#not all the time but enough that is something to note

[kathaelipwse]

Worlds Apart | C.Seungcheol

Popular!Seungcheol x Scholar!Reader Trope: Angsty Lovers | Second Chances (kinda) | Push-and-Pull Romance Warnings: Heavy Angst | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Intense Feelings | Mentions of Self-Worth Issues | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Synopsis: You tried to walk away. You told yourself it was for the best. That Seungcheol’s world was too bright, too untouchable for someone like you. But when he kneels before you, hands trembling, eyes filled with a love you don’t think you deserve—you start to wonder if you’ve been running from the wrong thing all along. Word count: 4.2k Reading Time: 15-ish mins Author’s note: This is a heavy, emotion-driven piece that explores love, self-worth, and the struggle of letting yourself be loved. Hope you enjoy the angst- (I cried while typing- Got no idea WHY i am writing so much angst- It scares me haha) Have an amazing day/night y'll!!

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You were fine being invisible. It was safer that way. No attention, no judgment, no cruel words whispered behind your back.

A quiet existence, a solitary path, a refuge from the harsh realities of a world that didn’t seem to have a place for you. You learned to blend into the background, to become a shadow, a whisper, a footnote in the grand narrative of the university.

And then Seungcheol noticed you.

He didn’t just see you; he saw you. He dragged you into the light, not with a forceful hand, but with a gentle persistence that chipped away at the walls you had so carefully built. He sat next to you in the bustling cafeteria, his presence a shield against the judging eyes, his laughter a melody that drowned out the whispers.

He fought for you, not in grand, dramatic gestures, but in subtle, unwavering ways—a quiet defense against the casual cruelty of his peers, a silent promise that you weren’t alone. He walked you home after your late-night shifts, filling the silence with laughter and stories, making you feel like you weren’t just a scholarship student working two jobs to survive in a private university full of people who would never know what it meant to struggle. He saw the fire in your eyes, the resilience in your spirit, the quiet strength that you kept hidden from the world.

He made you feel like you belonged. Like you were seen, valued, cherished. He made you feel like you were worthy.

But people like you? You don’t get happy endings. The world doesn't allow it. The universe doesn't permit it. You were a realist, after all. You understood the rules of the game.

Because someone—one of his rich, entitled friends—hurts you. Maybe it’s words, sharp and cutting, designed to wound. Maybe it’s something worse, a subtle act of sabotage, a calculated humiliation. Either way, it’s enough to break you, to shatter the fragile hope that Seungcheol had ignited within you.

It happened after the game. The roar of the crowd, the blinding lights, the electric energy of victory—it was a world you had only ever observed from the periphery, a spectacle you watched from the shadows. Seungcheol, the star, the hero, the center of everyone's attention, had led the team to another championship win. The arena was a sea of adoring faces, chanting his name, their voices a symphony of praise.

You stayed at the very back, a shadow in the corner, a silent observer. You were the stagehand, the unseen hand that ensured the show went on, the unsung hero who worked tirelessly behind the scenes. You were only here because you were in charge of managing the after-party setup, a duty assigned to you as part of your scholarship work, a constant reminder of your place in this world. You were just the nobody scholarship student working behind the scenes, running around with a clipboard while the real students—the ones who actually belonged here—partied like they ruled the world.

Seungcheol caught your eyes right before he was hoisted onto shoulders. For a fleeting moment, a foolish, reckless hope sparked in your chest, a dangerous flicker of belief. That maybe, just maybe, he would see you, would choose you, would break through the sea of adoring faces and come to you first. That maybe, just maybe, you were something more than a fleeting interest, a passing fancy.

But then a voice shattered that fragile illusion, a voice laced with venom and disdain, a cruel reminder of your place.

“You really thought he’d run to you?”

You turned, your heart sinking, your breath catching in your throat. A group of students stood there, their designer clothes and arrogant expressions a stark contrast to your worn uniform, their eyes filled with a mixture of pity and contempt. Seungcheol’s friends, the ones who always looked at you like you were an unwelcome guest, a stain on their perfect world.

One of them, a girl named Mina, with perfect hair and cruel eyes, stepped forward, her voice dripping with false pity, her words laced with venom.

“God, you really are delusional. You think he actually cares about you? You’re just a novelty, a distraction.”

You opened your mouth, but another voice cut in, sharp and dismissive, a cruel echo of your deepest fears.

“You’re embarrassing him.”

That one hit different, because this time, it was one of the guys from the basketball team, Jaehyun, one of Seungcheol’s closest friends, someone you had thought might understand.

“Hanging around like a lost puppy, acting like you actually have a chance with him,” he scoffed, arms crossed, his eyes filled with disdain. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you know what you look like? Pathetic.”

You felt your stomach drop, the air thick with humiliation, the weight of their judgment crushing you.

“I—”

“Do you know what people say about you?” Mina interrupted, tilting her head, her eyes gleaming with malice, her voice laced with poison. “That you’re his little charity case. His pet project. Something to amuse him.”

Laughter rippled through the group, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed in the vast arena, a chorus of disdain.

“Poor Seungcheol,” someone else mocked, a tall, lanky guy named Junho. “Always looking out for the underprivileged. Such a saint. So noble.”

You couldn’t breathe. The whispers, the glances, the subtle rejections—you had endured them all. But hearing it from his closest friends, from the people he shared his life with, was a different kind of pain. It was a betrayal, a confirmation of your deepest fears, a stark reminder that you didn’t belong.

“You should just disappear already,” Mina sighed, her voice laced with false concern, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Save yourself the humiliation. Do him a favor. Just go away.”

That was the moment something inside you snapped, a fragile thread breaking under the weight of years of insecurity and self-doubt. You shouldn’t have let it get this far. You shouldn’t have let yourself believe, even for a second, that you and Seungcheol were anything more than a fleeting moment, a mistake waiting to happen.

So when you finally found him in the crowd, his eyes searching for you, a flicker of concern in their depths, you turned away. You walked past him like he was a ghost, a phantom, a figment of your imagination, a dream you had foolishly dared to believe in.

And when he grabbed your wrist, his touch warm and insistent, when he looked at you with nothing but pure concern, you ripped your hand free and whispered, your voice barely audible, a broken echo of your shattered hope,

“I just want to be invisible again.”

And the way his face shattered right in front of you, the way his eyes filled with a pain that mirrored your own, almost made you stay. Almost. But people like you? You don’t get happy endings.

So you left, disappearing into the shadows, and you didn’t look back, your heart a heavy weight in your chest.

You disappeared after that night.

No texts. No calls. Nothing.

A ghost in the machine.

Winter break feels endless. Cold. Empty. A barren landscape devoid of warmth.

Seungcheol spends weeks staring at his phone, waiting for your name to pop up, a desperate vigil.

It never does.

The silence is deafening, a constant reminder of your absence.

His friends try to cheer him up, but he’s not the same.

The laughter, the confidence—it’s all forced now, a hollow echo of his former self.

The joy has been leached from his eyes.

The basketball court doesn’t feel the same.

The thrill of the game, the camaraderie of the team—it’s all muted, a pale imitation of what it once was.

Nothing feels the same without you.

Every time he sees something you would’ve liked—a worn paperback, a cheap cup of coffee, a little trinket from a street vendor—his chest aches, a sharp, stabbing pain.

It’s a constant reminder of what he’s lost.

And at night, when it’s quiet, he hears your voice, a haunting melody in the silence.

"We don’t belong together, Seungcheol."

But he still refuses to believe that.

He clings to the hope that you’ll come back, that you’ll see that you belong with him.

The moment classes start again, you avoid him.

A master of evasion.

You’re a ghost, a whisper in the wind.

You change routes, take the long way around campus just so you won’t run into him.

A desperate attempt to erase yourself from his life.

He notices.

Of course, he notices.

He sees the way you duck your head, the way you pretend he doesn’t exist—

It destroys him.

A slow, agonizing erosion of his spirit.

Every time he gets close, you slip away, a phantom in the crowd.

Every time he calls your name, you pretend you don’t hear, a cruel denial of his existence.

The team notices.

His friends notice.

"Dude, what the hell happened over break?" they ask, their voices filled with concern.

But Seungcheol doesn’t talk about it.

He just clenches his jaw and keeps chasing after the girl who doesn’t want to be found.

A relentless pursuit fueled by love and desperation.

One night, you’re walking home, the streetlights casting long shadows.

And he finally catches you.

His heart pounds in his chest as he reaches for your wrist.

Not hard, not forceful—just enough to make you stop running.

A gentle but firm hold.

"Stop."

His voice is raw, broken, filled with a pain he can no longer contain.

You freeze, your back to him, shoulders tense.

You don’t turn around.

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

"Look at me."

His voice cracks—pleading, desperate.

"Please, just look at me. Give me a reason."

You swallow hard, trying to regain control.

But you don’t move, your feet rooted to the spot.

And that’s when he breaks.

"I spent the entire break waiting for you."

His voice shakes, trembling with emotion.

"Do you know how fucking empty everything felt without you? It was like the world had lost its color."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to cry.

Trying to block out his words.

"You left, and I—"

He exhales sharply, his breath catching in his throat.

"I haven’t been okay since. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. All I can think about is you."

Silence hangs in the air.

Thick with unspoken emotions.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"You weren’t supposed to wait for me, Cheol."

Your voice is filled with a sadness that mirrors his own.

That’s when he turns you around, his hands trembling slightly.

When he cups your face with both hands.

Forcing you to see just how wrecked he is.

To witness the depth of his pain.

"You think I had a choice?"

His eyes are filled with tears.

His voice is full of pain.

Full of love.

"I’ll always wait for you."

It’s a promise.

A vow.

A declaration of his unwavering devotion.

Your breath is shaky, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

His hands are warm against your skin.

His grip is so gentle, so careful.

Like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again.

Like he’s holding onto something precious.

And you should.

You should pull away.

You should tell him it’s over.

That he needs to move on.

That you’re not worth his pain.

But when you look into his eyes—

God, his eyes.

You see everything you’ve ever wanted.

Everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

And it terrifies you.

"Cheol…"

Your voice wavers, barely holding on.

A fragile whisper.

His thumb brushes over your cheek.

A tender caress.

"Don’t do this."

His voice is a plea.

A desperate attempt to hold onto you.

"We don’t belong together," you whisper.

Even though it hurts like hell to say it.

Even though every fiber of your being screams in protest.

His jaw clenches.

His eyes darken with a mixture of anger and pain.

But he doesn’t move.

His gaze unwavering.

"Why do you keep saying that? Why are you so determined to push me away?"

You force yourself to stay strong, to ignore the way your heart is screaming for him, to suppress the longing that threatens to consume you.

"Because it’s the truth."

A lie that tastes like ashes in your mouth. LIE.

You try to step back, to create some distance between you, but he doesn’t let you. He doesn’t tighten his hold—he just refuses to let go, his grip gentle but unyielding.

"Bullshit." His voice is rough, desperate, filled with a raw emotion that mirrors your own. "You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to tell me what I feel."

You exhale sharply, trying to regain your composure, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

"You don’t understand, Cheol—"

"Then make me understand!" His voice cracks, frustration mixing with heartbreak, a desperate plea for clarity. "I’ve been chasing after you, waiting for you, and you won’t even tell me why you’re running! Just tell me what I did wrong."

Your throat tightens, the words caught in a knot of pain and fear, the truth too heavy to bear.

"Because I don’t belong in your world!" you finally snap, your voice shaking with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. "Because people like me—people who have to fight just to exist—don’t get to have things like this! We’re not meant for happy endings."

Seungcheol stares at you, his expression unreadable, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with something you can’t bear to face—a reflection of your own pain.

Then—he lets go.

Your breath stutters, your heart skips a beat. He steps back, creating a space between you, a chasm that threatens to swallow you whole.

For a second, you think—this is it. He’s giving up. He’s finally realized that you’re not worth the effort.

But then—he kneels.

Right there, in the middle of the dimly lit sidewalk, in the cold night air, he kneels in front of you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, a gesture of humility and devotion.

And when he looks up at you, his eyes filled with a love that transcends words, you’re ruined.

Your carefully constructed walls crumble around you.

"I would leave everything for you." His voice is quiet, but it hits like a sledgehammer to your chest, a declaration of his unwavering commitment.

"Because you are the only one who has ever seen the real me. The me that I keep hidden from everyone else."

Your lips part, but no sound comes out, your voice lost in a sea of emotion.

"Where my money didn’t matter. Where my status didn’t matter." His eyes never leave yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "All that mattered was us. Just you and me."

His hands find yours again, gently, carefully, his touch a lifeline in the storm of your emotions.

"Tell me that wasn’t real." His voice is a whisper, a desperate plea for reassurance.

Silence.

"Tell me you didn’t feel it too." His eyes search yours, seeking confirmation, seeking a glimmer of hope.

Your throat closes up, the words caught in a knot of longing and fear.

Because you did.

Of course, you did.

You felt it with every fiber of your being.

And Seungcheol sees it.

Sees the way you tremble, the way your fingers clutch his, the way your eyes betray your carefully constructed facade.

He has you.

Now all you have to do—is stop fighting.

Your pulse is hammering, a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

This is too much. Too intense. Too real.

Seungcheol, kneeling in front of you, holding your hands like you’re his entire world, his eyes filled with a love that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

His words replay in your mind, over and over—I would leave everything for you.

You can’t breathe.

You rip your hands away, breaking the connection, creating a space between you.

"You’re a fool, Seungcheol." Your voice is barely a whisper, filled with a mixture of fear and desperation.

His brows knit together, his expression a mixture of confusion and hurt, but he doesn’t move, his gaze unwavering.

"You don’t know what you’re saying," you whisper, your voice shaking, your eyes pleading with him to understand.

"You have everything. A future, a reputation, a life people would kill for. Why would you throw that away for me? I have nothing to offer you."

He stares at you, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrors your own, his expression a mixture of sadness and disbelief.

Like you’re breaking his heart right in front of him.

"Because none of it matters without you." His voice is firm, unwavering, a declaration of his love.

No.

No, no, no.

Your vision blurs, tears welling up in your eyes, threatening to spill over.

You take a step back, trying to create some distance, trying to escape the intensity of his gaze.

Then another.

You have to go.

You have to leave before you crumble, before you succumb to the longing that threatens to consume you.

Your body screams run, but the moment you turn away—

He moves.

And then—his arms are around you. Warm. Solid. Unyielding. And just like that—

You shatter.

A choked sob escapes your lips, and suddenly, you can’t stop. The dam breaks, and years of pent-up emotion flood out. Your hands clutch his jacket, holding on for dear life.

You hate him for not letting you go.

You hate him for holding you together when all you wanted was to fall apart alone.

"Why—why are you doing this?" you gasp against his chest, your whole body trembling, your voice choked with tears.

His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing to your hair—a silent promise of comfort and support.

"Because I love you, idiot."

His voice is thick with emotion, a raw declaration of his feelings.

Your breath hitches. Your heart skips a beat.

"And I’m not letting you go."

His words are a vow, a commitment, a refusal to give up on you.

Tears pour down your face, a torrent of emotion. Your knees go weak, but Seungcheol just holds you closer, keeps you steady—a human anchor in the storm of your emotions.

For the first time in forever—

You let yourself break.

You allow yourself to be vulnerable, to let go of the walls you've built around your heart. And for the first time in forever—

You're not alone.

You have someone to share your pain, someone to hold you through the darkness.

You cry until you have nothing left, until the tears run dry and your sobs subside into soft whimpers. Your sobs start sharp, gut-wrenching, a release of years of bottled-up pain. Your body shakes in his arms, fingers clenching into his jacket like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And maybe he is.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. Arms tight, steady, unshaken—like he’s anchoring you to this world, a constant presence in your life.

And you let him.

For the first time in your life, you let yourself be held. You surrender to his embrace, finding solace in his strength.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time doesn’t exist in this moment—only the two of you, wrapped in a shared space of vulnerability and connection.

Your breathing slows, chest still hitching with the remnants of your breakdown, the storm gradually subsiding. Your face is buried against him, and his heartbeat is the only sound you hear.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

A steady rhythm. Strong. Safe. A comforting reminder of his presence.

When you finally shift, pulling back slightly, he still doesn’t let go. His grip remains firm, a silent reassurance.

Instead, he exhales softly—warm breath against your hair—and then tilts his head down, his eyes filled with tenderness.

And then—a kiss.

Soft. Gentle. Right on your forehead. A gesture of comfort and affection.

Your breath stutters. Your heart flutters.

Then—your nose.

You blink up at him, eyes still red, still glassy, but now filled with a glimmer of hope.

He’s watching you like you’re something fragile. Something precious. Something to be cherished.

Then—your cheeks.

One.

Then the other.

Then—your closed eyelids.

Like he’s kissing away the tears that remain, erasing the traces of your pain.

You don’t move.

Can’t.

You're lost in the moment, captivated by his tenderness.

His fingers slide against yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles—before he leans down and presses a kiss there too, a gesture of reverence.

And then—finally.

Your lips.

A whisper of a touch at first. Like he’s asking for permission, seeking your consent.

Then—

You press back.

And everything shatters.

The kiss deepens. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the skin, a gentle caress. You tilt your head, open up to him, let him pull you in, surrendering to the moment.

And then it’s not soft anymore.

It’s raw.

Hungry.

Desperate.

A release of pent-up longing.

Because this isn’t just a kiss—

This is a confession.

This is Seungcheol showing you everything he can’t say in words, a language of touch and emotion.

And this time—

You don’t push him away.

You embrace his love, allowing yourself to be loved.

When you finally pull apart, breathing hard, lips swollen, a tangible reminder of your connection, Seungcheol still doesn’t let you go.

Instead, he rests his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist still firm—like he’s scared you might slip away again. Like he never wants to lose you. A silent promise of his unwavering devotion.

And then—

He smiles.

Not the cocky, teasing smirk he flashes on the court, a mask he wears for the world.

Not the polite, practiced grin he gives to the rich kids at school, a facade he presents to his peers.

No.

This one is soft.

Real.

Just for you.

"I am yours," he murmurs, voice low, steady, filled with a certainty that resonates deep within you.

"Since the day I saw you working at the café with your hair up and that adorable white and blue dress."

You suck in a breath, your heart swelling with emotion. Your eyes flicker up to meet his—deep brown, burning, full of something you can’t quite believe is meant for you, a love that seems too good to be true.

"You—"

Your voice catches, your words failing you.

His thumb gently strokes your cheek, a tender caress. "You don’t have to believe me yet." His lips twitch, a hint of his playful side returning. "But I’ll prove it to you, baby. Every damn day if I have to."

And for the first time… you think maybe—just maybe—you’re ready to let him. To trust him. To believe in his love.

You don’t pull away. You stay in his arms, finding comfort and solace in his embrace.

And Seungcheol? He notices.

A slow grin tugs at his lips, a little smug, a little too self-satisfied, a hint of his playful arrogance.

"You know, baby," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make you shiver, a seductive whisper. "If I’d known all it took to get you in my arms was making you cry, I would’ve done it sooner."

You gasp and smack his chest, a playful rebuke. "Cheol!"

His chuckle vibrates against your skin, a warm and comforting sound. "Too soon?"

Your glare is weak at best, your lips twitching despite your efforts to remain stern. "You think?"

But Seungcheol just tilts his head, still smiling, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "At least I made you forget about crying, huh?"

You huff, but he catches it—the way your lips twitch, the way your eyes aren’t as clouded anymore, the glimmer of a smile that threatens to break through.

So he leans in, just a little, lips brushing your ear, his voice a low and intimate whisper.

"And for the record, you looked hot as hell in that dress, but you look even prettier like this."

Your breath stutters, your cheeks flush. "Like what?"

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, his embrace a comforting haven.

"In my arms."

His voice is filled with tenderness and love, a promise of safety and belonging.

Seungcheol barely has time to react before—

Flick.

His head jerks back slightly as your finger snaps against his forehead, a playful act of defiance.

"Ow—hey!" He pouts, rubbing the spot like you actually hurt him, his expression comical.

You just smirk, a genuine smile gracing your lips for the first time in what feels like forever.

"You are such a flirt."

His grin starts creeping back, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"You love it."

You tilt your head, pretending to think, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Mmm… maybe."

Then—

You lean in just a little, just enough to make his breath hitch, a playful challenge.

"But you’re my flirt."

Your voice is soft, intimate, a declaration of your feelings.

Seungcheol? Absolutely wrecked.

His ears go pink, a blush creeping up his neck. His smile falters for a split second, his usual composure momentarily shattered.

Then—

He groans, throwing his head back, overwhelmed by your words.

"Baby, you can’t just say stuff like that!"

You laugh—light, breathless. And it hits you.

You haven’t laughed like this in a long time.

And Seungcheol? He’s looking at you like he knows. Like he’s the reason why.

Like he’s gonna make sure you never stop being happy after all of the troubles you went through alone.

[mariasont]

collagen crisis - A.H

skincare fixes a lot of things, but it won't stop you from spiraling over how much older aaron looks since he started dating you

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: a little bit of angst with a happy ending, avoiding serious conversations, miscommunication, relationship anxiety, reader being dramatic, fluffy ending <3 wc: 2.4k request: here

You should have been happy. Just being here with him, sitting prettily on the couch, watching Aaron work from across the room.

Technically, this was spending time together. At least, in the most literal sense. But it didn’t feel like it. Not when he was hunched over his laptop at the coffee table, composing something far more critical than whatever little fantasy you were spinning — one where he’d finally look up, reach for you, and decide whatever he was doing could wait.

You let out a sigh, sinking even deeper into the cushions like they might swallow you whole and spare you from the absolute nightmare that was this week.

First, you overslept (horrifying), which meant skipping your morning makeup routine (soul-crushing). Then, the demon printer decided to sabotage you, jamming right when you needed to print Aaron’s meeting notes. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, some pointless, stupid, boring admin thing had you running around like a crazy person all week, like bureaucracy had personally conspired to keep you from your boyfriend.

After days of missing him, you were finally here, finally close… and he wasn’t even looking at you.

You propped your chin on your hand, eyes glued to him like he was the sun and you were some poor little flower desperate for light.

He was always fascinating — the most beautiful thing in any room, any world even. But clearly, he had other priorities.

“Aaron,” you purred, practically dripping his name in honey. “Are you mad at me?”

No response. No flick of an eye. You pouted, nose wrinkling in disbelief. That move had a 100% success rate, until now.

“Did you know stress ages you? You should really take a break before you get all wrinkly.”

A noncommittal hum. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, undeterred. “Stress literally destroys collagen. And collagen is really important, because it keeps everything tight and smooth. And did you know that working too much is the number one cause of frown lines?” You squinted. “Like, look at you right now — totally frowning.”

Nothing.

You sighed dramatically, rising from the couch, bare feet padding across the floor as you came to stand over him, arms crossing beneath your chest.

“You know,” you mused, tapping a finger against your chin, “I should start taking my theories to someone who appreciates them. Like Derek. He listens. Actually engages. And —” A pause. “ — he always says I have the prettiest skin. “

Aaron’s fingers paused. “Don’t even think about it.”

You clambered onto the coffee table, settling in right across from him, close enough that he had to look at you.

“I mean, if you’re too busy, I should explore my options, right? Maybe find a guy who —”

“I’m not ignoring you for fun,” he interrupted, rubbing his jaw. “I’m busy because I have to be. You know that.”

Your playful smile wavered, wilting under a sudden frost. He wasn’t just distracted. He wasn’t just busy. His brow was tight with strain, his jaw set in a profound way that told you this wasn’t about focus but stress. Exhaustion. He was drowning and you were whining about being left on the shore.

I’m not ignoring you for fun.

Right. No, this wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a ploy. He wasn’t looking past you to be cruel, he was looking past you because there were things more important than your vanity, deeper than your hunger for his attention. His burdens were real, the life-or-death kind, and here you were, pouting over the trivial. Over collagen. Over the absurd notion that Derek Morgan could actually take him from you.

Ugh. Guilt. The worst emotion. It was sticky and persistent, like mascara smudges that refused to budge no matter how hard you scrubbed. You swallowed, hands skating over your thighs as if you could rub it out, erase it, pretend you weren’t feeling it at all.

“Right,” you mumbled, forcing a small smile, even though it felt a little wobbly. “Sorry, baby. I know.”

His lips parted, but you didn’t allow him to turn this into something serious.

You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before resting your hand against his jaw. His skin was warm, a little rough from the day’s stubble.

“You’re still, like, so handsome,” you murmured, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “And I love you, obviously.” A breath. A softer smile. “So it’s not like I’d leave you for a younger man or anything.”

You meant for it to sound teasing. Light. But even you could hear the truth beneath it like a half-hidden bruise, the unspoken  I know I’m difficult, I know I’m exhausting, but please still love me anyway.

Then you hopped off the coffee table, cheeks toasty, heart fluttering in a way that didn’t feel entirely good. You took a step back, suddenly unsure of what to do with yourself.

You don’t even remember leaving.

One moment, you were in Aaron’s living room, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and the next, you were unlocking your home door, feeling too much and not enough all at once, like you’d been yanked out of a dream before it could end adequately.

It was fine. You were fine. 

You just needed to do your skincare routine — because skincare always made things better. It was science. The universal laws of serums and self-care. You’d scrub away the bad feelings, tone down the overthinking (literally — with toner), and slather on a fresh start in the form of overpriced moisturizer.

Because if you just focused on the cleaners, on the circular motions, on fixing something, maybe you wouldn’t feel so much like you needed him to come along and fix you.

You were being dramatic.

But still, you stared at yourself in the mirror, fingertips smoothing combinations into your skin, your thoughts hyper-focused on him.

His face, his worry lines, the little creases at his temples that did not exist before you came waltzing into his life in a cloud of perfume and poor decision-making. And the gray hairs. He didn’t have those before either.

You were like stress in human form, a walking, talking wrinkle-generator. And wasn’t that a fun little realization — that your presence was something his body wore, that your love had a terrible side effect.

And okay, yes, you loved the way he looked. He was the hottest man you’d ever seen, full stop, end of discussion. He wore stress the other way men wore tailored suits. But that didn’t mean you wanted to be the reason for it. Weren’t you supposed to make his life better? Less stressful? More fun?

You sniffled, trying — really trying — to push the thought away, to shove it into some quiet little corner of your mind where it couldn’t hurt.

The knock at your door made you jump, a startled squeak slipping out. The serum bottle slipped from your fingers, clattering into the sink before rolling to a shaky stop.

Oh. Oh, no.

This was it. You knew this was going to happen eventually. Of course you were going to be a victim of some random, senseless crime, because you were too pretty to be left unattended. They always went for the pretty ones first. Statistically. Probably.

Grabbing the closest thing you could maybe pass as a weapon — your hairbrush, heavy-ish, but hardly lethal — you crept toward the door. 

You pressed up on your toes to check the peephole �� Aaron had very sternly instructed you never to open the door without looking first — and oh. It was him. You let out a massive breath, forehead knocking lightly against the door as you deflated.

You unlocked it quickly, yanking it open.

“Oh my gosh, Aaron, do you want to give me a heart attack?” you gasped, shoving the hairbrush into his chest with all the righteous indignation of someone personally victimized by his existence. “I was about to murder you.”

He caught it without effort, blinking down at the would-be weapon. “With this?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Okay, yes, I panicked. But let’s not pretend I wouldn’t have landed at least one good hit.”

He smiled like he almost agreed, but then it faded, replaced by something quieter. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Can I come in, sweetheart?”

“Oh! Yes, duh, sorry.” You spun on your heel, nearly tripping over your fuzzy slippers as you ushered him inside. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

His frowned. “Did you not see my texts?”

“My phone is charging.”

“So you just… disappeared, ignored your phone, and then nearly assaulted me with a hairbrush?”

You shut the door behind him. “Aren’t you so glad you’re dating me?”

“Immensely.”

His tone was dry, but the way he reached for you was anything but. He hooked his fingers into the belt loops of your robe, reeling you in, and suddenly you were pressed against him, chest to chest. 

“I seriously am glad I’m dating you.”-

Your stomach squeezed so tight it was borderline uncomfortable.

So you did what any reasonable person would do. You avoided it entirely.

“Well, obviously, I am a delight.”

Aaron’s finger brushed against your cheek, tucking a stray strand behind your ear with an almost cautious tenderness, like you were made of glass and one wrong move would have you slipping through his fingers.

Because he knew you. Knew how easily you could float away, lost in your own world, distracted by the new beautiful, fleeting thing. And he knew, just as easily, how you ran when something felt too real.

So he was careful. Always careful.

“You are a delight,” he murmured, sure as ever. 

You blinked up at him, lips parting before you scoffed, shaking your head. “Ugh, boring. Teasing isn’t fun when you just agree with me.”

“I’m not teasing,” he said, lips twitching. Then, softer, sneaking the words past your defenses, “I need you to understand how much I love you. You are the single most important thing in my life.”

Flattening your hands over his chest, you let out a totally normal, not at all panicked giggle. “Gosh, you’re so sincere,” you blurted. “Do you… practice this?”

His brow arched. “Do you practice avoiding serious conversations?”

“Why do we have to have a serious conversation right now? Can’t we just, like, make out instead?”

His eyes track downward, to your lips. You see the moment he hesitates, a war playing out in the slight twitch of his fingers, the way his throat bobs when he swallows. For a moment, you think he might actually do it — lean in, forget whatever moral battle he’s fighting, and take you up on the offer. But then, his jaw tightens, and with a slow exhale, he shakes his head.

“Because I was an ass earlier,” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair like he’s punishing himself for even considering otherwise.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well,” he murmured, “if you knew it, then maybe you should let me say it properly.”

You loop your arms around his neck, pulling him just a little closer, brushing your nose against his like it’s instinct.

“You weren’t being an ass, Aaron. You were just being a responsible, busy adult, unlike me who was apparently having a full-blow crisis over not being the center of your universe for two whole hours.”

Aaron signs, thumb stroking a slow line against your back.

“You might’ve been a little dramatic about it,” he concedes with a teasing smile, “but I also knew you had a rough week.” His lips press into a thin line, self-reproach creeping into his voice. “You never complain, so I didn’t expect you to say anything. But I should’ve seen it. I did see it — I just got caught up.” His voice lowers. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to beg me to look at you.”

“Still doesn’t excuse me being, like, a giant problem to your blood pressure. I mean, I basically force you to love me, and I’m sure that’s exhausting.” You flash him a bright, overcompensating grin, but his brow furrows, unimpressed.

Aaron’s hands slip from your waist to cup your face, tilting your chin up so you can’t look anywhere but him.

“Do you honestly think you’re making this difficult for me?” he asks, incredulous. “Loving you isn’t something I have to convince myself to do.”

His lips press together again. “I love you because I couldn’t stop if I tried. Because it’s the easiest, most natural thing I’ve ever done.” A small breath of laughter leaves him. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Loving you isn’t exhausting, honey — it’s the only thing that isn’t.”

Your eyes burn, emotion bubbling up faster than you can stop, and you let out a watery laugh. 

You wish you could take it as easily as he gives it. You wish you could believe it the way he does. But Aaron, steady and certain, loves you like it's gravity instead of a fragile thing that could slip through your fingers if you hold it wrong.

You love him. You love him with something wild, something you could never fully put into words, no matter how many times you said the three words to him.

And maybe that's okay. Maybe you don't need words, because he's already looking at you like he knows. He's felt your love in every touch, every breath, every time you make his life louder and messier.

Maybe that's why your fingers are trembling again.

Because this, this love, this life, this man, is the closest thing to real magic you've ever known.

“That might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” you whisper, tracing your nails over his neck.

Aaron tilts his head, brow furrowing slightly like he hates the thought that this is some grand declaration instead of something you should have always known.

"Then let me say it more often."

Your lips smush together, trying so hard not to smile, not to let him know how much that gets to you.

And, well. You can't have him knowing he's winning, so you tilt your head, pursing your lips, pretending to consider something much more important than the way your heart is currently spiraling out of control.

"Well, if you really love me that much..." You tap your chin, faux-thoughtful. "I feel like the next logical step would be a truly earth-shattering makeout session."

Aaron groans — part exasperation, part fondness — but then grabs you, kissing you hard enough that you laugh into his mouth.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤUGLY LOVEㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Mark Grayson x Fem Reader Part 1

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : Mark loves you. He loves you so much. But you don't. And yet you agree to go out with him. Maybe because no one else wants you. Maybe because you were lonely...

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You remember the first time Mark Grayson asked you on a date.

It was embarrassing.

Not for him, no. For you. Because he did it in the middle of the school hallway, right when you were already feeling like shit, surrounded by people who immediately turned to stare like this was some kind of rom-com moment. Like you were supposed to blush and giggle and say yes because Mark Grayson was the loser who somehow still managed to be well-liked.

And you? You weren’t special. Not in any way that mattered. You weren’t pretty enough to turn heads, not hot enough to make guys stumble over themselves. You weren’t the girl anyone fell in love with. So when Mark fucking Grayson—big smile, nervous hands, that stupid blue-and-yellow jacket—asked you out, you just blinked at him.

"Are you serious?" you had asked, voice flat.

His expression faltered for half a second before he recovered. "Yeah! I mean, I think you're really pretty, and, uh, I'd love to take you out. Like—dinner, movie, whatever you want."

You wanted to say no. You really did. But then you thought about it—about how the guy you actually liked barely knew you existed. How you were always the afterthought, the last pick, the option. No one was lining up to take you out. But here was Mark, all bright eyes and open hands, so eager, so desperate.

So you said yes.

Dating Mark was easy. And awful.

He was in love with you.

Not in a normal, lovesick puppy way. No, Mark was something else. He looked at you like you were air and he was drowning. He texted constantly, always wanting to know where you were, who you were with, if you were okay. He remembered everything you ever said—your favorite color, the way you hated cold weather, that one time you mentioned wanting to try some random Thai restaurant downtown. It was suffocating.

And the worst part? You liked it.

Not him, though. Just the way he needed you. The way he worshipped you.

You let him hold your hand even though his palms were always a little too warm. You let him kiss you even though he always lingered too long, like he was memorizing your lips, like he thought you’d disappear if he stopped. You let him call you pet names that made your skin crawl—"baby," "angel," "my girl."

You never called him anything but Mark.

Then, of course, came the worst part.

The superhero bullshit.

The time he told you, it was supposed to be some big moment.

He sat you down in his bedroom, looking at you with this nervous excitement, like he was about to give you the best news of your life. Then he told you.

"I'm Invincible."

You blinked. "...You're what?"

He grinned, all proud, like an idiot. "Invincible! You know, the new hero? Yellow suit?"

Oh. Oh, that was him?

The guy flying around looking like a blind bee?

Invincible. What a stupid fucking name.

You had so many questions. None of them were good.

"You're telling me you willingly wear that suit?" you said instead, voice dripping with disgust.

His smile faltered. "I—I mean, yeah, it's kind of cool, right?"

You stared at him. Stared at the boy you were dating, who was apparently running around in an ugly-ass yellow and blue suit with those stupid fucking goggles like he was actually blind.

"You look so dumb," you muttered.

His face fell. "Wait, what?"

"Yellow? Seriously? Who the fuck told you that looked good?"

"Babe—"

"And the goggles? Are you blind? No, actually, are you?"

He looked heartbroken. Like you had just kicked a puppy. It was honestly kind of funny. But then he smiled again, weaker, like he was trying to brush it off.

"You’re not... mad?" he asked hesitantly.

Oh. Right. That was what he was expecting, wasn’t it? Screaming, crying, breaking up because oh no, my boyfriend is a superhero, it’s too dangerous, I can’t handle it!

You just shrugged.

"Why would I be mad?" you said. "Not like I actually care what you do."

He just stared at you for a long time. Then he smiled.

Too wide. Too happy. Like you had said something perfect.

God, he was pathetic.

Mark loved you too much. And you let him.

Every date was his idea. You never asked. He was always the one picking you up, texting first, clinging to you like he was afraid you'd disappear.

You tested him constantly, just to see how much he could take.

Ignored his texts? He sent more.

Canceled a date? He rescheduled immediately.

Made fun of him? He laughed, like it was endearing.

You let him kiss you, let him touch you, but never too much. Just enough to keep him hooked. You never said "I love you." He said it all the time, and every time you just looked at him, blank, and let the silence stretch until he got uncomfortable and changed the subject.

And god, he never gave up.

He looked at you like you were the fucking moon. Like you hung the stars in his sky. Like he needed you just to breathe.

You hated it.

You loved it.

Because you could never have what you really wanted. No one had ever loved you like this before. So you let Mark do it.

Even if you could never love him back.

Mark never noticed when you looked at someone else.

Maybe because he didn’t want to notice.

Or maybe because, in his head, you were already his. Permanently. Like he had claimed you the second you said yes in that stupid high school hallway.

But you noticed.

You noticed him. The guy you actually wanted.

He was everything Mark wasn’t—cool, confident, effortlessly charming. When he walked into a room, people turned. Girls actually wanted him. They laughed at his jokes, flipped their hair when he talked, hung onto every word. He could have anyone he wanted.

But he didn’t want you.

That stung. Even though you knew it shouldn’t.

You had Mark. Mark, who worshipped the ground you walked on. Mark, who held your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. Mark, who would probably die if you asked him to.

And still, you wanted someone else.

You tried. For a while.

It happened on a random night—Mark was picking you up from class, his stupid yellow goggles shoved into his pocket, hair still messy from whatever dumb hero thing he had been doing earlier. He grinned at you, all excited like always.

"You hungry? We could get that ramen you liked."

You weren’t in the mood. Not for him. Not for his stupid, endless happiness.

But then you thought about it.

You thought about how it would feel if he—the one you actually wanted—looked at you like that. You thought about how you were being handed something most people dreamed of. Unconditional love. A boy who would do anything for you.

So you tried.

You smiled—tight, forced. Let Mark hold your hand as he walked with you. You let him talk, rambling on about some new villain he fought, how he was getting better at flying, how his dad was actually talking to him about superhero stuff now.

You nodded at the right times. Gave him a few mhms and oh, really? Like a normal girlfriend would.

But it didn’t last.

Because Mark wasn’t what you wanted.

And because you were fucked in the head.

It always came out of nowhere.

One second, you’d be fine. Barely tolerating him, but fine. The next, something small—something stupid—would set you off.

Like tonight.

You were sitting in his room, scrolling through your phone, only half-listening as he went on about his superhero bullshit again. And then he said something—some dumb, innocent comment.

"I know I’m not, like, the coolest guy around, but—I dunno, sometimes I wish you’d talk about me the way you talk about him."

Him.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned to face him. Mark looked nervous, like he regretted saying anything. Good.

"What?" Your voice was sharp.

Mark hesitated. "I—I mean, I know you think he’s, like, really handsome and—"

"Are you seriously bringing this up right now?"

He blinked. "I—"

"No, really, Mark, really? Jesus Christ, I can’t have one fucking conversation without you getting all insecure?"

Mark flinched. Like you had actually hit him.

And fuck, that only pissed you off more.

"You always do this," you spat, voice venomous. "Always. Acting like I’m the fucking bad guy when all I do is put up with your bullshit, your stupid works, your pathetic little—"

You stopped.

Because Mark was looking at you like a kicked dog.

Like he had just realized something awful.

And fuck.

You felt sick.

The guilt hit fast.

You pressed a hand to your forehead, exhaling sharply. "Fuck."

Mark swallowed. "I didn’t mean to—"

"Just—just shut up, okay?"

You didn’t want to hear him apologize. Not again. Not after this.

You weren’t a good person.

And Mark wasn’t good enough to fix that.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— NEXT ☆ Part 2.

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[marvelstoriesepic]

Change your mind

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)

Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡

Masterlist

You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.

Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.

Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.

You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.

“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.

Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”

“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.

But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”

A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”

She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.

“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”

Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”

You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.

Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.

You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.

It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.

Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.

Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.

“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”

You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”

She smirks. “Could happen.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”

Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”

You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”

You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”

Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.

Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.

And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.

Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.

The number 17 fills out your vision.

Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.

His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.

Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.

“See something you like?”

Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.

Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.

Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.

He’s turning.

Wait, he’s turning.

Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.

He’s looking at Natasha.

Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.

Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.

Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.

You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.

His attention shifts. To you.

Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.

His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.

Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.

“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.

Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.

“He’s Steve’s best friend.”

You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”

Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.

“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.

Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.

“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.

You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.

And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.

You shake that thought right off again.

It’s not like it matters.

Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”

Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”

There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.

“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.

Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”

“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”

She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You huff. “Nat.”

Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.

Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.

You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.

A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.

Number 17.

And he is coming right toward you.

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.

His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.

He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.

His eyes land directly on you.

“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”

You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.

You turn to her confused. “Huh?”

“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.

Natasha looks triumphant.

When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.

“Thanks, doll.”

His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.

He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.

You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.

You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”

Oh.

Oh, damn.

You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.

You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”

Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.

Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.

You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.

Natasha cackles. You ignore her.

Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.

He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”

Natasha snorts.

His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.

“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”

You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.

“Huh,” he muses.

You frown slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”

That somehow feels worse than the flirting.

You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.

There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”

That must be their trainer Fury.

But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.

You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”

And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.

It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.

You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.

“We both know you’ll be here next time.”

Infuriatingly, you know she is right.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.

Because he’s on the field.

And, well damn.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.

Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.

Really good.

His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.

You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.

When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.

The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.

You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.

Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.

You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”

Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”

You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.

So you only huff and lean further into your seat.

But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.

There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.

Oh, hell.

As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.

Right at you.

And he winks.

Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.

The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.

Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”

She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.

You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. ���That guy’s showing off for you.”

“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.

“That was textbook showing off, babe.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.

But maybe she’s not wrong.

The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.

The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.

The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.

And apparently, Steve notices, too.

Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.

You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.

Natasha snickers beside you.

Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.

Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”

Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”

But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.

And he’s still looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.

“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”

Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.

You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.

Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.

“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”

It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”

“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.

“He’s not-”

“Watch.”

You do.

And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.

They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.

It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.

When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.

And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.

It’s irritatingly impressive.

You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.

He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.

Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.

You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”

She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”

You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.

Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.

The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.

The ball is pitched.

Bucky swings.

Crack.

The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.

It’s gone. A home run.

The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.

“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”

“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.

Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.

You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.

And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.

Right to you.

The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.

Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.

You are clapping, like all the others.

And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.

The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.

“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.

“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.

“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”

“Stop that-”

“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.

Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.

You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.

That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.

Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.

His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.

He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.

But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.

And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.

Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.

The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.

The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.

But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.

His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.

Then he’s gone.

“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.

“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.

She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”

You groan. “God, shut up.”

“That never worked on me. You should know better.”

With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.

“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.

“What? Nat-”

“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”

“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”

You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.

Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.

The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.

And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.

Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.

Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.

You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.

And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.

His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.

Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”

You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”

It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.

You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”

He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”

You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”

He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”

Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.

Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.

The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.

“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.

You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”

Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.

“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.

Next time.

You don’t quite know what to do with that.

You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”

Bucky beams.

It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.

He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.

You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”

Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”

“Make sure?”

He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.

Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”

Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”

You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.

Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.

You glance down.

A new contact. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky watches you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”

Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.

“Guess so.”

His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.

“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”

Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”

You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.

Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.

This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.

Because yeah, you might not be into baseball.

But you might be into Number 17.

“Flirting is a promise of something more.”

- Milan Kundera

[alfvaen]

"Lady Kistrelle?"

Ten years now and she still wasn't quite used to answering to that name. Nobody dared object to any delay in response, though, for fear of offending her. "Yes?" she said after a proper delay, looking up from the book in front of her.

Not one of the royals--she was long past the point of having to deal with one of their servants. Not a priest. She spotted the sword at his waist, and realized it must be the new guard lieutenant. Diffident and cautious in her presence, as only made sense given what had happened to his two predecessors.

"We picked up a woman last night. She wishes to speak to you."

Some criminal who wanted the enlist the help of the Royal Seer? Everybody believed she knew all and saw all, so either they were innocent or they were trying to call her bluff. But after all this time, she couldn't afford to let anyone know how much of a fake she actually was. Unfortunately, her reputation for omniscience also meant she couldn't ask a lot of questions. She'd have to lead him into volunteering information. "And you decided to come to me because…"

He shuffled his feet. "At first she was claiming to be you, so we brought her in for impersonation. Then she asked us to send you a message, just a name."

Her spine turned to ice. This was bad. "And that name was?"

"Flandine."

Brief surge of relief--it wasn't her own name, before she'd become Lady Kistrelle. But then she realized it was worse. She let out a sigh, as if put upon, and said, "Fine, I'll speak to her. Best to bring her here." Because this conversation was not one she'd want to be overheard.

She sat staring at the book for a long time after the lieutenant left. She hadn't meant it to go this far. She'd just been trying to save her life.

She'd thought she was done for when she'd been found rooting around in the abandoned house. Some mage or scholar or something had been living there, and she had just enough talent to make her way through their wards and traps to get at the goodies inside. So when a messenger came through the unguarded front door, she'd expected him to run for the guards. But apparently the old seer, Tarim, whose house it had been had had an apprentice, a blonde woman who went by Kistrelle, and she'd been seen rarely enough that nobody knew that it wasn't her. So she'd bluffed. And she'd been taken to talk to the King, and she'd kept bluffing. And between bluffing, manipulation, thorough perusal of the old seer's library, and sheer luck, she'd managed to convince everyone in the kingdom that she was actually the seer's rightful heir.

She'd never known what happened to the real Kistrelle, though. Though she had run across a note from Tarim, from when he'd taken her on, how he'd convinced her to change her name to "Kistrelle" in the first place. Because "Flandine" was a commoner's name, and not suitable at all.

And now Flandine was back. And clearly quite aware that the current Lady Kistrelle was at the very least an imposter, if not an outright charlatan (which she was, of course). There was every chance that if she told the guard captain (a witless fool, perfect for her needs, as opposed to the much more perspicacious lieutenants she'd had to get rid of) that Flandine was dangerous and should be killed right away, or locked up with her tongue cut out, then he'd do it.

But she wanted to know. Why had Flandine left, without telling anyone? What had happened to Tarim? Why was she back now? Surreptitious acquisition of knowledge had been a favourite pastime before she'd ended up in this charade, and it didn't hurt her reputation for omniscience either. Flandine was dangerous to her, but perhaps they could come to some sort of an accommodation. Perhaps she should take on an apprentice.

You are the most influential and powerful person in the kingdom. Even the royals walk eggshells around you at risk of offending you. The thing is, you have no idea what you’re doing or how it has gotten to this point, but you’re in way too deep now and you have to keep the lie going to survive.

[eeksburner]

Simon Riley x Wife!Reader

I cannot stop thinking about Ghost and being a cute domestic wife for him

Tw: Intense gender roles, kinda stalker Simon, smut if you squint

(Note: I am not a tradwife nor do I condone forcing gender roles and societal pressures onto anyone, I just wanna be a cutesy wife for Simon Riley)

Simon prefers you call him Simon over Ghost. He thinks that since he's literally married to you, there's no reason for you to call him by his call sign. Calling him Simon is much more intimate for him and he likes separating you from everything he endures as Ghost. He just wants to be your Simon.

He knows he's gone for long periods of time. Time you spend not talking to him or doing couple things. He makes up for it, though, by doing anything you want when he's at home. If you're tired of planning, he's got you. Simon has a whole list of random things to suggest when you just want to be taken care of without worry.

He LOVES spoiling you. In his line of work, he gets down and dirty. He loves knowing you don't have to do anything of the sort (unless you want to). He pays for your nails to keep them pretty, unlike his dirty, battered ones. He will get you monthly subscriptions to whatever you want, beauty boxes, gaming passes, entertainment, etc. All luxuries he can't experience while at work. Simon knowing you're the opposite of him, clean, spoiled, safe, is enough to keep him working forever. Giving you everything he can't have. His love isn't all monetary, but a lot of it is when he's away.

Simon loves watching you. He gets major anxiety about you when he's away. To help with this, he installed security cameras in and around the house. When he gets the luxury of a WiFi signal, he'll check in on you. If you happen to see a little green light flash on while eating, relaxing, cooking, or any other mundane task, you'll offer him a smile and a wave. Sometimes you'll blow him a kiss (or give him a private show).

We all know Simon is physically fit, but that doesn't mean he has any type of expectation for you. He loves whatever you have to offer him, as long as you're in good mental and physical health (remember, being physically healthy comes in different shapes and sizes!) Simon is completely enamored with you. He believes he was blessed to be the only man on earth to be married to a real goddess. He would build a statue of you by hand (if he wasn't so bad at any type of art). If you want to go to the gym, he'll buy you the best membership he can. If you don't, he'll buy you something else that occupies your time.

Simon loves feeding into your hobbies, whatever they may be. Coming home and seeing something new you created or hearing about something you've learned makes his day 10x brighter.

You love cooking for him. It took a lot to break down his walls and food is one of them. He appreciates the time and effort it takes to plan and execute a meal as well as the skill needed to cook as well as you do. The best brands and foods for his wife only! Nothing makes him feel more full of you and your love than when he's eating something you've made for him, other than when he praises you and you get a little twinkle in your eyes and a smile on your face.

You also happen to love keeping the house nice for him. You clean fairly often, though it's not hard to keep up after one person (and any pets you may have). You like knowing he's trusted you with one of his largest assets, his home. It gives you a sense of power knowing you're the only person who controls what kind of house he comes home to. Messy, clean, minimal, tacky, bright, dark, etc. Simon appreciates anything and everything you do for the house. Knowing you've gotten everything taken care of and decorated in a way you both like is like heaven to him and lifts a huge weight off his shoulders. He loves smelling a clean house after smelling nothing but dirt, blood, gun powder, and stinky men for days. (He couldn't care less if the house was a cardboard box, as long as you were there and you still loved him.)

If you want to work, go to school, learn a trade, or be a stay at home, he supports you. You don't even have to explain yourself to him, Simon trusts you so much that even if you were to say "I don't know" he would hear trumpets because an angel just spoke to him.

Nsfw: Despite what people may think, Simon typically isn't a dom. He spend a majority of his time directing people and being an authoritative figure at work. That isn't even mentioning how tolling it can be knowing you took a life and the physical exhaustion his work takes. He likes being taken care of, however you see fit. Sometimes he'll be a dom, but only if he's been away from work and needs to let off some steam.

The sweetest ever. Cuddles, words of affirmation, snacks, whatever you need. He feels as though his sole purpose since he met you is to make you feel like nothing less than a deity. Sometimes he'll get insecure over his ability to take care of you or not being around, but one kiss from you, perfect you, and the perfect life you maintain for you both and it fades away.

Overall, Simon Riley is the hottest, most doting husband to exist, ever.

[holyblonded]

teenage dream | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: your birthdays always left a bitter taste in your mouth

warnings: mentions of deadbeat parent, mention of neglectful and verbal abusive parent

notes: i feel like this isn’t long enough but i enjoyed writing it 👻

Your hand blindly reaches for the nightstand, fingers fumbling until they finally find the alarm and silence its relentless ringing. You let out a slow, heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling as the quiet settles around you like a weight.

The thought lingers, unwelcome, like an itch you can’t quite scratch. You don’t hate it, not exactly, but something about it has never sat right with you. The way people look at you differently, how they expect you to be excited, how they project their own joy onto you as if you should feel the same. It makes your skin prickle.

Your feet hit the cold floor, the chill grounding you as you push yourself upright. The movements are automatic, muscle memory taking over. You pad into the bathroom, flipping the light on with a dull click. The harsh glow does nothing to wake you. The rhythmic motion of your hand brushing your teeth pulls you into a trance, the bristles scraping against enamel, the taste of mint sharp on your tongue. You rinse and splash water onto your face, but it does little to shake off the heaviness clinging to you.

Mechanically, you pull on your sweats, tugging the fabric into place before making your way toward the kitchen. The familiar scent of pancakes drifts through the air, accompanied by the distant hum of music. Then confetti rained upon you. Tiny, colorful pieces rain down on you, catching in your hair, clinging to your clothes. Your shoulders tense immediately.

“Happy birthday, mi amor!” Olga’s voice is bright and full of warmth as she pulls you into a hug, her arms wrapping around you tightly. Before you can react, Alexia follows, enclosing you both in her embrace.

You stiffen. Your body doesn’t quite know how to respond. The weight of them against you, the warmth of their affection, it should be comforting. It is comforting, in theory. But in this moment, it feels suffocating.

Your smile is tight, barely there, as you force yourself to mumble, “Thanks, guys.”

The words feel foreign on your tongue. Your heartbeat drums uncomfortably in your ears. You don’t understand why this kind of attention unsettles you so much, but it does.

You don’t like birthdays. You don’t like the way they make you feel like you’re supposed to be someone else. But most of all, you don’t like the way they remind you of everything you’ve lost.

By the time you arrive at Eli’s house, she’s already outside, standing on the steps with her arms wide open. The second you step out of the car, she swoops in, her hands cradling your face as she peppers rapid-fire kisses on your cheeks.

“Feliz cumpleaños, mi niña!” she exclaims, her voice full of warmth and excitement. The joy radiating from her is almost overwhelming.

You let out a soft laugh, though it’s mostly for show. “Gracias, Eli.”

Before you can fully pull away, another voice chimes in from the doorway.

“Mami, por Dios, let the poor girl breathe.”

Alba leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips. “You’d think she’s your actual kid the way you’re attacking her.”

Eli scoffs but finally releases you, though not before giving your cheek one final affectionate squeeze. “She is my kid. My granddaughter,” she says firmly, as if daring anyone to argue otherwise.

Alba just rolls her eyes, but there’s amusement in her expression. “Come on, cumpleañera, let’s get inside before she starts crying about how fast you’re growing up.”

You follow them in, grateful for the shift in attention, but the moment you step through the door, you feel it, the air is charged with anticipation. The house is too quiet, too still, and for a split second, your stomach twists with unease.

“SURPRISE!”

The lights flick on, and a chorus of voices erupts around you.

Your entire team is there, along with your closest friends, their faces alight with excitement. Balloons hang from the ceiling, a massive banner stretches across the wall with FELIZ CUMPLEAÑOS, ESTRELLA! scrawled in bold letters, and confetti, more confetti, rains down again.

Your body reacts before your mind does. A smile spreads across your face, bright and effortless, it’s perfect. You hear yourself laugh, you let your eyes widen in mock astonishment, you play the part flawlessly.

You thank them, let them pull you into hugs, allow the celebration to happen around you while keeping yourself just distant enough. You accept the cake, listen to the off-key singing, pose for pictures when someone shoves a camera in your face. It’s a script you know well, one you’ve had to perfect over the years.

But Alexia is watching you.

She hasn’t said much, hasn’t been swept up in the whirlwind of excitement like the others. Instead, she stands a little off to the side, arms crossed, sharp eyes trained on you with an expression that makes your skin prickle.

You know that look. It’s the one she gets when she’s reading between the lines, peeling back layers you thought you had carefully hidden.

You meet her gaze for only a second before looking away. You keep smiling. Keep playing the part.

But Alexia isn’t fooled.

The laughter and music fade as you slip through the back door, stepping into the cool night air. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding escapes your lips.

You sink down onto the porch steps, resting your elbows on your knees, staring out into the quiet darkness. The distant hum of the party still lingers, muffled by the walls, but out here, it’s just you. Just silence. Just space to breathe.

You barely hear the door open again, but the soft sound of footsteps approaching tells you exactly who it is before she even sits down beside you.

Alexia doesn’t speak right away. She just sits there, arms resting on her thighs, gazing out at the same empty street you are. She’s never been one to force words out of you. She waits. Lets you come to her in your own time.

You exhale through your nose, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “I never really celebrated my birthday when I was a kid.”

Alexia doesn’t react with surprise. She just tilts her head slightly, listening.

You swallow, eyes fixed on the ground. “My mom never made a big deal out of it. Or—” you hesitate, pressing your lips together, before sighing, “—more like, she always ruined it. I guess that was her present.”

A lump forms in your throat, but you push past it. “Most times she never remembered, or she acted like she didn’t. The last birthday I spent with her… she was wasted before noon. I remember sitting there, waiting, hoping maybe this time she’d be different. But she just looked at me, really looked at me, and said she hated me.”

Alexia’s posture stiffens beside you, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“She said she hated me because I looked exactly like my father.” Your voice is quieter now, nearly lost to the wind. “Then she passed out, and that was that.”

You shake your head, blinking up at the sky. “I don’t even know why birthdays still get to me. It’s not like I expect anything different. But every year, I just—” You swallow hard. “I just spend the day wondering where my dad is. If he even remembers I exist. Why I wasn’t important to him, why I wasn’t enough to make him stay.”

Silence settles between you, heavy yet comforting in its own way. Then Alexia shifts, her shoulder bumping against yours.

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” she says softly, her voice steady, unwavering. “You don’t have to hold onto that pain. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Something in your chest tightens, your vision blurring just slightly.

“I know it doesn’t change what happened,” Alexia continues, turning to look at you, her eyes full of something so achingly warm it makes your breath hitch. “But you have us now. You have a family. A real one.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and Alexia doesn’t push. She just stays there, solid and steady beside you, like she always is.

Then the door creaks open again, and Olga steps out, wrapping her arms around herself against the cold.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just takes one look at the two of you sitting there, the weight of the moment still lingering, and without hesitation, she drops down behind you, throwing her arms around both of you.

She squeezes tight, resting her chin on your shoulder. “You better not be crying without me.”

A startled laugh bubbles up in your chest, and suddenly, the weight doesn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

Alexia lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Dios mío, Olga.”

“What? It’s a family hug,” Olga says matter-of-factly, hugging you both even tighter.

And for the first time that night, warmth blooms in your chest. Because for once, it doesn’t feel like you’re alone on your birthday.

[neigepomme]

caleb headcanon of the night! one of his favorite forms of physical contact with you is giving you hand massages.

it started off when you two were kids, you were comparing hand sizes and he grabbed onto your hand with both of his, pressing gently and squeezing it comfortingly.

years later, whenever you rest between his legs with your back pressed to his chest, caleb reaches down to grab your hand and gently gives you a hand massage. using your phone, writing reports for work, or carrying groceries inside are all things that tire out your hands, but you don't feel that exhaustion until he's pressing and relaxing the muscles there.

caleb is super careful with it, too! he looked into pressure points, and even though he was clumsy with it when you two were younger, he eventually got used to it — he's practically a master now. you try to return the favor, but he refuses, preferring massaging your hands to getting his massaged.

seeing you fall asleep on him with your hands holding his is payment enough, he thinks.

🍎 pomme's notes — you know every single time i make up a headcanon about caleb it just ends up being something i yearn for. in conclusion i yearn for caleb GIVE HIM TO ME

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 6

<<<Previous Next>>>

The sun felt like it was shining more brightly today, you hadn’t even realized you were smiling.

Professor Almond Cookie’s voice droned on, his chalk tapping rhythmically against the board as he worked through another intricate magical theorem. Normally, you would’ve been struggling to keep up, your notes a frantic mess of half-understood scribbles and desperate attempts to make sense of it all. But today? Today felt… different. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, you actually understood the material. Or perhaps it was the lingering satisfaction of yesterday’s study session the way Shadow Milk Cookie had walked you through his research, answering your questions without outright dismissing you. Or it was just the sheer novelty of not feeling completely lost in class for once. Whatever the reason, you found yourself nodding along, absorbing the lesson with a sense of ease you hadn’t experienced before. You weren’t just bracing for the inevitable wave of confusion. You were actually following along. It was such an unfamiliar feeling that you hadn’t even noticed the small, contented smile on your face. At least, not until Professor Almond Cookie’s voice suddenly cut through the lecture. “Well, someone looks rather pleased with themselves today,” he commented, his sharp eyes flicking toward you. Your entire body tensed. The murmuring of students around you made it clear that you weren’t the only one who had noticed. A few curious glances were thrown your way, some amused, some confused. You could practically hear Chai Latte Cookie stifling a giggle from somewhere behind you. Heat crept up your face as you quickly tried to school your expression into something more neutral. “I-uh-um…just” you stammered, scrambling for an excuse. “It’s a nice day?” A few students chuckled. Professor Almond Cookie gave you an unimpressed look before sighing. “As long as that ‘nice day’ includes understanding this formula, then by all means, continue smiling.”

You gave a weak, awkward laugh. “Y-yeah, of course.” Professor Almond Cookie shook his head and returned to the lesson, and the class gradually settled again. But for the rest of the lecture, you found yourself a little more aware of the way your expression betrayed your thoughts. Not that you could help it. Because as much as you tried to brush it off, you couldn’t quite shake the satisfaction of actually knowing what was going on for once. As soon as class let out, you barely had time to gather your notes before Chai Latte Cookie sidled up beside you, her eyes practically gleaming with mischief. "So," she began, stretching out the word as she leaned in ever so slightly. "Are we going to talk about that?" You blinked, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. "Talk about what?" Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who had been lazily packing up his things, let out a small huff of amusement. "You were grinning like you’d just discovered the meaning of life." "I was not grinning," you defended, though even you weren’t convinced by your own words. Earl Grey Cookie, ever the composed one, simply adjusted his glasses and gave you a thoughtful look. "You did seem rather… pleased during the lecture. A stark contrast from your usual expressions of despair." You frowned. "Wow. Thanks for that." Chai Latte Cookie giggled, linking her arm with yours as you all made your way toward the hallway. "Oh, don’t be so grumpy! It’s cute seeing you happy for once." You groaned, rolling your eyes. "I was just… following along with the lesson, that’s all. I actually understood what was going on for once. Isn’t that enough of a reason to smile?"

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised a skeptical brow. "I mean, yeah, but this-" he gestured vaguely toward you "was something else." "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you muttered, picking up your pace slightly. "Oh, I do," Chai Latte Cookie chimed, a grin spreading across her face. You froze for a half-second before cautiously glancing her way. "…What are you implying?" Chai Latte Cookie’s grin only widened. "I’m just saying," she began, voice light and teasing, "that someone has been spending a lot of time with a certain very renowned scholar lately." Your stomach dropped. "No." "Yes," she countered immediately, her voice practically dripping with glee. "Absolutely not," you insisted. "Absolutely yes." You groaned again, face heating up against your will. "That has nothing to do with this!" Chai Latte Cookie feigned deep contemplation. "Hmm. I don’t know… You have been smiling a lot more ever since your little tutoring sessions started. And we all know how captivating the Sage of Truth can be…"

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. "He is kind of hard to ignore." "You guys are ridiculous," you said, pressing a hand to your forehead. Chai Latte Cookie merely gave you a knowing look. "Oh, come on, I’m just teasing! Unless, of course…" She trailed off, watching you expectantly. You let out an exasperated sigh. "I am not smiling because of him." Earl Grey Cookie chuckled, shaking his head. "They do protest quite a bit, don’t they?" "Right?" Chai Latte Cookie beamed. You groaned for what felt like the hundredth time, covering your face with your hands. "I swear it’s just because I actually understood class today! That’s all! No great mystery, no hidden meaning, just me finally grasping something for once in my life!" Chai Latte Cookie patted your arm sympathetically. "Mhm. Whatever you say." You huffed, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response. But even as the conversation shifted and your friends moved on to other topics, you couldn’t quite shake the tiny flicker of warmth in your chest. As you all walked through the winding halls of Blueberry Yogurt Academy, the conversation drifted from playful teasing to more mundane topics, assignments, upcoming exams, and rumors about the latest bizarre experiment gone wrong in the Regretful Alchemist’s laboratory. Still, no matter how much you tried to push it aside, that warmth in your chest lingered. The memory of Shadow Milk Cookie’s measured voice, the way he had indulged your questions rather than dismissing them, the rare glint of amusement in his eyes when you had stumbled over your words, it all lingered in your mind far longer than you were willing to admit.

You weren’t smiling because of him. You weren’t. You were just… relieved. That was it. Relieved that, for once, you hadn’t felt completely lost. That, despite your missteps and distractions, Shadow Milk Cookie had still guided you back on course, patient as ever. That his words, refined and precise, had somehow begun to make sense to you in a way they never had before. It was just relief. That’s all. "And there they go again," Chai Latte Cookie murmured, breaking you from your thoughts. You blinked, looking up to see all three of your friends watching you with varying degrees of amusement. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie leaned back slightly, arms crossed. "They were definitely thinking about him just now." "I was not!" Earl Grey Cookie sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Perhaps we should focus on more pressing matters. Like the essay due at the end of the week?" You latched onto the change of subject like a lifeline. "Yes! Exactly! That’s important!" Chai Latte Cookie gave you a look that made it clear she wasn’t fooled in the slightest, but mercifully, she let it go. For now. "Fine, fine," she relented with a dramatic sigh. "But one day, you’re going to admit it." "There’s nothing to admit," you shot back immediately. Chai Latte Cookie merely smiled knowingly. You quickened your pace, pretending not to hear the quiet laughter behind you. Getting to the alchemy lab was not difficult Hazelnut Biscotti and Earl Grey parted ways with you. Chai latte clinging to your side.

The alchemy classroom hummed with quiet anticipation, the scent of charred herbs and alchemical residue thick in the air. You barely registered the professor’s words as you copied down the instructions written on the board, your focus narrowed to the familiar rhythm of ink against parchment. Today’s lab was supposed to be more dangerous than usual, some kind of volatile reaction that required extra precautions. You understood that much. But beyond that, your attention remained fixed on transcribing formulas, ensuring you didn’t miss a single step. If anything went wrong, it wouldn’t be because of careless note-taking.

Chai Latte Cookie, sitting beside you, nudged your arm lightly. "You should look up," she murmured. You frowned, still writing. "Why?" A pause. Then, quieter, almost careful  "Because you’ll want to see this." Something in her tone made you hesitate. Slowly, you lifted your head. The doors to the classroom had opened, and a procession of scholars entered, their presence commanding immediate attention. Their robes were fine, embroidered with sigils of knowledge and alchemical mastery, their movements fluid with the quiet confidence of those accustomed to the pursuit of truth. Even without knowing their names, it was obvious these were not ordinary visitors. And then you saw him. At the center of them all, standing as if he belonged to a world just slightly above this one, was the Sage of Truth. Ornate robes of pale blue and gold draped over his frame, each fold and embellishment arranged with deliberate elegance. The patterns woven into the fabric seemed almost celestial like the swirling paths of constellations mapped onto cloth. His hat, large and elaborately designed, cast a subtle shadow over his face, but it did nothing to diminish the intensity of his gaze.

Your breath caught in your throat. Shadow Milk Cookie had an undeniable presence, one that didn’t need to be announced. The scholars beside him seemed almost secondary, as though their prestige dimmed in comparison to his quiet authority. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t even moving much, yet you could already feel the weight of his scrutiny, the sheer depth of knowledge that followed him like an unspoken force. You swallowed. Chai Latte Cookie gave you a sidelong glance, but she didn’t tease. "I told you," she simply said. You barely heard her. Professor Star Anise cleared his throat, drawing the class’s attention back. "Today, you will be paired with one of these esteemed scholars for guidance. I expect your full cooperation." He glanced at his list. "Now then…" Names were called. Students hesitantly stepped forward to meet their assigned mentors, each movement charged with restrained nerves. And then "Ah." The professor’s gaze landed on you. "You will be under the Sage of Truth’s supervision today." A quiet stillness settled over you. You didn’t move, didn’t react right away. You only felt the weight of the words settle over you like an inevitability one you weren’t quite ready for. Chai Latte Cookie exhaled softly. Not in amusement, but in something gentler. Understanding. You swallowed again and slowly rose to your feet.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your desk as you willed yourself to speak up again, despite the nervous weight pressing down on your chest. “Professor?” Your voice was quiet, but it still managed to carry through the murmurs of the class. Professor Star Anise glanced up, his expression patient. “Yes?” You swallowed, forcing yourself to push past the hesitation. “If-If we’re working with the scholars, does that mean we won’t be with our usual lab partners?” The professor gave a thoughtful nod. “That’s correct. Given the complexity of today’s reactions, I’ve assigned you to scholars who can best assist you.” You hesitated, shifting slightly in your seat. “Would it… would it be possible for my partner to stay with me? We usually work together, and-” You hesitated again, feeling the weight of eyes on you. “I just think it might be easier that way.” Chai Latte Cookie, seated beside you, offered the faintest reassuring smile. Professor Star Anise regarded you for a moment before exhaling through his nose. “I understand your reasoning, but I’ve made these assignments carefully.” His tone was kind, but firm. “I trust you’ll be in capable hands.”

Your stomach twisted. You already knew the answer, but hearing it confirmed made your shoulders sink slightly. “I… Okay,” you mumbled, staring down at your desk. A quiet pause. Then, a voice, smooth and unwavering. “I assure you,” The sage of truth said, his words carrying the effortless certainty he always spoke with, “you will be quite alright.” You stiffened, hands tightening slightly. You had barely even looked at him yet, too caught up in your own worries, but now there was no avoiding it. Slowly, hesitantly, you forced yourself to glance in his direction. He stood poised as ever, the flowing blues and golds of his ornate robes unruffled, his expression calm and composed. The golden key at his side caught the light as he tilted his head slightly, studying you with an unreadable gaze. The assurance in his voice wasn’t forceful, nor was it dismissive. It simply was as though any other possibility was unthinkable. Chai Latte Cookie gently nudged your arm, and you let out a quiet breath. “…Right,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. There was no room left to argue.

As you followed Shadow Milk Cookie to the designated workstation, you tried to steady your breathing. The weight of the situation pressed down on you the unfamiliar setup, the intricate formulas written across the chalkboard, the hushed murmurs of students pairing off with scholars. And, most of all, him. The Sage of Truth moved with a deliberate grace, his ornate coat trailing slightly behind him, the golden key at his side swaying with each step. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter, didn’t seem the least bit burdened by the sheer pressure of expectation that always seemed to surround him. Meanwhile, you could barely keep your hands from fidgeting. As the two of you arrived at the workstation, your eyes flickered to the various alchemical components laid out before you. Vials of shimmering liquids, delicate crystalline powders, and enchanted catalysts glowing faintly under the laboratory’s light. The experiment ahead was clearly complex. You exhaled slowly, then, before you could stop yourself, muttered, "Did you choose me for this, or is fate just playing some kind of sick joke on me?" Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t react immediately. He carefully adjusted the sleeves of his robe, ensuring they wouldn’t interfere with the materials before him. Then, in that same measured, ever-assured voice, he replied, “Ah. An inquiry about destiny’s hand in our arrangement.” He turned slightly, and for the first time since you’d been paired together, truly looked at you. His gaze was unreadable somewhere between amused and thoughtful. “Do you believe fate conspires against you?” You hesitated, suddenly regretting asking at all. “It certainly feels that way sometimes.” He hummed, as though considering your words carefully. Then, with the smallest trace of something almost teasing though still draped in his usual scholarly refinement he added, “If I had chosen you, would that be more or less distressing?” You nearly choked on air. “That’s-” You scrambled for a response, heat creeping up your neck. “That’s not…I just meant” Shadow Milk Cookie let out a quiet, knowing hum. “I see.” Then, as if the conversation had already been neatly wrapped up, he gestured toward the materials before you. “Come. We have work to do.” You swallowed hard, trying to push past the lingering flustered feeling. Whether fate was playing a cruel joke or not, you had no choice but to endure.

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping after him, keeping just a half-step behind as he guided you toward the workstation. The weight of the situation should have been pressing on your mind the delicate nature of the alchemical reactions you’d be performing, the risks involved, and the sheer importance of today’s lesson. Yet, all you could think about was him. How he carried himself with the same composed elegance as always, his long, ornate coat flowing effortlessly as he moved. The golden key at his side gleamed under the soft glow of the alchemical lamps, and his presence calm, assured, and unwavering. It was enough to make your stomach twist with nervous energy. You bit your lip before finally mustering the courage to speak. "So… you never answered my question," you said quietly, keeping your eyes on the floor as you followed him. "Did you choose me for this?" Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t falter in his step. If anything, he seemed to have anticipated your persistence. “What an intriguing notion,” he mused, tone as measured as ever. “Does the possibility unsettle you?” You frowned slightly. "That’s not an answer." He let out a soft hum, pausing briefly as he reached your workstation. Only then did he turn to face you, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Would you prefer if I had?" he asked, his voice carrying the same careful curiosity he applied to his scholarly inquiries. “Or would the idea trouble you further?” You opened your mouth, then closed it again, unsure how to respond. Because, really what was the better answer? If he had chosen you, that meant he had seen something in you. But if he hadn’t, then that meant you were just some unlucky student swept up in an arbitrary pairing. Neither option felt particularly comforting. You swallowed. "I just want to know why." Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a moment before finally offering a small, knowing smile. "Perhaps," he said, turning his attention to the alchemical components laid out before you, "this is an opportunity to uncover the truth for yourself."

You stared at him, feeling somehow even more flustered than before. "…That’s not an answer either," you muttered under your breath. His quiet chuckle sent warmth creeping up your spine. "Ah, but it is an invitation," he countered smoothly. "Now, shall we begin?" You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to focus. Whether he had chosen you or not, you were stuck with him now. And something told you that no matter how many questions you asked, he would always find a way to leave you with even more. You sighed, rubbing the back of your neck before finally admitting, “It’s nothing against you. It just… feels like more eyes are on me because you’re here.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you with quiet amusement, tilting his head slightly. “Oh? And why might that be?” You gave him a look. “You do realize you’re you, right?” His expression didn’t change, but the slight upward twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement. “An astute observation. I am, indeed, myself.” You exhaled sharply through your nose, not quite a laugh, but close. “That’s not what I meant.” You shifted uneasily, glancing around before lowering your voice. “You’re one of the most respected scholars in the Academy. Everyone looks up to you. Of course they’re going to be paying more attention.” You hesitated, then admitted, “It makes me nervous.”

Shadow Milk Cookie was silent for a beat, watching you with an unreadable expression. Then, in a tone softer than before, he said, “I see.” You weren’t sure what you expected him to say after that, but he didn’t push further. He simply observed, waiting for what, you weren’t sure. Maybe for you to say more. Or for you to process your own thoughts. And against your better judgment, you did say more. “…But,” you continued hesitantly, eyes fixed on the alchemical components before you, “if I had to be paired with a high-ranking scholar… I think I’m a little glad it’s you.” That seemed to surprise him, if only slightly. “Oh?” You nodded, though you still couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. “Anyone else would have been way more intimidating. At least” You hesitated before forcing yourself to say it. “At least I know you’re patient.” A brief silence stretched between you, and for a moment, you worried you’d said too much. “Patience is merely the willingness to uncover truth at its own pace,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “And if truth requires time, then who am I to rush it?” You finally glanced up at him, unsure what you’d find in his expression. But there was no judgment, no unreadable amusement, just quiet understanding. You exhaled, some of your tension easing. “…Alright,” you murmured, glancing at the alchemical setup once more. “Let’s get started.” At least the weight of the watching eyes didn’t feel quite as suffocating.

You took a steadying breath as you turned your attention to the experiment before you. The alchemical setup gleamed under the warm glow of the enchanted lamps overhead. Delicate glassware, vials of shimmering liquids, and carefully measured ingredients laid out with meticulous precision. Shadow Milk Cookie moved with practiced ease, adjusting a few instruments before glancing at you. “We will begin with the base mixture. Would you care to measure the powdered lunar salt?” You hesitated, then nodded, reaching for the container. Your hands were steady, mostly, but the weight of expectation still pressed on you. Carefully, you scooped out the precise amount, adding it to the main flask where a pale, viscous solution swirled. A quiet hum of approval came from your partner. “Good. Now, we must introduce the catalyst.” You watched as he retrieved a small vial of deep blue liquid…something rare, no doubt. When he uncorked it, the scent of frost and starlight filled the air, tinged with a metallic edge. “The key is controlled diffusion,” he explained, lifting a delicate stirring rod. “Too much at once, and the reaction will destabilize.” You swallowed, watching closely as he poured the catalyst in a slow, deliberate stream, swirling the mixture with measured movements. The liquid inside the flask pulsed faintly, then settled into a mesmerizing gradient of gold and blue. “Your turn,” he said, stepping back slightly to allow you space.

You reached for the rod, hyper-aware of how close he was as you mimicked his motions. The swirling liquid responded in kind, shimmering under the alchemical lights. For a moment, you forgot the audience. Forgot the weight of being watched. It was just you, the experiment, and the guidance of the scholar beside you. Then a sudden shift. The mixture in the flask flickered, deepening into a shade it shouldn’t be. You stiffened. “…That’s not right, is it?” you asked, barely above a whisper. Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze remained steady. “It is… unexpected,” he admitted. “But not unmanageable.” Your breath caught as the flask began to vibrate slightly, unstable energy coursing through it. Your instinct was to pull back to stop but his voice, calm and unwavering, cut through your panic. “Focus,” he said. “Balance the reaction. Slowly, now.” You nodded, heart hammering, and adjusted your movements just as he had shown you. Gradually, the instability eased, the mixture settling back into a controlled glow. You exhaled deeply, barely realizing you had been holding your breath. Shadow Milk Cookie studied you for a moment before offering a small nod. “Well done.” You blinked at him, still processing. “I… almost messed that up.” “And yet, you corrected it,” he countered smoothly. “That is what matters.” You hesitated, then let out a breathy, nervous chuckle. “…Thanks.” A flicker of something passed through his expression approval, perhaps? Whatever it was, he merely inclined his head before turning his focus back to the experiment.  You took another steadying breath before glancing at Shadow Milk Cookie. “What next?”

He studied the flask for a moment, the swirling colors reflected in his golden eyes. Then, with the same measured composure he always carried, he gestured toward a small container filled with crystalline fragments. “Next, we introduce the stabilizing agent. Starshard resin highly reactive, but essential for balancing the mixture’s volatility.” You nodded, reaching for the container. As you did, you hesitated, glancing at him for confirmation. “How much?” “A single shard will suffice,” he answered. “Too much, and the reaction will become inert. Too little, and the previous instability may return.” Right. No pressure. You carefully selected a shard, its surface glittering under the light. Holding it between your fingers, you hovered it over the flask, nerves prickling under your skin. You’d already nearly thrown the entire reaction off once…what if?... A gentle movement caught your eye. Shadow Milk Cookie had inclined his head ever so slightly, watching you with quiet patience. There was no exasperation, just that ever-present expectation that you could do this. You swallowed and dropped the shard in. The liquid shimmered, a soft glow pulsing outward as the colors settled into a stable gradient. The mixture no longer wavered or flickered unpredictably; instead, it swirled with a controlled, mesmerizing luminescence. A slow nod from your partner. “Excellent.” You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “That’s… good, right?” He offered the faintest smile. “Very.” Relief flooded your chest, and you allowed yourself a small, triumphant exhale. Maybe this experiment wouldn’t end in disaster after all. As the final step of the experiment settled, the solution in the flask transformed into a breathtaking metallic blue, shimmering as if tiny stars were suspended within. You stared, entranced, as the light caught the swirling liquid, making it look like an entire night sky had been condensed into the glass.

“Whoa…” The word left you in a quiet breath, eyes wide with awe. “That’s… beautiful.” Shadow Milk Cookie observed the reaction with a satisfied nod, the glow reflecting in his golden eyes. “A most pleasing result.” You hesitated for a moment before glancing at him. “What was the point of this experiment, anyway?” He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the question. “A lesson in balance,” he said. “The components we used were all volatile in their own right. Alone, they would break down, scatter, or collapse under their own instability. Yet together, in precise measure, they created something stable something greater than the sum of their parts.” You looked back at the flask, mesmerized. “So… it was never just about creating this solution?” A quiet chuckle. “Not entirely.” Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table. You weren’t sure why, but something about his words lingered in your mind, heavier than they should have. You traced a finger along the glass, watching the swirling glow. “I think I get it,” you murmured, though whether you meant the experiment or something else entirely, you weren’t sure.

You glanced around the laboratory, noting that several other groups were still deep in their experiments, some struggling with their mixtures while others cautiously double-checked their notes. You, on the other hand, were done. The shimmering blue solution in front of you felt like an accomplishment, yet now that the task was over, a strange uncertainty settled in your chest. Shifting slightly, you turned to Shadow Milk Cookie. “So… when can we go?” you asked, keeping your voice low. “Do we have to wait for everyone else to finish?” He hummed thoughtfully, glancing toward the professor, who was making rounds to observe the other students. “We have completed the task, and our results are satisfactory,” he mused. “However, it is customary to remain until the session is dismissed. There may yet be additional instruction.” You deflated slightly, though you supposed it made sense. Still, sitting here under the weight of so many glances your classmates sneaking looks at him rather than you made your skin prickle with unease. You hesitated before speaking again. “Right. Makes sense,” you said, fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “Guess we just… wait, then.” He glanced at you, seemingly taking note of your discomfort. “Patience,” he said, his tone lighter than usual, “is a virtue in both alchemy and scholarship.” You sighed, resting your chin on your hand. “Yeah, yeah. I’m working on it.” You exhaled softly, letting the tension in your shoulders ease as you traced a finger along the edge of the worktable. Despite the lingering weight of the classroom’s watchful eyes, you found yourself… comfortable. Maybe not entirely at ease, but far from the nervous wreck you had been when these tutoring sessions started.

Your gaze flickered toward Shadow Milk Cookie, who stood beside you with his usual composed air, observing the finished experiment with satisfaction. Your eyes drifted upward, and before you could think twice, the words slipped out. “So… your hat.” He turned to you, one brow raising ever so slightly. “My hat?” You nodded, the corners of your mouth tugging up just a little. “Yeah. It’s, uh… it’s kinda goofy.” His expression didn’t change at first, and for a split second, you wondered if you’d made a mistake. But then soft laughter. Amused, almost entertained by your observation. “Goofy, you say?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, as if considering the idea. You nodded again, a bit bolder now. “I mean, it’s a lot of hat. But, somehow… you make it work.” His hand rose to the brim of the ornate headpiece, as if weighing your words. “A scholar’s presentation is part of their presence,” he mused, voice still carrying the traces of laughter. “A symbol of the knowledge they carry. But I admit, few would dare to call it goofy to my face.” You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Guess I’m just special, then.” He regarded you for a moment, and there was something unreadable yet pleased in his expression. “Indeed,” he said softly. “You are.” The warmth that flickered in your chest caught you off guard. 

Your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t just the words…though those alone were enough to leave you stunned but the way he said them. So certain, so matter-of-fact, like it was the simplest truth in the world. Like you being special was something undeniable. You had admired him for so long from afar, from behind the pages of scholarly texts that quoted his insights, from lecture halls where his presence was spoken of with reverence. And now, here he was, standing beside you, speaking to you, as if you had always belonged in this space. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came. What could you possibly say? That you had spent so much time struggling, thinking you would never measure up? That you had feared he would see you as just another lost cause? That hearing those words from him made your heart stutter in a way you weren’t prepared to face? Instead, you simply stared, awe-struck, your mind blank yet full all at once. Shadow Milk Cookie observed you with quiet patience, his expression unreadable yet steady. He did not press you for a response. He did not look away. He simply waited, as if he had already seen the truth resting in your silence. And for once, silence didn’t feel like failure.

You blinked rapidly, snapping yourself out of your stunned silence. Heat crept up your neck as you scrambled to ground yourself in something anything that wasn’t the overwhelming weight of admiration threatening to root you in place. Right. Your study session. That was something normal, something expected. Something safe. "Um-our study session," you blurted out, your voice coming out a little more rushed than you intended. "We were supposed to meet today, right?" Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head slightly, as if considering your words before offering a small shake of his head. "Not today," he said, his tone smooth but not unkind. "I am overseeing this lab throughout the day. You are not my only partner in this endeavor." For reasons you couldn’t quite place, your chest tightened at that. It made sense, of course he was an esteemed scholar, not some personal tutor at your beck and call. But hearing it phrased like that, a small, silly part of you felt… disappointed? You weren’t sure. "Oh," you said, shifting your weight slightly. "Right. That makes sense." Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a moment before offering something almost resembling reassurance. "Worry not," he said, clasping his hands behind his back. "We will resume our studies soon enough. But for now, I am needed here." You nodded quickly, as if to dismiss the feeling gnawing at you. "Of course. I wasn’t- I mean, I just wanted to make sure I didn’t forget or anything." The Sage of Truth hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than expected before he finally turned his attention back to the shimmering solution before you. You followed suit, exhaling quietly. You were being ridiculous. This wasn’t anything personal. You weren’t special. And yet, some irrational part of you wanted to be.

As the last group of students wrapped up their experiments, the professor strode to the front of the room, clearing their throat to signal the beginning of the lecture. The bubbling conversations and the occasional clinking of glassware died down as everyone turned their attention forward. You did the same, quickly straightening in your seat and focusing on the professor’s words. Or, at least, you tried to. As the professor began their lecture, you did your best to focus, keeping your eyes trained forward and your hands neatly folded on the desk. You had made it through the experiment without completely embarrassing yourself now you just had to survive the rest of class. Everything was going well. That is, until you noticed the faintest movement in your peripheral vision. You ignored it at first. Then, the movement happened again. A slow, deliberate flicker of motion from across the room too calculated to be accidental. Against your better judgment, you risked a quick glance. Chai Latte Cookie, seated innocently in her spot, was doing absolutely nothing suspicious. Her hands were primly folded on her desk, her expression perfectly neutral as if she were deeply engaged in the lecture. You narrowed your eyes slightly. That was when you saw it the tiniest, most imperceptible tilt of her head in your direction. You frowned. Then, she very subtly flicked her gaze toward Shadow Milk Cookie beside you. Your stomach dropped. You quickly looked forward again, pretending as though you hadn’t seen anything. She wouldn’t try anything else. Not in the middle of a lecture. Right? Wrong. A moment later, you felt something gently brush against your arm. Your breath hitched. Slowly, carefully, you glanced down. A tiny, folded scrap of paper. You shot a sharp look across the room, but Chai Latte Cookie still looked perfectly composed, her gaze fixed on the professor as if she hadn’t just somehow slipped a note across the distance between you. How did she even do that? Right teleportation magic. Something she was able to grasp so easily, you however struggled. For a few moments, you debated whether to open it at all. But, ultimately, your curiosity got the better of you. With careful fingers, you unfolded the tiny note beneath the desk. Inside, in her neat, playful handwriting, was a single sentence  So… is he even more impressive up close? Your face burned instantly. Horrified, you clenched the note in your fist and desperately resisted the urge to look in her direction. Chai Latte Cookie did not need to see your reaction. She absolutely did not need that satisfaction. Instead, you kept your eyes forward, forcing yourself to focus on the lecture, even as you knew that Chai Latte Cookie was grinning to herself across the room.

You took a slow, steady breath, keeping your expression neutral. It’s just admiration, you told yourself firmly. That’s all it’s ever been. Shadow Milk Cookie was a renowned scholar, a beacon of knowledge of truth itself. Admiring him was only natural. Anyone with an appreciation for wisdom and discovery would feel the same. Chai Latte Cookie was just being her usual self, always reading into things that weren’t there. With quiet determination, you smoothed out the crumpled note beneath the desk and discreetly tore it into tiny, unrecognizable pieces before slipping them into your pocket. If she thought she was going to get a reaction out of you, she was sorely mistaken. You squared your shoulders, fixing your gaze firmly on the professor as they continued their lecture. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just admiration.You kept your eyes trained on the professor, feigning complete focus, though you could practically feel Chai Latte Cookie’s mischievous energy radiating from across the room. It was only a matter of time before she tried something subtle enough to avoid outright scolding, but persistent enough to drive you to the edge of your patience.

And sure enough, just as you began taking notes, the first attack came. A small, folded scrap of parchment landed neatly beside your hand, so precise in its trajectory that you knew it had been aimed with great care. You hesitated. A second passed. Then two. You could ignore it. Act like you hadn’t noticed…Another piece of parchment followed, this time making a soft, deliberate tap against your elbow.

You sighed, unfolding the first one under the desk with as little movement as possible. "So... are you going to admit it yet?  ;)" You rolled your eyes and immediately began tearing the parchment into tiny, unrecognizable shreds before stuffing them into your pocket. A second later, another note landed. "Don’t think I didn’t see that smile earlier. You liiiiike hiiim~" You nearly choked on air, snapping your head up in alarm before forcing yourself to feign normalcy. Across the room, Chai Latte Cookie offered you an innocent, almost angelic smile, resting her chin on her palm like she was simply daydreaming. You shot her a glare. She only grinned wider. The worst part? You knew she wasn’t going to stop. Just as you turned back to your notes, another note slid into your peripheral vision. "It’s okay! He is very charming. Wise, elegant, strangely handsome in that ‘all-knowing scholar’ way… And that hat! Don’t even get me started on the hat" You shredded this one even faster. A soft hum of curiosity beside you made your stomach drop. "You seem rather preoccupied," Shadow Milk Cookie observed, his voice smooth and thoughtful as he turned toward you ever so slightly. "Yet I do not recall the professor’s lecture containing anything so… perplexing." Your whole body tensed as warmth crept up your neck. Oh no. Chai Latte Cookie was going to love this. "Just, uh… reviewing my notes," you lied through your teeth, quickly scribbling something down in a desperate attempt to look studious. Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you for a moment, his keen gaze unreadable beneath the brim of his elaborate hat. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Ah. Ever diligent," he mused, though there was something knowing in his tone, as if he were filing this moment away for later contemplation. "A fine quality, indeed." You forced a small, tight-lipped smile, desperately hoping that would be the end of it. It wasn’t. Because the second Shadow Milk Cookie turned his attention back to the lecture, another note landed on your lap, as if Chai Latte Cookie had been waiting for the perfect moment. "Did he just call you diligent? Ohhh, he totally likes you too." You buried your face in your hands, mentally preparing for the longest lecture of your life. Sometimes you wished she would lose the ability to read lips.

As the professor dismissed the class, you took a moment to carefully set down your notes, stealing a glance at the shimmering blue solution you had created under Shadow Milk Cookie’s guidance. The way it caught the light, glimmering like stars, still left you in awe. You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, hesitating for just a second before inclining your head respectfully. “Thank you for your guidance today, Sage of Truth.” He regarded you with that unwavering composure of his, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze, curiosity, perhaps? It was always difficult to tell with him. “There is no need to thank me,” he said smoothly, folding his hands behind his back. “Knowledge is meant to be shared, after all. Though, I must admit, you performed admirably today.” Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected praise. “Oh…I, um. I just followed your instructions.” He gave a thoughtful hum, tilting his head slightly. “Many can follow instructions, yet still falter in execution. But you” He gestured ever so slightly toward the completed experiment. “proved otherwise.” Your face grew warm at the compliment, and you quickly busied yourself with adjusting the strap of your bag. “Well… I had a good teacher.” At that, the Sage of Truth let out a soft chuckle, a sound so rare and fleeting you almost wondered if you had imagined it. “Flattery will not change the truth, but it is noted nonetheless.” Your heart did something strange at his words, and you nearly forgot why you had been so eager to leave the classroom in the first place. Right. Chai Latte Cookie. You straightened up, taking a small step back. “I should be going now. Thank you again, Sage of Truth.” “May the pursuit of knowledge guide your path,” he replied, his tone as composed as ever. You nodded quickly, then turned on your heel and made a beeline for the door, only to catch sight of Chai Latte Cookie already watching you with that look as she leaned against the hallway wall. Oh. Oh no. You barely had time to brace yourself before she wiggled her brows and grinned. “Soooo… how was that?” You groaned, already regretting every choice that led you to this moment.

You huffed, crossing your arms as you came to a stop in front of Chai Latte Cookie. "What was that?" Chai Latte Cookie’s grin only widened. "Oh, you know what I mean. That little moment back there." You frowned, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea what you’re talking about." Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who had just strolled up beside her, scoffed. "Please. What is going on now…Chai you have to stop overanalyzing everything." Chai Latte Cookie cut in, tapping her chin in mock contemplation. "let’s see…they looked awfully flustered when the Sage of Truth complimented them." You stiffened. "I was just surprised! He doesn’t exactly go around handing out praise like candy!" "Uh-huh," she said, clearly unconvinced. "And what about that tiny, little moment where you got all nervous and started fumbling with your bag?" Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. You pressed your fingers to your temple, inhaling sharply. "I was just trying to be polite. It was a normal conversation, nothing more." Chai Latte Cookie gasped dramatically. "Oh, so you’re saying that anyone can make the Sage of Truth chuckle like that?"

Your stomach twisted at the reminder. He had laughed, hadn’t he? A quiet, fleeting chuckle but still. You swallowed. "You’re reading too much into this!" Chai Latte Cookie hummed, unconvinced. "Mmm. If you say so." You felt your face grow warm…but only because she always had something outlandish to say."I do say so."

A/N as promised another part...

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

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[m-neuvillette]

Genshin Men and their White Day Gifts

Capitano, Diluc, Heizou, Kazuha, Kinich, Lyney, Neuvillette, Sethos, Venti, Wriothesley, Xiao, Zhongli x fem reader

Authors notes: a whole bunch a fluff, adeptus reader in Zhongli’s

Capitano:

A spa day. You two travel so much together duo to his role as a harbinger that you barely get any time to relax. When he heard you complaining about back pain to one of his men, he knew he had to find you the nearest spa to treat you.

One night at his camp Capitano pulled you aside and gave you an envelope with all your information. “Here my love. Take some time to relax, you deserve it. I love you and thank you for always traveling with me.” Once you get to the spa you see you have it all to yourself and that all your favorite snacks and drinks are there.

Diluc:

A locket with the date you two started dating and a picture of you two in it. Diluc gets you flowers and treats all the time so he really wanted to do something meaningful for you. He was just going to do the locket with the picture but the jeweler asked if he wanted anything engraved so Diluc chose to do the date.

After a nice dinner at the winery Diluc brought you up to your shared bedroom and gave you the locket. You open up the locket to see a photo of you two laughing in the grapevines and read the engraving on the back. Diluc turns you around, “A beautiful necklace for my beautiful girlfriend. I love you more than you know darling.”

Heizou:

A little detective scavenger hunt and at the end he’s waiting to give you a promise ring. Heizou is a detective through and through, so it’s no surprise that he would give you a scavenger hunt leading to him as your gift. Now it wasn’t too difficult a scavenger hunt, that it wasn’t, but it was still difficult enough to get you reminiscing about the best moments between you two.

As you neared the final destination of the scavenger hunt you realized it was where you two had first met, Chinju Forest. You smile softly at the memory and find Heizou sitting in the edge of one of the cliffs, and make your way over to him. He hears you coming and stands up to face you, taking your hand and slipping something on your finger. “I see my dearest detective has found me. This is for you, a ring to promise that I will love you for eternity, and if eternity does not exist, know that my love for you does.”

Kazuha:

A poem with a flower crown. Kazuha spent a couple days practicing how to make flower crowns then a couple days finding the perfect flowers for your crown. By the time it was done he took you to Watasumi Island to watch the sunset.

Kazuha grabs your crown and turns to you to put it on. Then recites his poem “As the sun sets, to bring a new day, my love for you only grows.” He gives you a light smile and also hands you a piece a paper with the poem on it so you won’t forget it. “I love you more than you know.”

Kinich:

A little scarf for your saurian and matching bracelets with both your initials on it. Kinich isn’t really one to give gifts that often, that’s just how he is, but for you he’d do anything. So when he was thinking about what to get you, he wanted something by simple but endearing all the same. And so he thought why not get something to signify your love together as well as something for your saurian?

You two were sitting on a cliff above the Scions of the Canopy overlooking the landscape as the sun was setting. Kinich lightly taps your hand to get your attention and you look over at him to see he has something in his other hand. “For you. Bracelets are practical and can show my love for you when I’m not there. And this is for your saurian, I thought you would like how it looked. I love you my dear.”

Lyney:

A handmade box of sweets and a rainbow rose from a magic trick. Lyney is a magician, that much is clear so it’s only obvious that he’d incorporate that into your gift. But he wanted to do a little more than just a magic trick for you, so he recruited Freminet and Lynette to help him make some of your favorite sweets for you too.

You two were lying down just outside the Court of Fontaine taking in the warm sun and breeze. Lyney took your hand in his before sitting up and looking at you with the most tender look in his eyes. He snaps his other hand a two things appear in it. “For my dearest dove, a rainbow rose to signify my undying love for you as well as a box of your most favorite sweets to show my deepest admiration for your sweetness. I love and cherish you my dove.”

Neuvillette:

A tailor made dress. You have been talking about getting a dress to match his outfit, but you’ve been so busy since you teach the Melusines all different types of things. Neuvillette worked with Chiori personally to make sure everything was perfect.

While you two were getting ready for your date you were debating what to wear but Neuvillette comes in and hands you a big box. You open it to see a dress matching his outfit. “We can finally match now beautiful. I’ll forever treasure our time side by side. I love you.”

Sethos:

A hair pin. Besides making you his mystery candy he knew he wanted to get you something a little more meaningful. Sethos remembered you always complimenting his hair ornaments so he thought it would be a sweet surprise. He based the colors off of his but also added stars on it because you two love watching the stars together.

When night comes around Sethos takes you out of the temple to watch the stars again. He places the candy and hair pin in your lap. After you look at the hair pin, he gently takes it and puts it in your hair. “You always talk about my hair ornaments so I thought you would like your own.” Sethos sits back to look at you, “You’re more beautiful than a shooting star. I love you princess.”

Venti:

A bouquet of all kinds of different flowers. A big tradition in Mondstadt is each person choosing a flower that they think a windblume is. Practically as soon as you Venti made your relationship official you had been adorned with the nickname “windblume”. Not that you were complaining, you knew the significance behind it whenever he called you it and it made your heart soar.

You two had a nice picnic under the tree at Windrise as your dinner date. As the sun was setting and fading into the night Venti cleared his throat rather obnoxiously to get your attention. He pulls a bouquet of flowers from behind his back and smiles softly at you. “For you my dearest windblume, though flowers may not last forever, my love for you will never wilt.”

Wriothesley:

Stained glass flowers. Wriothesley was stressing out because he wanted to get you the perfect gift. He knew living things were out of the question and he gives tea to everyone so he doesn’t want you to feel ordinary. That’s when he finds out from Sigewinne that he can get glass flowers instead because you don’t have to worry about keeping them alive. So the next time he went to the surface he got them.

You two are sitting in his office after a long day of work. You’re sitting on his couch when Wriothesley says he’ll be right back because he has to grab something. He comes back into the room with a custom vase (one covered with stickers you and Sigewinne made) and the stained glass flowers. “The fortress is a hard place to live in but these won’t die, just like our love. I love you baby.”

Xiao:

A simple handmade hanfu from skills he learned from Menogias. He may not be as good as his fellow Yaksha when it comes to making clothes, but he did pick up a thing or two when he would go on about making them. He decided that he would finally put those skills to use to not only put a smile on your face but to honor his fallen comrade.

You two were sitting on the roof of Wangshu Inn with your hands intertwined and admiring the night sky. He turned to you and lifted your chin up with his hand and told you he had something for you. “It may not be like Menogias’ craftsmanship, but I hope it shows how deep my love is for you, my dearest.”

Zhongli:

A pocket watch with “our love is timeless” engraved on the back. Zhongli learned about the tradition of White Day from Hu Tao. He’s a little upset he’s just finding out now but he makes sure that his gift is perfect. Since you’re an adeptus and have been together for a long time he thought something with time in the gift would be perfect.

Zhongli takes you Mt. Hulao to enjoy a nice cup of tea while enjoying the view. He clears his throat to get your attention and hands you the pocket watch, “I am sorry I am late to this tradition but I promise I will do it from now on. To show my timeless love for you, I got this pocket watch. So whenever you use it, you can think about us. I love you sweetheart.”

[myownwholewildworld]

a man called joel (part 1)

↪ a "a man called otto" inspired fic ― jackson!joel miller x f!reader

series masterlist | AO3 summary: joel has lost everyone he held dear: sarah, tess, ellie. he's truly had enough of this life, given up to the point where he's decided to end his own suffering. that is until you move in next door and slowly worm your way into his life... author's note: where do i even start... this mini-series is gonna be angsty, guys. please heed the tags/warnings below as we are diving into the mentality of a man who's done with life. if this is triggering for you, please don't read and take care of yourself. if you like what you read, please consider interacting with this post! love you all <3 tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. your daily dose of angst as prescribed by the doctors. topics of death/murder and losing a child. suicide attempt. dual pov. reader is female, has hair. no use of y/n. joel is in his late fifties and reader in her 40s. wordcount: ~4.4k. divider by @\saradika-graphics

Joel thought he knew loneliness.

After losing Sarah, he defeatedly greeted it.

When Tommy disappeared from Boston, he reluctantly welcomed it.

With the loss of Tess, he wholly surrendered to it.

And when Ellie turned away from him, it completely wrecked him.

It didn’t matter how many times Tommy reassured him that everything was going to be okay. That Ellie would only need time to understand, time to accept.

But time was a weird thing. It stretched like an elastic band, dragging out for what seemed to be an eternity, only to snap back to its original resting position. It was like all the time had passed and none had at once.

Time wasn’t going to fix this. Time wasn’t going to bring back everyone he’d lost. All the reasons that kept him bound to this earthly plane.

While he still had Tommy, Maria and his nephew… it was a cruel reminder of the life he once had. One that seemed too far away―a previous lifetime. One that, for a split second, Joel thought could have again with Ellie, mend the mistakes of his past, have another chance at parenthood.

And then as soon as it came, it was gone.

The gaping hole in his chest had only gotten bigger, grown like a tumour that was only spreading to the confines of his mind. Solitude was a cancer, one that had stolen all joy away from living. It swallowed him whole, chewed him. It grinded on his bones, eroding them away, until his bare carcass was nothing more than a reminder of who he once was. Who he once had.

Sat on the bench of his lonely, frozen porch, Joel returned his attention to the yellowing pages of the book Maria had lent him.

“Alone, abandoned by his premonitions, fleeing the chill that was to accompany him until death, he sought a last refuge in Macondo in the warmth of his oldest memories.”

One Hundred Years of Solitude felt fitting. Like a silent joke thrown haphazardly his way. Joel wondered if the choice had been intentional, if his unconscious mind had seen the title and thought, “sounds ‘bout right.”

He often found himself seeking that same warmth in his memories of the past, just like Colonel Buendía. Only now they turned cold, hazy with mixed emotions, painful. They didn’t bring him joy anymore, a reminder of his failures as a father.

Twice, to add insult to injury.

Pouting, he looked up, just in time to see Tommy walking besides a woman he’d not seen before.

“It’s not much, I’m afraid, but it’s yours,” his brother said nonchalant, pointing to a house in blatant disrepair.

You looked… torn. Devastated. As if life’s weight was too big to bear. Too heavy to withstand. The tired frown pinching your brows emphasized your ethereal features, puffs of cold air clouding in front of your mouth.

You replied something he quite didn’t catch, watching from a distance.

Always from a distance, like the outsider he was, even after all these years. Joel felt like he didn’t belong, despite Tommy’s efforts. His brother had his own family to tend to, his own worries. His own dreams.

His? His were gone, buried with the love he didn’t know he had, didn’t know how to deal with.

There was really no point in this anymore. A nuance, that was what he had become. A reminder to his brother of their dark past, their dark actions―ones the younger Miller wanted to move on from. Ones the older one gripped too tight to his chest.

His inner light was slowly dwindling, dying out. And he had no more strength to keep it alive. No purpose either.

He’d end it tonight. Wouldn’t postpone it any longer.

“That’s my brother, Joel. He lives across the street, can help you with anything you need,” Tommy offered, waving a gloved hand at him.

Joel lifted his gaze off the book again, his heavy sight falling on your exhausted face.

A brief, fleeting smile curled your lips―so fast he thought he’d imagined it. A ray of sunshine in a downcast day. A torchlight in the darkest of nights. A tiny crack on the ceiling of a pitch black cave.

How weird.

“Hi, Joel,” you muttered, half shy, half wary, from behind the bulky scarf around your neck, a sheathed hand bashfully waving at him too.

He hmphed in reply, the words hitching in the back of his throat. You looked as out of place as he felt, and perhaps that was what drew his attention.

The way you held back, half hiding behind Tommy’s back, trying to make yourself as small as possible. As if your trust was first to be earned, not to be given out freely. The way your wavering smile crumbled off your lips when he didn’t return it.

Joel felt like a dickhead. But composing a smile was a herculean task―it drained him. It even hurt; the corners of his chapped, cold-bitten lips too tense to undo the flat line his mouth had fallen into for the past couple of years. Smiling felt like a mask toppling, cracks fragmenting his weathered skin. There was a time when it was easy, how a smirk would curve his lips, especially when he saw Sarah in the little things Ellie did.

But that was no more. Not when Ellie wouldn’t even look at him, talk to him nor acknowledge his presence in the same room. Not when he would see his brother looking at his son with adoration. His broken heart was slowly rotting away, festering, spreading to his other organs―decay taking over.

“Joel?” Tommy almost snarled at him, bringing him back to earth.

“Hm?”

“Move your ass over here right now. Introduce yourself properly!” his little brother scolded him, teeth gritting, and Joel couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

With a heavy sigh and cracking knees, Joel stood up, book tucked under his elbow as he came down the few steps of his porch. The white blanket covering the street was mostly undisturbed except for the few footprints Tommy and you had left behind. He liked the quietness of this road.

“Sorry,” he grumbled, extending his hand towards you. “Joel Miller.”

You looked up at him through your lush eyelashes, peeking through the thick wool of your scarf, and blinked.

“Oh. Nice to meet you, Joel,” you husked, offering him your name. He repeated it under his breath, testing how it rolled off his tongue.

Your gloved hand squeezed his gently, a soft, ephemeral caress that was gone before he could register it.

“Joel and I were construction workers prior to the outbreak. If you need help, bet Joel will be more than willing to lend a hand, right, brother?” Tommy palmed his shoulder in jest, an easy smile on his face.

“Oh, did you? Those are some helpful skills. I used to run the flower shop within my family’s garden center. Don’t think that will help much around here,” you joked, a low chuckle bubbling up your throat, softening your tired expression.

“All skills are useful,” Joel chipped in, talking before thinking. “Could do with bringing more life to the streets of Jackson during spring. ‘S depressing enough.”

Perhaps it was just how the light reflected off the snow, a myriad of sparkles dancing around in the air under the sunlight, but your eyes came alive, glistening under the bright rays.

“Oh, yeah. I’d love to help with that. We could start a seed bank, so we can plan ahead, decide what we want to grow,” you daydreamed out loud.

“Sounds great to me. Will speak to Maria, see if she likes the idea,” Tommy cheerfully added, walking towards the front porch of your new, dilapidated property. “Come, I’ll show you around.”

Joel grunted in goodbye, retracing the steps back to the bench while you and Tommy disappeared through the front door of the property opposite his.

Untucking the book, he searched for the dog-eared page and resumed his reading.

“[…] Colonel Aureliano Buendía scratched for many hours trying to break the hard shell of his solitude.”

Joel lost himself in the world Gabriel García Márquez had created. A world that profoundly resonated with him, with his experiences. Just like the Buendía family, he too felt doomed to spending the rest of his life in solitude. He’d already done it for the last twenty odd years, and it had been exhausting.

But soon he could finally rest.

“Gotta be nicer to newcomers, brother,” Tommy interrupted, startling Joel, walking up to him. “We have to make them feel part of the Jackson family. So I’d appreciate it if you were a bit more… don’t know, open to talk? Otherwise, you’re gonna scare them away.”

“Mhm. Yeah. ‘M trying, little brother,” Joel closed the book again, slightly frustrated with being interrupted.

Tommy sat down besides him, arms hugging the back of the bench. “Wouldn’t kill you if you made friends here, y’know? Open up a bit so you’re not so alone. How’s therapy going?”

Therapy wasn’t helping. At all. Seeing his mistakes in a different light had only made everything worse for him. Joel felt more broken than before he started going to these mandatory sessions Maria had ordered so “he would not be a danger to himself” ― her words, not his.

“‘S going,” was his succinct answer.

Tommy huffed and puffed, rolling his eyes and smacking his knees before getting up.

“You’re like a goddamn brick wall, Joel. One of these days you’re gonna have to open up or everything you’re holding too close to your chest will kill ya,” Tommy shook his head, putting on the hoodie of his winter jacket. “See you tonight at dinner. Be there at seven sharp, you know Maria hates it when you’re late.”

“Hmm. Sure. See ya,” Joel husked, watching his brother merge with the white veil falling from the sky.

Joel wanted to say something else; express his love, perhaps. But couldn’t, the words just got stuck to the back of his throat and wouldn’t come out. What a shitty farewell that was, considering it was the last time he would see Tommy. That Tommy would see him alive.

He’d hoped his little brother would forgive him. For everything.

In the raw solitude of his home, Joel got off the chair he was standing on, testing the tension of the raffia rope one last time. The hook he’d drilled to the ceiling seemed strong enough to hold his weight—at least for long enough.

He stared at it for an eternity. Not with doubt—he’d made up his mind—but with memories swarming his mind. The noose swayed gently in the air above his head, almost as if it was speaking to him, telling him to get it over with.

Joel was done. He felt like an empty carcass moved solely by muscle memory. Get up early, go on patrol, have some breakfast in the community hall. He’d find himself, more often than not, searching the room for Ellie. Not because he thought he could mend the mistakes that made them drift apart, but because he needed the reassurance that she was okay. Okay without him. Okay with the life she was living—the one he’d selfishly chosen for her.

It pained him. His heart would go rampant in his chest, only to quiet down to a wheezing murmur whenever Ellie would look his way with disdain. With a hate he could no longer bear. A hate, he first thought, he could embrace and live with.

And despite the outcome, he would not have made a different choice that day at the hospital. Because he would rather have her as a stranger in his life than surviving a world where he lost another child.

It wasn’t time that did it. He still abode by those words—would do to his dying breath, on his dying bed. Ellie had healed a wound that had been festering and bleeding for far too long, stitched it up with fragile sutures. An open wound he thought would remain with him for as long as he lived. An open wound that now was cracking again, seeping into his heart and poisoning his blood, his exhausted mind.

Like a disease it was consuming him, to the point Joel had convinced himself he wasn’t needed anymore. His job—whatever that had been—was done. Ellie was safe, her secret buried with the corpses he’d left behind in the Firefly’s medical compound. She wouldn’t miss him; he was as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow.

Ellie was better off without him. Without the constant reminder his presence would bring her.

He was dispensable now, his purpose fulfilled. Joel was adamant that the few people close to him—people he could count on one hand and would still have fingers to spare—would not suffer with his prompt, albeit thought-out, departure. This venomous thinking had him believe that, in any case, he would be doing them a favour. Who wanted to be around an old grumpy man that would darken the mood of a room with his mere presence?

Tommy would understand, he told himself countless of times. His brother was a happy family man, with a toddler and a loving woman by his side. The last thing he needed was to worry about the bastard who wrecked his own moral compass in the name of survival.

His brother would grieve him, sure, but he would eventually be glad to be rid of the dead weight of him. Tommy had a family to take care of, one Joel didn’t see himself a part of anymore. How the younger Miller had been able to turn his life around and find joy in this godforsaken planet was beyond Joel’s understanding.

Joel was happy for Tommy, he really was. But witnessing his brother’s joy while he spiralled down into his own personal hell was eating away at his corroded mind. Eating him alive.

Selfish bastard. He deserved what he got—or, rather, what he didn’t get. Only a monster would envy his own brother’s bliss. Only a lunatic would crave a fleeting memory like a thirsty man chasing after a mirage. Only a fool would seek unwarranted forgiveness.

And Joel Miller was no fool. He hadn’t asked for Ellie’s absolution not because he was proud, but because he knew himself unworthy of it. Kissed by Death herself, everything he touched surely died, like a corrupt Midas cradling his gold. He’d learnt the hard way now—wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Joel blinked, blurry vision slightly clearing as his eyes focused on the noose again.

This was the right choice. And it had been easier to make than what he expected. Once the idea of ending his own life wormed its way through his brain and took deep root, Joel even found it comforting. Knowing that he could finally rest—become one with the stardust bathing this decaying universe—was strangely soothing.

There was nothing nor no one left in this worldly plane for him. Joel had nothing else to give, nothing else to live for besides for himself. And that was not a good enough reason to keep him bound to the ground.

He was done. Tired and done.

Joel took one last look around, his misty eyes falling on the dresser by the window.

A picture of baby Sarah smiled back at him, her chubby hands raised in the air, searching for him while he crouched down in front of her. His own arms reaching out to grab her as Sarah took her first steps. Her curly hair framed her sweet little face, her orbs sparkling in the dim light of their Austin home. He could remember that exact moment in time as if it was yesterday.

A picture of Ellie and himself when they settled back in Jackson after the hospital fiasco. It was a candid photo where neither of them was aware of it being taken, one of the first times he attempted to show Ellie how to play guitar. Joel had an amused look in his eyes, while Ellie was visibly pouting, arms folded in frustration.

He shuffled the pictures, thumbs gently stroking the frames, and positioned them right in front of where he’d hang himself. Their faces the last thing he would see—fitting yet soul-crushing.

With a resolution he’d not felt in years, Joel turned on his heels and faced his demons.

Standing up on the chair, his fingertips traced the O-shaped rope one last time before threading his head through the hole. A weary sigh later, he booted the chair beneath his feet and his heavy weight pulled him downwards.

The rope tightened around his neck, tense like a coil ready to snap. His throat collapsed on itself, legs instinctually kicking, and Joel had to fight his own survival instinct to let nature take its course, surrender to it. But even then, his eyes were fixed on the picture frames on top of the dresser.

His mind slowly drifted away, eyes shutting, as he gasped for air that didn’t reach his lungs.

No. No, no, no.

Sh, shh. Sh… Okay. You’re okay, you’re okay. Move your hand, baby. Move your hand.

I know, baby. I know, I know, I know, I know. I know it hurts. Come on, baby.

You’re okay. You’re okay. I know, I know, I know, I know, baby, I know. I know. I know this hurts. You’re gonna be okay, alright?

Baby, baby. Baby, listen to me. I gotta get you up, okay? I gotta get you up, alright? Come on. You—Come on. I know, baby. I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know. I KNOW!

TOMMY, HELP ME!

“Sarah, no!” Joel choked and gagged, lips turning blue and tears streaming down the crows’ feet kissing the corner of his eyes.

His bloodshot eyes cracked open in a last attempt to focus on the pictures. But instead of the photographs he’d carefully arranged, Joel saw something else.

Kneeling in front of him was his daughter, touching the tip of his boot with trembling hands. As beautiful and young as the day she died—as if no time had passed. As if she had been with him all this time. Tears clouding her eyes, she mouthed a prayer for him to stop—one that didn’t quite leave her lips, but loud enough for Joel to hear.

It’s okay, baby girl. I’m finally coming with you. Can’t wait to see you again, he thought as the last remnants of his consciousness slipped away like a bird in flight.

His muscles stiffened, the jerking of his limbs slowly dying out. His eyes rolled back, mind numb and gone.

With his last breath, his face suddenly relaxed, mouth slightly agape as he welcomed Death like an equal.

You swore.

He was lost to the darkness, but there was no light to look for. Liars.

“[…] and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.”

His feet dangled gently in the void of his living room for a minute, the quietness of the space ethereal as Death claimed him for her ranks.

Suddenly, the hook to which the noose was tied dented the ceiling, the plasterboard giving way and the hook becoming loose, breaking off.

Joel fell to the floor like a dead weight, the tangled mess still hugging his neck.

And then, as if orchestrated by the universe, someone knocked at the door.

You’d lost your whole group, the ones you had stuck to for the last twenty-four years of the apocalypse. One by one, they’d left you. Some were gone to the virus, others at humanity’s cruel hands. Either way, you were alone. Stumbled across Jackson by sheer luck, exhausted and drained.

When Tommy and his group had approached you rather cautiously, you assumed the worst. But even that thought—that your life could come to an end, just like everybody else’s—was somehow a relief.

Instead, he greeted you, introduced himself and his companions. Offered water, a bite to eat. Tommy even asked if you were alone and when you shrugged in response, he invited you to join them.

At first, you had been wary, but the moment you crossed the gates of the palisade and saw the town brimming with life, the worry and doubt fell off your shoulders a bit.

And now here you were, inside a house that now was almost a home. It would need some repairs, probably a lick of paint if you could find any, but overall a sturdy ceiling above your head. You had seen other towns in the last two decades, but every oasis of civilisation you had found ended up crumbling under either the yoke of bad men or the infected.

You wondered how long it would take for this place to come to the same demise. Experience told you this would eventually fall, but it would do you no good to ruminate on the future. Whatever had to happen, simply would.

Despite the house being unoccupied, it had been used as storage. You had spent the last couple of hours sorting stuff into piles, deciding what would be useful and what could go to another home. By the end of it, you were sweating and in need of some cold air to clear your mind.

Walking outside with your coat on, you took a look at the weeds growing in the front yard, peeking through the blanket of snow. Perhaps you could start with your garden first, test out your rusty skills before you committed to something bigger.

You were crouching down by what you thought was a flowerbed when a brief motion caught your attention. Frowning, you looked up and across the street. Tommy’s brother’s house was right in front of yours, something swaying behind the drawn curtains of the living room.

Tilting your head, you paid more attention, stilling in place. You couldn’t make out what was happening behind closed quarters, but you thought it looked like the man called Joel was perched on a ladder. Perhaps changing a lightbulb?

You watched him from a distance, mind drifting back to when Tommy forced his brother to introduce himself. The brotherly bond had made you crack a smile—a memory coming back—Joel’s reluctance almost endearing. He’d not been rude with you, for you understood his uneasiness around strangers.

You were about to resume your inspection of the flowerbed, when you saw a commotion unravelling behind the curtains. It looked like Joel had suddenly fallen to the floor. Perhaps he’d lost his footing on the ladder?

Jumping to your feet, you wondered what to do. He was probably okay, maybe just a concussion and a scratch, but what if he wasn’t? Judging by his looks and grumpy demeanour, you hazarded Joel was in his late fifties. Although he seemed to be in good shape, a bad fall could render anyone unconscious.

Despite not knowing him, moved by your caring nature, you ran towards his house, your coat almost catching on the Miller mailbox. Climbed up the steps of his porch and banged the door.

“Joel?” you asked once you stopped, remaining quiet.

No answer. So you knocked again.

“Hey, Joel?” you insisted, ear flat against the door.

Nothing.

“Damn,” you uttered, walking to the living room’s window.

The curtains, although not opaque, didn’t let you see much through them. You could barely make out the body of a man curled on the floor.

Your heart began racing when you realised he wasn’t moving at all. Panicky, you tapped the window’s glass and shouted his name again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chanted, running to the front door again in a frenzy. Tested the handle, but didn’t budge. “Joel!”

You tried for a few more minutes while you considered running back to the community hall for Tommy. Or maybe break the window yourself—get in and help him however you could.

Luckily, you didn’t need to. The door cracked open, and you caught Joel’s profile in the gloom of his home.

“What do you want?” he husked, voice gravelly, hoarse.

His blunt acrimony took you aback for an instant, but the look in his eyes, red and glassy even in the darkness, urged to check in on him.

“I— Well. Uhm,” you stuttered, gathering your thoughts. You didn’t want to come across as nosey, just a caring neighbour. “I was in my front yard and thought I saw you falling from a ladder or something… And when I came over and you didn’t open, I did peek through the window… And you were…” you trailed off, the man’s deep scowl frightening.

“I’m fine,” he replied succinctly before clearing his throat.

The door had swung open a bit more, Joel’s face becoming clearer now. He was all rugged and weathered, and you wondered if the apocalypse had taken a fatal toll on him. Joel Miller looked like a man tiptoeing on the edge of the world, tiredness smeared across his features, creasing the skin around his eyes.

Your gaze dropped, the scarlet skin on his neck distracting. The redness was mutating, changing colour ever so slightly—it was bruising.

Unwittingly, your hand reached up to his face. But before you could stop yourself from being awkward with a stranger, Joel took a step back. As if the thought of your touch repulsed him, as if he could not bear the thought of a friendly, caring caress.

A bit late you realised you’d been so out of line, your hand immediately dropping to your side.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— Shit. I just… your neck. What happened to your neck?” you mumbled, breathless.

Although his expression didn’t falter, his eyes did for him. They were so expressive, windows to a broken soul. They carried a pain you quite didn’t understand, but it was palpable and profound. It leached through his eyes, and you wondered what had happened to him to be this shattered. To be this… alone.

“It’s none of your damn business,” he barked a low growl. “Leave me alone. I don’t need you snooping around my house like I’m some goddamn old man in need of a carer. I don’t need anyone. Get off my porch and fuck off.”

“But that’s not—”

Your retort died off in your mouth as Joel closed the door right in your face, rather dramatically.

While the exchange should have at least irritated you, you only felt worried.

Joel wasn’t okay. You just knew he wasn’t, and this instinct of yours had never failed you. He didn’t need anyone—he needed help.

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[bolters-and-rivets]

"it leans more towards an American southern accent than it does towards a modern British RP."

I just just wanna clarify this because I feel this is a gross simplification that's based upon the "the english all used to talk like americans" myth that posits that everyone here in England were so enraged by the revolution that they all decided to change how they spoke out of spite. I hate to post a wall of text in a rant but to be quite blunt it's one of my fucking bug bears and gets by back up every time I encounter it.

it convienietly ignores two un-ignorable facts: That England itself has some of the most accents per square mile of anywhere in the English speaking world, things have become more homgoenous as people move about more over the last century but in the 1950s it was recorded that there was a major vowel shift in entrenched populations occuring something rediculous every 20 square miles, I can telll you that iun the city I live in of less than 300 thousand

That england had and still has an enormous class divide, the upper class I'll grant you changed their accent, but they always did that to elevate themselves above the working class and re-enforce the class divide so it's hardly unique reguarding america, accents still play a role in discrimination in this country with accents spoken by the working class associated with low inteligence leading to people being refused jobs on this basis alone similarly to how AAVE is discriminated against in America.

Do you expect me, as someone who is part of the working class that has lived here and heard the variations in this island's acents firsthand for nearly 30 years, to accept that 1. a miner in 1600s yorkshire who has never stepped foot outside of the moors in his life is going to know about the events of a land he's never going to visit in any form of timely manner when news travelled at the speed of a sailboot and on foot, 2. He knows how they talk in a land he's never visited or met anyone from, and 3. he and every single person around him going to decide on a whim to care enough to decide to alter his accent just so to spite these americans whilst somehow retaining traits of a dialect that dates back to the fucking Norse occupation?

when those two facts are laid out the rediculous of the statement "the English all talked like americans" becomes apparent. and I can tell you first hand that the working class would not have given too shits about what was happening in a colony thousands of miles away because they needeed to care a lot more about crop rotations, harvesting seasons, and the quality of the nearest coal or ore seam. I would argue it's not closer to any one english accent today, since it's from the 1600s and languages change radically in that sort of timeframe, rather it's the last common ancester of many rhotic English accents and dialects that still exist today on both sides of the Atlantic, if I had to place the accents that sound closest to original pronounciation I would actually say that the dying Ocracoke Brogue in america and the Norfolk, Potteries, and Mummerset accents in England are closest in different ways. I would argue southern is not as close since it's had centuries of being influenced by african and caribian dialects which have imparted a quality all of their own upon the south. here's Hamlet's "To Be or Not to Be" spoken in OP by one of the people who has done a lot of work to research how shakespere's English might have sounded and pushed for it to be adopted in shakesperian productions, note that there are sounds which have since been lost in English entirely, such as E being an "ae" or "ei" sound

and for compariso, existing english accents that I personally feel have traits in common, but note how they all still have subtle nuances that differ from one another. Ocracoke Brogue

Norfolk

Potteries, the dialect local exclusively to where I currently live, this dialect still uses many phraises that appear in in shakespere, for instance in Midsummer Nights Dream Shakespeare uses the phrase ‘O dainty Ducke: O Deere!” as a term of endearment, whilst today if you walk around Stoke you will often hear people greating each other with a distinctive "A'right, duck?". no where else in the country uses this phraise. try explainging that away whilst claiming we all changed how we spoke to spite you

and Mummerset, this is what most people would recognise as the "pirate accent", because Robert Newton played up his native mummerset accent for Treasure Island.

all of that aside, the acting skills in the video are absolutely phenominal, as others have said it takes real skill in acting to not just speak in a given accent, but also include the specific nuances of body language associated with that accent that outsiders would miss, and even many native speakers would not necceserily think to incorperate if they were reciting that speach

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZTdQuxw52/

I think I found my new favorite rabbit hole. This voice actor does Shakespeare scenes in a southern accent and I need to see the whole damn play. Absolutely beautiful

[myjjongie]

☾ HIS TO KEEP ── p. jongseong

IN WHICH: jay sees you being too sweet and nice to a gryffindor. now he has to do something to remind you—you're his girl, no one else’s.

PAIRING: slytherin!jay x hufflepuff!fem reader GENRE/WARNINGS: lowercase intended !!, one shot, skinship, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slow burn, jay is just a wee bit mean, jay is jealous (sigh), hickeys WORD COUNT: 2k ₊⊹♡ EVIE'S NOTE: i am totally NOT projecting with this pairing i sweeeeear..... just ironically love the slytherin x hufflepuff trope. but yeah shout out my top 3 ult biases for all being slytherins (jay, mingi, and hyunjin) also thank you once again claire :3 (she proofread this for me :P)

the great hall was alive with chatter, usual hum of conversation mixed with occasional laughter and clatter of utensils on plates. it was just another normal evening at hogwarts—not counting jay of course.

his eyes were elsewhere, locked onto something, someone. the utensils at his plate completely untouched as his focus laid on you. fingers drumming against the table irritably, watching the absolute travesty unfolding across the hall.

you were sitting at your house’s respective table—hufflepuff—yet you were chitchatting with sunghoon—a gryffindor—over minimal class work. jay’s jaw clenched anytime you smiled at the gryffindor, fingers twitching the minute he faintly heard your laugh. now you were laughing with the golden boy.

whatever sunghoon had to say couldn’t have been that funny. not funny enough to make your head tilt and your eyes crinkle at the corners. at least, that’s what jay thought—usually those reactions were reserved for him.

sunoo nudged jay’s side. “you’re gonna burn a hole into sunghoon’s forehead with that stare.”

jay let out a scoff, not daring to take his eyes away from the scene before him. “i’m observing.”

“uh-huh.” sunoo smirked. “and what are we observing exactly? your precious yn getting all cozy with—“

jay was quick to shoot sunoo a glare, giving the fellow slytherin a warning. “she’s not getting cozy with him.”

sunoo bit back a laugh. “sure.”

jay tried his best to look disinterested, rolling back his shoulders, forcing himself to look away. but it was pointless, his mind was racing. you were his—not officially, but everyone knew. always by his side, hanging outside each other’s respective houses—mostly slytherin’s, spending time with one another, sneaking out to meet him. jay never had to fight for your attention, you always gave it to him freely.

so why the hell were you letting sunghoon get so close to you?

jay’s blood boiled, jaw clenching further as he eyed the way sunghoon leaned in slightly. saying something low enough that you needed to inch forward to hear. his fingers curled into a fist. that was it. enough.

without another word, jay stood up. sunoo’s gaze followed jay as he stormed over to the hufflepuff table. his strides were tense but purposeful—not wanting to give away how shaken he was. this caused sunoo to let out a snicker at jay’s lack of emotional control.

jay’s presence was so commanding—his mood now sour—by the time he was a few steps away. conversations started to fade away. you took notice of his approaching figure, surprise evident in your face.

“jay? what are you—“

before you could finish speaking, jay’s hand wrapped around your wrist—firm but not harsh. with ease, he tugged you up from the bench. “we’re leaving,” was all jay had to say.

you blinked confused. “huh? i was just—“

“now.” his voice was tense, but still teetered on being gentle with you.

sunghoon spoke up. “hey. we’re in the middle of—“ jay scoffed at the audacity of a gryffindor interrupting him.

“and now you’re not.” the grip on your wrist tightened, it wasn’t enough to hurt. but enough to show off his claim.

sunghoon studied the both of you, soon realizing something. he then raised his hands in a mock surrender. “my bad. but aren’t you possessive much, park?”

jay didn’t even give him a reply. instead his focus was solely on you. making it out of the great hall, jay didn’t stop walking until you both were out of sight—tucking yourselves into a tight corridor. before you could protest jay had you pressed against the cold stone wall, hands bracing on both of your sides. his voice was lower, rougher this time around.

“tell me..” jay murmured, eyes dark as they scanned your face. “do you let anyone get that close to you? or were you trying to piss me off?”

you swallowed the lump in your throat. heat creeping up to your ears. “jay it wasn’t—“

cutting you off, jay leaned in—so close his breath alone tickled your ear. a faint shiver ran up your spine. “you’re mine.” his lips ghosted over your ear, his whisper laced with possessiveness. “and i’ll make sure they know it.”

before you could process the weight of his words, he began to lay soft kisses along your jaw. the sensation tickled, a weird warmth bubbling at your fingertips. your trembling fingers clutched onto his green robes, your meek voice struggling to say his name. “jay—“

the call of his name fell onto deaf ears as he continued. his finger hooked into your tie, tugging it down, exposing more of your collarbone. he moved his head downwards, switching his focus to your now-exposed neck. he smiled against your jaw, still placing soft pecks against your skin.

inching his way to the crook of your neck, your grip on his robes tightened. jay’s actions startled you—he had never been like this. everyone at the school knew you were his, the only student who had him wrapped a finger. let alone a hufflepuff at that. so why was he acting as if he’s losing you.

his lips soon met with your neck, first leaving gentle kisses along the side. then came the unmistakable sensation of a soft pinch. warmth spread beneath your skin, a tingling pressure lingering even after his lips pulled away.

jay’s lips departed from your neck, silence falling between you both. his eyes studied the red mark, satisfaction on his face. a smirk tugged at his lips as his thumb brushed over the spot faintly. enjoying the sight of his claim on you.

before jay could return to littering you with kisses once more. your hands braced on his chest, causing him to stop. his eyes flickered up to you, confusion etched into his brow. then he saw the way you looked at him.

your eyes held something unmistakable—a look he had never seen before. any other moment you would’ve been over the moon. but not like this. not when his sudden actions left you confused, unease settling in your chest.

the slytherin immediately realized he made a mistake. a mistake that was not to be solved with a simple apology. “yn. i—“ before saying anything else you shoved him away. clutching your loosened shirt together, you turned and hurried off to the house common room.

jay stood there, watching your figure grow smaller in the distance—fleeing to the safety of your common room. the weight of what he had done settled in him, and he bit his lip harshly. he quickly ran through ways to make it up to you, but none of it seemed enough. annoyed with himself, his fists clenched at his side before turning to the stone wall—landing a punch against it. the frustration sitting in his chest, proving to be a irritating reminder of his actions.

that night you laid awake, thoughts running wild as you remembered jay’s actions. tossing and turning, you couldn’t place why he did it. he was always aware of how you felt—even if he never asked you out or told you at that. so why did he feel so… jealous?

then you remembered sunghoon.

jay was jealous of sunghoon.

yet it didn’t make sense why he would act like that, especially since your heart already belonged to him. hadn’t it always been his? all those times you looked at him with eyes of longing and adoration—didn’t he know? the feelings you both shared may have been unspoken between you both, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t mutual.

you let out a deep sigh as you turned to your side—hoping sleep would finally take over.

meanwhile, jay sat in the dim light of the slytherin common room. sitting in the leather couch as he stared off into the dying embers of the fireplace. his head tipped back as he thought about today. jay let his emotions get the better of him. again.

he let out a sigh, hands clamming onto his face in annoyance. he was better than this. he knew that, yet he wavered. he acted like on impulse like a complete fool who couldn’t think past his selfish desires. jay knew right then and there he should apologize. after all you deserved that much, did you not?

but his apology never came.

not that he didn’t want to. jay couldn’t. not when for the whole you kept your distance. it wasn’t to punish him, not to be cruel, but because you needed space. space to think. space to breathe. you needed to figure out a way to tell him he was the only one for you.

for jay though, he didn’t know that.

all he was aware of was the lack of your presence. you didn’t look his way, didn’t sit with him at meals, class, or seek him out in the hallways. those small things hurt him more than he’d like to admit. even to himself.

despite that, he respected your space. even if the absence tore at him from the inside.

by the time the week neared its end, jay couldn’t take it anymore. your absence had become unbearable—the quietness where your laughter and voice should have been. not to mention the emptiness of where your touch should’ve lingered. he missed you. he needed you.

then, he saw you walking alone. knowing the more time spent without apologizing would end badly, he seized the opportunity.

before you could register the approaching presence, your wrist was held firmly. your body spun around colliding with jay’s chest. the hand that had caught your wrist now held onto your arms—afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear.

you lifted your head slowly, nervous eyes awaiting to meet his. but the moment your gaze locked with his, you caught your breath. because by the end of it jay—one of slytherin’s esteemed wizards—looked like a wreck.

jay was quick to pull you into a quiet corridor—in hopes to have your undivided attention. before you could utter a word, he spoke, surprising you with his vulnerability. something you never saw from the usual guarded boy.

“i’m sorry.” jay said, voice trembling. “i was out of line. i had no right to act like that. and i more so hate myself for pushing you away for that…” his hands found yours, fingers intertwining together. his grip tightened, fearing you wouldn’t even begin to forgive him. “i just—damn it. yn. i miss you.”

your lips parted slightly, his words alone making your heart feel warm. then a small smile tugged at your lips.

“you don’t get it do you?” you murmured, letting out a small laugh.

jay was quick to look at you—brows furrowed. “get what?”

you softly laughed this time. “i wasn’t ignoring you because i was mad jay. i just… i needed to figure out how to tell you that you didn’t have to be jealous. that it’s you. it’s always been you.”

jay stood there speechless. you bit your lip, cheeks warming at your next words. “truthfully. i didn’t know how to say it. and i was scared. but now i—“

you never got to finish.

jay pulled you into a hug. face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. the tension in his body melted all at once. his embrace tightened at the overwhelming feeling of relief—the relief that you weren’t leaving him, that you didn’t hate him, that you were still his.

you returned his embrace, hands gently rubbing his back and attempt to comfort him. a soft laugh escaped at his unexpected docile behavior. jay pulled away, eyes studying your face. “i want to kiss you so badly right now… is that okay?”

your hand reached up to cradle his cheek, thumb grazing his cheek gently. “of course. honestly i want to kiss you right now too.” you let out a shy laugh, feeling your cheeks flush more at your honesty.

jay’s eyes softened, hands reaching to cradle your face—holding you like you were something precious. because to him you were. as jay leaned in, his breath brushed against youthful lips, his voice dropping to a whisper. “you’re mine.” the words rolling off his tongue like a undeniable truth.

“i always have been.”

perm taglist ( open! refer to this post ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enhanextdoor @zaycie @dylanobr1ens @miraeluv @sunghoon-cam @jayhoonvroom

©myjjongie 2025

[simplygojo]

Cheater! ⸺ Suguru Geto

author's note ⸺ Wrote a cheating fic!! WHOOPS! lmk your thoughts on this!! I hope you all enjoy cheating on your deadbeat husband with your daughters sexy ass teacher <3 pairing ⸺ teacher!Suguru Geto x parent!reader word count ⸺ 4k content warnings ⸺ 18+ only - mdni!, adultery!, grey morals, reader uses female pronouns, reader has a vagina, fingering, p in v intercourse, nipple play, rough grip?idk, not edited teaser ⸺ "You’re a married woman, after all. You’re loyal, and I respect that. But..." He pauses, his lips curling into a knowing smile, the hint of something far more dangerous in his eyes. "It would be wrong of me to let you leave here tonight without telling you... that you deserve more than this. You deserve to feel wanted, to feel desired." Something inside you snaps.

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Your husband wasn’t always like this.

Or maybe he was, and you just didn’t notice it at first.

There was a time when you believed in the love you shared—the way he used to pull you close without needing a reason, the way he promised that no matter what, it would always be both of you against the world. And for a while, it felt real. Then life happened. Then the baby came.

And slowly, little by little, you started doing everything alone.

At first, it was small things. He worked late, so you handled bedtime. He forgot to grab the groceries, so you took care of it. He stayed home when your child had a fever, but somehow, you were the one up all night, holding them while they cried.

Then, the little things became everything.

You started managing schedules, meals, school functions, doctor’s appointments, PTA meetings—every single thing that kept your child’s world turning.

And your husband? He was there, technically. He existed in the house, he took up space in the bed, but he was more like an afterthought in your life than a partner.

You’d hear other moms talk about how they split responsibilities with their husbands—how he got up for night feedings, how he packed lunches in the morning, how they took turns being the “fun parent” so the other could have a break.

You stopped talking in those conversations.

Because what would you even say?

That your husband doesn’t even know your child’s teacher’s name? That you’ve gone to every parent-teacher night alone for the past three years? That sometimes, when you wake up next to him, you feel more alone than if the bed was empty?

You tried to fix it. You really did. You asked him to come to school events—he always had an excuse. You asked him to help with homework—he’d forget. You asked him if he was happy—he shrugged.

And eventually, you just stopped asking.

Instead, you did what you always did: you handled it.

You got up every morning and made breakfast. You checked backpacks, signed permission slips, scheduled playdates. You listened when your 6 year old came home talking about her day. You made sure they felt loved, seen, safe. You gave them everything you never had.

And you told yourself, this was enough.

You told yourself you didn’t need to feel wanted.

You told yourself you didn’t need someone to look at you the way that he used to.

You told yourself you didn’t need more than this—but you knew that none of that was true. 

The clock ticks past 9 PM. The school halls are eerily quiet now, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights, casting long shadows along the walls. It’s well past the usual time for parent-teacher conferences, and once again, you’re the last parent left.

The usual scenario.

You check your phone for the fifth time—no texts, no calls. Your husband’s absence from this school event doesn’t surprise you anymore, but it still stings in ways you can’t shake. There’s a lingering resentment there, buried beneath the routine, hidden in the cracks of your patience.

You tap your foot against the tiled floor, feeling the exhaustion deep in your bones. It’s been a long day of running from work to school pick-up, to soccer practice, to dinner, to bedtime—only for your husband to still be nowhere to be found. 

He’s present physically, but emotionally? Mentally? Nowhere.

You’ve long since stopped asking him to show up at these meetings, to participate in the day-to-day, to even make an effort. You’ve grown used to doing it all, but some nights, like tonight, the weight of it feels like too much. 

The door to the classroom finally opens.

And there he is. Suguru Geto.

His eyes soften when he sees you standing alone in the hallway. It’s nearly 9:30 now, and he has that gentle look on his face, the one he always wears when he’s speaking with you. There’s a warmth there, but tonight, you can’t help but feel like he’s been watching you for longer than you realize.

"You’re the last one," Suguru says, his voice smooth and calm, as though he’s already made peace with the late hour. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

You offer a tired smile, trying to mask the fatigue that’s clearly weighing on you. "It’s no problem," you say. "I’m just used to it."

He steps aside to let you into the classroom.

The soft glow of the desk lamps and the smell of chalk and paper fill the air as you sit down, the worn-out chair creaking slightly under your weight. Suguru takes his usual spot at the desk, but instead of diving into the paperwork, he looks at you with a level of attention that makes you feel like the only person in the room.

“Everything going okay?” He asks, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of concern. You think he’s been asking you that for weeks now, and for weeks, you’ve given the same nonchalant answer.

“Yeah, just the usual,” you reply, keeping your gaze steady on the desk in front of you. “Busy. You know how it is.”

Suguru nods, but his eyes don’t leave you. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes you feel exposed, like he sees more than just the tired mom who’s barely holding it together. He watches you as if he’s picking up on the subtle cracks in your composure, the ones you’ve been trying to hide for so long.

“I’ve noticed,” Suguru says, his voice steady, yet his eyes seem to soften with understanding. “You’re here for every parent meeting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your husband at one.”

You stiffen slightly, but not enough to make it obvious. Of course, Suguru would notice. He’s always been observant, always so aware of the details. He’s never commented on it before, but the fact that he does now makes something inside you ache.

Your gaze flickers to the side, focusing on anything but him.

“Well,” you start, your voice quieter than usual, “he’s always… busy with work.”

Suguru’s gaze doesn’t falter. “I get it,” he says, his voice even, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. "Work can be demanding."

You feel a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck, and you try to laugh it off. “Yeah, it’s just... me, really. I handle everything at home, too.”

There’s a long pause as Suguru silently assesses you. His eyes narrow slightly, not in judgment, but in a way that makes you feel seen. Really seen.

“You’ve been doing it all alone for a while, haven’t you?” He asks it softly, like a statement more than a question.

The words hit you harder than you expected. You swallow, the pressure in your chest growing heavier. It’s not like you haven’t noticed it yourself. You’ve been doing this on your own for a while now—balancing everything, carrying the weight of your family’s responsibilities while your husband remains detached. But hearing Suguru say it, hearing him acknowledge it, makes you feel more vulnerable than you care to admit.

You nod slowly, avoiding his gaze as your throat tightens.

"Doesn’t seem fair, does it?" Suguru continues, his voice still calm, but his eyes darken ever so slightly, an intensity that wasn’t there before.

You don’t know how to respond. All you can do is sit there, feeling the weight of his words hang in the air between you.

“Sometimes, people don’t realize what it means to be present,” Suguru murmurs, his tone laced with something more than just professional concern.

And in that moment, you realize just how much you crave someone to acknowledge the effort you’ve been putting in—to see you as more than just a mother, more than just someone who’s keeping everything together by sheer force of will.

The silence stretches between you two, but Suguru doesn’t look away. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for you to say something.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re on the verge of saying something that you definitely shouldn’t.

The weight of Suguru's gaze is palpable, drawing you in like a magnetic force. For the first time, you're not looking for validation from the outside world, from your husband or anyone else. You’re looking at him, and his presence seems to fill the entire room, suffocating yet somehow liberating.

"Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, all of it. The constant doing, the giving... but it’s never enough. It feels like I’m just... waiting. For someone to notice. For someone to... care."

Suguru’s expression shifts, and he leans in just slightly, as though he’s pulled by some invisible thread. There’s something in his eyes that’s far from the calm teacher you’ve known. It’s deeper, darker—filled with a quiet understanding that makes the air between you both thick with unspoken emotions.

"You deserve more than that," he murmurs, his voice low, almost intimate. “You deserve someone who sees you. Not just the mother, not just the wife. But you.”

You take a shallow breath, feeling the rush of emotions swirl inside you. 

You’ve heard those words before, but from him, they hit differently. The way he’s looking at you, the way his words seem to reach right inside you, it’s too much to ignore.

Without thinking, your gaze flickers down to his lips, then back up to his eyes. And you see it then—the shift. The barely perceptible tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders tense as if he’s fighting some invisible current pulling him toward you.

You stand abruptly, the sudden movement shaking you from the haze of desire that had slowly clouded your mind. Your pulse races in your ears, and you feel a rush of heat flood your face, the intensity of the moment unsettling you.

You attempt to gather yourself, your mind a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. 

“Is there... anything my daughter needs to work on—uh, outside of school?” You ask, your voice lacking the usual certainty, the question tumbling out awkwardly as if to distract yourself from what’s happening between you.

Suguru stands slowly from his chair, the chair legs scraping against the floor as he glides around the desk with measured steps, his gaze never leaving you. Every movement of his feels deliberate, calculated, and yet somehow fluid, like he’s in complete control of the space around you.

He comes to stand directly in front of you, just close enough that his presence fills the air, thick and charged with an undeniable tension. 

You can’t help but notice the way his body moves, the subtle power in the way he stands, shoulders broad, chest rising and falling in time with his deep, steady breaths.

“Your daughter?” Suguru repeats, the corners of his lips curling up slightly as he leans in just enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your skin. “You’re not really thinking about her right now, are you?”

You want to pull away, to say something, anything that could snap you out of this, but his presence is overwhelming, and your body betrays you with every passing second.

"I..." you try to say something, anything to pull yourself together, but the words falter in your throat. The part of you that knows better, the part of you that remembers you’re married and committed to someone else, is struggling to assert itself. 

But the other part of you, the one that’s been ignored for so long, is screaming to be heard, to finally feel seen, to be touched like how he could touch you, to have someone care.

Suguru watches you carefully, sensing the internal conflict as his fingers twitch at his sides. He takes a small step closer, his hand brushing against your arm just lightly enough to send a ripple of heat through your skin.

"I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do," he says softly, his voice almost a caress. 

You notice the way his body towers over yours, his broad chest just inches from yours, making you feel small in comparison. The warmth of him radiates against your skin, and it’s hard not to notice how much bigger and stronger he is than you. 

The sharp, intoxicating scent of his cologne wraps around you like a blanket, mingling with the faint trace of cigarette smoke that clings to him, adding a dangerous edge to the allure of his presence. 

It’s impossible to ignore how every inch of him feels commanding, even in the way he stands so close to you.

"You’re a married woman, after all. You’re loyal, and I respect that. But..." 

He pauses, his lips curling into a knowing smile, the hint of something far more dangerous in his eyes. "It would be wrong of me to let you leave here tonight without telling you... that you deserve more than this. You deserve to feel wanted, to feel desired."

Something inside you snaps.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the loneliness, the months—years—of feeling like you married a bum who couldn’t give a damn about you. 

Or maybe it’s the way Suguru is looking at you now, those sharp dark eyes, like he already knows how this is going to end, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re in each other’s space, the tension breaking like a dam. 

His mouth is on yours, firm and demanding, swallowing the sharp, needy gasp that escapes you as his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Your fingers find the front of his black button-up, fisting the fabric like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. His lips part against yours, a low sound vibrating in his throat when you arch into him.

His hands are everywhere—on your waist, your back, sliding down to your hips, fingers pressing in like he needs to memorize the feel of you beneath them. He walks you backward with slow, deliberate steps, forcing you to move with him, until the edge of his desk digs into the backs of your thighs.

A sharp inhale is all you manage before he lifts you effortlessly, his hands gripping your hips as he hoists you onto the desk.

He steps between your legs, crowding you, his breath hot against your lips. His hands spread over your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh as he tugs you forward, drawing you closer with a grip that’s firm, possessive. 

One hand drifts upward, sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers curling there as he tilts your head back slightly, deepening the kiss with a slow, consuming hunger.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” Suguru murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough, thick with something dangerous. “Someone to take care of you for once?”

You nodded weakly in response, your breath hitching as you let his mouth roam yours.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly, and the low groan he lets out makes heat pool deep in your stomach. He presses himself between your legs, the firm drag of his body against yours making you gasp into his mouth.

Suguru breathes against your lips, his voice a low rasp as he rolls his hips into yours, just enough for you to feel how hard he is through the fabric of his slacks. "Feels good, doesn’t it?"

A soft whimper slips past your lips before you can silence it, your nails grazing his scalp as you clutch him closer. 

His response—a low, guttural mix of a groan and a growl—rumbles against you, sending a sharp jolt of heat through your body.

One of his hands slides up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his fingers ghosting over the sensitive skin until he reaches the hem of your skirt. His touch is light, teasing, his fingertips barely skimming beneath the fabric before he grips the material and pushes it up, baring more of you to him.

"You’ve been running yourself ragged, haven’t you?" Suguru murmurs, his lips moving to your jaw, trailing heat along your skin as he speaks. "Taking care of everyone else while no one takes care of you."

His other hand stays firm at the back of your neck, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his lips drag lower, grazing over your pulse point before he nips at the sensitive skin just enough to make you gasp.

His fingers, deft and sure, find the first button of your blouse. He flicks it open with ease, then another, and another—each one undone with deliberate precision, as if savoring the act of peeling away the layers you’ve hidden beneath for so long.

"And all this time," he continues, his voice like silk laced with something darker, "you’ve been aching for someone to touch you like this."

You should push him away, should tell him this is wrong, but when his teeth scrape lightly against your throat and his fingers slide higher, your resolve shatters completely.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, though his grip on you says he already knows you won’t.

Instead, you tilt your head back, baring your throat to him in silent invitation. A satisfied hum rumbles from his chest as his hand finally finds the heat between your legs, fingers pressing against the thin fabric covering you.

As he pops open the final button, the fabric parts, slipping from your shoulders as he slides the blouse down your arms, letting it pool behind you on the desk. 

His gaze darkens as he drinks you in, his thumb brushing against the newly exposed skin, tracing slow, lazy circles over your collarbone before dipping lower.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he feels how soaked you already are. His fingers flex, teasing over the damp fabric, and when you arch into his touch, he exhales a shaky breath. "You’re dripping for me, aren’t you?"

Your hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but he pulls his hand back just enough to keep it out of reach.

"Be patient," Suguru murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he presses down even further on your panties. "I’m going to make this so fucking good for you."

And when his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding your bare skin, you realize—he’s going to ruin you.

A shaky breath stutters from your lips as he works you open, his fingers sinking deeper, curling just right. The sensation is almost too much, a slow, aching pleasure that makes your stomach tighten, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Does this feel good..?" He breathes against your mouth, his voice laced with something tender, something reverent. "Because you fuckin’ deserve it."

You barely register his other hand moving until you feel the warmth of his palm smoothing up your stomach, then higher, slipping beneath the lace of your bra. His thumb drags over your nipple, a soft, teasing brush that sends a shudder rolling down your spine.

You gasp into his mouth, your body arching into him as his fingers press deeper inside you, a slow, deliberate stroke that has your thighs trembling around his waist.

His fingers curl just right, pressing into that sweet, aching spot inside you, and the cry that leaves you is swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you deeper, his tongue sweeping over yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

The slow, insistent roll of his fingers inside you has you spiraling, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach, and when his thumb finds your clit, circling with just enough pressure, your breath stutters, a choked whimper slipping past your lips.

His thumb strokes over your nipple again, this time pinching lightly, rolling the sensitive peak between his fingers, and the sensation sparks through you like a live wire. Your hands clutch at his broad shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as a sharp gasp escapes you. 

The dual sensation—his fingers working you open with slow, deliberate strokes while his other hand teases your breast—has your body arching into him, desperate for more.

Suguru chuckles, low and pleased, his lips brushing against your jaw. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, giving your nipple another slow roll between his fingers before soothing the sting with a warm, open-mouthed kiss against your throat.

Your head tips back against the desk, thighs trembling around his waist. “Suguru—” you gasp, a desperate plea wrapped in his name.

He groans in response, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating against your skin. His fingers retreat suddenly, leaving you empty, and you whimper at the loss. But before you can protest, he’s shifting, straightening up between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulls you closer to the edge of the desk.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs caressing the side of your cheek, his voice thick and warm against your kiss-swollen lips. His fingers find the waistband of your underwear, hooking into it as he tugs the fabric down, his knuckles brushing against your thighs as he bares you to him.

His dark eyes flicker up to meet yours, filled with something deep, something hungry—but there’s tenderness there too, something almost reverent as he takes you in.

His hands smooth over your thighs, parting them further as he shifts between them, his own clothes rustling as he undoes his belt, his zipper—getting ready to help you where you need him most.

“‘M gonna take care of you,” he promises, low and fervent, his fingers curling around your thighs, hiking them up just a bit as he lines himself up. "Gonna make you feel so fucking good."

And then—he pushes inside, stretching you, filling you, tearing a gasp from your lips as your fingers claw at his shoulders.

His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his pace already deep, deliberate—like he’s set on making you feel every inch of him, making sure you know exactly what it means to be wanted.

Suguru’s grip tightens on your thighs as he lifts them higher, angling you just how he wants, and then—he drives into you, deep and unrelenting. 

Every roll of his hips knocks the air from your lungs, every deep, deliberate thrust sends another ripple of heat cascading through you.

You can barely think, barely breathe, your mind foggy with the heady mix of desire and disbelief—disbelief that this is happening, that you let it happen, that it feels so impossibly, devastatingly good.

Suguru groans low in his throat, his grip tightening, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs as he holds you exactly where he wants you, giving you exactly what you needed. 

His lips brush against your jaw, his voice dark and hushed when he murmurs, "Not so bad for a parent-teacher meeting, hmm?"

The desk creaks beneath you, the sharp edge digging into your back, but you barely register it over the heat flooding your veins, over the way he stretches you, fills you, drags pleasure from you with every purposeful thrust.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, desperate to ground yourself against the overwhelming sensation. His name spills from your lips in a breathless gasp, your body arching into him, chasing more, more, more—

"That's it," he murmurs, voice rough, almost reverent. "Taking me so well."

His hands pull your legs even further up, deepening his angel, holding you open as he moves harder, faster, his breath hot against your cheek. The sharp, rhythmic press of him inside you has you unraveling, pleasure curling tight in your core, so close you can taste it, so close you can feel yourself slipping—

And then?

Well.

You never complained about going to parent-teacher meetings alone again.

a/n ⸺ I may or may not already have half of a choso version drafted if anyone wants to see that PLS LET ME KNOW

[tobioapple]

BABY JUST MAKE ME CUM, AND DON’T MAKE A SOUND! ; ur fav + videotaping

notes: hi!! apple here, this is a short drabble before i post something longer im working on, i hope you can forgive any mistakes since i'm not a fluent english speaker, just a gooner with a dream. Reblog and like if you enjoy! I got a lil lazy at the end sorry and also I couldn't wait for my beta reader I just wanted to publish this so m sorry

C.W: blowjobs, fem!reader, creampies, breeding kink, raw sex, pet-naming, dubcon (if you squint)

Guys that tape your faces as they’re fucking your throat, balls crashing onto your chin while the most obscene of noises fill the place, echoing within the four walls of your shared bedroom. He loves to pinch at your nose, making you choke and gag around his cock, stealing groans from his lips. 

He’s so sure there is nothing more beautiful than your face all covered in tears and spit, eyes glossy and makeup all messed up due to how his tip hits at the very back of your throat, bruising it harshly. He has to capture this; it would be a shame not to when you’re looking all pretty for him. He reaches for his phone, focusing the lens just right to capture every single part of you.

You look at the camera, half-lidded doe eyes. as you pull away from him, a small smirk tugs at your face, your head tilting to the right as if asking him what was on his mind.

“What? Can’t a man frame his girl taking it like a dumb cockwhore?” He is clearly having the time of his life, and you can’t help but rub your thighs together to his words. You were a slut for him. “Might as well just send this to those boys that hover around you like dogs in heat lookin’ for a fleshlight to put their dicks in. Would you like that?” You shake your head in disagreement and he just nods “Then, be good and make me finish, will ya?”

So, with nothing but pliancy you take a breath and mouth his girth, obeying his command. It doesn’t take long until he's panting, and so you remain still, letting him mouthfuck you to his liking, only existing to pleasure him. His fingers grip at your hair harshly, his motions becoming more deliberate, desperate to get rid of the gnawing sensation plaguing his throbbing member. Finally, after a few, you can feel the thick liquid spilling all over your tongue. His hand seizes your jaw dominantly, tilting it enough to make you face the camera, “Show ‘em, love” he mutters– with that singular demand, you shamelessly extend your tongue, displaying his spill to the camera, letting the world see the filthy remnants of your actions.

 “You might be even nastier than I am.”

TSUKISHIMA, noya, ATSUMU, shoyo, matsukawa, Keishin, TOJI, shiu kong, todo, megumi, EREN, bertholdt. °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Men who focus the way he stretches you out, sure that, at the right angle, he will catch your belly bulging from taking him. He’d choke some cries out of you, insisting that he is not that big to make you whine like that, but still, everytime the tip of his cock crashes against your bruised cervix you cannot do anything else but moan and beg him to go easier. He never complies – At least not until you mutter your safe word, of course. –

He enjoys grinding the head of his cock against your clit, getting you all wet so he can easily slide in, the feeling of his thick girth smashing your walls making you back arch in ecstasy. You’re so tight, and so hungry for him, it’s like your cunt wants to swallow him all. 

He slows down, thrusting way deeper into you, every hit of his balls on your aching sex stealing soft whines out of your lips and when you turn your face to him and smile into the camera, fucked stupid, he can’t help the way he twitches inside of you, pumping every drop of his sperm in your pussy.

“such a good girl, taking it like a champ, look at the camera. Will ya?” so you fix your half lidded eyes onto the lens, obeying orders, he asks. “You like this, don’t you? acting like a whore on video?” and so you nod. You were his own camgirl, and he loved every second of it. 

Daichi, OIKAWA, kuroo, USHIJIMA, semi, IWAIZUMI, kyotani, GOJO, higurama, sukuna, jean, CONNIE, levi. °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Loves to flip you over, on all fours, your hips up as he reaches for the camera of his phone, focusing on the way his discharge pumps out of you, leaving the soft skin around your thighs wet and sticky.

“Aw, you’re so full.” He mumbles, you nod. “We cannot let it all go to waste, right? You wouldn’t want that, wanna have a belly full of my babies, don’t you, doll?” He doesn’t need you to reply, the clenching of your folds telling him everything he needs to know.

His index finger teases your entrance slowly, playing with his own seed before pushing it inside you, making sure not one drop of him escapes. He can swear that just the sight of you, trembling and crying from the overstimulation, will make him burst again, but once again the idea of finishing anywhere else that is not you stops him.

“There you go, angel, all yours.”

ATSUMU, tobio, sugawara, asahi, tendo, lev, GETO, nanami, choso, itadori, ARMIN, ERWIN. °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[julymusings]

I'M WORKING LATE !

jason's too stressed, and too exhausted. luckily, you have a few ways of getting him to relax. rated 18+, mdni contains: jason todd x reader; grinding, handjob, blowjob, reader's hair is long enough 4 a ponytail

He hasn't looked up from his file in two hours.

Jason did this sometimes, got so engrossed in a case that everyone and everything else took a backseat. You learned early on that he doesn't like to be bothered when he gets in this headspace, getting used to tuning him out and going about your own tasks (aside from the occasional kiss atop his head or brush of your palm across his back, something he could never complain about), but you think if he stares at his papers any harder, he'll go cross-eyed.

He sat down to work two hours ago, around the same time you started making dinner. Not wanting to disturb him, the two of you worked around each other in a comfortable silence, him typing away at his laptop while sifting through papers, and you cutting vegetables and boiling noodles. In the one hour it took to prepare the meal and bring two steaming bowls of pasta to the table, he hadn't looked up once. You set his bowl in front of him, but you're not sure he even noticed.

In the hour following, you finished your meal, cleaned up the kitchen, took a shower, changed into pajamas, and packed up his untouched bowl of pasta for later, all before settling in on the couch to put on headphones and queue up your show on your computer.

Now, you watch him from your spot on the couch as he sits at the dining table, body tense and still as a statue, save for the occasional flick through the pages of his file, or a scribble of notes on his notepad. Seeing him ultra-focused was nothing new, but there's something about this night that has you concerned. The bags under his eyes are heavier than usual, his lips are chapped and raw from being chewed on, his reading glasses are askew on his face, and his hair is messy, odd ends sticking out from how often he drags his hand through it.

It's when his neck turns slightly to look at the notepad at his side and you hear the minute clicking noise followed by a quiet wince that you know you have to intervene.

From experience, you know this is something you have to go about subtly. At your harping, he's been getting better about prioritizing himself and his wellbeing over work, but he still shows some defensiveness when someone suggests he take a break. He won't admit it, but you know he feels guilty about taking time to relax when there are people who need his help.

You approach him slowly from behind, dragging your feet on the hardwood floor, a gentle alert to your nearing. Your fingers softly brush over his back, sliding up across his shoulder blades until your hands rest on his shoulders. He doesn't react.

You squeeze your hands lightly, feeling the tight knots in his muscles, and his shoulders relax a few centimeters. You repeat this motion, slowly massaging from his shoulders to his neck. He releases a heavy exhale when your thumbs press against the sides of his neck, making circular motions to ease the tension. You lean lower to brush light kisses over the spots you press into, and finally, his head lifts. He leans back, head falling over the neck of his chair to look up at you as his hands reach back to rest over your forearms. He wears a tired smile, and you drop your head to close the remaining space between you, brushing your lips over his. They feel rough from the consistent dragging against his teeth while he was deep in concentration, but nonetheless remain warm and inviting for you to press kisses to.

"Hi," Jason whispers against your lips, his voice scratchy from its hours unused.

"Hey," you breathe. Your lips travel up his face, kissing up his nose and to his forehead, each spot relaxing a little more as you kiss it.

Your fingers continue their pressure around his neck and he groans softly when you press into that perfect spot, finding the largest knot. You want to bottle the sound, save it to listen to on a loop for hours.

"Can you finish up for the night?" You whisper the words behind his ear, following up with another kiss brushed across the skin.

"I'm so close to the end, baby," he speaks softly, his breath warm on the side of your face. "I can feel it. I just need a little more time."

Your hands trail back down to his shoulders, pressing harder. "You've been stuck for forever. You need a break."

"Baby..." He sighs when your kisses move down his neck.

"Please?"

He leans forward, pushing away from your touch to look back at the work in front of him, but you persist, moving around to climb in his lap. Your legs straddle over his hips, arms circling around his neck. On instinct, his hands settle on your thighs, and squeeze.

"Please, Jay?" You whine, prodding your nose against his. "You're working so hard, honey." You drag your lips underneath his jaw. "You're so tense. Let me help you relax."

He sighs again, his hands sliding up to grip your waist, hips shifting forward to nudge against yours, and you know you've got him.

"I can't say no to you, can I?" Jason concedes, and you grin.

"No, you can't."

You kiss him eagerly, humming against his lips when he reciprocates. It starts off innocent, as slow and sweet kisses, before quickly devolving into something more harried, your heated breaths mingling through exchanged keens and moans. When Jason pulls back to remove his glasses and toss them on the table behind you, you mouth along his neck, sucking and biting and licking at the skin. At the same time, your hips rock against his, and his hold on your waist tightens. You muffle his moan when your mouth finds his again, hands sliding into his ruffled hair to grab ahold of the strands and pull. His mouth falls open slightly, and you take the opportunity to slip your tongue past his lips.

He's so lost in the feeling of your movement against him and your hands in his hair, Jason doesn't register the hand that slides down to his belt buckle until his jeans are unzipped and your hand has slipped inside to grip his half-hard cock through his boxers.

"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back as you palm him. With his throat on display, you latch onto the spot just below his Adam's apple. After a few moments, he pulls himself together enough to say, "Was this your plan?" He pushes his hips out to grind against your hand, his erection growing harder. "Seduce me into taking a break?"

Satisfied with the mark you've left on the column of his throat, you pull back to look at him. You tug at the band of his boxers, pulling them down marginally to slip your hand inside and pull his dick out. Your knuckles brush against his balls and his hips jump, releasing a small gasp from him. You tease him with slow, light strokes up and down his length. Your thumb brushes over the beads of precum on his tip, and a high-pitched moan falls from his open mouth. His gaze on you is something out of a renaissance painting, all rosy cheeks and devoted eyes.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, though the tail-end of your statement is cut off by Jason taking your face in his hand and bringing your lips back to his.

His other hand tries to creep under the waistband of your sleep shorts, but you stop him with a grab on his wrist. It elicits a needy whine from the back of his throat, both at your depriving him of touching you, and the loss of your touch on him.

"Sorry, baby." You push yourself off him, your heart skipping a beat at the broken noises he makes in protest. "But I said I'd help you relax."

You can see the change in his eyes when you drop to your knees in front of him, his enlarged pupils encroaching further on the teal of his irises until they're just thin rings of blue and green around black.

"Can I?" Your voice is hushed and timid, almost self-conscious at the submission you're offering.

He whispers your name, quiet and hungry as he looks down on you. You run your hands over his thighs and he moves to sit on the edge of his seat, spreading his legs further apart so you can fit comfortably between them. His hands, which grip the sides of his chair, are taken in yours and guided to your hair. One holds your hair back, and the other cups your jaw, his thumb brushing soothing strokes on your cheek as you take his cock in your hand once more. You stroke at the base while dipping your head down to wrap your mouth around his tip.

Jason is big, and no matter how many times you take him, there's always a moment needed to adjust. Slowly, your mouth works past the tip, each bob of your head taking a little more of him while your hand jerks him off where your mouth can't reach. His breathing grows heavier the deeper you take him, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and contracting with the effort it takes to not immediately cum at the sight of you sucking him off.

"Fuck, that's— baby, oh my— fuck!" His low, baritone moaning mixes with the sloppy sounds your mouth makes. His whole body squirms as he fights the urge to just stand up and roughly fuck your throat until he comes. "You're so fucking good to me," he groans.

The hand on your jaw brushes away the tears that form as you gag from taking him as deep as you can. The hand holding your hair tightens its grip, softly yanking the strands and you moan; Jason feels the vibration in his cock and whimpers, his own tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"Baby, I'm so—" He cuts himself off with a loud, animalistic moan when you swirl your tongue around the head of his dick, followed by a flick of your tongue against the tip before taking him in deep once again. Your tongue drags against the vein under his head and he comes in your mouth, the hot spurts gushing onto your tongue as he shallowly thrusts himself through his orgasm.

When he's done, hands fallen to his sides, slumped back in his seat and panting heavily, you slide your mouth off him and hold it open for him to see what he left.

"Swallow it." His voice is low and gravelly.

You listen.

"That's my girl," he breathes.

He helps you to your feet and wipes your wet cheeks with the back of his hand before pulling you in for a kiss.

"My girl," he whispers again. His eyes sweep over you with reverence, and it's your turn to cradle his cheeks in your palms and brush away the hints of moisture.

"Are you done working?" You ask quietly. Hopefully.

He leans his forehead against yours. "I still have to—"

You give him a long sigh, to which he playfully rolls his eyes.

"I guess I'll just go to bed! All alone!" You exclaim dramatically, stalking away from him with exaggerated steps.

"I'll be there in a minute," Jason laughs, calling after you.

"You better," you tease. When you know he's looking, you lift the hem of your shirt and pull it off, throwing it aside and turning away. It has barely left your hand when you hear his chair scraping against the floor and you break into a run towards your bedroom.

You don't get very far, however, before he catches you. You squeal when he grabs you by the waist and throws you over his shoulder, both of you full of giggles as he carries you to your room.

cause i'm a singer....

so this is my first time writing smut why am i highkey nervous abt it this was supposed to be under a thousand words but girl....i'm still classifying it a mini fic tho not a regular fic bc i FEEL LIKE IT & let it be known i am a jason crying during sex TRUTHER

and um why was i fighting for my life trying to describe their positions in the beginning when he was sitting in the chair and reader was standing behind him. i still fear it's not clear so i drew it. hope this helps