#or who knows. maybe it could make itself useful

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when you overhear your boyfriend’s bandmates who ⛔️do not like you⛔️ talking to him—about YOU

“Be real though, Ed. Harrington? You can’t actually be serious, here.” Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle. Which is to say he totally does it. He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it. “You got me,” Eddie sighs, longer and deeper than can be taken wholly seriously. “I’m running my longest successful con to date.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, established relationship, corroded coffin, as in: the gang’s all here and being VERY JUDGEMENTAL of eddie’s taste in men, and maybe steve had to pick eddie up from practice today so he overhears it WHOLLY WITHOUT INTENDING TO OKAY?, no one ever REALLY want to hear what the people they love really think of them when said people don’t know who all’s actually listening, true love, declarations of feelings, it’s actually really fucking hard to stand up to your friends, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day ten: "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." —Dr. Seuss

also! Unnamed Freak is Doug for the purpose of this fic because the book can fuck itself I say so 🖤

“Be real though, Ed,” the voice that filters through, and holds Steve’s hand from pushing the car door shut loud enough to notice, is fairly reasonable, like trying to talk down a suggestion absurd enough to send someone to the ER—which means, of the subjects at hand? It’s gotta be Jeff.

“You can’t actually be serious, here.”

Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle.

Which is to say he totally does it.

He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it.

“You got me,” Eddie deadpans, but it’s like, venom-laced. It stings just to hear and Steve’s struck with how much his life’s changed since Spring Break, and more still since…well.

Since Eddie.

Because Steve is well aware the man can cut glass with how sharp his tongue can get, they did go to high school together whether they ran in the same circles or not.

It’s just strikes Steve in the moment that not once since Vecna, has Eddie turns that tongue on him.

Now, other uses of his tongue—

“I’m running my longest successful con to date. Yep, totally pulled it over on all you bitches,” and where it could be playful, every single word is sharpened to stab, to pierce, to drag the wound out so it bleeds, like a shiv to remind someone where they fucked up, in perpetuity.

“Please applaud.”

And oh, even Steve flinches at that tone, and he’s not even the target. Hell, he’s still in the driveway—he doesn’t make a rule of crashing band practice, no matter whose parents’ garage they’re using; Eddie’s van is just regularly in the shop for one thing or another, so he’s gotta come get his man. But he doesn’t, like, push his way in. Sometimes doesn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. He knows Eddie would more than welcome him; has the handful of times he’s ventured to step in to apologize for interrupting but remind him they have to pick up the shitheads. But one: Eddie is alone in his welcome, and like, the polar opposite of the other three guys, who range from staring daggers at Steve to sneering so scrunched up to the nose that it’d give Carol Perkins at her snittiest a run for her money.

And Steve wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t know how to recognise where he’s not wanted, and learn how to make the calculated decision of whether to walk or push his way in. And much as he loves Eddie? Steve actually wants his friends to eventually come around from probably, like, muttering ancestral curses under their breaths at him or something.

Plus, from what Steve understands? Jam sessions are personal. Sacred. Eddie had blushes and stammered the first time he let Steve listen in on works in progress; and Steve had rewarded him for the gift of it liberally and with genuine gusto. It’s earned him repeat performances on the regular, but Steve gets it’s a private thing in general. And these guys don’t know him, don’t presently care to—don’t trust him.

He figures it’s like…masturbating in front of someone. The art thing, the depth of making music and stuff. Showing your soul a little bit, losing control for the betterment of the final product.

Now, he and Eddie definitely have masturbated together, it’s actually fantastic foreplay, or even just a deliciously sloppy go on its own. But that’s neither here nor there. And also totally fucking different.

Steve really doesn’t want Eddie masturbating in front of anyone other than him, ever again. Steve’s sure as shit not looking to on his end; definitely not with the other members of Corroded fucking Coffin.

The metaphor might have gotten away from him. But you get the picture.

“No, man,” and that’s, that’s Gareth’s voice, Steve’s almost sure. Sharper. Concerned but also caustic on the undertow. “It’s just,” he snorts, the disbelieving sort: “this can’t be real.”

Okay, yeah. Tone plus actual words add up.

“Yeah, just,” Doug laughs a little nervous, like of all of them, Eddie’s verbal attack had the most weight in tempering his response of the three of them; “blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

They all chuckle, but it’s toned down the whole way around—even Steve can clock that. These guys are boisterous when left to their devices, Steve’s taken note of that. Mostly watching from the sidelines—almost exclusively when they don’t know he’s there to watch.

Again: does not condone eavesdropping.

Does not try at all to refrain from doing it.

“I mean, you don’t expect us to believe you’re actually fucking him,” and oh, yeah, okay: Steve was pretty sure he was the topic conversation here, and despite some of the setbacks of recent years, he’s not insecure when it comes to relationships especially.

He’s definitely the only one fucking Eddie. And Eddie’s the only one fucking him.

And while he doesn’t really hold it against these guys for being wary of him—he wasn’t really a perpetrator of their high school woes, but he definitely didn’t do anything to make them less…woeful—so he’s mostly bummed about it for Eddie’s sake, and on principle, but like, seriously.

Doubting Steve successfully scoring Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie’s a catch, Steve of ll people is well aware, but. Steve’s also been long past fishing the shallow end of the pond, y’know?

Give him some credit.

“Right,” Steve narrows back in on what’s happening in the garage that he’s definitely feeling less guilty bout, seeing as he’s definitely a subject of the debate unfolding, but Eddie sounds…angry. Pissed off in that way he gets when he’s fed the fuck up.

“I’m out,” Steve hears scraping of equipment, the guitar case flipped open; “can’t actually make it next week,” he adds like a footnote.

It’s clear within a second he’s the only one who takes it with that same…energy.

“But we have to practice before the open mic—” Jeff, ever the voice of reason, sounds baffled; on his way to ticked off but not quite there yet.

Eddie, however—as is his wont in this type of mood—could not give two shits where the people around him land on the anger-o-meter; he’s exceeded them, even if only in his own head, and they are all therefore irrelevant to his very responsible decision to put distance between himself and doing something stupid he can’t take back.

It’s not the nicest way to deal but, honestly? Steve’s mostly just proud of Eddie for sticking with a coping mechanism that, while not without consequences, generally works better than most.

“I’ll see you guys in two, then. Probably.” And the case clicks shut, definitive, and Steve’s proud of that too; that Eddie’s not digging a hole when the guys re trying to bait him, intentionally or not, over Steve.

Steve doesn’t need Eddie to complicate his band, his friendships, over what the two of them have. One, it’s not their fucking business. And two?

Steve doesn’t thing he’s being self-important in saying he and Eddie…are bigger, and more, than even the very beat high school band.

Not that Steve would ever ask Eddie to choose or some bullshit like that. And he really does believe Eddie’s going places, if that’s what he decides he wants. But…there’s that.

Then there is them.

Different, like, stratospheres.

“What the fuck came up that you can’t make it next week? When we’re staring down our first actual shot at Battle of the Bands this year,” and yeah, of course, if anyone’s gonna try to drag the whole thing out, it’s Gareth. Kid’s got a fucking temper.

“Something more important.”

Which yeah, that’s what was going through Steve’s mind, basically, but—

“The hell could be more—“

“I have plans,” Eddie hisses, viper-quick and fucking deadly, shuts them all right up for it, but then he spins a 180–preens so big Steve swears he can hear his shoulders go back and his chest puff out:

“It’s my anniversary.”

So…yeah. Just because it was where Steve’s head had just been at doesn’t mean his whole chest goes all gooey to hear it said out loud.

And in front of Eddie’s band, who…they aren’t hiding from, but they have discussed keeping kinda mum around. For the same kinds of reasons Steve’s been privy to just in the past couple minutes.

But then Eddie’s voice follows the feeling in Steve’s chest like they’re tethered there, and honestly, more times than not?

Steve thinks they just might actually be, and he’s not proven wrong with the way Eddie halfway coos:

“Our anniversary.”

“Your what?”

Jeff, again, is that middle ground: actually confused, laced with being angry that Eddie’s ducking out.

“Six months,” Eddie answers, soft-like, a little dreamy but in this way that’s rooted somehow still, and in being struck all over again by a level of shock Steve understands, sometimes feels in reverse, but still doesn’t understand being felt so deep as it sounds, now, when it’s applied to…him.

It’s wild y’know?

“I’m like,” Steve hears Eddie’s curls brush against something as he shakes his head—Steve’s money’s on him crouched by his case, or having it already slung over his shoulder:

“Never thought I’d get something to celebrate like that in the first place, but get to keep it, that long without fucking it up?”

Steve, again, wants to give up the pretense and walk the fuck in there and kiss the shit out of his boyfriend because one, same, but two?

Dumbass.

Steve goddamn adores him.

“You mean, with Harrington?” Gareth’s spitting and Steve just shakes his head, a little sad—he doesn’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass about him, man; he’s not so much younger that Steve never saw him or didn’t know of him but godDamn: the circles he ran in at the time weren’t the ones doing shit yet when they were in the same elementary school, Steve was barely popular in middle school, and come high school the worst anyone he knew did to the frosh was bang them into a locker—not great, but.

Not worth this shit. And the worst part is if he doesn’t know what’s crawled he did to really piss Gareth off this bad? He can’t even try to Harrington-charm his way back into the guy’s tolerable category. Like, even his best fucking not-pot brownie recipe didn’t sway the fucker.

“Yes,” Eddie is answering, the answer emphatic, like he’s brimming with feeling over it, but then clipped too, like demonstrating that he was brimming and is now being forced to clip it all backis very much the intent: “of course I mean with Steve, who the fuck else?”

It’s not lost on Steve how Eddie says his name. Ever. All the name.

But right now, how he’s making a point to say it in that warm, kinda…beloved way, when anyone else uses his last name in a way that’s anything-but.

“You cannot be—” Gareth scoffs, Steve can imagine him throwing up his hands, that sort of deal, but then Eddie comes in, and it’s a tone Steve’s only ever hear when he’s about to run a campaign into the ground where the characters may never recover, and if somehow manage it, they’ll wish they hadn’t:

“Oh, I am deadly serious.”

Because it’s not Steve’s character, but in defense of Steve’s relationship, that tone trickles something molten through his veins and prickles up his spine and…he’s gone have to stick that one in his back pocket to explore at a later date, for sure.

“Six months?”

Jeff—and Steve kinda likes Jeff, and not for the reason his bandmates would like, that he kicks around Hawkins after graduation, too, but more because Steve knows why; that’s to make more money for a college outside Indiana, and Steve thinks that’s fucking cool—but it’s here where Jeff dips fully away from being angry to being stupefied. Steve lets himself smirk at nothing because fuck yes: him and Eddie.

Six whole goddamn months.

“I was actually gonna ask you guys to come over soon, introduce him properly and stuff,” Eddie says, the disappointment in his voice again; Steve’s niggling desire to go and hug him from behind, maybe kiss under his ear a little, back in full force.

“He picks you up from practice, we see him,” Doug pipes back up, likewise confused, but Steve just takes the useful confirmation that no one did catch on that he pulled up ages ago, now.

“We know who Steve Harrington is—” Gareth snaps, protests in the way that betrays his eye-rolling, his thin-wearing patience.

“No!”

And that comes out of Eddie fierce enough to echo down at least half the block they’re on—seems like Eddie’s patience was worn out a while ago.

“You don’t!”

And everyone is silent in that way Steve knows all too well: when shit’a gone down but now you’re waiting in the edge for the worse thing to hit.

Then it does:

“And it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it up because you dipshits aren’t ready,” Eddie snaps, says dipshitso different from how he does with the Party, theirParty, their kids; he says it here with something real fucking close to disgust.

“Asking hostage questions, fuck off,” he huffs, and Steve hears Eddie’s footsteps, can’t tell if he’s gonna leave it at that, come find Steve and know he’s been standing there but that’ll be fine, it’s not like Steve wasn’t going to let him know as soon as they left—but then:

“Look,” and Eddie sounds the way Steve sounds when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to fight a growing migraine, the sting of tears for all sorts of pain behind his eyes, and that hurts to hear from his boyfriend, like, a lot.

It fucking hurts.

“I am not just fucking him,” Eddie growls through the bridge-pinching pain; “I mean, fuck yes, I am, but,” and Steve hears the way he swallows all the way down the drive:

“I’m in this for the long haul,” Eddie tells his bandmates like throwing down a gauntlet; “and if you can’t respect me enough, and my choices, that stings,” Steve knows Eddie shrugs then: “but I’ll live.”

Steve’s about a millisecond from saying fuck it, opening the door just to slam it to announce his approach, and then going to physically grab his boyfriend, drag him to the car, and park in the abandoned lot down from the Wheelers’ neighborhood to kiss him senseless because that’s the closest place he can think of and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to either of their homes before he can’t fucking handle himself.

“But if you are gonna disrespect the man I love, no. Absolutely not.”

Eddies voice is a deadly sort of whisper. Steve would cower at it, the way it washes through a person, if he hadn’t just…said.

That.

“You love him?”

And for what Steve thinks is the first time since he climbed out of the car and committed to listening where he wasn’t invited, Gareth sounds…muted. Genuinely asking a question.

Steve, for his own part, kinda expected that he’d be more breathless, heart racing and shit, to hear the answer but in reality?

“Of course I love him.”

Steve already knew that in his cells, in his bones.

In his steady, not all-that-fast but particularly-especially-happily beating heart.

“Have you guys, like, said it and stuff?”

And of course Steve already knows that answer, both the literal one and the one that matters more, but he does perk up a bit, curious to hear what—if anything of note—Eddie chooses to give away here.

“He has,” Eddie says, and now…now maybe Steve should stop listening because this part, the way Eddie says that as flat fact—Steve doesn’t knowthis part beyond speculation. But…

“I wanted to, like,” and eddies voice can’t hide the way he’s gotta have that soft smile, the one he used to hide behind his hair before Steve started pulling it back to see in full, so now he only brings his hair out just to tease, to okay.

“I don’t think I’ve wanted much in my whole life, but he’s,” and Steve thinks he hears how Eddie chews his bottom lip for a second, in the subtlest click of how it slips free before Eddie takes a deep breath and—

“He doesn’t know what he’s worth,” Eddie starts, a little mournful almost, even, and Steve is unexpectedly glued to the spot in his fucking Nikes.

“He doesn’t understand that I’d sell the sun and the moon just to keep him,” Eddie’s saying, and with passion. With whole-ass honesty. And here, maybe, is where Steve gets to have some of the heart:fluttery feeling after all:

“He comes out the gate with the whole you don’t have to say it back and I just,” Eddie sighs, sniffs a little before heaving another breath deep enough to stretch his shirt, which Steve’s not imagining or anything, at all;

“I couldn’t say it, not right then, and risk him everthinking it was something I’d done to like, match. Like that I didn’t mean it with everything I’ve got, when I mean it with everything I’ve got and then also everything else. Like, anywhere. Ever.”

Steve realized he’d stopped breathing at some point when the little dots start floating in front of his eyes and he sucks in a shaking breath because: he’s known Eddie loves him. Unshakeably.

But, but all this—

“I couldn’t say it and have him ever wondered if I wouldn’t rip my heart out of my chest just to keep his safe.”

And of-fucking-course Steve’s pulse is running fucking riot about how much he’s in love right now, make no goddamn mistake. Jesus, he—

“Fuck.”

And Steve has never heard Gareth Emerson pushed just this side of speechless but: that’s the best way Steve can describe the kind of breathless wonder he says it with, like watching a rare bird take flight.

“You mean it.”

And Steve can pick out Eddie’s huffs and categorize them, on demand at this point: he doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know Eddie’s deemed the expression of pure shock to be so beneath him in this specific context that he’s deemed it unworthy of any more attention.

His heart’s not jumping that loud to have missed it. So.

Steve just kinda grins toward the blacktop under his shoes.

“Why didn’t you,” Doug starts, still—usually, really, in Steve’s limited experience at least—the peacekeeper, the one who’s most invested at the human level when he’s not getting swept up in whatever the rest of the gang has deemed the cool thing to laugh at or make fun of at any given moment.

The huff Eddie gives this time is his incredulous one, which allows for just the slightest bit more consideration:

“The fuck do you think?”

The slightest bit, being the operative point.

“I’d hoped you’d take it better but,” Eddie adds, and there’s less drama in it than Steve might have expected. He’s being serious with them, and he sounds…disappointed.

Steve kinda want to make some kind of noise, give away his position, and just…hug Eddie tight from behind, if nothing else. Be there. Solid against him, wrapped up around him. Never wavering. Always at his back as much as at his side.

But Eddie’s not done:

“I’m not even asking you to like him, just be decent,” and it sounds like it hurts him to say as much, and Steve knows why; he genuinely despises when anyone thinks Lea with a the very beat thing about Steve. Steve believes this to be n unreasonable standard, and has expressed as much to Eddie who nods and smiles and kisses Steve’s forehead and does absolutely nothing to change his stance, but deep down?

Steve fucking feels so…loved for it.

“And like I said,” Steve can hear the judgement in Eddie’s tone clear as day; “you’re not ready, and I’m not putting him in that kind of situation.”

Steve sucks on the inside of his cheek, lest his grin at the way Eddie is not just defending him, but…protecting him, not his honor but his heart…

No ones ever even tried that before. Steve may not need it, or maybe he just learned he couldn’t survive needing it.

Getting it now…now it’s just…

Wow.

“And I’m in this for keeps, like, this is a forever type thing, so long as he wants it,” Eddie saying, explaining the color of a sky to a small child like what these words are that fundamental, that unalterably true. “So—”

“We’ve known each other forever, man,” Gareth eventually mutters, sounds indignant, but mostly gutted.

Steve knows before it happens that it’s not gonna make a difference.

“And we can still know each other. Just not everything, anymore,” and Eddie does sound a little sad but he’s…he’s a monolith, unshakable. “I don’t trust you with the parts that revolve around him, yet,” and Steve feels more than hears the ways his friends deflate, maybe shrink for being deemed so…insufficient. In the eyes of their ostensible leader, no less.

“Eddie, we didn’t,” Jeff starts, slow, and he doesn’t sound remorseful but—Eddie has all those coping mechanisms for a reason, right?

Because he’s quick to feeling, good and bad, and sometimes neither is fit to the moment.

Steve can’t help but be kinda glad Eddie doesn’t bother with those mechanisms just now, though, if it means he gets to hear this part:

“I know you didn’t, that’s the fucking problem,” Eddie groans, Steve can see the way he lens, bends at the knees and throws his body around a little in sheer, undiluted exasperation. “

“Because I could tell you he’s changed since school, and that’d be true, but that’s not even it,” and there’s more of the frustrated stomping round, Steve can hear it, but he’s…he’s ready distracted by that thing in his chest that has to has to be tied up in Eddie’s, too, that thing tugging on him to pay the fuck attention.

And who is he to ignore it?

“he was never who we thought he was in school in the first place. He is,” Eddie licks his lips, just to snack them loud:

“He is kind and funny, and goofy, and such a fuckin’ nerd, and he’s smart in these incredible ways where he’s sees what everyone else misses, and he’s protective as fuck and he’s got a heart of gold,” and Eddie’s voice only gets more heartfelt in its own right that longer he goes and Steve just, he’s, it’s—

“And I would tear my skin off just so it doesn’t get so much as a scuff on it,” Eddie ends with the most scathing delivery imaginable: he fucking meansthis shit. And Steve is going o live and die next to this man, scuffed heart still kept safe to the fucking end, he will swear that shit to anyone who needs to hear it.

He is going to have a whole fucking life with Eddie Munson, and love him for every single breath of it.

“And I don’t trust you guys yet not to tempt me to tear off my skin,” Eddie says finally after enough silence to catch his breath, and temper his tone just enough to sound tired; a little dejected. “I don’t trust you with him, and until that changes, we’re still friends,” Eddie sniffs, breathes out long; “you just won’t get to know about that part of me.”

He says it so simple, like he’s not half-cutting off some of the longest, closest friendships he’s ever had, and for Steve.

Steve doesn’t know if it makes him a person, or a really selfish one or whatever, if he doesn’t feel any urge to talk Eddie down, to make him walk it back just a little.

He doesn’t think he cares, though, either way.

“Seems like a really big part of you,” Doug says, deflated entirely.

“It is,” Eddie answers, unapologetic in a way that swells and sparkles in Steve’s ribs. “He is.”

“You’d walk from the band?” Of course Gareth asks, but it’s the first time he sounds small in his words. Like he maybe knows the answer, and isn’t so okay with how he got around to it even before Eddie wishes all doubt:

“In half a fuckin’ heartbeat.” Boom. Done. No hesitation whatsoever.

Less than half-a-fuckin’-heartbeat.

“That’s not what I’m saying I’m doing right now, but,” Eddie laughs a little, and that probably cuts deeper than anything for the boys, Steve suspects, especially when Eddie makes it unquestionable:

“It’s not even a question.”

And…maybe that drives a knife deeper for the band, but for Steve?

Steve kinda wants to…giggle, or some shit. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted someone who answered a question like that, exactly like that, who talked about Steve exactly like that, without anything to gain, just because they…believed it.

“Jesus,” Gareth mutters, sounds kinda blindsided, kinda thrown and then some.

“If we,” Jeff clears his throat after a long period of quiet; “if we do better, could we meet him someday?” And the way he says it, earnest and shit:, like he wants to at least think about, at least maybe try:

“Like, really meet him?”

Like Eddie means enough that he’ll try, and that sings sweet in Steve’s veins because goddamn straight, his Eddie deserves that from the people hecares about. No matter who or what Steve is, Eddiedeserves that much, and so much more.

But he sounds like even just this is something amazing, Steve can hear the smile in his voice:

“Yeah, man,” he answers Jeff, claps him audibly on the shoulder; “I look forward to it.”

And shit, y’know what?

So does Steve.

“See you in two weeks,” and Eddies footsteps follow, guitar slung over his back for the way his weight falls with each one, but then:

“Eddie!”

That’s Doug; the footsteps stop close to the edge of the garage door as another set rushes to catch up, where he’ll see Steve if he walks much farther, where Steve’s got his hand on the door handle of the car, slowly inching it open to push shut and look wholly-unsuspicious now that Eddie might be followed out to his ride:

“Get him flowers. For your anniversary,” Doug says, tone low like a secret; “I know, like, it might seem like guys wouldn’t want flowers, but,” and Steve actually has to strain to hear the next part:

“My mom gets my dad flowers on his birthday every year, and he lights up like the Fourth of July.”

Steve remembers the first time he ever got flowers. His favorites, even if he thinks he only knew it subconsciously because they were handed to him with the stammering explanation of I don’t even know if you like flowers, or like these ones, but you look at them when we’re out, like, just walking or something and your eyes linger, and these ones just remind me of you and—

Apparently, Steve loves hyacinths. And sunflowers make Eddie think of him.

Because of course Steve’s first gift of flowers came from Eddie.

“Thanks man,” Eddie sounds the lightest, most genuine Steve’s heard him since he pulled up and got out of the car; “they’re already ordered.”

And Doug chuckles, and Steve?

Steve bites down his smile to less exploding-star levels—if he’d just pulled up he doesn’t have a reason, save that Eddie is enough of a reason in Steve’s eyes, his mind, the way his chest expands just thinking on him—as he pulls the car door closed again, loud enough to be noticed.

For Eddie to walk out of the garage fast as anything and meet Steve with a smile of his own that justifies the fuck out of where Steve’s had started, anyway.

All star-bright and everything.

♥️🎸♥️

✨also on ao3✨

btw this is either titled ‘halcyon shoegazing’ or ‘heart in your shoes’ so if you have an opinion you should maybe tell me or something, my brain’s tired and is resisting decisions rn

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here and here

[diushek]

The Shen Yuan that dies - really dies. He actually dies and doesn't transmigrate, but well, you know, death is a timeless thing and the flow of time itself in the world of the dead is so weird lol So, well, let me make up that all the demons and ghost kings and cultivators inhabit this powerful timeless space where the dead also go, and oh, there's Shen Yuan now -

So, Shen Yuan is just a silly ghost fire filled with pent-up rage, damn shitty novel, damn shitty author. Is he “alive” for something? Because of how much he hates PIDW and its fucked up ending. Get a lower-ranking ghost body because he's just... angry at Airplane. His new form is, ah, well, different and weird, but he can grow his hair to go unnoticed, and can steal some robes.

Get a small job eventually just because he was bored and although he don't need to eat, it would be nice to have extra money - and the tea house owner doesn't care if he's a human or a ghost as long as he's not creepy with the customers and serves their tables. It's a routine that gives him the quick financial support to get bad books, complain more - and maybe he's getting stronger because of it? Because of his anger at mediocre authors and repressed anger? Does it even make sense?

At some point, Tonglu opens. Shen Yuan has headaches and the desperate feeling that he must go, as if he summoned. He tells his boss he's going to be out for ghostly reasons - his boss is like, oh, you needed a vacation anyway. And Shen Yuan goes.

It's a massacre, of course. A mix between the Hunger Games and the Purge, but Shen Yuan has something they definitely don't: a lot of knowledge in shooting video games. And he doesn't have a gun, but hey, he can shoot resentful spiritual energy and it works like bullets or something - he soon discovers that the more ghosts he overcomes, he becomes stronger. He has more power to throw, more skills, a stronger body.

Go to the kiln. Have bloody fights. At some point he gets a sword and it takes him forever and nothing like a training sequence to use it properly. And finally, the kiln opens and Shen Yuan comes out looking... Well, stronger.

He returns to the teahouse to change and take a bath. The owner tells him that it's been thirteen years, what the hell, but lets him in and gives him hot water and clothes.

Shen Yuan's new body and new abilities are strange to him. He notices himself taller. Stronger. His hearing and smell have improved. His abilities seem to be more wordy, as if he could persuade people if he spoke to them in a specific tone, as if his words could bind them. Well, it's not a bad way to be dead.

Shen Yuan tries to continue working at the tea house, but the humans are clearly terrified by the powerful ghost king aura in their area, so there are hardly any customers. Shen Yuan just sighs and decides to leave. He has some savings anyway.

Ghosts run away from him. Humans either try to kill him or hide. Shen Yuan is fed up; no matter if it is in the mortal world or the ghost world, people are gossiping about him and how he has not taken a Territory, about how unorthodox he is, about how they are waiting for him to start his killing spree one day.

Shen Yuan learns to change his appearance from creepy ghost to normal human, hide his resentful energy, and camouflage himself in the human world. It's a long way from his old tea house, and so many years have passed that the kind owner has probably already died, so Shen Yuan gets another job at a bookstore. Nothing unusual. Just a boy who was once from a wealthy family and was disinherited when his older brother took over the family leadership because of their bad relationship. Now he must work to live.

People swallow that story like a good meal, some even feel sorry for him.

And Shen Yuan is having a decent afterlife. Boring, mostly, but with good days. He reads a lot, gets angry a lot, writes authors letters that reach their desks without them even realizing how the hell did this crazy guy find his addresses. Let's just say he's having an interesting life.

Then one day, he meets Luo Binghe.

He... He literally knows that he's Binghe. It couldn't be anyone else but Luo Binghe. He does his investigations, and apparently, Emperor Luo Binghe exists, he has been there all along. It's not like Shen Yuan knew it; the ghost realm and the human-demon realm are divided, and even if they have a common mortal ancestor, demons and ghosts don't usually meddle in their own things.

Not that Shen Yuan wants to be cannon fodder anyway; he keeps his distance in Binghe, works at that bookstore, gives friendly greetings to his customers, and keeps sending angry letters to authors.

And one day Shen Yuan receives a direct visit from Luo Binghe at his door. With a letter in his hand.

"This letter was on my Second Wife's desk," Luo Binghe says, with a fake smile. "No one but her can open or read it, so this Lord wonders after discovering the resentful energy signature on the paper, what missives does this Ghost King exchange with one of the Emperor's wives?"

Shen Yuan is not surprised that Luo Binghe knows who he is - ever so OP the Protagonist! However, it is more difficult to explain that his wife actually writes cut-sleeved novels that the fact that Shen Yuan was reading and criticizing them in the first place.

Well, he's been dead for over a hundred years, really denying that he's at least bisexual at this point in his life...

[svnriseblvdd]

neighbour! clark kent x new girl! reader

SYNOPSIS: with your friend iris in town, the two of you head to a house party, where your short dress and a game of pool send clark's thoughts running wild again.

WARNINGS: reference to perv!clark/reference to general perversion, clark thinks extensively about reader's panties, most of it's innuendo and allusions i won't lie, chloe makes a slight reference to sex on/over a table, random football player starts leering and staring at reader's ass, indirect description of a boner, clark gets a peek of reader's panties, doggy but no sex? (you'll see - they're in the position, but clothes and underwear are still on), clark is still dying for some action.

i might come back and rewrite this part at some point in the future, because i had a couple more ideas i wanted to put in but couldn't figure out at the time, and the ending falls a little flat - i knew i wanted something extra, but i think it just lacks what i wanted.

part one! part two! part three! part four!

Your friend Iris is across the room while music flows through the space, loud and deep, settling into your bones. She’s flirting with a guy from the football team. You’ve already assured her she will not be borrowing your bedroom if she decides to hook up with the guy, so she might as well go home with him or just find a room upstairs to use. This house belongs to one of the football players, they’re always throwing big parties. 

Since Iris headed off ten minutes ago, you’ve been hovering a little awkwardly near the couches, except now there’s two couples making out on one of them, and then the other is filled with a group of friends you’re pretty sure are stoned out of their minds. 

So now you’re just looking for anyone to talk to or at least linger by without looking weird and lonely. Someone you know. 

Your face lights up in a smile when you notice exactly the people you need. Chloe and Lana are across the room, Chloe clearly judging people and Lana nodding her head either to the music or to Chloe’s comments. Lana smiles when she sees you, waving you over to them. 

You cross the room, greeting them both with a grin and an excited, “Hi!” 

“Hey, you look amazing!” Lana compliments. 

“Thank you! You’re so gorgeous!” 

“Is your friend having a good time?” 

“I’d say so,” Chloe says, looking toward Iris, who’s mid-makeout with the aforementioned football player. Good for her. 

Speaking of makeouts with football players, you need to find Clark. 

Clark spies you from across the room on his way back to Chloe and Lana, drink in hand. As always, he thinks he might combust. Your dress hugs your figure, clinging like a second skin, and it’s so short that if he follows the lines of your legs from your feet up, it feels like they might never end. 

And as always, his mind wanders. He thinks about how easy it would be to pick you up, wrap your legs around his waist. How your dress is short enough that it would hike up all by itself, bunching around your hips and showing off your panties. His x-ray vision means that he could just take a peek, but he refuses. It’s bad enough that he thinks about it, but to actually invade your privacy, to perv on you like that? He couldn’t. Surely not. He’ll let himself resort to his fantasies. His fantasies picture all manner of things. 

Black, like the dress - lacy, very simple and nothing out of the ordinary really, but entirely sexy. A bold red, maybe - it leaves little to the imagination, it only really covers the bare minimum and leaves the rest so plain to see. But then he pictures something lighter, a pastel pink or blue perhaps. And that’s what sends his mind into a frenzy. Delicate, soft in its colour, cotton and lace, the prettiest he’d imagined yet. Just like one he’d seen on your bed that time he came over to help put your furniture together. 

He approaches the three of you nevertheless, pushing his thoughts into the back of his mind. 

“Clark!” You greet him with your bright smile. 

“Hey!” 

“I want to play pool, do you want to join?” 

“Uh, sure?” 

“Great! I’ll get it set up, you come over when you’re ready.” 

He watches you walk away, hips swaying gently as you approach the pool table. “She’s so into you,” Chloe mutters, laughing. 

“What?” He asks, eyebrows quirked. “No, she’s not.” 

“Clark, she’s just invited you to go watch her bend over a table. Trust me, she’s into you.” 

His cheeks flush red as he shakes his head. “No. No, she’s just- she says and does things without realising.” 

“Oh, she realises,” Lana says, laughing a little. “She wants you to notice her.” 

“I do notice her!” 

“Not in the way that she wants. Not that she can see, anyway. To everyone else, it’s plainly obvious that you’re head-over-heels for the girl,” Chloe says. “Now go. She’s waiting for you.” 

He joins you over at the pool table, where you’ve set it up. It’s only now that it’s just you and him that he realises you’re tipsy. He can see it in your eyes and the lazy smile on your face, and the way you stumble just a little into him, holding his biceps for support. 

“Ladies first,” he says, watching you smile wider and turn to the table. 

You walk to the other end as Clark lifts the triangle, and you bend at the waist, lining up your shot. You split the balls, and the game begins. 

Halfway through, on your turn again, you bend at the waist once again, this time a little closer to Clark. And this time, one of the football players, Nathan, stares at your ass as you begin to bend over. Before he can see any more, Clark steps in the way, blocking Nathan’s view and shooting him a glare. 

Nathan raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, Kent. I didn’t know y’all were like that.” And he moves on. 

Clark rolls his eyes a little. 

Right towards the end, with you surprisingly in the lead - although Clark’s willing to bet that he’s at a disadvantage, given that most of his blood is travelling in the opposite direction away from his brain and somewhere it is not currently needed - you go to take another shot. You evaluate a few angles, then decide on one. Clark is leaning against a wall, watching you move around the table with careful thought. And then you find your ideal angle. 

The best place you can take this shot from and still have a chance at potting it is by standing right in front of Clark. 

So you stand there, and bend over again. Clark hadn’t seen it before, careful to move with you so that he never had to be standing at an angle where he’d see much, if anything, when you bent over. But this shot was far too difficult to predict where you’d go, nowhere was ideal. So he’d stuck where he was and begged whatever power there was that you didn’t need to stand in front of him. But the powers are betting against him. 

You bend over, so your torso is at a parallel angle to the table, and line up your shot. And Clark doesn’t mean to look, really. But just like in the car the other day when he’d glanced at your tits, your ass is right there. How was he supposed to know that your dress was so short he’d be able to see your panties? 

The best of his fantasies are fulfilled when he glimpses your baby blue underwear, just like he imagined it. Cotton, but he can see the beginnings of lace detail. It covers you well, until it reaches your ass, where the material begins to thin, and it becomes just a flimsy thing that rests between your ass cheeks. He’d imagined the thong before, not half an hour ago. But now he was seeing it. 

You stumble a little, out of nowhere seemingly, and he’s quick to grip your hips to stabilise you. And now his crotch is pretty much against your ass. Now it just looks like he’s about to take you from behind. 

“Uh-” He lets you go. “You okay?” 

“Mm-hm. I’m about to win. I couldn’t be better.” 

“Yeah, well, there’s still time, don’t get your hopes too high.” 

Except Clark knows it would take a miracle for him to win now. His head’s too clouded with lust, his brain is so deprived of blood it should be concerning, and he’s so hard it’s painful. He thinks he might just finish in his pants any minute. And if he didn’t know better, he’d think that you’re doing this to him intentionally. But you’re too tipsy and he’s seen the way you are normally, always saying and doing things by accident or without realising the double entendre. 

Or so he thinks. 

Thing is, you didn’t really come here with a plan to try to rile him up. You know it never usually seems to work - Clark’s awkward, and far too respectful to objectify you, even if you’re practically begging him to (or so you think). You love how respectful Clark is, really, and you’re glad he was raised right, but just once you want him to throw that out the window, be as depraved as he can be, lustful and carnal. He’s so easily-flustered and touch-starved, you know that he has to have locked up all those urges and desires somewhere. You really didn’t plan anything tonight, the tipsiness seems to have done some of it for you. 

When you win the match a little later, you cheer and jump in celebration, Clark smiling at you and keeping his eyes very much on yours. You hug him joyfully, and he wraps his strong arms around you. 

It was strange how a man so physically imposing could hold so much comfort. 

~~~ 

“So, how was your night?” Iris asks over a cup of coffee as the two of you sit in the Talon. 

You smile. “Pretty good. You?” 

“Very good.” 

Later on, when Clark arrives with Chloe, Pete, and Lana, Iris wiggles her eyebrows at you, and you roll your eyes before inviting them to join you. 

The others all take their seats, leaving Clark to sit next to you. 

He looks flushed, but you choose not to comment. 

taglist;

@artyandink

@blueeweeb

@ssnapsaurus

@i-got-a-bad-feeling-about-this

@milestellerismybf

@purple-1995

@writergiih

@elysianrosie

@glennussy

@rainwaterxx

[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

~{ Heyyy, so I’ll gonna be busy for a bit so this should hold you feral gremlins off for a bit so I don’t have you all on the edge of my woods with fire and pitchforks, soo hope you like }~

•The Dancer•

So when John Constantine walked into the house of mysterious only to see the FUCKING embodiment of time itself which is known to almost never bring good news [and who he has has had a few “one night” stands with, even if said “one night” lasted like a month with no change in the outside world] so John is internally freaking out inside.

And that’s when Clockwork turns to him and floats over to him until he’s in front of John and he says in his old and ethereal voice.

“Hello Constantine” Clockwork says and John feels like the pit in his stomach has grown into a cavern by what the embodiment of time may want from himso john turns his charm up to a fucking 11.

“Hello to you Clockwork, may this be a house visit maybe we could start where we ended last time~” John says in a flirty tone but in his voice in a underlying nervousness that he knows Clockwork can hear.

That’s when he hears Clockwork chuckle and responds with “Fear not, John I do not carry misfortune with my visit”The Ancient of time says with an air of amusement and mirth in his eyes as he looks at John. “Than why the sudden visit?” John ask still with a bit of a flirty undertone in his voice, look his not taking ANY chances with Clockwork anytime soon.

“The introduction of new Prince of death is in the coming days and you are in attendance” Clockwork says with finality that told john that he didn’t have a chance in the matter of his attendance and before John can say anything back Clockwork says “I will summon you when it is time, be prepared.”.

And he’s gone back to wherever Clockwork goes to do his job and John is just relieved there was no bad news for the world but then John realizes what clockwork said.

��THERES A NEW BLOODY FUCKING PRINCE???”

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

After a bit the ghost side of Danny’s (half)life has chilled out with him and the other ghost coming to an agreement for them to leave amity Park alone and Danny will go to The Ghost Zone three times a week to make sure he stays healthy and to hang out with them.

And turns out the observers wanted more power around a few thousand years back and used their influence and power to turn Pariah Dark insane and put him in the nap-time box so they could rule The Ghost Zone so Danny beat their collective asses and help Pariah Dark chill TF out so he’s back to normal and over this time has grown close with Danny and has come to think of him as a son so there chill.

Oh and don’t worry Pariah Dark also beat the ever loving shit out of the observers for turning him insane and turning him into a tyrant

But for the human side of Danny’s life has become more dangerous for Danny.

The G.I.W and his parents have somehow managed to get ahold [ VLAD ] of blood blossoms and turning their weapons more and more deadly for him and with Jazz off to college and Tucker, Sam having their own things. Danny is not having a good time and he talks about his concerns for his safety with Pariah Dark and he suggest that Danny moves over to the ghost zone full time as it is too dangerous with the blood blossom weapons and it’s not like the Fentons will notice him missing.

So Danny grabs his things and moves to the ghost zone full time and as he’s basically Pariah Dark’s ghost son at this point he is welcomed as the new prince so he’s just been hanging around the ghost zone for awhile [3 months].

And in this time Danny picked up dancing from a new friend of his who in her life was called..what was it again, oh yeah a gypsy! And she taught him how to dance and it has been affecting his ghost form so that’s fun and after he was found dancing in the gardens.

He had earned the nickname “The Dancing Prince”

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-•Appearances•

Danny’s dancing wear-

[ He likes to dress in more airy clothes when he’s dancing and the hair the accessories for when he’s dancing was given to him by his new friend ]

Danny’s normal wear-

[ Danny’s hair grew out a bit so when he’s not dancing he just holds it up with ribbons]

+ Danny has jewelry but I can’t find any good ones so that really up to you gremlins

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

~{ And that’s it! Hope this holds you guys off for a bit and the new friend I mentioned is mostly based off one of my OCs so just a random thing and if you gremlins like this I’ll probably add more but anyways byeeee }~

[chikifumoto]

DPXDP prompt

I haven't seen many fics/ prompts where Danny inherits Dlav co, unless everyone he knows is dead or it's never mentioned.

<I'll be honest it's more of a story outline that i might never use so i decided to see what others would do with it, i would have liked it to be a dead slient ship, but it should work with any of the characters>

<So let me set the stage>

Amity Park gets dragged into the infinite realm, not when Danny is 15 but when he is 17 to 19 like just before college. Vald is completely ended by Pariah Dark or Fright Knight <it doesn't matter as long as he's dead😋> pretty early into the battle, and Danny goes on to defeat them/him in single combat and becomes king of the infinite realms the usual in these fic. After the battle and the return to Earth, someone finds Vald's body(turned back human after his death), and he's buried, leaving everything to Danny.

Danny, being who he is, is reluctant to take over the sketchy company, but with a push from his friend and Jazz, he does making Tucker his head R&D and Sam his co-ceo after buying up some stock after the public learned of Vald's death and that the company was going to his underage(17) godson leading the investor to sell there shares.

Ok, this is we're ideas I saw from other prompts come in.

For one, this does not have to be a reveal gone wrong, but I don't want it to be fine either. Their relationship is stained at best, and no contact worst. <it could be worse, just not my cup of tea.>

Hey, look!! This is where the batfam comes in for one Spirit co.(formally Dlav co.) Is a big hit as a million dollar eco-friendly company working powerful renewable energy(ecto energy)and meeting Tim at a gala hosted by the Wayne's for a fundraiser, and they hit it off and become fast friends has young Ceos and there coffee addiction, they're about the same age give or take a few months. <maybe more, I'm more partial to Danny/Cass because we need more of them>

Bruce, being the suspicious person he is, is suspicious of this company that had less than ideal origins and given the fact that there have never been a successful brake in <Yes!! Danny uses ghosts with the obsession to keep things safe> the company that set up shop in Gothem. He wants to investigate but can't get his children to help because they have gotten too close to Danny and co. <yes, including Jason>

<i have decided to give Danny(Kendrick Lemar)levels of hatred for Vald. That is to say that there is not a single cell, not a single atom in his body that does not hate that man and that is the reason that Dani/Ellie is unstable and is the reason she is certainly destabilizing, her DNA is fighting against itself and she is falling apart, this should takes place a months or a year into the relationship(trio,batfam or other DC characters...)>

<That is as far as I got with this, so good luck and have fun with this🫡>

[undeadslayerr]

I think I get what you mean. I guess since I don't really experience transphobia in the way that people would attack me on the street for looking gnc or trans, I'd rather assume transphobia is less pervasive. This example you gave makes me really understand the whole point better.

those who stay silent are complicit in transphobia, even if they gender us correctly and are generally polite to us.

I guess since most people just don't have much of an opinion about trans issues at all, I'd assume they aren't transphobic. You're right that it may be the opposite.

Society itself is definitely transphobic, and is for sure constructed in a misogynistic and transphobic way. And because of it, I agree that a lot of people are definitely made to be transphobic. But I'm of the opinion that if detached from that influence, most people wouldn't really mind anyone trans. I guess that doesn't make them not transphobic per se.

I'm gonna go on a more personal tangent now to explain my perspective a bit more. You don't have to read it if you dgaf lol, it really doesn't matter much.

For example, I had a doctor appointment very recently. I outed myself as trans to the doctor. Basically the situation was:

I was there under my deadname to make everything medical easier. During the medical exam she noticed excessive body hair and asked if I'm under a doctor's care regarding any hormone imbalances, since it looks like I could have excessive testosterone. I sheepishly explained that it's intended, because I'm trans and taking testosterone.

She wasn't grossed out or rude or anything. She asked for my chosen name and referred to me by it. She switched my pronouns when she was speaking halfway through the visit. She congratulated me, said I look masculine and HRT is clearly working, and said she's happy people today can be who they wanna be.

At first she had trouble referring to me by the correct pronouns, but she corrected herself very quickly. I bet she must have some transphobic worldviews. Maybe she was, at some point, transphobic to someone else. But I don't think any of that is malicious. I think she doesn't want to be transphobic. Maybe even as much as me, who's actually a part of the trans community. I think she's uneducated and clueless about the stuff that just doesn't affect her as much.

And I think, because of that, I'd rather just not assume transphobia. I think I'll still approach people with the mindset of "not transphobic until proven otherwise", just for my own peace of mind I guess. I feel like people who are not transphobic can be educated, while transphobes don't even hear you out.

I think you're right though, in the way that transphobia is much more varied and prevalent than just physical violence in the streets. And a lot of people, including myself, can still hold transphobic worldviews they were taught, and just overall be transphobic, even if unintended. I think the problem I have with this, is how unclear it really all is in practice. Sexism, racism, transphobia and homophobia often intersect, not mentioning the fact that some people are just bigots for sport. At what point does being uneducated stop and being malicious start?

Overall it's a complex issue and I appreciate the explanation!! I know, despite the fact that I'm trans, I don't really know everything about trans issues, so I see a lot of value in dialogues like this. :))

why do people assume celebrities are not transphobic by default? we live in a deeply transphobic world. many of the "basic facts about the world" we are taught as children are fully transphobic lies. i don't get why, when people like a celebrity, they write a little fictional biography in their head about how they're probably not transphobic (despite the fact that, mathematically, most people totally transphobic, especially people of class celebrities belong to). like why? why just assume that people in this deeply transphobic world are progressive trans allies by default without any kind of evidence?

[reveriebae]

Miami's model

pairing(s) : Park Seonghwa x reader

word count : 5108

summary : You thought you could escape Seonghwa, but he always gets what he wants. And he wants you. He finds you, traps you, and teaches you a brutal, punishing lesson—one you’ll never forget. You’re his. Always.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Obsession, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, rough and punishing dynamics, choking, overstimulation, degradation, messy oral. Let me know if I missed anything!

A/N : I feel sick of using Y/N for the reader so I decided not to do it anymore, Oh! And also...I'm a sucker for blowjob scene these days lol. Actually, this one should be part of Songfic but...it's not. I wrote this the whole night and it's my favorite Seonghwa fic after love overdose, hope you guys like it🫶

Minors do not interact, 21+ only!!

🪐 smut under the cut 🪐

The runway lights were blinding, flashing like a thousand hungry eyes as you strutted forward, heels clicking against the polished stage. The dress—thin as sin, clinging to every curve—was meant to steal attention. And it did.

Men watched. Women envied. Miami was full of people who wanted something from you—lust, admiration, jealousy. But none of them made your skin crawl like him.

It was a slow, creeping awareness. Like an animal sensing a predator before it sees him.

Your body moved on autopilot, hitting your final pose. But your pulse slammed against your ribs.

He was here.

You knew it before you even spotted him. That stare—heavy, possessive, taunting.

And then you saw him.

Seonghwa sat in the VIP section, drowning in dim, golden light, a glass of dark liquor cradled in his long fingers. He looked almost bored, lips barely curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but not far from it. Like he’d been waiting.

Your throat went dry.

Miami was supposed to be your fresh start. New name, new hair, new city, new life. But he always found you.

You tore your eyes away, walking back down the runway, fingers trembling against the fabric of your dress. The second you were backstage, you grabbed your bag, slipping past models and designers, ignoring the bubbling chatter. Your driver was outside. You just had to make it to the car—

“Room 1803. Don’t make me come find you.”

The text made your breath hitch. The number was unknown, but you didn’t need a name.

Seonghwa.

The walls felt too tight, the air too thick. He’d given you an option, but you knew better. If you didn’t go to him, he would come to you. And that would be worse.

The hotel loomed over the city, its glass windows reflecting Miami’s neon skyline. Inside, the lobby pulsed with quiet luxury—crystal chandeliers, expensive cologne, the murmur of high-profile guests who had no idea you were walking straight into the lion’s den.

Room 1803.

Your heels barely made a sound against the plush carpet as you stepped into the elevator, your breath shallow. You could still turn back. You could walk right out, catch the next flight, disappear again.

But you knew how this would end.

Seonghwa didn’t give up. He never had.

The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Every step toward his door felt heavier, like gravity itself was dragging you down.

You knocked once. No answer. Your fingers curled into your palm. Maybe he was bluffing. Maybe he—

The door clicked open.

Seonghwa stood there, leaning against the frame, watching you the way a predator watches a trapped animal. Dark suit, silver rings, eyes that held every promise of ruin.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Good girl.”

The way he said it made something tighten in your stomach.

He stepped aside, letting you in. The suite was sleek, expensive, but the only thing you could focus on was the sound of the door locking behind you.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

Your throat felt tight. “I—”

“Three months.” He took a slow step forward. “That’s how long you lasted this time.”

He was close enough now that you could smell him—something deep, intoxicating, laced with the sharp burn of whiskey.

“I should be impressed,” he murmured, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your chin up. “But I’m not.”

His grip tightened, just for a second—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control.

“Now,” Seonghwa whispered, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, “why don’t you tell me what you were running from, baby?”

As if he didn’t already know the answer.

Him.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Seonghwa’s fingers traced the line of your jaw, his touch deceptively soft, but his eyes—his eyes burned.

“I wasn’t running,” you murmured, even though you both knew it was a lie.

Seonghwa chuckled, low and dark. “You’re still a terrible liar, baby.” His fingers slid down, brushing over your collarbone, ghosting along the strap of your dress. “But go on, keep pretending.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His touch was light, teasing, but it carried a promise. A warning.

He sighed, shaking his head. “Three months,” he mused, like he was still processing it. “Three months without my hands on you. Without hearing you beg.”

Your stomach twisted. “I’m not—”

His fingers wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. Your breath hitched, and he tilted his head, watching you with something unreadable.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” Seonghwa murmured, thumb tracing circles against your pulse. “But don’t lie to me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. The room felt too warm, the air too thick. He was too close, too overwhelming.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t step back. Instead, his other hand slid to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “Tell me something, baby.” His voice was smooth, almost lazy. Deceptive. “Did you think about me while you were gone?”

Your nails dug into your palms. “No.”

His smirk was slow, lethal. “Then why are your thighs pressed together?”

Heat surged through you, betrayal flooding your veins. Because he was right.

Seonghwa leaned in, his breath brushing your ear. “You can fight me all you want,” he murmured, voice dropping into something dangerous. “But we both know how this ends.”

Your breath shuddered out of you. Because he was right about that, too.

The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, like a loaded gun waiting to go off.

Seonghwa’s fingers lingered at your waist, a featherlight touch that still made you feel caged. He wasn’t touching you the way he wanted to—not yet.

Because he was patient. He always had been.

Your pulse hammered against your skin, betraying you, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not playing your game.”

Seonghwa chuckled, the sound deep, knowing. Like he had already won.

“My game?” His thumb brushed over your hip, so subtly you almost thought you imagined it. “Sweetheart, you were the one who ran. That made it a game.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, just enough that his lips hovered near your jaw, not touching, just teasing. The air between you burned.

“I don’t chase things I don’t intend to catch,” he murmured.

A shiver ran through you, frustration and something far more dangerous curling in your stomach. You wanted to move, to push him away, to do something to break this unbearable tension.

But that’s exactly what he wanted.

Seonghwa was waiting—waiting for you to break first.

So you forced your expression into something calm, something indifferent. You let your lips curl into a smirk, tilting your chin slightly. If he wanted a game, you’d play.

You leaned in, just barely, your lips hovering near his jaw the same way he had done to you. “Then why haven’t you caught me yet?”

The change was instant. His grip tightened, his breath hitched—just for a second, but you felt it.

Then his fingers flexed against your waist, and his lips curled into something dark.

“Oh, baby.” His voice was smooth, a slow unraveling of control. “You think I haven’t?”

The air between you snapped.

But he didn’t kiss you. He didn’t move closer. He just stayed there, waiting.

Because the second you gave in? You’d never escape again.

The air felt thick, charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm cracks the sky apart.

Seonghwa still hadn’t touched you the way he wanted to. That was the worst part—the way he let the tension stretch, the way he made you feel like you had a choice, when you both knew the truth.

You weren’t free.

You never had been.

And yet, you still fought against the inevitable.

Your smirk didn’t waver. “If you think you’ve caught me, then why are we still here?”

His grip on your waist tightened—a silent warning.

You had no business taunting him like this, but the moment was slipping, your last sliver of control hanging by a thread. You had to use it.

Seonghwa exhaled slowly, almost as if he were amused. But the heat in his eyes told a different story.

“You want to pretend you have a choice?” His fingers ghosted along the edge of your dress, not lifting it, not moving past the barrier, but close enough that your breath stuttered. “Fine.”

He took a single step back.

It shouldn’t have felt like a slap. It shouldn’t have made your stomach drop.

But it did.

The space between you was small, insignificant, but it burned.

Seonghwa tilted his head, watching you with that same knowing smirk. Daring you.

“Go, then,” he said simply. “Leave.”

The challenge wrapped around your throat like a collar.

Because you knew what he was doing. Giving you the illusion of control, just to watch you crumble under the weight of it.

Your body screamed at you to move. To turn on your heel, walk out of the suite, disappear again. But you didn’t.

Seonghwa’s smirk deepened.

And that’s when you realized—this was what he had been waiting for.

Your silence was louder than any confession.

Seonghwa stepped forward again, slow, deliberate, reclaiming the space between you. His fingers traced your jaw, tilting your chin up.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice like silk and steel. “I was wondering how long you were going to pretend.”

Your stomach tightened. You had lost.

And he was going to make you feel every second of it.

Your breath stuttered, heart hammering against your ribs as Seonghwa leaned in—slow, deliberate, inescapable.

There was no space left between you now. No room to run.

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, his touch featherlight, but his grip at your waist? Firm. Claiming.

"You ran for three months," he murmured, lips ghosting over your cheek, just shy of pressing against your skin. "Tell me, baby, was it worth it?"

You didn't answer.

Because you didn’t know.

All that effort—changing your number, slipping through cities, never staying too long in one place. And for what? To end up right back here, in his hands, exactly where he always knew you’d be?

Your silence made him chuckle, dark and deep.

"That's what I thought."

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was in control now.

Your breath caught when he finally pressed his lips against your skin, just beneath your ear. Soft, warm, too much.

“You should’ve known better,” he murmured, dragging his lips lower, down the line of your neck. Like he had all the time in the world.

Your body betrayed you—the way your fingers clenched, the way your breath shuddered.

Seonghwa smirked against your skin. “You’re trembling,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Are you scared?”

Your pride flared, even as your body gave you away. “No.”

He chuckled again, low and knowing. “Liar.”

Before you could snap back, his hands slid lower—slow, unhurried, claiming every inch of skin as if reminding you that you belonged to him.

Your stomach tightened.

He wasn’t rushing.

Because Seonghwa never rushed when he had you exactly where he wanted.

“Say it, baby.” His voice was silk and sin, coaxing and commanding all at once. His fingers brushed the fabric of your dress, teasing, but still not giving you what you wanted.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to speak.

But Seonghwa just smirked.

“That’s alright,” he murmured, lips grazing your pulse. “I have all night.”

Seonghwa was taking his time.

It was deliberate—the way his lips hovered, the way his hands teased without giving in, the way he made you feel like you were the one unraveling first.

Because you were.

You could feel it—the slow, agonizing pull of control slipping from your fingers.

His lips pressed to the curve of your jaw, soft and warm, but his grip on your waist? Unyielding.

“You’re holding back.” His voice was smooth, velvet-dipped steel, pressing against every weak spot he had spent years memorizing.

His fingers traced the fabric of your dress, barely there, just enough to set your nerves on fire.

“Still pretending, baby?” His breath was hot against your skin. Mocking. Daring.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

But Seonghwa didn’t wait for your answer. He already knew it.

His lips trailed lower, down the column of your throat—a slow, sinful descent.

Your breath caught.

That was all it took.

Seonghwa smirked against your skin. “There it is.”

Your stomach tightened, twisted, burned.

The hand at your waist slid lower, tracing the curve of your hips, fingertips ghosting over the hem of your dress, but still not moving it.

“You’re so stubborn,” he murmured, lips pressing against your pulse. Feeling it race. Knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

You swallowed hard. “And you’re a—”

His teeth grazed your skin—just a tease, just enough to steal the rest of your words.

Your nails dug into his arms, but you weren’t pushing him away.

Seonghwa chuckled. “What was that, baby?”

You hated him. You hated how easily he could unravel you.

But more than that?

You hated that you wanted him to.

Seonghwa tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His pupils were dark, heavy-lidded, drunk off your slow submission.

“Say it,” he murmured. A demand. A command.

Your pride fought it.

But your body had already answered.

His smirk deepened.

“You’re already mine.”

And then, finally—he kissed you.

The moment his lips claimed yours, the last thread of control snapped.

Seonghwa wasn’t gentle.

The kiss was deep, demanding, consuming—a punishment for every second you had spent away from him.

His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you flush against him, no hesitation, no escape.

You gasped against his mouth, but he didn’t let you breathe. Didn’t let you think.

Because he knew—if you had a second to think, you’d remember why you ran.

So he kissed you harder.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up—your hands in his hair, your hips pressing against him, your lips parting for him.

Seonghwa groaned, deep and low, swallowing every sound you made like it was something he had been starving for.

His hands slid lower, gripping your thighs, and before you could protest, he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing.

You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the nearest surface—the cool marble of the suite’s counter top.

Seonghwa never broke the kiss.

His fingers traced up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, higher—still teasing, still making you feel every damn second of it.

Your breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, his lips kiss-swollen, his pupils blown.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “Three months of running, just to end up right where you belong.”

Your body burned.

Because he was right.

Seonghwa leaned in again, his lips ghosting over yours, just barely not touching.

“Say it,” he whispered.

Your nails dug into his arms. “Say what?”

His smirk deepened. He wanted you to break.

He wanted you to admit it.

But you weren’t giving in that easily.

So you smirked back. “Make me.”

And that was all it took.

Seonghwa’s eyes darkened—and then, he ruined you.

The second the words left your mouth, everything changed.

Seonghwa didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t hold back.

Didn’t let you think for a single second that you had even a shred of control left.

His hand was at your throat in an instant—not tight, not choking, just there, just enough to make you feel the weight of his control.

His lips were on you again, but this time, there was no patience.

The kiss was deep, bruising, possessive—a warning and a punishment all at once.

You gasped, but he swallowed it, swallowed everything.

His grip at your waist tightened, fingers pressing deep into your skin as he pulled you forward, forcing your thighs to part around him.

The cold marble beneath you was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him.

His other hand trailed down your thigh—slow, teasing, just to spite you.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” His voice was rough, breath warm against your lips. “You think you can still win this game?”

Your stomach tightened.

Because he was right—you had never been winning.

You had just been stalling.

And Seonghwa?

He was done playing.

His fingers gripped your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

Dark. Hungry. Merciless.

“You ran.” His voice was low, steady, dangerous. “Now you take what you’re given.”

Your breath hitched.

His smirk was pure sin. “And I’m not feeling generous tonight.”

Then, he ruined you.

You barely had time to process his words before he made good on his promise.

Seonghwa grabbed your hips and yanked you closer, your body dragged effortlessly across the cold marble—like you weighed nothing, like you were his to move, to control, to break.

And you were.

Your legs trembled, wrapping around his waist on instinct, but he didn’t let you settle—no, that would be too easy.

His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place, forcing you to feel every second of anticipation, every unbearable moment of not getting what you wanted.

“You think you get to tease me?” His breath was hot against your skin, his tone dark and amused. Like he was enjoying this.

Like he was enjoying watching you fall apart for him.

His fingers traced the inside of your thigh—lazy, unhurried, just enough to drive you insane.

Your breath came in uneven gasps, body betraying you with every twitch, every involuntary movement that told him exactly how much you wanted it.

Seonghwa chuckled—low, deep, cruel.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his lips along the edge of your jaw. “Already so desperate.”

Your nails dug into his arms, frustration boiling over. “Then stop teasing and do something.”

His grip tightened instantly.

Your stomach flipped, heat flashing through your body at the shift in his expression—mocking amusement replaced with something darker.

Something lethal.

His fingers trailed higher, so close, so fucking close, but stopping just shy of where you needed him most.

Then, his voice dropped—a whisper of a promise.

“Oh, baby.” His lips ghosted over your ear. “You don’t get to make demands.”

Then, without warning—he gave you exactly what you wanted.

I’ll be all that you need, baby

Seonghwa’s voice, low and thick with dark amusement, echoed in your head even as he forced your legs further apart, spreading you open like he had all the time in the world.

"You're trembling," he murmured, dragging his lips down the length of your neck, feeling every shudder, every twitch. His fingers were slow, teasing, barely grazing where you needed him most—because he wanted to hear you beg.

And he would.

His grip tightened at your waist, fingers pressing deep, like he was staking his claim.

"Tell me, baby," he whispered, breath hot against your jaw, "was running worth it?"

You bit your lip, refusing to answer, refusing to give him the satisfaction—but he felt the way your body reacted, how it betrayed you.

Seonghwa chuckled. "That’s what I thought."

Without warning, he pushed two fingers inside you—deep, rough, punishing.

A sharp gasp ripped from your throat, nails clawing at his shoulders, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust.

He didn’t want you to.

"Look at you," he murmured, watching your expression twist, half-lidded eyes filled with something desperate. "Three months of running, just to end up like this—spread out and soaking for me."

Your stomach clenched. It was humiliating. It was intoxicating. It was exactly what he wanted.

His pace was slow at first—deep, curling strokes meant to tease, to make you squirm.

Then, suddenly—he slammed his fingers inside you, rough and unrelenting, forcing a strangled cry from your lips.

"What's wrong, baby?" Seonghwa's smirk was pure sin, dark eyes locked onto your face, watching you unravel. "You wanted me to stop teasing, didn't you?"

His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles in contrast to the brutal pace of his fingers.

The heat in your stomach coiled tighter, your body twitching, back arching—but just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, he stopped.

Seonghwa pulled his fingers from you, slick and glistening, and pressed them against your lips.

"Lick."

The command was soft, but absolute.

You hesitated, glaring at him, but Seonghwa simply tilted his head, lips curving into something dark.

"You have two choices, baby," he murmured. "You do it yourself, or I make you."

Your lips parted slowly, hesitation warring with the heat curling in your gut—but Seonghwa had no patience left.

His fingers pressed forward, sliding past your lips, smearing your own slick onto your tongue.

“Good girl,” he murmured, watching as you swallowed around them, eyes hooded, pupils blown.

His thumb dragged down your chin, smearing the mess over your bottom lip before gripping your jaw, forcing your gaze to his.

“You taste that, baby?” His voice was low, teasing, but there was nothing playful about the way his cock pressed against your thigh—hard, thick, twitching with need.

“You made this mess,” he murmured, pressing his knee between your legs, forcing them apart again. “Now, tell me—”

His fingers slipped free, but before you could gasp for breath, he was on you again.

This time, his lips weren’t soft, weren’t teasing—they were bruising, consuming, taking everything you had left to give.

His teeth sank into your bottom lip, just enough to make you whimper.

"You wanted to act like a brat," Seonghwa muttered against your mouth. "Now, take it like a good girl."

Then, without warning, he flipped you over.

Your hands slammed onto the cold marble, your dress bunched around your waist—bare, exposed, vulnerable.

Seonghwa stood behind you, silent for a moment, drinking in the sight like he was committing it to memory.

Then—a sharp slap to your ass.

You yelped, body jerking, but his palm was already smoothing over the sting, his other hand gripping your waist, holding you exactly where he wanted.

“Tsk,” he clicked his tongue, lips curving. “Running from me and now you’re dripping all over the counter?”

Heat flashed through you, a mix of humiliation and unbearable need.

Seonghwa groaned, fingers tracing the curve of your ass, spreading you open just enough to make your stomach twist.

“So messy.” His voice vwas thick, dark, hungry. “And all for me?”

You bit back a whimper, refusing to answer.

Seonghwa hummed. “Still stubborn, huh?”

His fingers trailed lower—too slow, too teasing.

Then, suddenly—he shoved them inside you again, rougher, deeper than before.

Your body jerked violently, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your fingers curled against the marble, struggling to hold yourself up.

“Aw, baby,” Seonghwa cooed mockingly, fucking his fingers into you at a ruthless pace. “You’re already shaking.”

Your breath hitched, knees buckling, thighs quivering—but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down.

Didn’t let you breathe.

His free hand slid up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest to the counter.

Pinning you down.

“Where’s that attitude now, huh?” Seonghwa’s voice was all filthy amusement.

“You wanted me to stop teasing,” he murmured, leaning down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Now you’re gonna take every single thing I give you.”

Then, finally—he undid his belt.

The sharp clink of his belt sent a shiver down your spine.

You barely had time to brace yourself before the leather slid free, the soft sound of it snapping against itself making your stomach clench.

Seonghwa chuckled—low, dark, so fucking amused.

“You’re breathing so fast,” he murmured, dragging the belt over the curve of your ass, teasing you with the promise of something crueler.

You gritted your teeth, refusing to react—but he felt the way your body tensed, the way you shuddered at the anticipation.

His free hand pressed against your lower back, forcing you down further, the cold marble burning against your flushed skin.

“Breathe, baby.” His voice was soft, mocking. “Wouldn’t want you passing out before I’ve even started.”

Then—a sharp snap.

The first strike of the belt landed across your ass, white-hot and instant.

You gasped, fingers curling against the counter, but you didn’t make a sound—not yet.

Seonghwa hummed, pleased and unsatisfied all at once.

“Not enough?” he mused. “That’s fine. I can go harder.”

The next hit was brutal.

A sharp cry tore from your throat, your body jolting, but he didn’t stop—didn’t let you recover.

Two more. Faster. Harder. Overlapping.

By the time he dropped the belt, your ass was warm, aching, the sting spreading between your thighs in a way that made you feel even filthier.

And Seonghwa?

He fucking knew it.

“You’re shaking, baby.” His fingers traced the fresh marks, soothing, teasing, making you squirm.

He leaned down, lips at your ear, voice dripping with sin.

“Are you wet from that?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, heat burning under your skin—but you didn’t answer.

Seonghwa laughed, low and breathless, like this was the best thing he’d ever fucking felt.

Then—his fingers dragged through your slick folds.

Testing. Confirming.

And then he groaned.

“Oh, you are,” he murmured, pressing his fingers inside you again—slow this time, deep, filthy.

You bit your lip, stifling a whimper, but he wasn’t having that.

His other hand slid under your jaw, gripping your chin, tilting your head back just enough for him to hear every sound.

Seonghwa stepped back, his cock slick, throbbing, still twitching with the need for more.

But instead of flipping you over again—he grabbed your chin, tilting your head up.

A slow smirk spread across his lips. “On your knees.”

Your breath hitched, legs weak, body trembling, but you sank to the floor anyway.

You barely had time to steady yourself before his fingers tangled into your hair, gripping tight, forcing you to look up at him.

He was so hard—flushed, leaking, thick.

Your thighs squeezed together, heat pooling in your stomach, but Seonghwa wasn’t in a giving mood yet.

He tapped the tip against your lips, smearing the mess there, watching as your tongue flicked out instinctively.

His grip tightened, voice dropping lower.

“Open.”

You obeyed immediately, lips parting just enough—but it wasn’t enough for him.

His other hand pressed against your jaw, forcing it wider, wider, until your mouth was open exactly how he wanted.

Then, he pushed in.

The first few inches slid across your tongue, hot, heavy, intoxicating.

Seonghwa groaned, head tilting back, his free hand resting on your cheek, feeling the way your mouth stretched around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he muttered, watching as you struggled to take more, as your throat fluttered around him.

But struggling wasn’t an excuse.

His grip tightened in your hair, holding you still—then, he shoved deeper.

Your eyes widened, throat tightening, a muffled gag slipping out as he bottomed out, cock hitting the back of your throat.

Seonghwa shuddered.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hips rolling forward just enough to feel you squirm.

Tears pricked your eyes, spit pooling, dripping down your chin, but you stayed still, hands gripping his thighs, waiting—waiting for him to use you.

And he did.

Seonghwa fucked your throat without mercy, each thrust forcing another choked moan out of you, your nails digging into his skin, your jaw aching, your body melting into submission.

“Messy fucking thing,” he murmured, watching the way you took it all—ruined, desperate, perfect.

Your lips hollowed, sucking harder, taking everything he gave you—and it drove him insane.

“Just like that, baby.” His voice was tight, strained, dangerously close to breaking.

His hips snapped forward one last time, holding you down, forcing you to take every last drop as he spilled into your mouth.

A guttural groan ripped from his throat, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you still as he twitched against your tongue.

You swallowed, slow, teasing, showing him exactly how well you could behave.

Seonghwa let out a shaky breath, tilting your chin up, smearing the last traces of mess across your swollen lips.

His smirk was lazy, breathless.

“Good fucking girl.”

Then, without giving you a second to recover—he pulled you up, bent you over, and started all over again.

Your body was wrecked, trembling, burning, but Seonghwa didn’t give you a chance to recover.

Didn’t give you a second to breathe.

His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, spreading you open wide, forcing you to take everything.

His eyes were dark, wild, locked onto you like you were the only thing that existed.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching the way you writhed beneath him.

His pace was relentless—deep, punishing, unyielding.

Every thrust dragged another sound from your lips—moans, whimpers, broken cries.

And Seonghwa?

He was fucking obsessed.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, grinding into you, pushing even deeper, stretching you beyond what you thought possible.

“You wanted this.” His fingers wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding.

Owning.

“You fucking begged for this.”

A sharp slap landed on your thigh, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight through you.

You whimpered, eyes fluttering—but he didn’t let you close them.

“Look at me,” he growled, forcing your gaze to his.

His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, smearing the spit, the mess, the ruin.

“So fucking pretty when you’re broken, baby.”

Your body was beyond control, shaking, oversensitive, but he wasn’t done.

Seonghwa’s pace stuttered, hips slamming into you one last time before he buried himself deep—spilling inside you, groaning, shuddering as he claimed you all over again.

The room was silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing—and the faint, sticky mess between you.

Seonghwa let out a slow breath, fingers tracing your swollen lips, your damp hair, your ruined body.

His smirk was lazy, satisfied, still fucking smug.

“You’re not going anywhere, baby.”

He leaned down, lips ghosting over yours, soft, teasing.

“Mine. Always.”

[er1nne]

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⸝⸝⸝ ⑅ —໒ྀི ִֶָ rafe cameron is kown for throwing the best parties, so of course your best friend had to attend, but who'd guess she'd leave you alone with him to take care of you

word count: 6.4k sorry lol

warnings : roofing / slight drug use, mostly fluff, misunderstood rafe as usual lol, also not proofread unfortunately so excuse any mistakes

AN: the problem is left ambiguous & left to the imagination so you can make up the problem, you guys loved the last one lol :) i have plenty more in the vault so let me know if y'all want them. enjoy!

(please do not copy or plagiarize, this is my original work subject to copyright)

You don’t know why you’re here.

The party is overwhelming, a pulsing, chaotic blend of music, voices, and movement that sets your nerves on edge. The heat of too many bodies pressed into one space makes the air thick, suffocating.

You hadn’t even wanted to come, but your friend had convinced you, promising it would be fun, promising she’d stay by your side. Your friend had dragged you along, practically vibrating with excitement at the idea of getting into a this party in particular for some reason. You don’t understand, she had gushed, fingers tight around your wrist, her eyes wide with something close to desperation. People would kill to be invited to one of these. She had promised it would be fun, that she wouldn’t leave your side, that this was a once-in-a-lifetime kind of night.

All lies. And just as quickly as you arrived, she had disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by the chaos, leaving you stranded in a place you had no business being. That promise had shattered the moment you stepped through the door. See, what she didn't tell you however, that it was at the famous Cameron Estate. As quickly as you both arrives, she had disappeared into the crowd, leaving you stranded in a sea of unfamiliar faces.

You don’t belong here. Not among the drunken recklessness, the glossy, carefree people who thrive on excess. Not in a house where money drips from every surface, where the air itself feels steeped in entitlement. You’ve heard the stories—everyone has. Rafe Cameron’s parties are one of a kind. But you're not the type to be interested in the whispers and gossip everyone spreads about them on campus.

Now, you hover near the wall, gripping a red solo cup with fingers that feel too tight, the plastic bending under the pressure of your grip. You're not normally a drinker, but given your nerves right now, you definitely needed the drink. You take a slow breath, exhaling through your nose. You’re not here to have a bad time. Maybe you just need to loosen up. One drink to take the edge off. You bring the cup to your lips, letting the liquid burn as it slides down your throat. It’s stronger than you expected, too sharp, making you cough slightly. You grimace, the burn lingering on your tongue, but you swallow it down anyway, hoping the warmth will spread, will make you feel like you belong here. You roll your shoulders, forcing yourself to relax, but the tension in your body remains stubborn, coiling tight in your muscles.

The bass reverberates through the floor, through your chest, making your pulse feel off-rhythm. People are laughing, shouting, clinking drinks together in messy toasts that spill onto the already sticky floors. Someone stumbles past you, knocking into your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble. You flinch, pressing yourself closer to the wall, hoping to make yourself smaller.

Still, you scan the room, searching for your friend, but she’s nowhere in sight. Irritation flickers through you—how could she just abandon you like this? You shift on your feet, debating whether to go find her or just leave altogether. But then, you feel it. A prickle at the back of your neck. It’s faint, barely noticeable at first, like the sensation of a cool breeze brushing your skin. Goosebumps rise along your arms, but you tell yourself it’s just the temperature shift from the packed, overheated room. The feeling lingers, subtle and nagging, trickling down your spine before settling deep in your gut. You shake it off, shifting your weight from foot to foot, convincing yourself it’s nothing more than the side effect of being in a crowded space with unfamiliar faces. But as the seconds stretch, so does the discomfort. The undeniable feeling of being watched. A vague, creeping unease, like an itch beneath your skin.

At first, you ignore it. The party is crowded, filled with wandering gazes and fleeting glances. It’s probably nothing. Probably just your imagination. But as the moments stretch, the feeling lingers, heavy and persistent. You force yourself to move, to look natural. You take another sip of your drink, even though the taste is sharp and acrid against your tongue, even though your stomach twists in protest. The burn should be grounding, but it only heightens the awareness prickling along your spine. You scan the room carefully, slower this time, more deliberate. Your gaze drifts past groups of people caught in conversation, past the drunken laughter and the messy dancing, past the flickering glow of the chandeliers overhead. Your fingers tighten around your cup as you look toward the bar, toward the far end of the room where the shadows stretch just a little deeper.

And then you see him.

Rafe Cameron.

He’s across the room, leaning against the bar like he belongs there, like he owns the place -- oh wait he does. Shit. You're the one who doesn't belong here. A drink dangles loosely in his fingers, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. He’s not talking to anyone, not engaged in the revelry like everyone else. He’s just watching.

Watching you.

His gaze is a weight, heavier than it should be, anchoring you in place even as every nerve in your body is telling you to move. To look away. To do something. But you don’t. You can’t. The darkness in his gaze draws you in too close. The dim lighting carves deep shadows along the sharp edges of his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the cool detachment in his features. He looks almost statuesque, like he was placed there, perfectly sculpted, perfectly still. And yet, despite the stillness, despite the casual way he leans against the bar, drink loose in his grasp, his presence feels anything but passive. It almost feels like an accusatory stare, but something in your gut tells you it's something else.

You swallow hard, pulse flickering unevenly as you force yourself to breathe. He’s like a fixture in the room, unmoving, his presence both effortless and overwhelming. The dim light carves shadows along the sharp lines of his face, accentuating the cool detachment in his gaze. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t pretending not to stare. Doesn’t break the stare. He just is.

You look away, but your body betrays you. A shiver traces your spine, and your fingers tighten around your cup. The weight of his attention settles over you, thick and suffocating. You shift from foot to foot, adjusting your stance, suddenly unsure of yourself in a way you hadn’t been moments before. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s just bored. Maybe he’s not even looking at you. But when you glance back, just for a second, his gaze hasn’t wavered. The space between you feels charged, stretching taut like a thread ready to snap.

Your throat is dry, so you take another sip of your drink, trying to dispel the tension. The burn should be grounding, but it only adds to the growing warmth pooling low in your stomach. The room feels different now, like you’ve slipped into another layer of reality where things happen slower, where every movement matters. The ice in your glass has long since melted, leaving behind a diluted, lackluster drink that won’t do anything to soothe the warmth pooling low in your stomach. It’s the perfect excuse. A reason to step away, to put some much-needed space between you and the weight of his gaze, still heavy, still unwavering. The kind of look that sinks beneath your skin and stays there.

A group of people pass between you, momentarily breaking his line of sight. The spell should break. It doesn’t. Your heartbeat presses against your ribs, too fast, too shallow. He’s still watching, still waiting. You tell yourself you’re overreacting.

The other side of the bar feels farther than it should. The walk is a slow unraveling, each step meant to shake off the feeling of his eyes still following you, still holding on even when there’s distance. But it doesn’t work. Your heartbeat presses too hard against your ribs, too shallow, too quick, the way it does when something isn’t quite right. You tell yourself you’re imagining it, that it’s just in your head, that you’re overreacting.

But then your head starts to feel heavy.

Your fingers feel a little looser around your cup, but you barely register it. You take another sip, but the taste is wrong now—bitter, artificial. The warmth that had been pleasant before now sits heavily in your stomach, slow, syrupy. A strange warmth spreads through your limbs, slow and unfamiliar. Your vision feels sharper and blurrier at the same time. The music presses against your eardrums, a dull, throbbing hum that no longer matches the rhythm in your chest. The music distorts, stretching and bending at the edges. The lights seem dimmer, then too bright, flickering as if they’re keeping time with your unsteady pulse. The conversations around you feel distant, layered on top of one another like a badly tuned radio. Your breath catches, sharp and uneven. The sensation is gradual, creeping, and for a moment, you convince yourself you’re just tired, or maybe you drank too fast.

You steady yourself, shifting against the wall. But the floor feels different beneath you—less solid, somehow. Your limbs feel lighter, and at the same time, unbearably heavy. A cold sweat beads at the back of your neck. Something isn’t right. But it takes longer for your mind to catch up with your body, to connect the dots between the warmth in your stomach and the sluggish, detached feeling seeping into your bones. Panic claws at your throat. You try to take another step, force yourself to move, but your limbs feel detached, foreign.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to shake the feeling, but it only makes the vertigo worse. The heat of the room presses in on you, suffocating, and the sound of laughter and music stretches, distorts, becomes something distant and hollow. You want to move, want to breathe, but it feels like you’re wading through thick fog, each step heavier than the last.

A bead of sweat trails down the back of your neck. Your heartbeat slams against your ribs, erratic and deafening. A sickly nausea curls in your stomach, spreading outward in slow, unbearable waves. The cup in your hand feels impossibly heavy, the plastic slick against your palm. You let it slip from your fingers, hear it hit the floor, but the sound is muffled, insignificant against the chaotic hum surrounding you.

Your vision tunnels, and for the first time, real fear grips you. The once vibrant room is now a mess of shadow and movement, colors bleeding together, voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore. You open your mouth, trying to call for your friend, but the words die before they leave your lips, dissolving into a breathless whisper. The realization is slow, unfurling like a nightmare you’re just starting to understand.

Your drink. Something is wrong with your drink.

Your breathing quickens, shallow and uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast, too tight. Your fingers twitch, grasping at nothing, muscles sluggish and unresponsive. The walls seem to bend and stretch around you, the lights overhead shifting like distant stars, too bright, too sharp. You blink rapidly, but it only makes the dizziness worse. The edges of your sight blur further, darkening. The room feels impossibly far away, your awareness slipping, slipping—

And then there’s a presence beside you.

A firm grip on your arm. The touch is steady, grounding, but you barely have the strength to turn your head and see who it is. You don’t have to.

You don’t know who it is.

The scent reaches you first—something clean, sharp, expensive, mixed faintly with alcohol. A voice cuts through the fog, low and steady, but the words slip past your understanding. The presence is steady, firm, an anchor against the overwhelming sensation that you’re floating, weightless. A name—your name?—is spoken again, but it barely registers, as if it belongs to someone else.

You part your lips to respond, but the words slip away before they can form. A strong arm curls around your waist, another against your shoulder. The world tilts, and you realize you’re being lifted. Your body feels light, unmoored, like a doll in someone’s grasp. Your head lolls against a broad chest, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against your ear, grounding but distant. Footsteps echo—slow, purposeful—but you barely process them. The lights of the party blur into a smear of gold and shadow, flickering at the edges of your vision as you’re carried away.

The voices, the music, the chaos—it all drifts into silence. The world fades. Everything dissolves into black.

Dawn arrives in fractured light and warmth. The first thing you register is the persistent press of sunlight against your closed eyelids, insistent and intrusive. The dull ache in your skull pulses in synchronicity with your heartbeat. The silences of the space unsettles you—too stark a contrast to the last thing you remember.

A scent infiltrates your awareness—rich, savory. Coffee. Bacon. The comforting familiarity should soothe, but instead, it feeds the dissonance pooling in your gut. The weight of the blankets drapes over you, cool fabric against your overheated skin. Your limbs remain sluggish, burdened by an inexplicable fatigue.

Blinking against the light, you lift a hand to rub at your eyes. The motion feels distant, disconnected, as though your own body resists you. A tremor skates along your fingertips. A creeping unease slithers through you.

The room resolves in pieces. Soft, sun-dappled sheets. A nightstand, its dark wood surface adorned with a solitary glass of water. The low murmur of movement, distant yet present, beyond a partially ajar door. Every detail unfamiliar.

You sit up too fast.

The dizziness crashes into you, rendering the world momentarily unsteady. Your stomach churns in protest. A cold sweat prickles along your spine as you press your palm to your forehead, struggling to tether yourself to the present.

Where are you?

Your breaths come faster, shallower. The space surrounding you—spacious, curated, the kind of elegance that exudes wealth—does not belong to you. The bed is too large, the sheets too luxurious. The walls are adorned with artwork that suggests taste and affluence. This is not yours.

And you do not remember how you got here.

Your stomach knots, nausea clawing its way up your throat. Fragments of the night attempt to surface—the party, the music, the sensation of liquid sliding down your throat, the slow unraveling of your control. A pair of eyes lingering in the distance.

And then—

Nothing.

An abyss where your memory should be.

A new sound pulls you back—footsteps, nearing, steady. Your pulse stutters, skittering in your chest. Fear coils tight in your ribs, an instinctual response to the unknown.

The door swings open.

The figure standing there is silhouetted against the morning light, their presence filling the doorway with an unsettling quiet. You try to focus, to piece together something recognizable—an outline, a familiar stance—but the fog in your mind is thick, unrelenting. Your hands grip the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric as your breath catches, morning crust still coating your eyes, blurring your vision.

“Good morning.” The voice is smooth, calm, too composed. It should be comforting. It is not.

Your throat tightens as the memory gap yawns wider. Who is this? And why are you here?

The scent of coffee lingers in the air, mingling with something else—something darker, something you can’t yet name.

And then the figure takes a step forward, slow and deliberate. The weight of their presence fills the space, shifting the atmosphere in an unplaceable way. Shadows stretch and contract in the morning light, their silhouette still obscured by the glare of the sunlit doorway. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, each thud a heavy punctuation against the silence.

Your fingers tighten against the sheets, as if their fabric might tether you to some semblance of control. But control is slipping. Your breath catches in your throat as they advance further, their posture unreadable, their face still hidden from view. The scent of coffee lingers, but now it’s mixed with something else—something faintly metallic, almost sterile, unsettling in a way you can’t name.

They pause just short of the bed, standing over you now. A tension lingers in the air between you, thick, expectant. And then—finally—their voice cuts through the quiet again, smooth and even, but carrying an undercurrent of something you can’t yet define.

"You’re awake."

The voice sends a shiver down your spine. Familiar, yet distant. Your eyes finally adjust, your surroundings sharpening into something tangible. The deep mahogany furniture, the neatly pressed linens, the faint scent of cologne woven into the fabric of the room. Recognition dawns in pieces, fragments of memory slipping through the haze like sand through fingers.

Your breath stutters. This is Rafe Cameron’s bedroom.

Panic blooms in your chest, sharp and unrelenting. Your fingers clutch at the sheets, grounding yourself as the weight of realization crashes over you. How did you get here? The last thing you remember—the party, the drink, the slow, dizzying descent into something dark and consuming. Everything after that is a blur, an abyss where memories should be.

The tension in your limbs loosens, but a strange warmth replaces it—one you can’t quite define. The proximity, the realization that he had carried you, that he had seen you at your most vulnerable. A rush of heat blooms beneath your skin.

You shift against the pillows, suddenly hyperaware of the way the fabric clings to your skin. The weight of the night presses down on you, something heavy and lingering, something you can’t shake off. Your arms pull in close to your body, shrinking in on yourself instinctively, the way you might if you were trying to disappear. The feeling creeps in, insidious and unspoken, settling in your chest like an ache.

Rafe notices.

He exhales, his posture shifting as he takes a step closer, then hesitates, watching your reaction. "Nothing happened," he adds, quieter this time, as if anticipating your thoughts. "I just... made sure you were okay."

You swallow, your throat dry. Your fingers twist into the sheets as you nod, the weight of the moment settling over you. He moves again, this time toward the bed, lowering himself onto the edge. The mattress dips under his weight, closing the space between you in an intimate proximity that makes your pulse stutter.

Your breath catches. He took care of you.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is heavy, charged, filled with unspoken questions neither of you seems willing to voice. Your gaze flickers to his hands, resting loosely on his lap, his fingers curled slightly as if he’s resisting the impulse to reach out.

You should say something, anything. But all you can do is sit there, the warmth in your cheeks betraying you, your heart hammering against your ribs as you struggle to process what this moment means.

And Rafe just watches, waiting.

"Why?" The word leaves your lips before you can stop it, barely more than a whisper but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. It lingers between you, heavier than you intended, like it carries more meaning than just the question itself.

He glances at you then, something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away again. There’s something about the way he won’t meet your eyes, the way his fingers press into his palms like he’s holding something back.

"You don’t remember much, do you?" His voice is quieter this time, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head, swallowing around the lump forming in your throat. "Not after a certain point. Just… flashes."

You think you see something in his expression shift, something fleeting. His jaw clenches for half a second before he nods, just once, like that was what he expected. And then he looks past you, toward the window, like there’s something out there more bearable to face than this conversation. Like maybe he doesn’t want to see the way you’re looking at him now.

Rafe leans forward, resting his chin slightly down as if in deep thought. His jaw tightens, like he’s considering his words carefully. "Because that party wasn’t for you. You’re not like them."

His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it, something almost reluctant. As if he’s saying more than just that, as if there’s something else sitting on the edge of his tongue, something he won’t let himself say out loud. Your breath hitches. He noticed you. Not just that you were there, but that you didn’t belong there, that you weren’t the kind of girl who let herself get lost in that world.

His fingers tap absently against his elbow before he exhales through his nose, slow and measured. Without a word, he reaches toward the nightstand, fingers closing around a small, amber bottle. He twists off the cap and shakes out two pills into his palm before handing them to you along with a glass of water.

You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to respond to the weight of his words. A thousand questions press at the back of your mind, but none of them make it past your lips. So instead, you just look at him, studying the way his shoulders stay tense, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they rest.

You hesitate, glancing between him and the offering. The silence lingers, thick and unspoken, but he doesn’t push. Just watches, unreadable, until you take them from his hand. The cool glass feels solid in your grip, the only thing grounding you in the moment.

"It'll help," he finally says, voice low, controlled. Not an explanation, not an insistence—just a fact. And then he looks away again, like the moment never happened.

Your heart stutters, warmth creeping up your neck. You aren’t used to this side of him, this quiet sincerity. It makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

You clear your throat softly, fingers tightening around the blanket as you shift. you murmur a quick thank you to him, the words barely above a whisper, like you’re afraid to break the fragile quiet between you, you must have lost your voice last night.

Rafe doesn’t react at first, doesn’t acknowledge it right away. He just sits there, staring at a fixed point on the floor like he’s lost in something too deep to name. And then, finally, he nods—just once, a subtle dip of his chin. No arrogance, no teasing. Just acceptance.

The silence stretches, thick and unmoving, pressing against the walls of the room. The air between you is charged with something neither of you is willing to name, a slow, smoldering tension that lingers in the way he breathes, in the way his fingers twitch just slightly where they rest against his knee. The world beyond the bedroom feels impossibly distant, like something you left behind the moment you opened your eyes.

You can hear your own breathing, the slow, measured inhales that feel too loud in the quiet, the way your pulse thrums against the side of your throat. Everything is heightened, magnified—the subtle shift of the mattress beneath his weight, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to the fabric of the sheets, the way the sunlight spilling through the curtains catches in his hair, illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

Rafe doesn’t move. He hasn’t since he handed you the water, since he watched you take the painkillers without a word. He just sits there, his posture loose but intent, his forearms resting against lightly against his body, as if he’s waiting for something. You don’t know what. You don’t know if he does either.

Your fingers tighten around the glass, the condensation cool against your skin. The weight of his attention is suffocating, not because it unsettles you, but because it’s steady. Because he’s not watching you the way other people do—not with expectation, not with scrutiny, but with something quieter, something that feels like it belongs entirely to this moment.

You shift beneath the covers, suddenly aware of the space between you, of how small the room feels despite its size. There’s no rush, no urgency, but the tension coils slow and tight in the air between you, a pull that neither of you acknowledges, but neither of you breaks.

You should say something. Maybe to fill the silence, maybe to push away the weight of whatever is settling over the two of you, but the words don’t come. Instead, you glance at him, at the way his jaw is set, the way his gaze flickers—just for a moment—to the space where your hands curl into the blanket, to the way your shoulders have drawn inward, like you’re bracing yourself for something.

The realization lands heavily: he’s waiting for you to be okay.

You exhale, slow, measured. It should ease some of the pressure in your chest, but it doesn’t. The sheets smell like him. The realization makes your stomach twist, sharp and unexpected, and you inhale quickly, trying to steady yourself, to push it away. But it’s everywhere. His scent, his presence, the ghost of the weight of his gaze on you.

Rafe leans back slightly, his movements deliberate, unrushed. He shifts, settling more comfortably, but it does nothing to loosen the tension laced through the room. If anything, it solidifies it, makes it more tangible, makes it something that feels like it could snap at the slightest provocation.

The past few hours are a blur, a haze of flashing lights and distorted sound, of the world tilting beneath your feet, of a hand—his hand—steadying you before everything went dark. And now you’re here, in his bed, wrapped in the lingering remnants of a night you can barely piece together, but one thing is painfully clear: Rafe Cameron didn’t leave you behind.

And that fact, that certainty, makes your stomach twist.

Your fingers toy absently with the edge of the blanket, your gaze trained on nothing in particular. You can feel him watching you, can feel the weight of it in the space between you, in the air that crackles with something unspoken, something slow-burning and unrelenting.

It’s infuriating, the way he’s so still, so quiet, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to make sense of whatever is unraveling inside you. Like he doesn’t care how long it takes.

Another beat of silence.

Then, finally, he shifts, pushing himself up from the bed with a slow, fluid motion. His presence doesn’t leave with him, though—it lingers, draped over you like a second skin, woven into the air you’re breathing, into the space he just vacated. He pauses near the door, his hand resting loosely on the frame, his body turned slightly like he’s debating whether or not to say something.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks at you, a glance that lasts only a second but feels like it stretches forever, before he turns and disappears into the hallway, leaving you alone with nothing but the ghost of his presence and the steady, relentless pounding of your own heart.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just stand there, staring at each other, something unspoken stretching the space between you like a frayed wire. His gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your breath catch, makes your fingers twitch at your sides.

The weight of the night still lingers between you, thick like smoke, curling around the edges of whatever fragile thing this is. The silence isn’t empty—it’s full, layered with everything that wasn’t said. The flicker of his throat as he swallows, the way his fingers flex against the counter like he needs something to hold onto. His presence is a solid thing, inescapable.

He clears his throat, breaking the stillness like shattering glass. "I should take you home," he says, voice low, even. "You probably want to get out of here."

You nod automatically, but the motion feels disconnected, like it doesn’t belong to you. The truth is, you don’t know if you want to leave. You don’t know if you’re ready to walk out of this moment, out of this strange and suffocating thing pressing against your ribs. But it’s the logical choice. The right thing to do. So you shift your weight, stepping further into the room as if that will make it easier, as if that will make it feel real.

Rafe watches you for a second longer before pushing off the surface he was leaning on. He moves with the same careful deliberation he always does, like he’s in control of everything, like nothing touches him unless he lets it.

But then, as he reaches for his keys, his jaw tightens. His movements slow. His grip on the metal rings shifts slightly, like he’s debating something, like something about this moment doesn’t sit right with him. And then he looks at you again, his eyes catching yours, something flickering in his expression—something restrained, something almost unreadable.

"Be more careful next time." His voice is quieter now, rougher at the edges. "

You swallow, the weight of his words settling in your chest as a slight warmness fills your cheeks, even if he can't see it. The words settle between you, heavy. He’s not scolding you, not angry. But there’s something else beneath it, something darker. Like he hated seeing you like that. Like he doesn’t want to have to do this again. Like he hated seeing you like that. Like he doesn’t want to have to do this again. But maybe it's all in your head.

A part of you wants to say something—to defend yourself, to explain—but nothing comes out. You just nod, barely, the movement almost imperceptible. He watches the way your fingers tighten around the hem of your shirt, the way your shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

He exhales sharply, turns toward the door, and motions for you to follow.

But the moment doesn’t end there. The shift in the air is subtle, but it’s there. His fingers flex around the keys, his body pausing for just a second longer than necessary before he moves. Like he’s giving you the chance to say something. Like he’s waiting.

You don’t take it.

The cold air hits you the second you step outside, sharp and biting against your skin. It’s the kind of morning that lingers somewhere between the last remnants of night and the hesitant promise of day, the sky washed in pale hues of blue and gray, the world still and quiet.

You don’t say anything, but the shiver that rolls through you betrays you, your body instinctively curling inward as if you can escape the chill. Rafe notices. Of course he does. He hesitates for a second, just a fraction of a beat, then lets out a slow breath, as if he’s annoyed at something—himself, maybe.

Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket.

It’s heavier than you expect when he drapes it over your shoulders, the thick, well-worn material settling around you like a second skin. The scent of him lingers in the fabric—something clean but deep, a mix of faded cologne and the unmistakable warmth of skin, like the kind of comfort you don’t realize you need until it’s there.

The jacket is old, but not in a neglected way. More like it carries weight, history. It’s a varsity jacket, dark navy with white leather sleeves, the kind that looks like it’s seen late-night drives, fights behind stadium bleachers, and moments that don’t belong to you. His name is stitched into the fabric on the chest, subtle but undeniable: Cameron. The embroidered lettering is slightly frayed at the edges, as if it’s been touched too many times, traced over absentmindedly. On the sleeve, a faded championship patch clings to the leather, the numbers slightly worn, a quiet reminder of a past you know nothing about.

But he doesn’t just let it fall into place. His hands stay there, gripping the edges just beneath your collarbone, holding it closed, holding you—if only for a second too long. His touch is light, almost hesitant, but deliberate in a way that sends a shiver down your spine, one that has nothing to do with the cold.

The space between you feels smaller now, the tension stretched taut, humming like a wire between you. His fingers shift slightly, his knuckles grazing your collarbone through the fabric, his touch warm even against the cold bite of the night air. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the way his breath ghosts over your cheek, close enough that if either of you leaned in—just a fraction—you’d close the distance entirely.

Rafe’s eyes flicker down to meet yours, something unreadable passing through them, something almost thoughtful, almost careful. It’s a contradiction—the way he holds the jacket like he’s reluctant to let go, yet his jaw is set, his expression betraying nothing.

You swallow, fingers curling around the edges, your hands on top of his, pulling it tighter around yourself. It’s warm, warmer than his hands. Too warm, maybe, but you don’t push it off.

Rafe watches you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers on you that makes your breath come slower, makes your chest feel too tight and your hands are touching before he reluctantly pulls away, almost as if not to scare you off or harm you.

"It’s cold," he mutters, like that explains it, like that’s the only reason he did it.

You don’t challenge it. Because maybe that’s the reason you don’t take it off, either.

And just like that, whatever this moment was slips away, fading into the morning light as he leads you to his car.

The world beyond the house feels different, like the air is thinner, lighter, no longer weighed down by the silence between you. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you follow him toward his car, your steps feeling almost mechanical. The sky is still streaked with soft shades of dawn, a nostalgic blue still coating the sky, the edges of the horizon tinged with the last remnants of night. The streetlights on the corner on still on,

He unlocks the door, pulling it open for you, but you hesitate. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.

His fingers tighten around the top of the door, his gaze flickering to yours. But he doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

You don’t know what you’re looking for. Some kind of confirmation. Some kind of explanation. But there’s nothing. Just him. Just you. And the space between that feels too charged to make sense of.

You step inside, settling into the seat, the leather cool and smooth beneath you, molded from years of use, broken in but still exuding something undeniably expensive. The scent of rich leather and faint motor oil lingers in the air, a combination of luxury and the kind of careful work that doesn't come from a mechanic’s shop.

The dashboard glows with a soft luminescence, highlighting the precision of the controls—sleek buttons, polished chrome accents, the faint imprint of his hands worn into the steering wheel. The passenger seat, by contrast, is almost untouched. The leather is stiff, uncreased, lacking the wear and shape molded by frequent use. There are no stray belongings, no faint imprints of past passengers, no lingering signs that anyone else has ever sat there. It feels untouched, almost foreign, as though this space was never meant for anyone else. The thought makes your stomach twist, the realization settling in like a whisper you can't quite decipher. For all the history his car carries, for all the work and time poured into every inch of it, this seat feels like it doesn’t belong to anyone—except maybe, just maybe, to you now. The seats cradle you, low and firm, the kind of comfort designed for control at high speeds. A faint scuff on the door panel catches your eye, and you can almost imagine him there, late at night, sleeves pushed up as he worked under dim garage lights, fine-tuning something only he could perfect.

The convertible top is locked in place for now, but the idea of wind rushing past, of the open road stretching ahead, lingers in the air like a promise. This isn’t just a car. It’s his, in every sense of the word. And now, for the first time, you’re inside it.

You grip your hands together in your lap as he closes the door with a quiet click. The sound lingers in the air, final in a way that makes your stomach twist.

The car is dimly lit, the dashboard casting a faint glow across his face, sharpening the lines of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows. He doesn’t look at you right away, just exhales slowly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. The movement is small, restrained, but you notice it. You notice everything.

The drive is silent. Not uncomfortable, but not easy either. The road stretches ahead, the faint hum of the tires against the asphalt the only sound between you. The air feels heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm, thick with something unsaid.

Your fingers twitch slightly, pressing into the fabric of his jacket still draped over your shoulders. It’s too big on you, the sleeves hanging long past your wrists, the collar brushing against your cheek. The warmth of it, of him, lingers against your skin, a constant reminder that he was close, that he chose to put it there. You could give it back. You should. But you don’t.

The leather of the steering wheel creaks as his hands flex, his grip tightening like he’s forcing himself to keep steady. You steal a glance at him, at the way his jaw tenses, the muscle there twitching slightly. The way his fingers tap once against the wheel before stilling. He’s holding something back, something weighted, and you don’t know if you want him to let it go or keep it buried between you, a secret neither of you knows how to say out loud.

The headlights cast long shadows across the empty road, the outside world slipping by in streaks of gray and muted gold. But inside the car, it’s different. It’s just the two of you, wrapped in a silence that feels almost sacred, like speaking would break something fragile, something delicate.

You shift slightly, the fabric of the seat cool beneath your legs, your knee brushing against the center console. The touch is barely there, a whisper of contact, but his fingers flex again, his grip tightening like he felt it too. Like he’s trying not to react.

You turn your gaze back to the window, but you don’t really see the passing streets. Not when every part of you is aware of him, of the tension strung between you like a wire ready to snap. It hums beneath your skin, lingers in the space between your breaths, curls in the air between you like smoke.

A red light slows the car to a stop. For a moment, the world outside is still, painted in the muted glow of streetlights. You chance another look at him, catching the way his fingers drum lightly against the gear shift, restless. His eyes stay forward, locked on the road, but his shoulders are stiff, coiled with something unreadable.

Then, without looking at you, without taking his eyes off the road, he exhales, slow and measured. "You warm enough?"

It’s nothing. Just words. Just an excuse for something else. But the way he says it, low and rough, makes your stomach twist, makes your fingers curl tighter around the sleeves of his jacket.

"Yeah," you murmur, voice softer than you mean for it to be. "I’m fine."

He doesn’t believe you. You feel it before you see it—the weight of his gaze settling over you, careful but unrelenting. When you finally look at him, his eyes are already on you, studying, assessing, searching for something in your face that you’re not sure you even understand yourself.

His grip on the wheel loosens slightly, but he doesn’t look away. It’s not just concern. It’s something quieter, deeper, something that lingers in the way his brows draw together just enough to show he’s holding back words he doesn’t know how to say.

His mouth parts, just slightly, like he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers shift against the gear shift again, as if grounding himself, as if trying to keep some sort of distance between whatever is happening between the two of you. But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his throat moves when he swallows, in the way his shoulders seem to tense and relax all at once. And suddenly, the car feels smaller, the air thinner, the space between you pressing in from all angles.

The light turns green, and he finally looks away, jaw tight as he presses down on the gas. But the moment lingers, stretching across the quiet miles, settling somewhere neither of you wants to name.

His fingers drum against the gear shift again, once, twice, before stilling. The light turns green, and the car moves forward, but the moment stays, lingers between you like an unanswered question.

Another mile passes in silence. Another breath held too long before being released. The weight of the night still clings to you, woven into your skin, into the spaces between your ribs. And you know, without him saying it, without needing to ask, that he feels it too.

You tighten his jacket around yourself, pressing your fingers into the thick material. You don’t want to acknowledge how it feels like something you weren’t supposed to have, like something borrowed but not meant to be returned. But neither of you moves to change it.

The distance between you and the night before stretches, but it doesn’t fade. Whatever this is—whatever happened back in that house, in that room, in the space between breaths and silence—it isn’t over.

And somehow, you don’t think it ever will be.

© ER1NNE est. 2024. all rights reserved. unauthorized use, duplication, or reposting of any original content from this blog without explicit permission is prohibited. please respect the creator’s work.

[gamblersdoll]

𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡, 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝—

youre just a girl, who should be pampered, but you arent.. at least, not for very long. smut BACKSHOTTTSSSSS, , drug use, heavy angst

you hated how rin knew what to hit, how to hit, and when. it made a heart beat in your clit, going baaadump! baadump! baadump! you hated how he knew how many strokes it took , then pulling out to eat it..

it made your heart throb, feeling his tongue work itself to death and he looked at you through your creamy, frothy folds. it felt like a traditional soul tie, but it felt.. so so good. felt like no other man could make you cream so good.

it also felt like he was your everything, maybe it was just your low ego— feeling like no one could outdo rin. like no other man could ever be better than him. your relationship was like a gift, feeling so secure and loving the small moments and thought rin could give.

“hey baby,” that ‘baby’ hed mumble on the phone after practice, you could hear his relaxed voice when he just laid down. “how was work? any problems?” he was semi interested, but it wasnt noticeable to you at the time.

“twas okay, i guess..” you mumbled, wide awake at eleven pm just for him, to only giggle and play a little of the game. it felt like a dream sometimes, too good to be true and he made you feel like a pretty baby. “would you maybe.. come over? you dont have to.”

the tip of his mushroom dick was steady, always slamming into that gummy spot that made you see stars— slam! slam! slaam!

“rinrinrinnn!” you squealed, patting at his biceps and rolling your eyes, feeling like some bitch in heat the way he pulled your hips back— backshots were his favorite..

“so gah’damned needy..” he mumbled, pressing down the lower of your back to deepen the arch. “your form is so stiff.. do you not please yourself when im gone?” he asked, knowing hed slap your cunny with that heavy hand he used to train.

“nuh— uhhhh!” you moaned, words high pitched and eyes crossing. “jus’ you! swear!”

“mm.. seems like shes telling the truth.” he mumbles, pressing the pad of his thumb to your taint at the end of your slit. “so vocal for me, too.. do you feel no shame in how wet you sound?”

it doesnt take much of anything to get your rocks off, like the greedy girl he knew you were. he could have you riding his knee, and he could get you to ride out your orgasm in a heart beat.

so.. what was your problem? he made somethings feel like a dream, he fucked you when you wanted him to, and he was an upcoming striker, so whats your deal—

the feeling and sound of his phone went off, he pausing all movements to grab it. “hey-“ he hurriedly said, you staring in disbelief that hed answer a little phone call in the middle of your .. session. “yeah, ill be there in ten minutes.” the call ends, and you scoff. “what?”

“you’re seriously leaving me? “ you ask, just to confirm he wasnt playing with your brain, but he only confirmed that with a look of ‘..yeah?’ you felt like you could scream, all sexual feeling leaving your body. “deadass?”

“yes, baby. you know i have practice.”

“you couldnt even come in me before you left? you just dropped everything for that!” you wanted to laugh in disbelief, but who were you to do that? “know what? go, just leave, please.”

“we’ll finish up later.. kay?”

there was never a later, because he dedicated himself to soccer.. and there was your problem—

he never made time for you.

the times he did try and make time were your “dreamy moments,” because he tried to go all out, to make up for months he wasnt there. the feeling of his kisses soothed you, and when he smoked? he was more than a dream.

the smell of cherry leaves and weed filled your lungs, and he stole your breath each second he could. the pads of his fingers digging into plush thighs and a needy hand up your back had you feeling ecstatic. “rin—“

“missed me?” he inquired, a small spank on your thighs. “yeah, you did.” he snickers, kissing down to your collarbone. “got a few minutes before practice.”

“how longgg— oh!” you squeak, feeling his hand squeezing your breast. they were heavy due to ovulation, and so, so tender. “rinnn, please.”

‘rin! where’d you go man?’ one of his teammates called for him, and it left you feeling defeated.

he just.. didnt see you as a priority.

“why havent you been answering my calls?” he just so decided that he could finally get to your place unannounced and ask a question like that. “we havent talked.”

“why would i bother to call? youre always busy.” you fold your arms, groggy since it was like.. twelve at night. “you dont answer any my calls.”

“because im at practice—“

“twenty four hours a day? no breaks?” you cut him off, growing agitated of his shit. why he expected you to answer his calls after maybe eight months of him barely answering your calls. “you dont see me as a priority, you dont see me anymore, you dont call or write. “

“because im trying to be japan’s best striker, the hell did you think of you being a priority?” his words stung, because if it was that serious— why ask you out? why ask you to be his? why even bother with it? “i thought you would understand where im coming from.”

“and i thought youd be able to handle a relationship, but guess not.” you think to yourself. you wanted to argue, but you had work in the morning.

“ill keep trying, im sorry.”

and if that was his ‘try,’ then what the fuck was the attempt or thought process? because his tries were pathetic, the same pace for the last nine months of your relationship. you felt emotionally detached, almost as if you were losing feelings for him— no, thats not it.. you had resentment. you had resentment for rin, for soccer, for rin mainly. it all tied back to him.

he became like a plague to you. you learned very quickly that if you didnt speak to him, youd never speak again probably.

you wanted to scream, but after a few deep breaths, your mind was clear. you wanted to be a decent person to him, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. but.. he wasnt acting like he was worth that benefit. you learned that sometimes you want to give them a chance, but that was merely your ego and pride being crushed because you did not care about yourself enough.

so, what else could you do?—

the line rang for maybe six times, rin always had it set to ring ten times for extra time for himself to answer (ironic, aint it?), but answered finally on the ninth ring. “im at practi—“

“it isnt working out, rin.” you cut him off, chewing at the pads of your thumb to cool yourself. the line was silent, but it felt like a suffocating weight on your back and chest. “im sorry.”

“mm, okay, well.” the fuck does he mean ‘okay, well?’ thats all he had to say? “i mean, good luck, i guess.” after a quick farewell, the line was ended, like a steak knife to the heart you wanted to give on a platter to him. but, beggars cant be choosers. It hurt though, because he acted like he didnt care about the fact you just broke up with him.

well, fuck him if he was in a fuck everything mood.

you pondered for hours, why was soccer more important? was it soccer that he was focused on or was it something— no, someone else? you wouldve saw it! you checked everything out, and it only lead to one thing:

he simply didnt see you important enough.

it had been an eternity, or at least thats what you were deluding yourself into. it had only been three months since the break up, yet you felt like it was wrong you were already out there in the dating pool again.

it actually wasnt, since six months out of the nine months that you dated rin you were detached and emotionally gone from the relationship. you had already did everything post break up: cry, eat ben and jerrys, watch a stupid show like greys anatomy or chicago med, and then the physical therapy sessions started— whether it was a new hair color, personality, piercings, or body modifications.

so what the fuck was the harm in dating?

“you deaf or something?” he asked, eyes sniping to you. “i asked if you were okay.”

“sorry! yeah, go ahead.” you offered him to go first in line, forgetting the fact you were in the middle of the store. “im really sorry, completely forgot i was here—“

“should i call someone for you?” it sounded good enough to have you cock back your hand ninety degrees back and come back at fifteen miles per hour. but in actuality, that was a joke.

a year.

a year, he shows up with some pitiful bouquet of flowers, a pity smile and a pitied hope. “hey,” he spoke up, and mainly— buffed a little more. “its been a while.”

“could i help you with something?” you ask, silky robe and you tied it tighter to not let the bits out. “its late, and its cold.. and its been a year.”

“i know, but still.. i figured some things out and—“

“think you runnin’ from it, huh?” a tuff of blonde and pink peak through the door, shidou towering over you and having a hand on your hip from behind. the worst goddamn time, but its technically rins fault. “oh! yer uhhhh..” he snaps his fingers and then points. “yer sae’s little brother, aye?”

rin gawks, the feeling of betrayal and envy. “who’re you?” the somewhat pretty flowers being crumpled and bent. “why are you with him of all people, this cockroach?”

“rin,” you say firm and gentle. “its been a year, i can date who i want , and shidou and i just kinda met..” its only worse that they know each other, you just knew how to pick em, huh? “was there something i can help you with?”

“yeah, being a better striker.”

“listen here—“ rin starts, and you feel shidou start to get heated from behind you, but luckily you were in the middle.

“rin!” you shout, but hes not focused on you, because hes merely angry that youre dating again.. and with a man like shidou. “we’re done, you have a good night rin— shidou, back inside.”

“damn, didnt know you could scream like that..” shidou snickers, leaving a soft smack on your rear. “see you later, loser.”

because why now of all times? why did rin decide now was the time to save you both and get back together? a whole goddamned year! a whole year he decided to wait—

a familiar hoodie walks briefly down the hall, standing briefly until he brings his hood down— sae itoshi, japans best player. “rin.” he nod to him, leaves you a kiss on the head and brushes past you and the door.

“youre fucking joking, right?” rin asked, also hearing shidou grow excited. “my fucking brother?”

“i didnt know he was your brother.” you retort, folding your arms and holding your own. “we met in the store.” because thats what happened, you didnt know they were related.

well…. maybe you did, its the eyes.

“and you still didnt do a .. i dunno, a background check? or even ask me?” he asked, and it catches sae’s attention.

“rin.” he starts, pulling the door wider to show shidou sprawled on the couch, tv lit and he in nothing but a shirt and shorts now. “we’re trying to have a good time, either you talk to my girl nice, or you have a good night.” he knew what pissed rin off, just enough. “ i quite frankly would like for you to have a good night. been wanting to see this movie for a month.”

a month?!

“awe, i thought she was our girl!” shidou perks up, a pouty frown until you wave him off. now wasnt the time.

“just how long were you dating?” rin asked, but sae waved him off. “dont ignore me, big brother!— fuck you!”

almost a year you were his, a year you werent.

and he had one objective for shidou and sae:

destroy, kill, and revenge.

property of gamblerdoll 2025. do not alter, copy, translate, or modify. dividers are not mine. please dm for credit since i lost the account ;-;

[waywardwizzard]

OKAY SO,

(Warning; long post/rant ahead)

Like @rubyonyxred said, they can't quite be called a found family yet. It's there, it's growing, it's seen in the small things the crew do for each other/how they act. For example, the first thing that comes to mind, is the way Zoë took River's hand in Bushwhacked. She didn't grab her arm or her wrist and pull her along, Zoë took her hand. Maybe I'm looking too deep into things but this small gesture means a lot to me.

I've known too many people (especially a specific teacher in primary school) who didn't even do this to kids they've known for almost 4 years. They grab and pulled but almost never gently took someone by the hand and led them. Also, another example (from the same episode, I think?) is when Zoë claps Simon on the shoulder. She sees him, she accepts him and she tries to make him feel part of the crew.

Also, the whole 'you're on my crew'/dinner scene at the end of Safe and the entirety of Objects in Space are prime examples of the slow growing found family endgame, too.

Anyway, so, sure, we can technically say they're found family. They're nine people, stuck together on a ship (even though they don't have to be and this in itself says a lot), and they continue to fight for each other even when it would be easier to just not. They also fight with each other but continue to trust the other(s) (side eyes Jayne and Mal). But, we need to remember that we were robbed of almost a season and a half's worth of character development as far as we know.

Firefly is rich in character development, even in epsiodes that weren't as plot heavy. According to someone (can't remember who, I need to go find it again), they were supposed to find Miranda, from the movie, at the end of the second season. Unfortunately, that never happened, and we lost so much in the way the crew could have been fleshed out and shown as even more of a family. As it stood, they were found, they had chosen but they still needed to pick away at each other's prickly shells/break each other's walls in order to fit together. Firefly's found family dynamic wasn't just a quick burn, it was a slow burn that needed time to fester. Unfortunately, the show was cancelled, and we lost that slow burn, established found family ending (I like to think) we all were hoping for.

And then, the movie. Serenity is great, don't get me wrong. I spent almost two years looking for a copy (only for it to be shown on TV the next week). I also understand that they had to make the movie watchable/understandable for newer viewers who didn't know that the show existed. But, to us who did know the show, it didn't carry the same vibe as the crew we all loved. The movie changed the slow burn to a 'we're all gonna die in a big ball of flames' speedrun and tried to fit in character development for two groups of people who didn't really overlap. They did really great, but it was sad, in a way, to see the established development go through a retrograde just to be speedrunned again. Although, I like to hope, that if they did something like the movie's plotline for the show, we would have gotten to see how the crew's relationship deteriorated over time and why everyone acted like they did, while getting to see how it was built up again when all was said and done.

So, yeah, the Firefly crew can be seen as found family, but they didn't reach the full family potential they were capable of and that the writers were (hopefully) building up to, and that really really makes me sad.

(Shout out to @jaytodd1129 whose Firefly analysis made me feral in a good way and inspired a lot of my feelings about this subject)

What are some of your favorite fictional teams and crews? Groups of characters whose relationship is founded on the goal of accomplishing something together. They might become close friends and important presences in each other's lives--or just finishing the mission without biting each other's heads off might be a win--but either way, they have to work together and use each other's skills. I love this type of dynamic--tell me yours!

[traincat]

So @softgrungeprophet just posted about John Jameson/Peter Parker, a thing I have nothing for, but it did remind me that I had a Spideytorch WIP where Jonah tries to set John and Peter up and so Peter comes up with the brilliant idea of fake dating Johnny to get out of it, only for John and Johnny to start dating, a thing which will obviously not drive Peter mad with jealousy. Ft my not remotely in order writing practices.

Anyway I don't know when I'll finish it so have a thousand words of people making bad decisions.

--

It was a regular Friday afternoon and Johnny, free of all social and superhero responsibilities, was just trying to relax and maybe catch up on a week’s worth of reality television when a full-grown man hit the side of the Baxter Building going eighty miles an hour.

“Did I scare you? Sorry,” Peter said, not sounding very sorry at all, as he climbed gracefully through the window.

“Of course you scared me! Not everyone has a built in magic spider danger sense!” Johnny said. He looked down at the carpet and the new red footprints there and made a face. “No, it’s fine, track what had better be paint all over my apartment.”

“Thanks, Torchy,” Peter said, as if Johnny had been in any way sincere. “Don’t worry, Reed’s little robot friends will steam clean that right out. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

With friends like these, who needed Doctor Doom.

(blah blah blah)

“I just need you to pretend to be in a relationship with me,” Peter said. “For one, two months, tops. Or however long Jonah has left on this earth. Either or.”

(blah blah blah)

“Look, here’s the deal,” Peter said, rolling his eyes, “and don’t ask how this happened, but I accidentally told JJJ I’m bisexual and –”

“Wait, you did what?” Johnny cut him off. His voice was dangerously high even to his own ears. “You’re what?”

“I just told you it was an accident,” Peter said, still in that tone like it was no big deal and he accidentally came out to major newspaper publishers every other week. For all Johnny knew, maybe he did. For all Johnny knew maybe he put on a rainbow spider-suit and shouted it from the top of the Empire State Building every single Friday Johnny had ever been off-planet.

“How do you accidentally tell your former boss you’re bisexual?” Johnny demanded. Then, his own voice somehow rising even shriller, he added, “You haven’t told me you’re bisexual!”

Peter shot him a look that said that he was pretty sure he just had. As if Johnny wasn’t sitting right in front of him, currently losing his mind.

“The bad news, apparently John Jameson came out to his dad a few months ago,” Peter said.

“That’s the bad news,” Johnny said, his voice both flat and scathing in a way no acting coach he’d ever had would believe he was capable of. “Really.”

“Well, good for John, I guess,” Peter allowed, making a face like he wasn’t quite about all of that. Johnny was going to smother him by the end of this conversation, probably. “But bad for me. Because now Jonah wants to set us up.”

There was a strange static-y sound ringing in Johnny’s ears, like someone had scrambled all his frequencies.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Could you rewind? Maybe to the beginning of this conversation?”

“You’re not listening to me, Johnny,” Peter said. “Jonah basically implied that John and I should get married. The other day I caught him looking at brochures for catering halls out on Long Island. And look, John’s a great guy, but –”

“Great,” Johnny said, his face in his hands. “Fantastic. I’ll send you two a fantasti-toaster.”

“But he’s not my type at all,” Peter said. He reached over and closed his fingers around Johnny’s wrist, tugging his hand effortlessly away from his face and leaving Johnny no choice but to look up into that big brown imploring eyes. “Now, She-Hulk, on the other hand…”

A strangled noise of rage tore itself from Johnny’s throat.

(Peter asks Johnny to be his fake boyfriend to some Bugle event)

--

(Bugle event, Jonah awkwardly talks to Johnny and says something mildly homophobic in an incredibly well meaning way.)

“That’s very… something of you, Mr. Jameson,” Johnny said.

“My daughter Mattie bought me a book,” Jameson admitted.

(blah blah Peter runs off and John and Johnny talk on a balcony)

“You know, that’s the thing about Parker,” John Jameson said, his voice light and casual. “Every time I’ve ever seen him he’s had some beautiful model hanging off his arm.”

Johnny snorted, thinking of the Black Cat, and Mary Jane, and even Carlie Cooper with her whole hot librarian vibe. Dorrie Evans, the prettiest girl in Johnny’s high school, talking Johnny’s ear off on a half dozen of their dates about how Peter Parker was so smart and how he was interested in politics and an inch taller than Johnny and probably much more in touch with his feelings. Yeah, right.

“Tell me about it,” he said. “They should ban him from fashion week for the models’ own good.”

They probably already had. Johnny would have to ask.

“No, I meant…” John trailed off. He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry,” Johnny said, realizing he’d cut John off. “What were you saying?”

“I was complimenting you,” John said, his eyes twinkling. “What I said about Parker and beautiful models – I meant you.”

“Oh,” Johnny said, floored. He felt strangely like blushing, but that was silly. Johnny was a famous space explorer. It was hardly the first time a handsome astronaut had called him beautiful.

It was, perhaps, the first time it had happened to him on earth. And the first time it had happened outside of a hostage situation. And the first time Ben hadn’t been there to threaten to beat the astronaut up.

“You are here with Peter Parker, aren’t you?” John asked. “As his date, I mean.”

“Allegedly,” Johnny said. He’d meant it to come out under his breath, but it didn’t, and he suspected his eyeroll wasn’t quite as internal as he’d intended either. John laughed, but not unkindly.

“He does have a habit of disappearing, doesn’t he?” John said lightly. “I get it, though, as the son of a newsman. The number of dinners my father actually made it to the main course without rushing off to take a call or chase a story...” He trailed off, sighing ruefully, the corners of his mouth quirked up. “That must be why they get along so well.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Johnny asked, feeling emboldened, maybe, by the way John was looking at him, by the fact that he had called him beautiful.

He definitely wasn’t feeling spiteful over the fact that he was supposed to be here with Peter and Peter had, of course, ditched him, caught up in fifteen other different things, just like always. Things that were more important than Johnny. Things that Johnny could have helped with, maybe, if Peter had asked.

Or maybe things Johnny couldn’t have helped with. After all there were plenty of reasons he might have found Peter’s shirt abandoned in the corner of the men’s room. Things that might have everything to do with, say, the Black Cat instead of Doctor Octopus. 

“Of course,” John said. His hand landed next to Johnny’s on the balcony railing. “You can tell me anything.”

(Johnny admits Peter only brought him as his date to get Jonah to quit it.)

“My father does have that way about him,” John said ruefully. “He’s trying to be very supportive. My foster sister bought him a book. He said he’s thinking about starting a podcast.”

“Elderly Bugle subscribers, watch out,” Johnny said before he could stop himself. Luckily for him, John laughed.

[John kisses Johnny at some fancy event]

--

So now Johnny was a homewrecker. Either of his fake relationship, or of Peter’s future Daily Bugle society page wedding to John Jameson, certified American hero. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

--

Johnny stared at Jonah. Jonah stared at Johnny.

John tucked into his steak like he wasn’t sitting in the middle of the world’s most awkward dinner. Johnny guessed he must have had experience getting through dinners with J Jonah Jameson, but he could have taken a little pity on Johnny, a novice.

(And then somewhere in here Peter would have gone insane.)

[tinseltrinkets]

Arcane’s handling of Jayce and Viktor’s suicide attempts (especially in comparison to how’s Jinx’s was handled) is honestly kinda abysmal.

Maybe I should rephrase because it’s not Arcane itself because it is apart of these characters’ story is their failure to properly handle it, but I think it’s more so it not making it too clear that it really wasn’t handled well.

With Ximena’s comment at the trial and Jayce’s subsequent spiral after not being able to continue working on Hextech, I think we can deduce that this was more of an obsession than it was a passion.

He experienced a traumatic event where he and his mother nearly lost their lives and then suddenly they were saved. While there’s the positive of them being saved, it inadvertently plants this belief of the exceptional being the only way out of tragedy.

This is actually kind of how a lot of kids with undiagnosed autism or just general social ostracism view the world at a young age. It’s why a lot of us hyperfixated on fantasy and magic-based works of fiction: the only place we can imagine our lives working out and finding acceptance is if the rules of reality are literally broken. Usually those are the only sort of stories that show things working out for the mentally ill.

While I appreciate that Viktor’s handling of Jayce’s attempt doesn’t follow the usual patronizing, pitying expectation of just dragging someone off the ledge and fueling them with shallow affirmations that neither of party really believes, that’s where my praise would end.

He sees that Jayce sees no place for himself in the world and nothing he can offer to it without Hextech, so he gives him Hextech.

It’s dreadfully simple. The question of why he can’t imagine living without it is never posed and never dealt with.

I don’t expect Viktor, who is not a trained mental health professional, to have the ability to perfectly handle this high-stress immediate situation, but I wish it was made more clear that he couldn’t. And also, why he couldn’t.

Because he didn’t have a reason to live without it either.

While Jayce’s struggle was more centered around what he could externally provide and manage in his life, Viktor’s was internal.

Jayce wanted to be able to fix the world and his outer life, Viktor wanted to be able to fix himself and his dignity.

Viktor isn’t fighting to survive, he’s fighting to survive long enough to believe he matters.

So when Viktor finds that endeavor to be hopeless and he’s the one on the ledge, there’s nothing Jayce can say. He can only listlessly reminisce about losing a dream that was poisoned from the beginning.

Both of them try to seek the domestic in the abnormal. For people searching for something so larger than life, what they actually want is really simple, and it’s to feel that they matter, but they don’t know any other way to feel allowed to.

[dumb-ster-fire]

Night Incarnate - Part 18

Azriel x OC

warnings: trauma, violence, abuse, blood

Summary: A deadly assassin and the elusive leader of Veilforged, Nyra delivers justice from the shadows, wielding starlight and darkness with lethal precision. Operating from Night's Refuge, she rescues the powerless and turns them into warriors. Whispers of her name spread through Prythian, but few know the truth-only that where justice fails, Night Incarnate rises.

Masterlist

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

Azriel sat in silence, barely hearing the conversation around him. His focus was elsewhere—on the way Nyra and Helion had interacted. The ease between them, the familiarity. The way Helion had called her starlight and the way she had called him sunbeam in return.

He had seen Helion flirt before—Helion flirted with anything that breathed—but this had been different. It wasn’t just casual, playful charm. It was comfortable, earned. Like two people who had known each other far too well, for far too long.

And she had allowed it. Encouraged it.

A slow, simmering feeling curled in his chest. Not anger. Not jealousy, exactly—he had no right to either. But something unsettled, something he couldn’t quite place.

Nyra was a mystery wrapped in shadows, in starlight. She let people see only what she wanted them to. And yet, with Helion… she had been open. Unarmored.

Azriel’s jaw tightened.

How long had they known each other? How close had they been? Had she ever sought Helion out the way she had sought him that night? Had she ever touched him the way she had touched Azriel?

He exhaled slowly through his nose. It didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter.

But the thought of her laughing into Helion’s golden skin, of her hands tangled in his curls, of her giving Helion the pleasure she had given Azriel—

Azriel clenched his fists, shadows curling tight.

No, it shouldn’t matter.

And yet, it did.

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

The meeting had been tense. Nyra’s presence—her words—had left behind an unshakable energy, one that clung to each of them as Rhysand winnowed them back to the River House.

They arrived in the sitting room in a blink, the space warm and inviting despite the simmering tension between them. No one spoke at first, the weight of the meeting still heavy in the air.

Azriel rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts Nyra had left behind—not just about Helion, but about everything she had said. About Tamlin, about the way Rhysand wasn’t so different from him. About the Illyrian females, about Velaris itself, its secrecy.

She knew too much.

And yet, she had still said nothing outright. Had still left her words open-ended, sharp enough to make a point but careful enough to keep from making outright accusations.

Nesta broke the silence first, arms crossed as she leaned against the back of a chair. “Well, that was interesting.”

Cassian let out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. “I knew she was bold, but I didn’t think she’d go that far in front of all of us.”

Mor scoffed. “You sound impressed.”

Cassian smirked. “Maybe I am.”

“She’s playing her own game,” Amren murmured, swirling a glass of wine. “And she’s playing it well.” Her silver eyes flicked to Rhysand. “You don’t seem surprised, though. I wonder why.”

Rhysand leaned against the mantle, expression unreadable. “Because I expected nothing less from her.”

Feyre, who had been quiet, looked at him carefully. “And?”

Rhys exhaled, rubbing his temples. “And it means she won’t be easy to sway. If we ever thought she could be.”

Azriel remained silent, fingers twitching at his sides. Of course, she wouldn’t be. She had already said as much to him.

“Do we need to sway her?” Elain’s voice was soft, but steady. “She isn’t against us. She’s helping in her own way.”

Mor let out a dry laugh. “For now.”

Nesta’s gaze snapped to her. “And what exactly would make her against us?” She raised a brow. “Because from what I heard today, she only said the truth. Or are we pretending Velaris isn’t a secret? That the Illyrian females aren’t still suffering? That Hewn City isn’t full of people who could be saved if Rhysand actually tried?”

A tense silence followed.

Rhysand merely looked at his mate. “Feyre, what do you think?”

Feyre pursed her lips. “I think… she’s more than we assumed. That she’s seeing things from a perspective none of us have. And that we should be careful about how we approach her.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened.

Careful.

Yes, careful. Because Nyra was not someone they could manipulate, someone they could bend to their will. She had made that clear.

And yet, he still felt that pull. That damn, infuriating pull.

He turned away from the group, stepping toward the hall.

He needed air.

Needed space.

Because despite everything…

He still wanted to go to her.

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

Azriel’s steps faltered as he reached the door, his hand brushing the frame. The thought of manipulating Nyra, of ever attempting to hurt her, made something twist in his chest—a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time, but one that was now unmistakable.

It wasn’t just the pull, the magnetic force that seemed to draw him toward her no matter how hard he tried to resist. It was more than that.

It was a sickness—a tight knot in his stomach that gnawed at him, whispering that even considering using her, bending her to their will, would be wrong. Utterly wrong.

He had seen her power. Felt it. Witnessed it.

But it wasn’t just her magic.

It was her spirit. Her strength. The way she had stood there in front of them all, unwavering, speaking truths that were uncomfortable and inconvenient. The way she had made it clear that she wasn’t some tool to be used, no matter how well-intentioned the cause might be.

He couldn’t even imagine what it would do to her—to see her brought down by the very people who were supposed to be allies.

The very thought made his insides churn.

He had spent centuries doing things he wasn’t proud of, but this? This was different.

He couldn’t do that to her.

Azriel closed his eyes for a moment, his breathing shallow. It would be easier to just walk away—to leave the tension between them to fade into the background, to ignore the pull, the connection, the growing desire that seemed to course between them every time their paths crossed.

But even as he tried to convince himself of that, something inside of him refused.

He couldn’t ignore what she had said. What she was.

Nyra wasn’t just someone to be controlled or manipulated. She was something entirely different, something far more dangerous than anything he had ever encountered, and yet—he wanted her.

His wings tensed behind him, the weight of his thoughts pressing down harder than he cared to admit.

But he couldn’t just forget her, either.

He couldn’t pretend it was easy.

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

Cassian sat on the edge of their bed, running a hand through his hair, but Nesta wasn’t going to let this conversation slide.

She crossed her arms, eyes locked onto him. Waiting.

He sighed. “What do you want me to say, Nes?”

“That we’re all just playing dumb,” she said sharply. “That we’re acting like the pull between them isn’t screamingly obvious. That even their damn shadows react to each other.” She tilted her head, voice laced with challenge. “Tell me, Cassian—what does that sound like to you?”

Cassian held her gaze, but he didn’t answer.

Because he knew.

He had seen it. Had felt it in the air whenever Nyra and Azriel were near each other—the way his brother’s shadows always seemed to drift toward her, curling around her form as if seeking her out. The way Nyra’s own shadows responded, like an echo of something neither of them had fully acknowledged.

The way Azriel looked at her.

The way Nyra, despite all her defiance and sharp words, did not push him away.

Cassian exhaled heavily. “It’s not that simple.”

Nesta scoffed. “Because of Rhysand?”

“Because of everything,” Cassian corrected, rubbing at his jaw. “Nyra isn’t just going to accept it, and Az—” He let out a humorless chuckle. “You know him, Nesta. If he thinks for even a second that the bond would be used against her, that it would make her vulnerable—”

Nesta’s expression hardened. “He’d fight it.”

Cassian nodded grimly. “And if Nyra thinks it’ll put her under Rhys’s influence? She’ll fight it harder.”

Nesta let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders back. “So what, then? We all just pretend it’s not happening?”

Cassian hesitated. He hated the idea. Hated pretending, ignoring what was so obviously there. But Azriel was his brother, and Nyra—Nyra was a force of nature, one that would not be handled by anyone, least of all them.

Finally, he muttered, “For now.”

Nesta’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t argue.

Because they both knew—whether Nyra and Azriel wanted to face it or not—this wasn’t going to go away.

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

Nesta leaned against the bedpost, arms still crossed as she watched Cassian process everything. But then, with that sharp, unyielding honesty of hers, she added, “I told him, you know.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Told him what?”

“That I like Nyra.”

Cassian blinked. Of all the things he expected her to say, that wasn’t one of them. “You like her?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Don’t act so damn surprised. She’s strong. She doesn’t bow to anyone. And she actually gives a damn about the Illyrian females—more than Rhys has for the last five centuries.”

Cassian exhaled through his nose. “Nesta—”

“She’s willing to fight for them, Cass,” she cut in, voice firm. “Not just with words, not just with slow reforms that take centuries while more girls suffer. She’s doing something about it.”

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck. He knew Nesta had never been quiet about her frustrations with how Rhysand had handled the Illyrian situation. But her admiration for Nyra? That was new.

He tilted his head. “And what did Az say?”

Nesta’s lips pressed together. Then, after a beat, she said, “He didn’t argue.”

Cassian went still.

Azriel, who always had something to counter with, who never let his own feelings slip so easily—he hadn’t argued.

Nesta smirked at his silence. “Exactly.”

Cassian let out a slow breath. “Shit.”

Nesta only hummed, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Indeed.”

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

Nyra winnowed just outside the crumbling estate of Spring Court, the scent of wildflowers and earth thick in the air. The once-grand manor stood as a decayed monument to past mistakes, its golden glory long tarnished.

She took a slow breath, adjusting the black cloak around her shoulders. She had no illusions about this meeting—Tamlin was unpredictable at best, a volatile shell of the High Lord he once was. But Spring Court stood between Prythian and the Continent. If Koschei made a move, Tamlin’s lands would be the first to fall.

And Nyra wasn’t in the business of letting innocent people suffer because of a ruler’s past failures.

She stepped forward, her boots silent on the overgrown path. Before she could reach the broken front doors, she felt it—his presence.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” Tamlin’s voice rumbled from the shadows of the doorway. He stepped into view, golden hair unruly, green eyes wary.

Nyra tilted her head. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Tamlin crossed his arms, leaning against the threshold. “You think I don’t know what moves in my own court? You’ve had your little spies watching for weeks.”

A lazy smirk curled her lips. “You should be grateful. It means someone still cares about what happens to Spring.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “And you do?”

She took another step forward, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “I care about stopping Koschei. And Spring Court is his next logical target. Whether you like it or not, you’re in this war.”

Tamlin huffed a humorless laugh. “And what, exactly, are you offering? More of Rhysand’s charity?” The way he spat the name made it clear he expected nothing but pity or manipulation.

Nyra scoffed. “I don’t answer to Rhysand.” She let the words settle, let them sink into him. “I came here on my accord.”

Tamlin studied her, something sharp and assessing in his expression. Then, slowly, he pushed off the doorway and motioned inside. “Then let’s talk.”

Nyra followed, stepping into the ruins of a court that had once been powerful, a High Lord who had once been unyielding. But power could be rebuilt. And if Tamlin had any sense left, he’d listen.

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

Tamlin led her through the ruined halls of the estate, past shattered chandeliers and torn tapestries. The ghosts of past grandeur clung to the air, but Nyra paid them no mind. She had seen ruins before. She had lived in them.

They entered what had once been a grand sitting room, the furniture covered in dust, the fireplace cold. Tamlin gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing, hands clasped behind her back as she surveyed the space.

“You came here alone?” he asked, leaning against the stone mantle.

Nyra let out a soft chuckle. “Do you really think I’d come alone?” Shadows curled at her feet, slipping along the cracks in the floor. Her shadows—independent of Azriel’s, of any others. “You’d never see them, but trust me, I am not alone.”

Tamlin exhaled through his nose, looking away. “Of course.”

She watched him for a moment, then said, “To answer your question from earlier—no, I am not here under Rhysand’s orders. His court and Veilforged are separate entities. I don’t bow to him.”

Tamlin’s gaze snapped back to her, surprise flickering in his green eyes. “Then why risk coming here?”

Nyra stepped closer, the shadows shifting with her movement. “Because I don’t play politics with lives. Koschei is moving. If he isn’t stopped, your lands will be the first to fall. I am offering aid. Not as a representative of the Night Court, but as the leader of Veilforged. My people answer to me, and me alone.”

Tamlin studied her, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he asked, “And what would this ‘aid’ look like?”

Nyra smiled, but there was no kindness in it. Only steel and shadows. “Protection. Intelligence. We’ve been tracking movements in the illegal fae trade—slavers targeting powerful individuals for Koschei. If he gets a foothold in your lands, it won’t be long before Spring Court is nothing but a puppet state under his control. I can help prevent that.”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened. “And in return?”

“I don’t need anything from you except your cooperation.” She let her voice dip lower, a dangerous edge creeping into it. “But if you refuse and let your pride blind you, I will not waste my resources when the slaughter begins.”

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. But after a moment, he let out a slow breath. “I’ll consider it.”

Nyra inclined her head. “Good. But don’t take too long.” She turned to leave, pausing only once at the doorway. “Spring Court still has a chance to stand tall, Tamlin. Don’t let it fall because of old wounds.”

Then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows before he could reply.

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

The war room in Night’s Refuge was dimly lit, the glow of starlight-infused Veil Sigils pulsing gently against the dark stone walls. Nyra stood at the head of the table, her commanders gathered around, their expressions varying from grim determination to calculated focus.

“We proceed as planned,” she told them, her voice even. “Our scouts will keep an eye on Spring Court’s borders. If Tamlin accepts my offer, we’ll coordinate efforts. If not…” She let the words linger, knowing they understood the implications.

Sylus crossed his arms. “You think he’ll make the right choice?”

Nyra exhaled slowly. “I think he knows what’s at stake. Whether he lets pride cloud his judgment remains to be seen.”

Kyra tapped a finger against the table. “And the Night Court? Rhysand?”

A muscle in Nyra’s jaw twitched. “Rhysand’s court and Veilforged are separate entities. We work toward the same goal for now, but our allegiances remain our own.” Her pale green eyes flicked to each of them. “I need all of you to remember that.”

Dravien smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. None of us have the urge to get tangled in their mess. But Azriel—”

Elara cut him off, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. Nyra knows where she stands.”

A flicker of something dark and unreadable passed through Sylus’s expression, but he said nothing.

Nyra gave a sharp nod. “Good. Because Koschei isn’t the only one with power plays happening in the shadows. The slavers we stopped were just one thread in a much larger web. We stay ahead of it.”

With that, she dismissed them.

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

Later, as the evening bled into night, Nyra slipped away from the fortress, her steps carrying her into the forest surrounding Night’s Refuge. The air was cool, crisp with the scent of pine and damp earth. Shadows stretched long across the forest floor, shifting with her as she walked.

Her mind churned with the weight of everything—Koschei, Rhysand’s inevitable maneuvering, Tamlin’s uncertainty. The pull.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head back to look at the sky. The stars winked down at her, indifferent to the chaos that brewed below.

A deep, almost imperceptible shift in the air made her pause.

“Bryaxis,” she murmured, amusement curling her lips. “You’re scaring my Veils again.”

Darkness stirred between the trees, something ancient and formless shifting just beyond sight. A rasping whisper curled around her, though it was more sensation than sound.

Nyra smiled. “I may need your assistance soon, my friend.” She leaned against a tree, arms crossed. “But don’t worry. I’ve got a good story to pay for it.”

The shadows thickened, as if considering. Then, with a gust of wind, the presence receded.

Nyra let out a soft breath.

For now, she would keep moving. Keep planning. Keep resisting the pull that threatened to unravel everything she had built.

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

A shift in the air.

Not like Bryaxis—this was different. Sharper. Familiar.

Nyra didn’t move as she sensed him stepping into the clearing, shadows curling around his form like an extension of himself. Silent as ever, but she felt him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said without turning around.

Azriel didn’t answer right away. The quiet between them stretched, thick with tension, with things unspoken. Then, in that low, hushed voice of his, he said, “And yet, here I am.”

Nyra exhaled, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. “You’re predictable, Shadowsinger.” She finally turned, her pale green eyes finding his hazel ones. Even in the darkness, she could see the way they searched her, as if trying to uncover something she wasn’t ready to give.

Azriel took a slow step closer. “You met with Tamlin.”

Nyra arched a brow. “You keeping tabs on me now?”

His jaw tightened. “You know why I’m here.”

She did. He had questions. About Tamlin. About her refusal to bend to Rhysand. About the tension thrumming between them, lingering from that night in her office, from the kiss she had pressed to his cheek before vanishing into the shadows.

She smirked. “Go on, then. Ask.”

Azriel’s wings shifted slightly, a subtle display of restraint. His voice was even when he said, “You don’t trust Rhysand.”

It wasn’t a question.

Nyra held his gaze. “No, I don’t.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Why?”

She let out a slow breath, running a hand through her white hair. “Because I’ve seen what happens when power is concentrated in one place for too long. Because he’s had centuries to change things, and still, Illyrian females are clipped, Hewn City festers, and Velaris remains a secret only a select few are deemed worthy of.”

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter around him. “He’s done more than any High Lord before him.”

Nyra scoffed. “And yet it’s still not enough.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, Azriel—if he ever decided I was a threat, would you do it? Would you kill me if he commanded it?”

Silence.

His wings shifted again, his shadows swirling, restless. His throat bobbed.

“You’re not a threat,” he said finally.

Nyra’s lips curved into a sharp, knowing smile. “Maybe not now.” She stepped closer, their bodies nearly brushing. “But if the time ever came?”

He didn’t move away. Didn’t answer.

She studied him, the way tension lined his frame, the way his fists clenched at his sides. And beneath all that restraint—heat. That pull between them, undeniable, insistent.

Nyra reached up, her fingers just barely ghosting along the scarred skin of his jaw. His breath hitched, his eyes darkening.

But she only murmured, “You should go.”

Azriel didn’t move.

Her touch lingered for a fraction of a second longer before she pulled away, stepping back.

And just like that, she was gone—vanishing into the shadows.

Leaving him standing there, his chest tight, his mind tangled, his soul screaming for something he didn’t know how to name.

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

Azriel stood in the clearing long after Nyra vanished, the cold night air doing little to quell the heat thrumming beneath his skin.

She was getting under it—under his skin, under his defenses. He had spent centuries perfecting the art of restraint, of silence, of locking away the things that could unravel him. And yet, with just a touch, just a few words, she had nearly unraveled him completely.

His fingers twitched at his sides, as if they could still feel the phantom brush of her fingertips against his jaw. It had been so brief, barely a touch at all, but it lingered, burned.

And that question.

If the time ever came, would you do it? Would you kill me if he commanded it?

The fact that he hadn’t been able to answer her… it unsettled him.

Because the answer should have been simple. His loyalty was to Rhysand, to the Night Court. Always had been. He had done terrible things in the name of that loyalty, things that haunted him, things he had never questioned—until now.

Until her.

He clenched his jaw, shoving down the thought before it could take root.

Nyra was right about some things.

Illyrian females still suffered, their wings still clipped. The Court of Nightmares still thrived in its darkness. Velaris remained hidden, a secret kept from so many. He had never questioned it—not truly, not in a way that mattered.

But what struck him the most, what sent something like unease curling through his chest, was the way she spoke of Rhysand. He’s had centuries to change things, and still, it’s not enough.

Azriel had never heard anyone speak so openly against Rhysand. Even Nesta, in her most vicious moments, had not accused him like that.

And the worst part?

Some part of Azriel knew she wasn’t wrong.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. This was dangerous. Whatever this was between them, whatever this pull was—it was dangerous.

Because she was not his mission.

She was not something he could track, or dismantle, or kill.

She was Nyra.

And she was already inside his mind, his veins, in a way that felt irreversible.

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

taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel , @paige0103

[rovinvelor]

Chapter Two - No Use in Here

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Tags - fluff, romance, SMG34, love confessions, missing pet, SMG4

Summary - After SMG3 reveals the disappearance of his pet EggDog, Both him and SMG4 look for the lost pet. But instead of finding him, they end up getting lost themselves.

—

As SMG4 headed out of the house, the rain suddenly got louder, thunder crashing from afar. SMG4 shivered from the cold as he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack. As he shrugged it on, he glanced at the other beside him.

SMG3 stood there, his eyes fixated on the ground. He seemed deep in thought, obviously worried sick for Eggdog. SMG4 had felt guilty. He approached his partner and put a hand on his arm.

“Hey, you ok?”

He asked, the concern in his mouth clear and dripping.

“I'm fine, scrub..”

SMG3 muttered, shrugging away from his partner. SMG4 sighed at him as he finished knotting his shoes, taking a while to do so. SMG3 scoffed at the stupidity of the blue meme guardian, pushing SMG4 a bit to the side to tie his shoe.

SMG4 blushed softly— Wait. Why was he blushing? This was his ex-rival for God’s sake. He stared at him for a moment, the blush way too visible on his face.

“What? Embarrassed that you can't tie your own shoelace, and got found out? No shame, asshole.”

SMG3 remarked at him, his pride brighter than the sun. SMG4 scoffed at him, the blush fading slightly. He stood up, brushing off the dust on his chest. He stretched his limbs, trying to get the boredom out of his system.

“So.. Where should we start?”

Asked SMG4.

“Well.. I guess we could start around the cafe…?”

——————

The two meme guardians entered the dreary cafe as SMG4 flipped on a light switch. The cafe lit up for a moment before the electricity decided to cut itself off, making SMG3 groan in annoyance.

“Out of all the times to cut the power, they choose now..??”

“Who's they??”

“The power company, duh. Get with the times, scrub.”

SMG4 looked at him, disproval across his face. He grabbed a flashlight he had brought before and switched it on, it's small light illuminating a part of the cafe. Both partners searched around, from flipping tables over, to even opening the coffee machine, with left SMG4 dumbfounded.

“Why the coffee machine??”

“He likes to nap in here…”

SMG3 smiled softly, which was a rare sight, which made SMG4’s heart flutter. He blushed softly, before shaking it off and staring down. He coughed, before speaking.

“Well.. He isn't here, let's look in your roo- secret lair. I meant lair..!”

He added abruptly. He knew how much his purple partner had specifically wanted it to be called ‘Secret Lair’, which he thought was dumb, obviously. He looked back at his friend, a shy expression on his face.

“...Yeah.. “

The two entered the back door as SMG3 walked to his secret elevator. (Well not really, but who are you to judge?) The two descended in silence, not giving each other a single glance. The only sound in the elevator was their soft breathing. The doors pried open to reveal SMG3’s, surprisingly, clean room.

“You've been uh.. cleaning the place?”

Said SMG4, looking to SMG3 with a friendly smile on his face. SMG3 looked at him with a bored expression before scoffing.

“What? You think I don't clean my room? I have average human hygiene, you know. Unlike someone next to me..”

He scoffed, as he walked before him. SMG4 stood there, mouth agape. He had basic human hygiene! What was SMG3 even talking about!?!? He groaned before catching up with the other's search.

After flipping the entire room over, with no avail or trail of where EggDog could be, SMG3 rubbed his temple.

“God Fucking dammit!! Where could he have gone!?”

He grumbled in annoyance, he was seething in rage and worry. SMG4 looked at him with guilt in his eyes, the man was devastated at losing his pet.

“... It'll- be okay! Don't- don't worry! Maybe he snuck out, you know!”

He exclaimed, hoping to get the other's hope's up. SMG3 sneered at him as he stomped out of the room. SMG4 rubbed the back of his head as he watched his friend walk out the door.

“I… should leave him be..”

SMG4 sighed as he sat on the bed.

[yanderes-galore]

Yandere platonic Niffty who likes to stalk the reader please , and it gets so bad reader makes a deal with Alastor only for reader to fall for Niffty trap. 

Huh, I can try with this. It might he Short as I have no idea how to write Niffty... but worth a shot.

Yandere! Platonic! Niffty tricking her obsession with Alastor

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Possessive behavior, Violence, Blood, Manipulation, Enabler Alastor, Clingy behavior, Forced companionship.

It all starts with you working at the hotel.

Niffty is quite the enigma to most, always hyperactive and... murderous.

You usually don't pay her any mind, she's off chasing roaches anyways.

In fact, you probably don't notice Niffty's behavior until later.

Maybe you're doing a task with Charlie, or cleaning.

You notice her behavior when you feel someone staring at you constantly.

Niffty is... herself, so it's difficult to read her at times.

She develops a habit of following you around and stalking you.

It's all very subtle at first.

She does it at a distance which makes you a bit... uncomfortable.

Niffty always seems to know what her obsession is doing.

She watches their every move, like she's completely fascinated.

There's no romantic intentions, none that you can see.

She just... loves to stare?

You think that's all she plans to do for a while.

That is until the smaller demon clings to you, rambling and giggling about you and her being 'best friends'.

What makes you want to find help is her intensity.

Niffty goes from watching you at a distance... To never leaving you alone.

You could tolerate some staring.

But now you can't even sleep without Niffty staring down at you with that big eye of hers.

You can never get away from her for long, even when you leave the hotel.

Charlie ends up calling you while you're at a bar, hoping you know where Niffty is.

Right before you're about to decline... She pops up to cling to you.

You'd have to be driven mad if you're asking Alastor for help.

Maybe your fellow hotel STAFF try to help you, only for Niffty to become a problem again.

Soon Alastor may just become your only option.

Unfortunately... This doesn't help.

Alastor is probably the worst demon you could've asked for help.

Plus, you overlooked one issue.

Alastor and Niffty are pals.

Alastor is no doubt aware of Niffty's fixation on you.

He's also aware that you're desperate to get rid of her.

There's a good chance the two plan with each other to snag you.

For example, Alastor will allow Niffty to have you if he can make a deal with you.

Well, guess what happens?

You're tricked into a soul deal with Alastor, which forces you to keep Niffty around you

The deal itself prevents you from leaving the hotel without Alastor's permission.

Which means Niffty gets to have you all to herself.

Poor you... Perhaps you should've known better.

Any deal with Alastor tends to be a bad one.

Now Alastor has given you to Niffty.

Plus, now he has a new soul in his clutches

Now Niffty can be happy with her new favorite Sinner...

Meanwhile, perhaps even Alastor can find a use for you?

[lesbiankoby]

i think other people have done this before but if *eye* was going to do nero and nelo angelo in the same room "nelo angelo has regrown enough of a personality to start being uppity and throwing him something to do is more time efficient then torturing the personality back out of him again" is a bit funny. maybe if mundus had let sparda have a pet he wouldn't have done.... all of that . (no). as far as nelo angelo is concerned hes been handed some kind of high maintenance tamagotchi or perhaps a chihuahua. the silly little thing wont eat anything its starting to get a bit worrisome (nero is like eight years old and the only food nelo angelo can rustle up is charred demon).