#not the butter sock kind

[lucy-the-demon]

Got the himbo/Golden retriever boy!

He's a fucking idiot but we love him anyways.

[honeytonedhottie]

how to be a dessert⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🍰

this post is just for funsies and i thought it would be so fun, how to be the sweetest dessert in every aspect of ur life…💬🎀

SMELLING LIKE A DESSERT ;

so the first step to being a dessert is to SMELL like a dessert ofc. to smell like a dessert, search for fragrances with notes of buttercream, birthday cake, cupcakes, bubblegum, vanilla EVERYTHING SWEET. another key to smelling like a dessert is LAYERING ur scents and i've talked about this on my blog before.

shower gels and scrubs :

♡ vanilla birthday cake from philosophy

♡ sugar cookie from native

♡ birthday cake scrub from tree hut

♡ cupcake from bodycology

♡ pink marshmallow butter cream from philosophy

♡ ooey gooey cookie from philosophy

creams and body butters :

♡ cake confetti from victorias secret

♡ cupcake from bodycology

♡ pink marshmallow from i ❤︎ cosmetics

fragrances and mists :

♡ sweet tooth by sabrina carpenter

♡ cupcake swirl from body fantasies

♡ cozy fireside smore from bodycology

BE SWEET ;

being a dessert is always about being super duper sweet so ofc i encourage u guys to be kind and nice to everyone. you can't be dressing like and smelling like a dessert but being bitter. thats just too much contrast.

DRESSING LIKE A DESSERT ;

dressing like a dessert is all about embodying the three core colors OF dessert. the three core colors of dessert is pink, yellow, and brown. like neapolitan ice cream. this is SO pastry princess. so stick with/work with that color scheme of pink and yellow and brown.

♡ nail charms

♡ buttons

♡ earmuffs

♡ thigh high socks

♡ platform heels

♡ hand bags

things like ribbons, barrettes shaped like cookies, frilly skirts and scrunchies are pastry princess hair accessories. thigh highs and bloomers and teddy bears, ALL OF IT.

[p0orbaby]

So Boyfriend

summary: alessia is the poster girl for chivalry

warnings: none!

a/n: the minimum expected behaviour in any relationship, if you ask me

word count: 1.6k

-

Alessia’s wearing that black Adidas tracksuit again, the one that should probably have its own spot in the wardrobe by now, considering how often it makes an appearance. You’re not sure what her deal is with that thing. It’s like she’s conducting some kind of long-term experiment to see how many days she can wear it before it becomes a sentient being. But, somehow, it always looks crisp, like it’s just been peeled out of the packaging.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, legs spread wide like she’s declaring ownership of every square inch of space. The air around her practically vibrates with readiness, like she’s an overzealous butler trapped in the body of a world-class athlete.

You watch her, knowing exactly what’s coming next. She’s eyeing the cupboard, which is already funny because you’re not even hungry, but you know if you so much as glance at the counter, she’ll be up and rifling through shelves like a one-woman search-and-rescue operation. You could have sworn you saw her measuring the exact amount of peanut butter left in the jar last night, like a tactical mission was involved.

If there’s a minute, microscopic part of her brain that suspects you’re craving peanut butter on toast, she’ll know before you do.

And sure enough, Alessia is up before you can even think of saying, “I’ll get it,” moving towards the cupboard like she’s executing a flawless play. She grabs the jar and hands it to you like she’s presenting a hard-won trophy, her eyes bright with that stupid, beautiful grin. You stare at her, trying to remember why you ever thought her overbearing attentiveness was annoying.

You manage a “Thanks,” which comes out more as a croak because, well, what else can you say when you’re so completely outmatched in the whole ‘being a decent human’ department?

Then, like clockwork, she’s clearing the table. It’s your turn, obviously, but Alessia’s got this compulsive need to do things for you, like it’s a moral imperative. You know it’s coming—the way she’ll rinse the plates with one hand while gently nudging you out of the way with her hip, so casual and practiced, like it’s something she’s been doing her whole life. You’re just standing there, one hand holding the peanut butter jar, the other uselessly hovering in the air, like a mime who’s forgotten their routine. The sound of running water and clinking dishes fills the kitchen, and you’re left marveling at how domestic she makes everything feel, how easy it is for her to slip into this role without a second thought.

And here’s the thing: you should be annoyed. It’s your job to do the dishes tonight. You should be doing something about it, like grabbing a towel or, at the very least, half-heartedly protesting. But you’re not. You’re just… watching. You’ve seen this movie a hundred times, but it’s so ridiculous you can’t help but watch again. You’re transfixed by the way she stacks the dishes like they’re precious artifacts, not remnants of your poorly executed attempt at dinner.

When she’s done, she turns around and hands you your phone. It was on the counter, and you weren’t even thinking about it, but of course, she noticed. Of course, she knew exactly when you’d need it. It’s like she’s a mind reader, but only when it comes to the most mundane, everyday things. Like there’s some part of her brain solely dedicated to making sure your phone is fully charged, your favorite snacks are within reach, and that you never run out of clean socks.

You should say something, maybe tease her a little, but you don’t get the chance. Alessia’s already moving on to the next thing—turning off the lights, checking that the stove is off, securing the perimeter. You half expect her to pull out a checklist and start ticking off boxes. Instead, she turns to you, that lopsided grin still plastered on her face, and before you can even think, she’s pulling you in for a kiss.

It’s not just any kiss. It’s slow and soft, the kind that says, Hey, I’ve got all the time in the world, and I’m spending it right here, with you. You melt into it, feeling every ounce of tension you didn’t know you had drain away.

When she finally pulls back, she’s still smiling, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’ve just won something. Like maybe you’ve won her, but that can’t be right because it feels more like she’s the one who’s been winning you over, inch by inch, every single day.

Then, because apparently, she hasn’t done enough for one evening, she suddenly suggests, “Let’s go for a walk.” It’s not a question, really. She’s already grabbing a hoodie, even though it’s the middle of summer and the night air is perfectly warm. She throws it over your shoulders, and you know you’re going to sweat through it, but you don’t care.

She makes sure to lock the door behind you, even though you’re only going for a quick loop around the block. Alessia does that—locks up, checks windows, and generally acts like you live in a crime-riddled part of town. Even though you both know the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in your neighborhood is when Mrs. Patterson’s cat got stuck in a tree. And even then, it was a small tree, and the cat was more annoyed than scared.

As you start walking, she naturally takes the side closest to the road, like she’s in some 19th-century novel, guarding your virtue against runaway horse carriages or something equally absurd. You used to roll your eyes at this, but now it just makes you smile, like maybe there’s a small part of you that enjoys being taken care of in this overly dramatic way.

The night is quiet, the kind of quiet that’s comforting rather than eerie. Alessia’s arm slips around your shoulders, her fingers tracing the back of your neck in a way that sends little shivers down your spine. You sigh, and it’s not a sigh of exasperation; it’s the kind of sigh that comes when you’re trying to pretend you’re annoyed but you’re really just a puddle of feelings because she’s doing that thing again—making you feel like you’re the center of the universe.

You keep walking, letting her guide you down familiar streets. She opens the gate for you, then the door to the local café, where the barista already knows your order, thanks to Alessia’s meticulous planning. You’re not sure how, but she’s managed to get everyone on board with this whole ‘make everything perfect for you’ campaign, and honestly, it’s a little terrifying.

You sit down at your usual table, and she insists on ordering for you, even though you’re perfectly capable of speaking for yourself. But there’s something about the way she does it, with that confident ease, like she’s been rehearsing this role her entire life, that makes you just let her.

She returns with your drink, carefully placing it in front of you, making sure it’s exactly the way you like it—extra foam, no sugar, just a hint of cinnamon. You didn’t even know you liked cinnamon until she started ordering it for you.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you finally say, and she just shrugs, that lopsided grin never wavering.

“I just want you to be happy,” she replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it is, to her at least.

As you sip your drink, you watch her, watch the way she’s always so effortlessly present, always making sure you’re taken care of, and you realise that this is what it feels like to be loved so completely, so utterly, that it’s almost overwhelming.

It’s the little things she does, the way she’s always three steps ahead, always thinking about what you might need before you even know you need it. It’s the way she’s somehow managed to turn your entire life into a series of moments where you’re constantly cared for, constantly looked after, without ever making you feel smothered.

And maybe you’re starting to like it, more than you ever thought you would. Because being with Alessia is like being in a story where you’re always the main character, and she’s the one making sure the plot unfolds exactly the way it’s supposed to, with all the right twists and turns, and just enough drama to keep things interesting.

As you leave the café, Alessia’s arm finds its way around your shoulders again, guiding you back home, and you let her, because it’s just easier that way. It’s easier to let her do all the little things she does, the things that make you feel so loved and cared for, because deep down, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

When you finally get back, she unlocks the door, checks the windows again, and makes sure everything’s in its place. She pulls you in for another kiss, this one a little more urgent, like she’s trying to communicate something she can’t quite put into words. You kiss her back, letting her know you understand, that you get it, and that you’re not going anywhere.

You lie down together, her arm draped over you, and as you drift off to sleep, you realise that maybe this is what it’s all about. Maybe this is what it means to be truly, deeply loved—having someone who’s always there, always ready to do whatever it takes to make sure you’re okay, to make sure you’re happy. And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to believe that you deserve it.

[luveline]

hey luv (haha) bombshell!reader lives rent free in my head and I have a lil request for you 🫶🏽 can you write spencer calling reader a nickname for the first time and how flustered she gets? especially in front of the team I would ashdfkflsjah i feel like she always teases him with baby, handsome, etc. and he just turns red but when it’s his turn for (non malicious) payback she melts into a puddle of 🥹🫦 and forgets how to act 🥲 thank you queen ily 🫰🏼

thank you! this isn't in front of the team but i can def do that if that was the most important part, ly ♡ fem

"What's that?" you ask, peering over Spencer's shoulder. 

He turns his face to yours, sneaking a kiss against the curve of your neck. Your breath catches at his affection. "It's online shopping," he answers. "Have you seen it? They deliver your parcel the next day, apparently." 

You like the sound of that, wheeling your chair next to Spencer's to sit at his desk side by side. You're in the midst of a very rare occasion in which there's no  case and no paperwork. It won't last long, and you and your teammates are using these spare hours like a paid vacation. You deserve it (even if it isn't technically moral). 

"What are you buying?" you ask, squinting at his glaring screen. 

His gaze flashes between you and the monitor. He turns the brightness down for you. "You need new socks, right?" 

"Don't buy me socks." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I can buy my own socks?" 

"But I can also buy you socks. I felt bad this morning when I didn't have any matching pairs to lend to you. I'll buy you a big pack and this way you'll always have socks when you need them." 

"Spence, that's so sweet," you say, your hand on his bicep, thumb stroking a line he likely can't feel over his layers. "You really don't have to, though. I kind of like the odd sock look." 

Spencer looks down at your shoes. Your socks are mostly hidden. Despite what you've said, you don't like wearing odd ones, it doesn't fit your perfectly kept image, but you like Spencer a whole lot. 

"No, you don't, and that's fine." He clicks on the Buy Now button, a twenty four pack of black and white crew socks jumping into his cart. "What else should we get?" 

"We?" you ask, leaning back. 

You've barely lifted your left leg when Spencer grabs you by the knee and drapes it over his right. "You never have the stuff you need when you come over. We may as well get it all done now while we have time." 

"Are you serious?" you murmur, a slight pout to your lips. 

Spencer's eyes dart down, catch, and lift back to yours. He sounds soft as you do as he says, "Of course I am. Am I being too forward?" 

"You're never too forward. I'm too forward enough for both of us, Spence. But you don't have to buy me things, I can get all of this stuff myself and bring it with me." 

"What kind of boyfriend does that make me?" 

You can't believe he's your boyfriend. You could scream. "The most adorable one ever?" And that's just the half of it. Spencer Reid has a penchant for ignoring his own good looks. He could've been a super model if the whole genius thing didn't work out. "I need a pillow, then. If we're doing this Reid, let's do it. But I'm paying for my stuff." 

"Okay, angel. Whatever you say." 

You almost miss it, his pet name. Your brain assumes sarcasm, but when you play it back, there's only a soft giving in, like he'd do anything you asked him to just because it's you. Because you're an angel. 

You've called him so many pet names and though you knew they flustered him, you're thinking maybe the team was right, and that you were torturing him the whole time. You melt like a little square of butter in the middle of a frying pan, limp in your seat and uncomfortably warm. Angel. It inspires the want to be saccharinely sweet to him, and you would if you could regain your strength. 

You huff a breath up your hot face in hopes of cooling down. 

"What kind of pillow? Do you want a really soft one? They have hypoallergenic, or down feather." He looks at you sideways. "You can't pay for this, it's too expensive." 

"It's sixteen dollars," you say, feeling submerged. 

"Exactly. Are you okay? You look uncomfortable." 

"I'm feeling a bit hot, suddenly. Hot flush." 

Spencer abandons the computer and his online activities to unbutton the top button of your shirt, and then the second, his hands achingly gentle against your collar. "I'll buy a fan," he says, one hand trailing down your arm soothingly as the other searches for paper. "But for now." 

He fashions you an origami fan and fans you diligently. It works for a time, but you remember the dulcet cadence of his voice and the delicate way he strung the syllables together as though 'angel' were the name you were given at birth, and you feel warm all over again. 

[rueclfer]

heyy there can i request some more touya headcannons? i really enjoy your way of picturing him because it’s just so canon and he’s kinda a lovely dick y’know. whatever comes to ur mind. thank u so much!!

weelll since you gave me so much freedom here r some touya as a housemate hcs ANNDD a moodboard bc i enjoy the visualization <3 since we talked abt this the other day too !! (i yapped so hard here sry sry this is so indulgent)

bakugou's and sero's version too hehe

housemates // touya todoroki

touya hates the idea of living with a complete stranger or one of his siblings, so what other option does he have other than forcing his best friend (crush) on a lease with him?

the newfound freedom definitely puts him on his ass for a few weeks. barely sleeps. eats like shit. trash is scattered everywhere. several unpacked boxes. it stays like this until fuyumi comes over to check our the place and gives you two a hard scolding to get your shit together.

more often than not, you'd end up waking up on the couch with your legs sprawled out across his lap and his upper half leaned over the couch arm rest in deep sleep. staying up so late was probably one of his favorite things about living together. being able to talk as loud as you wanted, watch movies late into the night, look over the city from your balcony- he found solitude in existing with you.

if he wasn't already codependent before moving in together, just know his ass will be GLUED TO YOU. you'd be doing work in your room and he'd barge in and flop down on your bed without a word. maybe he'd gotten a bit too comfortable.

if he's feeling extra annoying that day, he'd bring in his guitar and amp and keep asking you to rate his riffs until you entirely give up on work and give him some attention.

is it obvious his love language is quality time? not only that, gift giving too. he's like a fucking crow.

"look what i found. it's a rock. for you."

makes him soooo giddy to see your display of the rocks, feathers, and dried up flowers he picked up for you on his walk. sometimes you'd come home and there'd be a new addition to the ever growing collection.

ofc you'd return the energy in a different way. touya will not cook for himself. ever. he eats like shit as an internal rebellion against the healthy diet he was forced upon as a kid, but you will not allow that boy to rot himself from the inside out!! he can expect several tupperwares of portioned out meals with notes attached to the lids if you know he'd be home all day by himself.

"to t <3. if you don't eat every last bite i'll find out and it'll hurt my feelings and i might combust into flames or something idk don't risk it!"

i can also imagine him holding back tears whenever you ever come into his room to hand him a bowl of cut up fruit. the first time you do it he'd be speechless like jaw dropped taken aback. has he ever felt love like this??? i think not.

despite all of the kind gestures, he's still touya todoroki. hides your keys if you annoyed him that morning by rushing him in the bathroom and makes you a few minutes late to class/work. chronic door slammer. pisses with the door wide open. no sense of privacy and do not gaf to knock. always locking himself out -> i feel strongly about this like imagine coming home after a long day and he's sitting out in the hallway with a pouty face waiting for you hehehe.

i don't think he'd realize this crush until a few months after you've moved in together. how could he when you two practically already act and bicker like an old married couple?

yes- peanut butter belongs in the fridge. no- it doesn't. stop leaving your socks everywhere. you forget to flush again. stop slamming the doors. you ate my chips, didn't you? don't lie. did you really need to put the mugs up that high? (he does it on purpose, and tightens the lid to every jar too.)

it wasn't until one late evening when he comes home to find you frantically mixing a doughy substance in a large metal bowl. you never bake, but you have your own oven now, so why not?

"god, finally. help me, my arms hurt." you groan, shoving the bowl in his hands. "i think i fucked up."

he sees the hurricane aftermath of your kitchen- flour everywhere, egg shells left on the counter, every single jar imaginable opened and scattered around. he could be teasing you about the mess, but god you looked so beautiful with that stupid wrinkle in between your eyebrows as you read over the recipe, and the streaks of flour across your pant leg from wiping your hands, and the way you swipe away the stray pieces of hair falling in your face with the back of your hand- oh fuck.

he thinks he's falling in love with you.

he swallows it, but he starts acting kinda weird around the apartment.

like he's.... avoiding you?

living with his best friend whom he just so happens to develop a crush for, would eat him alive. he locks himself in his room and chain smoke out his window while he's stressing the fuck out. he told you he'd stop smoking, but he's sure you'd understand the need for it right now. he hopes you can't smell it.

i also think he'd be a stress cleaner lmaaoo he cannot sit still with his thoughts for too long, so the headphones are ON and blasting and he'll definitely use that as a scapegoat + the loud ass vacuum for ignoring you if you try to talk to him while he's on this cleaning frenzy.

you think he's sick LMAO imagine the pain he feels when you come knocking on his door and calling out that you're leaving a bowl of soup and cough medicine outside his door for him. he doesn't tell you that yeah he's sick but *not in that way*

lovesick. that boy is lovesick!!!!!!

how do you avoid your housemate while you figure out how to control your feelings?

he confesses via note that he leaves on the kitchen counter. really simple tbh nothing too extravagant, but he signs off by telling you that he's staying crashing at fuyumi's for a couple days.

you text him a string of obscenities to get his ass back home and he does (he's scared of you).

he CAANNOOTT talk about his feelings in an adult way. he is sitting on the complete opposite side of the couch, twiddling his thumbs, and staring down at his feet like a child while you reread his confession note out loud to him. you find his discomfort hilarious but endearing. he finds you unbearably insufferable.

jesus the amount of times in that apartment where he would storm off to his room whenever you two got in an argument or you pissed him off...old habits die hard, you guess, because this isn't the todoroki household anymore and you aren't scared to lose that deposit and kick a door down.

once you corner him and get him to open up about his feelings the air in the room suddenly shift!! the clouds are clearing and the sun is shining woooowww look at what good communication can do.

sharing an apartment with your BOYFRIEND is no different than sharing one with your best friend. i think he'd like to keep your separate bedrooms to have your own space, but you'll rarely sleep apart.

so! many! new! traditions!

helping him dye his hair on the first saturday of every month. biweekly horror movie marathons. counting the communal piggy bank ever couple months. trying new takeout spots until you find THE spot for every category- chinese, pizza, ramen, etc etc.

and finally, an everlasting mark on your first apartment together: a small carved out heart around your initials left on the inner corner of a kitchen cabinet done with his pocket knife on a random weekday evening while you two are cooking dinner together.

-

touya tag: @moonchild701 @kaldurahms-lover @themultifandomgirl @devilslittlehelper @porusuniverse @ratatellie @katbug37 @ggriwm

[johnbrand]

Future Plans

“Don’t mind if I just pop these off real quick.”

Luke readjusted awkwardly on his yoga mat, carefully watching as Mr. Bergstrom plopped each of his massive feet out of their equally massive prisons.

“Oof!” Mr. Bergstrom exclaimed as he leaned forward to massage his feet. “These things have quite the kick to them.”

“Proof of a good workout?” The 18-year-old replied, unsure of how to continue forward with the conversation. He had not spoken to Mr. Bergstrom in almost six months, so it had come as a surprise when the middle-aged man had pulled him aside at the gym to discuss Luke’s "future plans".

Mr. Bergstrom chuckled, “I guess so.” Both sets of eyes followed Mr. Bergstrom’s hands as they peeled the grimy socks away, exposing two long, firm soles. The socks were then tossed aside between the pair. After a moment Luke was able to pick up on their slightly cheesy funk.

“Mr. Bergstrom, if you don’t mind me asking,” Luke knew he was treading on rocky ground. “Why did you want to speak with me?”

“As I said, I wanted to hear what your plans were moving forward.” Mr. Bergstrom put his calloused paws to work, rubbing away and massaging his feet. “My son already told me you’re going to a different university, I’m just curious to hear your reasoning.”

Luke shifted uncomfortably. He and Mr. Bergstrom’s son had grown up together, been best friends from elementary through most of high school. Mr. Bergstrom had practically been a second father to Luke, to the point that Luke’s own parents joked that they should have been paying for child support. That was until Luke had come out. Mr. Bergstrom promptly banned his son from ever speaking with “that homo” again.

“Well, I was offered a really great scholarship from the school. My grades were excellent this year, and my test scores were pretty much the same.” Luke was not trying to be boastful. “They are hoping to fast-track me through the engineering program, my counselor said I’ve got some real talent.”

The bustling noises of the busy gym were present, but dampened by the closed doors of their private studio. Mr. Bergstrom continued his cooldown, stretching his legs. “You know they’re just buttering you up, right?”

Luke’s face grew warm. Mr. Bergstrom continued, “You don’t really think your talents will be utilized by furthering your education, do you?”

Embarrassed, Luke found himself looking down. He would be leaving for college in a week, he already had made his mind up. He could not understand why Mr. Bergstrom was trying to convince him otherwise.

“I know you miss my son, Luke. And I know you miss me.” Mr. Bergstrom started, a friendly smirk smearing itself onto his face. Luke was familiar with that smile, its fatherly warmth attempting to lure him in. But he resisted, its friendliness almost artificial. “You should be less concerned about education and more focused on rebuilding the bridges you’ve burned.”

“What do you mean?” Luke queried without lifting his head.

“You can get a degree at any point of time in life,” Mr. Bergstrom argued. “But if a relationship has broken apart, you only have so much time to fix it.” Mr. Bergstrom’s fingers interlocked between his toes, smoothly caressing each of the pockets in between. “Your time at university will be, what, four years? But the bonds you make with others are for a lifetime. It would be selfish to put your own wishes before others, especially those you’ve hurt. And if this university really wants you, then they will be willing to wait."

Mr. Bergstrom sighed, "As an adult, it’s my responsibility to tell you this kind of stuff.”

Luke’s face was still flushed, but no longer out of embarrassment. The odor of Mr. Bergstrom’s feet had by now completely filled the room, its pungent, sour funk somehow warm.

“So, what do you suggest I do?” Luke’s eyes began to water, although it was unclear if it was out of despair or a reaction to the feet in front of him. Luke only realized now that this entire time he had been staring at the older man’s soles dancing in front of him.

“Put your actual talents to good use, kiddo,” Mr. Bergstrom’s face lit up with that fatherly pride once more, its affectionate smile inviting. The affirmation felt good to Luke. “You should cancel your college plans for the time being so that you can focus on your relationships. A gap year or two, or maybe three, or as long as it takes to make up for lost time.”

“Does that mean I’ll get to be best friends with your son again?” Luke asked.

“Well, he already left for school a few days ago, so he won’t be back until the winter holidays.” Luke was a bummed to hear this, beginning to reconsider Mr. Bergstrom’s offer. But before Luke could escape, Mr. Bergstrom wiggled his thick toes, drawing him back in.

“But in the meantime,” Mr. Bergstrom’s tone held its protective tone, as if it was only offering what was best for Luke. “You can work on rebuilding our relationship. You can live with me so your parents think you’re still at school, except I will be your professor. Won’t that be fun?”

Luke’s body began to tingle. Subconsciously, he could sense danger. But there was something so alluring about Mr. Bergstrom’s feet. His thick, juicy feet and their nauseating, mesmerizing, heterosexual scent.

“Whaddya say, kiddo? Do you trust me?” Mr. Bergstrom asked. 

Luke’s reply came out robotically, “...Yes.”

Mr. Bergstrom smirk reappeared, although this time the mask was off. It was now cocky, assured, but yet still familiar, as if this was not the first time. “Good boy, then lets give you your first assignment.”

The sweetness in Mr. Bergstrom’s voice had completely disappeared. “How about you start servicing these big manly feet." Mr. Bergstrom then threw one of his dirty socks right into Luke’s face, its sweat a metaphorical stamp on his future. "And while you’re at it, you can suck on this like the pathetic little faggot you are."

[pedrospatch]

a safe haven l nine

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist

summary: When you find out that you’re pregnant, everything comes crumbling down around you.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS A SCENE THAT HEAVILY IMPLIES DOMESTIC VIOLENCE. this chapter it also contains a very uncomfortable scene with reader and Luke, but despite the sexual nature of the scene, READER DOES NOT GET SA, BUT SHE DOES GET INJURED. INJURY there is a description of an injury as the result of DV HEAVILY IMPLYING STRANGULATION. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. pregnancy, mentions of high risk pregnancy (not reader), mentions of child loss (not reader), mentions of pregnancy related symptoms (missed menstrual cycle, morning sickness), protective Tommy Miller, protective Joel, and last but certainly not least, feral Joel. this chapter is a lot, just proceed with caution if anything in bold can be a potential trigger for you.

word count: 11.8k

October, 2024

It’s the middle of October.

By now, the pain had become almost unbearable. Time certainly wasn’t healing the wound. 

If anything, time only seemed to be making it worse.

So, so much fucking worse. 

It drags, and you almost feel as if you’re paralyzed by it. But the only thing that you can do about it, about any of this, is just pretend. 

Pretend everything is okay.

Pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Pretend you don’t feel empty.

Pretend you don’t need him.

But you do need him. Oh, how you fucking need him.

The hole in your heart is growing bigger by the day, and only Joel Miller is capable of filling the void. Only he has the ability to make you feel whole again. Complete.

“Be honest with me—what does this look like?”

You pause your knitting and glance over at Maria.

With her due date approaching, you had offered to help her prepare for the baby’s arrival. At about six months, Maria was expected to give birth towards the middle of winter season, and instead of trading or having to use rations for certain baby items, like blankets, little socks and mittens, you’d decided to show her how to make them instead. Not only was it saving her from having to trade or use her rations on things that could easily be knitted, but it served as a decent, albeit temporary, distraction, giving your mind the chance to focus on something else other than how deeply you were hurting without Joel.

Tilting your head slightly, you eye the soft, butter yellow wool she’s holding in her hands. “Um, is that the start of another baby blanket?”

“No.” Maria’s face falls. “It’s supposed to be a hat.”

“Oh. Um.” You lean forward in the brown leather armchair you’re perched on, squinting hard at it as she holds it up. “Okay, yeah, I can kind of see the shape of it now. I can totally see it being a little hat for the baby.” She tosses you a knowing smile and you squirm slightly, heat prickling at your ears.

“I appreciate you lying to me.” She giggles and sets down her knitting needles beside her on the couch along with the ball of wool yarn. Leaning back, she places both hands on her belly and sighs. “At the very least this child will never go without a blanket seeing as blankets are all I’m capable of making.”

You flash her a small, but reassuring smile.

“You’ll get the hang of it, Maria, I promise. It just takes some practice, that’s all.”

“Well, now that Luke has put me on strict bed rest until I have the baby, I’m going to have all the time in the world to practice,” Maria remarks, exhaling another sigh. Craning her neck, she peers at your own knitting project, which you’ve been working on in something of a secretive manner in your lap and out of the expectant mother’s view. “What are you making over there, anyway?”

Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

“I’m so glad you asked since I’m just about done.”

Crossing the last stitch, you set aside your knitting needles and then hold up the finished product. “What do you think of these?”

Maria’s hand flies to her mouth, tears welling up in her dark eyes the moment she sees the pair of little brown baby booties in your hands. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, a tear rolling down the side of her face as you stand up and walk across her living room to present her with the shoes. Sitting down beside her, you hold them out in the palms of your hands. With trembling fingers, she accepts them. “Kevin had a pair just like these when he was a newborn. I kept them even after he’d outgrown them.” She lets out a small laugh in spite of herself. “You know, I’d always complain that he was growing up too fast. I used to wish that I could slow time down a little so I could enjoy my son being that young longer,” she admits, sniffing. She reaches up, dabbing at her damp eyes with one of her hands. “And now Kevin is frozen in time, forever a three year old little boy.”

She sets the booties down on her belly and inhales deeply, willing herself to keep her composure.

Swallowing back your own emotions, you brush a single, stray tear from her cheek with your thumb. It wasn’t the first time that she’d opened up about losing her child—but Maria often kept her emotions hidden, tucked away along with her son’s memory. For the last several years, she’d dedicated most of her time and energy to Jackson and to its people, pouring herself completely into her role as the community’s leader. But now that Luke had placed her on strict bed rest for the rest of her pregnancy, Maria had no choice but to step down, temporarily handing the role over to Tommy, along with a small council she’d handpicked herself.

It hadn’t been easy for her, after all, there was only so much she could do to keep herself preoccupied while being confined to the four walls of her home. She found her mind wandering to Kevin a lot more often than not lately, and the pregnancy hormones did absolutely nothing to help in the matter.

“Maria?” you say her name softly. “You okay?”

She slowly exhales the breath she’d been holding.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she finally replies, sniffing again.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She pauses momentarily. “I just—there’s a part of me that still has trouble believing I’m going to be a mother again. It’s been so long, you know? What if I’ve forgotten how to be a good mom?”

Dropping your hand from Maria’s face, you offer it out for her to hold. She accepts it and you give her hand a gentle squeeze as you vouch, “This baby, they couldn’t be any luckier than to have a mother like you, Maria.”

“And a fuckin’ hell of a dad like me,” a voice teases from the doorway.

Tommy, who had been down at the commune’s market picking up some potatoes for dinner, saunters into the living room with a brown paper bag in his arm. Setting the bag down onto a nearby table, he then makes his way over to his wife. Noticing that she’d been crying, he leans over and presses his lips against her forehead, softly murmuring, “You doin’ alright, sweetheart?”

“I’m alright,” she assures him with a nod. “I’m just extra sensitive and hormonal right now. The usual.”

He hums. “Uh, yeah, I kinda figured that out when you bawled your way through Old Yeller at the movies the other night.”

She pouts. “Pregnant or not, that movie’s a tear jerker, okay? Only people made of stone don’t cry when the dog dies.”

“She’s got a point, Tommy,” you agree with a shrug. “I cried too, and I’m not pregnant.”

Drawing himself back up to his full height, Tommy glances at the booties resting on Maria’s belly. He picks them up and holds them both in the palm of his hand. 

“Well, ain’t these just the teeniest things I ever did see,” he remarks with a soft chuckle. “Who made these?”

Maria jerks her chin towards you. “She did.”

Tommy’s eyes meet yours and it feels like a punch to the fucking gut—they remind you of his brother. “Almost feels like a crime, havin’ you make clothes for our kid for free,” he states, shaking his head as he hands them back to Maria. “You’re makin’ the baby’s entire wardrobe at this point, little lady.”

Sheepishly, you wave a dismissive hand at him. “I made one sweater and a couple pairs of mittens for them. I wouldn’t exactly call that a wardrobe, Tommy.”

“It’s a hell of a lot more stuff than we had before. I gotta be honest, it just don’t feel right acceptin’ all these things from you without payin’ somehow. I’d really like to at least trade you somethin’ for them.”

Shaking your head, you politely decline the offer.

“I appreciate it, but I really don’t need anything.”

“What ‘bout Luke?”

“He doesn’t either.”

“But—”

“Honey, don’t waste your breath,” Maria chimes in with a sigh. “I’ve been trying to get her to accept a trade all week long and she simply won’t budge.”

Tommy purses his lips together, slowly rubbing his chin in thought. “Okay, I’ve got an idea,” he proposes after a minute. “How ‘bout you and Luke both come on over and join us for dinner later tonight? That ain’t too bad of a deal, right?”

You silently mull over the offer for a second.

“If I accept the invitation, then will you two knock it off with all this damn trade nonsense?” When he eagerly nods, you sigh. “Alright then, I accept. We’ll come over for dinner tonight. Granted he doesn’t come home late from the clinic again.”

“Perfect,” he grins. “See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Knowing he only means well, you decide to be a good sport about it and smile at him. “No, Tommy. I suppose it wasn’t.”

“Great!” Maria beams. “We haven’t had a chance to get together for dinner in months. Lately when I see Luke, it’s as his patient,” she muses. “I have to admit, it’ll be so nice to have a conversation with him that doesn’t revolve around my uterus for once.”

Tommy jokingly makes a face. “Yeah. Tell the doc to leave all that medical stuff at the door before he comes over. Last thing I wanna hear ‘bout while I’m chowin’ down on some big, juicy bison steaks is what fuckin’ size my wife’s uterus is—”

“Tommy! That’s not funny!” Rolling her eyes at her husband, Maria turns to you to apologize but she stops short when she notices a sudden, not to mention drastic, change in your complexion. Frowning, she reaches up and touches your cheek. “Hey, you don’t look so good. Are you feeling alright?”

You can taste the bile at the back of your throat.

“I—I’m sorry, what did you just say was for dinner?”

Tommy shoots you a strange look. “Uh, steaks?”

The mere mention of the word sends a violent wave of sickness crashing over you—slapping your hand tightly over your mouth, you scramble to jump off the couch and make a beeline for their downstairs bathroom right across the hallway. You’d made it just in time to fall to your knees in front of the toilet. Clutching the sides of the porcelain bowl, you gag loudly, and the sickening sound of your retching bounces off the walls.

As your stomach heaves, you feel one hand gather your hair to hold it back and out of your face, while the other rubs soothing circles into your back.

“Let it all out,” Maria encourages you. “It’s alright, just let it all out. There you go, get everything out.”

Tommy pokes his head into the bathroom.

“She okay?”

“Tommy! Get out of here!” Maria scolds him over her shoulder. “She doesn’t need an audience!”

He holds up his hands. “Alright, alright! Sheesh, I was just makin’ sure she’s okay, you ain’t gotta bite my head off!” He huffs at her. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you two need me.” Without another word, he spins around on the heel of his boot and disappears.

Once you’re certain there’s nothing left, your trembling hand reaches for the handle on the tank and pulls it down, flushing the toilet. You then sit back, slumping against the wall. “Jesus. I am so fucking sorry. I have no idea what the hell came over me,” you groan, the embarrassment evident in your tone as you wipe at your mouth with the sleeve of your flannel shirt.

Maria peers at you with a suspicious glint in her eyes.

“You know,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, “About five months ago, I went through a phase where I couldn’t stand the thought of meat—any kind, but red meat had to be the worst. I just could not stomach it.” Her hand falls away from your face and she rises to her feet with a labored grunt. Leaning back against the sink, she continues to say, “Poor Tommy, he couldn’t even mention it to me or I’d throw up on his boots. Not long after that, I found out I was pregnant.”

You stare at her, your lips parting slightly.  “Maria, you can’t seriously be insinuating—I am not pregnant. No, it’s not possible, you know that I can’t have kids,” you sputter out, furiously shaking your head. “There’s just no fucking way that I’m—”

Maria holds up her hands to stop you. “When was the date of your last menstrual cycle?”

“It was recent.”

“How recent?”

Silently, you start counting the weeks and you freeze the moment you realize you’d missed September completely, and October’s cycle had been due two weeks ago. You’ve been so lost in your own grief, so busy trying to keep yourself from falling apart, that you hadn’t even realized you haven’t bled since—

“August,” you breathe out in a terrified whisper.

The last time you had your period was in August.

August. 

Before you had slept with Joel Miller for the first time. 

Maria whirls around and starts digging in the medicine cabinet above the sink, and then in the one below it. After a minute of rummaging, she turns back around and extends a hand out to you, offering to help you to your feet. She lets out another grunt as she helps you stand. “I had one left,” she states, holding out her other hand to you, an individually wrapped pregnancy test in her palm. “At this point, I don’t think you even need to take a test, but it doesn’t hurt to have solid proof.”

You can hardly choke out her name. “Maria—”

She hastily shoves the test into your hands. “Just take it. I’ll be back in to check on you, okay?”

Not giving you the chance to protest, she steps out of the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

You look down at the test in your palm and then up into the mirror, meeting your own wide eyes in the reflection.

It can’t be possible. It just can’t be possible.

You can’t have children. 

With shaking hands, you unzip your blue jeans and then tear open the package. Your mind is in such a haze, you have to read the instructions three or four times before the information finally sticks. After taking the test, you lay it down top of the counter with the results window facing down. You pull your panties and jeans back into place and wash your hands using the bar of soap next to the sink—all the while, the sheer panic has started to settle in, the fear that accompanies it seeping deep into your bones.

Swallowing harshly, you realize it’d been well over the three minutes the package had instructed you to wait for the results.

“It’s negative. It’s negative,” you affirm quietly over and over underneath your breath as you pick it up and flip it in your hand. “It’s negative. It’s negative—”

You stop, and for a second, your heart feels like it stops too.

Horrified, you blink furiously, as if somehow you’ve misread the results—but there is no fucking mistaking those two solid little pink lines.

Your blood runs cold in your veins.

You’re pregnant. 

Luke hasn’t touched you in months.

And you’re pregnant. 

Luke hasn’t touched you in months. 

And you are fucking pregnant. 

Maria knocks lightly on the bathroom door.

“It’s been a few minutes now—can I come in?”

She waits, only to be met with complete silence.

“Hey, hon.” She knocks again. “Is everything okay?”

Again, there’s no response from the other side of the door.

“Christ, Maria.” Tommy suddenly appears beside her with a glass of water in his hand. Flashing his wife a teasing look, he quips, “Can’t you let the poor girl do her goddamn business in peace? What’s wrong with you, woman?”

Maria frowns. “I think something’s wrong.”

His playful grin falters. “What do you mean?”

“She’s not answering me.”

Tommy chortles, quirking an eyebrow at her. “Maybe ‘cause she’s actually in there doin’ her business?”

Hesitantly, Maria bites down on her bottom lip.

“What? What is it?”

“I gave her a pregnancy test to take.”

Tommy’s eyes widen. “You fuckin’ with me?”

Maria glares at him. “No! I’m not fucking with you, I’m being serious! I gave her the test and then told her I would check back in with her after she took it, but now she’s not answering me and I’m kind of worried.”

“The door locked?”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think it is. Should we just open the door and see if she’s okay? I don’t want to barge in there but—”

Tommy hands Maria the glass of water. “Hey,” he calls lightly as he raps on the door with his fist. “Everythin’ alright in there?” He waits for a minute, but when you don’t reply, he grasps the brass doorknob in his hand and says sternly, “Now you listen here, little lady. You had best answer me right now, or we’re gonna have to come in, you understand me?”

Silence. 

“Last chance, talk or I’m gonna open this door.”

Nothing. 

“Alright then, suit yourself. Hope you’re decent.”

Tommy turns the knob, cracking the door open—when he doesn’t see you, he tries pushing it open further. The door stops halfway, and he peers around it only to find you sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, preventing the door from going any further. “Shit, she’s sittin’ right behind the goddamn—fuckin’ hold on, Maria! If I try shovin’ it open, I could hurt her!” Being careful so as not to hit you or step on you by accident, he squeezes his way into the bathroom. He crouches down beside you, cupping your cheek in the palm of his hand. “Hey, what is it? What’s the matter?”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his.

You can’t speak. You can’t move.

All that you can do is stare at him. Petrified. 

“C’mon, little lady,” he coaxes, softly. “Talk to me.”

“Tommy! Let me in!” Maria demands, impatiently. “Can you move her? I can’t squeeze through, my belly is way too big.”

Tommy slides one arm around your shoulders and the other arm under your knees. “I’m just gonna move you out the way so Maria can come in, alright? C’mere.” He gingerly slides you across the tile and cradles the side of your body against his chest. He then calls out to his wife, “There, that should be enough room!”

Maria pushes the door open and rushes inside. “Is she okay?” Gripping Tommy’s shoulder, she slowly lowers herself to kneel beside you. Her eyes go straight to the test clutched in your hand. She just about has to pry your ice cold fingers off the white stick one by one. “It’s positive,” she gasps. “Your results are positive—you’re going to have a baby!”

Tommy lets out a loud, gleeful laugh. “Did’ya hear that, little lady? You’re gonna have a baby! You’re gonna be a mama! Ain’t that great news?”

Finally, you snap out of your trance. Your eyes anxiously bounce between Tommy and Maria, heart pounding as they eagerly wait for your reaction with smiles of pure excitement on their faces.

“I—” Unable to utter another word, you burst into tears.

And they’re certainly not tears of happiness.

No, the sobs coming from deep within you aren’t full of joy at the news that you’re going to be a mother.

They’re pained. Cries full of sorrow, anguish, and fear. As the confusion flashes across their faces, all you can do is weep harder, and louder.

“Wait a minute, I thought you would be happy.” Maria’s hands reach for yours and she holds them tightly as she tries to understand what it is that is causing such a negative reaction. “You and Luke tried for a really long time to have another baby. Why are you so upset?” She keeps her voice calm, kind. Warm. It wasn’t that she was judging you—Maria wants to help you, however there’s no way for her to help you if she doesn’t know what’s causing your grief in the first place. “What’s the matter, honey? Are you afraid after what happened last time?”

“I can’t be pregnant,” you rasp out. “I can’t—”

“Hey now, it’s alright. C’mere.” Tommy shifts and he moves to sit down beside you against the wall. His arm drapes around your trembling shoulders in an effort to comfort you. As your entire body shudders with sobs, he pulls you close against his side, rubbing your arm with his hand. Once they’ve subsided and little hiccups are all that are left, he finally speaks again. “You can talk to us, little lady. ‘Bout anythin’ that’s on your mind. We care ‘bout you a whole lot. Y’know that, don’t you?”

“Tommy’s right,” Maria nods. “You’re like family to us. You can come to us about anything. We’ll do whatever we can to help you, okay?”

You shake your head tightly. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

She lets out a small sigh and glances at her husband with a look of defeat. “I think you should run down to the clinic and get Luke. He’ll know what to do to calm her down.”

“No!” you shout loudly, startling them both. “I—Luke can’t find out that I’m pregnant. He just can’t know, or else—” A fresh batch of tears spring forward as you clamp a hand over your mouth, muffling another wail.

“Or else what?” Maria asks, raising an eyebrow.

Or else he was going to fucking kill you.

Tommy grabs your wrist, gently tugging it away from your face. “Or else what?” He echoes his wife. “What is goin’ on? Is there somethin’ we should know ‘bout?”

Yet another sob escapes you and his fingers curl tighter around your wrist, firmly, but he’s careful not to be too harsh.

“We’re gonna need you to tell us what’s goin’ on.”

There’s no way around it. Around any of it.

You have to tell them. 

Swallowing harshly, you admit, “There is.”

The couple waits expectantly.

“The baby isn’t Luke’s.” You mumble it so quietly and incoherently that neither of them hear it despite being in such close proximity.

Maria furrows an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“The baby isn’t Luke’s!” You cry out, yanking your wrist out of Tommy’s hand. “This baby isn’t his and that’s why he can’t fucking know!”

And just like that, the truth comes tumbling out.

Luke’s violence towards you.

Your romantic affair with Joel.

Ellie discovering the abuse and telling him about it.

Your stubborn refusal to let either of them do anything to help you.

You spare no details of everything that had taken place over the last several months, and by the time you had finally finished, both Tommy and Maria were rendered completely speechless.

“Can one of you say something? Please? Anything at all?” Your voice is small, feeble.

After a minute, Tommy pulls his arm from around your shoulders and stands up. He helps Maria up to her feet before he extends his hand to you. “Alright, first thing’s first. Let me get you up off this floor, little lady.”

His voice is soft, and so is his gaze.

“Tommy how can you—after everything that I’ve done? Your brother—”

“Please. Just let me help you off the floor and then we can talk ‘bout it. Okay?”

You accept his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Much to your surprise, he doesn’t let it go as he leads you out of the bathroom and back into the living room where he sits you down on the couch. Maria, who hasn’t said a single word, takes a seat beside you.

Tommy kneels down in front of you, placing a warm and gentle hand on your leg. He almost looks a little bit guilty, as if he should have known what was being done to you behind closed doors. “Look, m’gonna ask you a question and I need an honest answer. How long has he been doin’ this to you?”

Anxiously, you start wringing your hands in your lap.

“Tommy, I can’t. Please, don’t—”

“Tell me,” he encourages you, softly. “When did it first start?”

Your throat bobs. “Two months after my dad died,” you confess, another tear rolling down the side of your face.

Maria stiffens. “Luke has been putting his hands on you for two years?”

“Yes.”

You can hear the shame in your own voice—shame for letting the abuse go on as long as it has, for everything to come to light like this.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Tommy sighs heavily and hangs his head. “Joel told me. He fuckin’ told me.”

You wipe at your swollen eyes with your forearm.

“What are you talking about, Tommy?”

He sighs again.

“Months ago, the day after the big summer party,” he begins to explain. “We were at the bar. Joel was askin’ me ‘bout you and Luke. Said somethin’ just wasn’t right when he saw you two together for the first time. He tried to tell me somethin’ was wrong and I—I didn’t fuckin’ believe him. Told him he was seein’ what he wanted to see ‘cause I knew he liked you. I fuckin’ told him that you and Luke were happy. He tried to tell me and I didn’t fuckin’ listen to him.”

“Tommy, please don’t blame yourself for this,” you beg him. “I’m the one who chose to hide it. This is my own fault, okay? This is all on me, not on you.”

Maria furiously shakes her head. “It’s not your fault and it sure as hell isn’t on you. You’re the victim here.”

Victim. 

The word makes you cringe.

“But it is my fault, Maria. I hid it from you guys for two fucking years.”

“But why? Why did you hide it? Why didn’t you come to us?” Tommy’s voice is strained. “You should’ve told us what he was doin’ to you. We—I could’a done somethin’ to stop it. I could’a helped you.”

“Because. I didn’t want to risk getting him thrown out of the community. Jackson needs him, Tommy.”

“Like hell we do,” Tommy rises to his feet. “Ain’t no way that we’re gonna tolerate that fuckin’ shit here.” With his hands curled tightly into fists, he spins around and starts heading towards the front door.

You stand and chase after him, catching him just as he opens it. “Where the hell are you going?”

“To confront that pathetic son of a bitch—”

“Tommy, please! Don’t do that.” Grabbing his arm, you shoot him a pleading look. “Please, think about this for a minute.”

“Ain’t nothin’ for me to fuckin’ think ‘bout, alright?”

“Yes, there fucking is! This town needs a doctor. They need Luke—Maria needs Luke.” You glance over at her just as she appears in the hallway with both hands on her belly. “God forbid that something goes wrong—she goes into preterm labor or she has a complication when she gives birth. Did you think about that?”

“We’ve got two nurses,” he reminds you.

“Two nurses who only know basic neonatal care. That’s it. If something serious happens, Maria’s going to need Luke. And the baby’s going to need him too.”

You knew you’d gotten your point across when Tommy turns to his wife, helplessly.

“Fuck,” he curses, slamming the door shut. “She’s right. I fuckin’ hate to say it, but she’s right ‘bout that.”

“I am right,” you state and his attention flits back to you. “Luke has to stay and you both know that as well as I do. For the good of Jackson, he has to stay.”

Conflicted, Tommy growls out in frustration. “So what, I’m just s’pposed to give him a fuckin’ pass? How the hell can you expect us—how can you expect me to let that motherfucker walk around this place knowin’ what he’s been doin’ to you over these last two years?”

Your fingers dig into his arm, a fresh batch of hot tears stinging your eyes. “Tommy, if this community suffers without Luke because of me, it will destroy me. The guilt will fucking destroy me.”

Finally, Maria decides to step in. “Listen, I know that you’re trying to look out for the people of this town and I get that. But you’re risking your own life by asking us to let him stay here.” She walks over to you, taking your hands in hers. “Honey, I know men like Luke because I used to prosecute men like Luke. I would take them to court on murder charges.” Her eyes find yours. “I don’t want to scare you, but if that is the only way for me to get through to you, then I will sit you down and I will tell you all about what happened to the women who swore to me their abusive husbands would never, ever take it that far.”

You swallow harshly and a chill runs up your spine.

“I’ll leave,” you squeak. “I’ll leave him.”

“And what if he doesn’t let you walk away?”

Tommy crosses his arms over his chest. “He will if I’m the one who fuckin’ talks to him. I ain’t gonna give him the choice. He has to let her go.”

Panicked, you furiously shake your head. “No! I can do this on my own, Tommy. I can handle him alone. I don’t need you to do it for me. I can fix this without your help, okay?”

“You can’t,” he says, firmly. “You just can’t.”

“Yes, I can—”

He cuts you off with a pleading look.

“You need to let us help you. Please. Let us help you.”

You had agreed to it, but only on one condition.

“I need a couple of days,” you’d told them.

Tommy frowned. “No. It’s happenin’ tonight. We’re gonna talk to Luke, you’re gonna pack up a couple bags, and we’re gettin’ you away from him. You can stay here with us for a while. You’ll be safe.” Taking notice of the shocked look on your face, he said, “I know you ain’t crazy enough to think I’m gonna let you go home to him tonight. Ain’t no way in hell.”

“I—this is all happening so fast. It’s too overwhelming, Tommy. I just need a day or two to process everything before I take that leap.”

“And give Luke the fuckin’ chance to hurt you again?”

“He hasn’t laid a finger on me in weeks now.”

Tommy scoffed, “Well, someone give him a fuckin’ medal!” He exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “He hasn’t hit his wife in weeks! What a fuckin’ guy!”

You recoiled, his sarcasm stinging like he’d poured salt straight into the open wound.

“Tommy,” Maria glared at him. “Not helping.”

He immediately shot you an apologetic look.

“Shit. Sorry, little lady. I’m just real worried ‘bout you. I don’t like the idea of you goin’ home to him tonight, and much less knowin’ that you’re pregnant, y’know?” His eyes had fallen to your stomach with sudden curiosity. “When, uh—when do you plan on tellin’ Joel ‘bout the baby, anyway?”

Heat flooded your face and neck.

“I—I’m not really sure about that yet.”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy! She just told you that she’s feeling overwhelmed,” Maria chastised him. “Let’s take it one step at a time, okay? Our first priority is going to be to get her out of that house. She has already agreed to letting us help her, so I think there’s a bit of room for compromise. Here’s the deal.” She put a hand on your shoulder. “As much as I don’t want to let you go home to him tonight either, I’m going to allow it so you can take a breather. Tomorrow in the afternoon when you get home from work duty, I’ll come over and help you pack some clothes and necessities, and we can bring them over here to our place.”

Nervously chewing your lower lip, you asked, “And then what?”

“I’ll go confront Luke,” Tommy stated. “Best if you ain’t there when I talk to him, little lady.” He turned to Maria, placing a hand on her belly. “I don’t want you to be there either, sweetheart. I ain’t takin’ any chances and puttin’ you and the baby under stress so I’m gonna have to handle him alone, alright?”

Maria nodded, shifting her attention back to you. “So? Do we have a deal?”

Meekly, you had nodded in agreement. “Yes. We have a deal.”

The rest of that evening passes by in a blur.

Autopilot had taken over the moment that Tommy took you across the road and dropped you off at your door.

“Any problems, you come get me,” he’d said. “You come and get me. No matter what time it is, alright? You fuckin’ come and get me if he tries anythin’.”

All that you could do was give him a weak nod and then you’d turned around, slipping into the house.

You don’t remember cooking dinner.

You don’t remember looking at the clock, noticing it was well past dinnertime and realizing that Luke would be home late as usual. You don’t remember fixing him a plate and leaving it on top of the stove for him to find when he came home, storing all of the leftovers, and washing the small pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

You don’t remember heading upstairs afterwards, you don't remember taking a long shower, brushing your teeth or changing into your pajamas.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the bedroom door opened and Luke walked in, that autopilot finally disengaged.

“You’re still up?”

You’d been sitting on the foot of the bed anxiously picking at your fingernails without even realizing it until he glared at you—he’d always hated the habit and spent months smacking it out of you.

Ceasing from messing with your hands, you drop them into your lap.

“You’re home really late again,” you say, quietly.

“I made a last minute house call. John’s little boy came down with a hell of a fever tonight.” Luke sets down his satchel bag and shrugs out of his jacket—as he does so, you catch sight of the tiny, reddish purple bruise on his neck, right below his ear. Draping his jacket over a nearby chair, he arches his brow as if he were silently challenging you to confront him, as if he’s daring you to ask him who had given him a love bite.

You don’t care. You don’t care about what or who Luke has been doing over the last several nights when he’s been coming home so much later than usual.

Kicking off his black boots, he saunters over to you, his mouth stretching into a cruel, satisfied little smirk.

Oh, he knows damn well you’ve already figured it out.

He wanted you to figure it out.

“Spend the afternoon at Tommy and Maria’s again?”

“Yes. I did.”

“I see.” He hums. “She was telling me during her exam this morning at the clinic that you’ve been helping her knit some clothes for the baby. Is that so?”

“I have,” you murmur, looking down to avert his curious gaze as he stops in front of you. “We’ve been making blankets for the baby, too.”

Luke cups your chin, forcing your eyes back up to meet his. “Well, isn’t that sweet of you.” He roughly curls his fingers around your jaw, his thumb brushing along your quivering lower lip. He hums again. “Something about you seems different, darling. Been looking a lot prettier to me these days.” He lets go of your jaw and brushes your hair behind your shoulder, his finger skimming the strap of your cotton pajama top. “How long has it been now, sweetheart?”

Your throat goes dry, your lips parting in shock as Luke pulls it down your arm, his palm grazing over your skin.

No. This can’t be happening. He wants to—?

Without waiting for a response, Luke grabs one of your hands and places it over his belt buckle.

Noticing your expression, he laughs again. “Why do you look so surprised?”

“You—you haven’t wanted to touch me in months.”

Luke shrugs. “Well, what can I say? I’m suddenly in the mood for my pretty little wife’s cunt.” His grin stretches from ear to ear. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky this time. Maybe we’ll have a little one of our own running around this place. I’m feeling rather optimistic tonight.”

You’re going to be fucking sick all over him.

No, you can’t let him do this to you.

You can’t let him touch you.

He pushes your hand lower, right over his bulge.

“No!” Tearing your hand away, you jump up and roughly shove him away from you. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”

He stumbles backwards, but he catches himself before he can fall.

Your chest heaves a d he stares at you, bewildered at what you had just done. “I’m so sorry that whoever you fucked before you came home wasn’t enough for you, but you are not fucking touching me,” you spit at him. “In fact, you’re never touching me ever again because I’m leaving. I’m done, Luke.”

“Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me.” Your voice trembles—you can’t be sure if it trembles out of anger or out of the sheer terror you feel. Maybe it’s a bit of both. “It’s over, Luke. This marriage is fucking over. I’m not putting up with what you’ve been doing to me for the past two years. I’m not going to tolerate it. Not anymore. I’m not going to allow you to keep on hurting me.” Lifting your hand, you slide your wedding band off of your finger and toss it at him. It clinks as it lands on the hardwood floor near his feet. “I’ll be out of the house by tomorrow evening.”

“Let me take a guess.” He speaks calmly, much too calmly, as he starts towards you. The time bomb has started ticking. “You’re going to move in with Joel Miller and his feral little rat of a kid?”

Hands curling into fists at your sides, you seethe, “Where I move is none of your fucking business, Luke.” He steps closer and your courage starts to falter. You can feel yourself wanting to back down—the thought of your unborn child is the only thing that keeps you from completely losing your nerve. “Here is the deal. You’re going to let me leave and you’re going to stay the fuck away from me. If you do that, then I won’t tell anyone anything about the things you’ve done to me. It’ll be like none of it ever happened. We both move on with our lives. Separately. Got it?”

He draws closer and closer. Much too close.

“Oh, you silly, silly girl,” he tsks. “Do you really think you can call the shots? Do you really fucking think you have the upper hand here? That you can make the decision to end this marriage, just like that?”

Closer, until his chest brushes against yours.

“Luke, I’m giving you a fucking chance here,” you say, backing away until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. With nowhere else to go, to run, you fall backwards onto the bed, scrambling up towards the headboard. Your heart is pounding, too hard and too fast—would it give out before he even has the chance to get his hands on you? “Luke, please, just let me go.” Clasping your hands together in a plea, you beg him, your back pressed against the headboard, “If at any point in our relationship you loved me—if at any point in our marriage you actually cared about me, you will fucking let me go in peace. Please. Just let me go. Let me fucking go.”

Luke stands at the foot of the bed, his face blank.

Emotionless. There isn’t a single ounce of compassion in his eyes. No mercy. 

“Please,” you whisper once more. Curling both of your arms around yourself, you subconsciously protect your belly.

Luke reaches down and unbuckles his belt.

You watch, your stomach churning, as he slowly slides the black leather from the loops of his jeans.

“I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

“I mean it, Joel. Stay away from Luke.” 

Joel clutches his stallion’s reins tightly in his hands as the pair fall into a slow, easy trot behind Tommy and his horse, Ranger.

He follows his brother as he leads the way through the quiet, tranquil plains of Wyoming. Instead of scanning their surroundings for signs of potential danger, all Joel can do is think about you—that was all he could ever do these days, was fucking think about you and about that fucking night.

The memory plays over and over in his mind on a loop, torturing him day in and day out. It never fucking stops. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

“I mean it, Joel. Stay away from Luke. And maybe it’s for the best if you just fucking stay away from me too.”

That’s precisely what he had done. He had stayed away from Luke. And against his better judgement, he had stayed away from you, too.

“How’s it feel to be back out here?” Tommy asks over his shoulder. He tugs at the reins and gives Ranger the cue to slow his trot, giving Joel and his horse, Bandit, the chance to catch up and ride at their side. “Bet you couldn’t be fuckin’ happier to be off house arrest, huh?” he adds, a light joking edge to his tone.

After about four and a half weeks, Joel had made a full recovery, and he was cleared to return to patrol duties. Wanting to ease him back into the swing of things after so much time off, Tommy decided to pair up with Joel as his partner for that morning’s watch. The two took a route just a few miles west of the community, one that was scoured every couple of days since it was so close to Jackson’s main gate.

“S’alright,” he mutters with a shrug that causes him to wince. His shoulder’s still a little sore. Ellie had assisted with his physical therapy, badgering him every single night to do the exercises in some book she’d found in the town’s library with Dina’s help. He had full range of motion again, and that’s all Tommy had needed in order to allow him to return to patrol.

“You feelin’ alright?” His brother notices the slight look of discomfort on his face. “Shoulder’s good?”

“Any particular reason you’re bein’ so annoyin’ today?”

Tommy feigns offense. “You got fuckin’ shot, Joel. Just makin’ sure you’re okay. Jesus.”

Joel lets out a small huff through his nose. “M’fine,” he assures him. “Shoulder’s good. Still hurts a little and the cold weather ain’t doin’ a whole lot to help, but ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.” Sitting back in his saddle, he lets his thighs close around Bandit. “Whoa,” he utters to the animal, his fingers squeezing the reins as he signals for Bandit to come to a halt.

“What’s the matter? Why are we stoppin’?”

“This route’s clear, Tommy. We should turn around and go find the rest of the group. Check and see if the other routes are clear too.” Joel clicks his tongue, prompting Bandit to move again. He steers the stallion and starts turning around to lead them back east, but then stops once more. He glimpses over at Tommy, who hasn’t moved a muscle. Noticing the odd, pensive expression on his face, Joel frowns, asking, “What’s wrong?”

Tommy chews the inside of his cheek, his apprehension written all over his face. “Uh Joel, there’s something we need to talk ‘bout and maybe it’s best if we do it while we’re out here, just the two of us.”

Confused, Joel’s eyebrows pull together. “What is it?”

His brother hesitates. His lips purse together, a sudden look of regret flashing across his features.

“Tommy?” Joel prompts. “The hell’s goin’ on?”

Exhaling a heavy sigh, he states, “You were right.”

“Right ‘bout what?”

“‘Bout Luke.”

Joel freezes in the seat of his saddle.

“You were fuckin’ right ‘bout him mistreatin’ her.”

His grip around the reins tightens, skin stretching thin over his knuckles so tight they’d gone white.

“She was over at mine yesterday afternoon. Ended up tellin’ me and Maria everthin’ ‘bout Luke and what he’s done.” Rolling his lower lip between his teeth, Tommy pauses for a second before repeating, “You were right. You were fuckin’ right ‘bout that bastard from the start and I’m real sorry that I didn’t fuckin’ believe you, Joel.”

Joel’s mind begins to race.

What had prompted you to finally tell Tommy and Maria about the abuse? Did something happen to you that he didn’t know about?

Ellie had been pretty good about keeping him posted. He would ask her about you the very minute she’d walk through the front door after her shift at the stables and she would provide him a full report.

“She’s fine. She ain’t hurt,” Tommy reassures him, as if he’d read his mind. “We’re plannin’ on movin’ her outta the house later on tonight.”

“What?” Finally, Joel speaks, his voice rigid.

Tommy holds his hands up in defense. “Now, hold on. I need you to give me a minute and let me explain—”

“She told you Luke’s been abusin’ her and you just let her go back to him? Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me? Why didn’t you and Maria fuckin’ stop her?”

“Why didn’t you fuckin’ stop her the night you saw the bruise on her?” He shoots back at him. 

Joel stares at him, his lips parting slightly.

How did he fucking know about that? 

“She told us the truth ‘bout the affair too, Joel.”

“She did?”

“She did,” Tommy confirms with a nod. “I had a hunch, y’know. The day of the ambush, I thought I saw panic in her eyes when I told Ellie you’d been shot. Then I saw it again when she saw you there sittin’ on that table with a bullet in your shoulder, but I brushed it off. Thought she was just real worried ‘bout the kid seein’ as those two are thick as fuckin’ thieves, y’know?” Despite the serious nature of the conversation, he can’t help but let out a chuckle when he thinks of you and Ellie. “But now I know she was scared of losin’ you. That girl loves you, Joel. I know you love her too. I’m willin’ to bet it’s the reason you let her walk away that night. Why you kept her secret.”

“Jesus.” Joel exhales a shaky breath. “Y’must think I’m a real fuckin’ coward for knowin’ what he’s been doin’ to her and not doin’ a goddamn thing ‘bout it, huh?”

Tommy shakes his head.

“It’s a complicated situation, brother. She only did what she did for the good of the community. She’s still trying to do what’s best for Jackson, believe it or not. She, uh, she wants us to let Luke stay.”

“She wants you to let him stay?”

“Girl’s got too big of a heart. Doesn’t want the town to be without a doctor.”

“Ain’t no goddamn way you’d let him stay! After all the fuckin’ shit he’s done to her?” When his brother doesn’t respond, Joel narrows his eyes at him. “Jesus Christ. You can’t fuckin’ tell me you’re actually considerin’ it? Are you fuckin’ serious, Tommy? You and Maria would let that son of a bitch stay in Jackson? Knowin’ he’s spent two fuckin’ years puttin’ his hands on his wife?”

“Look here, alright? I don’t like the idea as much as you don’t, and neither does Maria,” he says. “But this ain’t exactly black and white, Joel. I really fuckin’ wish it was. But the hard truth is that Jackson does need a doctor, and unless one magically falls out of the fuckin’ sky, we ain’t got much of a choice here. My wife and child, they might need him, y’know? Maria’s considered a high risk ‘cause of her age. If somethin’ happens and there’s complications when she’s in labor, she and the baby are gonna need him. Our nurses, they ain’t really trained to handle things like that, y’know?”

Joel’s lips press together into a tight, thin line.

Of course it’s black and white to him—because he loves you. You’re his fucking priority. There’s no gray area for him. None.

But Tommy? His priority is Maria and their unborn child.

Joel can’t fault him for that, and he certainly isn’t going to try. But what about you?

“Listen, Joel. I know this is real fuckin’ hard, believe me I do. I care about that girl a lot, a whole fuckin’ lot. I saw her as family long before I knew ‘bout your relationship with her and before I knew she was—”

He stops abruptly, red splotching his cheeks.

Joel still doesn’t know he is going to be a father. Again.

“Before you knew she was what, Tommy?”

“Tommy!” A woman’s voice shouts. “Joel! Over here!”

The two brothers glance over their shoulders and see the rest of their morning patrol group heading towards them.

Tommy bites back a sigh of utter relief. That had been too fucking close.

He turns to Joel, lowering his voice. “Joel, I need you to listen, and listen to me real good. We’ve gotta take this one step at a time. First thing’s first, me and Maria are gonna get her outta that house. She can stay with us at our place for a while. She’ll be safe with us. That much I can promise you.”

“Then what?”

“Don’t know yet. We get her out first and then we figure things out from there. In the meantime, I’m gonna need you to stay calm, Joel. Please. Don’t go off and do somethin’ stupid, alright?”

That had been a lot easier said than done.

Joel needed to talk to you.

He needed to fucking see you. 

But his brother had been adamant.

“Don’t fuckin’ get involved, Joel. Not ‘til we get her out. I don’t want things to fuckin’ explode in our faces, alright? Let me handle this.” 

Letting out a heavy sigh, Joel leans back into the couch and looks down at the guitar in his lap—he’d just spent the last hour carefully polishing it in an effort to keep himself occupied. He thought back to that night you’d come over to gift it to him, how he had kissed you for the first time mere hours before you showed up on his doorstep with your father’s Gibson.

As he gives the guitar a gentle test strum, he recalls the request you made for him to sing you a song and a dull ache settles in his chest, right over his heart. He’ll sing you every song you want to hear, if given the chance.

Part of him is optimistic that he would get the chance.

You were meant to be his. He was meant to be yours.

He just fucking knows it.

Joel’s train of thought is shattered by the sound of the front door opening, and then loudly slamming shut.

“Ellie?” He calls out.

Her voice comes from the hallway. “Yeah?”

“C’mere, kiddo.”

Ellie grumbles incoherently as she walks into the living room, hair disheveled, clothes filthy, and her sneakers caked with muck from the stables.

Joel frowns at her. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Today was just really fucking shitty and while that was a great pun, for once, it was not fucking intended,” she sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you called me in here to ask me about her, I’d save my breath. She stayed home today. She’s sick.”

Joel’s stomach instantly drops. “She’s sick?”

“Yeah. With like a really bad cold or something.”

Putting down the guitar, he questions, “And who told you that?”

“Dina,” Ellie replies, looking puzzled. “She said Luke told her—” She stops abruptly as he jumps to his feet and immediately shoves past her, heading towards the front door. She spins around on her heel, following him. As he flies down the porch and starts down the road towards your house, she is forced to jog along beside him just to keep up with his stride. “What, what? What is it? Fucking answer me, Joel, what is it?”

“She ain’t fuckin’ sick, Ellie.”

“What do you mean she’s not—oh fuck. You don’t think she’s hiding out at home because—?” Ellie’s heartbeat stutters when the realization sinks in. “Luke.”

When the pair arrive at your place, they find a very, very distraught Maria Miller standing on the front porch, her hands wrapped around the doorknob. “Hon, I need you to let me in!” She turns and pulls the knob, desperately. “Please! Open the door for me!”

Your tearful voice comes from the other side. “Go away, Maria!”

The sound of Joel’s boots prompt Maria to turn around. “Joel,” she breathes out his name in relief. “I can’t get her to open the door. Tommy went to see if we have a spare key for the unit. He hasn’t come back and I don’t know what to do.”

“Break a fucking window, maybe?” Ellie snaps at her.

Joel silences her with a glare and then takes Maria by her arms, moving her to stand behind him. “Open the goddamn door!” he commands firmly, pounding his fist harshly against the wood. He can almost feel the way you freeze on the other side the moment you hear the sound of his voice. “Open this fuckin’ door right now!”

Ellie chimes in, “Come on, please open the door!”

“Go away!”

Joel continues to beat his fists against the door. “Show me what he fuckin’ did to you!” He shouts as he drops his hands to the doorknob, clawing at it as if somehow that’s going to do the trick and open the door. “C’mon! Show me what that fuckin’ bastard did to you!”

“Please, go away, all of you! Just leave me alone!”

“You know we can’t do that,” Maria calls. “You’re going to have to open this door and let us—”

Losing what very little patience he has to begin with in the first place, Joel cuts her off. “I will fuckin’ break this door down if I have to,” he threatens. “I’ll cause a scene and let everyone in this whole fuckin’ town know what Luke does to you. Is that what you want?”

He hears the lock click almost instantly.

Finally, you crack the door open and peek out to show them your face. “There, you fucking see?” Your face is blotchy, your eyes red and swollen from crying. “I’m fucking fine! Now fucking go away!”

You try shutting the door, but Joel is too quick and slips the toe of his boot in, wedging it between the door and the doorframe.

“Move, Joel!”

“Nope,” he says, keeping it planted firmly in place.

Not wanting to break his foot, you let up and he shoves his way inside with Ellie and Maria trailing behind him.

Taking a clumsy step backwards, you gather up the front of your knitted cardigan in your trembling hands, bunching it around your neck to conceal it. “Get out! Please, just get out!” you beg them through your sobs. “Please leave! I’m fine! Look at me, I’m perfectly fine—”

Heart hammering painfully against his sternum, Joel walks over and he takes your wrists. “Let me see. Baby, please. Just let me see.” His voice is raw, thick, as if he were on the verge of tears himself. He just knows he’s failed you, failed to keep all those promises he had made about never letting anything bad happen to you. He’s fucking failed. Again. He tries to find your gaze, but you refuse to look him in the eye. “Let me see,” he chokes out again, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast against the iciness of your own. “I’ll force you if I have to, so please just show me. Please, just fuckin’ show me what he did to you.”

Letting out another agonized sob, you drop your hands and let go of the material, letting it fall back into place at your sides and exposing your injury.

Maria gasps into her hands. “God.” 

“Fuck.” Ellie’s eyes widen in complete horror.

Joel drops your wrists, taking a step backwards as his eyes glaze over the severe discoloration around your neck.

He feels fucking sick to his stomach, but it isn’t until he notices the clear imprint of a square belt buckle on the column of your throat that Joel thinks he might actually be sick all over the floor.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

Luke’s voice suddenly echoes through the foyer. He stands near the front door, looking thoroughly confused—that is, until he sees you standing there, exposing what he had done to you the night before with his belt. The very same belt he’s wearing now.

No one has the chance to speak.

No one has the chance to think.

No one even has the chance to breathe.

Joel charges at Luke. He roughly snatches the collar of his jacket and pulls him further into the foyer of the house, away from the open front door so that he has nowhere to run.

You rush towards them. “Joel, stop! No!”

Maria quickly hurries to stop you, grabbing you by the back of your sweater. She yanks you back and out of harm’s way. “Don’t!”

Horrified, you watch as Joel slams Luke straight into the mirror hanging on the wall—head first. He pulls him forward, then slams him back even harder, the impact completely shattering the glass. Hundreds of shards go flying across the hardwood floor.

“Oh shit! Watch out!” Ellie jumps back as a sharp piece of broken glass lands between her sneakers.

“Joel, stop it! Please, stop!” you cry out as Maria grasps your arm to keep you from jumping in the middle of the altercation. “Stop it!”

But Joel is too far gone. Ignoring your desperate cries, he wraps one hand around Luke’s neck, holding him in place. His other hand curls into a tight fist and he starts delivering bone shattering blow after bone shattering blow to his face. “You wanna fuckin’ hit someone?” He snarls as the man’s nose cracks beneath his knuckles. “You wanna fuckin’ put your hands on someone? Huh? Then you fuckin’ put ‘em on me! C’mon, I fuckin’ dare you to put ‘em on me!”

Throwing Luke onto the floor, Joel climbs on top of him and he secures both of his hands around his throat. He feels the uncontrollable urge to do to him what he had done to you—only, unlike Luke, he doesn’t need a belt, and unlike Luke, he isn’t going to stop.

He isn’t going to let him live.

Joel squeezes Luke’s neck, cutting off his oxygen.

“How do you fuckin’ like it,” he hisses, irises going from brown to black as he presses harder on his windpipe. “C’mon, tough guy, tell me how you fuckin’ like it.”

Luke feebly claws and scratches at his hands, gurgling as blood starts coming out of his nose and mouth.

“Joel! Stop!” Tommy rushes into the house, his boots scraping against the floor as he skids to halt. Without hesitating, he jumps into action. “Joel, stop! Fuckin’ let him go! Let him go!” He reaches down to pull him off.

“Look at what he did to her! Fuckin’ look at her!”

Tommy turns his attention to you, and the color drains from his face. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes out, shocked by the mark around your neck. He has half a mind to step back and allow Joel to finish the job, but with you, Ellie, and Maria watching on in terror, Tommy doesn’t have a choice. He grabs fistfuls of Joel’s denim shirt and tries to tug him off the man he’s about to kill. “Fuckin’ let him go, Joel! Right now! That’s an order!”

Luke’s attempts to fight him off grow weaker. His face is beaten beyond recognition, and there’s a pool of dark red growing under him, dripping from a deep laceration he’d sustained from the being slammed head first into the mirror. His hands fall from around Joel’s wrists. He’s close to losing complete consciousness.

“Joel, let him go!” Tommy bellows. “Now!”

“Tommy, be careful!” Maria warns him, worriedly.

Somehow, he finally manages to peel Joel off Luke. He shoves him up against the nearest wall, pinning him in place. Behind him, Luke coughs and sputters violently, gasping as he frantically tries to breathe some air back into his lungs.

“Fuckin’ let go of me!” Joel growls, his eyes wild as he drives his fists into Tommy’s chest. “I’ll fuckin’ kill him! Let me fuckin’ go!”

Tommy cups Joel’s face in his hands and tries to meet his gaze. “Hey, look at me, I need you to calm the fuck down—I said fuckin’ look at me, Joel!” He demands. “I need you to calm the fuck down. I know that he fuckin’ deserves it, alright? Trust me, it’s takin’ all the strength I’ve got in me not to fuckin’ let go, let you kill the son of a bitch. Hell, there’s a part of me that wants to help you fuckin’ do it! But it ain’t the way we handle things here. M’gonna need you to take a breath and calm down, big brother. If anythin’, just do it for her sake, alright?”

Joel’s chest heaves, his breaths rough and ragged as his eyes flicker over to you. His heart sinks at the sight of you sobbing uncontrollably in Ellie and Maria’s arms.

Groaning, Luke rolls over onto his stomach and spits a mouthful of blood into the floor. “You can fucking have her,” he rasps, looking up at Joel through swollen eyes. “Keep her. Keep the useless little whore.”

Blinded by white hot rage, Joel starts thrashing around in Tommy’s grasp and tries to break loose. “Fuckin’ call her that again you fuckin’ son of a bitch—”

“Shit.” Dropping her arms from around you, Ellie steps forward, standing protectively in front of both you and Maria.

“Get the fuck off me, Tommy! M’gonna fuckin’ kill him!”

Maria tucks your face into her shoulder. “Don’t watch.”

“Joel, fuckin’ stop it already!” Tommy struggles to keep him in place. “You’re scarin’ her half to death!”

“I don’t fuckin’ care—”

Tommy’s fingers curl around the collar of his shirt. He slams Joel back against the wall so hard, the mirror, or at least what’s left of it, falls. The square frame breaks in half when it hits the floor.

“Well, you should fuckin’ care! She’s pregnant, Joel.”

You lift your head from Maria’s shoulder. “Tommy.”

Ellie spins around on her heel to face you. She stares at you with wide, round eyes. “You’re fucking pregnant?”

Joel looks over at you. Just as shocked, if not more.

“What?” 

Tommy grabs his chin, forcing his older brother to look at him once more. “It’s true,” he murmurs quietly. “So please, just take a goddamn breath and calm the fuck down. For her sake—and for the sake of your child.” He releases Joel’s shirt and takes a careful step backwards towards Luke, who is still groaning in pain on the floor. Once he realizes Joel isn’t going to charge him again, Tommy turns around and grabs the injured man by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him up to his feet in a rough, careless manner. “Get the fuck up,” he says. He drags him towards the door. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“Tommy? Where are you taking him?” Maria questions him.

“Town jail. M’gonna throw his sorry ass in a fuckin’ cell and leave him in there ‘til we figure out what to do with him.” He glances over his shoulder. “I’ll get the council together for an emergency meetin’ tonight.”

“Jesus,” Ellie mutters under her breath as soon as they disappear. “Did this really just fucking happen?”

Chest still heaving, Joel glances down at his bloodied, torn knuckles and then turns to you, his eyes meeting yours. The tension between the two of you is almost palpable.

Maria lightly clears her throat. “We should probably get out of here,” she suggests. “Let’s head on over to mine and Tommy’s while we wait for him to get back.”

“Are you cold?” Ellie asks, worriedly.

She holds up a blue fleece throw blanket she’d dug out from the hallway closet despite you warning her not to snoop around the house while Maria’s in the bathroom tending to Joel’s hand.

Shaking your head, you sigh, “I’m fine.”

“But it’s cold in here.” She drapes the blanket over your hunched shoulders. “Can I get you something? Water? Are you hungry? You should probably eat something—”

“Ellie, please stop with all the fussing.” You pat the spot on the couch beside you. “Just sit here with me. That’s all I need right now.”

Nodding, she sits down and angles herself toward you, getting a closer look at the wound you’d been left with.

“Shit,” Ellie mutters under her breath. Grimacing, she lifts a hand and gingerly presses her fingertips to your neck in disbelief. “Fuck, dude. How bad does it hurt?” She touches a particularly sore spot on the column of your throat and you hiss in pain. She retracts her hand and sputters an apology, “Fuck, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Wincing, you assure her, “It’s fine. It’s just a little tender right now, that’s all.”

“A little?” she scoffs.

“Okay, maybe more than a little,” you admit.

Ellie observes you for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“It’ll heal, Ellie. It looks worse than it really is.”

“No, I mean—” Pausing, Ellie moves her hand, placing it on your stomach. “Is the baby okay?”

You glance down at yourself, almost as if you expected to see something different about yourself, but then you remember you’re only about six weeks along and there is nothing to see, no significant changes to your body. Perhaps it’s the reason why there’s a part of you having a hard time grasping that Ellie’s asking if the baby was okay. If your baby is okay.

After a minute, you nod. “Yeah, I think so,” you reply softly, putting a hand over hers.

Relieved, Ellie flashes you a small smile. “Good.”

“How are you two doing in here?” Maria appears in the living room with Joel trailing behind her. His right hand is wrapped up in a white bandage.

“We’re okay.” Ellie glances at Joel. “You okay?”

He gives a quick, subtle nod of his head. “M’fine.”

“We can take her home now, right?” When Ellie doesn’t ge the immediate response she’s seeking, she shoots him a tiny little glare. “She’s coming home with us, isn’t she? I mean, she fucking has to come home with us.”

He still doesn’t answer her question.

All Joel can do is stare at you, jaw clenched and his lips pressed into a tight, thin line.

“Hey, Ellie, how about we go into the kitchen and make some tea?” Maria beckons to her with her hand.

She snorts. “Seriously? Who the hell wants fucking tea after that fucking shitshow—”

Maria pins her with an exasperated glare. “Ellie.”

“Oh shit, okay. I get it now,” Ellie quickly realizes it’s simply an excuse for the two of them to leave the room. Dropping her hand away from your stomach, she jumps up to her feet and wraps her arms around you. Her hug is brief, but full of warmth and reassurance, as if she’s silently telling you everything’s going to be alright. She releases you and follows Maria to the kitchen, leaving you and Joel alone.

Nervously, you stand up, your knees wobbling.

You feel torn—torn between wanting to run over to him and jump into his arms, and wanting to run away in the opposite direction to find somewhere to bury your head in shame. You’d promised him he had nothing to worry about, swore to him you couldn’t bear a child, and now here you were, carrying his and putting a responsibility on his shoulders he didn’t ask for. A responsibility that, surely, he doesn’t want.

On top of everything else he’d been through with you.

No, because of you. And now this?

Somehow, you muster up enough courage to speak.

“Joel,” you squeak his name. “Say something.”

“You sure you’re pregnant?” He asks, quietly. He stands across the room, making no move to come closer.

Swallowing harshly, you nod. “I’m sure.”

“How long have you known?”

“I only just found out yesterday,” you swear.

“And Tommy and Maria fuckin’ knew before me?”

It’s hard to tell if he’s angry or if he’s disappointed—not that either was a better option than the other.

“I was here with them yesterday in the afternoon. I got sick out of nowhere. Maria’s the one who suspected it and suggested I take a pregnancy test when I realized I haven’t had my period since August. After the first time that you and I—well, you know.” Shifting from one foot to the other, you continue to explain, “It never even fucking crossed my mind, Joel. I didn’t notice anything. I didn’t notice the symptoms. Missing my period, the dizziness, and the nausea. I was so busy trying to keep myself from fucking falling apart without you that it all went right over my head.”

Joel’s harsh expression suddenly softens.

“I took the test. When the results turned out positive, I just lost it. I fucking lost it, and I told Tommy and Maria everything because I was scared.” Your voice breaks, and a tear slips out from the corner of your eye, rolling down the side of your face. Several more threaten to follow, but you blink them back. “They offered to help me, Joel. They wanted to get me out of the house last night, but I was too fucking stubborn. I didn’t listen to them. I thought I’d be fine for one more night, but when Luke came home, he wanted to be intimate with me.”

Joel sucks in a sharp breath. His anger boils in his veins all over again. “And did he—he touch you like that?”

“No, of course not. I didn’t let him. I couldn’t let him. I told him not to touch me and I pushed him away.”

“Then what happened?”

“I told him that it was over. That our marriage was over and I was leaving. That’s when he took off his belt and he—” Gesturing to your throat, you start sobbing again as images of the night before flood your mind.

Luke had done pretty horrific things to you before, but this? 

This had been the worst of them. He almost killed you.

“Baby.” Joel rushes over to you and pulls you right into his arms. “Shh, darlin’. S’alright,” he soothes. “S’alright, you’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Whimpering, you met into his touch, the very touch you have been missing with every fiber of your being. “I’m so sorry, Joel,” you croak into his chest. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He pulls away slightly, peering down at you. “Sorry? For what?” Without even giving you the chance to answer, he assures you, “There ain’t nothin’ for you to apologize for, sweet girl. Alright?”

You let out a tearful scoff. “Joel, I’m pregnant. And it’s fucking yours,” you remind him, the guilt in your tone loud and clear. “Don’t you remember how worried you were about it? And how I told you that you had nothing to be concerned about?”

“Don’t put it all on yourself, peach.”

You almost smile.

Oh, how you’ve missed hearing him call you that.

“Look, this is on me too, baby. Part of me knew there was still a possibility, but I didn’t care. All I cared ‘bout was makin’ you mine every fuckin’ chance I got.” Joel’s hand cups the side of your face. He chuckles nervously and says, “Y’know, at one point, I kinda thought I was at the age where I’m shootin’ blanks more than anythin’ else. Guess we were both wrong, huh?”

“Joel—”

He cuts you off. “And if you’re worried I’m upset ‘bout you bein’ pregnant, you’re wrong ‘bout that too, darlin’.”

Surprised, you blurt, “You mean, you want the baby?”

Now it's his turn to be taken aback.

“Y’thought I wouldn’t want it?”

“Yeah,” you confess, sheepishly. “I thought you would be mad about this, if I’m being honest, Joel. I wasn’t sure if you’d even want anything to do with it.” Noticing he’d taken some offense to the notion that he wouldn’t want his own child, you exhale a small sigh and place a hand on his chest. “Come on, Joel, can you honestly blame me? When you were the one who was so damn worried about me getting knocked up in the first place? Wouldn’t you have thought the same if you were me?”

He grazes your cheek with his thumb. “Can’t lie to you, sweetheart. I probably would have.” Letting his hand fall away from your face, Joel takes a seat on the couch and pulls you down onto his lap. “Sure as hell wasn’t in my plans to have another kid in my fuckin’ fifties. But y’know, the idea of having a little one runnin’ around, it ain’t all that fuckin’ bad.” He pauses, adding with a faint grin, “‘Specially if he or she happens to look like you.”

Relieved, you lean into his chest, shoulders sagging in exhaustion. 

“You alright?” Joel murmurs, pressing a kiss into your hair.

Burying your face into his neck, you breathe him in. “I am now that I’m with you,” you confess as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tighter than he ever has before.

“M’gonna take real good care of you, darlin’. Both of you,” Joel reassures you, softly. “Nothin’s gonna hurt you, baby. S’long as you’re with me, nothin’ or no one is ever gonna hurt you ever again. Swear it on my life.”

[tinypandacakes]

Trapper, Keeper — Ch. 16: Always

Tags: dubious consent, dark romance, power imbalance, gaslighting, manipulation, yandere, Stockholm syndrome, injury recovery, fluff and smut, slice of life, implied non-consensual drug use, size difference, gratuitous use of pet names, metaphors, and descriptions of König's eyes

Wc: 16k [172k total]

When it was time for König to prepare dinner, you hovered at his elbow like a nosy housecat, tail wrapped around his calf as you signaled a need for attention. You were close enough that your hand brushed against the side of his sweatpants, and your clammy fingers instinctively gripped at the material. Eventually, he glanced over his shoulder at you, head tilting in question.

“Do you need something, Hase?”

You blinked, chastised, even though his tone was gentle. “No,” you replied, unsure. “I dunno.”

König let out a soft sigh. It was an affectionate sound, airy and light, not annoyed — otherwise, you might have burst into tears on the spot, as fragile as you felt — but like the kind of noise he might have uttered to a lamb, bleating sadly with its tiny hoof caught in a fence.

He lifted you onto the counter beside him, and you settled in, hands retreating into your too-long sleeves. Sitting there might have been awkward, but he pressed a cookbook into your lap, offering you something to do. You kept a thumb between the pages he needed and flipped through while your sock-covered feet dangled over the cabinets, lightly tapping the wood. Some of the age-yellowed pages were moisture-damaged from spills or speckled with spattered sauces. The corners were discolored from spice-dusted fingers, evidence of recipes well-loved, cooked again and again until they were committed to memory.

König tucked up his hood and brought a spoonful of sauce up to his pursed lips, blowing gently over the steaming surface. He tasted thoughtfully then licked away a stray droplet at the corner of his mouth, swiping his lips clean, leaving them soft and damp.

You realized you were staring and looked away quickly, busying yourself by flicking through to the dessert section of the cookbook. But your eyes soon drifted from the cakes and pastries back to König, hunched over the stove. His forearms flexed as he slid a pan back and forth across the flame, skin and scar shifting enticingly over muscle and bone. The swell of his pecs and softness of his belly were faintly outlined by his shirt, soft cotton clinging, offering a preview of what lay below. Something deep inside of you heated up just like the pad of butter he added to the skillet, melting and sizzling across the surface.

This was dangerous.

His hood fell back over his mouth and beard, excess fabric pooling around his shoulders. You squeezed your thighs together, subtly chasing relief. He didn’t get fully undressed before you often — or ever, had he? No, only bits and pieces here and there, other than the time you'd spied on him as he got dressed after his shower. You felt just as lecherous now as you did then, eyes drifting lower, below the waistband of his sweatpants where the curve of his ass was unmistakable through the fleece.

“See anything you like?” König asked, eyes darting to you in a sideways glance.

“Oh, I—” You jolted at his words, eyes snapping up. Your mouth dried in an instant, coherent thought evaporating just as quickly. “Sorry?”

He nodded toward the book in your hands. “The recipes,” he offered. “Did you find one you like?”

“Um, yeah,” you replied absently, realizing you were at the index now, not even on a recipe anymore. You swiped back a few pages before he noticed, landing on a carefully decorated cake. “Well. They…all sound good.” You cringed inside, sure you looked as foolish as you sounded.

“I should have known you would go right to dessert.” His eyes flicked from the page to your face. “Craving something sweet, little one?” His eyes narrowed with an unseen smile, but you could hear the mirth in his voice, a gentle tease that brought heat to life across your cheeks like stoked coals.

You stared numbly down at the cake recipe you’d landed on, then back up at him. He leaned forward, just barely invading your space. Your chin was already tilting of its own accord, eager to agree with him — yes, yes — pleasant and tame under his gaze.

“Mm,” he hummed knowingly, his eyes fixed on yours instead of the dips and swirls of chocolate icing and glossy red cherries printed on the page. He leaned closer yet, voice dropping as if he was letting you in on a secret. “That’s alright. I am too.”

You can the entire chapter on AO3 ☺️ please consider leaving a kudos and comment if you enjoyed it. If you’d like to support my writing and fuel my caffeine habit, here’s my kofi >:3 https://ko-fi.com/tinypandacakes

[ichorai]

cheesepie ; miles morales.

pairing ; miles morales x gn!reader

synopsis ; miles was the warm kind of nostalgia, like playing video games at three in the morning while whisper-yelling insults at each other, or dyeing each other’s hair horrendous bright colors in his tiny bathroom with cheap dye from the drugstore down the street, or standing on his apartment’s rooftop to stargaze the light-polluted sky of brooklyn.

words ; 3.1k

themes ; childhood friends to kinda-lovers, fluff, mild angst, slice of life

warnings / includes ; cursing, miles' parents are adorable and i love them, lots of playful banter, a bit emotional near the end, let's pretend miles still lives at home with his parents and not at the prep school

main masterlist.

The tip of Miles’ tongue poked slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he cocked his hand back, a grape pinched between his pointer finger and thumb. “Lean back a little,” he told you, narrowing his eyes in concentration.

You did as he asked, jaw wide open, prepared to catch. 

He took another moment to readjust, and you rolled your eyes. 

Right as he tossed the grape, you barked out in frustration, “Just throw it already!”

The cold fruit bounced right off the side of your lips and landed on the floor with a quiet thud. You blinked in shock. 

Miles glared at you.

Then he smiled. 

“You’re a lousy catcher,” he said, boyish peals of laughter echoing from his chest. With a sigh, he collapsed into his bed, crossing his legs and propping his head up with both his arms. 

“Maybe you’re just a lousy thrower,” you replied easily, slinking across the room to sink into the mattress beside him, mimicking his position. 

The two of you were far too large for his small bed—his long, gangly limbs awkwardly knocked against yours and you had to bump your hip into his to scooch him further to the edge so you’d have more space.

“Stop hogging my bed,” Miles snarked with no real malice to his words—in fact, he was beaming goofily, watching you with amusement as you grumbled under your breath about how it wasn’t your fault his bed was so narrow. 

Your socked foot kicked him in the shin. He retaliated by elbowing you in the ribs. “When was the last time you changed your sheets?”

Miles stuck his tongue out at you. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Ew,” you said, but didn’t bother moving. “You’re gross.”

The boy laying beside you reached out to blindly ruffle your hair, nearly poking your eyes out in the process. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself.”

A comfortable silence stretched over the two of you, and you couldn’t help but revel in the overwhelming sense of nostalgia that clawed up your throat. The warm kind of nostalgia, like playing video games at three in the morning while whisper-yelling insults at each other, or dyeing each other’s hair horrendous bright colors in his tiny bathroom with cheap dye from the drugstore down the street, or standing on his apartment’s rooftop to stargaze the light-polluted sky of Brooklyn and crown new constellations stupid names like ‘Snail Eating a Peanut Butter Sandwich’ or ‘Darth Vader Wearing Lady Gaga’s Meat Dress’. 

It was the kind of nostalgia that made you miss a time that wasn’t yet over.

“Miles,” you whispered, staring at the bumps of his popcorn ceiling. He hummed faintly in reply. “Do you think you’re going to stay here for the rest of your life?”

When he didn’t answer, you lolled your head to your side to look at him, brows furrowed. You were surprised to see that he was looking right at you with an indiscernible gaze, as if he was in a trance of some sort. 

“Miles?” 

He only snapped out of it when you flicked his forehead, and he balked forward, yelping out in half-shock, half-pain. A sheepish grin etched plainly across his lips.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“Just say you weren’t listening to me and leave.” With a chortle of a laugh, you shoved your palm straight into his beaming face and pushed his head so he was forced to look away from you. “Nevermind, you idiot. It was nothing.”

You jogged up the narrow stairs to Miles’ apartment door, slightly out of breath, and rang the doorbell. No less than a minute later, his dad swung the door open, already dressed in his police uniform. A bagel was sandwiched between his teeth and his hat sat crooked on his head, which made you guess that he was probably late for work (Miles definitely had the same habit of being tardy), but he ruffled your hair nonetheless, smiling at you from around the bagel. 

“Hey, Mr. Davis,” you greeted with a mirroring grin. “Is the birthday boy home?”

He tried to speak around the food, but Mrs. Morales popped her head out from behind him, smacking his shoulder with a stern glare. “Jeff! That’s disgusting—don’t speak to them with food in your mouth!” She looked to you, her expression melting into one of affection. “Sorry about that, honey. Come on in, Miles is in his room. Wake him up if he’s still asleep, will you? I swear, that boy would snore right through a hurricane. Oh, and ask him if he wants cake or pie for his birthday dessert—and don’t take ‘I don’t really mind’ for an answer.”

“Will do, Mrs. Morales.”

Side-stepping the playfully bickering couple, you bid them adieu with a mock salute before marching straight to Miles’ room down the hall. 

You reached into your bag to pull out the can of silly string you bought from the corner store just beside school, biting into your lip with anticipation. You popped the bright red lid off before knocking on the door.

Just as it swung open to reveal Miles with mussed hair and droopy eyelids, you pressed the nozzle with a wide grin and damp pink strings shot out, covering his face entirely. He wasn’t fazed at all, going so far as to yawn when you enthusiastically yelled out, “SURPRISE! Happy birthday, dude!”

He blinked, swiping the limp strings away from his eyes. A hint of a smile cracked through his sleepy expression.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to at least pretend to be surprised.”

“This is, like, the fifth year in a row, Y/N.”

“You love it,” you crooned, before launching yourself forward to envelop him in a hug. Miles immediately reciprocated, wrapping his arms around you tightly, making sure to nuzzle extra hard into your shoulder so the pink gunk on his face would rub into your clothes. 

“Thank you,” he whispered into you. “At least you didn’t launch those fake cockroaches at me again. That was a nightmare.”

A cackle fell from you as you pulled away, pinching his cheek fondly. “Noted. Saving that for next year, then. Here, I got you some things.”

He pushed his door open further so the two of you could amble in. You sat cross-legged on his bed, pulling your bag into your lap and rifling through its contents before you pulled out a cheap glittery card.

“Hope there’s money in here,” he quipped as he took it from you. Bits of blue glitter fell onto his comforter as he pried the card open, and he shot you a glare. It was clearly a card meant for a seven-year-old child, but in bright red sharpie, the number 1 was drawn in front of the 7, with a little heart and a smiley face below. If you hadn’t been watching him so intently, Miles was sure he would’ve teared up at the sweet gesture—despite you doing it every year for as long as he could remember. His voice cracked with unvocalized emotion when he croaked out, “There’s no money in here.”

You scoffed, punching his bicep weakly. “You’re an ass. Here, I made you this, too. Had to watch, like, a billion YouTube videos to learn how to crochet these. You’re welcome.”

Alright, maybe it was less than a billion, and a lot closer to five. But Miles didn’t need to know that.

Digging into your bag again, you fished out a long woolen scarf that had alternating black and vibrant purple stripes. You threw it straight into his face before pulling out yet another piece, which Miles noticed was a soft, lavender-hued beanie. 

“You made these for me?” Miles asked in surprise, his thumb running over the soft yarn of the scarf. 

“Duh doy,” you said, wrinkling your nose in amusement when he wrapped the scarf around his neck with a goofy grin. “Here—this is the last thing, I swear—but, I also got these for you. I know you’ve been wanting them for forever.”

With one final scrummage through your bag, you pulled out a pack of premium coloring pencils, which Miles scrambled to grab, his wide eyes darting between the colors and your fond gaze. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you got these for me. They’re so expensive, Y/N, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Well,” you said, slinging an arm around him, “I gotta support local artists, you know? And you are, by far, my favorite one.”

He placed the pencils down between you, and roped you into another proper hug, quietly murmuring his thanks into your hair. 

“Your mom wanted me to ask you if you wanted birthday cake or birthday pie this year,” you whispered into him, playing with the tassels at the end of his new scarf.

“I’m kinda feeling cheesecake this year.”

“Cheesecake is pie, Miles.”

“Then why isn’t it called cheesepie?”

“Because that sounds gross.”

“You sound gross.”

“You’re grosser.”

“You’re grosserer.”

“That’s not a word.”

Miles sighed into your hairline, tugging you closer. The two of you dropped your childish bickering as if it had never happened. “Thank you—for all this. I know I don’t tell you enough but, I… love you. Blegh. It’s so weird being sappy with you.”

He kept his hand to the back of your head so you wouldn’t be able to see his eyes tearing up. You heard him sniffling, so it was really pointless, anyway.

“I guess I love you, too. Idiot.”

“Smartass.”

“Nerd.”

The two of you laughed into each other.

“Happy birthday, Miles.”

A month passed by in a breeze. The two of you had rarely seen each other through the days because you had been loaded with work and Miles… Miles was busy. Apparently. You weren’t entirely sure with what exactly, but you didn’t really want to pry. He was a teenage boy—they were allowed to have their own little secrets if they wanted to. 

But it was the weekend, and you missed your best friend. 

“Hey, Y/N,” Miles’ dad greeted you as he swung the door open. He lifted a hand for a high five, and you playfully pressed your knuckles into his palm as if you were fist bumping him. He chuckled at your antics, before speaking again. “Miles is at school—some sort of art club, I think. Or maybe it was a science convention. I never know with him nowadays. Gonna have to ask him once he gets back. You can wait for him in his room—he should be back any minute now.”

“Alright,” you said, ambling down the hall. You waved to Mrs. Morales in the kitchen before slipping into his room, shutting the door behind you softly.

You kicked your shoes off as you crawled onto his bed, curling into a ball and brandished your phone out of your pocket, texting Miles. 

yo bitch wya ur dad said you were at a science convention? bfr ik ur lying

After hesitating for a moment, you sent another text.

i miss you

You sighed, tossing your phone somewhere beside you and stared up at his popcorn ceiling. Boredom eating you away, you reached over to his table to grab one of the haphazardly strewn comic books, aimlessly flipping through the colorful graphics. You were wondering why the story was so familiar until you realized that this was your comic book that Miles had swiped from your room nearly a month ago. 

A loose sheet of paper fell out the back, and you sat up against his headboard, tilting your head curiously. 

Oh. 

It was a drawing of you. 

Your eyebrows raised as you studied the colorful sketch—seemingly done with the nice pencils you’d given him for his birthday—and looked like it was done in a hurry, but it was effortlessly beautiful nonetheless.

You were smiling widely in the drawing, holding up a peace sign. Miles had somehow even remembered the small scar across your nose bridge from that time when he had accidentally thrown a basketball straight into your face a year ago. 

“Oh, Miles,” you whispered softly, tracing the intricate lines with a finger.

As if on cue, the window beside his desk slid open, and in crawled… Spider-Man?

But Spider-Man—Peter Parker—was dead. The two of you had gone to listen to MJ Parker’s remembrance speech together a couple years ago. And Spider-Man had a blue and red suit.

This wasn’t Spider-Man. At least, not the one that you knew. 

The figure, frozen halfway through the window, sported a sleek back and red spider suit. 

And, you recognized with wide eyes, the lavender beanie was pulled over his head, on top of the dark mask. 

You blinked, scrambling back on his bed. 

“Miles…?” you asked tentatively.

Your best friend, the one that you loved ever so dearly, slowly slid into his room, and shut the window behind him, before taking the mask off. His hair was rumpled and his features were slightly winded, but otherwise, he looked just the same.

Words failed to cohesively stick together as you struggled to ask him a proper question. “What are you… why are you…”

Miles pursed his lips. “I didn’t want you to know. Not this soon, at least.”

“Know what, Miles?”

He let out a long sigh, before backing up to the wall. He then proceeded to walk along his walls perfectly horizontal, as if his shoes were somehow suction-cupped to the plaster.

“What the fuck…” you whispered, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. “Miles, what the actual fuck? Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming.” He dropped back to the ground silently.

“So you’re… what? You’re Spider-Man, now?”

Miles shrugged. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.”

“You have powers?”

Teeth sinking into his bottom lip, he nodded sheepishly. “Bitten by a radioactive spider a while ago.”

Hurt etched into your voice without you meaning to do so. “Why didn’t you tell me, Miles?”

“I didn’t…” he cut himself off, slumping into his chair. The brown of his eyes gleamed with inner conflict, unsure of what to tell you. “I didn’t want you to worry. So much has been happening, I just—I wanted you to be separate. I wanted you to be… away from all of that.”

The two of you were silent for a moment.

You squared your jaw.

“Okay.”

Miles looked up at you in surprise.

“Okay? What do you mean?”

“Okay as in—I’ll stay away from it all if you really want me to. Spider or not, you’re my best friend, Miles. Nothing will ever change that.” You pushed yourself off the bed to walk over to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, then promptly changed your mind, winding your arms around his torso and tugging him into a warm embrace. “But if you die out there… I’ll actually kill you. I’ll do it, Miles, I will.”

He laughed slightly, winding his lanky arms around you to return the hug. “I believe you. Thank you.”

“I love you,” you whispered, chin resting on his suit-clad shoulder. “Things are changing for both of us, Miles. And I need you to stay in my life.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, rubbing comforting circles into your back with his palm. There was a knot in his chest, and a lump in his throat. He felt the strange need to cry build up within him, but he kept the tears at bay for you. “I love you, too, you know.”

You hummed against him, sniffling slightly. “I know.”

“I saw your text. I miss you, too.”

“I know.”

“I love you,” Miles repeated, voice faltering slightly.

“I know?” you parroted, mildly confused.

He grasped your shoulders to pull you away, holding you at an arm’s length. The expression that melded over his handsome features was suddenly deadly serious. The abrupt change was jarring—it scared you. “Maybe not in a friend way, though.”

“Oh,” you whispered. You could feel your pulse thrumming beneath your skin. “I didn’t know that.”

A hot tear slipped down your cheek and your shoulders trembled as you staved off a hiccuping sob. Miles’ heart lurched, and he hurriedly swiped it away, afraid that he had completely ruined what the two of you had.

“Everything’s changing, Miles. You know I hate change. It’s all moving by too quickly.” Your expression crumpled as more tears began sliding down your face. “But I think I love you, too. Maybe not in a friend way. And that just… terrifies me.” 

Warmth from his palm radiated against your face even with the suit layered over his hand. He cupped your cheeks delicately, tilting his head as he studied you.

“Can I… can I try something? And if it doesn’t work out, we can just pretend it never happened and go back to being best friends. I promise.”

You weren’t stupid. You knew Miles wanted to kiss you.

“Okay,” you croaked.

And he did.

It wasn’t at all like how kisses were depicted in the movies. There were no fireworks, no explosive passion, and certainly no feverish desperation. Only bumping noses and gentle smiles and lips that tasted of salty tears. And it was perfect. 

“Hm. You’re a bad kisser,” Miles concluded in a joking tone, but dipped down to give you another kiss nonetheless.

You weren’t entirely sure where this left your relationship, and if you were being honest, you were a bit too scared to interrogate him for answers he probably also didn’t have. You didn’t want to ask for much—you were just happy to spend time with him and enjoy the last few precious remnants of teenagehood the two of you had left together. Miles meant the world to you, and you’d be damned if a radioactive spider got in the way of that.

Arching an eyebrow, you gestured to the looseleaf drawing you left on his bed. “And you’re a creep for drawing me without letting me know.”

Miles blanched. “I… hey! You were looking through my stuff?”

“It was in a comic book on the table. That you stole from me, remember?” Tugging him back to you, you leaned up to slant your lips onto his, smiling stupidly into the kiss. “Idiot.”

“Well, it takes one to know one,” he murmured against you, grinning so wide that it nearly split his face in two.

You shut him up by kissing him again.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I remember you wrote a thing where Crowley interviews Fellow for a teaching job, can we get a continuation of that? idk where Gidel would fit so yeah sorry

[Referencing this interaction!]

So tell me, do you wanna go?

Every morning was a new opportunity presenting itself in a gift-wrapped box. This morning was, perhaps, the grandest opportunity, the greatest gift, of them all.

From the moment Fellow had woken up, he had been a flurry of movement, almost as fast as the words he often spewed. Buttering toast for two (a luxury for them), packing a small bag of pencils (each of varying length), untangling the knots in Gidel's hair, tying the boy's shoelaces for him. He had also been up late redoing the stitching on his suit, ironing the wrinkles out, and searching for a matching pair of socks for Gidel. The first rule of making a good impression: dress to impress.

Even when they were out the door and rushing to the main school building, Fellow fretted. He smoothed out his shirt, redid his cravat over and over, wiped his glasses more times than he could count. (In fairness, that number still wasn't very high, but it was the sentiment that mattered.)

The imminent shadow of Night Raven College loomed, making him feel small and powerless. Here, dreams were made—and crushed.

Like his had been, once upon a time.

His mind blanked. It had run off and hid, shivering in a dark recess somewhere, wedged between doubt and despair.

He was brought back to earth by a warmth and pressure at his arm. Fellow glance down to find Gidel grasping him and offering an encouraging grin. His jacket and vest were oversized, and his tie sloppy, but he glowed with excitement.

“… You’re right, Giddie. What am I mopin’ around for? It’ll do me no good.” Fellow sighed, banishing his bad thoughts in that breath. “We should be celebrating! Today’s a big day for us. Our new beginning.”

Together, they took the brave first step into the foyer. Down the hallway and to the right, their first stop.

Again, his heart raced. Anxiety and fear surging, despite his efforts to keep them at bay.

Smile at the face of danger. Get tough when the going gets rough. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, he coaxed himself. You can do this. Show those snooty little rich kids what you’re capable of!

“Let’s go…!” Fellow bellowed, seizing Gidel by the shoulders. It’s SHOWTIME!”

They barged in, the door opening with such force that it slammed against the wall. Students startled in their seats.

“M-Myah?!” Grim snapped awake from his nap. “What’s happenin’, am I still asleep or what?!”

Beside him, the Ramshackle Prefect perked up. They waved at Fellow and Gidel, as if they had been expecting them all along, Of course—they had been the one to pass along a strong recommendation to the headmaster.

“Mornin’, teach! Mornin’, new classmate!” they chirped.

Ace groaned, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me. This is the guy they hired for the new Life Skills course?”

"H-Hey, don't be rude to the new professor!" Deuce hissed at his dorm mate. “Show some respect!”

Show some respect.

Respect! That’s right, he deserved it. He was among them now—amid the elites, instructing them.

Fellow straightened, marching right up to the podium at the front of the classroom. (Gidel followed him, only to be shooed off and whispered a reminder that he belonged in a desk. He scurried to a free spot in the corner, planting his supplies down.)

“Students!” Fellow announced, rapping his fox-tipped cane on the podium. His voice, loud and proud. “Your attention please!

“Welcome to Life Skills. As the name suggests, this class will focus on practical skills that’ll serve you well in life. I’ll be your instructor. The name’s Fellow, Fellow Honest—but please, please, call me by my first name!”

Deuce’s hand instantly shot up. “S-Sir, isn’t that kind of familiarity improper?!”

“In my classroom, everyone’s an equal. Myself included,” Fellow laughed, tipping his top hat at his bewildered audience. “Let’s have fun together, shall we?”

“Wow,” Deuce murmured raptly, seriously impressed. “The new professor’s so chill.”

Gidel and Yuu clapped excitedly for him. Ace rolled his eyes.

“This is gonna be a long semester.”

[moonstruckme]

Burnt Out

summary: when you're overworking yourself trying to please everyone, Remus wants you to take some time for yourself

cw: mention of not eating, exhaustion 

Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

Remus is reading in your bedroom when he hears the door open, screaming on its hinges, and slam shut. Just that noise lets him know what kind of day you’re having, but he gets up and moves towards the sound anyway, eager to see you.

“Dove?” he calls as he enters the kitchen, where he finds you already surrounded by sandwich supplies, slathering jelly onto a piece of bread you’ve placed directly onto the counter in your rush.

You turn around at his voice. “Remus, hi!” You beam, surging toward him. 

He catches you as you stumble, clipping your hip on the corner of the counter, and a soft, sympathetic hiss escapes him. “Careful,” he murmurs, covering the spot with his hand protectively as you press yourself to his chest, your arms winding around his neck. Remus brings his other hand to the center of your back, squeezing gently, and he wishes he could pour his affection into you this way, through the palm of his hand. 

“Sorry,” you say into his neck, though he’s unsure why you’re apologizing to him. It’s your poor hip that’s been slighted. “I didn’t know you were home.” 

“I haven’t been here long,” he assures you. 

You pull back, brushing your lips against his in a kiss that feels like it’s over before it’s begun, and he tries in vain to hold onto you as you move away. You resume rushing around the kitchen, letting cabinets and drawers bang shut behind you. Ordinarily you move almost silently, always easing the front door shut behind you and moving around the apartment on socked feet, much to Remus’ amusement when he comes into the living room to find you curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and dinner already in the oven, and he wasn’t even aware you were home. But on your busiest days, you turn into this—what he’s affectionately dubbed your Tornado of Productivity—and the time it takes to be your usual quiet, careful self simply doesn’t serve your goal of functioning at maximum efficiency. You’d been in this state for the last few days, never seeming to have more than a few minutes’ break between work and school and the myriad of social obligations Remus suspects you only agree to because of the guilt you’ve associated with the word “no.”

“How was your day?” Remus asks probingly. 

You blow out a breath that answers his question before you do. “Crazy,” you admit, washing a tomato in the sink. “I had a test at noon, and I didn’t study yesterday because I thought I’d have time this morning, but then I had to go in to work.” 

He feels his brow furrow. “Didn’t you work last night?”

“Yeah, but—” you absentmindedly grab a knife from the drawer, then another, until finally you find the one you need “—Mia didn’t sleep well last night, so I told her I could take her shift.” 

“Dove.” Remus tries to keep his reprimanding tone gentle. “You barely slept last night either.”

“I know,” you sigh again, and you sound so exhausted Remus wants to seize you and swaddle you in blankets so you have no choice but to rest. Get you in bed and kiss the crease between your eyebrows until it fades away. Give you the cosseting you deserve. “But she asked for my help, and—anyway, I don’t feel great about the test since I only had a few minutes to study right before.”

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. “I’m sure it went better than you think.”

You flash him a kind, if somewhat forced, smile. “Thanks.” You’ve just finished the sandwiches, of which Remus now notices there are three. Three completely different sandwiches: peanut butter and jelly, ham and cheese, and something involving lettuce and tomato. He can’t imagine what you need that variety for, but he rarely understands what you’re up to when you’re this scatterbrained. Your mission nearly complete, you seem to be short-circuiting in the middle of the kitchen, standing with your hands raised as if prepared for your next task and your features scrunched up bemusedly. 

“Plates?” Remus suggests gently. 

“No, sorry—I need, um—” You shake your head as if chastising yourself. “Tupperware. I need tupperware.” You roll your eyes, seemingly at your own forgetfulness. It makes Remus feel defensive, though to defend you against yourself seems like a conflict of interests. You open the cabinet above your microwave, reaching for the containers. “Marlene and Mary want to meet, but I haven’t had time to eat since breakfast…” You appear sheepish at Remus’ exasperated look, but he doesn’t interrupt. “...so I said I’d make us all sandwiches.” 

You’re struggling to reach the tupperware, and Remus nudges you out of the way, passing them to you. “Dove,” he says, using his new proximity to set his hands on your shoulders, preventing you from dashing off again, “don’t you think you need some time to rest? You’ve had a long day, I’m sure the girls will understand you wanting to meet another time.” You bite your lip, anxious at the idea of canceling on your friends. “And,” he adds lightly, “I wouldn’t mind getting to spend some time with you too. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you the last few days.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen, so instantaneously guilty he wishes he could take it back. “I’m so sorry, Remus, you’re right. I, um.” Your brow furrows, gaze moving over his shoulder to some faraway place, and Remus can see your overworked gears turning again, your fatigued brain struggling to solve this new dilemma. “I have class in the morning, but I shouldn’t be home too late tonight if—or, I actually have about fifteen minutes before I’m meeting Mary and Marl, do you want to hang for a bit now and then maybe walk with me?”

“I want you to take time for yourself,” Remus says firmly, though not unkindly. “I’m not trying to give you another task, love, I promise.” He lets his hands drop from your shoulders to where your fingers are fidgeting anxiously, easing his own between them. “But you’re spreading yourself too thin. Marlene and Mary love you, and that’s not gonna change if you don’t always have time to meet when they do.” You slouch slightly against the counter, beginning to resign yourself unhappily to the idea of staying in, and Remus kisses the top of your head sympathetically. “You can put your sandwiches in the fridge so they stay ready for you, and I’ll make us whatever you want for dinner. Pasta?” he asks, to sweeten the deal. 

Your gaze meets his again, your interest piqued. “That sounds amazing.”

“Alright, pasta,” he says decisively, smiling at you solely so you’ll smile back. It works, and he’s pleased to note that it looks a bit less strained than before. He begins herding you towards the living room, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he imagines he can see the guilt in your eyes slowly fading away as you let them droop slightly, giving into the relaxation Remus is peddling so persuasively. “And we can watch a movie, and cuddle, yeah?”

You hum assent, releasing a little sigh of contentment as you sink into the couch cushions and giving Remus your sweetest, most adoring look as he settles in beside you, covering you with a blanket. “Thank you,” you say, packing the words with enough sincerity to make Remus’ heart ache. “I’ll try to…cut back, a bit.” 

“No one will hold it against you,” he promises, knowing you need to hear it, “and if they do, send them to me for a scolding.”

You grin. “That would be a cruel punishment, I’m not sure I could do that to some poor soul.” You tilt your chin upwards, and he meets you halfway, the kiss lingering and sweet. You brush your thumb tenderly along Remus’ jaw as you pull away, and he knows what you’re feeling before you open your mouth. The same sentiment echoes through his chest. “I love you,” you whisper, like it’s a sacrament. “Promise you’ll still love me back if I meet up with the girls tomorrow and pencil you in for after?”

Remus huffs a laugh, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Alright, love, I promise.” 

[thelikesofus]

starting our forever, baby

9-1-1 on ABC | Buddie | 2.1k words | s7 spec, prev bucktommy, getting together, love confessions, love is stored in the kitchen

Eddie wakes up to a surprise visit from Buck and they finally talk about forever.

Read on AO3

Eddie wakes up to the sound of pans clanging in the kitchen and the smell of pancake batter and hot butter. Neither of these things is cause for alarm nor out of the ordinary but he is ninety-eight percent certain he went to sleep in an empty house. 

He rolls out of bed, shrugging on a sweatshirt and grabbing a pair of soft socks out of his drawer on the way past and to no surprise finds Buck in the kitchen.

“Hey! Eddie,” Buck smiles brightly at him as Eddie cautiously perches himself on a kitchen stool. “Good morning.”

Buck is bathed in sunlight from the kitchen window behind him, a halo of gold filtering through his soft curls, gel-free and touseled on the top of Buck’s head in a way that Eddie wishes he would let them be more often. “Morning, Buck. You’re here early.”

Buck bustles around the kitchen, pulling milk out of the fridge and grabbing a mug from the top cupboard, his body moving around Eddie’s kitchen as if it has been programmed with an innate sense of where to find anything and everything. He could be convinced that Buck knows his way around Eddie’s kitchen better than Eddie does. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just–it’s been a while, yeah? And I feel like I haven’t seen Chris in ages–I miss the kid–and I figured he was probably, if not missing me, at least missing my pancakes. I hope he hasn’t been letting you make them.”

Buck pours coffee from the pot into the mug, tops it off with the precise amount of milk that Eddie prefers, and sets it in front of Eddie before turning to the frying pan and flipping the pancake. “I know you’ve been improving in the cooking department–I can see it, Eddie, and I’m proud of you,” Eddie’s heart squeezes in his chest. “But pancakes are my department.”

“I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.” Eddie quips and Buck whips around to wave the spatula at him.

“Exactly!”

“Buck,” Eddie presses carefully because there’s a frantic energy fizzing beneath Buck’s skin, he can see it in the way he moves, the line of his shoulders, and the exaggerated way he swings his arms. “Christopher isn’t here. He’s on school camp until Friday.”

“Oh, right, I knew that.” Buck’s whole body joints to a stop like a record skipping on a turntable and then just as soon he’s back in motion again. “That’s okay! I brought lemon juice for on your pancakes, we can save the bacon for the weekend when he gets back.”

Eddie’s heart grows three sizes in his chest, threatening to burst out all over his kitchen and cover Buck and the bench top in a flood of emotions he’s spent the last month and a half trying to fold smaller and smaller until he can safely tuck them away beneath his ribs where it can’t hurt anyone but himself. 

“Buck?” The other man glances at him before turning back to the stove, giving a soft hum in response. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Buck grins at him again but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. 

“You’re buzzing, and not the good kind.” Eddie stands and rounds the counter, he leans against the other side while still giving Buck as much space as he needs. He presses again, softer this time. “Buck? What’s going on?”

Buck deflates and turns the stove off, removing the pan from the element and leaning against the other counter opposite Eddie. “Tommy and I broke up. I broke up with him, or we broke up with each other, I guess.” 

Eddie isn’t sure what to say. As far as he knew Buck and Tommy’s relationship had been going smoothly. They were a good fit, even Eddie could tell, as much as it sometimes pained him to admit. But he was happy for them. Seeing them dance together at Maddie and Chimney’s wedding had filled Eddie with a sense of pride even when it also left him feeling like he was walking with a permanent rock in his shoe—a phenomenon he could finally put a name to after a few long talks with Frank and an enlightening if not nervewracking night at a bar called the Peacock that Hen had suggested he visit for ‘research purposes’. 

“I thought you really liked Tommy?” Is what he finally manages to say once he unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“I do,” Buck says. His arms are still full of static as he gestures with his hands in that way that Buck does when he’s nervous or overwhelmed and he’s not looking Eddie in the eyes. Buck shakes his head. “I did. I did, and Tommy is wonderful but I think we both realized that it wasn’t going to last. He got offered a job, down in Mexico.” Buck pushes away from the bench, pulls two plates out of the drawer, and starts dividing the stack of pancakes between them.

“After the whole fiasco with the cruise ship, the LAFD decided they wanted someone on the ground down there as a sort of link between the Los Angeles rescue helicopters and the team down in Mexico City. They’re going to put him in charge of his own team and he’s been working towards some sort of promotion for ages so he’s really excited about it.”

“He didn’t ask you to go with him did he?” Eddie can’t help but let the question burst out of him. The thought of Buck leaving already feels like tearing out a lung but he also knows he’s in no position to ask Buck to stay, certainly not for Eddie’s sake. 

“He did, sort of.” Buck shrugs. “I think he already knew I wouldn’t say yes. L.A. is my home, I couldn’t leave the 118, I couldn’t leave Maddie and Jee-yun. Christopher, the thought of being anywhere that kid isn’t is just—and I know he’s not—but I still couldn’t. I won’t. Tommy knows that. He also knew that I wouldn’t leave you.”

“Me?” Now Eddie has to swallow down a lump of surprise. Eddie doesn't think that little of himself, he knows he’s important to Buck, they are important to each other, but important enough to be the reason Buck stays in Los Angeles while his boyfriend moves to another country?

Buck turns to place two plates, carefully stacked with fluffy, golden pancakes, each drizzled in lemon juice and sprinkled with sugar—Eddie’s favorite—on the kitchen island, and then he’s facing Eddie again only feet away in all his early morning glory and Eddie dares to hope.

“You.” Buck rests one hip against the counter and turns the full power of those bright blue eyes on Eddie as he finally makes eye contact for the first time all morning. “Yes, you, Eddie. Tommy is lovely and sweet and he has been so, so good to me for the last two months, we’ve been good for each other, I think.”

Eddie breaks the eye contact, he’s heard all about how wonderful and lovely Tommy is for the last two months and while he has been so happy for Buck, truly, it has also been agony. But then Buck is stepping up into Eddie’s space and gripping his elbow. Buck ducks his head until he can catch Eddie’s eyes again and follows his gaze until Eddie gives up on trying to hide from him. 

“But it was never going to work long-term, I don’t think it was ever meant to. He’s very sweet and we get along well but it never got any deeper than that. We made better friends than anything else.”

“Okay, so you ended it on mutual terms and he’s moving to Mexico?”

“Not for a few months but eventually he is yes.”

“A few months?”

“Next February.”

“February? Next year? Buck that ages away, why break up now if he’s not leaving until–.”

“Because it was time.”

“Time for what?”

“To stop lying to myself, to you.”

Eddie almost bites his tongue. “Lying to me? Buck, I am so confused right now. Did you hit your head? You do remember coming out to me right? You’ve been dating a man for the last two months. You brought a man to your sister’s wedding. Honestly, I am still living off of the high that I got from seeing your mother’s face when you kissed Tommy on the dance floor, that was—.”

“Eddie!” Buck laughs around his name and it’s the sweetest sound Eddie has ever heard. “Would you let me finish talking? Please?”

Eddie nods. “Right, yes. Sorry. Proceed.” He swings his arm out dramatically and Buck pinches the skin on the back of Eddie’s arm and rolls his eyes. 

“Eddie,” There’s a seriousness to Buck’s tone that Eddie doesn’t hear often. “I don’t want to presume anything okay, so if I’ve been reading this wrong then please tell me because I don’t want to make this weird, the last thing I want to do is hurt you or make you uncomfortable but—.” Eddie watches the tick in Buck's jaw tighten. “There’s something here, right? You and me?”

“Do you think there is?” Eddie whispers into the space between them, barely getting the words out past where his heart sits in his throat. 

“I dare to hope there is,” Buck whispers back. “I would like there to be. Eddie, you’re my best friend, you’ve been my rock for years and I love you more than anything but I also—I also think I might be in love with you, and I think I have been for a long time.”

“You think?”

“Like pretty God damn certain actually.” 

“Good, good.” Eddie nods, barely keeping the grin from breaking across his face. He can feel his lips twitching with the effort to suppress it. “That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He steps into Buck’s space and leans forward until he can press their foreheads together. Buck’s arm slides from Eddie’s elbow to around his waist and Eddie rests his palm against Buck’s chest, sliding it up until he can wrap his fingers over the swell of Buck’s shoulder and press his thumb into that divet in Buck’s throat where Eddie can feel the heat of him and the pulse of his heartbeat beneath the pad of his thumb. “Because I am definitely in love with you.”

“You never said anything.”

“I didn’t know and then I did but you were with Tommy and you were happy. I was happy for you.”

Buck breathes deeply and Eddie reveals in the way it rushes past his cheek. “What about you?”

“I’m happy now,” Eddie says and it’s true, and realizing that only multiples the happiness tenfold. “I’m so happy I could burst.”

“Happy that I got dumped again?”

“You didn’t get dumped, you said it was mutual.” Eddie squeezes his shoulder. “But yes, happy that you might finally be mine, that I might finally get to be yours.”

Buck leans back and when Eddie opens his eyes he finds Buck’s eyes glassy and brimming with tears.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Buck says and Eddie pulls him into his arms until they are chest to chest, chins hooked over each other’s shoulders and wrapped up in each other so completely that Eddie could not tell you where one of them ends and the other begins and it feels so right, so right to have Buck so close to him, for them to be one and the same. They breathe together for a long time, squeezing each other closer whenever the micro fraction of an inch between them begins to field like football fields of distance.

“We take this slow, we do it right,” Eddie says carefully, pulling back just far enough to cup his hand around Buck’s cheek and hold his gaze. A niggly part of his brain tries to remind him of everything that could go wrong, of everything they have to lose, but a bigger part of him can only hope for everything that could go so beautifully right. 

“We have the rest of forever, after all.” Buck’s smile is soft at the edges and it smoothes the jagged parts of Eddie’s worry. 

Eddie leans up and presses one gentle kiss to the corner of Buck’s mouth, allowing himself that much for now. The rest will come, he is in no rush for the rest of his life. On Friday Christopher will be home and they can make pancakes again. At the end of the month, Buck’s lease will expire and Eddie will finally have an excuse to never let Buck leave his house again. In February they will wave Tommy off at the airport and Eddie will get the chance to thank him properly. Soon enough they might get to dance at another wedding, maybe their own, definitely together, for the rest of forever. 

“Forever and a day.” He promises.

[uns4lted]

↬ ᴍɪꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ, ꜱᴛᴏʟᴇɴ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ.

ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ: ʀᴇᴏ ᴍɪᴋᴀɢᴇ (ʙʟᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴄᴋ) ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢꜱ: ʀᴇᴏ ᴍɪᴋᴀɢᴇ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴀɢɪ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ʜɪɢʜ ꜱᴄʜᴏᴏʟ!ᴀᴜ, ꜱʟɪᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ ᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴄᴋ, ʀᴏᴍᴄᴏᴍ, ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ, ꜱʟᴏᴡʙᴜʀɴ ᴛᴀɢꜱ/ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: - ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴀɴɪᴛɪᴇꜱ - ꜱʟᴏᴡʙᴜʀɴ (ᴀɢᴀɪɴ) - ʀɪᴅɪᴄᴜʟᴏᴜꜱ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʙʀɪᴇꜰ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ-ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ (ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ꜱᴍᴀʟʟ ɪᴛᴇᴍꜱ ʀᴇᴏ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ) - ᴍᴏꜱᴛʟʏ ꜰᴏᴄᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴘᴏᴠ - ʀᴇᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀɢɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴇʀᴇ - ᴀ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄʟɪꜰꜰʜᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴡ/ ᴀ ᴘʟᴏᴛ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ!

a/n: credits to @/chachachannah for the divider! also, here's my reference to keep you guided from the story! <33

word count: 4k+

You woke up to the sound of your alarm clock blaring at full volume, jolting you from the last shred of sleep you were trying to hold onto. With a groan, you slammed your hand down on the loud thing, desperately wishing for five more minutes—until the realization hit you like a truck.

Late. For the third time.

"Ugh, not again!" you moaned, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. There was no getting out of it now, so you stretched your arms above your head with a yawn, trying to shake off the sleepiness still clinging to your bones. You grabbed your alarm clock, and your eyes went wide—7:56 AM.

“Oh, come on!” you yelped, tossing the clock back onto your nightstand. With your class starting at 8:30 AM, and knowing how your track record was with morning rushes, you were in trouble. A third tardy meant community service, and you were so not looking forward to that.

You scrambled out of bed, taking a quick shower, threw on your school uniform, grabbing socks you could find and barely caring if they matched—then ran through your usual morning routine like you were on fast forward. A quick glance at the clock told you it was already 8:12 AM as you dashed out the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, a half-buttered slice of toast hanging from your mouth like some sort of bad cliché.

By the time you made it to school, your lungs were burning, and you half-jogged, half-limped down the hall to your class. You practically threw yourself into your seat, heart hammering in your chest, only to hear the dreaded words that made your stomach sink.

“You're late again. Ms. (L/N),” your teacher announced, staring at you over the rim of her glasses.

You let out a defeated sigh, sinking deeper into your chair. There was no point arguing. With a heavy heart, you accepted the inevitable. Five minutes later, a bucket and mop were shoved into your hands, and you were sent to clean the basketball court, which looked as massive as it felt unfair.

The gym was buzzing with noise, and you immediately noticed a group of guys playing basketball at the far end. Thankfully, they were mostly sticking to the main court, so you shuffled to the sidelines, hoping to stay out of the way. Grumbling under your breath, you dipped the mop into the soapy water, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

Lost in the monotonous rhythm, you almost forgot you were surrounded by other students. That is, until something, or rather, someone—caught your attention.

You looked up, pausing mid-scrub, your eyes widening at the sight of a boy with lavender-colored hair tied back into a small, messy bun. A few loose strands framed his face, swaying as he moved with ease across the court. He was laughing with his friends, clearly enjoying the game, and for a moment, you were completely starstruck.

He was… handsome. No, stunning. Actually, more like gorgeous in that “doesn’t even try” kind of way. The sight of him had you frozen, mop still in hand, staring like a deer caught in headlights. It was only when something hard smacked against your forehead that you snapped back to reality.

"Oof!" You yelped, stumbling backward and landing square on your butt. Your mop clattered to the floor, and you clutched your forehead in shock, rubbing the sore spot where the ball had hit you.

A shadow fell over you, and you looked up—right into those same lavender eyes. The boy was standing over you, a look of concern creasing his features as he crouched down to your level.

“Oh no, are you okay?” he asked, his voice a mix of worry and relief. Your heart did a weird little flip in your chest, and you could only manage to stutter a response.

“Y-y-yeah, I’m… I’m fine!” you blurted, flushing a shade of pink that was, frankly, so embarrassing. He gave you a quick once-over, clearly skeptical, before his expression softened into a smile that made your insides go warm and fuzzy.

“Alright,” he said, “but you might want to avoid cleaning while there are people playing. Wouldn’t want to get hit again, yes?” He chuckled, offering you his hand. You took it. Mind absolutely blank and he helped you to your feet like it was no big deal.

"Thanks," you managed, still rubbing your sore head. He raised an eyebrow.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yes, yes!" you insisted, probably a little too loudly. "Thank you… for, um, helping." You had never been so aware of your own voice cracking.

He nodded and gave a lighthearted laugh, shaking his head, then jogged back to his friends who were already teasing him for playing like a “hero”. You watched him go, feeling like a complete idiot for forgetting how words worked.

Your mop was dripping onto your shoes by the time you remembered what you were supposed to be doing. With a sigh, you picked it up, threw a last glance over your shoulder at the boy with the lavender hair, and dragged yourself out of the gym.

As soon as you were out of sight, you burst into giggles, replaying the moment over and over in your head. It was only then that you smacked your forehead with your palm.

“How could I forget to ask his name?” you muttered to yourself, feeling both giddy and frustrated. You just hoped, hoped, you’d see him again. It was a big school, sure, but fate had to be on your side.

With that thought, you headed to the storage closet to return the cleaning supplies, barely noticing the goofy grin that refused to leave your face.

You made your way back to your locker, still buzzing from the unexpected (and embarrassing) encounter in the gym. The dull clang of locker doors and the chatter of students filled the hallway as you spun the combination on your lock, half-distracted by your own thoughts. You couldn’t get that lavender-haired boy out of your mind, the way he’d smiled and laughed after the incident that happened earlier.

With a quiet hum, you opened the locker, grabbing the textbooks you’d need for the rest of the day. You were just about to shut it when, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him—the lavender-haired guy. He was coming down the hall, heading straight for the lockers like you weren’t even there.

Your heart skipped a beat, and in a panic, you ducked behind your locker door, holding your breath like he might somehow hear your rapid heartbeat from a distance. Peeking through the narrow gap between the door and its hinge, you watched him walk closer, your curiosity getting the better of you. He was focused on his own locker, not sparing a glance in your direction. You could feel your face heating up, but you couldn't look away—he was even more handsome up close, and the way the sunlight from the hallway windows caught the loose strands of his hair made him look… almost unreal.

You bit your lip to stifle a smile, hiding your face behind the door as you stole a few more glances. God, he is so handsome, you thought with a quiet huff, shaking your head at yourself. He rummaged around his locker for a few moments, grabbed a few things, then slammed it shut and turned to leave. You let out the breath you were holding, watching him go, when suddenly, you noticed something fall from the stack of books he was carrying - a small, thin card fluttered to the floor.

Before you even thought about it, you were moving. You stepped out of hiding, heart thumping in your chest, and picked it up. It was some sort of ID card. When you turned it over, your eyes widened, and you almost squealed right there in the hallway.

Reo Mikage.

His name is Reo, you slightly gasped, barely able to contain your excitement. Your face split into a grin, and you quickly slipped the ID into the pocket of your skirt, your fingers tingling with glee. You didn’t even care if this technically counted as snooping—you finally had a name to put to the face, and for some reason, that made everything feel a little more real.

With your new discovery tucked away like a secret treasure, you closed your locker and hurried off to class, making it just in time. You slid into your seat at the back of the room, right next to the window, and exhaled a sigh of relief. The teacher was already droning on about something boring and unrelated to your current fascination, but you barely paid attention. Your mind was spinning with possibilities.

I can’t believe I know his name now! Reo Mikage… The words rolled around in your mind like a song you couldn’t stop humming, and before you knew it, you were sneaking out your little diary and a puffy, glittery pen from your backpack. Thankfully, you were tucked away behind a sea of students who were actually taking notes, so you didn’t think the teacher would catch you.

As quietly as you could, you opened your diary to a fresh page, the paper crinkling slightly under your excited fingers. You pulled the ID card out of your pocket, glancing down at Reo’s photo. He looked just as charming on the plastic card as he did in person, and you couldn’t help but smile. It was so stupid, but the idea of returning his ID made your heart race. Maybe it would give you a chance to talk to him again��properly this time, without a ball bouncing off your head.

Giggling softly to yourself, you started writing in the diary, the puffy pen making little sparkly loops and swirls as you jotted down the morning’s events:

| August 4th: - I MET HIM!!! Well… kind of. I don’t even know if “met” is the right word, but it counts anyway :P His name is Reo Mikage, and he’s… honestly, he’s even more handsome up close than I thought he’d be. I can’t believe I got hit in the head with a ball in front of him (that was so fucking embarrassing), but he was so nice about it. I found his ID in the hallway, and I think… I think I’m going to return it after class. I just hope I don’t mess it up this time…

You underlined his name three times, adding a little heart next to it before you even realized what you were doing. Your face burned, but you were too silly to care. You closed the diary with a soft snap and hid it away in your bag, casting a quick glance at the teacher to make sure you hadn’t been caught. Luckily, they were still focused on whatever dull topic they were rambling about.

For the rest of the class, you kept sneaking glances at the ID card, memorizing every detail—his name, the small school emblem, even the tiny scratch near the corner of the plastic. Your fingers twitched with excitement at the thought of returning it, imagining how he’d look at you, hopefully with that same warm smile.

Okay, you got this. You cheered to yourself, your eyes drifting to the clock. Only a few more minutes, and you’d have your chance. You tapped your foot against the floor, anticipation bubbling up inside you like soda fizz.

Finally, the bell rang, and you shot out of your seat with a grin, feeling a rush of adrenaline as you tucked the ID safely back into your skirt pocket. You were going to find Reo Mikage, return his ID, and maybe - start getting to know him a little better.

It felt like the start of something, and you couldn’t wait to see what would happen next.

The day was finally over, and you found yourself lingering in the hallway, practically glued to the spot near the lockers where you’d last seen Reo. His ID card felt like it was burning a hole in your pocket, and you fidgeted with the hem of your skirt, glancing around nervously. You told yourself it was no big deal. just return the ID, thank him again, and that’s it. But your heart wouldn’t stop hammering in your chest.

Minutes felt like hours, and you wondered if you should just give up and head home when you saw him. There he was, Reo Mikage, walking down the hallway with that same easygoing smile, chatting on his phone as he approached. You ducked to the side, behind a pillar, and pulled out your lip balm, hurriedly applying it. You checked your reflection in the glass of the trophy case, making sure your hair wasn’t doing anything weird, then smoothed your uniform blouse for good measure and even adjusted the necktie.

Okay, this is it. You took a deep breath, steeled yourself, and stepped out into the hallway, ready to walk right up to him and hand back the ID like a normal person.

But the universe had other plans.

Just as you were about to call out his name, a group of his friends suddenly appeared, coming out of a classroom like they’d been waiting for him. They crowded around him, all loud laughter and friendly teasing, and you felt your stomach drop. Your confidence crumbled, and you spun on your heel, turning sharply back the way you’d come before any of them could spot you.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, hurrying back down the hallway. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and you didn’t dare look back to see if he’d noticed. There was no way you could approach him with his friends around. It’d be too awkward, and you’d probably just fumble your words again.

You went back to your classroom, feeling a mix of frustration and disappointment. Your backpack was still slung over the back of your chair, and you grabbed it without a second thought, not even bothering to check if you’d left anything behind. You just wanted to get out of there, away from the humiliation of your failed plan.

The bus ride home was a blur. You barely remembered the walk from the stop to your house, and before you knew it, you were in your bedroom, collapsing face-first onto your bed with a groan.

“Why does this have to be so hard?” you mumbled into your pillow, rolling onto your back. You pulled out Reo’s ID, holding it up above you and staring at his name. A part of you wanted to laugh at how dramatic you were being, but it was hard to shake off the sting of disappointment.

That was my chance, you sighed, flipping the ID over in your hand. And I totally blew it.

You dropped the ID onto your nightstand, feeling a wave of frustration. This was not how you imagined it going. You wanted to say something to him, to make a real connection, but instead, you ended up hiding like a coward just because his friends were there. You sighed, but this time - it was a heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling and feeling sorry for yourself.

But you weren’t about to give up. There were plenty of school days left to try again, right? You had to believe that. Reo didn’t seem like a jerk, and the way he’d helped you earlier made you feel like he was approachable. At least, when he wasn’t surrounded by his friends.

Rolling off your bed, you grabbed your bag and fished out your diary. Sitting cross-legged on your bed, you opened it to a new page, twirling your puffy pen between your fingers as you thought about how to start. The pen’s tip hovered over the paper before you began to write, feeling a little better with every word.

| August 4th: - Today was supposed to be the day I gave Reo his ID back, but of course, things didn’t go the way I planned. I saw him!! He looked even cuter though, but his friends showed up before I could say anything. I had to bail. I just couldn’t do it with all of them around… It felt too awkward. Maybe I’m overthinking it? Ugh, why is talking to a cute guy so hard?!!!

You paused, doodling a small frustrated face in the corner of the page, then continued:

- I brought his ID home with me. I know it’s weird, but I guess it’s a good excuse to talk to him again. I just have to get the timing right. There’s always tomorrow… Or the day after… There’s no rush. I mean, we’re in the same school!!!

You underlined the last sentence twice, trying to convince yourself that you still had plenty of opportunities. With a sigh, you closed the diary and put it back in your bag, feeling a little more determined than you had earlier. It wasn’t the end of the world—just a minor setback.

You stood up and stretched, glancing at Reo’s ID one last time before carefully tucking it back to the small pockets of your bag. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, you’d have a plan. A real plan.

For now, you decided it was enough to just dream a little.

The library was quieter than usual, the kind of silence that made you aware of every little sound. You stepped lightly between the towering bookshelves, scanning the spines until you found the ones you needed. Your teacher’s assignment had been boring at best, but at least it gave you an excuse to slip away from the noisy hallways. After gathering a few books, you finally spotted an empty table tucked away in the corner and made your way over, dropping your books down with a soft thud.

Settling in, you opened the first book and absentmindedly flipped through the pages. It wasn’t long before you felt the hair on the back of your neck prickle, a strange sensation that made you look up.

There he was. Reo.

Sitting just a few tables away, with his back to you. He was hunched slightly, absorbed in whatever he was reading, and his purple hair was the first thing you noticed, pulled back loosely but with a few rebellious strands framing his face. You froze, your breath catching in your throat. You’d hoped for another chance to see him today, but you hadn’t expected it to happen here, so soon.

Quickly, you dug into your pocket, fingers brushing against the cool plastic of his ID. Your first thought was to return it, but then an idea struck—what if you didn’t just return it? What if you confessed when you did? Your heart skipped a beat at the thought, and you couldn’t help but smile, a warmth spreading through your chest.

If I’m going to give it back, I might as well tell him how I feel.

You got so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t realize how long you’d been staring at him until, suddenly, he shifted in his seat. Before you could react, Reo turned halfway around, his eyes scanning the room—almost like he’d sensed you looking. Your heart practically jumped to your throat, and you ducked your head, burying your face in the pages of your book and scribbling down random words to look busy.

Oh my God. Did he just catch me staring?!

Your fingers gripped the pen a little too tightly, the ink smudging on the paper as you tried to steady your nerves. You snuck another glance upward, just to see if he was still looking. Thankfully, he’d turned back to whatever he was doing, completely unaware of your panic. You let out a shaky breath, slumping back in your chair and trying to calm your racing heart.

You felt ridiculous, sitting there like some kind of lovesick cliché, but you couldn’t help it. The way his hair caught the light, the curve of his shoulders, the calm focus on his face as he read. It was impossible not to stare. You watched him for a little while longer, but this time you were more careful, only daring quick glances between turning the pages of your book.

When it seemed safe again, you allowed yourself a tiny, relieved smile. Not today, you told yourself. But soon. You tucked his ID back into your pocket, making a promise to yourself that the next time, the next time for sure—you’d say something. For now, you were content just being close, even if it was only from the other side of a library table.

But little did you know, Reo had actually noticed. He’d caught you staring, and a small chuckle slipped from his lips as he looked away, amused by your flustered attempt to hide.

It was lunchtime, and the cafeteria buzzed with the familiar sounds of laughter and chatter. You sat at a table with your friends, enjoying your meal while they talked about everything from weekend plans to the latest gossip. You joined in, trying to keep your focus, but your gaze kept drifting toward Reo.

There he was, sitting a few tables away with his friends, their laughter contagious. It was hard not to admire the way he carried himself, he's so charming and full of life. Your friends were busy chatting, but you couldn’t help but steal glances at Reo, your heart fluttering each time he laughed.

As luck would have it, Reo and his friends soon finished their lunch. They got up, trays in hand, and made their way toward the exit. Just then, your eyes caught something shiny on the table. An opened sachet of ketchup, likely left by Reo himself!

A wild idea popped into your head. Without a second thought, you excused yourself from your friends. “I’ll be right back!” you said, trying to sound casual. You tiptoed over to the table, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. After all, you were about to commit a minor act of ketchup theft. With a quick, triumphant swipe, you grabbed the sachet and tucked it into the pocket of your skirt, feeling like a secret agent on a mission.

When you returned to your friends, you played it cool, sliding back into the conversation as if nothing had happened. They didn’t suspect a thing, and you could barely contain your glee.

After school, you hurried home, a bubbling excitement within you. The first thing you did was pull out your diary, feeling like this was a moment worth documenting. You took the now-cleaned sachet of ketchup from your pocket, holding it up like it was a rare artifact.

“Okay, time to unleash my inner artist!” you declared to no one in particular, grinning at your reflection in the mirror.

August 7th -Today, I officially became a ketchup thief! I might have stolen a piece of Reo’s lunch, and I have the evidence!!!!

Carefully, you took out some tape and stuck the sachet onto the page, making sure it was secure. You then drew little hearts around it, writing beneath it:

-This ketchup once belonged to the coolest guy in school! It's none other than Reo <333

With each word, you felt a sense of joy and silliness wash over you. You couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous this all was. You added some doodles of ketchup bottles and even a little Reo caricature, complete with his lavender hair.

Days had slipped by, and you still hadn’t made a single move towards talking to Reo. Tennis practice for your PE project had completely taken over, leaving you barely any time to catch a glimpse of him. You hadn’t seen him in what felt like forever, and each day without a Reo sighting only added to your restlessness.

But today was different. It was the day of the tennis match, and this one was graded, so you had to give it your all. The gym was buzzing with energy as both your section and another were joining together for the event, and as luck would have it, that other section was Reo’s. You could barely hold back a smile at the thought of finally seeing him after days of missed chances.

The first match got underway with the initial groups, followed by the second group—your group. When it was your turn, you felt an extra surge of energy, mostly from the thought that Reo might be watching. You were surprisingly good at tennis today, maybe because every time you looked up, you caught sight of Reo, and it pushed you to play your best. Sure enough, during a break in the game, you found him in the crowd, watching intently, which only made you play harder, maybe even a little showy, if you were being honest with yourself.

After your match wrapped up, you sat on the gym benches, catching your breath and taking a long sip from your tumbler as you watched the third group—the one with Reo. And wow, he was good, really good. Every swing, every serve, was effortless. Your heart was practically doing somersaults just watching him, and you found yourself leaning forward, totally captivated.

Once his match finished, you sat back, sipping from your tumbler, mind still hazy from both your own match and his. As you were trying to play it cool, Reo unexpectedly plopped down beside you on the bench. He had his drink in one hand, scrolling through his phone with the other. He took a long sip through his straw, eyes on his screen, but then, out of nowhere, he glanced up, catching your eye. And just like that, he gave you a small, casual smile. It was nothing—just a friendly look, really, but your heart skipped like it was the first time anyone had ever looked at you.

You managed a smile back, trying to keep your cool, but inside you were a mess of fluttering feelings. He stood up, almost immediately, his phone pressed to his ear as he answered a call and began pacing a little ways off. And just then, a ridiculous, maybe even bold, idea crept into your mind.

Carefully, you glanced at his drink. There it was, the straw, just sitting there in his cup, practically calling your name. With one last look to make sure he was still focused on his call, you reached out, holding your breath, and snatched the straw from his drink in one swift, stealthy motion. You stuffed it into the pocket of your polo shirt and slipped away as quietly as you could manage.

As you exited the gym, you couldn’t help but look back. Reo had returned to his seat, reached for his drink, and paused, looking down with a confused expression. “What in the…?” Reo murmured, staring at his drink with the now missing straw.

Suppressing a giggle, you made your way out of the gym, heart racing, hands practically shaking as you patted your pocket, feeling the slim outline of the straw. It was the most random, ridiculous souvenir of your little crush, and you couldn’t wait to tape it into your diary as a memento of today’s small funny victory.

As soon as you got home, you plopped right down at your work desk, feeling that restless excitement still bubbling up. You dug into your bag, pulling out your diary and—of course—the straw. Reo’s straw. You giggled to yourself as you taped it to a new page and started writing down all the moments from today, from the match to that tiny, electric smile he gave you. Every little detail went in, making you smile even more as you remembered it all.

But as you wrote, an idea crept up on you, a mix of nerves and courage. Maybe you should just go ahead and confess to Reo. You were getting crazier about him every day, so why not? With a new burst of energy, you grabbed a fresh piece of paper, writing a short but sweet confession. It was simple: you told him you liked him, mentioned that you’d found his ID, and said you wanted to give it back to him with a little something extra—your true feelings.

Once the note was done, you slipped it into a small pink envelope along with his ID. To make it special, you sprayed a touch of sweet vanilla perfume onto the envelope, then sealed it with a shy smile. Before slipping it into your bag for tomorrow, you gave the envelope a tiny kiss, hoping that would add just the right touch. With a mix of excitement and jitters, you spent the rest of the evening in a daze, waiting for tomorrow.

The next day, as soon as you got to school, you felt that familiar mix of butterflies and determination. Today was the day. Clutching the envelope, you scanned the hallway until you spotted him—Reo, standing at his locker, skimming through his notes. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself as you made your way toward him.

But just as you got closer, fate threw in a twist. From around the corner, a tall, white-haired guy appeared, eyes glued to something he was playing on his phone. Before you could stop yourself, your gaze locked with his for the briefest second. His eyes were striking, intense, and something about him seemed to pull you in, leaving you momentarily stunned. But he was the first to look away, walking on like he hadn’t even noticed.

Caught off guard, you looked back over your shoulder, watching the white-haired guy disappear down the hall, and for a second, you couldn’t help but feel a strange flutter in your chest. You didn’t even notice when your hand loosened, and the pink envelope slipped quietly from your grip, falling to the ground.

By the time you snapped out of it, the white-haired guy had vanished, leaving you standing there with an odd sense of curiosity and excitement. You didn’t even realize the envelope was gone as you slowly wandered down the hall, following where he’d disappeared.

Meanwhile, back at the lockers, Reo had glanced up, looking around like he’d sensed something. He spotted the little pink envelope lying on the floor, curiosity piquing as he crouched down to pick it up. As he turned it over, he caught sight of your name written in neat handwriting: “From: (Y/N) (L/N), To: Reo Mikage”.

For a moment, he scanned the hallway, his eyes searching, looking for you…but you were already gone. He held the envelope in his hand, unsure of what it might mean, the hint of a smile just barely tugging at his lips as he wondered what you’d left for him.

You’d never even know if he’d read it at all.

a/n: proofread this for like 10 times now.

likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated!

[mushynka]

This story is intended for mature audiences (18+). Please note that English is not my first language, so there might be some language errors or awkward phrasing in the text sometimes. Feel free to correct me in the comments. I am still learning english so pls. try not to make too much fun out of me. Additionally, this story may not strictly follow the events as depicted in Marvel films or comics and contains creative deviations. I kindly ask that you do not copy or redistribute my work without permission. Yes. I know it's cringe lmao. Enjoy anyway!

𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦: 𝘚𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘶𝘻𝘻𝘺 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴: 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵 𝘹 𝘍𝘦𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 * 𝘍𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦, 𝘓𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘪𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵 (𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘰)

Logan grumbled as he rifled through the dresser drawers, the absence of a single clean sock taunting him. The once-sizable stash had dwindled down to nothing but empty fabric and lint. The problem was that laundry had somehow become an occasional activity—one he only ever thought about whenever he was completely out of clean clothes. And tonight, with a dinner he didn't even want to go to, he found himself in a small predicament.

He shot a quick look at the bathroom door, slightly ajar, where you had your usual mountain of colorful socks scattered around. They were yours, of course, and didn’t exactly scream “Pick us, Logan!”—there was the orange pair with tiny foxes, a light green set with smiling avocados, and, right in the front, a fluffy pink pair with large white polka dots.

With a quick, mischievous grin, he grabbed the pink polka-dotted pair and tugged them on. Soft and fuzzy, they were surprisingly warm and soft, tickling his feet a bit. He chuckled to himself, picturing how you’d probably roll your eyes if you'll saw him in these. But it was a harmless little act of rebellion. No one at this dinner was going to see his socks, anyway.

After all, Logan had no plans of showing up sock-less just to prove a point. Not that this dinner was high on his list of favorite ways to spend an evening: in fact, he’d tried to dodge it altogether. But you gived him that look—the one that softened his iron resolve like butter under a warm sun. And so, he’d reluctantly agreed to join you and your friends.

“Logan?” Your voice pulled him out of his thoughts. You were standing in the doorway, dressed in that emerald green top he loved. The color made your eyes shine, and you looked… perfect. The kind of perfect that made his heart clench a little every time.

“Almost ready,” he muttered, pulling on his jeans and a casual shirt that had somehow passed your inspection earlier. But as you looked him over, a smile tugged at your lips.

“Nice and sharp. You sure you’re feeling alright?” you teased, knowing how rare it was for him to even consider being "presentable".

He scoffed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied with just enough sarcasm to make you laugh. And for a brief moment, you reached up, pulling him into a quick, warm kiss that left him feeling a little less grumpy.

When you two finally arrived at the place where your friends were hosting dinner, Logan was a little surprised by how friendly everyone was. They greeted you with hugs and smiles, clearly thrilled to see Logan. He mostly hung back, content to observe. The conversation flowed easily, though the mention of certain cultural quirks started to make him just a bit uneasy.

“Over here, we like to keep our shoes by the door,” your friend, Sofia, mentioned casually, pointing at the line of shoes neatly placed by the entrance.

Logan’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, his gaze dropping to his feet. He’d left the comfort of his own home wearing socks that looked like a child’s fuzzy teddy bear collection. He glanced up pleading silently, but you were too busy with your friends and their newborn to notice.

His options dwindling by the second, Logan reluctantly tugged off his boots, revealing the soft, pink fuzziness for all to see. Sofia, stopped in her tracks, raising an eyebrow as she took in the sight of the man—big, tough, battle-hardened Logan—now standing in those pink, fluffy socks. Sofia’s husband tried to keep a straight face, but it was clear from the way their eyes met that they were both barely holding back laughter.

“Logan,” Sofia said, with feigned seriousness, “those are… quite the socks. I really like your approach to fashion.”

Logan grumbled under his breath, trying to ignore the teasing. "Yeah, well, they're comfy," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and attempting to look as tough as possible, even while wearing the most ridiculous socks imaginable.

Sofia smirked but decided to be kind. “Don’t worry, Logan. We’re all friends here. No judgment.”

But Logan could tell that everyone was trying hard not to laugh, and the whole situation was starting to get on his nerves. He shifted uncomfortably, but then he felt a gentle touch on his arm.

It was you. You leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, voice soft but reassuring. “You look great."

Logan's eyes softened as he turned to face you. The teasing from your friends wasn’t so bad, especially with you by his side.

“You really think so?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the gruffness melting away for just a moment.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind ear. “I know so. Besides, I think they suit you,” you teased, reaching down to lightly tug at the top of the pink socks. “You’re the only man I know who could pull off pink polka-dots and still look... well, like Logan.”

Logan smirked at that, his usual tough exterior softening just a bit. “Yeah, well, maybe next time I’ll wear something even more ridiculous. Maybe rainbow-colored ones,” he said, raising an eyebrow playfully.

As dinner went on, Logan found himself actually enjoying the evening. Your friends were kind and welcoming, and despite their playful jabs about his socks, he could tell they liked him. Even Sofia, who had started the teasing, couldn’t help but offer a few compliments as the night wore on.

“Well, this has been fun,” Sofia said, giving Logan an apologetic smile. “And, seriously, those socks were the highlight of my night.”

Logan chuckled, feeling the tension finally slip away. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied, earning a laugh from the group.

As everyone said their goodbyes, Logan felt a tug on his arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” you said. “I think we both deserve a quiet night.”

Logan nodded, his heart light. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”

As you stepped out into the cool night air, Logan glanced down at his pink socks again perking shyly from his leather shoes. This time, instead of feeling embarrassed, he simply smiled.

“You know,” he said as you two walked hand in hand, “I might just keep these socks. They’ve got a certain... charm.”

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand.

“You think I could wear these with hello kitty next time...?”

This fic was created thanks to this meme:

(Tell me it's not giving Logan vibe, I dare you)

God bless the memes ❤️

[sgiandubh]

Show must go on...

... and rather very much in your face, mind you.

Scottish Xena posted two stories at about 7 AM, counting calories, and, in the process, making sure to address roughly any objections that were ventilated on this side of the fandom, including this very page. See for yourself...

What are the odds she'd be talking about nutrition? Right. I am not an idiot. I know when something is way Over The Top - less is more, Xena. Less is always more: there was no need to overdo it like that, placemat and all, if you wanted to remain credible. You read us and you have been instructed to do so, just to perfectly stick to your walking, talking and very profitable Local Innuendo script.

Fair enough. And then, you also tell us that you will be at Hyrox today around noon, to film some ESN promo: your bread and butter, of course. S is just for shits, giggles and that Instagram yield:

So, there's that. *urv connecting dots like crazy, without having the slightest clue of what was discussed at that table. Her own brand of cheap fanfic for the masses, for the other five clowns commenting, out of which three at least are her own sock accounts.

Cue in the Useful Idiot. The Brazilian Tourist and Fan. Uma senhorita tão desagradável, who changed her story in between her first reaction reel and the debrief, back at her suburban Airbnb or where the fuck that was filmed.

First reaction reels:

'Just saw SH.' Not alone, oh no: 'com uma moça'. With a girl. So yeah, she had qualms asking for a pic.

First lie and dramatization. She posts a message for S where she explains she did not dare approach him, but she saw him alright. The one in Portuguese is completely different, though: 'I am going to post the video without sound, because I could only say "what a shame", while I was filming him on the sly. LOL.' I guess she thinks we are all idiots, or something. Also, in her reel, she confirms: 'ele estava almoçando com outra pessoa'/he was having lunch with another person. So far, so good, right?

Six hours later, a second debrief batch of reels, taking her reader's questions. The narrative changes, with a strong bias:

'Yes, he is super accessible and educated! I did not freak out, I just politely asked to take a pic (what I do consider the right way to approach famous people, at the end they are still human beings).'

For the people in the back: she is a lady. And a liar. The worst kind of liar, actually: a narcissistic one. Let's see what else she takes great pains telling us: 'ele tem um fandom bem tóxico'/he has a very toxic fandom. From now on, we just know what to expect, right?

Second answer, she explains he is very tall. He went inside to pay the bill and then he also went towards the bathroom (wtf?), she followed him inside, she asked for the menu, he finally went out and she approached him ('abordei' - 🙄) between the door and her table. Classy.

Cue in to a third answer (and second lie) to a very odd question: 'what did he smell like?' or something along those lines. For this one, I had to ask confirmation from Shipper Mom, who told me two things (she knew next to nothing about the whole episode- no bias): ' it's damn hard to understand what the hell she is talking about, she is eating half of her words. Plus you can tell she is lying.'

He doesn't smell, she tells us. But hey, she also freaked out a bit, finally (I thought she hadn't?!) and then well, 'ele estava com outra pessoa, uma moça, deve ser a namorada dele'/ he was with another person, a girl, probably his girlfriend'. But then he went inside (again? wasn't he coming out of the venue?), 'and the girl stayed at the table'. Things go murky afterwards, like they absolutely always do: she tells us she spoke to her (?), but would not say anything more, yet making sure to tell us she 'saw both of them'.

If anyone has a better version than mine, please step forward: we listened three times in a row, with Shipper Mom, a teacher of Portuguese and published literary translator. She was appalled by this young woman's carelessness and mendacity.

The Brazilian Tourist Fan is 23 years old (and it shows), she presents herself as a journalist and writer:

Seriously? What are the odds?

And finally, to wrap it up, the classical cheering moment, at yesterday's Hyrox: ' yeah, Sarah, nice!'

Nice, indeed.

FFS. Will it ever end?

Yes, it will. Anything ends: even Stalin's terror.

[star-writes-sometimes]

green butter

word count - 2.2k

c.w. - drug use (marijuana, edibles), reader is said to be shorter than remus, idiots in love, pining, implied insecure reader

a/n - i don’t know if i liked how this turned out so i may rewrite and change the ending idk yet

—

you could hear remus snoring from where you were in the kitchen. the rest of your apartment was silent except for the soft snores. if you ever tried to mention it when he was awake, remus would always deny that he made any kind of noise when he slept, instead choosing to tease you about your habit of sleep talking when you’ve had too much to drink.

you were doing the dishes, cleaning up from making green butter earlier in the day. remus had been out the night before with sirius and james and he was exhausted. he was in your apartment for less than 10 minutes before he passed out on your couch.

you finished cleaning the last mixing bowl and left it on the drying rack. you dried your hands on a tea towel, threw it over your shoulder and made your way to your living room. you collapsed on the comfy armchair closest to the kitchen and simply watched remus sleep. 

as if he could feel your gaze on him, he twitched in his sleep and rolled over so you could no longer see his face. you huffed in annoyance and used your sock covered foot to reach out and poke his shoulder.

“wake up please lupin.”

he just groaned and shifted tiredly. 

“pleaaaseeee.”

he exhaled sharply and lifted his head up, his annoyed gaze meeting your amused one.

“good morning starshine. the earth says hello!”

“i prefer gene wilder.” remus runs a hand over his scarred face.

“i like ‘em both,” you moved to tuck your feet under you, “makes me feel bad choosing between two things.”

“really?” he smirked, “who do you prefer out of james and sirius?”

“well currently sirius cause he helped me do my makeup a few days ago but it changes depending on which one annoys me less.”

“good choice. james probably would’ve poked your eye out.” he finally sat up, smiling lazily at you, “whats the time?”

“it’s around five so you successfully napped through the afternoon.”

“good that was the aim.” remus stretched, lifting his shirt up slightly, exposing his happy trail.

“do you want dinner, love?”

“no thanks, bunny, but i’ll take some cookies if you’ve got any.”

“i actually need to make some for james and i was gonna make extra,” you paused to yawn, “but i seemed to have misplaced my motivation.”

“aww c’mon bunny,” he got off the couch and knelt in front of your chair, “please make some cookies.”

you tried desperately not to give into his masterful puppy dog eyes, “i thought you were too tired to do anything.”

“i had my nap, now i want time with my super awesome amazing girl who makes the most awesome amazing oatmeal weed cookies.” he pouted up at you, pulling you hand towards him and kissing it, “please baby?”

your resolve couldn’t crumble quicker, “fine, move you big lug i’ll go get started.”

you pushed him aside and walked back into the kitchen while remus trailed behind you closely.

"rem love, can you grab the sugar please?" you asked while pulling the eggs and butter.

"mhmm." he hummed in response.

you grabbed the vanilla extract and a bowl and started to cut up the butter into cubes.

remus came up behind you and placed the sugar on the counter then wrapped his arms around you. 

"ooo green butter," he placed his chin onto your shoulder, pressing into you completely.

"yeah i made it earlier." 

remus reached his hand around a grabbed a cube and quickly popped it in his mouth, "tastes great, bunny."

you swatted him on the side, "don't eat the butter."

"hey that's abuse." he grabbed another bit of butter and popped it into his mouth.

"remus if you eat the butter you'll get high before the cookies are even ready."

"no i won't," he ate another cube, "i'm not a lightweight like you."

"i'm not saying you're a lightweight, love."

he reached for another piece of butter but you slapped his hand before he could grab it.

"whats with all the abuse today?" he asked.

"go sit down and stop eating butter," you pointed to one of the kitchen stools on the other side of the bench you were working at.

remus watched you intently as you made the cookies. whenever you turned your back momentarily though, he would reach across and sneak another cube of the homemade butter.

eventually, once you got the first batch of cookies in the oven you start to clean up, including putting away all the ingredients.

“rem?” 

“hmmm?”

“did you eat more butter?”

“you have no proof of that.”

“i made 500g of butter. i used 250g. there should be 250g left. this isn't 250g.”

“how can you tell that just by looking at it?”

“remus i'm a baker. i do this professionally.”

remus smiled guiltily, “whoops? i’m sorry i’ll help you make more butter tomorrow” 

“rem, i couldn't give less of a fuck about the butter, i’m worried about how high you're about to get.”

“i told you, i am not a lightweight i'm not gonna get high off some butter.”

you roll your eyes and finish cleaning up the kitchen, “whatever you say remsy.”

—

forty two minutes later and remus was face down on your kitchen floor.

he groaned loudly as you took the third batch of cookies out of the oven. the room already smelled of a pleasant mix of weed and fresh baked cookies but opening the oven intensified it, hurting remus' already sore brain.

“it's cold, my face is cold, it's on something cold, the room smells, smells like a headache.” he babbled, voice muffled slightly by the ground.

“you are face first on the tiles, that's why your face is cold and the headache you smell is weed."

“ngh, no,” he protested and rolled over onto his back, “weed smells like awesome and this is a headache smell, are you baking a headache?”

you couldn't help the giggle that escaped you as you look down at his confused face, “you've overdone it, remmy.”

“noooo,” he whined and covered his face, “‘m not a lightweight.”

“you're not, darling,” you cooed and sat down on the floor next to him. you gently ran your hand through his hair.

he opened his eyes at the touch but immediately hissed and squinted, “bright light, there's a real bright light, i think i'm dying.”

you looked up at the ceiling and tried not to laugh, “that's the kitchen light, and the dying feeling is, once again, the weed.”

he rapidly sat up after you said that and stared at you intensely, “the weed is doing this to me?”

you couldn't help the giggle that slipped through, “yes, love.”

he looked very serious and glared at the ground before he muttered, “that fuckin' giraffe was right.”

it was your turn to be confused, “giraffe- do you mean harold?”

“that scary fucker was right.”

“you were scared of harold the giraffe?”

“he was tall and i couldn't trust his eyes.” he said with such a strong gaze you almost forgot how ridiculous the conversation was, “is he coming to take me?”

“h-harold? you think harold is coming to take you?”

“yeah, i broke his rules, i did drugs and now i'm paying the price, he's gonna come for me.”

you turned your head to laugh silently, not wanting to mock him (while he was like this, you were definitely mocking him in the morning), “love, harold won't come for you, and even if he did you're not a kid anymore, you're tall too.”

he nodded, like he understood, “yeah i’m tall, i could take that skinny twat.” he nodded, seemingly calm. until he once again jolted and looked at you extremely seriously, “you're short.”

“thank you for noticing rem,” you said, slightly sarcastically.

“harold will come for you because he knows i care about you. he'll take you from me.” he said in a panicky tone.

your touched by his care for you but also recognise the absurdity of what he's saying, “remmy, i promise i’m safe, i'm here with you.”

he gave you a look of determination and nodded. as quick as he could in his intoxication he wrapped his arms around your middle and re-laid down on the floor with you. 

“remmy, what are you doing?” you asked, curious, not bothered by his actions.

“protecting you.” he said, voice muffled from where it was buried in your neck.

“hmm thank you,” you hummed out.

he held on tightly and quietly sat there holding you for a few blissful minutes, but the biting cold of the tiles wasn't the most comfortable in the february weather.

“remus, lovie?”

he tapped you as his way of responding, not loosening his grip.

“can we go to bed?”

he squeezed you tighter, “‘m not tired and i need to protect you.”

“i'm tired baby,” you said with a slight breathy laugh.

“i need you to be safe,” he mumbled against your neck.

“we'll stay together the whole time.”

“promise?” he said softly.

“pinky promise.”

at that he slowly rolled off of you but he made sure his hand was touching some part of you at all time - like he was scared you would disappear.

you went to your bedroom with remus following close behind, your fingers tightly threaded together. when you both stopped, remus re-wrapped his arms around you tightly, his large hands going underneath your loose tshirt.

“rem,” you whined softly, “what are you doing now?”

“‘m not close enough to you, need to get closer,” he mumbled and kissed the top of your head.

you giggled and wrapped your arms around his neck, “i don’t think we can get much closer than this.”

“sure we can bunny,” he said with a hint of mischief in his tone, “we can be much closer,”

“we already see each other everyday, spend most of our free time together, and-” his thumb rubbed against your ribs causing you to giggle slightly, “and that. how much closer can we be?”

you looked up at him just in time to see his smirk. he pressed a kiss to your temple and used his free hand to brush your hair behind your ear, “nowhere near close enough,” he said softly and kissed your cheek.

you held your breath. his touch made you shiver. your skin erupted in goosebumps and you leaned closer to him. he gripped your chin and looked into your eyes.

his eyes were bloodshot.

he was high.

you stepped back slightly at the reminder. you grabbed his hands in your own and led him towards your bed, “c’mon rem, bedtime.”

he scrunched his eyebrows together, confused, “what? bunny, i want us to be closer.”

“you’re high, love, you’ll feel different in the morning,” you said softly, trying to hide the disappointment in your voice.

“no, i won’t, why do you never believe me?” he asked.

“because you only say this stuff when you’re high.”

he slumped over with his forehead resting on your shoulder, “‘m not saying it cause i’m high, the high makes me say the truth.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat and pulled away from him. you sat down on your bed and patted the spot next to you. he smiled dopily and sat next to you. as soon as he sat he feel backwards, laying on your bed and groaning slightly.

you let out a breathy laugh and shook your head, “you can’t even sit up.”

“you keep me stable.”

“i’m also the one enabling your edible addiction.”

“it doesn’t matter that you’re enabling me ‘cause you always take care of me.”

you laid down next to him and face him. he clumsily pulled the blanket over you both and let his hand rest of the side of your face.

“my pretty little bunny, i’ll make you believe me one day,” he promised. he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you close.

you looked at his pretty face, his messy sandy blonde hair, his bloodshot eyes. you wished you could believe him. you wrapped your arms around him and snuggled into his chest. you could at least pretend.

he kissed your cheek and held you tightly, “nice and close bunny, i gotta protect you and make you feel loved.”

you melt into him and laugh softly, “protect me?”

“don’t know if that giraffe is comin’ for us.”

“well we can’t have that now can we.”

it was silent for a few moments.

“what do giraffe’s eat?”

“mostly leaves i think, why, love?”

“i don’t like being scared that you’ll be hurt, we should set a trap tomorrow.”

“for harold?”

“yes, you can bake something and i’ll construct a gaint moustrap for the slimy fucker.”

you tried desperately to keep your giggles to yourself, “that’s a job for the morning.”

“i know, you go to sleep, bunnies need lots of rest.”

“goodnight remmy.”

“goodnight bunny.” he kissed your cheek again, “love you.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat once more, “love you too.”

you could pretend it was real.