#not that its too exhausting (even though it is)

[stylesonfilms]

Behind The Pew [h.s]

word count: 8.8k

warnings: mentions of emotional abuse, substance abuse, drug use, addiction, and a toxic relationship. + a good ending.

where you, the priests daughter, and harry have a terrible fallout at the end of your relationship, and you find him praying (though he's unreligious) to have you back.

You never expected to find yourself in this position.

Seventeen-year-old you had been trembling in excitement when Harry first said he loved you. Seventeen-year-old you had been so sure you’d found your soulmate that the thought of a life without him felt unbearable. The memory of his voice, shaky yet certain, confessing his feelings under the pale glow of the streetlights outside the school gym still lingered in your mind like a cruel joke.

Now, at twenty-six, you could spit in disgust at that naive image of yourself. How could you have been such a blind fool? The words “I love you” that had once sent a thrill down your spine now felt like venom, dripping with hollow promises. There was nothing else in this world that could make you less happy than being with the same man who had once made your heart race.

How were you such a blind fucking fool.

Harry had been just a year older than you. He went to the same small high school on the edge of town, where the student body barely scraped a hundred per graduating class. You had taken the same classes, shared the same inside jokes about the ancient vending machines in the cafeteria, and even bonded over the mutual exhaustion of being two of the only students who cared about grades.

He’d been there during the whirlwind of your college years, offering words of encouragement as you juggled late-night assignments with the endless demands of being the head priest's daughter. He would show up unannounced at your dorm with takeout, a goofy grin on his face, pretending the world wasn’t falling apart for both of you in its own quiet way. He had supported you— or so you thought.

At twenty-three, when he gave you a key to his apartment in a red box tied with a ribbon, your heart had fluttered like it had back when you were seventeen. He’d even gotten down on one knee, a ridiculous smile plastered across his face.

You hadn’t realized it then that Harry never made grand gestures sober.

That thought gnawed at you now, sharp and unrelenting, as you pieced together the cracks in the foundation of your relationship.

When he first asked you out, it was during your senior class get-together the morning before the school year officially started. The whole grade, barely large enough to fill the school’s auditorium, had gathered in the parking lot on a warm spring early morning. You could still remember the smell of fresh grass wafting from the adjacent field, mingling with the acrid scent of burned coffee from the makeshift breakfast bar the school had set up. Someone had been playing music through a tiny portable speaker, and the sound of laughter and half-hearted chatter filled the air.

The memory was too clear. Too cruel.

He had asked you to take a walk with him on the track that looped around the grassy fields. His hand had been warm but clammy when he reached for yours, and though your heart had thudded in anticipation, there had been a flicker of hesitation that you’d ignored.

Looking back now, you wished you’d said no. You wished you’d stayed with your friends on the blacktop, scribbling meaningless designs with chalk that stained your fingers in vibrant shades of blue and pink. You wished you’d eaten the cold, rubbery pancakes the school had handed out with cheap syrup packets and laughed about it with people who weren’t him.

But you hadn’t. You’d let him guide you away, his voice soft and persuasive as he talked about the clouds overhead and how they seemed softer, more pure out there, away from the city. You’d taken his hand with a shy smile and agreed, thinking it was the beginning of something beautiful.

You’d been wrong. So, so wrong.

The gravel of the track crunched under the weight of your guys’ shoes. Harry’s hand was laced with yours as you both walked in silence for a few feet. It was quiet on the track, the sun barely coming up and the further you guys went, the more the chatter and laughs and screams died down into background noise. The soft breeze rustled the bushes alongside the track, blowing some of the gravel into the patch of grass.

Harry was the first to speak. 

“How are you enjoying this all?” He turned to glance at you. His five foot ten frame dominated your five foot four. You kept your shy gaze on the rocks beneath your feet.

“It’s… okay. Definitely not what I expected, the senior class last year hyped it up for sure.”

He gave a small courtesy laugh and nodded, agreeing. “Yeah, it’s not what I expected either. But it’s nice to be with everyone. Don’t think I would have missed out on much if I didn’t come. I only came, well, ‘cause of you.”

The blush on your cheeks ignited. “Oh, be quiet. Chris is here and so are your other pals.”

“But none of them are as stunning as you. It’s easy to talk to you.”

You scrunched your nose and shook your head. “Whatever you say, Styles.”

After a lap had passed, the sound of your peers coming into ear shot before dying out again, Harry stopped.

You halted, turning to look up at him. You tilted your head, furrowing your brows. “You okay? We don’t have to walk. We can go back.”

He shook his head, giving your hand a squeeze. 

“No, it’s not that. I just… You’re not seeing anyone, right?”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. 

“Harry, if I was, I wouldn't be here with you. Or holding your hand, at that.”

His lips twitched into a sheepish smile and he laughed himself, carrying a weight of nervousness.

“Sorry, stupid question.”

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“I was wondering, you know, we’ve been talking since the end of last year and through the summer, so maybe you’d want to…,” his voice trailed off before he cleared it.

“If I want to, what?” Your heart picked up, your gaze avoiding his but you could feel his piercing stare. 

“If we could… Would you want to be my girlfriend?”

His other hand scratched his jaw nervously, the nervous laugh that came after made your heart swell. You finally looked up at him, your stomach flipping in all sorts of directions.

“I’d like that, actually.”

“Yeah?” Harry grinned.

“Yeah.”

Only to find out months later that he was high when he did it. It was funny to him, brushing it off as a ‘fun fact.’ You remembered how he’d laughed, throwing his head back like it was nothing more than an anecdote to tell at a party. The sharp sting of his nonchalance had left a bitter taste in your mouth. You’d always known Harry smoked, the earthy smell of marijuana often clinging faintly to his clothes or his breath, but this revelation hit differently. The idea of him being high so early in the morning, when the world was still fresh and untainted, gnawed at you.

He’d told you with a smirk that he only had the courage to ask you out because he’d smoked beforehand. The words had hung in the air, heavy and sour, even as he brushed them aside with a casual wave of his hand. It wasn’t the smoking that unsettled you—that was a habit you’d grown used to—but the thought that he hadn’t been able to face the moment sober. Something about that truth coiled tightly inside you, a quiet but insistent discomfort you couldn’t shake. Still, you nodded along, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, pretending it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t have mattered. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. Because regardless of how it began, he was your boyfriend, and for a time, he was the best damn one you’d ever had.

But it only got worse as the years went by. What started as casual smoking turned into something darker, more insidious. By the time Harry was twenty, he’d moved on to Xanax, popping pills on weekends like it was a game. At twenty-one, he tried cocaine for the first time. You remembered how he’d joked about it, laughing as if it was just another notch on his belt of wild experiences. By twenty-three, things had spiraled so far out of control that you found yourself flushing fentanyl tabs down the toilet, your hands trembling as they dissolved into nothingness.

Cocaine, though, was always his vice. It lingered like an unwelcome guest in your home, its presence felt even when you couldn’t see it. You’d spot the faint traces it left behind: the dusty residue on the edge of his credit card, the faint chemical tang that clung to the air like a ghost. Every time you saw it, your stomach twisted into a knot so tight it felt like you might never breathe properly again.

He drank too—often and excessively. The combination was volatile, turning your home into a battleground. Harry would stumble through the door, crossed out of his mind, his apologies slurring together as he promised, over and over again, that this was the last time. You stopped believing him long before you stopped yelling. Eventually, you gave up on the fights altogether, silently helping him to bed while he muttered half-formed apologies.. 

The sex was all that bad. When it did happen, it got sloppy and rushed and he stopped caring about you. Other times, even when he was sober, when you’d be on his lap with your lips locked in what you believed was a great makeout session, he couldn’t even get hard. 

That was as far as you guys could go most times. Dealing with yourself once he was asleep got tiring after a few weeks and you just gave up.

When he turned twenty five, he shook most of his habits off. He got clean, he kept himself that way. Harry got a haircut and he shaved and he tossed out old clothes to buy new ones. He bought you guys a new house with a new bed and a new beginning. He was your six foot two teddy bear once again. Or so you thought.

That all came crashing down on his twenty sixth birthday. You made the mistake of letting him throw a small get together with his friends. You trusted him with alcohol and weed, that was his business that you knew he could handle. What you didn’t want to see, what he didn’t mean for you to see, was the lines of cocaine on the coffee table when you walked in with a custom cake and balloons. 

The fight that followed was inevitable but futile. Harry was high, too far gone to care, his eyes glazed and his words slurred. You yelled until your voice cracked, but all it did was ricochet off the walls of your shared misery.

The spiral back into the pits of hell was quicker this time, more merciless. You found solace in church, staying longer on Sundays and Wednesdays, the echoes of hymns filling the void Harry had left behind. At first, it hurt to avoid him, to find excuses not to come home. But the longer you stayed away, the more you realized he didn’t care. Harry didn’t think of you as home anymore.

When you did return, it was like stepping into a war zone. Empty bottles of hard liquor littered the counters and floors, little baggies of cocaine peeked out from under furniture, and strips of foil, tarnished and crinkled, hid in drawers like ugly secrets. Harry didn’t even try to hide it anymore. 

He had no fucking shame.

Harry had the nerve to show up at your father’s church one quiet afternoon, the air heavy with the faint scent of incense and wax from the candles burning in the sanctuary. He arrived holding a bouquet of flowers—vivid lilies and carnations that looked almost garishly out of place against the muted tones of the church. To anyone else, he seemed perfectly fine, even charming. Harry had shaved, his jawline clean and sharp, and his clothes were neatly pressed, a stark contrast to the disheveled image you had grown accustomed to. He carried himself with a practiced ease, engaging your father in polite conversation near the altar while you worked in the worship room, tucking hymn books into the pews.

The low hum of their voices caught your attention, and when you stepped out into the main hall, your breath hitched. There he was. You forced a smile, thanking your father quietly as you approached and took the flowers from Harry’s hand. They smelled fresh, their fragrance almost cloying in the stillness of the space.

“What’re you doing here?” you asked, your voice low and hesitant as you chewed on your bottom lip, a nervous habit you couldn’t quite shake.

“I came to see you, honeybee,” he murmured, his tone soft, almost tender. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, coaxing it free from your teeth with a familiarity that sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. The warmth of his touch was at odds with the cool emptiness lingering in his eyes. “Is that an issue?”

“No, no. I just… I hadn’t expected company, not until worship started, anyway,” you replied, your words faltering under his steady gaze.

He laughed softly, the sound low and rich, shaking his head as if you’d said something amusing. “Oh, no. I’m definitely not here for that. Just for you. My sweet angel,” Harry grinned, his eyes drifting around the room before settling back on you. “In her home sweet home.”

The blush that crept up your cheeks felt like a betrayal. He was still Harry, after all, the man who had once held your heart so completely. Memories of the boy he used to be flickered through your mind like an old film reel— Harry, who had gone out of his way to understand your faith, who had brought you a delicate cross necklace blessed by your father, where he had taken it to the church where your father was and asked him to bless it before he gave it to you. Harry, who had meticulously highlighted and annotated an entire Bible just for you, leaving little notes in the margins that were equal parts insightful and irreverent on certain verses that he said made him think of you. 

That was before. Before everything fell apart. Before sobriety became a fleeting memory.

“Well, thanks for the flowers, H, but we open the doors in a couple of minutes,” you said, your voice firmer now, though it trembled just slightly at the edges. “I’ll see you at home?”

Harry’s lips pulled into a pout, a performative gesture you’d once found endearing but now felt shallow. With an exaggerated sigh, he brought his hand to your jaw again, his thumb grazing your bottom lip as though he couldn’t bear to let the moment slip away.

“Can’t use those few minutes to do something?” he asked, his voice dipping lower, laced with a suggestive edge that sent your stomach churning.

The smirk on his lips was smug, predatory, and you didn’t need to ask what he meant. You recognized the look in his eyes, the subtle shift in his demeanor.

“Harry…”

“C’mon,” he coaxed, his voice honeyed and smooth, but the undertone was sharp, cutting. “I can make you feel good, baby. Don’t you wanna make me feel good, too? Or do you plan on leaving me to suffer?”

His words were laced with manipulation, the kind that once might have worked, but now only filled you with a cold, hollow ache. The pit of guilt you used to feel in moments like these was gone, replaced by a slow-burning anger that settled deep in your chest.

“Harry, we can’t. Not here, okay? Maybe tonight, once I’m home,” you said, trying to keep your tone calm, even as your pulse quickened.

He opened his mouth to plead again, his hand lingering too long on your face, but you caught his wrist, guiding it firmly down to his side.

“I said no, Harry. It’s best if you leave.”

His expression hardened, the softness he’d feigned cracking like brittle porcelain. With a scoff, he slid his sunglasses down over his eyes, the barrier only amplifying the distance between you.

“Fine, whatever,” he muttered before turning on his heel and heading for the door.

You stood frozen, your eyes following him as he stumbled slightly on the stone steps outside. The small misstep was all it took to confirm what you’d been suspecting, dreading. He was high. Again.

Your chest burned, the heat spreading like wildfire, but it wasn’t just hurt or disappointment anymore. It was anger— raw and searing, threatening to consume the last remnants of hope you’d held onto.

When you got home that night, the house felt colder than usual, a void that seemed to stretch out in every corner. The faint hum of the refrigerator was the only sound as you shut the door, its click too loud in the eerie silence. The flowers Harry had given you lay discarded on the counter where you’d left them, their petals already beginning to wilt. They felt like a cruel metaphor—beautiful on the outside but destined to wither without care.

You sighed and stepped into the kitchen, immediately greeted by the sticky remnants of his presence. The counters were smeared with grease and liquor stains, a half-empty whiskey bottle sat crooked on the edge, and crumpled fast-food wrappers littered the floor. The faint, sickly-sweet smell of alcohol mixed with something sharper—sweat and stale smoke.

Your stomach twisted as you began cleaning, the rag in your hand scraping over the counter with force. Every motion felt like an indictment, every stain a reminder of how far he had fallen and how long you had been holding it together. The weight of your exhaustion pressed down harder with each plate you scrubbed, each bottle you threw into the trash.

By the time you finished, your arms ached, and your chest was heavier than ever. You grabbed your pillow from the shared bedroom, hesitating only a moment as your eyes swept over the messy bed—the sheets tangled, the faint imprint of his body still visible in the mattress. You used to love this space, love curling into him after long days and feeling like the world outside couldn’t touch you. Now it felt suffocating, tainted.

The guest room was plain and small, but at least it was untouched. Untainted. You dropped your pillow on the bed, letting out a shaky breath as you sat on its edge. The ache in your chest tightened, but no tears came. You had cried enough over him.

The hours dragged on, the silence only broken by the faint ticking of the clock and the occasional groan of the house settling. When the front door slammed, the sound shot through the quiet like a thunderclap, and your heart jumped in your chest.

Harry was home.

His footsteps were uneven, loud on the stairs. You tensed as they grew closer, each step bringing him nearer. When he finally appeared in the doorway, the smell hit you first— whiskey and something acrid, sharp enough to make your nose wrinkle.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he slurred, leaning heavily against the frame, his glassy eyes struggling to focus.

“I couldn’t stay in our room anymore,” you said evenly, though your voice wavered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was sharp, defensive, like you had just accused him of something.

“It means I’m done, Harry,” you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He barked out a bitter laugh, one that made your skin crawl. “You’re done? With what? Cleaning up after me? Being a fucking saint while I’m out living my life?”

Your chest tightened, the words hitting you like a slap. You rose to your feet, your fists clenched at your sides. “Living your life? Harry, this isn’t living. This is destroying yourself, and I’m not going to stand by and watch anymore.”

“Don’t act like you’re so fucking perfect!” he yelled, his voice rising to a pitch that made your ears ring. “You think you’re better than me just because you go to church and play the good little girl? You’re just as messed up as I am— you just hide it better!”

The venom in his words was sharp enough to draw blood. You stared at him, your heart pounding as the man you once loved stared back at you like a stranger.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” you whispered, your voice trembling but steady. “And I can’t love someone I don’t know.”

For a moment, his face faltered. His mouth opened, but no words came out. His fingers twitched by his side like he wanted to reach for you, but the anger in his eyes quickly flared again, and he curled his hands into fists beside him.

“All you ever fucking do is yell at me and blame me for stupid ass shit,” he snapped, his words slurred but cutting. “I can never catch a fucking break dealing with this shit show to come home to!”

His words felt like a punch to the gut, and you took a step back, your heart cracking open in ways you hadn’t thought possible. “A shit show?” you repeated, your voice rising. “Is that what you think this is? Me, trying to hold us together while you destroy everything we built?”

“Don’t twist my words,” he snapped. “You think you’re some fucking martyr or something, but you’re not! You’re just…”

“Just what, Harry?” you demanded, stepping closer now, your hands trembling with rage. “Say it. Tell me what you really think of me.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I’ve given you everything,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’ve stood by you, loved you, forgiven you for things I never thought I could forgive. But you— you’ve become someone I can’t even recognize.”

“You’ve changed,” you continued, your voice growing stronger. “The man I fell in love with would never speak to me like this. He would never make me feel this small, this worthless. I’ve given you chance after chance, Harry, and all you’ve done is throw them away.”

His jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides. “So that’s it? You’re just going to walk away?”

“Walk away?” You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow. “You already pushed me out, Harry. I’ve been trying to hold onto what we had, but it’s gone. You threw it away the moment you chose this life over us.”

Your hands trembled as you reached for the necklace around your neck, the one he had given you back when things were good, back when he was still the boy you loved. The clasp felt like it burned your skin as you tore it off, the chain tangling in your fingers before you threw it at his chest.

“You don’t deserve this,” you said, your voice cold and final. “And you don’t deserve me. And I just… I don’t love you, not anymore, Harry.”

The necklace hit him and fell to the floor, the soft clink echoing in the silence that followed.

Harry’s face crumbled for a moment, the anger draining as he stared at the necklace, his chest heaving. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing he could do would ever be enough now.

“I hope one day you realize what you’ve lost,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “But by then, I won’t be here to see it.”

You stormed past him, empty-handed, your breath shallow and your vision blurred with tears you refused to let fall. The ache in your chest felt like it might swallow you whole, but the thought of staying, of enduring one more second in his presence, was unbearable.

As you reached the door and yanked it open, Harry’s voice thundered behind you, thick with anger. “Where the hell are you gonna go? You live here! This is your home!”

You froze in the doorway, your hand tightening on the handle as his words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. Slowly, you turned to face him, your eyes blazing with bitterness and pure, unfiltered hurt.

“Keep the damn house, Harry,” you spat, your voice trembling but fierce. “It stopped being home a long time ago.”

Without waiting for a response, you slammed the door behind you, the sound reverberating like a final nail in the coffin. The cold night air hit your skin like a slap, but it felt cleaner than anything you had breathed inside that house. You walked away, the sting of his words still clinging to you, but the weight of years of hurt beginning, finally, to lift.

The echo of the slammed door reverberated through the house, rattling picture frames on the walls and leaving a silence so stark it felt deafening. Harry stood there, still and unmoving, his chest heaving with the remnants of his anger. Your words echoed in his ears, sharp and relentless: “It stopped being home a long time ago.”

For a fleeting moment, Harry didn’t care. His high still hummed through his veins, numbing the edges of the storm brewing inside him. He scoffed, running a hand through his disheveled hair, muttering to himself, “Good riddance. She always has something to say.” His lips twitched into a sneer, but the bitterness didn’t hold—it faltered, slipping into a frown as his gaze flicked to the door.

The house felt emptier already, the lingering sound of your voice replaced by the oppressive quiet.

He staggered upstairs, his feet dragging with a mix of exhaustion and defiance. Once in the bedroom, he kicked off his shoes, leaving them carelessly in the middle of the floor. The bed was disheveled, one side still made while his side looked like it had been caught in a hurricane. He climbed in, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, throwing himself onto the mattress with a groan.

“She’ll be back,” he muttered to no one, rolling onto his side and pulling the blanket up to his chin. “She always comes back.”

But as the minutes turned into hours, and the haze of his high began to fade, the reality of your absence started to creep in. The silence in the room felt unnatural, as if the walls themselves were mourning. He tossed and turned, his mind replaying the fight in brutal detail.

The venom in your voice. In his voice.

The pain in your eyes.

The way you said “home” like it was something foreign, something lost.

Harry stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding despite the stillness around him. His throat felt tight, his chest heavy with something he refused to name. He’d never heard you speak like that before, with such finality.

When sleep finally came, it was fitful and shallow, and he woke the next morning with a dull ache in his head and an emptiness in his chest.

His hand reached instinctively for your side of the bed, fingers brushing the cool, untouched sheets. His stomach dropped, a sinking realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. The bed was empty.

You were gone.

For the first time, it truly sank in. He sat up slowly, his head cradled in his hands as the events of the night before played out in vivid, painful clarity. The bedroom felt like a void— your clothes were still hanging in the closet, your perfume lingered faintly in the air, but you weren’t there.

Dragging himself out of bed, Harry wandered through the house. In the kitchen, he saw the evidence of your quiet care. The counters were wiped clean, the trash taken out, the sink empty of dishes. It hit him that you’d cleaned up after him, even after the endless nights of the same fight, even after everything.

The guilt clawed at his throat, but he pushed it down, focusing instead on the mundane task of making tea. He reached for the kettle, his movements mechanical, the sound of water filling the pot breaking the heavy silence. The tea was bitter when he took the first sip, but he drank it anyway, needing something to ground him.

He carried the mug to the living room, sinking onto the couch. His heart twisted as he noticed the faint indent on the cushion where you always sat, curled up with a book or your favorite blanket.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the tea as if it might hold the answers. He replayed the fight again, his own words stabbing at him now with brutal clarity: “All you ever fucking do is yell at me… this shit show to come home to.”

He exhaled shakily, gripping the mug tighter as the weight of what he’d said, what he’d done, settled over him like a suffocating blanket.

It wasn’t just a fight. It wasn’t just words.

You were gone, and for the first time in a long time, Harry wasn’t sure if you were ever coming back.

What a valiant roar, what a bland goodbye.

You spent that night, and the following nights for the next three months with your sister. Staying with your dad would be unfathomable. You didn’t want to listen to his harsh criticisms of how he knew Harry had been trouble from the start.

One thing about your father was that he was unaccepting of the idea of who Harry was, but if he kept you happy, then he could settle.

How were you supposed to tell him about the last seven years?

Harry was the loss of your life.

You hadn’t been to church since that night with Harry, but you continued to pray alongside your sister every night. You told your dad, who then told the choir and regular attendees that you had come down with a nasty flu and were swarmed with paperwork to find a new job at a law firm outside of town. Your phone pinged with many congratulatory messages, people who passed their best wishes and ‘get well soon’ messages.

If only they knew.

The dull ache of not being around Harry was quick to pass. It didn’t matter much anymore. You felt as though you were living without him for the longest time, anyways. The photos on your phone were quickly discarded with your sister's help, deleting threads that had dated back to your junior year of high school between you and Harry. The key to that house had been long discarded, tossed into a random field you passed on the way to her house.

You felt clean. It felt refreshing to not smell liquor and to not see the remnants of cocaine on the counters. You felt more alive, not having to waste your energy on cleaning up after a grown man or arguing with one, at that.

Tonight was the first time you’d be going back to the church. You agreed to help your father set up for awana, a youth ministry program that taught children about the Bible. Many families you had grown to know showed up every Wednesday night for the three hours of engaging fun, which you usually led. But, you convinced your father that tonight was just for you to set up and pay respects, not wanting to risk contaminating any children with whatever was left of your flu.

Awana didn’t start until five that night, so you headed in a couple of hours early at three to get whatever you needed done.

The heavy wooden doors of the church creaked softly as you pushed them open, their weight familiar under your palms. The air inside was still, carrying the faint scent of aged wood and candle wax. The silence was almost sacred, broken only by the soft echo of your footsteps against the stone floor as you entered. You hesitated for a moment, calling out, “Dad?”

No reply.

You glanced around, the emptiness of the space making it feel larger than usual. It wasn’t unusual for your father to run late—he had a tendency to take his time, knowing you’d always arrive early to handle preparations.

It’s fine, you thought, letting the stillness settle over you like a comforting cloak. The familiar rhythm of setting up for Awana would help distract your thoughts, keep your hands and mind busy.

You moved through the quiet halls, your fingers brushing against the cool stone walls for balance as you made your way toward the worship room. The double doors loomed ahead, slightly ajar, leaving just a sliver of space to peek inside. You frowned, thinking your father might’ve arrived without you noticing.

“Dad?” you called again, softer this time, your voice barely above a whisper.

No answer.

You approached the doors, your heart skipping a beat with an inexplicable unease. Slowly, you pushed one door open, its hinges groaning in protest. The familiar sight of the worship room unfolded before you: rows of polished pews stretching toward the altar, the high ceilings casting shadows in the dim afternoon light.

But it wasn’t your father inside.

It was Harry.

He was seated in the middle of the room, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as he leaned forward, his clasped hands resting on the back of the pew in front of him. His curls, wild and unruly as always, were a stark contrast against the calm, ordered lines of the worship room. He didn’t notice you; his head turned slightly, his gaze wandering aimlessly around the space.

Your breath hitched, shock rooting you to the spot. You’d know those curls anywhere, that familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he sat as if the weight of the world bore down on him.

You felt a cold rush of emotions flood through you—anger, sadness, confusion, and something you couldn’t quite name. You hadn’t seen Harry in months, hadn’t allowed yourself to think of him in anything more than fleeting moments. Yet here he was, in the last place you’d ever expect him to be, looking so out of place and yet so painfully familiar.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared, unable to move. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words caught in your throat, choked by the raw ache of seeing him again.

The quiet was oppressive, broken only by the soft creak of the door as it settled back into place behind you.

You stayed frozen, unsure whether to leave or step forward, unsure if you even wanted him to know you were there. But as you stood in that doorway, watching Harry sit in silence, you couldn’t help but wonder why he was here, in this room full of pews and memories, looking like he was searching for something he’d lost.

The air in the worship room was heavy with stillness, the faint aroma of wood polish and old hymnals lingering like a quiet echo of devotion. You stood frozen in the shadows near the back, the dim light filtering through stained-glass windows casting fractured patterns on the floor. Harry hadn’t noticed you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to announce your presence.

It was the way he sat— head slightly bowed, hands clasped, his broad shoulders sagging as though he were carrying something unbearable— that rooted you in place. Then he spoke, his voice low and rough, wavering like a fragile thread.

“God…” he began, pausing almost immediately. He let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “If you’re real or out there— sorry, I guess it’s kind of rude to doubt You in Your own house, huh?”

The words came out clumsy, hesitant, as if he wasn’t used to addressing anyone but himself. You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear the vulnerability in his voice, raw and unguarded, each syllable a crack in the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself.

“I don’t even know if I’m doing this right,she was so good at this” he muttered, his tone quieter now, almost as if he were afraid of being overheard. “I’m not… I’m not good at this, clearly. But I just—” He exhaled sharply, his breath shuddering.

“I don’t know if You can hear me. I don’t even know if anyone can hear me anymore.” His voice faltered, and the sound of it broke something inside you, like the crack of a distant thunderstorm.

He was quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. Then he spoke again, his words softer, trembling with something you couldn’t quite name.

“I need her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need her back in my life. I know I don’t deserve to ask for anything. I’ve screwed up so many times, made promises I didn’t keep, hurt her in ways I can’t even forgive myself for. But if You could just…” He trailed off, his fingers gripping the edge of the pew in front of him as if it were the only thing grounding him.

“If You could just look into the future or something,” he continued, his tone desperate now, “if You could see how hard I’m trying—how hard I will try—then maybe You could give me another chance. I’ll do anything, God. I swear.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with desperation, and you found yourself holding your breath, your heart aching in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I miss her,” Harry admitted, his voice breaking on the last word. He let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his curls. “I miss the way she always left little notes in my lunch when we were younger, even when we were fighting. Just… because she wanted me to smile.”

You could hear him swallow. “I miss how she could never cook pancakes without burning at least one side, and I’d eat the worst ones on purpose just so she didn’t have to, but the way she laughed about it… was sweet. I miss the way she hums when she’s nervous, like she’s trying to calm herself down without even realizing it.”

Each word was a wound, cutting deeper into the fragile space where your heart still clung to the love you once shared.

“I miss loving her with my whole damn heart,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “I miss feeling like I was… like I was worthy of her. And I know I didn’t show it. I know I let her down. But God or Jesus or whoever, if You’re listening, if You’re out there, please, just give me one more chance. I’ll be better. I’ll be someone she can be proud of. I just…”

His words faltered, and he fell silent, his hands trembling where they gripped the pew. The room was so quiet you could hear the faint rustle of his shirt as he moved, the distant hum of the air conditioning, and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

You felt tears sting your eyes, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. His words echoed in your mind, raw and aching and filled with a regret so palpable it was suffocating.

For a moment, you wanted to step forward, to close the distance between you and the man you’d loved for so long. But you stayed rooted to the spot, hidden in the shadows, your heart breaking all over again as you listened to the man you barely recognized pour his soul out to a God he wasn’t even sure was listening.

That’s when you noticed it. In his clasped hands, dangled your gold cross chain. The exact one he had got for you. 

He kept it this whole time?

You took a shaky breath, slowly stepping forward. Harry glanced back his head back, scurrying up to his feet at the sound of someone else being inside.

“Sorry,” He fumbled with his words, sniffing as he wiped his eyes. “I didn’t realize there was someone he–, Y/N?”

The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, broken only by the faint, uneven rhythm of his breathing. Your heart pounded in your chest, the ache of seeing him again, of hearing his desperate pleas, gnawing at you with each passing second.

And then, that small detail— the gold cross chain— caught your eye once more. It hung loosely from his fingers, the chain catching the dim light, the delicate cross swaying slightly with the tremor of his hands. .

The thought was almost too much to bear. The small, sacred piece of your past, something that had always symbolized the love you thought you had, now twisted into something that stung with regret and longing. A part of you had wondered if it had just been tossed aside, forgotten, a casualty of the wreckage that was your relationship. But here it was, hanging from his fingers, as if he hadn’t let go of you in the slightest.

Your hands shook, the air feeling thinner as the weight of the moment crashed down on you. Slowly, tentatively, you took a step forward, unable to tear your eyes away from the cross that still belonged to you in some twisted way. The sound of your footsteps on the creaky floor was soft, but in the silence, it seemed to echo, growing louder with each passing second.

The way he said your name, like he wasn’t sure if it was even real anymore, made your stomach twist. The sound of it, laced with disbelief and confusion, made the raw ache inside of you flare up again.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stood three pews away from him, your legs suddenly feeling weak beneath you. You hadn't expected him to turn around and see you. You hadn’t planned on confronting him like this, not after everything that had happened. But here you were, facing him again, and the sight of him— disheveled, eyes red, the same haunted expression you hadn’t seen in months— brought a wave of emotions crashing down on you.

The way his eyes searched yours, almost pleading, as if trying to make sense of why you were standing there, made everything inside you tremble. And yet, despite the desperation in his eyes, you felt a distance, an insurmountable gap between the man he was now and the man you once knew so well.

It felt like there were a million things you wanted to say, but the words refused to come. Instead, you stood there in the quiet, feeling the weight of the past pressing down on you with every breath you took.

Harry swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the chain as if it were the only thing tethering him to some semblance of reality. “Y/N,” he said again, his voice rough, breaking. “I didn’t mean what I said that night. I didn’t mean any of it. Please know that..”

His words, those desperate, pleading words, tore through the silence like a knife, and for a moment, the church around you seemed to close in, suffocating you with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid. The hurt, the anger, the love that had been twisted and broken by everything he had done— it all came flooding back, suffocating you in the space between your heart and your mind.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

His eyes softened for a moment, searching your face, as if looking for a sign that you were still the person he used to know. But you couldn’t give him that. Not anymore.

“Y/N, I— I just want to fix this. I want you back. I miss you so much. I don’t know how to—” His voice cracked, the rest of the sentence trailing off, and he stood there, helpless, caught between his past actions and the broken pieces of his own regret.

But you couldn’t look at him the way you used to anymore. Not after everything he had put you through, not after everything you had lost.

The silence stretched on, suffocating and thick, and you finally spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t just... take it all back, Harry. You can’t just walk in here like nothing ever happened and expect everything to be okay.”

The words were raw, laced with the pain that had been building up for so long. You didn’t know if they were meant for him or for you, but they felt like they were the only thing you could say to make sense of the jumble of emotions inside you.

You wanted to run. You wanted to scream. You wanted to do anything to make the hurt stop.

But you didn’t. You stood there, watching him with a heart full of broken pieces, and waited for him to finally understand the depth of the damage he had caused.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t realize... I didn’t realize what I was doing, what I was saying. I thought I could fix it. Thought I could... I don’t know. But I didn’t— I didn’t fix anything. I made it worse. I got so frustrated that I couldn’t just listen to you, and I took my anger out into something you told me to avoid. I fucked everything up. I was so selfish. I was scared, and I didn’t even know how to handle it, so I just pushed you away instead of fighting for you. Fighting for us.”

His words seemed to pierce the silence, each one a sharp confession, and you felt your heart crack just a little bit more. It was hard to hear him say it out loud, to hear him admit the mistakes that had cost you both so much. But it was also the first time you’d heard him speak so honestly about what he had done.

You took a deep breath, eyes flickering between his face and the cross chain still held in his hands. There was something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, something you hadn’t seen in months. Something that made your chest ache with an old kind of longing.

“You hurt me, Harry,” you said quietly, the words slipping from your mouth before you could stop them. “I don’t think you understand just how much you hurt me. I wasn’t just angry. I felt... betrayed. Like you never really cared. And I— I didn’t know how to live with that. I didn’t know how to be in a relationship where I wasn’t even sure if you cared, or if you were ever going to care again.”

There was a long pause, the only sound between you two being the faint hum of the church’s old air conditioning system. You could feel his eyes on you, and though you didn’t want to, you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I wasn’t thinking, okay?” Harry finally spoke, voice cracking, his eyes bloodshot and swollen from everything he’d gone through, swelling over once more with fresh ones. 

“I was just... I was stuck. And I didn’t know how to fix it. I just wanted to be good enough for you, but I felt like I kept failing. I did keep failing. Not only myself, but you. And every time I tried to stop, I only made it worse by going back.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, emotions threatening to overtake you. “You didn’t have to do it alone, Harry. We could’ve figured it out. I told you that we could do it. I didn’t need you to be perfect. I just needed you to... be there. To care. But you shut me out. You shut me out for so long, and I couldn’t... I couldn’t keep chasing you. That’s why I just gave up, I had to. I couldn’t tread along a path where I wasn’t welcomed in the first place.”

The words hung in the air between you, the realization of how much hurt had built up over time. But as you stood there, facing him, you saw it. The change in his eyes. The recognition of the damage, yes— but also something else. Something more. A flicker of hope. A small, almost imperceptible spark that told you he wasn’t giving up. Not now. Not after everything.

“I know I fucked up,” Harry said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I swear to God, this is the last chance. The very last one, please. I’ll do anything. Anything to make this right. I’ll fight for you. I’ll fight for us. I can’t lose you again. I won’t. I don’t know how to, but I want to learn to live in a world where we’re partners again. I pull my weight just as much as you do yours. I want you to rely on me, not the other way around.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, his words like a weight pressing down on you. You could feel the sincerity in his voice, could see the vulnerability in his eyes. It was the truth. It was raw, painful, but it was the truth.

You took a step forward, your hands trembling as you reached out, your fingers brushing against the chain in his grasp. For a long moment, you just stood there, looking at him, allowing yourself to finally feel the relief of someone who had been waiting for the truth, waiting for him to finally open up, to finally show you that he was willing to try.

And then, in a moment of raw, unspoken need, Harry closed the distance between you. He stepped forward, his hands reaching for you, cupping your face gently, like he was afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. Without a word, he kissed you.

It was soft at first, a tentative, almost hesitant touch, as if he was testing the waters, unsure if you’d pull away or if you’d kiss him back. But then, just as quickly, the kiss deepened, becoming desperate, as if both of you had been starved for this moment for far too long. The world around you disappeared. There was no past, no pain, no mistakes. There was only the present— the electricity between you two, the familiar warmth that radiated through your veins, and the overwhelming feeling that, for the first time in a long time, everything felt right again.

His lips were warm against yours, his fingers threading through your hair as he pulled you closer, his touch frantic and tender all at once. You could feel his heart beating in his chest, the rhythm matching your own. There was no hesitation now, no doubt. Just two people, tangled up in each other, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they could find their way back to something real.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and shaky, you rested your forehead against his, eyes closed. “I still love you, Harry,” you whispered, the words slipping out without thought, but they were the truth, and they felt like a weight lifting off your chest.

“I love you too,” he murmured back, his voice rough, but steady. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’ll make it right. I swear. I promise you, I don’t want to be that person ever again.”

For the first time in a long time, you believed him. You believed that maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something new. Something better.

And as you stood there, in the stillness of the church, in each other’s arms, you knew that, despite everything, you had found your way back to each other.

It took a lot of work through the years. Lots of AA meetings, where you helped Harry confide in those around him about his struggles of alcohol and drugs. There were nights where it seemed like time had slowed down when he’d try to go to bed, waking up every two hours with a certain itch to scratch. But you woke up every time with him, holding his hand and turning on a film to watch over a cup of tea, and then you held him close as he fell back asleep.

Four years later, you proudly wore a ring on your finger as you lifted the test from the bathroom counter, showing it to your Harry. A Harry who was finally away from the drugs and the alcohol, even socially refused a drink, whether he had been with you or not. 

“We’re having a baby?” Harry looked down at the test, then back at you with wide eyes fired with excitement. Something that said he was nervous yet excited yet scared yet so ready.

“We are,” you breathed out through shaky tears, a huge smile growing on both of your faces.

That night, he held you extra tight, his hands sprawled on your belly. 

It felt so good to have him back, and that feeling never went away since that night at the church. It felt so good for Harry to keep his promise.

[tortillamastersblog]

Back To You - Part 14 | Sam Carpenter

Pairing: Sam Carpenter x reader

Warnings: mentions of violence, death, blood, injuries, and swearing

Summary: When Sam left after turning eighteen, you were devastated. You’d been in love with her since you were kids and her leaving meant you never got to tell her how you truly felt.

Fast forward a couple of years, Tara gets attacked and Sam returns. . .

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

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For the first time in almost 48 hours it’s quiet and I’m warm and comfortable.

After having a late dinner, Gale and Brooks showed all of us to separate guest rooms. Tara and Chad are sharing a room, much to Sam’s dismay, but she didn’t object other than raising an eyebrow.

Danny has his own room and Sam and I are sharing a room. It’s honestly astonishing how many bedrooms this penthouse has, but then again this is Gale we’re talking about and if she doesn’t have the money to afford a place like this, no one does.

At first I was skeptical about sharing a bed with Sam, but as soon as we were alone we fell back into old habits. We slipped under the covers and before I could even start to overthink anything, Sam wordlessly grabbed my arm and slung it around her middle, pulling me close until my front was flush with her back.

I fell asleep pretty quickly after that, but now for some reason I’m awake again. I can’t check my phone for the time because it’s on the nightstand and I don’t want to wake Sam by moving, but it’s still dark outside, so I close my eyes and try to fall asleep again.

I’m beyond exhausted, but a moment later Sam jerks in her sleep and I open my eyes again.

That’s what woke me in the first place. She’s not sleeping properly.

I frown, but think nothing of it until she jerks yet again, more violently this time. She mumbles some unintelligible pleas, and I move closer, tightening my arms around her.

She’s having a nightmare.

Tara used to have them, too, but hers were more like night terrors.

“Hey. . .” I brush my nose against the back of her neck.

“No, Y/N.” She whimpers and twitches in her sleep and I sigh sadly.

I sit up and press a kiss to her temple. “Sam, wake up.”

“No,” she cries, louder this time, and I can’t stand seeing the way her face twists in agony.

I unwrap my arm from around her and shake her. “Sam!”

That does the trick. Sam’s eyes fly open and she sits up with a start, almost head butting me in the process.

“I can’t— I wasn’t—“

“Shhh. You’re okay. Tara’s okay. I’m okay.” I pull her into my arms, and rub my hands up and down her back when she sinks into me.

She shakes with muffled sobs and I whisper reassurances into her ear until she stammers, “I-It felt so real.”

I press another kiss to her temple and guide us back so we’re once again lying down. “I know, but it wasn’t.”

A strangled whimper claws its way past her lips and I raise one of my hands to run my fingers through her hair.

She constantly puts up a strong front, trying to protect everyone around her even though she’s really the one who needs to be protected and comforted.

I’m glad she’s not afraid to be vulnerable when it’s just the two of us.

After a couple more minutes of calming Sam down, she shifts so she’s lying with her head on my chest. “You know, there weren’t any knives in the knife block. . .”

My hand stills on her back and I frown. “What?”

Sam looks up and drapes an arm over my stomach. “When Ghostface attacked earlier, I went to the kitchen to grab a knife, but they were all gone.“

“What the fuck. . .” I clench my jaw, and replay the attack in my mind.

Ghostface knew the layout of the apartment, that much is clear. However that doesn’t explain the missing knives.

The only explanation I can come up with is that whoever is behind the mask removed them in forethought since the last time we thought Ghostface would attack, Sam immediately went and grabbed one from the kitchen.

The only way Ghostface could have known Sam would be going for a knife again though is if he or she was there the first time it happened, and the only one who was there that first time, but not tonight is. . .

“Oh my God, it’s Ethan,” I whisper, horrified by my realization. “He’s Ghostface. Or at least one of them.”

“What?” Sam frowns and rests her chin on my chest to look at me. “Why would you think it’s him? Chad said he was studying at the library all night. And what do you mean one of them? You think there’s more than one Ghostface?”

I quickly explain how I came to the conclusion and when I’m done Sam stares at me with her jaw dropped.

“Oh my God. . . You’re right,” she says quietly. “But we can’t be a hundred percent sure, so we have to keep our guard up. And we should keep it to ourselves for the time being, we don’t know who his accomplice is.”

I agree before a stunned silence settles over us.

Son of a bitch. . . How did I not realize it sooner. Ethan’s whole innocent-nerd act is the perfect cover. But why would he want to kill us? Does he want to make another Stab movie like Richie and Amber? And who could possibly be his accomplice?

I’m just glad I got to body slam that twig. Piece of shit.

Sam’s nightmare is all but forgotten now, but after what we just discovered we’re both far from falling back asleep.

“So, how do you feel about Tara and Chad being kind of a thing now?” I ask, changing the subject which makes Sam’s nose scrunch up.

“It’s a little weird and out of the blue, but I honestly can’t say I’m against it,” she admits with a huff. “Chad’s a good guy and if Tara likes him as much as he seems to like her, who am I to tell her they can’t go out. God knows she already hates me for looking out for her.”

I raise an eyebrow at that and touch her cheek to get her to look at me again when she averts her eyes. “She doesn’t hate you. She just feels like you don’t trust her enough to make her own decisions.”

Sam pouts. “But I do trust her.”

I sigh and brush my lips against her forehead in a fleeting kiss. “Then show her that. You can’t protect her from everything. I know it’s hard, especially right now because Ghostface is back, but you have to let her live sooner or later.“

She lets out a deep breath and lifts her head to kiss me softly. “I know.”

I hug her tighter and run my fingers through her hair again when she settles back on my chest. “Let’s try to get some more sleep while we can. We’ll deal with Ethan and everything else tomorrow.”

Sam hums in agreement, snuggling up to me and I close my eyes, burying my nose in her hair and taking a deep breath.

The smell of her coconut shampoo, mixed with the smell that is uniquely hers makes me relax and before I know it, I’m once again fast asleep.

I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

We’re all currently standing in the middle of an old abandoned movie theater that is filled with glass cases displaying various pieces of evidence from past Ghostface murders. Knives, clothes, sketches of the victims and killers. . .

It makes my blood run cold, especially the mannequins on the theater’s stage, dressed in Ghstface cloaks, but my worry for Sam outweighs the sense of dread this place evokes in the pit of my stomach.

She’s been deathly still ever since Gale brought us here and her grip on my hand is almost painful.

“How the hell did you find this place?” Kirby asks as we make our way through the. . . exhibition?

Mindy, who met us outside the theater a couple of minutes earlier freezes in front of a mannequin wearing her and Chad’s late uncle’s shirt.

“I’m an investigative journalist,” Gale deadpans. “How didn’t you find it?” she asks Kirby.

It turns out this place belonged to the two guys in Tara’s film class who were killed by Ghostface. Apparently they were loaded and used fake names to rent this place, but were killed before they could finish their collection of fucked-up memorabilia.

A fact, that is disturbing enough in and of itself, but it puzzles me why we’re only finding out about it now. I mean, Gale is right, how could Kirby not find this place when going through their financial records?

Something about this feels fishy, but I can’t put my finger on it, so I keep my mouth shut, just like how I kept my mouth shut when Ethan showed up a couple of minutes after Mindy.

Chad texted him about this place to keep him in the loop, which prompted him to come here too.

I know Sam said we can’t be a hundred percent certain he’s one of the Ghostfaces, but I’ve caught him staring at me more than once since getting here now, and every time I get too close to him, he moves back and puts distance between us. It’s almost like he’s afraid of me.

Good. He should be afraid. The next time I come across him in that Ghostface mask of his, I won’t hesitate to kill him.

You fuck with the people I love, you pay the price.

Sam letting go of my hand snaps me out of my thoughts. She walks through the rows of display cases with furrowed eyebrows while I stay back, watching her process everything.

That is until Tara tugs on my sleeve.

“Okay, spill,” she says quietly, making sure no one is watching us as they explore the theater.

“Huh?”

“You and Sam!” she hisses. “How? When? I mean— You guys are alone for like two seconds and now you’re—what? Together? Or—?”

I laugh softly. This is so not the time to talk about this, but Tara just can’t keep her curiosity in check. “We’re not officially, or anything, but we talked and we kissed, and—“

“You kissed?!” she shrieks in excitement before quickly slapping her hand over her mouth.

Luckily no one seems to have heard her and I can’t help but smile bashfully and nod. “Yeah, we kissed and she told me she loved me.”

Tara beams and bounces on her toes. “Oh my God, yes! Finally! I told you she felt the same way!”

I wave her off, scratching my neck nervously. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t remind me. . . So, you and Chad, huh?”

This time, it’s Tara’s turn to blush and I can’t help but revel in it when she nods shyly.

“I’m happy for you, Sprout.” I pull her into a quick hug and ruffle her hair. “You two make a hot couple.”

She snorts and shoves me playfully. “Oh, shut up. You’re one to talk.”

We share another smile before Chad calls Tara over to show her something.

I watch her go, feeling myself smiling like an idiot until my eyes land on Sam.

She’s up on the stage and staring at a Ghostface cloak in a display case with a far off look in her eyes. I’ve never seen her look like this before, and it makes me worry because she’s tense and seemingly upset, so I climb onto the stage and approach her slowly, making sure I don’t scare her when I place a hand on her waist.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask quietly, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

She inhales sharply and leans back against me with closed eyes. “No.”

“What is it?” I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her hands when she intertwines our fingers.

“It’s Billy,” she admits quietly, brokenly, as realization dawns on me.

She’s seeing him in the reflection of the glass case. . . That’s what that look on her face was.

“What’s he saying?” I ask without judgement, holding her closer.

“The same shit as always,” she whispers. “You’re a born killer, Sam. Let’s slice up some motherfuckers, Sam. What are you waiting for, Sam?”

I hum in acknowledgement and press another kiss to her shoulder, mumbling, “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head and squeezes my hands. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. I actually see him less when you’re around.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting that, and I can’t stop myself from blurting out a surprised, “Really?”

Sam chuckles sadly and tilts her head up to brush her lips against the underside of my jaw. “Yeah. I don’t know why, but you ground me like no one else and when I’m with you I feel safe. I feel loved.”

My heart swoops and I drop my chin to peck her lips. That’s all I ever wanted—to make her feel safe and loved. She deserves the world and so much more, and I’m just glad she’s letting me be there for her.

“I love you,” I whisper against her lips. “We’re going to get through this, and I promise you, once all this is over, I’m taking you on a date. A real date with flowers, dinner, wine, and a bunch of kisses.“

“That sounds amazing. I look forward to it, and I love you, too,” she mumbles before turning more serious and adding, “But first, we’re going to end this. Once and for all.”

She turns in my arms and I raise my eyebrows. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

She raises her hands and places them on my chest, a determined glint in her eyes. “I’ve got a couple ideas, but we need to talk to Kirby and Bailey first.”

“Will you please stop? You’re shaking the entire car,” Kirby says with a pointed look.

I’m bouncing my leg because I’m nervous about what’s about to go down, but stop when I realize she’s right.

We’re in the back of a surveillance van with Mindy, Chad, and Ethan while Sam and Tara are walking around in the park outside.

Bailey is also outside, keeping an eye on them, but his presence does nothing to stop me from worrying about the two of them.

They’re trying to goad Ghostface into calling them so Kirby can trace the car and find out where he is, but so far, he hasn’t called.

To be fair, it’s only been ten minutes since we got here, but still. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

What if he sneaks up on them in broad daylight and slits their throats? What if he lures them somewhere else?

There are too many things that could go wrong for me to be comfortable with this plan, but Kirby and Bailey are sure this is going to work, so I’m not going to interfere.

Mindy seems skeptical too, and she doesn’t hesitate to voice her concerns while Ethan, seemingly unbothered by this whole situation, eats Cheetos, occasionally offering some to Chad.

He doesn’t offer me any, but there’s no surprise there because every time he looks my way I glare at him, daring him to do anything.

Sam and I talked some more earlier and we both decided that it would be best to tell Kirby about our suspicions, but there hasn’t been a chance to do it yet without Ethan potentially overhearing us.

“Hey, Sam? Stay frosty out there, okay?” Kirby says into the comms device.

“We’re good.” Sam replies, her voice sounding strained and clipped over the speaker that lets the rest of us in the van hear what she’s saying.

I want to be out there with her and Tara, but Kirby argued that I could scare Ghostface off by being with them since I’ve kicked his ass twice now.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I reluctantly pull it out, focusing on whoever’s calling me instead of Sam and Tara.

I frown when I see it’s Paige, and send the call to voicemail before stuffing my phone back into my pocket.

I don’t have time to chat now and I definitely don’t want to be lectured about how I haven’t replied to her latest message yet.

She asked me how things were going with Liam last night and even sent me a picture of her girlfriend’s new dog, but I promised myself I wouldn’t contact her until this whole Ghostface situation is behind us.

That way she doesn’t get involved and I have one less person to worry about.

Yes, she might be pissed now that I’m ignoring her, but she’ll thank me later when she’s still alive because of it.

Sam’s phone rings over the speaker and my heart skips a beat when she answers it.

This is it.

“You’re gonna die you know,” she says, venom lacing her voice.

That’s my girl. Oh my god. . . that’s my girl!

Focus, Y/N!

“No, you’re gonna die, Samantha, chocking on your own blood while I hack up your sister and Y/N. Although it’s a shame because your precious Y/N really is a snack. . .”

Ew, what the fuck?

Mindy and I share a disturbed look and Kirby tries her best to trace the call while Sam keeps talking to Ghostface.

“You know, for a mastermind you’re not very bright,” Ghostface mocks. “Waiting for me to call, desperately hoping I’m nearby so the police can grab me?”

Shit. He knows we’re onto him, which also means, he’s not dumb enough to be anywhere nearby. But where else could he be?

Ghostface hangs up a moment later just as my phone buzzes again.

It’s Paige. Again.

I frown, irritated, and decline her call before shooting her a quick text.

You (5:47 PM)

Can I call you back?

I don’t wait for a reply and tuck my phone back into my pocket, holding my breath when Sam asks Kirby if she managed to trace the call.

“I got it! The geolocation is coming through right now,” Kirby says and Mindy, Chad, Ethan and I all lean in closer to look at the blinking dot on the map of Kirby’s computer.

“He’s on the upper west side,” Kirby says with a puzzled look. “He’s in an apartment building halfway across the city.”

“On West 96th?” Tara asks which makes my eyes widen.

“How did you know that?” Kirby asks, and before Tara can answer I’m out of my seat and reaching for the van’s door handle.

“Gale.” I breathe, jumping out of the van.

She’s in trouble. Why did we leave her behind?! No press allowed, my ass. She’s going to die now because Kirby and Bailey said she wasn’t allowed to be part of the operation.

Tara and Sam come running my way, obviously having realized the same thing as me. Bailey is right behind him and when they get closer I can hear them arguing about what’s going to happen next.

“It’s 50 blocks away,” Bailey says. “And we don’t even know it’s true. Sam, wait! Take a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute!” Sam snaps back and before I can hear the rest of Bailey’s argument, Tara rushes to me and grabs my arm, pulling me to Bailey’s squad car which is parked on the curb.

“Sprout, what are you doing?!” I ask, bewildered when Tara gets into the driver’s seat after urging me to get into the backseat.

“We’re going to save Gale,” is all she says before turning the key in the ignition (how she got it, I have no idea), and rolling down the window, shouting, “Sam! Get in.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she’s quick to jump into action and get into the passenger seat before locking the doors from the inside.

“Hey! What are you doing? Get out of my car! That’s an official vehicle!” Bailey shouts, but Sam just rolls up the window and turns to look at Tara.

“Should we use the sirens?” she asks.

Tara, despite the seriousness of the situation, smiles mischievously and says, “Did you really think we were gonna steal a police car and not use the sirens?”

“Fuck yeah!” Sam puts on her seatbelt and Tara turns on the sirens and drives off right as Bailey reaches the car, banging on the window.

“Oh my God, he’s going to kill us,” I say, seeing him glare at us through the back window.

Tara and Sam just laugh, and I smile, too, but then my phone dings and I pull it out, feeling my heart freeze when I see the message Paige sent me.

PB&J (5:50 PM)

It’s Liam, Y/N. He’s been attacked by Ghostface.

_______________________________________________

And I oop. . . 2 or 3 more parts to go!!!

Tag list: @bella423 @artrizzler19 @btay3115 @canyonyodeler @quadofthec @pussyydestroyer @rqizzu @pithod @morganismspam23 @idontliketoread2137

[dreamersworldduh]

A MUCH NEEDED BREAK

• MECHANIC! TOM HOLLAND x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Tom, a dedicated workaholic striving to save for a dream home for you both, often struggled to balance his demanding schedule with your relationship. Despite never losing your spark, the intimacy and connection you shared had been overshadowed by his relentless focus on work. So you plan a much-needed vacation with hopes that Tom would rediscover the importance of these moments together.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 9.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! We all know Tom is a taken man, but a guy can sure dream—you see what I did there, heh?…okay sorrry—I have a few more works coming out today so be on the lookout. Happy reading😉✨

Vacations play a vital role in preserving and improving your mental well-being, acting as a much-needed pause from the demands of daily life. They serve as a true reset button, offering an opportunity to recharge, refocus, and restore balance to your mind and body. This belief has been a cornerstone of your personal philosophy, one you've adhered to faithfully since the moment you could finally afford to indulge in the luxury of stepping away from your routine. Whether it's the peaceful solitude of a mountain retreat, the invigorating energy of a bustling city, or the restorative calm of a beachside escape, you've come to recognize that these breaks are not just indulgences—they are essential investments in your overall health and happiness. Each trip reinforces the idea that taking time for yourself isn't a selfish act but a necessary one, providing the clarity and renewal needed to return to life's challenges with fresh perspective and vitality.

However, convincing your workaholic boyfriend, Tom Holland, to take a break is no easy task. In this universe, Tom is a dedicated mechanic, pouring his heart and soul into his craft. He spends countless hours working late into the night, his hands perpetually smeared with grease, his mind focused on perfecting his trade. His determination stems from a deeply personal goal—he's tirelessly saving up to buy the two of you a home, a place where you can finally start the next chapter of your lives together. For the past five years, the two of you have shared a cozy but cramped apartment, its worn furniture and limited space serving as both a testament to your love and a reminder of the life you're working so hard to build. Tom's commitment to making that dream a reality often leaves little room for leisure, and while his passion and ambition are admirable, they make the task of persuading him to step away from his tools and take a well-deserved break a monumental challenge. Yet, you know that even the most driven hearts need rest, and you're determined to show him that taking a moment to recharge won't just benefit him—it'll strengthen the bond you've built together.

As his boyfriend, you see it as your responsibility—and privilege—to take care of him, even though his stubborn nature often makes it a challenge. Tom is fiercely independent, always insisting he can handle everything on his own, whether it's working late into the night at the garage or pushing through exhaustion without so much as a second thought. He's the type of person who bottles up his stress, brushes off his fatigue, and says, "I'm fine," even when it's clear he's running on empty. But you know him better than anyone, and you've learned to read between the lines, catching the subtle signs of wear and tear he tries so hard to hide.

So, you take it upon yourself to step in where he won't. You make sure he eats proper meals, often sneaking into the garage to leave a container of his favorite food on his workbench when he's too focused to come home for dinner. You remind him to take breaks, offering a gentle touch on his shoulder or a softly spoken, "You've been at this for hours—come sit with me for a bit." When he comes home late, tired and quiet, you're there with a warm blanket, a cup of tea, and a patient ear, ready to listen if he feels like venting or simply offering him the comforting silence he sometimes needs.

Even when his stubbornness leads to little arguments—like when he refuses to rest because "there's too much to do"—you approach him with understanding, knowing his determination comes from a place of love and a desire to build a better life for the two of you. Taking care of him isn't always easy, but it's never a burden. For every moment you spend looking out for him, there's an unspoken bond of trust and affection, a quiet acknowledgment that while he may be strong and independent, he doesn't have to carry the weight of everything alone. That's what love is to you—being there for him, even when he's too stubborn to ask for it.

When it came to planning your much-needed vacation, Tom always found a way to back out at the last minute. He'd come up with a list of reasons why he couldn't go—there was always too much work at the garage, or he couldn't afford to lose even a single day of income. He'd argue that the house fund was more important than a frivolous trip, or that he simply didn't have the time to take off. No matter how hard you tried to explain how important it was for both of you to get away and recharge, Tom's stubborn streak always seemed to win.

But this time, you weren't taking no for an answer. The two of you had been running on fumes lately, and you could see the toll it was taking on him—his late nights were getting later, his shoulders carried an almost permanent slump, and even his usual spark seemed dimmer than before. You knew he needed this break just as much as you did, even if he couldn't admit it to himself. So, you resolved to convince him, no matter how much effort it took.

You started small, casually dropping hints about how much you missed spending uninterrupted time together. Then, you tried tugging at his heartstrings by reminiscing about your last trip years ago, reminding him how happy and carefree you'd both been. When that didn't work, you brought out the big guns, printing out detailed itineraries, showing him pictures of the serene beaches or lush mountains you'd chosen as your destination, and emphasizing how affordable and manageable it would be. You even promised to handle all the planning, from booking the flights to packing his suitcase, so he wouldn't have to lift a finger.

Still, when his resolve didn't crack, you got creative. You started pointing out how a few days off could actually make him more productive in the long run, explaining that even the hardest workers needed to step away to recharge. You even enlisted a few allies—his coworkers, who teased him about being a workaholic, and mutual friends who told him how much they admired your determination to get him to relax. Slowly but surely, you chipped away at his excuses, all while reminding him how much this time together would mean to you.

By the end, you were ready to pull out every persuasive trick in the book if you had to. You weren't just fighting for a vacation—you were fighting for a chance to reconnect, to remind him (and yourself) that there's more to life than work. You loved him too much to let him keep running himself into the ground, and you were determined to prove that this getaway wasn't a luxury—it was a necessity.

As the two of you got ready for bed, you decided it was time to escalate your efforts to convince Tom. You had tried every rational argument, every heartfelt plea, but nothing had managed to crack his resolve. Now, standing there watching him pull off his shirt and climb into bed, looking both exhausted and irresistibly handsome, you realized it was time to deploy your ace in the hole—a very dirty trick.

Sliding under the covers, you waited until he settled in, propped up slightly against the headboard, flipping through his phone with that furrowed look of focus that never really left him. You shifted closer, the movement catching his attention. Before he could ask what you were up to, you straddled his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. Tom glanced up at you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, his hands instinctively moving to rest on your thighs.

"Babe," he started, his tone light but skeptical, "what are you—"

You cut him off with a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth, your arms slipping around his shoulders as you leaned in closer. His breath hitched slightly when your lips trailed down to his neck, brushing against his skin with a teasing gentleness. "Shh," you murmured, your voice low and sultry. "Just relax."

You could feel the tension in his body start to melt away under your touch as you peppered soft kisses along his neck, lingering in all the spots you knew drove him crazy. His hands tightened slightly on your thighs, and you smiled against his skin, knowing you had his full attention now. Tilting your head so your lips brushed his ear, you whispered, your voice dripping with seduction, "I've been thinking... We've been so busy lately, we haven't had time for ourselves. No time to unwind, no time to really... connect. Don't you think we deserve a little escape?"

His breathing grew heavier as your words sank in, your fingers tangling gently in the hair at the nape of his neck. "A few days away," you continued, your tone promising and tempting, "just you and me. No schedules, no distractions. Just us... making up for all the time we've missed. You know, we haven't had a night like that in weeks."

Tom let out a soft groan, his resolve clearly wavering as his hands slid to your waist. "You're not playing fair," he muttered, his voice low and tinged with a mixture of amusement and surrender.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, giving him your most innocent smile, even as your fingers traced lazy circles against his shoulders. "I'm not trying to play fair," you admitted, leaning in to kiss him again, this time with more intent. "I'm trying to remind you how much we need this. How much you need this."

For a moment, he said nothing, his hands tightening around your waist as if debating whether to argue or give in. But as his lips found yours again, and the tension between you melted into something far more enticing, you knew your plan was working. This vacation wasn't just going to happen—it was going to be unforgettable.

After finally convincing Tom the night before, you wasted no time putting your plan into motion. By the time morning rolled around, the sun streaming faintly through the curtains, you were already perched at the edge of the bed with your laptop open, typing away with a victorious grin on your face. Tom, still half-asleep, shuffled around the room, pulling on his usual work clothes—his favorite pair of oil-stained jeans and a simple gray t-shirt—while glancing at you with a mix of amusement and resignation.

"You're really not wasting any time, are you?" he teased, his voice still a little raspy from sleep as he combed his fingers through his messy hair.

"Absolutely not," you replied, barely looking up from the screen. "If I wait too long, you might change your mind, and I am not letting that happen."

Tom chuckled softly, shaking his head as he reached for his boots. "I already said yes, didn't I? I'm not going back on it. Besides," he added, his tone softening as he glanced at you, "you're right. We could both use this."

That little admission only fueled your excitement. You scrolled through the options for flights, carefully comparing departure times and prices, wanting everything to be perfect. Within minutes, you had selected the ideal tickets—just enough time for him to take a few days off without feeling guilty, but long enough for the two of you to truly unwind. With a quick click, the flights were booked, and you moved on to the next task: excursions.

You could hear Tom moving around in the background, the faint clink of his belt buckle as he fastened it and the shuffle of his boots as he laced them up. Occasionally, he'd glance over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow at your excited mutterings about snorkeling tours, hiking trails, or couples' massages. "What are you looking at now?" he asked, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair.

"Excursions," you said brightly, turning the screen toward him to show a list of options. "What do you think about ziplining? Or maybe a sunset dinner cruise?"

He smirked, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. "Whatever you want, babe. This is your thing—you're the planner."

You stuck your tongue out at him playfully but couldn't hide your excitement. "It's our thing, Tom. I want it to be perfect for both of us."

With that, he grabbed his keys and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at you. "Just don't forget to pack my stuff, okay? I'm trusting you to handle all this."

“Oh, don't worry," you called after him with a laugh. "I've got it all covered. You just focus on work, and I'll take care of the rest."

As the door closed behind him, you turned your attention back to the screen, your heart racing with anticipation. The flights were booked, the itinerary was coming together, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you and Tom had something to look forward to—something that was just for the two of you.

After carefully packing up your clothes and Tom's, you took a step back to survey the neatly arranged suitcases, making sure everything was perfectly in order. You'd spent the better part of the afternoon methodically folding and organizing, making sure no detail was overlooked. Tom's favorite worn flannels and comfortable jeans were folded neatly alongside the dressier outfits you'd picked for special evenings out. You even tucked in the t-shirts he always insisted on bringing, despite your protests that they weren't "vacation material."

Your own wardrobe was just as carefully selected, with outfits planned for every scenario—sun-drenched mornings, adventurous afternoons, and romantic dinners under the stars. Each piece was neatly rolled to maximize space, and you couldn't resist slipping in a couple of matching outfits for fun, imagining the two of you strolling together in perfect harmony.

Next to the clothes, you double-checked the small toiletry bag, making sure you'd packed everything from toothbrushes and deodorant to sunscreen and after-sun lotion. You even included a first-aid kit, knowing Tom would roll his eyes at the extra precaution but secretly appreciate your foresight if it came in handy.

In the side pockets of the suitcase, you stashed smaller essentials: chargers for your phones, Tom's favorite pair of earbuds, a paperback novel you'd been meaning to finish, and a travel-size bottle of cologne that always made your heart skip a beat when Tom wore it.

Finally, you zipped the bags closed and placed them by the door, double-checking your checklist to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Passports? Check. Plane tickets? Double check. Hotel reservation confirmation? Safely saved on your phone and printed out as a backup. You even made sure to tuck a surprise gift for Tom—a sleek pair of sunglasses you knew he'd love—into one of the outer pockets.

Standing back to admire your handiwork, you felt a wave of satisfaction wash over you. Everything was perfectly planned, packed, and ready to go. Now all that was left was to convince Tom to stop double-checking his work schedule and fully embrace the idea of relaxing for a few days. You smiled to yourself, knowing that once you got him on that plane, he'd realize you'd thought of everything—and you couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he finally let go and started enjoying the vacation you'd worked so hard to make special.

The plane ride to the island passed in a blur of excitement and anticipation. The steady hum of the engines blended with the soft chatter of other passengers, but your focus was entirely on Tom. Seated next to you, he had finally started to unwind, his gaze fixed on the view outside the small airplane window. The turquoise ocean stretched out endlessly below, dotted with tiny islands fringed by white sand beaches. You caught the way his lips curved into a faint smile as he took it all in, his shoulders relaxing just a little more with every passing mile.

By the time the plane touched down and you stepped onto the warm tarmac, the reality of your getaway began to sink in. The air was rich with the scent of salt and tropical flowers, and the cheerful sound of island music greeted you as you made your way to the car waiting to take you to the villa. Tom, ever curious, rolled down the window almost immediately as you drove, leaning out slightly to get a better view of the island. Palm trees swayed lazily in the breeze, and colorful markets flashed by, filled with locals selling fresh fruit and handmade crafts. You couldn't help but smile as you saw the light in his eyes—a rare moment where he wasn't thinking about work or responsibilities but was simply enjoying the moment.

When you finally pulled up to the villa, even you were struck by its beauty. Nestled in a secluded part of the island, it looked like something out of a dream. The villa's white walls gleamed in the sunlight, accented by soft blue shutters that mirrored the ocean beyond. A wraparound porch offered a breathtaking view of the private beach, and an infinity pool sparkled invitingly just steps away from the front door. Tom climbed out of the car, taking it all in with wide eyes, and for a moment, he seemed completely at a loss for words.

That moment didn't last long, though. As the driver helped unload your luggage, Tom turned to you, his brows furrowing slightly. "Okay, this place is amazing, but... how much did this cost?" he asked, his tone both curious and concerned, his practical nature kicking in as usual. "This doesn't exactly look budget-friendly."

You stepped closer to him, slipping your arms around his waist with a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about that," you said softly, your voice steady and calm. "This is our time to relax, Tom. I've got it all covered, and I promise, it's worth every penny."

His expression wavered between skepticism and gratitude, but you could see him starting to soften. "Are you sure?" he asked, his tone quieter now.

“I'm absolutely sure," you said, squeezing his hand for emphasis. "You work so hard, and we deserve this. Let me take care of you for a change, okay?"

He finally nodded, letting out a small sigh as he pulled you into a hug. "You're too good to me," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel the tension starting to leave his body.

With his concerns temporarily set aside, you led him inside the villa, watching as his eyes lit up again at the sight of the spacious living area, the luxurious bedroom, and the stunning ocean views from every window. As he wandered out onto the porch to admire the beach, you couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. This was exactly what you had envisioned—a chance for both of you to escape, recharge, and enjoy each other's company without a single worry in the world.

The day was warm and golden as you and Tom set out to explore the island, the excitement of being in such a beautiful place pulling both of you from the comfort of the villa. With a map in hand and a sense of adventure in your hearts, you set off, eager to see all the island had to offer. The winding paths led you past lush greenery and vibrant bursts of tropical flowers, their sweet scent hanging in the air. Birds sang softly in the trees, and every now and then, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore reminded you that paradise was all around.

Your first stop was a charming village tucked away from the main tourist areas. The cobblestone streets were lined with colorful markets and cheerful vendors selling handmade jewelry, woven baskets, and fresh fruit that smelled so sweet and ripe you couldn't resist buying some. Tom was fascinated, picking up trinkets and asking the vendors questions about how they made their goods. You snapped candid pictures of him, capturing the way his face lit up when he tried on a handmade hat or laughed at his own attempts to haggle over a carved wooden figurine.

From there, the two of you ventured to a historical lighthouse perched high on a cliff, its weathered white facade standing proud against the bright blue sky. The climb to the top was steep, but the breathtaking view made every step worth it. The entire island spread out beneath you, a stunning mix of emerald greenery, sparkling turquoise waters, and soft sandy beaches. Tom couldn't stop snapping pictures, alternating between capturing the scenery and stealing moments to take photos of you when you weren't looking. "You're the real view here," he said with a wink, making you laugh and roll your eyes, though your cheeks warmed at his words.

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, you returned to the villa hand in hand, both of you pleasantly tired from the day's adventures. The scent of the ocean grew stronger as you walked up the path, the sound of waves lapping gently at the shore greeting you like an old friend. Inside, you both took a moment to rest, sipping cool water and scrolling through the pictures you'd taken, laughing at the silly ones and marveling at the more artistic shots Tom had managed to capture.

Then it was time to prepare for the evening—a romantic dinner that you'd been looking forward to all day. You showered first, letting the warm water wash away the salt and sand from your skin, while Tom lounged on the porch, enjoying the sunset. When it was his turn, you laid out his clothes—a crisp button-down shirt and lightweight slacks you'd packed specifically for the occasion—and slipped into your own outfit, something simple yet elegant that you knew he'd love.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and looking effortlessly handsome in the clothes you'd picked, you were ready, standing by the window and admiring the last rays of sunlight. His eyes swept over you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "You look amazing," he said, his voice low and sincere, as he stepped closer to take your hand.

"And you clean up pretty well yourself," you teased, though the warmth in your voice betrayed just how much you meant it.

As evening fell, you and Tom made your way to the villa's elegant restaurant, a hidden gem nestled along the edge of the property with breathtaking views of the ocean. The path was softly lit by flickering lanterns, and the sound of waves gently crashing against the shore set the perfect backdrop for the night ahead. Tom held your hand as you walked, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin, a quiet smile on his face that matched the relaxed atmosphere you both felt after a day of exploring.

When you arrived, the hostess greeted you warmly and led you to a private table on the outdoor terrace. The table was beautifully arranged with a crisp white tablecloth, a centerpiece of tropical flowers, and candles that cast a soft, golden glow against the surrounding darkness. Overhead, the stars were scattered across the sky like diamonds, and the moon's silvery light reflected off the ocean, making it seem as if the water shimmered just for you.

Tom pulled out your chair for you, earning an affectionate laugh and a playful comment about how chivalrous he was tonight. He grinned as he took his seat across from you, his hazel eyes glowing in the candlelight. "Only the best for you," he said softly, his voice carrying that genuine warmth that always made your heart skip a beat.

The menu was exquisite, filled with fresh, locally sourced dishes that celebrated the island's flavors. You both took your time deciding, chatting about the highlights of the day as you sipped on chilled wine that the waiter had recommended. Tom couldn't stop talking about the view from the lighthouse, how beautiful it was, though he teased that it didn't compare to how you looked standing there in the sunset. You rolled your eyes at his cheesy remark, but the way he said it—completely sincere—left you smiling.

When the food arrived, it was nothing short of perfection. Tom had opted for a dish of freshly grilled fish, seasoned with island spices and served alongside roasted vegetables, while you chose a decadent seafood pasta with a rich, creamy sauce. The flavors were bold yet comforting, each bite better than the last. Between bites, you stole glances at Tom, marveling at how the soft candlelight accentuated the sharp lines of his face, the relaxed smile that hadn't left his lips all evening.

As the meal went on, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—dreams of future trips, funny moments from the day, and inside jokes that left you both laughing until your sides hurt. At one point, Tom reached across the table to take your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in that way that always made your heart flutter. "I'm really glad we're here," he said quietly, his voice low and full of emotion. "I didn't think I needed this, but... I did. Thank you."

His words melted any lingering doubts you'd had about convincing him to take this trip. You squeezed his hand, smiling back at him. "You deserve it, Tom. We both do."

For dessert, you shared a decadent chocolate mousse garnished with fresh berries, laughing as Tom tried to swipe an extra bite with his fork when you weren't looking. The night ended with another glass of wine, the two of you lingering at the table long after the other diners had left, simply enjoying the moment and each other's company. As you walked back to the villa hand in hand, the stars lighting your path, you couldn't help but feel like this night was a dream come true—one you'd never forget.

As you both stepped back into the villa, the warm, dim lighting of the space greeted you, creating a cozy and intimate atmosphere. The gentle sound of the ocean waves outside the windows mixed with the soft hum of the villa's ambiance, wrapping the moment in serenity. You barely had time to set your belongings down before Tom turned to you, his hazel eyes dark with a mix of affection and desire.

Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall carelessly to the back of a nearby chair. His hands, calloused but gentle, found your waist, pulling you closer. Before you could speak, he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against the curve of your neck, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses that sent a shiver down your spine. His touch was deliberate, slow, as though savoring every second.

"You looked so beautiful tonight," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and slightly husky. His words, combined with the warmth of his breath, made your heart race. His hands tightened slightly at your waist, anchoring you to him as he pressed another kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your jawline.

"Tom," you whispered, your voice catching slightly, both a question and an invitation. He responded with a soft hum, the vibrations resonating against your skin as his lips continued their journey. The day's adventures, the romantic dinner, the playful teasing—all of it seemed to culminate in this moment, the world outside fading into nothingness.

His kisses grew more purposeful, and one hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. "I couldn't stop thinking about this all through dinner," he admitted softly, his tone laced with sincerity and want. "You drive me crazy, you know that?"

A soft laugh escaped your lips, though it quickly dissolved into a quiet sigh as he continued his affectionate assault on your neck. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. It was a moment of pure connection, his touch conveying everything words couldn't—love, passion, and the need to simply be close to you.

As his lips trailed upward, brushing against your ear before capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and electrifying, you felt yourself melting into him completely. The villa, the ocean, the stars outside—it all seemed to exist solely as a backdrop to this moment, a perfect evening shared with the person you loved more than anything.

Your fingers moved instinctively, sliding up to the buttons of his shirt as his lips lingered on yours. One by one, you undid them, the fabric parting to reveal his toned chest beneath. Your hands brushed against his warm skin, feeling the strength in his muscles, the subtle rise and fall of his breath quickening under your touch. Tom's eyes darkened with intensity as he pulled back just slightly, giving you a small, teasing smirk that sent a rush of heat through you.

The sound of shoes being kicked off echoed softly against the villa's polished floors as you both shed them without thought, too wrapped up in each other to care about anything else. The elegant space around you—the plush rug, the glow of soft lanterns, the gentle sound of the ocean beyond—seemed to blur into the background. All that mattered was him, his touch, and the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

Without breaking contact, Tom guided you backward, his hands firm yet gentle as they rested on your hips, keeping you close. The back of your knees hit the edge of the couch, and with a shared laugh at the sudden stumble, the two of you sank down together, the leather cool against your skin. Tom hovered over you for a moment, his shirt now hanging open, framing his perfectly sculpted body. His hair was slightly tousled, his lips slightly swollen from the kisses you'd shared, and he looked at you with a mix of mischief and unspoken adoration.

"You're absolutely irresistible, you know that?" he murmured, his voice low and gravelly as he leaned closer, one hand sliding up to cup your face while the other braced against the couch beside you.

Your heart raced as you met his gaze, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "I could say the same about you," you replied, your hands wandering to his now-open shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. The fabric slipped down his arms, revealing the full expanse of his toned chest and strong shoulders, every inch of him a testament to the hours of hard work he put in at the garage. The shirt fell to the floor, forgotten, as he leaned in to kiss you again, his lips warm and insistent.

The couch became your world as the two of you moved together, the weight of the day melting away with every touch, every kiss. It wasn't just passion—it was love, the kind that made everything else seem insignificant compared to the connection you shared in this moment.

As Tom's lips found their way back to your neck, his kisses grew slower, deeper, and more purposeful. Each press of his lips sent waves of warmth coursing through you, making your breath hitch as he lingered on the sensitive spots he knew so well. His hands, warm and steady, moved to your waist, his fingers deftly working to unbuckle your pants. The soft click of the buckle and the gentle tug of the zipper echoed faintly in the quiet villa, the sound mingling with the distant crash of waves outside.

He pressed a kiss just beneath your jawline, his breath warm against your skin as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your briefs. His touch was firm yet deliberate, his fingers curling around your dick with a confidence that sent a shiver through your body. The sensation was electric, making your heart pound as his hand began to move in slow, measured strokes that left you breathless.

"Relax," Tom murmured against your neck, his voice low and filled with a mixture of affection and desire. His lips brushed against your ear as he added teasingly, "Let me take care of you."

His words, combined with the way his hand worked you with perfect rhythm, made it impossible to focus on anything else. You felt the tension leave your body as you melted into his touch, your hands finding their way to his back, clutching at the muscles beneath his warm skin. Every movement, every kiss, every touch was filled with a tenderness that reminded you just how deeply he cared for you.

As his lips continued their trail along your neck, and his hand skillfully worked you into a state of bliss, it became clear that tonight was about more than just passion—it was about love, connection, and the kind of intimacy that only the two of you could share.

Tom pulled away from your neck, his lips lingering for just a moment as his eyes met yours, dark with intent and desire. His hands slid down to your hips, tugging at the waistband of your pants and briefs in one smooth motion. The fabric slid down your thighs, cool air brushing against your now-exposed skin, heightening the electricity in the room.

He sat back slightly, his gaze traveling over you with a mixture of admiration and hunger, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "You're gorgeous," he murmured, his voice low and thick with sincerity, as though the words couldn't stay unspoken.

Without breaking eye contact, he brought his hand to his mouth, his tongue slipping out to wet his palm. The deliberate motion sent a shiver through you, your breath hitching as anticipation coiled tightly in your stomach. His fingers glistened as he lathered his hand, the simple act so intimate and unhurried that it made your pulse race.

Tom leaned forward again, his hand finding its place against your dick, the warmth of his touch heightened by the slickness of his spit. His movements were slow at first, testing, teasing, his thumb brushing lightly over your sensitive tip before beginning a steady rhythm. "Better?" he asked softly, his voice carrying a playful edge, though his eyes held nothing but care and focus.

Your head tipped back against the couch, a soft sound escaping your lips as you surrendered completely to the sensation. Tom's free hand rested on your thigh, grounding you, while his touch continued to work its magic. Every stroke was deliberate, every movement sending waves of pleasure through you as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he could reach.

It wasn't just the physical sensation that had you trembling beneath him—it was the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, as if every moment was dedicated to showing you just how much he loved you.

Tom's hand slowed, his gaze flickering up to meet yours with a teasing glint in his eyes. Without a word, he leaned down, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your length, his breath warm and tantalizing against you. His tongue darted out, delivering a slow, deliberate lick from the base to the tip, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through you.

The soft, wet heat of his mouth was almost too much to bear, and before you could stop yourself, a low, breathy moan of his name escaped your lips. Hearing it seemed to spur him on, his lips curving into a small, mischievous smile against your skin.

"You like that?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with playful confidence. He didn't wait for an answer, his tongue flicking over your tip in a way that made your fingers grip the couch beneath you. Every movement was precise, designed to elicit the sweetest sounds from you, and the way he watched your reactions—his eyes dark and full of affection—made it all the more intoxicating.

He took his time, savoring every inch of you, alternating between slow, teasing licks and firmer, more purposeful strokes of his tongue. His hands rested on your hips, steadying you as your body responded to him, every nerve alive with pleasure. With every flick of his tongue, every gentle kiss, he seemed determined to unravel you completely, his name falling from your lips in broken, breathless gasps.

Tom paused for a moment, looking up at you with a smug grin. "You're so responsive," he said, his voice filled with both admiration and amusement. "I could do this all night."

The promise in his words sent another wave of heat through you, leaving you completely at his mercy as he leaned down again, his lips and tongue returning to their task, drawing you closer and closer to the edge with every deliberate, loving movement.

Tom continued to work you with expert precision, his hand gliding along your dick in a rhythm that kept your body humming with pleasure. His lips occasionally brushed against you, teasing you with gentle kisses and flicks of his tongue, as if he was savoring every moment. The warmth of his touch, combined with the wet heat of his mouth, had you gripping the couch beneath you, your breathing uneven and shaky as you struggled to keep yourself grounded.

Just when you thought you couldn't take any more, Tom paused, his hand stilling for a moment as he leaned back slightly. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and intense, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Don't worry," he said softly, his voice low and almost a purr. "I'm not done with you yet."

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted two fingers to his mouth, slipping them past his lips. His tongue swirled around them, coating them thoroughly with his saliva in a way that was deliberate and impossibly seductive. You watched, completely captivated, as he pulled them out slowly, the slick sound sending a shiver through you.

His free hand resting firmly on your thigh as he settled closer to you. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his gaze steady, filled with affection and a hint of mischief. "Relax," he murmured softly, his voice low and soothing, a gentle reminder for you to trust him.

He traced his fingers teasingly against your hole, the sensation sending a shiver through your body. The cool slickness of his touch contrasted with the warmth of his hand on your thigh, grounding you in the moment. Slowly, carefully, he pressed forward, letting his first finger slip past the tight resistance. The sensation was intense at first, but his movements were patient and deliberate, giving you time to adjust.

"Doing okay?" Tom asked softly, his tone full of care as his thumb brushed against your skin in a comforting gesture. When you nodded, he smiled, his confidence growing as he gently moved his finger in and out, his motions slow and exploratory. It wasn't long before he added a second finger, the stretch a little more pronounced, but the way he worked you—gentle and methodical—helped ease the tension.

His movements grew more purposeful, his fingers curling slightly as he explored, searching for the spot that would send you over the edge. When he found it, the jolt of pleasure that shot through you was electric, your body arching involuntarily as a moan of his name escaped your lips. The sound made him grin, a soft chuckle escaping as he leaned down to kiss the corner of your mouth. "There it is," he murmured, his voice warm and teasing.

Tom's fingers continued to work you with precision, his touch filled with a mix of passion and tenderness. Every movement sent waves of pleasure through you, building steadily as he watched your reactions, his eyes filled with admiration and love. Each sound you made seemed to spur him on, his fingers pressing and curling just right, making it clear that his only goal was your complete and utter satisfaction.

His other hand moved to the waistband of his pants, and with a practiced ease, he began to push them down, his movements fluid and unhurried.

He shifted slightly, the fabric of his pants and boxers sliding down his hips and pooling at his ankles. The muscles in his toned body flexed with every motion, the candlelight from the villa catching on his skin, highlighting every sharp line and curve. Yet, even as he undressed, his fingers never faltered inside you, maintaining that perfect rhythm that had you teetering on the edge of bliss.

"Keep your eyes on me," Tom murmured, his voice low and rough with desire, his lips curling into a small, teasing smile. He stepped out of the discarded clothing, completely bare now, and the sight of him only added to the heat coursing through you. Every inch of him was breathtaking, from the sharp lines of his jaw to the strength in his frame, and the way his confidence radiated made it impossible to look anywhere else.

His free hand returned to your thigh, his touch grounding and warm as his fingers inside you pressed deeper, curling just right to hit that spot that made your vision blur and your breath catch. "You're so perfect," he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to your parted lips, his voice laced with adoration. "I could do this forever."

Tom's body hovered close to yours now, his bare skin warm against you as his fingers worked with a precision that left you breathless. The intimacy of the moment—the connection between you—was overwhelming in the best possible way, a perfect mix of passion and love that left no room for anything else but him.

Soon his fingers slowed their motion, his touch deliberate and teasing as he watched your face with a soft smile. He pressed one kiss onto your lips before pulling his fingers out carefully, leaving you with a mix of emptiness and anticipation that made your heart race. His hands moved to your hips, steadying you as he shifted his position, his body close and warm against yours.

His dick, already hard and flushed with arousal, brushed against you, sending sparks of heat through your body. He reached down to guide himself, the tip of his length pressing against your entrance with just enough pressure to make you gasp. "Relax," he murmured again, his voice low and soothing, his eyes locked onto yours. "I've got you."

Without hesitation, Tom pushed forward, sliding into you in one slow, fluid motion. The stretch was intense, a mix of pleasure and pressure that made your back arch and your breath hitch. He paused for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his hands tightening on your hips as if anchoring himself to you. His head dipped to your shoulder, and you could hear the low groan that escaped his lips, the sound vibrating against your skin as he fought to keep himself steady.

"God," he murmured, his voice husky and strained, "you feel incredible."

When he felt you relax beneath him, he began to move, pulling back slightly before pressing forward again, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, each one designed to build the pleasure between you. His hands roamed your body, one sliding up to cradle your face while the other held your hip, his grip firm but tender. "Look at me," he whispered, his voice full of affection and desire, as his eyes searched yours. "I want to see you."

The connection between you was electric, every movement drawing you closer to him, every sound he made sending another wave of pleasure through you. As his rhythm grew more confident, his thrusts deep and purposeful, it became impossible to think about anything but him—the way he filled you, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word was a testament to the love and passion you shared, the moment so intimate and consuming that the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

Suddenly, Tom shifted his position, his hands firm but gentle as he grabbed one of your legs, lifting it effortlessly to rest on his shoulder. The change in angle sent a jolt of pleasure through your body, pulling a gasp from your lips. He held your other leg securely with his free hand, steadying you as he pressed forward, his thrusts deeper and more deliberate now.

The new position intensified every sensation, the depth and rhythm of his movements driving you to the edge. Tom's lips brushed against the skin of your ankle resting on his shoulder, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. "You're amazing," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of admiration and desire, his gaze fixed on you with unwavering intensity. "So perfect."

You couldn't help but laugh breathlessly, your hands gripping the couch beneath you as you adjusted to the stretch. "Guess all those yoga classes paid off," you teased, your voice catching between moans. You were grateful that flexibility was something you hadn't lost over the years, and now, in this moment, it felt like the best decision you'd ever made.

Tom grinned at your comment, his expression softening for just a moment before his focus returned to the connection between you. His thrusts grew more confident, his grip on your leg tightening as he leaned forward slightly, his body pressing closer to yours. Each movement sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, the stretch and the angle hitting spots that left you utterly undone.

"You feel so good," Tom groaned, his voice low and husky as his pace quickened, the intensity between you building with every motion. The sound of your name falling from his lips, mixed with the rhythm of his body moving against yours, was almost enough to send you over the edge. His free hand slid up your thigh, caressing your skin in a way that was both grounding and electrifying, keeping you completely lost in the moment.

Tom's movements slowed for just a moment, his grip on your leg tightening slightly as his forehead rested against your ankle. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, but his eyes found yours, soft and full of unspoken emotion. "I've missed this," he murmured, his voice low and husky, tinged with an honesty that made your heart ache. "I've missed you—this."

His confession sent a wave of warmth through you, the intimacy of the moment deepening in a way that made everything else fade away. You could see it in his expression, the longing, the love, the way he was holding on to every second as if trying to make up for lost time. Despite how strong your bond was, you both knew how his demanding work schedule often pulled him away, leaving precious little time for moments like this. And even though your spark had never dimmed, it was rare to have the space to truly reconnect—not just physically, but emotionally.

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your touch. "I've missed this too," you admitted softly, your voice filled with the same vulnerability. "Not just this... but being close to you like this."

Tom's lips curled into a small, wistful smile as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your calf, his hand caressing your thigh with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. "I hate how work takes so much time away from us," he said, his tone laced with regret. "I don't ever want you to feel like I'm not here for you. You mean everything to me."

Hearing those words, feeling the sincerity behind them, was enough to make tears well in your eyes. But before you could say anything, Tom leaned forward again, adjusting his position to press his body closer to yours, his thrusts resuming with a deliberate slowness that conveyed just how much this moment meant to him. Every movement was filled with purpose, a silent promise that he was here, with you, fully present.

As the rhythm between you built again, the connection deepened, every kiss, every touch, every whispered word reaffirming the love that had always been there. This wasn't just about intimacy—it was about remembering what mattered most, about finding each other again in the quiet space away from the world's distractions. It was a moment that neither of you would forget, a reminder that no matter how busy life got, your love would always bring you back to each other.

By the time you stirred awake, the afternoon sun was already pouring through the villa's large windows, casting warm golden light across the room. You stretched lazily, sinking deeper into the soft sheets as the unmistakable aroma of food wafted through the air. Something savory and buttery mixed with the faint sweetness of tropical fruit and the rich scent of coffee. Your stomach growled in response, and you smiled to yourself, savoring the peaceful quiet of the moment.

Glancing toward the open doorway, your curiosity was rewarded with the sight of Tom in the kitchen. He stood at the stove, dressed in nothing but his black briefs, his toned body on full display, glowing in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. His hair was slightly messy, still tousled from sleep, and he was humming quietly as he cooked.

But what really caught your attention was the way he moved—swaying his hips in time with a beat only he could hear, adding an occasional spin or exaggerated shoulder roll as he worked. His little dance was carefree and playful, a side of him that you didn't always get to see in the hustle of daily life. You bit back a laugh as he shuffled over to the counter, grabbing a bowl of something with an almost theatrical flourish, then turned back to the stove with an exaggerated spin that nearly caused him to drop the spatula.

Your soft laugh broke the silence, and his head shot up, his hazel eyes meeting yours. A slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face as he placed the spatula down on the counter. "Well, look who finally decided to join me," he teased, resting one hand on his hip as he gave you an amused once-over. "Good afternoon, sleepyhead."

Still half-buried in the sheets, you reached for your phone and glanced at the time. Your eyes widened when you realized it was late into the afternoon. "Wait... it's already this late?" you murmured, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. "I didn't realize how tired I was."

Tom chuckled as he turned back to the stove, expertly flipping something in the skillet. "I'm not surprised," he said over his shoulder. "After last night, I figured you'd need all the rest you could get." His voice was casual, but the cheeky tone underlying his words made your cheeks flush as memories of the previous evening came flooding back.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, wrapping yourself in a robe as you padded toward him. "And what's this?" you asked, nodding toward the spread of food on the counter—eggs, fresh fruit, toast, and even a small carafe of freshly brewed coffee. "You're cooking now?"

He glanced at you, his smirk widening as he turned off the burner and slid the contents of the skillet onto a plate. "I figured you deserved breakfast in paradise after last night," he said, his voice low and teasing as he set the plate down on the counter and stepped closer to you.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms in mock skepticism. "Breakfast? At two in the afternoon?"

Tom shrugged, leaning in slightly, the playful glint in his eyes impossible to miss. "Hey, good things take time. Besides," he added, brushing a quick kiss against your temple, "I'm not letting you lift a finger today. You're on vacation."

His words made you smile, and you shook your head fondly, leaning into him for a moment before glancing at the spread again. "Well, I could get used to this," you teased.

Tom laughed, giving you a wink as he grabbed a cup of coffee and handed it to you. "You'd better. It's not every day you get a shirtless chef who can cook and dance."

You couldn't help but laugh, the warmth of his affection and the ease of his teasing filling you with a contentment that made you feel truly spoiled. As the two of you settled down at the small dining table on the villa's porch, the world seemed to pause in serene perfection. The warm island breeze danced around you, carrying the soothing sounds of waves gently crashing on the shore and the occasional rustle of palm leaves swaying in rhythm. The view before you stretched out into endless turquoise waters that sparkled under the late-morning sun, creating a postcard-perfect backdrop for the intimate meal Tom had prepared.

The breakfast was simple yet thoughtfully crafted, a reflection of Tom's care for you. Fluffy scrambled eggs, golden and steaming, sat next to a plate of fresh tropical fruit—slices of juicy mango, sweet pineapple, and perfectly ripe papaya. The toast was lightly crisped, accompanied by a small pot of locally made jam that glistened like tiny jewels under the sunlight. In the center of the table, a pot of freshly brewed coffee sent up wisps of fragrant steam. Tom poured two cups, the dark liquid filling the mugs with comforting warmth, before taking his seat across from you. His movements were unhurried, his expression relaxed—a rare sight compared to the usual work-driven intensity he carried back home.

As he sat, the light seemed to catch on his features in a way that softened them further. His hair was a mess of waves, still slightly tousled from the bed, and his jaw held a faint scruff that added to his effortless charm. For a moment, you simply watched him, marveling at how different he seemed here—untethered from the constant demands of his job, entirely present in this peaceful moment with you.

Tom took a bite of his eggs, savoring the meal for a moment before setting down his fork and leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze met yours, steady and filled with a sincerity that made your chest tighten. "I meant everything I said last night," he began, his voice low but brimming with conviction. "I've missed this—missed us. And I hate that my schedule makes it so hard for us to have moments like this."

His words hung in the air, the honesty behind them striking a chord deep within you. Your fork paused mid-air as you absorbed what he was saying, your heart both warmed and heavy at the same time. Tom reached across the table, taking your hand in his own, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over your knuckles. "I know I get caught up in work," he continued, his tone tinged with a vulnerability he didn't often show. "I know I push myself too hard, and it takes me away from you—takes time I can't get back. But last night... it reminded me why I need to do better. I promise, I'm going to let up on my work schedule. I don't want to keep missing moments like this with you."

The weight of his words hit you fully, a blend of tenderness and regret woven into his every syllable. His eyes, warm and earnest, searched yours as though seeking reassurance. You could see the struggle in him—the balance between his overwhelming sense of responsibility and his love for you. Just as you felt the swell of emotions rise, Tom added, his voice quieter but no less determined, "But I also need you to understand... I'm not going to stop working toward our dream home. I know I can get a little obsessed with it, but I'm doing it for us. I just want to give you everything you deserve."

Your heart swelled with affection, even as a pang of concern struck you at how much pressure he placed on himself. Squeezing his hand, you let a soft smile curve your lips as you held his gaze. "Tom," you said gently, your voice steady but filled with emotion, "I don't need a dream house to be happy. I just need you. Moments like this—us, together—that's what matters most to me."

Tom's lips quirked into a small, sheepish smile, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "I know," he said after a moment, his voice almost a whisper. "And I'm going to work on finding that balance. For you, for us."

The unspoken emotions between you lingered in the air as you returned to your meal, savoring the flavors and the quiet connection you shared. Tom's promise wasn't just empty words—it was the first step toward a future where your love and connection wouldn't have to compete with the weight of life's demands. The sound of the ocean played softly in the background, the breeze carrying the faint scent of salt and flowers, and as you sat there with the man you loved, sharing this rare and perfect moment, you knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[s0fter-sin]

(cw mental health struggles)

ghost isn’t allowed to be alone on leave

it’s a rule the 141 have known since the formation of the task force; set with such severity by price that soap and gaz could never bring themselves to question it. leave is rare anyway, so it honestly slips their minds

then las almas happens. shepherd happens. makarov happens

too much happens in too short a time that even price agrees they need a break

so he gives ghost the option; either he joins one of the others for the duration of their leave or they set up a check in schedule

it used to grate on ghost, this presumed helplessness; that he's someone who needs to be taken care of

then he came back from an enforced leave 20 kilos lighter; his limbs heavy and stiff from laying thoughtlessly in bed, the days blurring together long before he could grasp them

ghost can't be alone, not bc he's a flight risk, but bc losing his purpose makes him aware of how everything is just too much; how much every small action builds up until it's actually a dozen small actions that become insurmountable when he's caught in the depths of fatigue

it starts with laundry; it makes sense to live out of his duffle instead of unpacking, but then he runs out of fresh clothes. it still makes sense to only wear the clothes he'll bring back to base so he just bears the building reek of body odour until he can't smell it anymore

showering starts to go around the same time; without the constant distraction of work and training, all his pain and exhaustion catches up to him. the thought of hauling his body out of bed, of standing long enough to get clean, having to wash his hair and drag a bar of soap over his body just to then do the same with a towel and put on a new set of clothes... it just seems never ending. it's easy to miss a day here and there, then a few more when he gets used to laying there on his sweat-yellowed sheets. then before he knows it, it's been three weeks and his skin itches with the weight of his discomfort and the layers of filth

ghost tries to hang onto food the longest

he knows how much damage it'll do to his body to suddenly lose the macros and caloric density it's used to, knows it'll take longer to recover from than anything else... but then he runs out of his frozen meal prep. his fresh vegetables start to wilt and spoil and the guilt of letting them go bad stops him from buying more. protein lasts slightly longer if he eats it straight from the frypan instead of putting it on a plate but he cooks more to make up for the lack of sides and runs out quicker than he anticipated

but he's used the same pan night after night, built up burnt seasoning and meat residue and he knows he has to clean it before he can use it again. but that means moving it from the stove to the sink. means turning the sink on and scrubbing the pan clean of its stubborn muck. means drying it to put it back on the stove that's just as filthy and should be scrubbed too

it's too much

so ghost leaves the dirty frypan on the dirty stove and eats vegetables out of cans that he only needs to drain

then he runs out of forks

then he runs out of cans

he stops wearing clothes so it won't itch his dirty, irritated skin. he gives into the fatigue clawing at his eyes and weighing down his bones bc the only time he doesn't hurt is when he's asleep. but sleeping so much, laying down so much just makes his body ache in new ways

then he can't make himself get out of bed for shitty food he doesn't even want; that hurts him just to get

he gets hungry. then he's starving. then the hunger goes away altogether and he knows that's the point he should be worried but the only food he has is instant noodles and tea and even waiting for the kettle to boil to make them is just...

it's too much

it's all too much

why is existing so much work

he’s so tired

it’s

too

much-

ghost isn't allowed to be alone on leave

the check ins are harder but he wants to pretend he'll be better; that he won't need as much help, that price won't have to worry so much about him this time

so he picks the check ins; watches his captain give his subordinates their schedule of alternating shifts, each a maximum of three days apart. watches the doubt, then the worry, then the determination as he gives them their marching orders and list of tasks they need to ensure they complete before the end of each check in

and he tries not to be ashamed when every time, without fail, he needs their help

needs soap to gather his sweat-crusted laundry, somehow without an ounce of judgment or disgust; all too happy to tackle the fitted sheet if it means he can feel something fresh against his skin

needs gaz to wrap him in a towel and blow dry his hair when he can manage to move his rust-coated limbs into the shower. he lets him use his own products to wash his face, his hands soft and gentle as he holds his head up and smoothes sweet smelling oils into his undeserving skin

needs price to bring the meals he preps for him; listens to him explain the macros and calories in each container as he washes the few dishes that made it to the sink and puts a new packet of disposable cutlery on the counter within easy reach

it's still so much sometimes, even with all their help; little things a normal person wouldn't think twice about doing building up in his head and it makes him so angry that he just can't do them

that he's beaten by something as benign as a little pain and tiredness

but as price, gaz and soap remind him, that's what they're there for; to help him when he can't help himself, when things get too much. they watch each other's backs, no matter if the battlefield is a desert in urzikstan or an apartment in manchester

they have him

he isn’t alone

[foreverlittlesoshi]

about damn time

noah sebastian x reader

content warning: pregnancy and fluff

word count: 921

once getting back home from the maldives, you noticed a few red flags but decided to ignore them. probably from still riding on the high of finally marrying noah and how perfectly amazing the honeymoon was, even after making the big decision to finally have a kid. time had slipped away from you that you weren’t even thinking about once getting back home since you both had work to get back to, mainly noah having to prepare to go back on tour in australia. 

at first it was nausea but no puking along with a fever so you thought you caught a stomach bug and decided that it would pass soon so no need to make a big deal of it. next thing was extreme fatigue, like more than usual. it felt like no matter how much you slept even after being up for just a few minutes, exhaustion hit you like a ton of bricks. the next few symptoms just felt like what happens before a period. sore & swollen breasts, moodswings, cramps, bloating and small break out of acne.

the thought of something being wrong didn’t hit you until your sense of smell heightened and no matter how much you scrubbed and scrubbed around the house, you somehow found something else that needed to be cleaned the next day. then you started having an intense craving for sushi, which you didn’t even care for since seafood and when you finally got it, you thought you were gonna die from pure happiness. you didn’t even notice how much you were going to the bathroom until noah had pointed it out.

“babe, are you okay?” he asks as you walk back into the room.

“yeah, why do you ask?” you retorted back confused and he shrugged.

“that’s like the 6th time you’ve peed in the last 30 minutes.” noah then informed you.

“i probably just drank too much water.” you say brushing it off.

it was late one night when you finally realized that your period was late, but you chalked it up to the fact that your period had a mind of its own and would come eventually. the cramps were still happening and your breasts were still swollen & tender so it had to come soon or maybe this was a rare month you would just miss it. so you just went on with your life, living it pretty normal though the cramps were just starting to annoy you to the point you had to drug yourself with melatonin to sleep at night. 

“are you sure you’re okay?” noah asks with worry so clear in his voice.

“babe, i promise i’m okay. no need to stress yourself out and cancel when you guys have so many fans who’ve been waiting so long to see y’all.” you tell him while running your hand through his hair.

“i just wanna make sure you’re okay. you haven’t been acting like yourself lately which i know you think i haven’t noticed but of course i did. i don’t know if i’ve done something or maybe have been focusing a little too much on the tour but i just want you to know that i’m sorry and i love you.” his words make your heart break while tears gathered on your waterline.

“i love you too but no, you haven’t done anything. i think this depressing ass winter weather is just getting to me too much right now.” he couldn’t control his laughter at that answer, “now, enough sad stuff. let’s watch a comedy before you have to leave me tomorrow.”

-

you couldn’t take it anymore.

you tore the box open quickly as well as the plastic wrap around the test, removing the cap and peeing on the test. once getting enough on the test, you capped it and laid it face down to finish your business. washing your hands felt like ages due to the stress and just focusing your eyes on the test. finally deciding it was time to see, you grabbed the test and flipped it over to reveal the results.

positive.

no, no way. maybe the test is broken. you thought to yourself. you wasted no time rushing down the stairs grabbing your car keys and rushing to go get more tests. 

-

next thing you knew, you had five positive pregnancy tests covering the bathroom counter and questioning how you were able to produce that much pee even with being pregnant. grabbing you phone, you immediately called noah and felt like your nerves were about to explode.

“hi baby!” the sound of noah’s voice made you feel like crying.

“so, i have some news.” “what’s up?”

you felt like time had stopped when the next words left your mouth, “i’m pregnant.”

“oh, thank god. i thought it was bad news.” his answer made you happy but also confused you.

“wait, you’re not mad or upset?” you ask and he just laughs.

“of course not. that’s what we spent the majority of our honeymoon trying for and the only thing i’m upset about is the fact i’m not with you right now.” noah tells you.

“that’s understandable. so maybe you should hurry up and come home.” you then say to him in a serious tone. 

“the first chance i get, i will. i promise.” “you better.” and the sound of his laughter was so precious.

“i have to go, baby but i’ll text you later. i love you.” he then says which made you whine.

“okay, i love you too.” 

an - so fun fact, this is actually based on real life because i found out last week that i'm pregnant and these were my actual symptoms. so yeah, my time for writing may be more slim now since i have many things to do before september and i will have to be working way more now

[oh-phoenixx]

"Discuss" - Jegulus microfic @into-the-jeggyverse - 415 words

-

Regulus was not one to broadcast his insecurities. He liked to keep them all to himself, as if saying any of it would make it too real. Instead of communicating his insecurities with James, talking about his worries, he would drop them casually in conversation and then refuse to discuss it any further. 

Such as: “Well, we’ll probably break up once you leave Hogwarts and I’m still here.”

This one, however, James did not inquire about. At first, he didn’t recognise it as a fear of Regulus’s. He had assumed that Regulus was planning to dump James the second he started his seventh year. And if that was the case, James didn’t want to know. He was happy to have the rest of his last year and then, hopefully, all of that summer with his boyfriend. Even if said boyfriend was ready to leave him the second they were apart. James would take whatever Regulus was prepared to give, and if that was less than a year of a relationship, then James would have to deal with it. 

It wasn’t until two weeks later, when they were lying in bed, not two bodies but a tangle of limbs and a lot of tired, murmured words of adoration, that it came up at all. 

“I wish we could have this forever,” Regulus mumbled into James’s jaw.

“Why can’t we?” James frowned, so close to sleep and so unprepared to talk about losing the love of his life.

“You’re going to break up with me before my seventh year starts,” his boyfriend said, so matter-of-factly that only James would be able to hear the underlying sadness in his tone. 

Ignoring the way his body protested in its exhaustion, James forced himself to turn in Regulus’s arms, pulling back enough to look down at the boy, whose eyes were barely open and whose lips were downturned very slightly. 

“I’m not going to break up with you, love.” James squeezed Regulus’s waist gently as he spoke, wanting his attention.

When Regulus only hummed in response, not entirely convinced, James moved his hands to cup his face. “Reg. Look at me. I’m not going to break up with you.”

And though it was Regulus who was being consoled, James felt as though his own body was much lighter than it had been at any point over the last few weeks.

Maybe they both had trouble voicing their worries. They would work on it. They had time. Neither was going anywhere.

[ryescapades]

→ EVENT OVERVIEW

prompt: 1 - “are you asking me out?” characters: hoshina soshiro (kn8) x gn!reader contents: fluff, established rs, officer!reader (not specified which dep.), dunno if i should tag this too but reader drinks coffee lol wc ~ 1k (no beta !!)

a/n: @purpleqilinwrites hewwoo kaija my beloved tysm for participating !! my apologies for taking so long to get to your orders but i hope they are to your liking (lmk if there's anything you'd like me to change!) <3 andd here’s your slice two !

piles of rubble and cracked buildings surround him, the kaiju corpses littered around now huddled by a throng of workers from the monster sweeper inc. hoshina barely spares a glance over the dead monsters as he flicks both of his swords in a quick swipe in the air, splashes of blood splattering onto the concrete below as he cleans his blades as efficiently as he could.

grabbing his coat from the vehicle he’d taken to get to his post, he takes a peek over his shoulder when a series of faint footsteps approaches from behind. “vice-captain hoshina! i’m here to report–” kafka starts, but hoshina brushes him off with a wave of his hand. “direct all reports to any of your platoon leaders. i have somewhere else to be.”

with no further clarification, hoshina immediately sets off, leaving behind a jaw-slacked kafka and a confused reno tottering behind him. they throw a simultaneous glance at each other, wordlessly questioning each other about their superior’s behavior.

“and there he goes,” nakanoshima’s voice catches their attention. when she’s asked for the reason, all kafka and reno received is a shrug of her shoulders and a muse of “he’s a man in love. what else do you expect?” as if it’s an explanation enough.

and hoshina is, indeed, a man in love and a man on a mission. one that doesn’t include taking out dangerous beasts, but instead facing all his exhaustion head on just so he could go to you. combat suit still in operation, he makes good use of its power to hop over the buildings to the next, heading straight to that quaint little place he knew where you’d be.

the corner of his lips quirk up when he remembers the text you’d sent him prior to the mission. ‘heard your mission is in xx city. if things go haywire, i’ll be nearby to clock in asap just lmk :)’. always ready to help even when you’re off duty; one of the many things hoshina loved about you. he amusedly shakes his head at the thought.

as the mission retains minimal damage, the surrounding towns are thankfully unaffected by the destruction. the smooth cobblestone path thuds softly underneath his feet when hoshina lands in the alley, glad that your location isn’t that far from his. he pulls on the coat over his form, shoulders flexing from the movement as he rounds the corner.

even from the outside of the shop, he could already smell the roasted beans and sweet pastries. hoshina inhales deep, taking in the delightful scent before he cranes his head here and there, eyes roving over the bustling crowd until his amaranthine hues finally settle on what he’d been searching for.

and much like a heartfelt homecoming, a wholesome reunion, or like how the sand meets the shore, how the sun touches the horizon, how the morning light kisses the sheer curtains, how the coffee swirls in warm frothy milk; the familiarity of it all overwhelms him.

you stand there, all beauty and wonder, stealing hoshina’s breath and rendering him speechless as he stops in his tracks for a moment. before you can draw in a puff of breath, he is already marching towards you, closing the distance with purposeful steps.

“hi,” eyes widening slightly in surprise, you breathe out a small chuckle as you look up at him. hoshina mirrors your smile, soft and affectionate as he digs his hands into the pockets of his uniform. “hi.”

you absently lick your bottom lip, though you do notice the way his gaze flickers down to the action for a split second. taking a few glances around, you wonder if any of his officers might somehow emerge from thin air. “aren’t you supposed to be…” forehead creasing, you shrug lightheartedly, “i don’t know. slaying kaiju or something?”

“the operation just ended, sweetheart.” he beams, and his adorable little fangs make their appearance. your eyebrows raise high at his answer. “... but you’re here.” you state, trying to decipher why he’s standing in front of your very eyes, still in his combat uniform (which has people glancing ever so often) rather than reporting to his captain back at base, or freshening up at home.

“but i’m here,” he parrots, watching in interest at the way your expression unfolds. hoshina’s grin grows at your confusion, so wide and cheery that your hands itch to reach up and pinch his cheeks from endearment. instead, you wring your hands behind your back to fidget on them secretly.

the swordsman notices the lack of a plastic cup in your grasp. he takes a quick look at the coffee shop the two of you had been standing in front of before turning back to you, “ya had lunch yet?”

“nope.” you simply reply.

he shifts on the balls of his feet, directing a thumb towards the shop, “... wanna grab somethin’ together?”

a second of silence goes by. and then a laugh breaks out, bubbling from the very back of your throat as you let the mirth freely flow out of you. “soshiro, are you really asking me out right now?”

hoshina bites down on his own smile and lifts a shoulder, “well, is it working on ya?” you shake your head in response, still coming down from your giggles, “i can’t believe you.”

“you love me anyway,” he tilts his head, violet strands softly swaying from the movement. you let out a contented hum, a hand stretching out to brush his hair away from his eyes.

the afternoon sun gleams down on the two of you, but the heat from your little touch burns brighter than anything hoshina has ever felt. he thrives on it, craves it. his skin tingles where it made contact with yours, and his heart races when the sunlight catches on the metal band surrounding your ring finger.

“i do love you,” you agree with a dreamy sigh. “in fact, i’ll love you even more if you make good on your words and buy me a coffee right now, husband.”

oh don’t he love the sound of that label coming out of your lips. perhaps he should call you his wife more often now…

taglist open. and yes they’re married your honour !!! feels like i’m writing about spiderman!hoshina for a sec there (ᵕ—v—)

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[4zahara]

01 | A stranger is stargazing

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: I just got back from a trip and wanted to upload this before studying for my algebra finals next month. This was going to be way longer but then I saw the word count and chopped it off. I have zero imagination. Used chatgpt to translate some Spanish phrases because in English they use similar terms but different meanings. Also, my birthday falls on carnivals so it's going to be a very nice last week of vacations😁

The knock on the door pulled you from your daze, snapping your attention away from the stains on the ceiling.

Outside the only window in the apartment, barred as all must be, the sky hung a deep, polluted red, with clouds stretching far into the distance. Blue-ish if you squint your eyes. You, as one far too used to the sights, needed not to look at no clock's way to know this to be an unholy hour to bother someone. The thing was broken anyway and the lack of light filtering through was telltale enough.

It was clear, however, that someone disagreed with the concept of appropriate visiting hours. Despite your irritation, you silently hoped it wasn’t who you thought of first knocking at the door—because reliving another nightmare firsthand was the last thing you could handle after an already exhausting day. The familiar fear of being alone at night when an unexpected knock shattered the silence wasn’t something you’d grown up with instinctively, as others might. No, this was a fear learned the hard way, carved into you by mistakes you committed.

Alarm bells rang deafening while you stare frozen. You found it almost cruel when everything stayed as still as you at the faintest reminder of the last time you heard knocking. Like a punishment to yourself the shelves and mess had been kept neat, framing a stop in time on your doorstep. Back then, one of the other residents had barged in, leaving you shaken—hunted by the tickling feeling of his breath on your neck when you hadn’t turned around soon enough.

You forced yourself to push the thought away, though it lingered. A ghostly feeling clung to you, far longer than you were willing to admit to yourself, when another knock shattered your fragile composure. The sound was louder this time, sharper, snapping you back into the present. Startled, you leapt to your feet, knocking over the ashtray on the armrest with your rushed and unsteady movements. An horribly loud clatter echoed against the walls for seconds too long after falling to the floor, scattering ash and ceramic across the oppressive silence. The noise startled a hiss out of you, as though the sudden disruption physically hurt.

Out of the corner of your eye, an aluminum baseball bat tucked neatly among the umbrellas by the door. It waited in its place—only silent and steady reassurance for your burning hands.

Had the thought not been so disturbingly visceral, you would have entertained the idea of describing what you felt as a hand twisting your guts as you marched toward the door. But the imagery was too grotesque to entertain, so you buried it and kept moving.

Two locks clicked open unnaturally loud. The third lock, a flimsy chain, dangled just in front of your forehead. Not much of a safeguard, but it gave you the illusion of control even knowing the thin wood wouldn’t hold if it came to a struggle.

But what you braced for never came.

On the other side of the door, the menacing face you dreaded wasn’t there. No menacing glare from fish-like, ogling eyes.

Instead, a boy. Smaller than you.

Even more fragile-looking.

It was almost embarrassing how much taller you had expected the visitor to be. Instead, you found yourself slowly—almost comically—looking down at a face twisted in a grimace, like the boy had just sucked on a lemon.

If there was anything that could have thrown you off more in this moment, you couldn’t think of it. Then came like being hit by a train the realization of your own disheveled appearance: some pale, sickly, and worn thin girl. For looking less like a witch had others been burned. Still, you forced a smile—awkward and out of place in your face. Apparently, not beating those imaginary witch-allegations in your head, smiling wasn’t the right move in a dimly lit hallway in the dead of night.

Wonder why the boy’s expression shifted almost instantly from startled surprise to wide-eyed panic as your gazes met. Both pairs of blue eyes locked onto each other, mirrors to one another.

He was drenched, water dripping from a hoodie too big for him, which clung awkwardly to his small frame. The soaked fabric looked heavy for his noddle arms. A busted lip stood out starkly for being the kind of injury that screamed ‘street-kid’ in this side of the country. Easy—normal, even—to assume a fight was the cause. Maybe at home. Maybe over food with other kids.

Wait. It was raining outside?

“I... I’m your brother,” he stammered, words tumbling out in a rush. His face crumpled almost immediately, tears welling up as if he wanted to cry. You guessed from cringing so hard.

His words, anxious and unsteady, made it hard to process what he’d said, let alone empathize. This you blinked dumb-ly. Once. Twice. Then squinted, trying to focus your tired eyes on him. Because it couldn’t be.

Your brother was hardly a toddler.

It hadn’t been that long... just a couple of years. Maybe.

It wasn’t immediate—far from the clarity you might have preferred—but recognition did dawned the longer you looked. His mop of wet messy curls struggled under its own weight, stubbornly sticking out in awkward directions, much like yours often did after a shower. And those eyes.

Willis had definitely had a thing or two for light eyes in a woman.

This time the realization felt like a sharper pain; a slap. Older now—maybe nine or ten—your brother was standing in front of you, the spitting image of his father like you were of your mother. That thought anchored you, rooted you in place as the silence grew, filled only by static.

With it, the questions began to tumble through your mind like dominoes:

How the hell did he get here?

Obviously, he walked, right? But in the rain?

All the way here from Crime Alley, in the dark?

You stared at him for far too long. So much you could've started to feel uncomfortable too. It was socially inappropriate even. But so it was disturbing people at this hour, so you bet you kept staring. Thoughts clashed and raced, refusing to settle.

“Yeah, kid, I don’t know about that—” The words came out hesitant, weak. Perhaps speaking them might dissolve the truth in front of you. But the longer you denied it, the clearer it became.

Of course, this was your brother.

It just had to be, because why the hell not?

Your baby brother.

He had to be about ten now. You hoped he was still nine, but his birthday had long passed if you had it right.

How in the hell did he find me?

Is his lip okay? Clearly not—but how had it gotten busted?

Did he get into a fight?

Where are mom and dad?

The thought of him walking alone out there, so small and vulnerable, chilled you to the bone. The idea of walking the streets alone terrified you being his senior. Out there, death would almost feel merciful compared to what could happen.

At least the monster living down the hall was a known evil. The streets, though? They hid horrors far worse.

People often said you could sense being watched, when they weren’t alone in a

room and danger loomed nearby. Whatever that underdeveloped sixth sense was, it stirred in you, pulling your gaze away from Maybe-Jason—who, judging by his oblivious expression, has proudly evolved past any shred of survival instinct—and toward the hallway.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

The very last, or first, of the apartment doors down the hall stood slightly ajar, its shadowed outline warped in the dim, flickering light. Large portions of the space cloaked in suffocating darkness by burned-out bulbs, but even through the haze of your blurry vision and growing dread, you could see him.

There he was. Standing just within the frame of the door, his silhouette barely illuminated. He didn’t need much light to convey what he was—a predator, coiled and waiting. The sight almost froze you in place with chills one after the other. It was like watching carnage step into the light dressed in colours to deceive.

You yanked on the door handle without thought, The lock chain vibrating sharply. The frame rattled under your grip as your restless hands itched to do something—anything. Every instinct screamed at you to grab Jason, drag him inside, and slam the door. Brother or not, scammer or not, it didn’t matter. All you wanted was to get him out of sight. Out of that sight.

From the neighbors.

From the world.

From the danger now standing on your threshold.

Of course, although you had never meant to shut the door in his face, it wasn’t hard to see why Jason probably thought you were doing just that. Looking up from frantically searching his pockets for whatever reason, only to look up and see you disappear behind the chipped wood and flaking varnish must've been disheartening. Desperation etched on his young face perfectly mirrored the ache pounding in your chest—a feeling only a boy his age could wear so openly, and one only you could understand. You knew what could happen to him, to both of you, and the weight of that knowledge crushed you. His desperation laid elsewhere, as he was yet to become aware of the danger. But the feeling was mutual. Fear smells salty.

His small fist struck the door again and again. He called for nobody, babbling something about proving his claim instead. Maybe he’d forgotten your name in the haze of his nerves, or time had scrambled the syllables and their order.

It has been a while.

His pounding made you flinch, and in your fumbling to undo the chain, your ragged nails scraped against the surface. The accidental movement sent a sharp pain stabbing under your nails, but no time for whatever that was. Not as the metallic screech of rusted hinges sliced through the air.

The sound sent your heart into overdrive.

Before let-this-be-Jason could strike the door again you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside, shoving him behind you. Behind safety. That's where your brother belonged.

Then, before your dizzy, unfocused self could register how close it had been, you slammed the door shut.

══════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

Even before stepping out of the house, Jason knew to be digging himself into a hole. He accepted the fact for what it was; his desperation guiding him down a path of poor decisions. He just hadn’t realized a shovel was in his hands until the hole’s depth exceeded his height.

Grabbed, tossed, pulled. Weren't the walls of his vertical tomb collapsing in slow, suffocating ruin, lovely? Beautiful, even.

He would have liked to think the inside of what he hoped was his sister’s apartment might be better than the place he’d come from.

It wasn’t.

It smelled of cigarette smoke, and shadows pooled in every corner. The darkness clinging to the space, thick and uninviting, might have made Jason feel at home—dragged around and overwhelmed—if the situation hadn’t spiraled out of his control so quickly.

Sure, they were family, and blood was supposed to be thicker than water, but none of that mattered if she didn’t even know he was her brother. The memories he’d clung to, distant and blurry, painted his sister as gentle and caring.

You? didn’t match that picture.

In retrospect, he realized you weren't much taller than him, and so thin he couldn’t understand why he felt so threatened. If you did try something, he figured, he could probably win in a fight—especially if the bat he somehow now held in his hands came into play.

He couldn’t remember grabbing it. Or when it had reached his hands.

It was on the floor and he had tripped with it.

You had your back to him now, tense and uncertain, seeming just as out of it as he was. For all his distrust, Jason couldn’t tell who, between the two of them, was more afraid of what might happen next.

You were frantic, scrambling to lock all four bolts, including the padlock. Each metallic click seemed to drive Jason’s heart deeper into the pit of his stomach, where it churned in acid. But he was too far gone—trapped in fight-or-flight mode—to cry about it.

Your hand hovered near the floor, near the umbrellas scattered there. Groping blindly for a handle, probably searching for the bat’s. Or maybe, fingers crossed, an umbrella to pity him.

Call it hopeful thinking.

Jason heard you curse under your breath, blaming yourself for throwing “it” too hard behind you. Still, you didn’t dare take your eyes off the door, as if you believed your unrelenting stare could alone hold it in place, as if sheer willpower wasn't already the only thing keeping that piece of wood standing. From this side, the door looked even shoddier, barely more than splintered wood and peeling paint. Jason stared at it, and you, his mind buzzing. For a fleeting second, he thought he could probably bring it down if he wanted to, so clearly the adrenaline was getting to his head.

“I think… I think it’s safe,” you muttered. Your voice shook, but the words didn’t sound like they were meant to reassure anyone but you.

Your trembling hands dropped to your sides, and you stepped away from the door.

“Safe?” Jason barked, his voice sharp, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

That’s when he learned the first thing about his so-called sister. Other than the assumptions he’d already built in his head, you were jumpy. You flinched, almost as if you hadn’t expected him to speak or still be there. To what he had to ask; Where else would he go?

His hands tightened around the bat, frustration bubbling in his chest.

Right. He had a weapon. Maybe that explained your jumpiness when facing him.

“Wow.” Your hands shot up in surrender, in a reflexive, almost lazy gesture of defeat. You didn't want to appear threatening, but your wide eyes just ticked Jason off. “So that’s where the bat went.”

“Why did you drag me in like that?” Jason barely hides the accusation. An unspoken ‘Why can’t you be normal?’ wail hung in his mind. He decided against saying it outright—better to avoid sounding desperate or offended, even if both ships had sailed.

“Because the Boogeyman was about to get you? Obviously?” you shot back, your tone spoke to a child far younger than him. Your grimace wasn’t for him though.

“What?” Confused.

“What?” You mimicked. Jason felt whatever hope he had for your help steadily slipping away.

“What— are you doing?!”

“How about you put the bat down, buddy—back with the umbrellas? I’m not going to attack you,” Jason cut you off, his frustration boiling over. “You pushed me into your apartment! If anything, you’re kidnapping me—”

“There was a man outside!” you cut him off yourself with a sharp exclamation and throwing your hands in the air, sounding genuinely offended at being called out. Good. Jason couldn't be the only one losing it here. “And stop shouting,” you hissed, lowering your voice but glaring at him. “Other people live here.”

Jason glanced around. “This place is disgusting.” Home wasn't better, but he was pissed.

“Thanks,” There was a sharp edge, more venom in your tone than you’d intended. It startled Jason enough to make him take a step back.

Seeing your little brother back away from you should've tug on your heartstrings. It did. Almost tearing them off at the memory of a toddler gleefully making a mess of his food, yet looking so utterly blameless.

You couldn't be angry at Jason—if this was truly Jason. You had to remember who you were getting angry at and would/could cry.

Still, you should’ve been ashamed of the mess. You looked like you knew you should.

The apartment was tiny, cramped, and barely livable. The peeling wallpaper was stained yellow. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, a leaning tower of neglect, and discarded takeout containers dotted the counters like forgotten relics. The lone couch sagged under its own weight, covered in a mismatched patchwork of old blankets, and the floor—God, the floor...

Jason, once a master of breaking down your stubborn resolve with those big, pleading eyes, probably for the best, didn't seem to remember his power over you even having already made you back down. You sighed and leaned against the door. Slowly, you slid down until you hit the floor. The movement felt pitiful, like a defeated video game boss collapsing after the final blow. Only there was no triumphant music playing in the background and it looked sadder.

You stared at the floor, head tilted slightly forward, shoulders slumped. “It’s been a while,” you muttered, your voice strained, “since I talked to actual people, okay? Sorry for… the mess. I guess.”

And Jason reluctantly lowered his guard.

The bat still clenched tightly in his hands, eventually lowered, no longer pointing at you. Even so, he kept it close as he sat down on the floor, mirroring your posture.

“S’okay,” he mumbled.

“You look battered,” you said before a ten year old could take pity on you.

“You look high.”

To what his sister gasped, hand flying to your chest in mock offense. “I don’t—do I?—” And stopped abruptly. A pause, a sigh, and then you scratched the back of your neck, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, fair enough. ‘m not like that, but they cut the water off Monday morning so...”

“...It’s wednesday,”Jason saw you wince.

“What are you doing here anyway? How did you find me? Or even get here in the first place?”

“I walked…” Jason admitted, trailing off. He’d wanted the silence to stretch a little longer, but…

“(Name)?”

“Hey,” you cut in, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Glad to know you remember my name.”

“I came because of mom… Was there really someone in the hallway?”

“Yeah... Some creep. I'm 80% sure he’s a pimp too.”

“A pin? What's that?”

“What's what?” Suddenly remembering the limits and implications of talking to a ten year old. Even if the streets were more home than Catherine and Willis, Jason was still a child. You too, but you have literally lived in the streets for some time.

Wonderful times.

“Doesn’t matter. Just be more careful, Jason.”

He hesitated, the weight of his next words sinking his shoulders. “Mom 's bad.”

Your face fell. “You shouldn’t have left her alone with Dad if she was already—”

“Willis is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Jail.”

“…Huh.” You slumped back against the door, your hand rubbing at your temple. “Well… you shouldn’t go back out at this hour,” you muttered, your tone softening. “Especially not in the rain.” You pushed yourself to your feet with a groan. “I’ll grab you a towel… Food?”

His stomach grumbled, betraying him entirely.

“Yeah. Food too then.”

[hickeysgodcomplex]

Okay okay okay i have another assessment of the scene where Dundy and Little say they should think about leaving the men behind!

I love that they had Crozier clock the look that Dundy gives Little to tell him to suggest it. Because while I'm sure Edward sees the like... reasoning for it. I think he's also extremely ashamed for suggesting it. Like, he doesn't want to lave them behind. But he wants to live.

And they're all so sick. And it IS an option, and judging by what happens later, I'm sure at least a handful of the "healthy" men have been talking about it too. To their leaders im sure, which are Dundy and Edward.

But i also feel like, maybe Dundy pressed it more. He's like, we should do this. I think he thinks its THEE option. And I love that you can see that Crozier sees that. He knows his men. And he can see that while yes Edward voiced it first, at Dundy's pressing, he also sees that Edward is not set on the idea.

He's nervous saying it, can barely look at Crozier or Jopson. And then Crozier, bless him, forgives Edward on the spot for saying it.

He literally looks at Edward when he says "it's a reasonable logic. And i don't fault anyone..for....following it." He looks at him specifically when he says "following it" like he's pretty sure it wasn't Ned's idea, that he's following what Dundy and some of the other men have suggested maybe?!?!?!

And Edward stops pushing for it, just hangs his head in shame basically, after a long stare down with Jopson. Who keeps staring at him after he hangs his head. More on that in a second...

But Dundy keeps pushing. And Crozier gently continues to decline. Which is all he can really do, at that time. Give better options of things to leave behind.

The thing that got me this rewatch really though, aside from Edward's shame which is just, ever present at the end i think, is how fucking sick Jopson looks, in this scene.

Like they all look tired, Edward looks exhausted. Dundy definitely looks thin and starving. But Thomas looks sick. And we know he has injuries from the past that HAD to have been acting up.

He has some kind if scabby thing at his hairline already. And he just looks so bad. Like, when he said it would be a death sentence for "those men" he knew it meant him as well. He had too.

And it just hurts so fucking much, because his captain looked him in the eyes and told him he wouldn't leave him, and he gets left behind anyway.

And the shittiest part is like... it didnt save them. Leaving the men behind. Whatever happened in their camp as they went was very obviously pretty fucking horrible. And i know they wanted to live, but like, fuck.

If only someone had at least told Jopson what was happening. He didn't even know Crozier was gone. Just thought he was being left behind by the man who promised he'd never do that.... I'm fine. It's fine. I'm good. *having a breakdown*

[thejokulatrix]

You're the first person to acknowledge I'm an ex radfem, though to be fair, I hate noting that as well.

I never had a peak trans moment - or rather, I was that moment, I guess? I couldn't accept that I wasn't only a woman or only a man, and spent years struggling to force myself into one box or the other and failing. In exhaustion I turned to the people who promised to make the whole entire question go away permanently. I spent most of my time in the detransitioner circle, because that was where I felt most comfortable. But as I spent years with radfems, reading and reciting their views, questions started to arise.

If dysphoria could be cured by ignoring it, why were the facebook groups constantly full of posts of people on the verge of killing themselves in misery? Why did none of them get better like what they promised?

If males are innately evil and females are innately weak, what is the point of feminism? Radical feminism is built on the concept nothing can change and the only way to be safe is to hide away and shun.

Who is this 'average woman' and why does every radfem insist on limiting themselves to her capabilities? Every time anything was brought up, like lifting weights, I'd get tons of replies that the 'average woman' can not do that, despite statistics like that not even being meant to be used in that context! Its supposed to track trends!

If sex is so solid, why does science keep showing how a lot of women have 'male' traits and vice versa. Back when I was around the radfems of this site rejected the sexed brain theory, but just a casual scan shows ya'll accept it now? Even today I keep finding new studied showing how our bodies are basically the exact same, just with different parts active due to hormones.

I'm not sure if yall still do this, but back in my day there used to be these lists of physical features only males and females have, and I became so insecure because my skull was male-coded! And that was with me being too white to understand the other racist undertones to those lists.

If you can not identify into an experience that is not your own, why is one of the base tenants of radical feminism political lesbianism?

All the books and essays write real pretty - but the only thing they do is take trauma response and spread them further, convincing you your fear response isn't paranoia, but a legitimate threat response, to the point a lot of radfems I knew on a one to one basis were afraid to leave their house.

All of the things I remember radfems screaming for is happening now, and just like trans people tried to warn them, it has led to awful things for everybody, to the point we now live in a fascist country. No I'm not saying radfems solely caused project 2025 and all that, I'm saying they worked real, real hard on adding to the fire that led to all this.

Honestly, despite this, I still stuck around far long than I should have. The breaking point was when I joined spinster and left the cozy little cache of tumblr rad feminism. See, here, yall are still somewhat seated in reality, and those who start to become extreme are ran out of the community. You reject polilesbianism and still try to be open to everybody (except trans people....). But elsewhere, that is far from the truth. I became somewhat known on spinster, which allowed me to see all of the community that had gathered there at once, and it terrified me. The transvestigators on twitter screaming how everybody around them is trans and personally out to get her and writing big long diagrams to show Marilyn Monroe was born a man? THAT is late stage radical feminism. That is what all of the people here are headed for if they don't get out. And the sheer vile hatred towards everyone was overwhelming. Those radical feminists were gloves off about how they thought detransitioners were disgusting mutilated freaks, how actual lesbians were predators who were basically men because they were attracted to women physically instead of it being a political movement, even the mobs against women who dared to have sons. There were women bragging about having nazi friends because they supported her transphobia.

I left 5 years ago. A lot of my initial post is aimed at the fears and doubts I had walking away, that I would be alone and shunned and considered tainted by anyone I met. I was used to the treatment already from radfems for not being a gold star lesbian and they had done everything they could to convince me the outside world hated me, only they would ever tolerate my presence, and I believed them. And to be fair, even when I got out, with my obligatory thread about how I was actually innately evil, a spy, not really a radfem, a male this whole time!, all the favourite mental disorders that every exiting radfem gets saddled with, I was still half rabid and not fit for civilization. I did not leave to go become a trans ally or whatever, but to just get away before I was permanently broken too. It took a lot of time for me to pull all those fears and self hatred and ignorance out of my head, and ironically, it took an abusive relationship to make me realize how far I had fallen as a person. Before radfeminism, I prided myself in how I was never afraid to step up and even physically fight anybody who tried to hurt me, considering myself immune to abuse because of that. But as one of the radfem's pet detransitioners, I had became small, meek, and afraid, and since she too was a radfem, she was good at tearing me down in ways I was still raw about. Even though I saw what was happening to me, I still reacted the way i had been trained to in my time in this community, slicing parts off of me and trying desperately to force myself into the shape she demanded I be so she'd stop hurting me, and it just grew worst and worst. She finally abandoned me after I stopped being fun to emotionally kick around, and then I felt as alone as I had feared I would be.

But. . . it was then, separated completely from the radfem sphere, with only myself and my beloved brother to pick me up, was I able to start to heal. Without the constant feedback of be afraid be afraid be afraid and going out and having good interactions, I began to relax. I found that my obnoxious judgements of people based off something as stupid as a misspeak on their part or not matching MY political purity or even their sex was stopping me from getting friends, so I dropped them. I gave them room to be people around me, and I found I loved them, and in return they loved me, and through their eyes, I came to love myself in a way I never had before. And when I approached people as people, instead of just the labels I was taught to straddle them with, I learned and it expanded my world so much. I truly hadn't realized how tiny and grey my world had become, how isolated and shut in I was. And now I'm engaged, I have things I do every week with my friends, I'm greeted when I go out and am invited to things. Hell, the depression I was convinced was chronic hasn't popped up in almost 2 years now? Turns out it was situational, and I just never managed to get out of the Situations long enough to figure it out before, haha. I finally got over my internalized transphobia and accepted I'm both man and woman, and its okay. All of the mental strain and distress I had put myself under resolved immediately and I'm so much healthier now. And that was before I found out I'm intersex and physically both too. I embraced my transness and in that other trans people found me and became my friends, even when I admitted my past mistakes, because they see how I strive constantly to be better and to make up for them. The people who knew me as a terf and now tell me I'm a completely different person. Even the really bad misogny I had picked up from radical feminism because it puts womanhood on a too high to reach pillar then punishes anybody who can't reach it disappeared. By seeing women as people first and foremost instead of just their sex, I let go off the weird assumptions I was trying to hold them too. That makes me a million times the feminist I pretended to be back then. In short, I finally grew up emotionally.

Damn, I was hoping I could answer all your questions in my story, but I can't see where to slot them in.

I don't have any radical feminism beliefs anymore, and will never have any of them ever again, because they don't mesh with material reality.

The woods thing isn't related to paganism, but both a reference to the female only radfem camping trips that used to happen yearly up in California and a weird message I got on Spinster inviting me out into some woods close to me in order to (I always forget the exact word she used! I wish i remembered) center my feminity, reconnect with Womanhood, something like that. Is the camping trips cancelled? To be fair, a lot of the rad fems I hung around and knew by name were Californian for some reason lol.

I avoided men so hard that the first time I heard Markiplier speak I had the cat fear response because I was so unaccustomed to deep male voices at that time, lmao.

Really, I wrote this post as a love letter to the me that existed 5 years ago. I wish I hadn't started with a sarcastic meme joke, but when I started that post I figured I'd delete it and it wouldn't matter, but then decided what the hell. Radfems can't hurt me anymore, and who knows, maybe something I write there will resonate with other people wanting out but hasn't mustered the courage yet.

I wish all current and future radical feminists a very quick escape your cult.

Don't believe their lies.

People leave the cult all the time. They just memoryhole them to keep up the lie of 'nobody stops being a radfem'.

They are NOT the majority, there is a reason you find the same faces on every site and group. Once you escape, you won't believe how big and wonderful the world is.

There is forgiveness and healing for you.

Being afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing is NOT normal or feminism!

You won't be alone if you leave. There are plenty of people out here willing to embrace you, even as you're going through your healing pains as you get deprogrammed.

You cannot power your way to being cis, regardless of what they say. You can't divine goddess weird forest female only ritual your way out of dysphoria, and looking back, it will honestly just be weird and embarassing lol

I know most of the deep in the sauce radfems will ignore/mock this, but those of you who want out and are afraid of being alone or hated because of your past, it is a lie. Don't be afraid to jump for freedom. My messenger/inbox is always open if you need a helping hand.

[inseobts]

In the Shadow

Trafalgar Law x Strawhat Reader

Eustass Kidd x Strawhat Reader (not really but could be implied)

Reader power explained: Chaos Magic (like Scarlet Witch from Avengers), aka telekinesis, telepathy, and energy manipulation.

Warning: Wano arc spoilers I guess

Masterlist

The battlefield in Wano was chaos, flames and smoke rising into the blood-red sky. The rumble of Kaido’s forces clashing with the samurai and pirates was deafening, but you stood your ground on a jagged cliff overlooking the chaos.

Beside you, Trafalgar Law stood stoically, though his exhaustion was evident. His breathing was shallow, and blood dripped from a cut, but he refused to lean on anyone for support.

“Don’t move!” you snap, crouching beside him where he leaned. His hand pressed to the wound, blood pooling through his fingers. He looks at you with his silver eyes, sharp even through his pain.

“I’m not your responsibility, Y/N-ya” he muttered.

“Shut up.” Your words come out harsher than intended, but you don’t care. “I can’t just leave you to bleed out!”

He smirks faintly. “You’re a Strawhat. You should be chasing your captain, not wasting your time on me.”

“You’re an ally now.” Your voice wavered, betraying more emotion than you wanted. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re safe.”

Law looks away, the tension in his jaw softening for just a moment. It isn’t like him to let anyone fuss over him, but something in the way you hovered told him it was useless to argue.

You worked quickly, tearing a strip of fabric from your shirt to bind the wound. “You know,” you say, trying to fill the silence, “for a brilliant tactician, you’ve got a real knack for getting yourself nearly killed.”

“Funny” Law says after a small chuckle.

After a few seconds of silence, an all-too-familiar voice cut through the tense air.

“Oi, Strawhat girl! Didn’t think you’d be babysitting him of all people.”

You turn, meeting Eustass Kidd’s cocky grin as he walks toward you. Despite the chaos of the battlefield, he looks annoyingly composed.

“Kidd,” you say, voice laced with exasperation. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much,” Kidd replies, stopping a few feet away and crossing his arms. “Just wondering why you’re babysitting him when you could be out there kicking more ass.” He nods toward Law with a smirk. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to play nursemaid. Guess the surgeon isn’t as invincible as he thinks.”

“Say that again, and I’ll carve you into pieces” Law growls, though his voice lacked its usual menace.

Kidd laughs, crouching beside you with an infuriatingly amused expression. “Relax, doc. She’s got it covered. Right, Y/N?”

You sigh. Kidd’s presence is a double-edged sword—helpful, sure, but he never knows when to stop pushing buttons.

“We don’t have time for this” you mutter, tying off the bandage around Law’s wound.

“Hey, I could carry him if you want” Kidd offers, his grin widening when Law shot him a murderous glare.

“As if I’d let you.”

“Oh? Afraid I’d drop you on purpose?” Kidd teases, standing back up and stretching. “You should be thanking me for offering to help your girlfriend.”

Your face burning, “He’s not…”

“She’s not…” Law cut in at the same time.

Kidd’s laughter echoes, “You two are pathetic.”

But before you could fire back, a distant explosion shook the ground beneath your feet. You all turn toward the palace in the distance, where Luffy and the others are undoubtedly making their stand.

You stood, determination hardening your features. “We need to move.”

You are now at Law’s side, wrapping an arm around him to steady him. He stiffened but didn’t pull away, too proud to admit he needs the support at least until his wound would heal a bit.

Kidd raises an eyebrow, clearly biting back another remark. But this time, he says nothing, merely watching as you help Law.

Later, after the fighting died down, the allied forces regrouped at the ruins of the performance floor. The surviving fighters gathering to tend their wounds and plan the next move.

“You didn’t have to save me back there” Law says quietly, breaking the silence.

“Don’t be stupid” you reply, staring out at the sea. “Of course I did.”

He stays silent for a long moment. Then, almost too softly to hear: “You’re too kind for your own good.”

You turn to him, frowning. “And you’re too stubborn to admit you care about anyone.”

For once, he doesn’t argue.

From a distance, you hear Kidd’s voice as his crew prepare their ship for the next adventure.

“Hey, Strawhat girl!” he calls. “Try not to get yourself killed before I see you again.”

You roll your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at your lips.

“Why tomorrow don’t you try saying goodbye without the insults” you shot back.

Kidd grins, a glint of something unspoken in his eyes, before turning away.

You feel Law’s gaze on you.

“You really attract the strangest people” he murmures.

You laugh softly, leaning back against the railing. “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

Law doesn’t respond, but the faintest smile plays at the corners of his lips.

For now, it is enough.

Everyone is now enjoying the celebration, the air filled with laughter, food, and the occasional argument over meat.

You sit cross-legged a bit farther from your friends, jocking with your powers. Threads of energy between your fingers, forming intricate shapes that shimmered.

“Hey, Y/N!” Luffy bouces over, eyes wide with excitement. “Make something big this time! Like… a dragon like Momo!”

You smirk, twisting your fingers in sharp, deliberate motions. A glowing construct of Momonosuke’s dragon form coiled into existence above your hands, its fiery eyes flicking toward Luffy.

“Whoa! So cool!” Luffy reaches out to touch it, but the dragon snaps at his hand, dissolving just before contact.

“Careful,” you tease “It bites.”

Luffy laughs, unfazed, and then goes off to wrestle more food.

From across, you hear Kidd’s voice booming over the din.

“Still playing with your little magic tricks, Y/N?” he says with a grin plastered across his face.

You roll your eyes, “Jealous I can make things without smashing half the town?”

The crews burst into laughter as Kidd scowles, though a small smirk tugged at his lips.

Zoro observes the scene while drinking, “She might make you disappear next.”

“Like I’d let her” Kidd shoots back, crossing his arms.

“Should I prove it?” you say, standing and letting threads of energy crackle around your hands.

Before things could escalate, Law’s voice cut through the noise.

“Enough” His tone is calm but firm, the kind of voice that demanded attention.

You turn to see him standing with his arms crossed with his usual stoic expression. But there is something different in his eyes, something that makes your heart skip.

His gaze locks on you as he says “Don’t waste your power on pointless shows.”

Everyone stops drinking and laughing and went quiet, turning to watch the exchange. You feel a flicker of irritation rise in your chest, you drank a bit too much for this.

“It’s not pointless, I’m just having fun.”

“Fun gets people killed” Law replies evenly.

“You’re so dramatic” you say as your temper flared, and before you could stop yourself, you raise a hand. A surge of energy lashes out, wrapping around Law’s hat and yanking it from his head.

The entire crowd froze again.

Law’s expression darkens, and you could see the faintest twitch in his jaw.

“You’ve got three seconds to give that back” he says, his voice dangerously low.

You twirl the hat in your hand, smirking: “Make me.”

Gasps erupt from the crews. No one ever challenged Trafalgar Law like that—at least, not without regretting it.

But instead of retaliating, Law surprises everyone. He steps closer, closing the distance between you, until he was inches away. His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then, in a move so swift you almost didn’t see it, he snatches the hat from your hand and place it back on his head.

“You’re impossible” he says, turning to walk away.

“Aw, is that your way of saying you like me?” you tease, your grin widening.

Law stops in his tracks, his back to you. The crews erupted into laughter and cheers, but you barely hear them over the pounding of your own heart.

When Law finally turns, his face was unreadable, but there is a faint flush on his cheeks.

“Maybe” he says quietly, so only you can hear. Then, louder: “But if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The crew’s laughter grew louder, and you can’t help but laugh too, the tension between you and Law dissipating in an instant.

“Guess I’ll have to keep you on your toes, then” you say, your voice light.

Law shake his head, but there is a small smile on his lips as he walks away, the crews still hollering behind him.

And from the other side, Kidd watched the exchange with a scowl.

“Idiots” he mutter, but there was no mistaking the jealousy in his eyes.

[notdotspot]

DP x DC Dreaming

Tim was a dreamer. He had life goals and all, but he was a dreamer. His mind came alive as he slept. Sometimes they were short, bursts of images that passed from one memory to another. Other times, Tim's dreams became whole movies in which he starred as the main character. Dreams so vivid and lucid that the memories from his brain's creations could leach into reality. A conversation he had with Dick discussing a new tactic to track Joker's goons only to mention it while working in the Batcave and realize their talk had never happened. Like any Wayne, some dreams bloomed into nightmares of past traumas and horrific what-if scenarios. Tonight's dream, fortunately, had yet to take that turn.

Currently banned from patrols, the Bat computer, and caffeine by Alfred because of his recent concussion, though he tried to argue four days was enough recovery time for a "minor head injury", Tim lay in his bed dead asleep unusually early. From the door where Bruce checks on him, he is sleeping calmly, but inside Tim's mind is conjuring its newest story.

Tim is running, not just running, chasing. Chasing a shadow. The dark forest is only lit by a half-full moon, making the blur of movement he is pursuing even harder to track. He is not in Red Robin gear so no help from his tech. Tim is pretty sure he is still barefooted in only his pajama pants but his interest in this creature steals too much of his attention. Whatever he is chasing, it is evasive and smart. The slight glow it gives off may be the only thing keeping Tim from losing track of it completely. It whips between and around trees faster than physically possible. It seems to float off the ground instead of running. Tim only stops his pursuit at the edge of a clearing where the being has stilled in the center. The space is too perfect to be natural. Trees line the grass in a perfect circle and not a single plant pokes out from the grass. Too clean and crisp. Tim can see his breath fog in the cold air. It only seems to get colder and colder. He can now make out the figure facing away from him. The slight tinge of blue and green radiating off of the figure is so intriguing. Tim takes a careful step forward into the circle and the beings head whips around. Glowing green eyes are the last thing he sees before he is ripped from the dream. Tim is left heavy breathing and heart pounding, attempting to shake off the sheer terror he experienced upon making eye contact with the visitor in his dream.

He was eventually lulled back to sleep by exhaustion, waking without another dream. Now he has to go to school and work still thinking about those green eyes.

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

this is kinda super random but i have been getting so much dp x dc and this idea came to me at 2 am while scrolling between here and tik tok

I have more ideas for this so more to come

[pinazee]

Truer lies

Its interesting to see Shawn starting to deal with the fall out of pretending to be psychic for so long. I think that would really wear on him after a while, and im glad it did. Personally, as an overachieving teachers pet, i would want credit for all the smart things i did. But yeah, on top of that, it must be so frustrating that he cant just be like “I KNOW WHEN PEOPLE ARE LYING BECAUSE OF THESE TELLS, NOW CAN WE PLEASE JUST DO AS I SAY BECAUSE I KNOW THINGS??” Instead, he has to say its a psychic vibe and people roll their eyes because thats not evidence (fair). Shawn even had to convince gus to trust him this time- actually his plea was more than that. He was asking Gus to believe in him as a person. Like, please trust that i still know where the line is. I doubt he thought this psych stuff would last this long though. I expect he thought it would be a fun 3-6 months just like his dad did (and probably Gus too) but it turns out it never stopped being fun. So, what, like 3 years later-yeah, that has to get to you, and also exhausting, not only because his visions were quite physical in the beginning haha. He’s basically a fraud, and knowing who he is as a person, it has to tear him up inside every time he has to lie, especially to Juliet which we know later really bites him in the ass (which i cant wait for)

Speaking of juliet, i kind of wish she would have stood up for him a little bit with lassie, because he has a pretty good record of solving cases and making them look foolish in the process, despite all the silliness and flair for the dramatics. I kind of get why she’d still be on the fence, but i think she could have explained to him that hey, its not you i don’t trust, its this guy who has a reputation for lying. But i get that for the plot of the episode and for the sake of shawns arc they couldn’t exactly do that. I guess it says something that juliet and lassie did have his back in the end which was great. Like, we don’t always believe ya but we’ll be there anyways ;)

why did they both take this bit seriously though?? Hes clearly doing a bit Lol

Lassie may talk a big talk about hating shawn but he was running those hospital halls right beside jules when they thought shawn was injured ;) he loves him case closed.

What the heck is this thing supposed to be??? I googled old handheld games amd couldn’t find it.

Jumping to lieber being the murderer is kind of just bad detective work?? Like they jumped to that conclusion very fast, and frankly, they should have caught the double shadow. I know this is nitpicky but i couldn’t let it slide. Plus, overall i think its a bit meh, crime-wise. Like i was a bit lost with how lyin ryan fit into all of it and what the original crime was but its still fun. And lyin ryan was a fun character that im surprised didnt make a return too.

P.S Lassie likes a nice mustache. I wonder why he didnt keep his mustache that we saw in the flashback of the first ep?? He could have gone full Magnum P.I. Do you think the ex wife made him get rid of it?

[daflangstlairde-art]

"A Noble Occupation" Chapter 2, 7936 words

Summary:

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame. — Dream acquires a new coping mechanism. It's not a very good one.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

It… became a habit, as shameful as that was.

On lighter days, when his emotions weren't exhausted enough and therefore reached him, Dream would… well, first he would busy himself. When there was nothing obvious that needed him (uncommon occurrence), he sought out how to be helpful, how to be of use. When there was little of that (very rare occurrence), he trained with his teammates, or made preparations.

When that ended and he was home, Dream still looked for ways to make his time worthwhile. Even cleaning was better.

But when he was at a loss on how to do that, and he was thinking and feeling things the Guardian of Positivity shouldn't be… he drank.

The experience didn't get more pleasant, but he grew accustomed to it. The same way he'd learned to bear wounds. The same way he'd learned to bear his own bad emotions.

Go to the store. Internally writhe in shame as he got a bottle of alcohol (wine, since he was most familiar with it). Sometimes he lied that it was for a friend or a gift. Go back home.

Drink it all as fast as possible.

Get hit with the effects all too suddenly.

Feel miserable. Throw up. Go to bed. Sleep like a log.

He learned to keep a glass of water at his night stand. He learned to set an alarm so he wouldn't sleep until noon. He learned to take headache meds in the morning so his functionality wasn't impaired.

It wasn't a big deal, really. It rarely happened, once every several weeks at most.

It helped him sleep, when he did it. It helped him, well, drown his sorrow — make it dull and fuzzy, allowing him to wake up the next day and pretend like none of it existed in the first place, because it shouldn't have existed in the first place.

He was a Protector of the entire Multiverse. If this made him better at his job, at giving the people what they needed in a way that didn't affect them negatively at all, what's the harm in it?

—

Dream should get a mat or something. For his bathroom. The floor tiles were cold.

At some point, he figured it was easier to just drink in his bathroom, since he was inevitably going to end up throwing it up.

The floor… wasn't particularly comfortable, but that's fine. Dream just had to sit here for a bit. Knees pulled to his chest, breathing steadily. Waiting for the alcohol to kick in properly, for the nausea to really rear up. Everything was already fuzzy and tilting, so it was on its way.

And then his phone rang.

Dream winced. He felt his metaphorical heartrate pick up, because it was late, and today had been easier, so this had to be an emergency, and he was a useless mess–

"Hey Dream!" Blue's voice came through.

"Blue?" Dream swallowed. Oh, he hadn't yet… experienced talking to anyone in this state. And he knew alcohol changed the way people spoke. Stars, he really hoped Blue wouldn't pick up on it. He really, really hoped that.

Blue was one of his best friends. One of his teammates. He was… so nice. He genuinely… cared about Dream, not just– about what Dream could do for him, not just about Dream's role. Blue was a good person.

What would he think of Dream? Would he be disappointed?

Dream would not be able to handle that.

He couldn't let Blue know.

"–always for some emergency or another, soo I thought I'd just… you know… call to chat! Just as friends," Blue spoke. His voice was… calm and cheerful. No emergency.

His words caught up to Dream. He wanted to… chat. As friends. That was important. Dream… didn't want Blue to feel like they're just co-workers. They were friends. Blue mattered a lot to Dream.

He was right. Dream had to make more time to spend with his friends. As friends. The last thing he wanted was for them to feel like… like he didn't care about them because he spent all his time helping other people instead.

(He had to have learned from his mistakes. He had to.)

Dream exhaled through his nose, trying to string together a coherent reply. Come on, he wasn't that drunk. Liven up!

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding even if Blue couldn't see. "I– I also… I'd enjoy spending time with you too. As friends,"

"Yay mweheheh!" Blue exclaimed, and Dream huffed in mirth at his endearing laughter. "Unless you're tired, that is– oh no, did I wake you up? I should've asked if you were available to talk first, gah, please prioritize your rest–!" he rushed out.

Dream shook his head. "No, no, I'm available," he spoke slower than the other. It's like the words were fuzzy in his mouth. It was weird. But it didn't sound weird, at least not to him.

"Oh! Okay then, great! Anyway. I'm making dinner!"

Dream hummed. "What're you making?"

"Vegetable cream soup!!!" Blue exclaimed.

That simultaneously sounded really tasty and made Dream remember the upcoming nausea.

"Sounds lovely," he focused on.

"Uh-huh! I hope so. You can try it tomorrow! It's a bit pot. I'm making it with the usual ingredients — you know, carrots and onions and potatoes, but I also decided to add cauliflower because I quite enjoy cauliflower–"Blue started rambling. He enjoyed cooking, as was characteristic of many versions of Papyrus. Funnily enough, Dream had caught him and Horror discussing food prep in the middle of a fight once or twice. It was bizarre. Dream wasn't against it though.

He didn't… think hating Nightmare's gang would solve anyone's issues. He wished he could help them instead. They… hngh. People hated them for ruining and destroying, which was understandable. Dream also, well, highly disapproved of their actions. But they were people, too. And, occasionally, he could feel their hurt. And there's no way being with Nightmare helped.

He exhaled. Maybe someday, he'd figure out a way to help them too. If he tried harder. If he was better.

…Ah, he wasn't listening to Blue. What a friend he was. How could he help Nightmare's gang if he couldn't even be enough for one of his best friends?

"–with an egg, and then it's going to be all done. What about you, what are you up to??" Blue asked curiously, because he was a good friend.

Agh. Dream would have to lie again. He felt… ashamed and guilty. What should he answer?

"I was… cleaning earlier," he answered. He did clean just a little.

"Cleaning? Tsk tsk tsk Dream, I told you to go home and rest," Blue said, light-hearted, more teasing than anything. Though there was soft, disguised concern in his words.

Dream winced. He swallowed. He almost reached for the bottle again before he remembered it was already empty. It was really getting to him. As always, it left him feeling odd. Fuzzy at the face. Nauseated.

"Sorry," he said, sort of by reflex.

"N– it's alright," Blue was quick to assure, and then he paused for a moment. "Are… you alright, Dream?"

Oh no.

Good going, Dream, you couldn't even compose yourself enough for one phone call. Blue just wanted to spend time with you, and now you're making it all about yourself and your problems which you shouldn't be having in the first place. Selfish.

Ugh, and the wine wasn't helping him at all. Dream felt… messy, when he should be the pinnacle of put-togetherness. He couldn't cry now. He couldn't.

"I'm okayy," Dream tried to put a sincere inflection to it. He'd mastered that long ago, except now, it fell oddly, drawing out the end of the word just a bit. Dammit.

Blue was quiet for another moment. Dream had to fix this.

"…Dream, you can ta–"

"I'm just a bit distracted, sorry," Dream lied, "Planning. You know how it is. …Sorry for interrupting you," he winced.

"…Right," that didn't sound like Blue believed him. Dream hunched in on himself. He felt sick. "Just–" Blue took a breath, "–don't stay up all night planning, okay? …Take care of yourself. Please. You don't have to– …You… you'll need the strength, so we can, uh, help people the best we can!"

Right. He was right. Dream was so selfish to be doing this.

"…You're right," he agreed softly. "Thanks for the chat, Blue. I really enjoyed it. Can we… I… I really appreciate you as a friend, you know?" he swallowed. "We should… hang out more. I'm sorry we don't hang out more. I'm s– I… I think I'm gonna go to bed now," he finished on a bit of a lame note.

"I'd love to hang out another time," Blue said all warm, and Dream knew he meant it. "But right now, you going to bed will make me even happier! Good night, Dream! See you tomorrow!"

"Good night," Dream returned quietly. After a beat, the call ended.

Dream let his hand down, blinking bleary at the wall. The silence lingered. He was alone.

He shuffled over to the toilet to throw up so he could go to bed.

—

He was growing too accustomed to the alcohol. One bottle wasn't making him as sick. He had to get two.

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame.

…He was finding more varied places to get the alcohol from.

—

Several days later,

"Dream!" Ink grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Ink?" Dream was immediately aware, "What is it, why did you call me, are you alright?" did Error go too far again, did Dream need to heal him? Was an AU being destroyed?

"Oh I'm great," Ink waved a hand, and then once again grabbed Dream, "But I really really really need your help!"

"Yes? Of course!" Dream would always help his friends.

"I need you," Ink said gravely, "to have a beach day with me."

Dream stared back at Ink's intense stare.

He resisted the urge to sigh. That'd be rude. And he wasn't really irritated with Ink anyway. Both because he didn't feel irritation, and also because it was Ink, Ink was like this.

"Come on pleeasee! It's really important!" Ink shook him a little. "It's for one of my stories! It has to be realistic. I stayed up all night thinking of plot points to put to the test,"

It still often baffled Dream how Ink could use up his time and energy for fictional stories like this. Then again, he'd… learned Ink perceived real people as fictional too. And besides, he wasn't Dream. Other people needed breaks and hobbies to function and to feel alright, so it was justifiably important. Even if Dream, personally, wouldn't dare.

"…Right," he replied carefully. "How long is this going to take…?"

"Uhhhmmm about a day, less even, so it's basically nothing," Ink shrugged. "We'll leave if there's an emergency, too, I promise,"

Okay, that eased some of Dream's worry. And it's not like this was the first time Ink hauled them away to do stuff relating to his stories. Last time was a few months ago, a camping trip in the mountains. Blue enjoyed that one. Dream did too. He held the memory fondly.

"Okay," he relented with a sigh and a smile. He'd rather be used by his friends.

"YES!" Ink threw his hands up.

And so here they were. Having a beach day.

It wasn't some private beach — there were a bunch of monsters around, but it was very far from crowded. It made Dream feel less like everyone would be looking at him and disapproving of this unearned leisure.

They'd already gone into the water, which wasn't awfully cold. And either way, the sun was high up and hot, seeping warmth into Dream's bones. The air held a gentle breeze that smelled of salt and sand and seaweed.

"Ink, pass it!" Dream hollered, grinning.

"Incomiiing!" Ink laughed, turning so he could pass the ball to Dream. With a running start, Dream jumped to dunk it past the net.

Blue laughed loudly at that, whistling. Error couldn't be assed to rush to catch the ball, even if he was literally a few paces away from it.

Blue had the idea that they play beach volleyball, but they'd needed a fourth person. Ink ended up nagging the Destroyer until he finally agreed, though he wasn't exactly passionate about it. Still, it was really fun. Error made up for his lack of involvement by cheating. This was the third ball Ink had drawn, haha.

And honestly?

Dream was having fun. Even with just the four of them, he was having a great time. All those fighting skills turned out to be useful — agility and precision and team coordination. Both teams were about evenly matched, making the game just engaging enough. Though weirdly, Dream didn't feel drained by all the movement and emotions.

The other monsters around the beach were relaxing, wafting off pleasant contentedness. Blue and Ink were as cheerful as ever. Even Error, as much as he complained about the sand, didn't seem to loathe it too much (likely because he was sort of friends with Blue and was familiar Ink).

It all left Dream collapsing onto his towel with a grin that was so big it ached against his face and a pleasant buzzing in his bones. This was yet another memory he'd hold near and dear.

("Thank you," Dream said to Ink quietly, but from the heart, as they all were sat to eat lunch during a brief break.

Ink chuckled, sharing a brief glance with Blue. "Anytime," he nudged Dream with an elbow.)

.

.

.

…Unfortunately, Dream remained a mess.

He was trying to sleep, he really was. He'd gone to bed over half an hour ago and he'd stayed there. Feeling lighter after a fantastic day. Calmer. More put together. Hopeful, the positivity inside him fresh and sincere, braced to live.

But he just… couldn't sleep. Which, to be fair, was far from new. Actually, he struggled to sleep most of the time. Which wasn't ideal since he got to bed, hm, maybe once every three days, but he was still fully functional so it must be all he needed.

Dream sighed, rolling on his side. Purple teddy bear held to his chest as always.

He wanted to sleep. Bad dreams or not, selfish or not, he was tired and he needed energy to bring his best for the Multiverse. Simply laying around certainly wasn't better.

He didn't understand why he couldn't sleep. He felt so cozy and comforted after the day at the beach. Filled with an unmarred warmth.

…Maybe…

…Hm. Did he need to drink an entire bottle every time? Maybe… drinking only a little would be fine. Just enough to dull his hyperawareness. What's so different to using melatonin pills?

Carefully, still a little ashamed, Dream got out of bed.

His head didn't even hurt in the morning, so it must've been fine.

—

It's really not that bad. Dream remained Dream, the Guardian of Positivity, member of the Star Squad, Protectors of the Multiverse. He was just as reliable, endlessly and gladly inspiring hope in everyone around him. Everyone knew how Dream was. Dream helped and asked for nothing in return. Dream always saw the best in people. Dream determinedly kept his stance in the face of terror and destruction. Dream embodied goodness, in everything he did, everything he was. Always smiling sincerely, reaching out his hands. Dream and all that he was belonged to the people. He served his role dutifully, humble and dedicated, glad and proud.

After years, he'd eventually settled into this balance. Always outputting as much productivity as he could, and always looking to do it more. A worn routine.

This was just… another… tiny part of said routine. He never dared to overdo it — he never drank around people, the same way he never cried around people. He never did it two days in a row, never even did it twice in the same week. He was always very careful that he wasn't needed when he was… uhm, in that state. He didn't… always drink himself to sickness, some nights it was just to help him sleep.

No one was noticing. So it was fine. Dream was ensuring he was highly functional and stable. He could get out all these unwanted emotions and thoughts, flush them down the toilet, and then continue as if it wasn't needed in the first place.

Until he was taken off-guard.

His phone was ringing.

Dream picked up immediately, desperately hoping this was just Blue or Ink wanting to chat. Because here he was once again. Dressed in pajamas, on his bathroom floor. Staring at the swirling and swimming tiles with over one bottle of alcohol in his system. Waiting for the sickness to come and pass, as usual.

"Yeah–?"

"Dream, emergency," Blue's alarm was audible over the line. Dream's rolling stomach sank. "Nightmare and his gang attacked–"

"On m' way, give me– minute," Dream hauled himself to his feet, and promptly regretted it as sharp reflux burned his throat. He pushed it down.

To his credit, his awareness sharpened a bit, as he listened to Blue give him the details of where to go and what state they were in. Ink was already there, and he heard Blue go through one of his portals. At that point Blue had to hang up to engage in combat as well.

In the meanwhile, Dream tried to gather himself into something semi-functional. He knew he looked terrible when drinking, and he was far from dressed for fighting, he had to hurriedly put on more combat-appropriate clothes so he wouldn't earn himself unnecessary wounds or impede his movements. He also took barely a few short seconds to splash his face with cold water.

As always, his mind kicked into habit as soon as he heard 'emergency'. Settling into familiarity. Forcefully jammed into strategy and pragmatism, away from sorrow and pain and all those distractions.

In about a dozen minutes, he arrived at the described location, more specifically in a version of Waterfall. The teleportation made his stomach do uncoordinated flips but Dream barely even noticed it, because he spotted Killer and Dust both engaging Blue in combat and jumped in to deal with at least one of them.

"Dream!" Blue exclaimed in relief.

"Here," Dream called back, parrying the swing of Killer's knife with his staff. Sometimes Killer preferred regular ranged attack bullets, but it seems today (or, tonight, according to the Omega Timeline's cycle) he was more for close-ranged combat. Which was fine because Dream was experienced in both.

"Well look who deigned to join!" Killer spat laughter in Dream's face, gladly engaging him in a fight. He was as vicious as ever, relentless and dirty with his attacks. Dream was used to him and knew to keep his guard up at all times, responding with fast, precise blocks and attacks of his own so as to not allow him openings to abuse.

Or… he was used to Killer.

But as they fought, and Killer kept taunting him as he usually did, Dream was… having a harder time than he should be.

It felt like he was reacting on time, except again and again, Killer managed to steal hits from him that Dream should've been perfectly capable of handling. His reflexes were… fuzzier than he'd like. In a normal fight, they would still hold up, but again, this was Killer. Nightmare had picked out the members of his gang for clear reasons.

Everything was just a little uncoordinated. Just a little unstable, like they were fighting in shallow water even though they were still on dry land, like Dream couldn't manage his footwork. Each hit that landed jarred Dream, even though the pain was muffled as well. Dream was lacking.

…And Killer was catching onto it.

"Heheheee did we catch you off-guard, dreamboy?" he jeered as he slammed his blade against Dream's staff once more, undistracted by his own words. "Are you losing your spark?"

Dream didn't reply, focused on matching him beat for beat as much as he could. Though that wasn't uncommon. He wasn't much for mid-fight banter. That was more Ink's thing. It's why Killer liked fighting Dream specifically. He wanted to crack his composure.

"You're sloppy," Killer hissed, grinning, dodging and slashing in the same movement, "Not usually your style, Mr. Perfect!" he mocked.

And he was right. Dream excused the rushing of his metaphorical heart on the adrenaline.

"This is who our enemies are? Pathetic," Killer successfully managed to slam the hilt of his blade against Dream's wrist, which weakened the grip on his staff, allowing Killer a wide swipe that landed despite Dream's attempt at dodging. Dream registered absentmindedly that, thankfully, it wasn't a lethal wound.

"What is up with you?" Killer crooned. "Am I scaring you, sunshine? Was this a bad time? Or…" he paused, in a dangerously considering way.

Dream's gut wrenched. His eyes widened, just the tiniest bit that people usually would not notice.

But this was Killer. Killer, when he wasn't drunk on violence and pain, could be terrifyingly observant. He was like a shark sensing a single droplet of blood in the water.

Killer barked out a hysterical laugh.

"Are you drunk?!" he loudly marveled.

Dream was too late to catch the wince he made at that. It was just the confirmation Killer needed.

"Oooohohoho oh this is incredible!" Killer laughed, fiercely back to attacking. "Your Guardian, everybody! A drunkard! I knew I could smell something familiar!" he declared it all loudly, even if there was nobody here to hear except the two opposing groups. And the echo flowers.

But even though there were no civilians here to hear, Dream was violently cringing inside. Please, no, he begged, please just let me handle this and go back home.

"What, got sick of living the life anyone else would kill for?!" Killer mocked, abusing his new knowledge to gain the upper hand in their fight. Dream was even sloppier, struggling to keep up with him, backing up as Killer pushed onwards. "I'm embarrassed to even fight you, Dream! Tsk tsk tsk!"

Usually, Dream mentally shielded himself from Killer's and Nightmare's and everyone's negative remarks as much as he could. Usually he knew the point of their words was to get to him, him specifically. To weaken his resolve, to hurt.

So why was it getting to him now?

Horrifyingly, Dream realized he wanted to cry.

All Killer needed was for him to stumble for a moment, and then Dream cried out as a knife was plunged directly into his chest. Killer seized the opportunity, shoving him towards the wall with it so he could push the blade in up to the hilt.

As soon as he accomplished it, he twisted the knife, Dream letting out another highly pained sound, and then ripped his knife out to let him bleed.

Dream, uncoordinated, sloppy, hurting, overwhelmed, slid down to the ground, trying to at least breathe. Everything was spinning, and the back of his throat stung sharply and discontentedly.

Dream didn't even process Killer lifting his knife and summoning four blasters with the same gesture, laughing hysterically above him. He flinched and cowered pathetically as a second shape jumped between them, and it was the final push as he leaned forwards and retched on the ground. Or… he aimed for the ground but didn't quite make it. The humiliation burned as he saw he caught the bottom of his pants and his shoes and it was gross and he wanted to cry. He was shaking.

"–eam are you okay?!" Blue's worried voice floated in from beside him, and Dream squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his knees closer in, hiding his face in them.

He was collapsing in the middle of a fight. His friends needed him. He was letting them down. He was letting everyone see his composure break. He was broadcasting his weaknesses, his wrongness to their enemies. What was wrong with him? Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just work?

Adrenaline and shame and sheer overstimulation wracked him inwardly and he felt sick, he felt so sick, he was going to throw up again.

"Dream, hey, hey, listen to me, it's okay, focus on my voice," Blue spoke. He was– he was kneeling next to Dream, blocking his view of the rest of the fight. If both of them were dealing with Dream's mess, then Ink had to be handling the rest on his own. And Ink was strong and incredibly capable, he was creative and didn't let things get to him, but Dream was letting him down.

They were both going to be disappointed in him. The thought felt like getting stabbed in the chest again.

Dream– Dream couldn't do this. He was a disappointment. He was a useless. A mess. He was a failure.

In barely a flash, he was back in his bathroom, bending forward to throw up into the toilet. Everything was spinning, and he clutched the bowl to stop the shaking of his hands. His face felt hot with shame and the blubbery tears breaking out of their prison.

Dream was struggling to breathe. It felt like his rib cage was made of stone, and he couldn't breathe in right. He was– he was trying to gasp in air but every inhale got cut off sharply, he couldn't breathe, everything was vibrating like pins and needles.

Dream let his forehead thunk down on the toilet seat, the cutting breaths starting to sound more like hiccups, like sobs. He couldn't get himself under control, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think. It was all just a barrage of emotions he shouldn't be capable of even having, uselessness and panic and sorrow and self-hatred and guilt and disappointment and shame shame shame. He was a ruin. He felt so damn sorry the Multiverse depended on this thing.

Suck it up. Pull yourself together. Handle this. Be better. Be better!

But he couldn't. He couldn't. Every desperate attempt to pull himself together only made him more overwhelmed, only made him feel more incapable. He wanted to claw out the emotions. He wanted it out.

It hurt as he retched into the toilet again, acidic magic trailing down his chin. It was gross, it was so gross, he hated it. He hated the way his uncontrolled sobs echoed in the bathroom. He hated the way he couldn't even get up, trembling and weak and aching all over. He hated hating, he shouldn't even be capable of it.

How was he going to sleep like this? How was he going to look his friends in the eyes like this tomorrow? How was he going to look at anyone? Maybe they wouldn't know how much of a useless disappointment he was, if Nightmare didn't broadcast it to the whole Multiverse, but Dream would know. It would be in the background of all his actions, following him, never allowing him to forget because he had to remember his mistakes, he had to learn from them, he had to be better.

Who would need– who would want a Guardian of Positivity who wasn't even positive?

He tried to reign in the sobbing, he tried, he swore he tried. He always tried so, so hard but it was never enough. He was never enough. People always needed more, there was always more to do, he always had to be more. He couldn't even stop crying, when he shouldn't be crying in the first place.

Dream raised his hands, slamming them into the sides of his head. Just stop it. Just stop it. You're the one that messed up, you're the one who always messes up! It's your fault! It's always been your fault! Why are you crying? How dare you feel sorry for yourself you useless thing? People suffer constantly, and here you are, sniveling!

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry," Dream blubbered incoherently, not even sure to who. It was just– instinct, deep inside him. Sorry that he was wrong, sorry that he wasn't enough, sorry sorry sorry.

The tears didn't stop coming. It's like every tear he'd ever repressed was coming back for him with vengeance. He just kept crying and crying and crying, like he was trying to hold back the tears with his own hands but they just kept slipping through. How was he supposed to calm anyone else's tears when he couldn't even deal with his own?

He was made to help people, it was the definition of his existence to exist through others and for others. If he couldn't be theirs then he was nothing, he was as good as de–

"–shh, shh, it's okay,"

Dream jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder, no, no, what? There wasn't supposed to be anyone here, he was alone, he–

"Dream, it's okay, it's alright," Blue was kneeling next to him, keeping up a stream of reassurances, and the sudden shame Dream felt, like someone had grabbed his nonexistent intestines and squeezed.

"Blue– you– n– m– I–" he stammered, words slurred in a way he hated.

"It's okay," Blue insisted, "Look, look at me, hey," his hands came to cup Dream's face, and Dream felt borderline scared as he looked at Blue's gaze. It was gentle, but sure. "You're okay. Everything is okay. Stop thinking, just– breathe with me, please?" he said.

More tears bubbled into Dream's eye sockets because he couldn't, he couldn't–

"I need you to remind me how we did it, please? Please? How did we do it? How do we breathe deep?" Blue tried desperately.

He needed Dream. He needed Dream's help, and that's all Dream's shattered thoughts could focus on. His friend needed him.

Dream forced himself to gasp in air even as it burned, his chest and his throat.

"There we go, that's right," Blue encouraged, still holding his face, keeping Dream's eyes on him. "I think I'm remembering, keep showing me, okay?"

Dream gasped for air again, and Blue followed, inhaling deeply. Much more steadily than him. Dream tried to hold the breath but it burned and escaped him, and Blue held and exhaled with him, although slower.

Dream was still shaking with sobs but he pushed through, hands clutching tightly onto nothing, forcing himself to breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, repeat. Blue following him beat for beat.

They barely spent a few minutes that way before another presence joined them and Dream flinched, his already unsteady rhythm knocked off again.

"It's just Ink, it's okay," Blue reassured quickly. "He's got some medical supplies–"

Dream's eye lights snapped back to Blue in alarm, "Who's hurt?" he asked immediately, still struggling with cohesion.

Blue's face saddened, and that only panicked Dream more. There was someone injured who needed his help and he was sitting here freaking out–

"You are," Ink said next to them and flicked Dream's head with two fingers. Dream startled at it. He saw Blue send Ink a look at that, but he sensed no regret from Ink.

His mind grappled to process the words.

He was? He was what? Hurt?

…Oh wait. Yes. He was hurt. Killer stabbed him in the chest, he was still bleeding from it.

And then– then he'd–

More tears and shame pricked at his face. He shook his head insistently, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to convey.

"Dream, please let Ink help," Blue pleaded, worry lacing every word.

Dream hated to make him worry, especially over him, so in guilt, he relented.

With shaking hands, he removed his capelet and his shirt so it would be easier for Ink. Looking at it now, the wound was bad. It wouldn't kill him, it would take a lot to kill him, but it was bad. His blood dripping down from his severed ribs. It'd soaked into his clothes. It explained the burning of his breathing only partially.

"It's going to be okay," Blue lifted his face up again. "Just let Ink heal it, it's going to be okay Dream,"

He shouldn't be the one reassuring Dream. Ink shouldn't be the one cleaning his wound carefully to heal him. Dream should be the one taking care of them, not the other way around.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through hiccups, not even flinching as Ink gently cleaned his wound out with rubbing alcohol.

However the smell reached up to Dream's nose and nausea rolled in his stomach.

He shoved himself away from Blue to gag, pressing a hand to his mouth because he'd hate himself even more if he threw up on his friend.

"Whoops, sorry about that," Ink said casually, assuming he'd done something wrong.

"Not– not your fault," Dream reassured him, struggling to breathe through the nausea.

"Oh, I thought that's what we're doing? Apologizing for things that aren't our fault?" Ink said with a mischievously innocent smile.

Blue whacked his shoulder. Ink showed no regret, chuckling.

Dream was trying not to throw up again. He didn't usually vomit this much, but he usually stayed in his bathroom with little physical strain too.

He really, really wished they didn't see him like this.

"Oh, you still feel sick?" Ink spoke again, pushing himself to his feet, "I'll be back in a mo, keep an eye on him," he told Blue and then disappeared through a swipe of inky magic.

"Okay–" Blue exhaled through his nose, picking up the cotton and the rubbing alcohol, "I'll treat your wounds for now then, is that okay?"

Dream stared at the plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. Just the thought of the smell made him feel sick and ashamed and guilty, like he wanted to hide under his blanket.

"Oh–" Blue looked down at the bottle and then put it down.

"No, no, it's fine–" Dream was quick to reassure. His words were slightly clearer even though everything still felt like pins and needles. He was still intermittently hiccuping and sobbing, breathing shakily. And bleeding.

"No, we'll think of something else," Blue insisted, and Dream cringed. He couldn't even give it to them to not be a difficult patient. Way to burden your friends with what shouldn't even be their job, Dream.

He reached for the plastic bottle. He could patch his wound up himself, it was far from the first time.

Blue grabbed his wrist.

"Dream." he said sternly, and Dream couldn't help but hunch in on himself at the tone.

"Sorry,"

Blue breathed in and out in a measured manner.

"It's okay, I'm not mad at you," he said gently, and Dream could feel he wasn't. Mostly, he felt– frustration, worry and care, and sadness.

"Are– are you okay?" Dream asked. He didn't want Blue to feel frustrated and sad and all.

The frustration reared up at that, and then Dream felt it get intentionally shoved down.

"'S okay to be frustrated," he reassured, hand reaching up to Blue's shoulder in sloppy comfort.

"I'm–" Blue exhaled, "I'm not frustrated because you've done something wrong," he explained, "I just– I want to help you but I don't know how, and I'm... frustrated you're not letting us,"

Oh.

"Sorry," Dream mumbled, "I'm– I'm alright,"

"You're not," Ink reappeared, and Dream saw Blue wince at the bluntness. "Maybe this will help though?" Ink crouched down next to them, holding out a blister pack to Dream.

Dream let go of the rubbing alcohol, so Blue let go of his wrist. He accepted the blister pack, reading the name on the back.

'DETOX' and underneath, in smaller letters, 'active charcoal'.

"Charcoal?" he frowned.

"Yup!" Ink exclaimed. "It helps draw out, uh, bad things from your digestive system! Like food poisoning. Or alcohol,"

Dream stiffened, deeply uncomfortable and ashamed. Maybe they'd just heard Killer. Maybe they'd connected the dots. The two bottles still remained in the bathroom, after all, which is where they were sitting right now.

"I, I–" he scrambled.

"You don't have to explain yourself," Ink cut him off with a raised hand. "If you think that'll help, take it. You can even take two, it's not dangerous," he pointed at the active charcoal pack Dream held.

He hesitated.

"...Okay," Dream accepted, popping two out and swallowing them dry. It didn't taste like anything. He was thirsty. He felt completely drained, which didn't help the shaking and the wooziness.

"Wanna know what would help right now?" Blue spoke, and Dream looked at him hopefully.

"What?"

"Telling me how this upsets you so I can think of something else?" Blue pointed at the bottle of rubbing alcohol tentatively.

Dream cringed again. He should just tough it out. He was making things needlessly complicated, when he should be the person that makes things easier.

...But... Blue said it would help.

Dream took a wobbling breath in, then let it out. He was still blinking tears out of his eyes. Even though they weren't wracking through him anymore, he couldn't stop them.

"It's– the smell," he admitted quickly.

"Oh! Psh, well that's not a problem," Ink said easily, for some reason unraveling his (very long and thick) brown scarf that he loved. And then, bizzarely, he started wrapping it around Dream's neck, pulling it up so it rested over the lower half of his face too.

When Dream breathed in through his nose, all he could smell was Ink's natural scent, ink and paint and cloth.

"I– but what if I throw up again?" he looked up at Ink, voice small, eyes wet.

Ink stood with his arms crossed, smiling.

"You realize I throw up when I get overwhelmed, like, half the time, right?"

...Oh.

They were being… so nice. Showing him so much care, even though they shouldn't. But because they… wanted to?

It made him want to cry all over again, expression wobbling. They were so nice, and warm. He could feel their care.

"Thank you," he said softly to both of them.

"Anytime!" Ink beamed. "So is it gonna work?"

"I– yeah, I think so," Dream nodded, raising a hand to press the scarf to his face.

When Blue brought a cotton swab soaked in rubbing alcohol to try cleaning his stab wound again, the smell didn't hit Dream's nasal cavity, it didn't make him want to bend over and retch.

They spent some time in the quiet like that. Blue and Ink cleaning up his wound, healing it, and dressing it in a practiced manner. There were still tears half-heartedly streaming down from Dream's eyes, no matter how much he wiped them away with his hands and tried to hold them back.

He could feel the ache of the wound settling in, sharper now that it wasn't covered up by alcohol and adrenaline, but it wasn't more than what he could handle. His metaphysical stomach felt desolate, and he was so thirsty, but he worried he'd just throw it up again. Exhaustion tugged at his limbs and his eye lids, from the amount of energy he'd wasted in throwing up and freaking out.

And in the middle of a fight, too. And his teammates had rushed after him to help him, oh stars.

"What about Nightmare's gang?" Dream suddenly piped up in alarm.

"Oh don't worry," Ink waved a hand, "I ditched them at Error's," he cackled. Blue snorted.

Oh. Okay then.

"Good job," Dream praised them both. He really couldn't ask for better, more capable, more reliable teammates. Friends. "And… thank you. And– I'm–" his mouth wobbled more, and he tried to breathe the uprising tears away. "I'm sorry, I... I just– this–" how could he explain this? How could he justify himself?

He didn't want to lie to them. He hated lying. Especially to his friends.

"I thought it would help," his voice broke against his will. He stared at the floor, starting on the damned crying again. Get a hold of yourself, Dream. "I was trying to– I thought it would–"

Wordlessly, Blue reached over and dragged him into a hug. A second later Ink flopped into the embrace too, both of them sandwiching him like endearing annoyances.

Dream was… a bit stupefied. Here he was, drunk (post-drunk?), having botched a fight. Vomited magic dried on the bottom of his pants (he'd kicked his shoes off). Sitting with his best friends on his bathroom floor, an undignified mess in all ways.

And they just… hugged him.

Blue's arms around him were solid and strong, an unflinching aura of care. Ink had a steady calm presence, for all his hyperactivity, never overwhelming Dream with emotions due to their artificial nature.

They were… so warm.

Dream pressed his face to Blue's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut painfully. Blue rubbed his back, as much as he could with Ink there at least.

"It's okay," Blue comforted him gently. "You're okay. Everything is alright. You didn't do anything wrong, alright? You can let it out,"

Dream shook his head.

"Heeyy! There's room for only one emotionless Protector!" Ink whined, "Don't infringe on my copyright!"

Dream laughed wetly at that.

"I'm– but it's wrong," he argued, daring to voice his inner turmoil. Uncertain how exactly to describe the way he felt about it to someone else. "I– I wasn't made to cry," he tried.

"I mean, you can cry though, right?" Ink pointed out. "Sounds to me like you were made to do it, then,"

And… and Dream couldn't really argue with that. He was left speechless.

"Come on, what do you always tell other people?" Blue guided. "What do you say when someone's crying?"

Many things. But among those things,

"That it's... normal, and... healthy," Dream replied, quiet, uneasy. "But I'm not– it's not the same,"

"Why not?" Blue exclaimed. "Didn't it feel nice just now? Letting it out? Everything that was built up?"

…Miserably, Dream had to admit it did. Like there had been a dam accumulating inside of him, turbulent and heavy, metric tons of tears built up. And finally, he'd let some of it out. He was exhausted, and ashamed, but he did feel… eased, in a way.

"You're allowed to cry, Dream," Blue insisted softly. "Heck, you of all people should get to cry!"

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone," Ink said in a jokey tone, "It's going to be a Star Secret,"

"Yeah, Ink will probably forget in a day," Blue teased.

"Heeyy!" Ink complained with no upset behind it, instead amused. "Maybe you should forget it too, did you consider that?"

"Nope! I'm a magnificent keeper of secrets, mweheheh!"

Dream giggled wetly. They were so nice. He sobbed again, muffling it into Ink's scarf. He loved his friends so, so much.

"There we go," Blue encouraged, amused but sincere. Patting his back gently. "Do you still feel sick? Do you think we can move to your room–?"

"Yeah, it's alright," Dream swallowed.

"Dream,"

"No– it is, it really is, I– I want to change my clothes," he insisted, it was the truth.

"Alright, Ink, move a little please,"

Ink complained and there was a bit of shuffling. Dream also got ready to disengage from the hug, but instead he was taken off guard as Blue lifted upwards, still holding him. Easily picking Dream up, making him yelp. Jeez, he sometimes forgot how much sheer physical strength Blue had.

Blue cackled, having definitely done that on purpose.

Dream sighed in feigned annoyance, but considering how tired he was, he honestly appreciated the lift to his bed where Blue deposited him. Ink happily trailed after, and flopped down right beside him.

"Do you need anything else? Where are your clothes?" Blue hovered, still on his feet.

"I can get it," Dream pushed himself up.

"Noooooo," Ink complained, wrapping around him like a squid.

"Guys,"

"Dream,"

"Just–" Dream sighed, "please? I swear I'm better," either from the DETOX or he'd thrown it all up, or both. And from the sheer comfort and positivity of his friends. He was just… tired. So tired.

But… not in a hopeless way. Rather in a really sleepy way.

Blue was visibly unsure, but relented, sitting at the bed. Dream smiled at him. Ink unlatched from him, letting him get up. He got into pajamas, brushed his teeth because yuck, and also went to get himself a glass of cold water from the kitchen. He drank it slowly and crossed his fingers, hoping he wouldn't throw up again.

He lingered in his kitchen for a moment, just… breathing. His body was tired. Heavy and dragging. It was so much more than simple lack of sleep. It felt like he'd bled out. Not just literally. A part of him dreaded how this would all crash down on him tomorrow.

And he was still highly in danger of crying.

…But…

…Maybe, he was made for it. Maybe, it was good and healthy for him. That's what Ink and Blue thought. And Dream both trusted them and trusted their view. They were some of the most truly kind, capable, honest, caring, dedicated– ah, he could go on. Point was: he appreciated them. Maybe... maybe he should take them as a guide instead.

It was a bit terrifying? Because what if he was wrong? What if Dream was daring to go against everything that'd kept the multiversal balance intact this far?

…But he hadn't been enough, this far. So... clearly something wasn't working. It was time he tried to change things up Just a little. For the sake of goodness.

(And maybe, just a little, for his own sake.)

Dream refilled the glass, taking it with him. Pattering back to his bedroom.

Ink and Blue were still laying there, their collective aura easy and light and warm, though with mix-ins. They were chatting about something. Ink was holding up the purple teddy bear, making it move as though it was acting out their conversation.

Dream passed by and primly snatched it out of his hands.

"Heeyy!" Ink protested, and then his mental track switched as he grinned, "Oh I'm so happy you kept him!"

"Of course I kept him," Dream rolled his eye lights. "He's a gift from you doofuses,"

"Mweheheh!"

"I like his ribbon," Ink pointed out. "Purple and yellow, complementary colors,"

…Yeah.

"Dream. Bed. Sleep. Don't make me make you," Blue threatened.

"I dare you to try," Dream grinned.

"Oh Dreamy Mr. Guardian," Ink clasped his hands together theatrically, making his eyes big and sparkling, "I need aid remembering how to get into bed, can you please show me–!"

Blue mercilessly whacked him over the head, making Ink kick his feet and laugh loudly.

Blue sent Dream a glance, but Dream was laughing too. He wasn't particularly offended. Partially because it was Ink, but mostly because Ink was... pretty accurate with it, haha. Oh stars.

Oh so benevolently, he flopped into bed, laughing quietly as he got dragged in for cuddles. Holding the plushie close.

Tomorrow, the shame and guilt would crawl up his spine. Tomorrow, he was probably in for… difficult conversations.

Tonight, instead of alone, Dream was held by his teammates, his friends, listening to them chat and breathe, and he felt... alright. Tonight, instead of lying, Dream had cried and it was alright. Tonight, Dream slept alright.

[neminomnom]

Cars I think arcane characters would have

Send me requests I beg 🙏🙏🙏

includes: Viktor, Jayce, mel, Caitlyn, Ekko, Felicia, Vi, jinx and isha :)

Viktor

- Viktor would have a Toyota Camry or something very similar, it would be dark grey with a bunch of scratches on near the bottom of it.

- Viktor would keep his car very clean, in the glove box he would keep a bunch of old CDs he’s never even touched.

- has so many air fresheners on the rear view mirror that havnt been taken off in about a year, his car smells like a mix of lavender and that old musty smell.

Jayce

- oh he would definitely have some big, electric car, like a Volvo EX90, that thing would be SPOTLESS inside and out, not a speck of dust out of place.

-Jayces Volvo is in the colour ‘sand dune’ and probably has a custom number plate saying T4L1S or something along those lines

- The inside of the car is pretty clean, he doesn’t keep much things inside of it, but he does have a photo of him and Ximena stuck onto the edge of his dashboard.

Mel

- I feel like mel would have two cars, one being a Bugatti mistral in the colour of black, and the other being a Land Rover defender, she likes the look of the Bugatti and how clean they look, but she also loves the space in the defender.

- the Bugatti is a show car, she uses the defender 110 to get around, it’s in the colour ‘Gondwana stone’ and has a bunch of the accessory packs to go with it.

- that car smells DIVINE, you could not shower for a year, go to sit in that car for five minutes and come out smelling like the world luxury.

Caitlyn

- Caitlyn would have a Mercedes-benz AMG G 63 in black, her car would look incredibly clean on the outside, but on the inside not so much, sure it was clean, but there were a few bits of paper on the floor of the car, Caitlyn hates it and tries to clean it a lot, but it still gets messy

- She doesn’t let people eat or drink In her car, she doesn’t want people to stain the leather seats or get crumbs in the little corners of them.

- she keeps gum in the cup holders and offers it to anyone who gets in.

Ekko

- you could be stuck in traffic for hours then see him filtering on his racing bike, that thing can go fastttt, He would have a Kawasaki ninja H2R.

- him and jinx would have spent ages decorating decorated his helmet and gear thingys with spray paint, he would also have some cool car stickers on the sides of the bike, or the firelight symbol.

-Ekko loves to race with other people, of course he wins, but he still enjoys it

- He would get a bunch of custom stuff done to it to make it stand out, like a custom exhaust, and during the Christmas season he wears a reindeer helmet cover

Felicia

- Felicia would have an old lady car, small but still a nice car, like a 2014 fiat 500 in white, there would be quite a few scratches and it would always be a bit lucky on the outside, not too dirty though.

-the inside of her car feels like the word home, it smells like warmth and she has so many Polaroid photos of her and people she loves on stuck onto her dashboard, there’s a few wrappers littered on the floor, but she doesn’t care that much.

- at 7 in the morning, you could hear her music playing in the car from the opposite side of the street.

Violet

- There’s two options, either a big monster truck what hasn’t been through a car wash since 1987 and has so many problems with its engine, or something like a 1990 bmw 325i, it’s seen better days but is still usable, and I’m going for the second one.

- the bmw sounds like it’s about to take off to space each time she starts it, and it bounces each time someone sits down in it, vi loves it though.

- this car has so many scratches on, the inside has a bit of damage, the seats having spill stains on, so she brought those seat cover things.

- You can tell that thing smells musty, no matter how many air fresheners Vi buys, the smell doesn’t go away.

Jinx

- you bet she has the funkiest car, like a hot pink Mini Cooper with go faster stripes all over it, she has a wrap of her monkey symbol on the roof of the car in a dark grey, still visible but not too noticeable.

-that thing looks like it’s been through wars, but the inside is even more chaotic, she had LED lights around the edges of the roof inside and so many trinkets on the dashboard.

- like mother like daughter, she also plays music so loud it can make you deaf at any time of the day, no matter the song you bet she’s blasting it.

- once tried to race Ekko in it and failed miserably.

Isha

- it isn’t a car, but she has a scooter and a skateboard, Isha and jinx made the scooter all bright and colourful, it has a bunch of things hanging off the handles.

- for the skateboard, that thing is hanging into its last limbs, the wheels keep on coming off and jinx always has to fix them, but Isha loves it too much and she doesn’t want to get rid of it.

—————————————————————————

[drgnflyteabox]

a little kate laswell x gn!reader drabble

-> insecurity, anxiety, hurt/comfort, relationship worries, OCD, sooooo self indulgent lmao, self-hatred, therapy, compulsive behaviors, ableist language used towards self, shame, this is literally nothing and theres no real ending so mb <3

You've been working on it. You have. The anxiety; the fear of abandonment. Kate leaves so often she's probably gone almost half the year, anyway. Your relationship isn't exactly built on physical closeness, and as the years go by you feel more and more secure.

She fits, you fit, your cat Cheddar fits. The house fits, even though it sometimes feels too big when she's gone and you're still a little afraid of being home alone.

Security's tight, babe, she's assured you a dozen times. Locks, alarms, the whole nine yards. Everything works. You're usually close to sure about that.

So, you’ve worked on recognizing which feelings are rooted in reality, and which feelings sometimes come from insecurity, or jealousy.

Sometimes, it's fear. That old braying beast in your head, muddling up reality (Kate loves you) with unreality (she hates you, your life is a lie).

You know where it comes from, but that doesn't always help. On the bad days, it even makes it worse. Something is wrong with you, really really wrong. Irredeemably wrong.

Kate's been on an op three months. Longer than usual, but you've been through it a couple times. It's a serious one, so you haven't even gotten more than the odd phone call maybe once every week and a half.

Which fucking sucks normally, but its worse when you can't seem to shake the voice in your head that says she's found someone else, that she's delaying coming home because she's sick of you.

You do have a small laugh at the one that tells you she's got a secret family – even in the state you're in that's a ridiculous thought.

Still, it doesn’t break you from your worries. You begin backsliding. Your hands chafe from washing them, your water bill climbs and climbs and climbs as a result of your compulsive showering.

Am I too dirty? You think. You feel dirty. Contaminated. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t like you anymore, doesn’t love you. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, not with your insanity.

This is the cycle.

Someone will break in. You check the locks an even number of times. But did you? Okay, shower to ‘set’ the locks now, or someone really will break in. Don’t think of Kate. She hates you. Oh, hey Cheddar. Good boy. Did you lock the doors?

You’re exhausted. You lose track of the days, working robotically at your computer, burning your nose with the scent of bleach wipes. There’s not even any real cleaning, just you compulsively wiping the same four surfaces over and over.

When the wood starts showing a little damage from the incessant wiping, you cry in the fourth shower of the day.

You lose track so badly that you’re in bed rotting when Kate gets home.

The door opens, and your heart drops with fear – fuck, it’s happening. Then you check your phone and deflate. Fuck, you think again, for a different reason.

“Baby?” Kate’s voice is clear in the empty house. It makes you think of all the dust laying around, about how you usually tidy before she arrives.

You pull the cover over your face. Shame burns your face, injects lead into your muscles.

“You home?” she calls again. Cheddar meows, probably at her feet.

That’s how she finds you. Prone, upset, eyes burning.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs. Her weight makes you dip towards her when she crawls on the bed. “Bad day?”

You pull the blanket down.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I meant to clean the house for you, and cook you something–”

“Hey,” she puts a finger to your lips, slipping in beside you to cradle one cheek in her rough palm, body pressed to yours.

You can’t help but lean into it despite feeling wretched, despite feeling like you’ve dirtied everything around you lately.

“I don’t need any of that, honey. I appreciate it, but I’m really just excited to see you,” she presses her mouth to your jaw. Not to entice, but to breathe you in, to feel you for the first time in months.

“But it’s awful,” you mumble. “It’s dusty, dirty, disgusting–”

She stops you again.

“Hey now, it looks fine to me,” then a frown. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. It’s the truth.

“Have you called Dr. Klein?”

“No,” finally, a tear slips down your temple. You’re confused, and angry about these feelings; why now? Why when you’ve recovered?

Kate tuts, wiping at your tear with a thumb. She climbs halfway on top of you, looking down at your face. She looks tired, which makes you feel even guiltier.

“God, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with this when you’ve just gotten back.”

Her frown deepens.

“Baby,” she starts. “We take care of each other, remember? What have we talked about?”

“Asking for help is okay,” you murmur. That’s one of the worst parts about this thing you have, the obsessions. They dress themselves up as the world's worst taboos. Speak them aloud and make them not only come true, but alienate everyone around you. In high school, you’d hardly spoken for fear of accidentally revealing your anxiety.

That in and of itself had been a years-long journey to heal in therapy. With Dr. Klein, with Kate, with yourself.

“Think we better set up an appointment, huh?” she says, and there’s no judgment in her voice, no sign of hatred.

“Yeah,” you whisper. You tilt your head towards her, and feel her nose against yours.

“I missed you,” she says, breath mingling with yours.

“I missed you too,” you say back.