charles, Lorenzo, and Alexandra, sipping from a glass of water, casual as ever, though his knee bounced slightly. They were mid-conversation when the front door opened, followed by footsteps and a familiar voice calling out.

“Pascale, les ananas sont un peu moches, du coup on a pris les mangues.”

("Pascale, the pineapples looked a bit sad, so we got mangos instead.")

Charles stiffened beside him.

You stepped through the door with Arthur, laughing at something you were joking about as you slipped off your shoes and held up a small paper bag. You didn’t notice Lando at first, your focus was on Pascale, who popped her head out to thank you.

And then, your eyes lifted and met his.

You froze mid-step. Arthur glanced between the two of you, sensing the shift in the air like a barometer to a storm.

Lando’s face was unreadable, but his grip on the glass tightened just slightly.

“Hello,” you managed finally, voice soft but careful.

He nodded once, swallowing. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I didn’t know you would,” you replied, just as cautiously.

Pascale, ever cheerful and blissfully unaware of the tension, ushered everyone to the table. Charles cast you a quick, apologetic glance. Lando remained silent, following behind the rest of the group. You moved slower, pulse loud in your ears.

Dinner at the Leclercs was always a cosy chaos, overlapping conversations, Pascale floating between the table and the kitchen, Arthur teasing Charles, Lorenzo pouring wine like he always did.

Lando had been here before, not with everyone, but part of this group. He knew a bit about the rhythms. But tonight, something felt different.

You sat two seats down, diagonally across from him. You laughed at one of Arthur’s comments. You passed a dish to Alexandra with the same natural grace you always had, and she thanked you like it wasn’t strange at all. Like this was normal.

It was too normal.

Lando’s eyes drifted between you and Charles. You and Arthur. He noticed the way Pascale refilled your water without asking, the way you helped clear a dish without hesitation. The way Lorenzo asked if you were still painting. Still painting. Still.

Lando blinked.

His chest tightened. A strange warmth crawled up his spine, familiar and distant at the same time. It wasn’t the setting, not exactly. Not the marble-topped table or the half-sliced cheese board or even the glass of wine in your hand.

It was you.

Sitting there with the Leclerc family like it was your family too. As if you’d always been at this table.

You weren’t a guest here. You were part of this. It wasn’t just familiarity, it was family. And he was the only guest at this table.

The moment slowed. The colours softened. A flicker, not a memory, not quite a dream, pulsed through his mind like a half-forgotten reel, another déjà vu.

The clinking of the dishware, the laugh, the wine. The setting was rather older, somewhat middle-aged, but it was hard to grasp it fully. You were smiling at him, the kind of smile he had seen three years ago, before everything went south.

“Lando, you good?” Arthur quietly nudged him, shaking him out of the sudden vision. 

He nodded with a forced smile. “Yeah, just a bit tired after the padel session.”

He sat a little straighter in his chair.

Across from the table, Pascale leaned over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, her smile soft. “You look just like your mother did when she was your age,” she murmured. “Your mom looked a lot more like grandma, and I looked more like grandpa.” You smiled, you loved it whenever they talked about how they were back in the day. But you also felt the tension from not far away.

Lando nearly dropped his fork. His gaze shot to you, but you were already looking at him.

There it was. That moment. No denial. No smile to brush it off. 

Of course, that’s why no one would realise you were from the maternal side of the family, you don’t bear the name Leclerc. Hidden, quiet, tucked away in the shadows of the sport, maybe even on purpose. But you were family.

Everything suddenly made so much sense for Lando. Why was Charles so protective. Why did you disappear without a word. Why it felt like he was never allowed to really know you back then.

He turned back to his plate, heart thudding in his ears, appetite gone.

You’d been right there the whole time. And he had no idea who you really were.

​​The clinking of cutlery continues. Arthur is still telling some half-funny story about a karting mishap, Pascale’s refilling wine glasses, the candlelight flickers gently, but in Lando’s chest, something caves in.

What he thought he knew crumbles.

Three years ago, he thought you left without explanation. Thought maybe you’d chosen someone else. Thought maybe it was Charles. That you’d gone behind his back. That he wasn’t enough, or worse, that he never mattered at all.

He thought your silence was a rejection. And he jumped back into what made you distance yourself in the first place. But now, sitting here at this dinner table, in Charles’ house, with your place already carved out like it had always been there, he sees it.

He saw how wrong he was. And how badly he handled it.

You weren't hiding an affair. You were protecting something real. Something blood-deep. And he never even asked. He just jumped to conclusions, let his pride spiral, let the jealousy rot what little good you’d built between you.

The protein bars. The sim room. That night in the rain. It all replays now, in slow motion. And it all felt so painfully fragile in hindsight, like something precious he crushed by accident.

You glanced at him again, not cold, not even angry. Just… quiet. Measured. Like you’d already made peace with the past in a way he hadn’t. And that stuff most of all.

Because now Lando was the one who was late. Late to all those texts and calls you sent that night when he was partying away. Late to understanding. Late to listening. Late to you.

The noise around the table fadef to a hum. Lando excused himself halfway through dessert, saying something about an early start, offering a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Pascale tried to convince him to stay, but Charles caught the look on his face and didn’t press.

You walked him to the door without a word.

Just before he stepped out, Lando turned back.

“Three years ago,” he said softly, “if I’d known…”

You stopped him with a small shake of your head. “You didn’t ask, you just acted.”

That landed harder than any explanation.

And as the door closed behind him, he stood outside in the Monaco night, knowing he couldn’t fix the past, and not yet sure if he was still part of your future.

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A quiet hotel bar, midweek, Spa.

The race was behind them, and the exhaustion was still humming under their skin. Lando was nursing a drink he hadn't touched in ten minutes, eyes lost in the glass. Charles slipped into the seat across from him, quiet at first.

“You’ve been weird since Monaco.”

Lando exhaled sharply through his nose. “You had your whole family at dinner, Charles.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“You didn’t tell me,” Lando muttered, a bit sharper than intended. “Three years, and you never told me Y/N was your cousin.”

Charles’s expression softened. “She asked me not to.”

That stunned Lando into silence. He leaned back in his seat, jaw tight. “So she was hiding it.”

“She wasn’t hiding from you, Lando,” Charles said quietly. “We told no one, not even to this day. She was protecting herself, she’s building something on her own. You know how this world gets.”

Lando stared at the table. “I thought there was something going on with you two. That night at Silverstone… I saw you together.”

Charles let out a short breath, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “Seriously?” Then, softer: “You thought she and I…?”

“You were close. Secretive. I didn’t know. And she just disappeared after that.”

Charles shook his head, smiling wryly. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“That she left because of you, not in spite of you. She was scared. She talked to me that day because she was finally thinking about staying and talking to you about it.”

Lando looked up, something brittle cracking behind his eyes.

“She was in love with you, mate,” Charles said. “But she was also terrified. And then you went back to partying, and she thought she’d been wrong about all of it.”

Silence hung, heavy and aching.

Lando swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Charles tilted his head. “Would you have believed me if I had told you at the moment?”

Lando didn’t answer because they both knew the truth.

Finally, Charles stood, patting his shoulder. “You still care about her?”

“More than I ever knew I did.”

“Then maybe this time,” Charles said gently, “don’t let her walk away thinking she imagined all of it.”

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During the summer break, you, Alex, and a couple of girlfriends stumbled across a small countryside festival,  the kind with handmade crafts, live folk music, and rows of colourful stalls tucked between wildflowers and gravel paths. It was unassuming, a little chaotic, but sweet. You were laughing over something Alex had said when your eyes caught on a woman leaning lazily against her booth. She had wild, curly hair pulled into a loose bun and a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling into the air like a whisper.

You didn’t think much of her until she looked up, and didn’t look away.

You wandered over to the next stall to grab some snacks, the scent of roasted nuts and syrupy pastries pulling your attention. But the woman stubbed her cigarette out and called after you softly, “Girls, do you want a reading?”

The snack vendor chuckled, clearly familiar. “She’s the real deal. This is our fifth year side by side, scary how spot on she is, sometimes.”

You and Alex exchanged that look, curious, amused, a little tempted. You shrugged, snacks in hand, and followed her into the booth. The fabric overhead fluttered, casting soft shadows as the reader began to shuffle a well-worn tarot deck, but her eyes barely left you.

“You girls carry good energy,” she said easily, but then her gaze settled harder on you.

You smiled politely, unsure how to take that.

She gestured toward Alex. “You… bright, grounded. A beautiful spirit.” Then she turned fully to you, her tone deepening, slower. “But you… You’ve walked through fire before, haven’t you?”

Your body stiffened. “I’ve never really been in any accident with fire…”

“Not in this life, darling.” Her smile was kind, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Your soul is old… and sad, good, but sad, child. You carry heavy baggage. And you’re still running away from it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I see things. Sometimes too clearly.” She set the deck on the table, spreading the cards slowly. “Let’s ask them.”

She flipped the first.

Wheel of Fortune.

“It happened before. If you believe in past lives, some things in your life now are echoes. Repeats. The wheel turns, and you’re caught in its spin. This is fate. A cycle you haven’t broken yet.”

The second card turned.

The Lovers.

Her eyes glittered. “Ah… there it is.” She looked at you, but her smile softened when she saw how serious your face had become. Your stomach tightened. “It’s not about choosing. It never was. It’s about finding each other. Again. And again. You always will.”

You swallowed.

She flipped the next.

The Chariot.

“This person knows what they want. It’s someone with focus, purpose, charging ahead, always going somewhere, fast. Two horses, always pulling forward with determination. That energy... it surrounds this person. Maybe it scares you, how quickly this person moves. But not reckless. Like I said, this person knows what he or she wants”

The Tower.

A hush fell over the little booth.

“Something collapsed,” she said quietly. “In a past life, maybe even this one, something broke. Tragedy. Loss. It still echoes in your bones.”

Alex shifted in her seat, but you couldn’t move.

A scene flashes in your mind: flames, smoke, stone crumbling... and someone running through it too late.

You swallow, not sure why you suddenly want to cry.

She flipped the final card.

The Star.

“There is hope,” she whispered. “The Star only rises after the fall. There’s healing. No matter what happened in the last life, there is a future, only if you’re brave enough to step toward it.”

She leaned across the table, fingers warm as they brushed your hand.

“This old love ended in tragedy. But your bond meant to make you find each other again, it’s not finished, the wheel is turning again” She pointed once again at the cards on the table.

“It’s meant to test your courage. You’ve hidden long enough. This time, the choice is yours. This crumble and fire took you once, but don’t let fear do it twice.”

“This time this person might come to you, but you must let him or her. Choose the chariot before it’s too late  again. This love is not about safety, it’s about the truth, the safety will come with the truth, and when it comes, you need to ride towards it and not away from it. This star here, will shine after the darkness, only if you let it. Let down the burden and choose your heart. You deserve it.”

You stepped out of the booth in silence, Alex beside you, eyes wide.

The cards were just cards, right?

You said nothing. But somewhere in the back of your mind, the image of the crest and your dreams flickered.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹

[twig---verginix]

thinking about season 3 this morning. as a viewer, the introduction of the "Jennifer incident" felt almost cheap, at first– it's so painfully not present in any previous seasons that peels back the layers a little bit, forces you into blinking and saying heyyyyyy. you're making that shit up now. >:/. But I think it can work diegetically, even if it wasn't planned.

It presents it this way: not only has fucking with the timeline forever impacted the present world that these characters reside in and the only other people they'll ever interact with, but it's also impacted their past, their story. Not changed, per say, but more unlocked it. Like taking different actions in a video game and getting more dialogue. And it drives the viewer away from the Umbrellas in the process, widening the gap between where we are and where they are, knowledge-wise, which arguably does a nice job of adding to that off atmosphere that Hotel Oblivion seems to be going for.

[fragmentedblade]

I've been reading about xiangqi a bit and now I'm even more obsessed with that one video of Jing Yuan

[wrotebymii]

MAYBE ITS ME?… | Date Everything x gn!reader

Summary: You aren’t sure why but almost every dateable hates you and you’re starting to wonder if you’re the problem.

Warning: I’m a little sad due to my seasonal depression so you get this! Angst, social anxiety, socially awkward, very self deprecating Doug is working over time. Not edited.

PART TWO | MASTERLIST | READ ME

It’s driving you and all the objects in your home up the wall. You aren’t sure why but almost everyone hates you.

Everyone from Lux, and Rebel to Rainey, Betty, Dunk, Hoove, Kopi, Keyes, hell even Celia can’t look you in the eye due to the overwhelming complaints she’s been getting!

The nail in the coffin was getting thrown out of the Breaker Box club, you still can feel the shock in your arm when Volt grabbed you out the door. You were shaking and starring wide eyed at the breaker closet that Doug surely would’ve appeared if Reggie didn’t.

You couldn’t hear him, lost in your own thoughts when you cut off his passive aggressive pity party for you by…taking the dateviators off.

It still had charge left but you felt so tired. You don’t know what you were doing wrong, maybe you came off too strong or said something that was hurtful despite you just trying to fit in. Similar to what Tony said in his workshops.

Changed to fit what you thought they’d want in love or even friendship. Though, it doesn’t matter now cause almost all of your household objects hate your guts.

You curled in your spot, head tucked in your knees with your eyes peering over to stare at the glasses you held by the frame with your pointer and thumb tipping it up and down.

Maybe the hacker guy that gave you these would take them back, or maybe you can return them to David without getting accused and arrested by the government?

You just know one thing…

You don’t want to put them back on.

You tried to got back to your mundane life before realizing that everything around you is alive. But it started to make you paranoid and self conscious. Like you couldn’t live in your comfort space anymore.

You swore to Sam that the water was hot one second then cold then hot again, the coffee didn’t taste as good, you tripping on air, zapping yourself when you plugged a charger in, the food going spoiled even though you got it a day ago, the piano playing loud keys randomly, your white clothes getting stained right out of the wash, and now your comfort blanket wasn’t feeling so comforting.

You’ve had it.

One night you were laidback on the now springy uncomfortable bed, venting to Sam about how you need to get out of the house—she offered you her place for the time being. Understanding about your weird struggling relationships.

However. Out of all the people you’ve made hate you, one still remained the same throughout it all and never inconvenienced you.

Dorian. His friendship status didn’t waver at any moment of your—very fast—conversations. He found you rather interesting…respectable. When you met the firt time with Skylar he knew you’d try to get along with everyone, knew how you’d change yourself even to get everyone to like you. You were kind, thoughtful, and a little pathetic but in a charming way.

Currently, he thinks he needs to initiate the conversation this time.

You were shuffling through Dirk clothes when you heard Sam’s car honk outside. Quickly you stuff your luggage with things you knew weren’t sentient and rushed downstairs and opened the door.

Or well…tried too. Each time you turn the top lock then the bottom it shuts again. With a frustrate groan you knock your head on the front of the door, a hand still on the knob.

“Open, Dorian…” You whisper, you mind reeling in the fact that you might’ve made even Dorian upset with you. You try to open it. You curse loudly when he it doesn’t budge

You turn on your heel, leaving the luggage there as you head to your office, opening the junk drawer Jerry and searching for those fucking glasses. It was in the far back with a little dust on them. You put them on, walking pass Skylar trying to warily greet you and straight to Dorian at the front door.

He’s in his typical pose. Arms folded and chest pushed up with a ‘taking no shits’ expression. It reminds you of a conversation you had with him where you said he’d make a great bodyguard or bouncer if he were human. He had cracked a tiny smile and said that just being a door for this house was enough.

“Dorian-“

“Don’ say nothing. Let me speak.” He says, you tsk and roll you eyes but don’t say anything else.

“I don’ think you running away from your home is a good idea fro-“ You wave a hand stopping him.

“They all hate me”

“Not all-“

“Then they likely will” You voice is stern, but there’s a sadness laced in the words. He doesn’t respond to that letting you rant.

“I’m over feeling like trash in my own damn house. I need to leave, so open!” You yell, you don’t care if you’re being watched by Sam from outside or anyone from the living room.

“It’s dangerous out ther-“

“It’s better than here.” There’s a long pause.

“You’know…” Dorian starts as you’re about to take off the glasses, you glance at him. “If it means an’thing—I think we’re still friends.”

The confession makes you want to sob but you grit your teeth, look ahead at Sam’s vehicle.

“Respectfully, Dorian…I wish I never got these glasses…”

Your words stung but he doesn’t show it. You know being angry with him will likely end the same as it did with everyone else, but he remains still for a moment longer then steps aside. Letting you leave.

You toss the dateviator somewhere and walk away. Dorian closes, staring blankly at the glasses that landed in the middle of the walkway. He ignores the whispering in every room—some confusion, some even cheering

He huffs bitterly, arms still crossed and up against his chest. Dorian is ever in balance and composed, he takes his job serious and to not let any detractions get to him. However, this situation is getting out of hand even for him. He’ll have to get an appointment with Mayor Celia layer, but for now he regains his position and awaits your arrival.

How ever long that would be.

[corameiwrites]

𖦹 i want somebody to want 𖦹

pair: jason todd x gn!reader

plot: When you turn 21, the name of your soulmate appears on your forearm. Not everyone is born with a soulmate, and Jason Todd never thought he would have one. 

wc: 2k

authors note: I remember reading in a fic somewhere about the Wayne Scholarship, and I forgot who/where I read it exactly, so credit to them whoever they are. Also, some characters may seem a little ooc and tbh I don't really care. I had fun writing this which is all that matters, and I hope you have fun reading it!

pt. 2

The place Dick had dragged Jason to wasn’t all that bad, considering it was located in Blüdhaven. Unless it was near the University area, there was always something sinister and more corrupt happening under the alcohol, vomit, and blood-stained floors of Gotham bars. Normally no amount of bribery or guilting could make him voluntarily dress up and go out drinking with his older brother, but today was not normal. 

It was his twenty-first birthday. 

Meaning that by 11:59 tonight, if a name didn’t appear somewhere on one of his arms, he was destined to be alone. Not everyone is born with a soulmate, and realistically, after all the shit he’s been through, Jason Todd never thought he would have one. Despite that, there was some sort of dread slowly filling his body the more he thought about it. Maybe it was that small flame of the little boy he used to be—before Robin and the Bat and the Joker—igniting at the chance of finally having one. It was the same boy who would trace his parents’ names on their wrist, asking them to tell him once more how they met, what they felt seeing the names appear on their skin. Unfortunately, that little boy would be let down yet again by the end of the night. 

His plans had originally been to stay in his main apartment (the one where he stored all his books and indulged in a comfy couch), buy a 6-pack of the cheapest beer and get drunk alone. That was ruined, however, when he received multiple annoying texts from Dick, begging to go out for drinks tonight, specifying multiple times that it would be on him. Jason told himself the only reason he agreed was for the free drinks and to keep himself from checking his forearm every five goddamn seconds (a night out with Richard Grayson was known to be entertaining and unpredictable).

If it was Dicks plan to get Jason blackout drunk, he was doing a pretty good job of it. After agreeing he would be the designated driver, Dick had laid back on the drinks and only taken 3 of the five rounds of shots they had already ordered. Jason was opening up bit by bit, reminiscing on their childhood together. By his fifth shot, smiling seemed to come easier to Jason. 

Currently, they were both watching the flatscreen hung behind the bar showing a news channel covering Batman and Robin putting an end to another bank robbery. 

Dick pointed at the screen. “Damian learned that move from me.” 

“No, I taught him that.” 

“I’m the one who taught you that move when you were younger, big dummy,” Dick teased. 

“Oh, I forgot.” Jason's tone lost its joking edge, and Dick looked over at him. “You know,” he continued almost somberly. “Ever since coming back, I seem to forget a lot of things.” 

His eyes were glued to the screen, watching as Batman jumped out a window in pursuit of the bad guy. Robin shouted after him.

“You’ve been through hell and back, Todd. Normal people wouldn’t have been able to handle it the way you did.” 

“No, you see, that's the thing.” Jason's voice was frustrated, his previous smiles gone. His brows furrowed the longer he ranted. “I’m not normal. I cycle through apartments and bunkers like crazy to help me lay low. I sleep in until 3 pm and I put a helmet on to chase down crazy guys with guns for hours at night. The public knows me as some traumatized kid who somehow survived a terrorist attack.” He pauses to take a gulp of beer, slamming the glass onto the bar, lifting his arm to wipe his mouth. Dick watched his jacket slip down his arm.

“Jason–”

“I don’t have a home, I don’t have a stable routine, I don’t even have life insurance!” Dick had somehow managed to get the former deceased and outlaw brother of his drunk and ranting about life. And the worst part? Nobody was ever going to believe him.

“Jason,” Dick puts a hand on his younger brother's shoulder, gripping him like a vice. His eyes never left his arm. “Your soulmate.”

Both of them are silent for a moment. Jason sighs, shaking his head. 

“Damn, you're good at this.Yeah, it's about the soulmate thing.”

“You fucking idiot,” Dick slaps him on the back of his head. “Look at your arm!” 

Dick watched as Jason stared him in the eyes, his brain clearly trying to catch up with what his brother was insinuating. When he finally looked down, it was comedic the way his eyes bulged at the fresh ink on his left arm. Dick tried his best to keep his excitement at bay, biting back his proud smile. His grumpy, tough, and borderline psychotic little brother had a soulmate. After a couple more seconds of silence, Jason cursed under his breath.

“I’m too sober for this,” Jason mumbled, chugging down the rest of his beer.  

Dick laughs, waving the bartender over and handing him a card to close their tab. Jason slams the empty cup down, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. “I have a soulmate.”

“Yeah man, congratulations!” Dick pats his brother on the back, but recoils at Jason turning abruptly and staring him dead in the eye. 

“I have a soulmate.”

“I…yeah, you do bud.”

“...I have a soulmate.” He repeats, annunciating each word, as if he can’t believe it. “I need to find them,” Jason says, standing and walking towards the exit of the bar. 

“Woah, Jason–” Dick hurriedly stands, apologetically yelling for the bartender and grabbing his card. Rushing outside, he sees Jason recklessly crossing the street to the parking lot. “Slow down!” 

Jason stands awkwardly next to Richard Grayson's blue convertible, clambering over the door and into the passenger seat. Dick watches from across the street, shaking his head with a smile, making his way to the car. He couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed with Jasons drunken behavior. 

Hopping in the driver's seat, Dick puts the keys into the ignition. “Alright loverboy, where are we going?”

“The mansion,” Jason struggles to get his seatbelt on (Dick intervenes). “The Batcave’s computer can find anyone.”

“Huh. That’s actually really smart considering you're drunk.” 

“I’m not. Just shut up and drive.”

Dick laughs, hitting the gas pedal and doing as he was told.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩  ♡  ✩˚｡⋆𖦹｡°⋆✮ 

Bruce was home early, having quickly left the bank robbers tied up as Gordons responsibility. Currently, he was sitting in the library going over a case file. Damian had already gone to bed when he had gotten an alert of a vehicle coming up the manor's driveway. He checked the security cameras in the garage and was shocked to see his eldest rushing to the passenger side of the car to stop his sluggish brother from falling out. At first, Bruce had thought that he was poisoned or impaired in some way. He called for Alfred, asking him to prepare the medical rooms to tend to Jason. A few short minutes later, he heard faint voices approaching. 

“I used to live here before I died, I know where I’m going.”

“Clearly not, we passed the entrance already.”

“The old man has a sensor on that door. We need to take the entrance in one of the bookshelves, they don’t notify him when someone enters.”  No one but Alfred was supposed to know that. 

“I doubt it’ll matter, he’s out fighting crime with—oh shit!” Bruce watched through his freakish peripheral vision as two figures hurriedly backed away from the doorway of the library. “Code Bat! Code Bat!” Dicks voice had dropped to a whisper, though not so quiet that Bruce couldn’t hear. 

“B’s here?” A head with a white streak of hair popped through the doorway before quickly vanishing. “Oh no.” 

“It’s only 11:45, what is he doing lounging around?”

Bruce chuckled quietly, now coming to the realization that they weren’t drugged or in danger; they were just drunk. Jason especially, which made sense. Quietly, he sent Alfred a message telling him to disregard the request. He feigned ignorance to their presence, going as far as flipping pages of the case file in his lap while they bickered, attempting to formulate a plan. Listening in to their not very secretive conversation, Bruce deduced that they had come to find Jason's soulmate on the Bat computer. It was his 21st afterall, and why else would he come drunkenly to the home he tried so hard to stay away from? Bruce found himself smiling for the boy. He had been through so much, and he deserved to have some good in his life. He only hoped that whoever they were, they took care of him in places where Bruce failed. 

Sighing exaggeratedly, he stood, stretched and slowly made his way to the doorway, listening as the two brothers hushed. He allowed himself one last second of respite before wiping the smile off his face and walking out into the dark hallway. Dick stood alone, leaning against the wall and whistling. He turned his head, seeing Bruce standing, observing him. 

“Oh, hey Bruce! I’ve been looking for you.” Dick pushed off the wall, going to stand next to his Father. “I thought I’d visit, wait for you to get home, but you’re here!”

“What do you need?” 

“Oh nothing much,” taking Bruce's arm, he began to drag him in the opposite direction, past the library. “I just got nostalgic, and wanted to take a trip down memory lane with my Pops.” 

“You smell like alcohol.”

“Like I said, I was feeling nostalgic!”

Dick rattled on, leading him down the dark halls, and Bruce noticed Jason slipping into the library. He smiled, turning his attention back to his eldest. He couldn’t find himself to be angry about his sons keeping secrets from him. If he felt anything about tonight's endeavor, it was disappointment. Bruce Wayne had taught his sons to be sneakier than they had been tonight. 

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩  ♡  ✩˚｡⋆𖦹｡°⋆✮

Jason, in his drunken haste, had almost tripped down the short flight of steps leading to the massive computer. He couldn't really blame the alcohol though—it was his fault for looking down at his arm every couple seconds, as though the black ink would fade away before he ever found out who you were. Even if it did, he had already committed the name to memory.

He knew how many letters were in your name, the number of syllables in the different parts of it. Despite this, he hadn’t yet spoken it out loud. For the last 30 minutes of his life, every breath he took held a certain weight to it, and the beating of his heart had persisted to be about 120 beats per minute.

He blamed it on the alcohol, but logically he knew the reason.

 That little boy—the one he thought was dead and buried—was coming back to life, crawling his way out of the depths of Jason and settling into his gut. 

His hand shook as he typed the name, every click of the keyboard ringing dully in his skull. Inhaling deeply, Jason hesitated for only a moment before clicking enter. Your name popped up surprisingly quickly, specifically registered under the “Wayne Scholarship” file.

His hand moved by its own volition and the link was clicked, a government ID popping up on the display. 

Staring up at the photo of you in awe, his eyes flickered to the name and back to the photo, unbelieving that this was you. Your simple beauty was evident even through the low quality government ID.

He stared for a while, just taking in you. It was a little odd looking at the huge screen, knowing that you two were made for each other. The thought only made his heart speed up even more. 

Digging into your file, he finds that you’re 20 and won’t be turning 21 for another seven months. The knowledge that he knows and you don’t makes him nauseous.

Clenching the edge of the table, he remembers that the reason he found you so quick was due to the Wayne Scholarship. You moved to Gotham for your third year of college to attend Gotham University, with most of the tuition paid for as long as you agree to stay away from any and all crime. Suddenly, he had found another reason to be thankful that Bruce was filthy rich. Your current residence was an old apartment complex in the University area, which was for the most part, free of crime. The more information he got from Bruce Wayne's files, the more his stomach fluttered. 

That little boy was practically jumping up and down inside of him, chanting over and over again, “I knew it! I knew we would have a soulmate!”. As the information sunk in, he began to shake more violently, and he felt like his legs were barely holding his weight. In fear of throwing up or collapsing on the floor (or both), he fell backwards into Bruce's chair. A tear slid down Jason’s cheek, and then another, and another. 

For the first time in a long time, Jason Todd sobbed.

[suksatoru]

satoru gojo has quite the staring problem when it comes to you.

he knew well that his eyes were his greatest asset—wide, bright, electric blue, and undoubtedly aiming to be the center of your world with how he looks at you. but you don't even spare him a glance—ignoring satoru entirely and trying to focus on the paper in front of you instead. unfortunately, the words begin to blur together, and no matter how many times you re-read the same passage over and over again, you fail to absorb a single word.

you wonder if satoru knows how much he's distracting you.

your boyfriend doesn't seem happy by the fact that you're not giving him any attention. and satoru, someone who was all for the theatrics, makes a show of yawning obnoxiously loud as he stretches and conveniently knocks his foot against yours. you send him a threatening glare, but he just sends you a knowing smile in return.

you hate how your heart flutters at the sight.

biting your tongue to keep yourself from saying anything, your eyes revert back to the paper in front of you. after all, you were in the middle of an exam. a check-in to examine you and your classmates' basic level of knowledge of your most recent lesson. satoru seems to have forgotten completely about the test and is instead busy ripping the corner of his paper gently, writing something on it with his pen before he carefully folds it up and places it on your desk.

you glance up to confirm your teacher, yaga, hadn't seen satoru passing you the note. thankfully, he's far too engrossed in the book he's reading at his desk. you eye the note, preparing to flick it off your desk until satoru makes a wild motion with his hands, shaking his head vehemently with his eyes widening comically.

please don't, he mouths with a pout. sassily, you grab the folded sheet of paper and let out a quiet exhale when you read the words sprawled messily across the top.

do you like me?

satoru is grinning cheekily, one cheek smushed against his fist as he watches you fight back a smile. there's a little yes and no imprinted at the bottom, waiting to be circled by yours truly. and as casual as satoru tries to appear as he quickly busies himself with scribbling nonsense all over his test, you can see the pink flush dusting his delicate cheekbones.

you circle no before adding a little note underneath saying you love him instead.

see, the thing was that you hadn't outwardly said the L word yet. while your boyfriend was quite adamant and proud of his love for you, you were a bit more... reserved. satoru was your first boyfriend, and while you loved him dearly, you had a hard time voicing something you'd never said to someone before.

you pass back the note shyly, avoiding his gaze as you immediately turn back towards your desk once he takes the paper from your hands. curious thanks to your odd behavior, you hear the paper rustle quietly as satoru unfolds it. you curl a hand over your forehead, effectively blocking your eyes from satoru's so you couldn't see his reaction—was it wrong to feel nervous about how he'd react? maybe he wouldn't be happy since you didn't actually say you loved him out loud. or maybe he wouldn't even care about your little note—you're not sure what to expect for a moment.

there's a sudden screeeeech! that comes from beside you as satoru suddenly lunges out of his chair—standing to his full height, fist pumped into the air with your note pinched between his pointer finger and thumb. he smiles so wide that your lips part in both mortification and awe.

"satoru! do you want me to hit you in the head with a textbook again? you're asking for it now!" yaga's voice booms across the classroom, looking up irritably from his book as satoru eyes shine, turning towards you with a grin. he sits back down slowly as he mouths later.

he goes through the next hour working on the test with a smile on his face.

satoru knew you cared for him, and he would never push you to say something you weren't ready to. maybe it was the way he looked at you when he passed the note, blue eyes twinkling like the sea during a sunset, that encouraged you to tell him how you felt—or maybe it was the way his cheeks became extra round whenever he smiled or said something funny to make you laugh. you weren't sure what prompted the sudden surge of love you felt for him; all you knew was that once class was over, you were going to kiss satoru stupid.

in honor of the new hidden inventory art of gojo that dropped <3 tagging @tryingtofeelbetteraboutmywriting for some fluff! :D <3

[dollishmehrayan]

# “I NEED YOUR LOVING, LIKE THE SUNSHINE, EVERYONE’S GOT TO LEARN SOMETIME.” ── .✦ ( batboys when they have a crush on you ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

dollish note ౨ৎ: yes this is based off that one korgis song and if you know it, your elite marry me immediately anywayss I need like more cute events to do omgg and guys I’m going to look for a new divider edition but the bunny will always stay don’t worryyy tags: (batboys x reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He’s so obvious. Everyone knows. Even villains probably know, even you probably know but we always play hard to get. (that’s js me sorry)

Overly casual compliments: “Wow, you look… good. Like, really good. Is that new? No? I just never noticed how great you always look??”

Purposely hangs around you way more than necessary. “Oh wow, fancy seeing you here again... at this coffee shop... at this exact time... for the fifth time this week…”, “uh.. sure okay dick.”

Gets physically flustered. You smile at him and he bumps into a wall.

Brings you little gifts like coffee, snacks, or something you mentioned once two months ago that he totally remembered.

Accidentally lets it slip to Barbara. You find out two days later because she’s evil (and supportive). GIRL BOSSSSS

RASON RODD (IF YKYK) ── .✦

Denies it to everyone. Even himself. “Me? Crushing? Pfft. Please. I'm just being nice. I’m always this nice. Shut up.”

Acts all chill and tough but turns into a sarcastic teddy bear when you're around.

Tries not to care but notices everything about you like when you’re tired, upset, or need space.

Gets really protective, then downplays it. “Yeah I threatened that guy because he was being annoying. Not because he was flirting with you. Nope.” ( our little nonchalant guy )

Will read/watch your favorite stuff in secret so he can talk about it with you, then pretends he hated it. “No, I didn’t like it. But the plot twist in episode 7 was wild. Just sayin’.”

Probably punches a wall the first time someone calls him out. Literally everyone in the family: “Just ask them out already.”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Has a million tabs open on “how to tell if someone likes you back.”

Obsesses over every text you send. Sends a reply. Deletes it. Writes a better one. Deletes that too. Eventually sends “lol yeah same” and regrets it instantly.

Runs into you and forgets how to function for 3 seconds. “Hey—hi—hey. Sorry. I mean. Hello.”

Will research your interests so he can impress you or casually bring them up. “Oh, you’re into ___? I read a couple papers about that, super cool stuff.”

Accidentally calls you “cute” in passing, then vanishes for two days to a point you wonder if he might appear on the missing website thing.

You find out he has a playlist called “maybe someday” and the first song is something painfully romantic.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Pretends he doesn’t like you. Like, aggressively. But it’s so obvious.

Gives you weirdly thoughtful gifts and says things like, “I noticed you were using inferior supplies.”

Blushes if you compliment him. Denies he’s blushing. “Tt. The temperature is simply warm.”

Subtly changes his schedule to be around you more. He’ll be in the library when you’re there, in the gym at the same time it’s definitely not a coincidence (even though he insists it is).

Draws you. Like, sketches. Constantly. Says it’s “for anatomy practice.”

Acts annoyed when you talk to someone else, then pouts in a corner like a feral cat.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

He doesn’t even realize it at first. It hits him out of nowhere, like genuinely out of thin air.

Brooding increases by 200%. He stares off into space, thinking about you, and Alfred has to snap him out of it.

Becomes awkwardly formal. “Would you… perhaps… like to join me for dinner? I understand if that’s… inconvenient.” ( like despite being a former player and all and smoothhh as hell when he genuinely likes someone he can’t be smooth, your like his Andrea beaumont but if they worked out )

Totally asks Alfred for advice. Alfred gives him the same advice he gave him at 16.

When you smile at him, he short-circuits a little. You get a rare, soft Bat-smile in return.

Once he’s sure of his feelings, he’s all in but oh boy, it takes a while.