#silence will fall when the question is asked.

[honeyncherry]

hi lexi! can i request a secret of us blurb where they attend a friend's wedding and joe realises he wants to marry reader 💕

love this concept and writing for them <3

part of the sou universe but can be read as a standalone

content fluff fluff fluff

જ⁀➴°⋆

Lily petals scatter underfoot like remnants of something too fragile to keep. Half-melted candles drip wax onto linen. The music spills from hidden speakers in soft, swelling waves, the kind that ache more than they entertain. Someone’s tie is undone. Someone’s aunt is crying. And Joe… Joe is standing just slightly removed from it all, drink in hand, breath held, watching you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

And maybe that’s the point.

Because you’re not in the spotlight. You’re not the bride. You’re not even trying. But you’re glowing in a way that makes his stomach twist up like a rag being wrung dry. Your eyes shine when you laugh at something one of the groomsmen drunkenly rambles on about. You lean back in your chair like you belong there. Like you’ve never once thought about leaving. Like you’ve never once left him—even when you probably should have.

And God, he loves you for that. Even if he hasn’t outwardly said it. Even if he’s pretended it’s just history, just comfort, just a thousand shared memories knotted together with enough silence to keep it from unraveling.

He watches the bride feed her husband a bite of cake with shaking hands, watches the way her fingers tremble before they find the edge of his jaw, just to hold him steady. A touch that says, You are mine and I am yours and this has never been anything else.

The groom says something that makes her laugh, soft and breathy, and she tips her head forward like she needs a moment to recover. The kind of laugh that shakes her shoulders and touches her whole face.

And something in Joe twists.

Not out of jealousy, it’s not that he wants her, or even wants what they have in some general, surface-level way. It’s deeper than that. He feels it bounce around his mind like a question he doesn’t want to ask, a truth he’s been keeping in his mouth like a penny on his tongue.

Because he’s not the kind of guy who’s ever spent time picturing vows or tuxedos or first dances under fairy lights, but tonight, for whatever reason, it hits him how badly he wants it. Not the ceremony. Not the performance. Just the thing underneath it. The unspoken this is it kind of love. The ease of it.

And the worst part—the part that makes his chest feel too tight for the buttons of his shirt—is that he knows he wouldn’t want it with anyone but you.

Not now. Not ever.

And maybe that should scare him more than it does.

He thinks about you in flashes. Not just the big stuff like milestones and all but the small, blurry ones. You handing him a mug before you’ve even had your own coffee. You asleep on his shoulder on some plane to somewhere. You barefoot in the kitchen, spinning absently to whatever music was playing through the Alexa. You laughing at something he didn’t think was all that funny, but now it is, just because you’re the one laughing.

And suddenly, like the universe is done giving him space to lie to himself, you’re right in front of him, smiling like the night lives in your mouth. Cheeks flushed from champagne, hair a little wild from dancing, dress slightly askew at the shoulder. Your glass only half full, but your happiness pouring over.

You reach for him with one hand, curling your fingers into the lapel of his jacket. “There you are,” you say, slipping up to him with that easy familiarity that always undoes him. One hand slides up his chest, nails catching on the fabric as you lean in and kiss him, quick and sweet.

You pull back just far enough to look up at him, voice already lilting with laughter. “I’ve been telling people you ran off to elope with the open bar.”

He smiles, but his attention is locked on you—on the way your hair has started to fall out of whatever pins you stuck it up with. The faint smudge of mascara. How you still smell like the perfume he bought you last Christmas, soft and a little floral, but now it’s mixed with the heat of your skin and the crisp bite of champagne.

“You should’ve seen Marr,” you’re saying, laughing again as you loop one arm lazily around his waist. “He swore up and down he saw the groom practicing his vows in the parking lot. Like, full tux, pacing, sweating, whispering to himself like a psychopath.”

Joe’s not really listening. Not because he doesn’t care. But because you’re here. Laughing and rambling and slightly drunk and touching him like you always do, like you can’t not, and the only thing running through his head is I’m gonna remember this moment for the rest of my life.

“I asked him if he needed water,” you giggle, fingers tightening in the fabric of his jacket. “And he said—‘I’m fine, I just didn’t sleep well.’ Like, okay…”

You’re perfect. Not in the pristine, untouchable way he used to think perfection looked like. You’re messy and funny and a little too tipsy and absolutely glowing. You’re flushed and radiant, fingertips curling near his collar. You’re the girl who’s seen every version of him and you’re still here.

“Oh—and then when the officiant forgot the bride’s middle name. Which, I know, not that serious. But still…”

You’re not a fantasy. You’re not some idea of a person. You’re real, standing in front of him asking if his tie got messed up when you kissed him earlier, and all he can think is I want this forever.

Not the wedding. Not the party. You.

You giggle again, something about scribbled vows and how you’d absolutely choke under that kind of pressure, and Joe just stares. You’re glowing from the inside out, your voice soft and overflowing like it’s trying to keep up with your thoughts, and he’s smiling so hard it almost hurts.

“I wanna go to another wedding,” you say suddenly. “They’re so perfect and everyone is so happy, and I’m so happy. You’re so handsome. I love you in a suit.”

His whole chest feels like it’s cracking open under the weight of how much he loves you. You’re everything I want. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed. You’re mine. I want to keep you. I want to hold you in every version of this life we get. I want to watch you kick your shoes off at every party for the rest of our lives.

You look up at him again, gold-lit and wide-eyed like you suddenly noticed he hasn’t said much.

“What?”

He shakes his head, leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth like it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, voice rough with it. “You’re just—god, you’re beautiful.”

You grin at him, slow and drowsy and full of something quiet, then tip your head against his shoulder like standing upright was never really the point. He lets you settle there, lets your body lean fully into his, one arm slipping around your back without even thinking.

And just like that, it’s settled without panic or doubt. Just the quiet, steady truth of it.

He wants this. He wants you. Not for a season. Not for a stretch of years.

For infinity.

He wants to hear you ramble about how you’ll never be a bride who cries at her own wedding, and then cry anyway. Wants to watch you dance barefoot at your own reception, stealing bites off his plate between songs. He wants to see you in white, not because it’s tradition, but because you’ll make it look like magic. He wants to wake up next to you with a ring on your hand and call it a normal morning. He wants to sit beside you years from now, watching someone else’s vows, and hear you whisper, "Ours were better."

Joe Burrow wants to marry you.

[chexxycheol]

Fall Into Desire || 18+ MDNI

☁ Park Seonghwa x Reader x Song Mingi

title Fall Into Desire

synopsis Seonghwa and Mingi argue over who can please a girl best with their tongue "Why don't we let our girl decide"

genre Smut, Fluff, little angst

tags Non-Idol! Seonghwa x Fem! Reader x Non-Idol! Mingi, Seonghwa x Reader x Mingi

warnings Petty arguing, confessions, smidgen angst, smut, oral (f recieving), aftercare, dirty talk, overstimulation?, 18+ minors DNI

nicknames used sweet girl, sweet angel, doll, baby, love

if i missed any warnings, please let me know!

⚘ author first ateez fic to get back into the groove of writing, along with my first smut. please be gentle with this one cause it is my first time writing smut. i will give attention to 13 Forget-Me-Nots but i'm still trying to adjust from my work trip. constructive criticism is welcomed!

this is a work of fiction and should be separated with reality. thank you and enjoy!

—chery

wc 3k

It was quite stupid, watching your two friends argue over who’s better at giving oral. They both sat on opposite sides of your apartment's living room going back and forth over this.

“Dude I told you I can make a girl cum with just my tongue” Mingi said to the elder, his eyes darkening trying to stay calm.

“I don’t know Mingi, I didn’t even know you hooked up with girls” Seonghwa shook his head chuckling. You sat there on your phone deciding to let the two argue it out before asking them what they wanted to eat.

“Who do you think is better Y/N?” Mingi called out to you. You finally looked up from your phone giving him a questioning stare before shrugging and turning back to look at your phone, waiting once again for them to finish this petty argument.

“Why don’t we let our girl decide” Seonghwa suggested, looking at you “Of course, if she’s okay with it” You snap your head to look towards the eldest with a look of disbelief of the suggestion.

Mingi’s expression darkened when you looked at him, you wouldn’t sit there and lie that your two friends were undeniably attractive or that you thought of them in more of a friendly way more times than you’d like to admit but you didn’t want to possibly break your friend group and or cause turmoil between everyone. 

Mingi and Seonghwa noticed your look of uncertainty and Seonghwa waved you over to him and you stood up hesitantly and walked to him, now standing in front of your elder friend he looked at Mingi and patted the seat next to him so they both could talk to you, Mingi got up and sat next to Seonghwa leaned back relaxed with that dark look in his eye. He looked like a predator ready to pounce on its prey if you made the smallest movement.

“Now sweet angel, what’s going through that pretty head of yours?” Seonghwa asked, grabbing your hand softly, letting you fidget with it to keep yourself grounded. 

You looked between both of them before answering honestly “I don’t want to cause turmoil between not just us three, but the whole group” Mingi’s eyes turned soft before he sat forward and grabbed your waist to move you in front of him and let his hands move on to your hips.

“Doll, you could do no wrong in our eyes, in any of our eyes. If anything the others will be jealous we got to have you first before them” Mingi looked you in the eyes continuing to talk now with uncertainty “We all love you as one of our own and we’ve all talked about you in a more than appropriate way” 

The look on his face was now an uncertain one, he didn’t know if you’d run away at the fact that all eight of them had thought of you in a sexual way, or even a possibly romantic way. Seonghwa had a serious look on his face now but his heart was racing at the possibility that you could run away from them, or even all eight of them.

“Please say something sweet girl” Mingi pleaded, he couldn’t stand your silence now that you knew the truth with your friends. Seonghwa now had that glassy look in his eyes waiting for your answer.

“I have thought about all eight of you in a more than platonic way, but I didn’t want to ruin our friendship or cause turmoil between all of us. I didn’t want to lose you all” The last part came out quietly but they now knew your feelings, and you knew theirs.

Both men let out a breathe they didn’t know they were holding before Seonghwa grabbed your wrist and pulled you to sit on his lap now straddling him, one hand rested on your hip while the other grabbed your chin so you could look him in the eyes before he spoke “Sweet girl, we all want you in more than a platonic way, you’ve had us wrapped around your finger since your first week of uni when we found you in our study room”

“It’s up to you, you can tell us to get out of your apartment and we never talk about this or you can let us indulge you, settle our argument and we can continue this talk with the others” Seonghwa moved his hands off you to rest on his legs giving you an out.

“Fuck it” Before either of them knew it, you moved forward to kiss Seonghwa and wrapped your hands around his neck, he was shocked and didn’t move for a split second before finally kissing you back and wrapped his hands around your waist.

Mingi groaned from beside the both of you, breaking your kiss to look at him “Come on sweet girl let’s get you somewhere comfortable” He stood up and you stood up off of Seonghwa and in one quick movement Mingi grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing and smacked your ass at your protested kicking at him to put you down.

Both men made their way to your room and Mingi set you in front of him and grabbed your jaw making sure you looked him in the eye before you could start to protest being carried.

“I’ve waited too long to taste your pretty pussy, fantasized for far too long on how sweet you would taste. I’ll be damned if I wait a minute longer” He kissed you hard and let his hands drop to your waist, you could feel Seonghwa behind you move your hair to the side to kiss your neck.

Seonghwa broke his kiss from your neck to focus on stripping you, starting with the flannel you were wearing he let out a guttural groan when he saw you weren’t wearing anything underneath it, he moved down towards your shorts that had risen up your thighs letting the underneath of your butt peek out from them, and it took all his power to not rip them off you.

Mingi broke the kiss to soak in your naked figure standing in front of him. Seonghwa motioned for Mingi to sit against the headboard before picking you up and placing you between his legs, your back against his chest and Mingi grabbed under your thighs and spread your legs exposing your pussy to Seonghwa. You could feel his hard cock through his sweatpants pressing against your back.

Seonghwa groaned at the sight before laying between your legs and pressed wet kisses to your inner thigh, you let out the tiniest moan holding back “Come on sweet girl don’t hold back those moans, let us hear you” Mingi said from behind you, one of his hands moving from your thigh to now pinch your hard nipple causing you to let out a loud moan. Both men almost came in their pants from it, your moans sounding melodic to them.

“Baby, you need a safeword before we start” Seonghwa looked at you before giving another kiss to your thigh, Mingi halted his movements upon hearing Seonghwa and spoke up from behind you “It’s just to be safe doll, we want to make sure this is enjoyable for you as well”

You pondered for a moment before settling on “Penguin” Seonghwa and Mingi chuckled at how cute you were before they decided to continue “Penguin it is”

Seonghwa went back to leaving a trail of kisses getting closer to your pussy, while Mingi resumed giving attention to your nipples. You knew Seonghwa was taking his time, but you were starting to get impatient with him.

“Please do something Seonghwa” You started to beg, he looked up and saw your breathing was ragged. He looked at your pussy and licked a small stripe testing the waters and once he heard the loud moan you let out, he lost whatever little control he had and began to devour you like you were his last meal.

You started squirming around and closed your thighs around his head before he pushed your legs open and pulled away causing you to shudder at the cool air on your now soaking wet pussy “Keep her still” He said and Mingi put his hands back on your thighs keeping them open.

“Fuck baby, you taste so sweet” Seonghwa let out Mingi moved one of his hands towards your needy pussy, slowly pushing in a finger causing you to squirm around and let out a string of moans. Upon hearing your moans, he added another finger and as fast as his fingers were in you he pulled them out and brought them to his mouth. He kept his eyes on yours as he sucked on his fingers tasting you before throwing his head back with a groan “He’s right baby, god you taste so good” 

Before you could comprehend anything more Seonghwa was back to working his tongue on your clit, you were now a panting and moaning mess. You could feel the build up in your stomach getting close to your breaking point, and all it took for you to come undone was him sliding one finger into you.

Right as he slid his finger in and curled it, you were a mess all over him “Fuck! Hwa” You cried out while he kept his rhythm going until you came down from your high and left your pussy with a small kiss that left you shuddering “If I could i would stay between your thighs all day just to hear you come all over my face” 

Seonghwa now hovered over you and moved to kiss you, you heard Mingi groan from behind you both as his patience was definitely wearing thin on having to wait to have a moment with you.

“Move Hwa, I have to taste my doll. She tasted so sweet on my fingers” Mingi spoke up and Seonghwa chuckled at the younger's impatience but moved off you to sit at the end of the bed. 

Mingi moved your head to look up at him from behind you and kissed you softly before pulling away and motioning towards Seonghwa. “Go sit with Hwa for a second, love. I’m gonna go grab you water and let you relax for a moment” Mingi got up and ran to grab water for everyone. You moved towards Seonghwa to lay your back against him like you were with Mingi.

“Thank you Hwa” You followed his eyes to see he was staring at both of your reflections in the mirror in the corner of your room facing the edge of the bed where you both sat.

“You see how pretty you look sweet angel” He grabbed one of your thighs to give you a glimpse of yourself spread open for him. You instinctively tried to close your legs but he had grabbed your other thigh and held your legs open. He held your stare in the mirror with his hair casting a shadow on his eyes making them seem darker. 

You feel your face getting warm and you try to look away before Seonghwa grabs your jaw and moves your head back to look at the mirror “Look at yourself love, I’ve never seen such perfection until now” Your eyes wander over your body before looking at Seonghwa through the mirror.

“Fuck baby, you look so pretty” Mingi’s was leaning against your door frame holding three water bottles in one hand and admiring you. You watch as he moves from the door frame and sets the water down on your nightstand, stripping his shirt off leaving his sweatpants hanging low barely exposing his v-line. 

“Come sit on my face baby” He looked up towards you. Mingi’s sweatpants barely did anything to hide his hard on and you could still feel Seonghwas against your back. Your concern for them now comes to the front of your thoughts.

“Can’t I help you both with your hard ons?” Your voice now quiet and shy but they chuckled and shook their heads “No need to worry about us sweet girl, we could cum at the sight of you” Seonghwa answered then Mingi added “Especially the sight of your fucked out face from our tongues” He groaned before palming his sweatpants.

Seonghwa looked at you “Don’t you think you should go to him? He’s been waiting patiently doll” You looked at Mingi before getting off Seonghwa and climbed onto Mingi, resting on his chest before lifting yourself up and lowering yourself on his face, not fully putting your weight on him but shivering feeling his cool breaths against your pussy.

Mingi grunted at your hesitation “Doll, I'm gonna warn you once. When i say ‘sit on my face’ i mean sit” You hesitated again but lowered yourself more until he grabbed your hips and slammed you down on his face. You gasped and tried to pull yourself up worried about suffocating him but he held you there and started tongue fucking you. 

Your mind becomes fuzzy and every moan or whimper you let out they felt themselves getting close from not even touching themselves. 

Mingi would switch from tongue fucking you to giving attention to your sensitive clit, the rhythm he has was fast and impatient compared to Seonghwas soft but calculated approach.

You heard movement and looked over at Seonghwa who was now naked and lazily stroking his cock, your eyes caught his and smirked a little before picking up his pace then slowing down.

Mingi lifted you up for a moment, pulling your attention back to him “Your pussy is the best dessert i’ve ever had in my life, I don’t want to share with the others” He sat you back down on his face, indulging on you once more.

You could feel yourself get close and Mingi could tell from your quickening breaths and moans falling from your lips. Seonghwa didn’t want to cum until you did, and Mingi knew he was close and would come undone when you did.

Mingi decided enough was enough and started devouring you like you were his last meal, they both devoured you like your pussy was their last meal. You could feel yourself getting close before falling back onto Mingi’s chest but he grabbed you and moved you back onto his face.

“Mingi! Please!” You begged the man under you, the slurping sounds he was making were filthy but his determination to get every drop of you was prominent. Hearing Seonghwa’s pants and soft moans were getting you dangerously close to your second climax until Mingi moaned around your clit and sent you over the edge from the vibration it caused.

Moans bounced off your bedroom walls as Mingi and you came together. Mingi moved you back and forth grinding on his tongue to ride out your high. The room filled with all of you panting as you sat back onto Mingi’s chest.

Once you came down from the fuzziness of your high, Seonghwa lifted you off of Mingi, laid you down next to him, and now stood over you with his cock still in his hand stroking it.

“Fuck angel can I come on you?” Seonghwa asked desperately as he slowly pumped his cock. You nod looking up at him and he came all over your stomach moaning and leaned down to kiss you through his high. Seonghwa pulled away and smiled at you leaving a kiss on your forehead.

Mingi got up to grab a wet towel, handing it to the older to clean you both off before going through your closet to find all the spare clothes all of the boys had left at your place. He grabbed a change of clothes and headed towards the bathroom.

“You did so well love” Seonghwa praised you while grabbing a water bottle, opening it, and handing it to you to drink. “Thank you Hwa” you blushed before taking a sip of water as Mingi emerged from your bathroom in new clothes.

“I started the bath for you, let's get you washed up before the rest all get here” You stood up to walk and they let out a loud laugh noticing your legs shaking with every step you took, you flipped them both off.

“The rest are coming?” You asked, making your way past Mingi towards the tub. “Yeah, they sent a group text that I saw when I went to grab us all water, they should be here pretty soon” Seonghwa got dressed and grabbed you new clothes.

Finishing your bath they dressed you and left kisses all over your body while giving praises in between.

“You look so pretty when you cum” Mingi said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, slipping his hoodie on you.

“I wish I could’ve taken a picture of you covered with my cum” Seonghwa groaned.

They finished dressing you and Mingi picked you up heading back to your living room where everyone else now sat and turned their heads toward the three of you.

“I thought this was something we all would talk to her about before whatever happened between the three of you” Hongjoong spoke up. You hid your face in Mingi’s chest and leaned up towards his ear to ask “Is he mad at us?” 

“He’s probably more upset with Seonghwa and I. He could never be mad at you” Mingi said before setting you down on the couch and the other two sat on the ground in front of you facing everyone else.

“Nobody here is upset with you love, we're upset with these two idiots for having a talk we all should’ve had without the rest of us” Hongjoong voiced hearing your question.

“Well I know now. Let’s talk this out” 

Seonghwa’s earlier suggestion came back into your mind. The suggestion that landed you getting tongue fucked by two of your best friends. Hopefully at the end of this long awaited talk you could let more of your desires come to light.

divider @cafekitsune

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[septembersharvest]

Kept Woman | Viltrumite!Mark Grayson x Concubine!Reader | Chapter: 1

CONTENT WARNINGS : abduction, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding ,stalking, light violent threats , light gore+ minimal blood descriptions , mentions of adultery/possible cheating , death.

Why were you, of all people, taken from your home? Everything you knew, gone. Who knew you'd enter into one much larger than you could comprehend? Recanting the last day on like loop the second you drifted off or losing yourself in thought. You fall asleep in this small room and are immediately greeted with the world you once knew engulfed in flames. Your family , your friends , all screaming for help. The soreness in your voice from screaming still burning. Which ever day it was now. You vividly recall being lifted into the air. Exhaustion forgotten when you thrashed, attempting to free yourself, but the figure gripped you hard with no room to flee. Everything became so small in your vision. You had never been this high before, even on a plane. Was the world always this small, so tiny you only manage to make out patches of green or red where your home once was? And ever since, you've awoken in this empty place, a pure white room absent of any color , absolved of any life. The bareness of the room was eerie, and every time you awoke, you were terrified; not even the warmth of your dog was there to comfort you. For a while, you assumed maybe you had died and this was the end, but you’d pinch yourself and push away that delusion. All you did for 2 or 3 days was wept and slept. There was no clock to keep time, no door to exit, yet somehow food would appear when you came to from slumber every day and night.

That was until you rose on the fourth day, the pain from your injuries finally becoming bearable , and moving was slightly easier. The bandages on all your wounds still leaked with blood whenever you moved so you had been avoiding exploring the 4 corners of your confinement.

A faint noise from the ceiling, quiet but noticeable in your newly awakened state.

Suddenly, the door opened, and two women draped in grey and white walked in rather quickly. One approached you and spoke very softly about getting you cleaned up. Her demeanor was calm but orderly. She had lightly grasped your hand and led you off the bed offering to use her fully to support your own weight. The other women swiftly moved in, cleared the blood soiled bed sheets, and replaced them with new ones.

For the next 30 minutes, they washed , fed you and tended to your needs, well, as much as you’d allow anyway, still noticeably dazed and bruised. Then they left you just like that, leaving you in that dense silence you became to loathe. You stood still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do with yourself. You walked over to the bed and slowly sat on the edge. The bedding was incredibly soft, but that's the last thing on your mind.

Where were you ?

Who were those women ?

Various thoughts flooded your head, good, bad, an endless ambush of possibilities you frightened yourself with. Your mind was racing a mile a minute til the door approached again. It was a man this time. It took you bo longer than a second to process it, one look at his face, and you knew. That familiar shot of adrenaline hit you hard; you became stiff. It was him.

The man who abducted you. His eyes were hollow , fixated on you. This man towed over you with terrifying stature. He scanned you up and down, then moved on to examine the room before he made his way closer to you. You had jumped slightly as the distance between you closed.

"Who- Who are you?" Speaking no louder than a whisper, fearing that it would possibly anger him more than what he was already radiating. Something in your gut told you to proceed with caution. His stare, his demeanor were truly terrifying.

"Have you eaten and bathed?" Completely ignoring your question. You only nodded, taking the hint not to ask again. The man sat down next to you, maybe only a foot of space between you.

"What is your name?" He asked, looking at you with a cold, stern expression. You hesitated, looking away to avoid the weight of his gaze.

“Y/N..” Given the circumstances, stuttering couldn't be helped. You were in an unknown location next to a man whose name you don't even know, in a room so empty you worried simply existing would soil it’s purity .

"My name is Mark.” You nodded, swiftly preparing to ask another question, hoping to get an answer this time.

“Mark..Why did you bring me here?” The carefully chosen words left your lips. He didn't immediately respond as you hoped. His jaw clenched in return; he avoided your bated breath as if he were in any position to do so.

“I brought you here because I thought it would be a waste to let you perish on that planet. You will be taken care of, and in return, you'll give me an heir. " Your throat tightened; all you wanted to do was run, but something in you knew you'd be done for if you did. You couldn't die here. You wouldn’t die here. You have so much to live for. Or had. Although you were told there was nothing left of your home, you refused to give up, there’s some fight left in you even if it was just alittle any bit of push back was enough resilience to cling to.

"And what will you do if I refuse?"

"…Then you will be discarded. But I hope it doesn't come down to that. You seem strong. You will survive and hopefully pass that attribute on to our child." His face exhibited not an ounce of emotion with this declaration, to make such an assumption of who you were. To proclaim, To think he'd propose such a thing when you'd known your Mailman longer than him was absurd.

"Can I at least have time to process this. I haven't even seen past these four walls.” Can you least tell me I'll be stuck here forever. Is what you wanted to say but lacked confidence to confess.

“That can be arranged; Soon enough, you'll be given opportunities to prove your cooperation. In the meantime, rest." His hand briefly touched yours, and he rose from the bed. His heavy steps reached the door, and Mark glanced at you once more, disappearing along with the door, leaving you stunned in this white walled prison.

You might have sat there for hours, you wouldn’t have know, staring across the room at the mirror adjacent to the bed.

Why me ?

All you could think about was your life on Earth. Your last walk in the park while playing with your dog. The child who spilled ice cream on your shoe and his mother profusely apologized while your dog swooped in, enjoying the mess.

The last time you sat on your porch, writing from dawn to dusk, twilight timing in your creative juices kept you writing like you needed it to breathe, forgetting about time itself. The sound of a pencil running along the paper, amused with indulgence in your imagination.

Now, you had to mourn the so-called uneventful life you were lucky to have experienced in that pocket of time. You stared at the reflection for ages. Tears fell, stained, and burned your face. Dried blood at the tip of your fingers from the anxious tugging of skin above your cuticle.

You thought it over a dozen times and decided it was best to simply comply until you found a way out of this mess. What scared you most was how casually he presented the proposal, with the lack of marriage, void of a possible connection between you. Was a child only necessary? Any young lady would have been terrified, fuck, you were mortified, but those faint memories of what Earth looked like in its final moments while you were pulled from the rubble, bloodied and battered. The scattered limbs of other civilians decorating the street, your dog barking frantically, jumping and whining in attempts to save you, quickly turning to cries as you vanished into clouds of smoke. You ran a hand over the already blood-stained bandage on your forearm , which lead to brushing your fingers over a faint scar. You had many small cuts from your dog, though you didn’t mind , it was her way of saying I love you; scare only you could explain.

You had just gotten your dog after moving out with your parents, and like most people, you purchased the puppy to fill the emptiness of new beginnings. Unfortunately, you didn't name the young one. You only rescued it from backyard breeders to avoid letting it end up in the same fate. Chester was her name. They had named ‘him’, assuming ‘his’ sex, but it was too late before they realized it. Truth be told, it was difficult to rename a dog, so there you were. Your big baby with separation anxiety. It hit you that you were now without her. Though you knew that she was gone; the idea of her last moments were trying to save you and incapable of doing so was aching even more than the idea of you being used to possibly make babies.

The daylight from the small window had shifted into dusty blue, and the stars slowly filled the sky. You were drawn to the window as a distraction, but then you saw how high you were and stumbled back, immediately falling to the floor with a light thud. You scurried across the floor to the farthest corner from the window. Hugging your knees to your chest only made the oncoming hyperventilating worse. You bury your head into your legs, letting the silent sobs drench your knees, down to your thigh.

You went through all the stages of grief and rendered yourself exhausted. No energy was left to make your way to the bed, so you stayed put with what little refuge found in the cold corner, Hoping to dream of what once was, you picture your dog curled close at your feet. Tears cascade your face, continuing to empty what you failed to release while awake.

The door appeared once again; Mark entered quietly and approached your sleeping form, taking in the scene as if he was trying to capture and save it for eternity; the way your hair stuck to your cheeks, the tight grip you had on yourself so tight like you'd disappear before him. Mark reached out, carefully collected you into his arms, and headed to the bed. He placed you down gently and tucked you in the best you know how, successfully relieving you of the nightly chills. Your face still showed discomfort, but he had no idea what to do in this minor predicament. So he quietly sat there watching you sleep.

The man with little to no time for his own rest was taking a moment for you. He devoured the sight of your sleeping face. Mark didn't know why, but he was fearful of what would transpire if you spent time together, even when you were unaware. He had the urge to caress your face in an attempt to ease the tension you held with your brows, but Mark knew if, or when he surrendered to this vulnerability, a greater weakness would appear, and Mark could not afford to be vulnerable; but maybe he could just for you, maybe for just a second in the dead of the night.

He left the room with the picture of you sleeping safely wrapped in silk. His thoughts were usually preoccupied with plans to expand the empire yet you effortlessly took up a chunk of focus. Mark had no time for this, but he held that space in his mind for you, the human he had been accidentally dotted and plotted on for months prior to the invasion.

He ventured onto Earth where his people would take control of or destroy, Mark was given the mission no questions asked . He was half-human after all. Curiosity was a common trait amongst he shared blood with; Mark would have been lying if he said a small part of him hadn’t wished he had grown up here. With the numerous cultures to explore and the various unvisited terrain he read about in his father's reports, he fell in love with the planet unbeknownst to those around him.

What really turned him was when he saw you walking with your dog in the park. You were distracted by your phone, furiously typing with one hand, while the other was preoccupied with your dog, leading you through the crowded path. You were a very expressive human, easily entertained by your own intellect. Til this day he wonders why you stood out so boldly. What drew him to your person?

Mark ended up sort of stalking you. Your routine was pretty simple, yet you were always rushing somewhere. In such a short time, his interest in you took up all his time. With each passing day he become more and more intrigued. He witnessed you rushing to work every day; The weak smile you gave unhappy customers at the cafe, There was a few times he almost intervened while not fully understanding why the disrespect upon you bothered him; he watched you come home and collapse on your porch, letting your canine lick away the toubles you faced all day , leaving you in fits of laughter. Whenever you stopped to smell flowers, pick up trash, or said something sweet to a stranger, you bewildered him in such a quaint way. Of course, he observed other humans, but he was drawn to your aura. The light that radiated from your smile captivated him, and he was determined to save you from the inevitable, in the only way he knew how.

Taking you away before it was too late.

His father had already expressed how much time he spent ,wasted focusing on his mother and that he wished he had taken on one or two more women so he wouldn't have ended up with only a single child and the only of-age heir to his father's legacy, which is what led to your immediate capture.

Mark was instructed to take on not two, but three wives at once to meet his father's demands. He'd never do much as had a girlfriend, so obviously he had no idea how he would manage to love you ,cater to the other women all to maintain a bloodline. There was no way this would end well, but he had no choice but to obey his father's instructions—at least for now. Truthfully, there was no room what so ever for ‘other women’ in the future he had been planned for you. But it was the only way to keep you safe and pardoned in the eyes of his people;Masked as a pet, the most precious life in the galaxy.

The new found concept of envisioning you in his state is rest was exhilarating. Ironically before his grand plan of stealing you away, The safest place for you was his mind. Dreaming, Mark hadn't done that before he discovered you. He always thought he'd be this empty shell for hundreds of years. Mark was prepared for the loneliness his mortality brought him, having no idea that a mere human managed to unknowingly change his perspective so quickly.

He reached his chamber and immediately stripped to his shorts, collapsing onto the bed. A hand wandered to the untouched side of the bed, and he pictured you as you were earlier.

Tomorrow was another day closer to you. Another day yearning for the moment you’d finally be able to fill the space on the mattress, where you should have been now, where you belonged.

[applecidersturniolo]

don’t forget.

(inspired by: don’t forget you love me, calum hood)

in which…instead of looking for a fight, matt should’ve been screaming ‘don’t forget you love me’

warnings: angst.

that night haunts matt like a ghost fresh out of its tombstone. all the yelling, tears, flushed faces, the way your voice croaked every time you tried to defend yourself or speak your mind, the way his chest fell up and down as he never let you get a word in.

his words stung, but his eyes were telling a complete and utter different story. almost like he was begging himself to just shut the fuck up.

“i’m jus’ not fuckin’ ready for that shit, y/n!” matt spoke slamming his hands down on the counter, your heart pounds as your stomach twists, “i’m not saying we have to get married right now, matt! your mom asked a question so i gave her an answer!”

this all started with a supposedly innocent lunch with mary lou and jimmy, matt’s parents. until the infamous topic of marriage came up. “when are you guys planning on getting married?” mary asked softly, the glimmer of hope sparking in her eyes as she looked between her son and you. you let out a nervous giggle, “hopefully in the next couple years” you stumbled out, just trying to let the conversation defuse, let it end. knowing it was a touchy subject between you and matt.

matt’s grip loosens on your thigh, his body stiff, you knew his body language all to well, you knew this was gonna get thrown in your face the minute you stepped into your shared apartment and low and behold..here you are.

“i mean- that’s what this fucking feels like! you giving me a time limit and my parents false hope!” matt argued

your jaw clenched, “false hope? you wanna talk about false hope?! i’m the one that’s sitting around feeling like i’m just getting strung along with this relationship! matt we have been together for four years! an-and we can’t even talk about marriage without you getting all wound up!”

matt scoffs and itches the stubble that’s pricked away on his jaw, “you don’t understand” he mutters

you could feel your blood boil, you hate it when he does this shit, starts fights just to shut down when you’re in the right. you wonder if it’s to make you feel guilty or if it’s because he genuinely doesn’t know what to say.

“then help me! help me, matthew! help me understand!” your voice raises as you walk from behind the counter to face him, your eyes looking into his, his jaw is so clenched that you wonder if it’s cramping, his arms tightly at his sides.

this silence is deafening and it’s making your mind wander to thoughts you try to push down when things get hard between the two of you. you feel your throat close up, eyes burning.

don’t cry, don’t fucking cry.

you’re having a internal battle with yourself while it looks like matt has nothing going on behind his eyes, he looks..lost. like he has so much going on in his head but also nothing at all. it’s confusing, it’s gut wrenching.

“i mean..d-do y-you see a fu-future with me at all?” you croak out.

he says nothing, his eyes brimming with his own tears, you don’t know what it means and that is fucking killing you. your nose scrunches, “c’mon! say something!” your hands meet his chest, he stumbles back a bit but takes the action nonetheless. he closes his eyes and lets a tear fall before opening them back up again. he is begging himself on the inside to just fucking speak but his voice is caught in his throat, like words didn’t even fucking exist to him.

“y/n don’t go-“ matt spoke trying to tear the bags out of your hands but your grip was tight, determined, “stop doin’ this!” he said through his teeth, his accent coming out thick with emotion. this time you were the one that was left speechless, your mouth in a flat line as you weave through the living room to get to the front door, matt slips in front of you.

“baby please, baby listen to me, i love you, yeah? you know i love you.” he’s grabbing your face as gentle as he possibly can be right now to try and get you to meet his gaze but nothing is working, your eyes wander around instead, trying to hold back any emotion you possibly can and that’s so hard considering you are feeling every little emotion in the book right now. “matt please- please just move” you manage to croak out.

matt wants to hold you down and never let you go, to beg you to listen to him but..that just isn’t him. he can’t make you stay and that’s what’s hurting him the most. tears are spilling down his face as he slowly moves away from the door.

“i love you, y/n”

your hand meets the door knob, pushing it open, leading yourself down the apartment complex hallway, “say it back, please just say it back” he says leaning against the doorway.

now here matt is, his hand clutching his phone, he wants to call you, but god he’s so scared that you’re going to answer. partly because he knows you will, also because he wants you to, but at the same time he doesn’t because then he’ll have to own up to everything he has ever done to you.

“hello?” you voice is calm through the phone. you don’t want to make it noticeable that you have been waiting by your phone for the past couple weeks, annoying yourself with leaving your ringer on, hoping that when you hear that god forsaken ringtone that’s it’s matt, and tonight it was.

“hey,” matt breaths out, he feels that familiar lump in his throat, “how are y-“ your take on small talk was interrupted by matt’s sea of emotions,

“i’m so fucking sorry.” he blurted out, “like unbelievably sorry and i know i don’t apologize a lot, way less than i should because fuck, y/n..i’ve been fucking up..so fucking much and i think i was just doing it because..because i dont know? i thought you would never leave?”

your heart twists at his confession, you wanna speak up, to ease his thoughts, heal his wounds. but you can’t not yet, you need to let him speak his mind, to tell you everything.

“a-and i never wanted you to leave because y/n..i do see a future with you! with us! and sure it’s not gonna be a fucking white picket fence and freshly mowed yard life but god damn it-it’s gonna be ours and-and..” matt stumbles on his words, his fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he tries to collect his thoughts.

“y/n. i never ever wanted you to ever fucking think that i was wasting my time with you, okay? because i never was, i never took a single thing for granted because i know that there is nobody on this entire earth that will ever be you.” his voice trembles.

“i love you matt” is all you can breathe out, “im sorry i didn’t say it when i left i was just..i was so hurt and so mad..” your whimpered as you fiddled with the blanket you were covered up with. “it’s okay..” matt whispered. “i love you so much.”

you nod, though he can’t see it, you gulp and clear your throat a bit, “i love you so much too, matt”

and you never forgot, never. you never forgot that you love him.

requested by @adoreyousturniolos

TAGS FOR INTERACTION: @malsmind @oopsiedaisydeer @sturns-mermaid @zenithsturniolo @courta13 @bernardsbendystraws

> I FEEL LIKE THIS IS LOWKEY ASS 😭😭🔫

[pankowcrumbs]

shoelace-obsessed bulldog X Lewis Hamilton (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lewis Hamilton x Reader: Reader is Roscoes nanny and Lewis falls for her.

When I first met Roscoe, he tried to eat my shoelaces.

Not nibble. Not tug. He lunged at them like they’d personally offended him.

“Roscoe!” Lewis barked from across the sleek living room, jogging over. “Mate, she’s not even through the door yet.”

I laughed, bending down to rub behind Roscoe’s ears. “It’s alright. He’s got great taste in footwear.”

Lewis flashed me that smile I’d only ever seen on telly and Instagram. “He’s a menace in loafers. Consider yourself warned.”

And that was how it started. Not with engines revving or champagne showers. Just a shoelace-obsessed bulldog and a man in a hoodie who made my knees a bit weak.

I'd been hired through a luxury pet agency. “Discretion is key,” they told me. “Client confidentiality is a non-negotiable.” So when I saw Lewis Hamilton listed as my next dog-sitting client, I kept cool. I told no one, not even my sister, who'd once cried during one of his podium speeches.

The job was simple: look after Roscoe while Lewis travelled, trained, or occasionally just needed someone to keep him company on busy days. I fed him, walked him, brushed him, administered his supplements, and played fetch in the vast garden while pretending I wasn’t low-key starstruck.

At first, Lewis was hardly around. In and out. Brief hellos. Always polite, always soft-spoken. But then, after a few weeks, something shifted.

He started sticking around a bit longer before heading to meetings. Offering me a cup of tea. Sitting with me and Roscoe in the sun-drenched patio as we watched the dog chase butterflies.

“You’ve got a good energy,” he said one afternoon, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls. “Roscoe’s never this calm with strangers.”

I shrugged, flattered. “Dogs like me. They sense my deeply repressed chaos.”

He laughed. “I doubt there’s anything chaotic about you.”

He had no idea.

The more time we spent together, the more natural it felt. He started asking questions about my childhood, my family, the things I wanted in life. He told me about his parents, his travels, his love for music and fashion and meditation.

One evening, Roscoe had a tummy ache and wouldn’t stop whining. I stayed late, sitting on the kitchen floor beside him with my hand on his belly, whispering gentle things.

Lewis came downstairs in sweatpants and a hoodie, barefoot, and sat next to me without a word. For a while we both just watched Roscoe together.

Then he said softly, “You didn’t have to stay this long.”

“I know,” I said. “But I wanted to.”

He looked at me like he was trying to work out something quietly, then nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “He’s everything to me.”

“I can tell.”

Silence fell again, but not uncomfortably. The kind that felt like something was slowly, gently blooming between us.

It was after a trip that things changed for real.

He returned late at night, suitcase in one hand, sunglasses perched on his head even though the sun had long gone down. I was curled on the sofa, Roscoe snoring beside me. I jumped up when I heard the door.

“You’re back,” I said, a bit breathless.

He dropped his bag and smiled. “Miss me?”

The words hung in the air between us. I laughed nervously, but didn’t answer.

Lewis stepped closer, eyes fixed on mine. “I missed you,” he added quietly.

My stomach flipped. “You mean Roscoe.”

“I mean you.”

I think my heart actually stopped. Like a dramatic soap opera pause.

“I don’t want to make this weird,” he continued, “and if I’m misreading anything, just tell me. But… I like you. Not just because you’re good with him. Not just because you’re kind. But because when I’m around you, I feel calm. Like I can just be myself. And I haven’t felt that in a long time.”

I swallowed. My cheeks were hot. I glanced down at Roscoe, who was obliviously drooling onto a cushion.

“I like you too,” I said. “I thought maybe I was being ridiculous. You’re… well, you’re you.”

He smiled gently. “And you’re you. And I like that.”

That night, we didn’t kiss. We didn’t even hold hands. He just sat beside me on the sofa and leaned his head back, closing his eyes as Roscoe’s snores filled the room.

It was… perfect.

From then on, everything shifted but softly. No grand declarations. No over-the-top gestures.

Just small things.

The way Lewis would wait until I arrived before heading out, even if it meant running late.

The way he started bringing back little things from his travels earrings he saw in Rome that he thought I’d like, a book from Tokyo with a note in the front: “Thought of you.”

The way he started texting me things like “Wish you were here” or “Just saw a golden retriever wearing sunglasses. Not as cute as Roscoe but close.”

And then one night, it just… happened.

I was leaving after a long day. Roscoe had curled up on his massive bed, full from dinner and clearly ready for his tenth nap.

Lewis walked me to the door like he always did. I turned to say goodbye and he kissed me.

Soft. Warm. Hesitant at first. Then certain.

When he pulled back, I was smiling so hard it almost hurt.

“About bloody time,” I whispered.

He laughed, pressing his forehead to mine. “Agreed.”

Dating Lewis was surreal in the way that felt both dreamlike and totally normal.

He still asked if I wanted tea every morning. Still let Roscoe up on the sofa even though we both knew he wasn’t supposed to. But now there were kisses in the kitchen. Whispered goodnights. Texts that made me blush and giggle into pillows.

We kept it private, mostly. For months, no one knew. We didn’t post. We didn’t say anything.

But people started to guess. I’d be spotted walking Roscoe in the paddock. My name would appear in the background of photos. And once, someone caught Lewis watching me with a look on his face like I hung the stars.

“Is it difficult?” I asked him one night, curled up in his lap.

“What?”

“Liking someone like me. Who isn’t in the spotlight. Who doesn’t wear diamonds to breakfast.”

He tucked a curl behind my ear. “You love my dog like he’s your own. You laugh at my worst jokes. And you make me feel grounded in a world where everything moves too fast.”

I blinked back tears.

“I don’t care if you wear diamonds or pyjamas. I care that it’s you.”

Eventually, we went public quietly.

A photo. Just us and Roscoe, sitting on a beach. No captions. No explanation.

The internet went mad, obviously.

But for every tabloid headline, there were ten fans saying things like “She looks at him like he’s home” or “Roscoe approved = we approve.”

We ignored the noise and kept building our life slowly, intentionally.

Holidays together. Sunday mornings with pancakes. Me brushing Roscoe while Lewis tried to sneak him extra food.

Then came my favourite day of all.

My birthday.

He told me to dress warm. That was all.

He drove us out to the countryside. Roscoe was in the back seat, snoozing. We pulled up to a cosy little cottage, fairy lights strung along the porch, the smell of cinnamon and pine in the air.

Inside: a fire, my favourite wine, and a cake shaped like Roscoe’s face.

I turned to him, laughing. “You absolute sap.”

He grinned. “Only for you.”

That night, as we lay in bed with Roscoe snoring at our feet, he took my hand and kissed my knuckles.

“You were the missing piece,” he said.

I looked at him, full of nothing but love.

“And you were hiding behind a bulldog the whole time.”

He laughed. “Best wingman I ever had.”

And I couldn’t help but agree.

Because somehow, in between shoelaces and Sunday walks, I’d found the kind of love people spend their whole lives chasing.

All thanks to a dog named Roscoe.

And the man who adored him.

[supercorpkid]

Who's that girl? It's Jess!

Supergirl. Supercorp. Jess. Lena Luthor x Kara Danvers. Alex Danvers. Esmé Danvers. Sam Arias.

Word count: 4k

Jess flinched. The sound of the door slamming shook the glass in its frame, sharp and final. Whatever that was, it wasn’t just a disagreement. No. That was a fallout. And Jess hadn’t known anything was falling.

Kara stood in front of her, blinking fast, like she could push the tears back. Her eyes weren’t their usual bright blue. They looked clouded, raw, and most definitely wet.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Danvers,” Jess said, scrambling for professionalism and barely finding it. “Miss Luthor can’t see you right now. Maybe another time?”

It was a lie. Obviously. Lena hadn’t said ‘not right now,’ she’d said nothing, just closed the door like she was slamming a vault shut. There was no ‘maybe’ in that.

Kara gave her a smile that hurt to look at. Watery, uneven, nowhere near her eyes. Like a sun being hidden by rainy clouds. “Yeah. Maybe.”

When the elevator doors slid closed, Lena's voice rang on her phone.

“Jess, come in. Now.”

Crisp. Clipped. The kind of tone that meant Lena was either about to deliver a million-dollar idea or emotionally decapitate someone. And judging by the timing, Jess was leaning toward the latter.

She stepped into the office quietly. Lena was at the window, her arms crossed tight, posture like steel. The city lights glittered behind her, all calm and pretty and completely at odds with the tension radiating off her back.

“Yes, Miss Luthor?”

Lena turned. Her face was a mask, perfectly composed, perfectly cold. But Jess had worked for her long enough to know better. That stillness meant something was breaking underneath.

“Make a note,” Lena said, voice low and terrifyingly even. “Kara Danvers is no longer allowed access to this building. At any time. Is that clear?”

Jess’s mouth dropped open before she could stop it. Her brain scrambled. What?

She shut it again quickly, forcing her face back into something professional, but it was already too late. Kara? Not allowed? Ever?

That made no sense. They were always together. Lunch in Lena’s office nearly every day, whispered conversations and shared coffees and—

Oh god. The flowers. The thousands of flowers.

And the CatCo acquisition… Jess had always told herself it was a strategy. Smart move. Expanding influence. But now? Now there's more to it.

Jess blinked. Her brain was spinning, trying to reprocess everything — every lingering glance, every too-long lunch break, every quiet little moment she’d been too busy or too polite to question.

Lena turned back to the window. “Is that understood, Jess?”

Jess swallowed. “Yes, Miss Luthor.”

But her hands were already cold. Her mind wouldn’t stop spiraling.

She started mentally drafting the email to security, fingers twitching with the effort to act normal. But another part of her, the slightly nosey, deeply confused part,  was flipping through years of memories, stitching together a very different version of reality.

She hesitated. Usually she’d ask if Lena needed anything else, but the silence in the room felt dangerous. Lena looked like she might shatter if someone breathed too hard. Jess wanted to say something, anything, maybe even So… did you and Kara break up? But that would’ve been insane. Suicidal, even.

“You’re dismissed.”

Jess nodded. “Alright, Miss Luthor.” and slipped out, shutting the door behind her as quietly as she could.

Back at her desk, Jess stared at the glowing screen in front of her. The email she was about to send felt surreal. Like being told to ban sunlight from the windows.

Kara Danvers: banned from L-Corp.

Lena and Kara were supposed to be constants. Staples of the L-Corp ecosystem. Jess had honestly thought they might outlive the company itself. But now? 

Her fingers froze halfway through the entry.

She remembered the late nights. The flowers that always showed up in Kara's office. The way Lena laughed when Kara was in the room, like the sound had been waiting for her.

God. Had they been dating? Like actually dating? And no one noticed?

It felt like discovering your favorite book had a secret chapter written in invisible ink.

Before she could spiral further into the rabbit hole of accidental queer historical analysis, her intercom buzzed.

“Jess,” Lena’s voice crackled through “Can you come in for a moment?”

Jess stood so fast her chair nearly toppled over. “On my way, Miss Luthor.”

Inside, Lena hadn’t moved much from earlier. But now she had a glass of something amber in her hand. Not enough to be a warning sign, just enough to hint at it.

Jess waited for instructions. Except… none came. Lena turned after a long silence, and when she did, her mask had slipped a fraction.

“She lied to me,” Lena said quietly. 

Jess opened her mouth, then closed it again. This… wasn’t in the assistant handbook.

“I’m sorry,” she offered, incapable of more.

Lena exhaled, slow and tired. “You know what’s ridiculous? I had an entire speech about honesty. I was going to make it very logical, calm. I even practiced it.”

Jess's mouth went dry. This is definitely not my job, she thought, but nodded anyway, as if she had any right to be standing here for this.

“But when I saw her, it just—” Lena broke off, shaking her head like she was shaking something loose. “It didn’t matter. I couldn’t say any of it. I just—slammed the door.” A dry, humorless huff of laughter escaped her. “Real mature.”

Jess’s brain short-circuited. Had Lena Luthor just… opened up to her? Like, actual human emotions kind of opened up?

“Do you want me to…” she began, then trailed off, because she had no idea how that sentence was going to end.

“No,” Lena said, with a wave of her hand. “You’ve done enough. Thank you, Jess.”

Jess gave a professional nod and fled.

Back at her desk, she clutched her mug like it was a flotation device. Her mind screamed: Okay so definitely dating. Or almost dating. Or in love with each other and refusing to admit it, which is basically the same thing except more exhausting.

This was no longer just a Kara-and-Lena problem. This was a national crisis. And she was in the middle of it.

How had she become the reluctant keeper of Lena Luthor’s heartbreak?

She wasn’t just taking notes for work anymore. She was… documenting. Witnessing. Cataloguing the slow unraveling of something she didn’t fully understand but was definitely too close to ignore. The more she thought about it: the late nights, the private lunches, the suspiciously domestic little rituals… the more obvious it all became.

The relationship between Lena Luthor and Kara Danvers wasn’t just significant. It was foundational. Jess had always thought they were some kind of weird workplace gravitational constant.

And now?

Now Lena was heartbreak in heels, Kara looked like she'd been hollowed out from the inside, and Jess was left trying to make sense of the cosmic fallout.

That’s when she started her list — the mental one she couldn’t stop building:

Definitely Dating, Right?? Evidence:

So many dinner plans

Knew each other's coffee order by heart

Baked bribes (plural)

Kara spoke at Lena’s tech conference like it was a wedding toast

Hugs lasted way too long

Lena laughs different when Kara’s in the room

And Kara. The way she’d looked today, like the ache was living right under her skin. Like she’d lost something irreplaceable and was still trying not to show it.

That’s what did it. That’s when Jess decided. She was going to fix this.

She didn’t mean to get this involved. Really.

But there’s only so much dramatic silence, longing stares, and closed office doors a person can take before something in them just… snaps.

So, fine. Maybe she started keeping a little list. Maybe there were steps. Maybe she was going to do everything she could to fix it.

Sue her.

But Operation Get-Kara-And-Lena-Back-Together was officially a go.

Step one: intel gathering. She cornered Kara’s sister in the CatCo lobby with a muffin and her most innocent smile. 

“Totally unrelated,” She began.

"To what? We weren't even talking…”

“If you had to guess who broke the other’s heart, which way would you bet?” 

Alex blinked, visibly weighing the odds that this was a trap.

Jess leaned in. “Think of me as Switzerland. Just with better taste in boots.” 

Alex’s opinions turned out to be too cryptic to log. Jess crossed her off the source list. But maybe Sam would know something. She was Lena’s best friend, after all.

The call was innocuous enough. Something about the L Corp subsidiary Sam was overseeing. And then, halfway through pretending to care about quarterly projections, Jess dropped the question:

“Oh, by the way,” she said, casually, “totally random, but has Lena mentioned anything about, I don’t know, a catastrophic romantic implosion recently? Like, hypothetically?”

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

“Jesus. Did they actually break up?”

Jess sat up straighter. “So you knew something was going on.”

Sam made a noise like she was pinching the bridge of her nose. “Jess. Everyone knew. Esmé made them a macaroni art collage titled ‘My Aunts in Love.’”

Jess slammed her laptop shut. “Why does no one tell me anything?!”

“I assumed you knew. You’re literally their handler.”

Step two: emotional traps, aka weaponized sentimentality.

She dug up an old photo from the office holiday party — Lena looking terrifying (and gorgeous) in a black velvet dress, Kara leaning into her side with a candy cane between her teeth and stars in her eyes. Jess casually slipped it onto Lena’s desk, tucked between two budget reports.

The photo was mysteriously missing the next day.

It wasn’t her fault, she told herself. While knowing, in fact, it was entirely her fault.

The flowers were already scheduled — same as always, every other week. Sure, she could’ve canceled the order. But Lena had been so busy lately. Too busy to notice something small and stupid like…

...flowers.

Jess didn’t see Kara cry. But according to CatCo’s assistant, Kara had torn her office apart trying to find the card.

There wasn’t one this time.

And yeah — she cried when she couldn’t find it.

Step Three: recruitment. 

Or, as she would later call it, the day she accidentally gained a co-conspirator.

"I'm in," Alex said, cornering her by the elevator before Jess had even had a chance to swipe her badge.

Jess blinked. “What?”

“Whatever strategy, sabotage, divine intervention you’ve got going to get those two back together — I’m in. I can't take it anymore. Kara’s been moping around like a kicked puppy for weeks. So... what’s the next step?”

Jess stared at her, half-awake, “Is this… a dream? Am I hallucinating this because of sleep deprivation and romantic rage?”

Alex crossed her arms. “Jess.”

“Oh my God, this is real,” Jess whispered. Then louder: “Okay. Okay, yeah. Welcome to Operation Emotional Whiplash.”

Step Four: use their love for Esmé.

Jess had considered it, briefly. But she figured Alex would never go for it. Surely she wouldn’t let her baby daughter get involved in a scheme to emotionally manipulate two full-grown adults. Right?

Wrong.

When Esmé marched into the office with a crayon drawing titled “Happy Again” and a very specific request that both Kara and Lena be present for the unveiling, Jess realized this wasn’t a solo mission anymore.

This was a movement.

“They both cried,” Esmé reported afterward, entirely unfazed. “Can I have a cookie now?”

Jess gave her three. For bravery.

It was on step five, however, that things got out of hand.

Step Five: go big or—oh my God, am I losing my mind?

It started with a theme. That’s how you knew things had spiraled out of control.

Jess had been brainstorming ways to "accidentally" lure Kara and Lena into the same room without risking another emotional detonation. Something light. Fun. Distracting.

“Maybe… a party?” she said one day, mostly to herself.

But then Alex — sleep-deprived, emotionally unstable, and drunk on too much sisterly guilt — looked up from her phone and said, “What about a carnival?”

That should’ve been the end of it. A throwaway idea. But instead Jess said, “Oh my God. Yes. I know a guy with a popcorn machine.”

One week later, L-Corp's private rooftop was transformed. There was a cotton candy station. String lights and streamers in shimmering SuperCorp color palettes. Esmé had made a sign that said “Lena & Kara’s Fun Time, Attendance Mandatory” with glitter stickers.

No one stopped her.

Alex somehow acquired a miniature ferris wheel. “Don’t ask,” she said, tossing receipts onto Jess’s desk that made her gag audibly.

“Why did you buy a hundred plush space frogs?” Jess asked.

“For atmosphere,” Alex said, visibly unhinged.

It got to the point where Sam had to get involved. Since they were kind of, you know, spending a lot of company money on this.

It was around hour nine of hand-painting the “Super Ring Toss” sign that Jess realized she might have gone too far.

Like, way too far.

There was paint on her sleeves, glitter in her hair, and the faint sound of an air pump inflating a moon bounce in the background. She was pretty sure she’d pulled something carrying a popcorn cart up so many flights of stairs because somebody (her, it was her) forgot to rent the freight elevator.

“This is insane,” she muttered to no one, dropping her paintbrush. “This is absolutely unhinged. I’m Lena's assistant, not their fairy godmother. Or their therapist. Or their… weird matchmaking friend with a craft addiction.”

She looked around at the carnival chaos blooming around her.

Lena was her boss. Technically. No, definitely. And Kara was—well, Kara was supposed to be banned from the building.

And here Jess was. Making a rigged carnival game with her bare hands to force them into the same romantic airspace.

She sat down, right in the middle of the glittery mess. “What am I doing?” 

There was a soft rustling beside her. Esmé plopped down cross-legged, holding a container of heart-shaped stickers. She silently peeled one off and stuck it to Jess’s arm.

“You’re doing amazing,” she said solemnly.

Jess blinked. “Thanks.”

The sticker read #1 Boss Cupid. When did Esmé have time to do that?

And then, before she knew, before she had time to second guess this further— the guests arrived. CatCo employees. L-Corp staff. Sam came in from Metropolis. Brainy and Nia showed up in matching outfits. 

Lena arrived in red. Kara showed up wearing blue. Jess nearly screamed. She didn’t. She swallowed it. Barely.

Soon Esmé was holding up a camera yelling, “Say cheese or I’m telling everyone about that time you fell asleep while babysitting!!” And they actually stood together. For a photo. Neither of them burst into flames.

Jess hid behind the popcorn machine and gripped the counter like it was keeping her tethered to the earth. Alex sidled up beside her, holding a snow cone.

“They’re talking,” Alex said quietly. “Like, actual words. No tragic silences.”

Jess exhaled so hard it came out like a sob. “Oh my god. Do you think it’s working?”

“If it doesn’t, we burn the whole city down and start over.”

“Valid.”

Across the crowd, Kara laughed at something Lena said. Lena didn’t look away. Her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile but failing.

Jess stared at them, heart pounding. “I might actually cry.”

“Don’t,” Alex warned. “It'll make this weird.”

Jess’s eyes flicked around the party. “I’m pretty sure this is already weird.”

As more guests arrived, Jess busied herself with last-minute carnival tasks, but her gaze kept returning to Kara and Lena. They were standing close, laughing, as if their recent conflict had never happened. For the first time since her crazy scheme began, a flicker of hope ignited within her. Maybe, just maybe, her ridiculous plan might actually work.

And then, it happened. Near the balloon animals.

Jess was restocking napkins—because apparently no one else at this fake carnival cared about organization—when she felt a hand catch hers, light and sure.

She turned.

Kara stood there, soft-eyed and shining under the string lights. She didn’t say anything at first, just held Jess’s paint-smudged hand for a second longer than necessary. Then, in the quietest voice, just loud enough to hear over the cotton candy machine, she murmured, “Thank you.”

Jess blinked. “For what?”

Kara's smile was small, knowing, and just a little sad.

Jess tried to shrug. “I mean, technically, this was all Alex’s—”

But Kara had already moved on, slipping back into the crowd, the moment barely a breath.

Jess stared after her, heart hammering. She felt it. That glowing warmth in her chest. Like she’d done something good. Like maybe, just maybe, it had mattered.

And she nearly got away with it. She was this close to slipping out the side exit with her dignity semi-intact when—

“Jess.”

The voice stopped her like a trap snapping shut. She froze, turned slowly—and yep. Lena.

Hands on her hips. Red lipstick slightly smudged. Dangerous glint in her eyes. Standing between Jess and every possible escape route.

“Hi,” Jess said, way too brightly. “Did you enjoy the festivities?”

Lena raised a brow. “You mean the unsolicited rooftop carnival that hijacked my company’s schedule and budget for the week?”

“I would classify it as an interdepartmental morale-boosting social activation event,” Jess offered. “Helps build synergy.”

“Synergy,” Lena repeated flatly.

“Between divisions,” Jess nodded, backing toward the door, “especially with Kara as the head of CatCo—technically—”

“Right,” Lena cut in. “We’ll talk about it. Tomorrow.”

Jess gave her most professional, definitely-not-panicking smile. “Tomorrow? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Step Six: get fired... possibly?

Jess came in early. Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone ever should.

She wasn’t sure if it was the anxiety, the fear of Lena Luthor’s wrath, or the fact that she hadn’t actually slept thanks to the glitter still embedded in her pillowcase. Probably all three. Definitely the glitter.

She sat at her desk like it was a confession booth. Hands folded. Phone off. Soul bared.

At 8:01 AM, Lena’s door opened.

“Jess,” Lena said. Flat. Sharp. And, oh god, wearing her all-black power suit—the firing suit.

Jess stood immediately. “Morning! You look—powerful.”

“Come in.”

Jess followed her into the office like she was walking into a guillotine.

Lena didn’t sit. She turned, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “I was set on firing you yesterday.”

Jess flinched hard. Oh this is gonna be bad.

“But,” Lena continued, pacing slowly behind her desk, “some people came to your rescue.”

Jess blinked. “...People?”

“Alex,” Lena said with a sigh, “told me it was her idea too. Which I kind of believed. Esmé cried, saying it was to make us happy. And Sam—well. Sam called me a ‘romantic coward’ and said I should be thanking you for having more spine than Kara and I combined.”

“Oh, wow.”

Lena fixed her with a look. “Apparently, they are big fans of your meddling work.”

Jess tried not to squirm. “I... appreciate their support?”

“But that doesn’t mean I’m not furious.”

Here it comes, Jess thought. The scathing takedown. The monologue. The legal action.

Lena stepped closer, voice quiet but sharp. “Do you understand how insane it is to throw an unauthorized carnival on a corporate rooftop? How many liability waivers did I have to sign this morning?”

“Alex said we didn't need permits,” Jess offered weakly. “She is the one working for the government, so I—”

“You forged a fake event memo, Jess.”

Jess coughed. “Barely. I always write them anyway. I just… made you sign it.”

“You spent company money on a miniature ferris wheel and a hundred space frogs.”

“For atmosphere,” Jess mumbled.

“And,” Lena continued, eyebrows climbing higher, “you had Esmé write a glitter-covered sign that said ‘Attendance Mandatory by me and Kara. Which was not at all subtle.’”

“Trust me, she came up with that. I just—didn't stop her.”

Lena sighed. Rubbed her temple. Finally, finally sat behind her desk, looking way more tired than Jess had expected.

“I’m your boss,” she said after a long pause. “This—whatever that was—it crossed a lot of lines.”

Jess nodded, swallowing. “I know.”

“You orchestrated an entire operation behind my back. You used a child. Esmé now thinks she's Cupid. With stickers.”

“Her moms were okay with that.”

Lena stared at her.

Jess straightened. “Look, I know I should apologize. And I do. I’m sorry. I got too involved. I shouldn’t have. But—” She hesitated. “You seemed miserable. Kara was definitely miserable. And Esmé kept drawing pictures of the two of you holding hands in front of a rainbow. And I just—”

“You just what?”

Jess’s voice softened. “I just wanted you to be happy.”

The silence stretched. Lena leaned back in her chair, studying her.

“Why?” she said eventually. Quiet.

Jess froze. That wasn’t the question she’d expected. She could’ve handled being yelled at. But ‘why?’ That was… dangerous. That was soft. And Jess had no armor for it today.

“I—” she started, but stopped. 

Why?

Because she’d seen Lena break a picture frame of both of them. Because she’d watched Kara nearly cry her heart out in front of a stranger. Because the two of them had been walking around like broken halves of something whole, and it hurt to look at. That’s why.

But Jess didn’t say any of that. Couldn't. Instead, she offered, “Because! You're the CEO. If you're happy, the employees are happy.”

Lena blinked. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture shifted—just slightly. Her arms uncrossed. Her shoulders dropped.

“Look, Miss Luthor, I'm sorry. I know it’s not my place, and I crossed the line, and I accept whatever comes next. But someone had to do something. And I wasn't alone on it, because everyone else saw how much you two weren't fine. I'm sorry but—I’d do it again.”

There was a long pause. Lena stared at her. And then, with an exhausted sigh, Lena reached into a drawer and pulled out a folder.

Jess braced for termination papers.

Instead, Lena muttered, “We’re moving your office.”

Jess blinked. “Wait—what?”

“You’re being promoted,” Lena said, eyebrow raising. “Effective immediately. You’re now Head of Cross-Departmental Relations.”

“Is… that a real thing?”

“It is now.”

Jess blinked again. “You’re not firing me?”

Lena exhaled slowly, then looked up at her, gaze even. “I probably should. But apparently you’ve wormed your way into everyone’s hearts. Including Kara’s. And Esmé’s. And Sam’s. And even Alex's, somehow. So you’re staying.”

Jess let out a half-hysterical breath. “Okay. Okay. Cool. Promoted!’

“But next time you plan a romantic ambush on my property,” Lena added, “you run it by me. Or I will call security.”

Jess grinned. “Deal.”

She stood, legs slightly wobbly from adrenaline, and backed toward the door.

“Jess?” Lena said just before she reached it.

She turned. “Yeah?”

“…Thank you,” Lena said, quiet. Sincere.

Her heart did something weird in her chest. She nodded once—quickly—afraid she would say something dumb like You’re welcome, Boss, please name your first child after me.

Jess’s heart thudded so hard she was worried Lena might actually hear it. She turned to go—already halfway out the door when—

“Wait,” she said, almost without meaning to. She turned back, voice unsteady. “Did it… work?”

Lena paused. Her expression didn’t change right away. Still cool. Still unreadable. But something in her eyes shifted—softer, maybe. A little lighter.

She looked at her desk. Then back at Jess.

“We talked,” she said, a smile threatening to appear. “Last night.”

Jess held her breath.

Lena gave the smallest nod, like she was still getting used to the idea of opening up to her assistant. “We’re giving each other another chance.”

Jess actually swayed on the spot. Lena didn’t comment on it, which was kind.

So she bit back the thousand squeaky sounds building in her throat and just said, very seriously, “Okay. Okay. That’s… good. That’s very good. I mean, for you. Good for you.”

She bolted.

Lena didn’t stop her. But she was definitely smiling when the door closed.

Step Seven: reunite National City’s most dramatic power couple.

Step Eight: never admit how happy that made her. Not out loud, anyway.

[pittsick]

LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

part one.

summary: The first murder on the Stanford campus makes everyone on edge — and so does the second one. Your roommate, Tashi; and her boys, Art and Patrick (your somewhat friends), are all acting weird after murders keeps going on. They wouldn’t happen to have something to do with this, right? Well, maybe.

cw: 1.6k words. apt scream!au. graphic violence, psychological manipulation, stalking, home invasion, murder/death, toxic/abusive relationships, fear of being watched (paranoia), mental distress, weapon violence, gaslighting, threats.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist .ᐟ @bluestrd, @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @bloodofswans, @jclolz22 (to be added)

You always hated how quiet Stanford got at night.

Even when you pressed your ear to the window, the world was too still—no footsteps on the pavement, no music from the dorms, not even the chirp of a late-night skater down Palm Drive. Just silence, thick and tense, like the breath before a scream.

The first body turned up on a Wednesday.

A sophomore named Harper, found gutted behind the humanities building. Her blood pooled beneath a vending machine, her phone still clutched in one limp hand, a glittery pink case smeared with red. The news spread across campus like wildfire, and for the first time since arriving at Stanford, you didn’t feel safe walking home after dark.

You weren’t alone. People started traveling in groups, locking doors that had always been left open, whispering theories behind cupped hands. Serial killer. Cult. Copycat. Ghostface.

You didn’t want to believe it. Not here. Not in your perfect little bubble of textbooks, tennis courts, and latte art. But then a second body showed up. And a third.

That’s when things got strange between you and Tashi.

She started staying out late—later than usual. You’d wake up in your dorm room, her bed still perfectly made. She wouldn’t answer your texts until morning, blaming late-night study groups or “hookups I didn’t want to talk about.” She never brought anyone back with her, though.

She looked... different too. A little more wired, her eyes brighter. More intense. She’d always been competitive, but now there was a fever in her—like she was playing a game no one else knew about.

You didn’t ask questions.

Because it was Tashi Duncan. Charismatic, brilliant, Stanford tennis royalty. Your best friend. Your roommate. The person who dragged you out of freshman depression with tequila shots and comfort movies. You didn’t ask questions because you didn’t want to hear the answers.

But then she introduced you to Art and Patrick.

And everything started to fall apart.

They were golden, the kind of boys who could ruin your life with a smile. Art Donaldson: all sunshine and soft sweaters, warm hands and eager eyes. Patrick Zweig: elegant, icy, unreadable—the kind of guy who made you feel like prey every time he looked at you.

They weren’t just tennis stars. They were Tashi’s boys.

She pulled them into your orbit like a planet flexing its gravity. And for a while, you thought you were safe there—surrounded by beautiful people who knew how to keep the real world at bay. They flirted with you, sure, but it felt innocent. Maybe even sweet.

Until one night, when Patrick leaned a little too close and whispered, “Do you trust her?” You blinked. “What?”

“Tashi,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Do you trust her?” The way he said it made your blood turn to ice. His tone was playful, but something behind it was sharp. Watching. Waiting.

“Of course I do,” you said too quickly. His smile widened. “Interesting.”

Two more students died the next week.

You didn’t know them personally—just recognized them from lecture halls or parties. One was found in the library bathroom, the other stuffed in a frat house freezer. Both were stabbed. Both had their phone screens shattered, as if they’d tried to call for help.

That night, Art brought you soup.

You opened your door and found him standing there with a thermos and a boyish grin. “You didn’t come to class. Tashi said you weren’t feeling well.” You didn’t remember telling her that.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the thermos down and pulling you into a hug that lasted just a second too long. His warmth lingered on your skin like static.

“Gotta stay strong,” he murmured into your hair. “You never know what’s out there.” You laughed awkwardly. “That’s comforting.” He pulled back and looked at you—really looked at you. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

It should’ve been reassuring. But something in his eyes was wrong.

The first threatening message came a day later. A voicemail. A voice you didn’t recognize—distorted, mechanical.

“You scream real pretty. Wonder if you bleed prettier.”

You dropped your phone, hands shaking. Called campus security. They told you it was probably a prank. They always say that. Tashi didn’t believe it either—until she listened to the voicemail. Her expression went cold. She took your phone and locked it in her drawer. “You don’t need to hear this again.”

“But—”

“No. Let me handle it.” Her voice cracked steel. “I will handle it.”

You should’ve felt grateful. Instead, you felt like a child being tucked away before something bad happened.

You started noticing little things after that.

Your dorm door open when you swore you’d locked it. Your notes rearranged. Shadows under the door at night. One time, you found your toothbrush wet even though you hadn’t touched it that morning.

And through it all, Art and Patrick hovered like twin ghosts—always around, always watching. Art would bring you tea, rub your shoulders, call you “sunshine” in that dumb soft voice. Patrick would corner you in the library and stroke your cheek like you were something precious he hadn’t decided whether to break or protect.

Tashi kept saying, “They’re just trying to help. Let them.”

You tried. God, you tried. But you didn’t know who to trust anymore.

It all came undone at the Halloween party.

The university tried to cancel it, but students are stupid. Invincible. They threw a rager in one of the old lecture halls. Everyone wore masks. Everyone drank too much. It was chaos. You didn’t want to go.

Tashi made you. Said you needed to be “seen” so people knew you weren’t afraid. She dressed you in black lace and blood-red lipstick. Painted a little knife under your eye and called you “Final Girl Chic.”

“Stay close to me,” she whispered. “Promise?” You nodded. You lost her ten minutes in.

The lights were strobing. Music pounding. People grinding on each other like the world wasn’t unraveling outside. You fought your way through the crowd, looking for her, for Art, for Patrick—for anyone. But all you found was the bathroom.

You ducked inside. And that’s when you saw it. Written across the mirror in blood-red lipstick: “You’re next.”

You ran.

You didn’t think, didn’t stop, didn’t breathe. You pushed past bodies and spilled drinks and Halloween screams. You made it outside, lungs burning, heart hammering.

Then someone grabbed your arm. You screamed, but the grip was gentle. “Hey, hey—it’s just me.” Art. Of course it was Art. Always there, like a shadow in the corner of your eye. “I saw you run,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“There was—there’s something in the bathroom,” you gasped. “Someone left a message—” His hand slid to your waist, grounding. “Hey. Look at me.” You did. He smiled. But this time, it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Later that night, someone was murdered again.

In the parking lot. Stabbed thirteen times. Blood pooled under their Ghostface mask like a red halo. You recognized the jacket. It was the guy who danced with Tashi earlier. You confronted her the next day.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore—the paranoia, the fear, the questions. You told her about the lipstick message. The mask. The call. Everything. She listened silently. Then she laughed.

“You think I’m the killer?” she said, tone mocking. “Jesus, you really don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” you whispered. She stepped closer, her face cold. “Maybe you’re just paranoid. Maybe you want to think I’m capable of that because it’s easier than accepting how fucked up the world is.” You stared at her.

And for a second—just a second—you believed her.

Gaslight. Gatekeep. Girlboss.

You almost dropped out.

Packed your things. Wrote an email to your academic advisor. Told yourself you’d leave before Thanksgiving. But the night before you were supposed to go, you found something under your pillow.

A Ghostface mask. Still warm. You didn’t sleep.

The final body broke the campus.

A professor. Strangled. Gutted. Mask shoved down her throat. That was the moment the university shut everything down. Classes canceled. Dorms half-emptied. A curfew no one followed. But you stayed. Because you had to know. Who was doing this? Who had turned your life into a horror movie?

The next attack happened in your dorm.

You came back from the dining hall and found the door open, lights off. You called for Tashi. No answer. Then the closet creaked open. And Ghostface stepped out.

You screamed. Fought. Kicked. Ran.

He chased you down the hall, knife flashing silver. You ducked into the stairwell, took them two at a time, blood thundering in your ears. You burst out into the courtyard—and slammed into Patrick. “Whoa—hey—what’s going on?” He asked; hint of knowledge behind his eyes.

“He’s—he’s upstairs—he tried to kill me!” Patrick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your hand. “Come with me.”

He dragged you into the athletic building lockers, locked the door behind you and smiled. Tashi was already there. So was Art. Waiting. Your breath caught. “What—what is this?” The words escaped your lips like begging; like wanting this to not be real.

Art tilted his head. “Final act.” Tashi pulled something from her bag. A knife. Long. Clean. Familiar. “No,” you whispered. “No, no, no—” Patrick circled behind you. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”

“We kept dropping hints,” Tashi added. “The lipstick. The mask. The voicemail. God, we practically spoon-fed it to you.” Art looked almost sad. “You were supposed to be smarter.”

“Why?” you asked, voice shaking. “Why me?” Tashi stepped closer. Her eyes were wild when she replied — she didn’t see you, she saw more. Something you couldn’t understand. Not yet.

“Because you were there. Watching. Listening. Judging. Always in my shadow. Always so fucking perfect.”

“I loved you,” Art murmured. “We all did. Still do.”

“That’s the fun part,” Patrick said. “This isn’t about hating you.” Tashi smiled. “It’s about making you famous.” You fought. You screamed. You ran. And maybe—just maybe—you lived. But that’s the thing about final girls.

They always bleed first.

[lady-arcane]

The Quiet Kind of Tired :

You meet Nanami Kento on a Tuesday,

which feels exactly right. Tuesdays are the most unremarkable days of the week. Nobody romanticizes a Tuesday. You don’t expect to fall in love on one.

You’re working overtime again, elbows deep in paperwork that means nothing, for people who care even less. He sits across from you in the break room. Neat suit. Tired eyes. He drinks his coffee black, like he’s punishing himself.

You say something cynical. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches. That’s how it starts.

No grand gestures.

Just a quiet understanding between two people too tired to pretend they’re okay.

-----

Dating Nanami is like walking into a room already cleaned.

Everything in its place. Emotion folded tightly into polite responses. He takes you out to dinner every Thursday. He walks you home. He buys you flowers—carnations, not roses. Clean, efficient, not too sentimental.

He doesn’t talk about his past. You don’t ask. You’re both adults. You both understand that talking about certain things doesn’t make them easier.

Still, some nights, when the city is too loud and you’ve had one glass of wine too many, you look at him and think—

I am loving a man who does not know what to do with softness.

And he looks back at you like you’re made of glass he’s trying not to break with his silence.

-----

You love him anyway. Not because it’s easy. But because he never lies to you. Not in words, at least.

He tells the truth in smaller ways. When he takes the side of the bed closest to the door. When he holds your wrist instead of your hand, like it’s easier to let go that way. When he texts, "I’m sorry, I’ll be late tonight,” and you don’t ask why.

Because you know the answer:

He is always late for himself.

---

You don’t realize how tired you’ve become until you stop recognizing your own voice. You speak less. Smile less. You don’t cry—you just compress.

Like your feelings are cargo in a suitcase too small.

Nanami doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he thinks it’s something you need to handle alone. That’s the thing about him—he believes in self-reliance to a fault. As if needing people is something shameful. Something weak.

You once told him you wanted to take care of him.

He said, “That’s not necessary.”

You didn’t offer again.

-----

The silence grows slowly, like water under a door.

You tell your friends he’s “steady.” You tell yourself it’s enough.

But you start watching couples on the train. Not the loud, annoying kind. The quiet ones. The ones who lean their heads together. The ones who speak without speaking.

And you think—I want to be chosen without hesitation.

With Nanami, you are always chosen… responsibly.

-----

One night, you come home early from work. He’s already there, standing in the kitchen in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s slicing something—methodical, perfect. His tie is loosened. His hair slightly messy.

He looks tired. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just… tired in the way people look when they’ve been carrying everything alone for too long.

You drop your bag by the door and say, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t want to burden you,” he says.

There’s no malice in it. No edge.

But God, does it hurt.

You say nothing. Walk to the bathroom. Close the door gently.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder when you started mistaking restraint for kindness.

-----

You dream of him leaving. Not out of cruelty. But out of quiet, inevitable decay.

You dream of growing old beside him and never once hearing him say, “I need you.”

You wake up gasping.

And when you roll over to look at him, he’s still asleep, face turned away from you, hands folded like he’s praying.

-----

You don’t break up. Of course not. That would require a climax, and your relationship is built entirely on anti-climax. You just… let it fray.

There’s no cheating. No screaming. Just unspoken questions hanging like fog in the room.

You start eating dinner separately. You stop saying I miss you because he never said it first.

And he—he grows even quieter. Like he knows you’re drifting, and he’s letting you go in the only way he knows how: respectfully.

You wonder if he thinks that’s love.

-----

One day, he comes home to find you sitting on the floor, reading a book you’ve read before.

He looks at you like he wants to say something. You wait. He doesn’t.

So you say it for him.

“I’m tired, Kento.”

You’re not crying. You’re not shouting.

You’re just stating a fact.

And for the first time, he looks… afraid.

-----

He sits down beside you. Not too close. But not far.

“I never wanted to make you feel alone,” he says.

His voice is low. Honest.

You nod. “I know. But you did.”

There’s a long silence.

Then—

“I didn’t know how else to be.”

And you believe him.

You love him.

But you also know that love is not enough when it has nowhere to land.

-----

You don’t leave that night. You fall asleep on the couch, your back to his.

But something shifts. Not fixed. Just acknowledged.

And sometimes, that’s the beginning of something. Sometimes, it’s the end.

-----

Later—weeks later, maybe months—you’ll walk past a bakery the two of you never went into. And you’ll think about how many moments you both passed up in the name of being sensible.

How many soft things you gave up because he didn’t know what to do with them.

You’ll still love him.

But you’ll also understand: some people were taught that needing is dangerous. That showing pain is failure. That asking for help is weak.

And it is not your job to rewrite that for them.

-----

In the end, you loved a man who refused to be held.

And that is the quietest kind of heartbreak.

The kind that doesn’t end with a scream.

Just a sigh.

-----

[coriihanniee]

I KNEW IT, I KNOW YOU - p.sh ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𓂃۶ৎ PAIRING : high school student!sungho x f!reader 𓂃۶ৎ GENRE(S) : romance, angst, fluff, coming-of-age 𓂃۶ৎ WARNING(S) : emotional repression, major character death, mentions of graves, mild existential themes 𓂃۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 2.6k words 𓂃۶ৎ PLAYLIST : I knew it, I know you - Gracie Abrams

“Come on! It's just a little fun! He's been here for two years and no one's ever seen him smile.”

“Fifty thousand won says you can't get him to fall for you by graduation.” 

“What's the harm in trying? It's not like he has feelings anyway.”

Those were the words your friends spoke, their voices light with the carelessness of those who have never known what it felt like to be truly alone. Their laughter echoed in the school corridor as they nudged you towards accepting the challenge—a simple bet that would irrevocably alter the tapestry of your existence. 

That was how you found yourself walking beside Park Sungho, the silence between you as vast and impenetrable as the night sky.

Sungho moved like a shadow—tall and elegant, yet somehow existing just outside the periphery of everyone's attention. His features seemed carved by marble, high cheekbones that caught the light in ways that made him appear almost otherworldly, dark eyes that revealed nothing of the thoughts behind them, and lips that rarely moved except to answer direct questions from teachers. His uniform was always impeccable, as if disorder could not touch him.

In the weeks since the bet began, you had tried everything. You'd dropped your books near his desk (he'd picked them up without a word), asked for help with calculus problems (he'd solved them efficiently without a single unnecessary explanation), even "accidentally" spilled water on his sleeve (he'd simply dabbed it dry, his expression never changing). You'd left snacks on his desk, written notes about class, and deliberately sat beside him in the library. Each attempt met with the same polite indifference that had earned him his reputation.

Tonight was different. Your study session had run later than usual, the library's fluorescent lights harsh against the gathering darkness outside. He had insisted on walking you home—not from kindness, he'd clarified, but “practical safety concerns given the hour.”

His voice, as always, was devoid of inflection. 

“You know, you could just say you wanted to,” you said, brushing your shoulders against his lightly. 

He didn't look at you. “And lie? That would be off-brand.” 

You snorted, shaking your head. The cool night air felt like a welcome shift from the library’s stale hum.

As you stepped outside, the silence of the night stretched thin between you two, neither of you quite sure if it was the moment to break it.

"Are you always this... detached?" you asked after a pause, trying to mask the curiosity that flickered inside.

"I'm not detached. I just don't... see the need for filler."

You nodded, but your gaze stayed on him, trying to decipher the layers underneath his words. 

The air around you felt suddenly still. You noticed the way the cool breeze picked up, how the faintest scent of something earthy seemed to shift in the air. The weight of the quiet was thicker now, pressing against you both, and you couldn’t help but feel like the world was holding its breath.

You cleared your throat. "It's... kind of eerie out here, isn't it?”

He didn't reply immediately, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his footsteps unhurried. 

“It's always like this when something’s about to change,” he said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “You get the sense the world's bracing itself.” 

You weren't sure what he meant, but before you could ask, there was a subtle brush against your skin. 

You paused, fingers brushing against your cheek as you looked up. The sky had darkened even more, the clouds gathering with a heaviness.

Streetlights diffused into halos of amber light. The rain fell in ever-changing patterns, as if the sky itself were breathing.

Sungho produced an umbrella from his bag—always prepared, always controlled. He held it over you both, the small space forcing you closer together.

“We should hurry—”

Before he could complete his sentence, something within you rebelled against his practicality, against his perpetual retreat from sensation. You stepped away from him and the umbrella's protection, into the full embrace of the rain. 

The water rushed over you with startling intimacy—tracing the contours of your face, seeking the hollow of your throat, threading through your hair until it hung heavy against your neck. Your uniform darkened, clinging to your skin.

 There was something profoundly liberating in this surrender, in becoming one of the elements rather than fighting against them. 

You closed your eyes, feeling droplets catch on your eyelashes before sliding down your cheeks. The rain held no judgement, demanded no performance, expected no victory. In its presence, you could just be. 

You opened your eyes to catch Sungho watching you. His gaze held a careful blankness replaced by a tension you couldn't name. He stood perfectly still beneath his umbrella, a solitary figure bisecting the boundary between chaos and control.

“What are you doing?” His voice only carried genuine bewilderment, as if you were a language he'd never learned to speak.

“Living,” you answered, raising your arms in the sky in a gesture of surrender and celebration. “Just for a moment.” 

“You'll get sick.” His concern was devoid of emotion, but the intensity in his gaze belied his tone. 

"Maybe," you conceded, spinning slowly in place, letting the rain embrace you fully. "But isn't that part of being alive? The risk? The possibility?"

You moved through the rain-drenched street as if it were a ballroom, the puddles your partners in an improvised dance. Water splashed around your ankles, soaked through your shoes, wicked up the hem of your skirt. You felt weightless, boundless, as if the rain had dissolved the barriers between your body and the world.

"Don't you ever wonder what it would be like?" you called to him over the sound of the downpour. "To let go of all that control, just for a moment?”

A shadow of longing flickered across his face, so brief you might have imagined it. “I can't afford to wonder.”

The words hung between you, heavy with implication. Not “I don't wonder”, but “I can't afford to wonder”—as if curiosity itself was a luxury beyond his reach. 

“Everyone can afford one moment,” you replied, moving closer to him, close enough to see the raindrops collecting on the umbrella, falling in rhythmic patterns around him but never touching him. “Even you, Sungho.” 

His knuckles whitened where they gripped the umbrella handle. “This is childish.” 

“Then be childish with me.” You extended his hand towards him, water running in rivulets down your arm. “Just this once.”

“I don't know how.” The admission seemed wrenched from him, raw and unintended. 

 “You don't need to know how. That's the point. You just need to feel.”

He looked at your outstretched hand, as if it were both a temptation and threat. The rain continued to fall, creating a curtain that seemed to separate you both from the rest of the world. 

“Please,” you said softly. “Try.”

Time hung between you, taut and uncertain. He stood motionless, his eyes never leaving yours, knuckles tightening against the umbrella's handle. In his gaze, a war waged between lifelong restraint and newfound longing.  

A heartbeat passed. 

And another.

The universe held its breath.

With deliberate grace—he lowered the umbrella.

The rain claimed him instantly, darkening his hair to ink, streaming down the severe planes of his face. He blinked rapidly as water caught in his eyelashes, ran along the perfect line of his jaw, soaked the shoulders of his uniform. For a moment, he looked affronted, as if the rain had personally betrayed him.

"There," he said, voice tight. "Are you satisfied?"

You weren't. 

Not even close. 

You craved more than this reluctant surrender, this bare minimum. You ached to shatter that perfect composure, to break through the walls he'd built so carefully, brick by brick. You needed—with an intensity that frightened you—to discover if anything human and warm pulsed behind those eyes that reflected everything and revealed nothing.

“Dance with me,” you said impulsively, moving closer.

“I don't dance.”

“Everyone dances. Even if they don't know it yet.”

Before he could protest further, you caught his hand. His skin was cold against yours, like touching a marble statue beginning to warm in the sun. You pulled him gently towards you, feeling the initial resistance in his frame.

“There's no one watching,” you reassured him. “Just the rain.” 

Something shifted in his expression then—a loosening around his eyes, a softening at the corner of his mouth. Not surrendering exactly, but perhaps considering the possibility. You guided his hands to your waist, placed your own on his shoulders, and began to move. 

There was no music except the rain itself. His movements were stiff at first, mechanical, as if he were solving an equation rather than dancing. But gradually, his grip on your waist loosened. His steps lost their rigidity, moving with quiet instinct instead of thought.

You moved together through the rain-silver night, creating patterns in the falling water. The streetlights caught the droplets in his hair, transforming them into a temporary crown. Water ran between your joined hands, cool and intimate.

Perhaps it was the way you stumbled, just barely, on the slick pavement, or how your laugh—genuine, unguarded—rang out, catching him off guard. Perhaps it was how he steadied you with an ease that felt almost foreign to him. Or perhaps it was the sheer weight of the moment: the rain, the quiet, the two of you existing in a space where everything else fell away.

The lines of his face, usually so controlled, began to soften, losing their harshness, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as if pulled by something you couldn’t name. His expression unraveled just enough to reveal the warmth, the quiet tenderness, he’d been hiding. 

A smile. 

Time suspended as you witnessed this revelation. The rain seemed to slow around you as his smile broke through the walls he'd built around himself. Your heart collided against your ribs with such force you gasped—a jagged and exquisite agony that hollowed you from within. 

This wasn't the petty satisfaction of winning a bet, it was far more devastating.

Recognition. 

You knew it, you know him—Not the mask he wore for the world, but the rawness beneath—layered, fragile, and alive. The realization crashed through you like thunder, reverberating in spaces you hadn't known existed within yourself. 

This boy who had moved through life untouched suddenly stood before you utterly exposed, the rain revealing what words never could. 

“Oh,” you breathed, the sound barely audible above the rain.

His smile faltered at your reaction, vulnerability flickering across his face. “What?”

“You should do that more often,” you said, your voice hushed with reverence. 

“Do what?”

“Smile, it suits you.” 

“I haven't had much reason to.”

“We could change that,” you spoke without thinking, driven by an impulse deeper than thought. “I could help you find reasons.” 

His eyes widened at your words. For a second, he didn't speak, just looked at you like he couldn't believe the words that left your lips. His hands tightened on your waist, and you thought—you hoped—he might pull you closer.

Instead, he looked away, loosening his grip around your waist, stepping back into the version of himself the world expected. The space between you cooled, though the warmth of his touch still lingered on your skin. 

You didn’t say anything—you just stood there, a breath caught in your throat, wondering if you'd imagined the shift in him. If the moment had meant as much to him as it did to you.

"We should get you home," he said finally, his voice different now—softer, warmer, as if something had thawed in him. "Before you catch pneumonia."

He retrieved his abandoned umbrella, but didn't open it. Instead, he walked beside you through the rain, allowing it to touch him as it touched you.

At your gate, he paused, raindrops glistening in his hair like stars caught in darkness.

 "Thank you.”

“For what?”

The smile returned, smaller this time, but more genuine than any version of it you'd seen before—unpolished, a little sad, but unguarded.

"For the memory," he murmured, almost as if to himself. "For reminding me what it feels like to want to stay, even just for a night.”

Your heart stuttered, tripping over his words. They landed too softly to be dramatic. You didn’t know what to say. only that you didn’t want the moment to slip away.

"Sungho, I—”

But he was already turning, already walking back into the rain, leaving the words you couldn't say hung in the air, thick and unspoken.

 ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

“But that's impossible! I was with him last night!” 

The pitying looks from your classmates. The concerned touch of your teacher's hand on your shoulder. The gentle way your friends suddenly spoke to you, as if you might shatter.

"Y/N, Sungho died last Saturday night," your teacher had explained gently. "He was walking home in the rain when a car lost control on the wet road.”

Last Saturday night. The same night you had danced in the rain together. The same night he had smiled—that smile. 

The same night he had finally let himself be known.

The memories came flooding back to you—his cold hands, the way he seemed to materialise and vanish without warning, how no one ever acknowledged him when you spoke his name in public. The flickering of streetlights as he passed beneath them. The curious stares you'd receive when you sat alone at “his” desk in the library, speaking softly to an empty chair. 

Now, standing before his grave a week later, you watched as others placed flowers on the fresh earth. White chrysanthemums, proper and formal. 

Nothing like him at all.

You thought of the wild blue delphiniums that grew behind the school greenhouse, the ones he'd pause to study when he thought no one was watching. The ones whose petals he'd once brushed with his fingertip, so gentle it made your heart ache to witness.

You watched them depart—teachers who'd only known him for his perfect grade, classmates who'd whispered about his strangeness, friends who'd pushed you into that fateful bet.

The bet. 

If you had never accepted their challenge, if you had never approached him, never walked home with him that night, never pulled him into the rain... would he still be here? Would he have taken a different route home, missed the car that lost control on the wet road? Would he be sitting in class tomorrow? 

The weight of this possibility crushed against your chest—that in trying to prove he had feelings, you might have inadvertently orchestrated his end.

You knelt as mud seeped into the fabric of your knees. The stone bearing his name was still bright with newness.

How unfair that you'd only glimpsed him in those final moments, in a smile that had lasted seconds but had somehow rearranged everything inside you.

"I saw you," you whispered, your words dissolving into the silence of the cemetery. 

"I knew you.”

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, feeling the sharp edges of engraved letters beneath your fingers. A breath hitched in your throat, catching on the sob you refused to let rise.

He had given you his smile—his first and last real smile—and you would carry it like a treasure, a light against darkness.

You rose slowly, ready to leave, but paused as a sudden breeze lifted the strands of your hair—cool as his fingertips had been against yours. You could almost believe he was there, dancing with you still in the endless rain.

You didn’t turn around. Maybe because you knew if you did, the illusion might shatter. So you simply smiled, and stepped forward into the quiet.

Sometimes, on rainy nights when the streetlights flicker, you still see his smile—hesitant and beautiful—as if he's still watching you dance in the rain, learning to feel again long after his heart had stopped beating.

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

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[kisshae]

            SLOW DIVE ♡ KIM CHAEWON

⸻ fruits of my labour, heart of my home.

you don’t remember when it started—only that it crept in like rain through the cracks. quiet, slow, patient. she looks at you like she’s waiting for something neither of you can say out loud.

&&르세라핌김채원` ୨ৎ 𝑓. reader✷6052WC𓂃𓈒 angst slight fluff non idol au ─── warnings kissing skinship internalized homophobia use of slurs (yes I can reclaim it.. I'm lesbian..)

the first time you see her, she’s standing at the edge of the field. the wind is strong that day—salt-heavy, sweeping over the stone walls and tugging at her dress like it’s trying to take her with it.

she doesn’t move. doesn’t flinch. her hands are tucked behind her back. her eyes fixed on something far off, maybe the sea. maybe nothing at all.

she doesn’t look at you. not then.

but something settled in your chest anyway. like a memory you haven’t lived yet.

jeju is quiet in the spring. the air smells like oranges and seawater, and the earth feels soft beneath your shoes. children run past you with bare feet and loud voices, but their joy never reaches this part of the village—this little pocket of silence where people know how to keep their heads down, to speak in half-whispers.

where girls like chaewon are expected to marry boys they barely know, and where love—if you dare call it that—has to live in glances and silences and nothing more.

later, you’ll wonder if she knew. if she felt it too.

even then.

you try to walk away before she does—before she might turn, before your eyes meet. but your foot clips the edge of something metal and forgotten.

a loud crash. a pail of water tips and spills onto the packed dirt, soaking your shoes. the water glides across the path in thin silver streaks before vanishing into the earth. you freeze. your breath catches. and then, you hear it—her steps. slow, certain.

panicked, you duck behind the nearest stone wall, the kind that lines every corner of the village. you crouch low, heart thudding too loudly in your ears, as if you're a child playing a game you forgot the rules to.

"hello?" her voice is soft, unsure. she's closer now. you can hear the metal scrape as she picks up the empty pail, the water long gone. "is someone there?"

you hold your breath. stones dig into your palms. the air is too still.

then, a shift. chaewon leans over the wall, fingers curled around the edge for balance. her eyes catch yours—wide, curious, not afraid. "...who are you?" there's no accusation in her tone. just surpris. maybe interest. "i've never seen you around before."

you stand too fast. dirt clings to your clothes, your pride even more. "it doesn't matter," you mutter, brushing at your pants like the gesture will erase everything. you turn from her before she can ask anything else and start down the narrow path that winds towards home. your steps are too quick, unsteady.

and then—

your foot catches on a loose rock, your body tilts forward, and before you can stop it, you're falling. the world tilts. your hand scrapes the ground, your cheek catches the edge of something sharp.

pain blooms. warm. thin.

you sit up, dazed. fingers pressed to your face. they come back red.

chaewon is there before you can move again. kneeling beside you. the pail still dangling from her hand. she sets it down and reaches out, her fingers just hovering—not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the question in them.

"you're bleeding," she says softly.

like it matters, like you matter.

you flinch at the sting before you even feel it.

her fingers are light, careful. she's holding a pale yellow handkerchief against your cheek, the cotton already streaked with blood. she presses it there, gently, like she's afraid you might break.

she's too close. you don't know where to look.

her eyes are brown—deep and sharp like wet bark after rain. and she smells like spring. like wildflowers and soap and something softer beneath it all. it's the kind of scent that makes your throat feel tight. make your heart twist with something you don't want to name.

this isn't how it's supposed to feel.

not with a girl.

not like this.

your fingers twitch against your pants. you're too close. too much. you want to pull away, but you can't move, not when her gaze is steady on you. and when she brushes the handkerchief against your cheek again, a soft, breathless motion that sends a shiver you can't stop, you feel heat rise in your chest.

you reach up without thinking. your hands wraps around her wrist—lightly, but firm enough to make her pause. "i'm fine," you say. your voice quiet, but it sounds too loud in the hush between you. "you don't have to.."

you don't finish.

chaewon doesn't move. her wrist rests in your grip, her eyes still on you. there's something unreadable there—not surprise, not concern, something else. something quieter.

"you're bleeding," she says again, like that's reason enough.

you release her wrist. she doesn't move away.

"if you don't clean it properly, it'll get infected," she adds after a moment. and then she stands, smooth and effortless, scooping the empty pail back up by its handle.

you open your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to thank her—but she's already turning, walking back the way she came, steps steady along the dirt path. you sit there in the silence she leaves behind. the soft press of the handkerchief still clinging faintly to your cheek.

the wind brushes against you, light and cool. the sea murmurs below the hill, its voice distant and low. jeju always feels like it's holding its breath—half-asleep, half-listening.

you stare out across the rocks, your hands folded stiffly in your lap. there's nothing else to do. nothing to say. just the slow pulse of your heartbeat in your cheek and the warmth she left behind, lingering like the start of a fever you don't want to name.

you sit for a moment longer, hands still in your lap, the sea whispering just below the rocks. wind threads through your hair, pulling gently at the strands. the handkerchief lies on your knee, pale yellow streaked with red.

her red. your red.

you don't know what to make of it.

she said she'd be right back. she said it like a promise.

you could wait. you probably should.

but your chest feels too tight, like your ribs are curling inward. something hot and sick is blooming behind your throat. it's not the pain. not the sting on your cheek or the scrape on your palms.

it's the way she looked at you.

like she cared.

you shift forward slightly, hands brushing against your knees, and rise to your feet. your legs are a little unsteady, but you don't stop. you don't look back.

the handkerchief slips from your lap and flutters to the dirt. you don't pick it up. you leave it behind.

the path home winds between low stone walls and narrow fields, all quiet and wide in the late afternoon sun. you walk fast, head down, like the wind might carry you off if you don't stay grounded. you cheek throbs with each step.

you press your fingers there. the blood's dried now, tacky against your skin. you should have waited. it would've been smarter. easier.

but you couldn't.

you didn't know what you would've done if she came back and looked at you like that again. like she saw something you were trying so hard to hide.

like she knew.

your fingers curl into fists. you've never been good at letting people close. not like that. not when it starts to feel like something sharp. something dangerous. you reach the edge of the field before the houses start. the wind shifts. you can still smell the sea. and under that, almost like memory: wildflowers. soap. something soft and clean.

you breath in and it catches in your throat.

you keep walking.

it's been weeks since you last saw her.

you thought the feeling would fade—whatever it was that settled in your chest that day, heavy and unsure. it hasn't. not really.

you've kept busy. everyone does, this time of year. there's water to carry, baskets to weave, fires to keep burning. some days you help your grandmother wash the vegetables she brings back from the fields, bent over a wooden basin, hands cold and pruned from the water.

your hands are deep in the water, fingertips pale and pruned. the chill of the basin has long since sunk into your bones. cabbage leaves float like torn cloth, tugged gently by the current of your movements. you try not to let your thoughts drift. but they do.

they always do.

back to her.

your grandmother sits across from you, bent at the waist, pulling weeds from a basket of radishes. her movements are practiced, deliberate, but today there's a slight stiffness to them. a hesitation.

you watch her for a beat before asking, "grandma... do you know the girl who moved here a while ago?"

she doesn't look up. "what girl?"

"chaewon," you say, quietly, like the name might do something if you say it too loud. "I think that's her name."

another pause.

your grandmother's hands still just for a second. then, with a long exhale, she resumes peeling the radishes. "you'd do well to stay away from her," she says.

you blink. "why?"

"because she's one of those."

the words come sharp. clipped. and even though you don't know exactly what they mean, your shoulders tense anyway.

"one of what?"

"girls like that," she says. "quiet. strange. doesn't look boys in the eye. always off by herself. always watching." she doesn't say it with curiosity. it's not wonder or confusion in her voice—it's something colder. thinner. something you've only heard in whispers.

you don't speak. you let the silence press into the cracks.

your grandmother reaches for another radish, then adds, as if it's nothing: "a dyke, they say."

and the word drops like a stone in the basin. you flinch—not because you understand, not entirely. not yet. but because of how she says it. like it's a bruise. like it's a curse. you don't know what the word means in full. not in the way she wants you to understand it. not in the way that's meant to shame.

but it stays with you. it clings to your skin. it echoes somewhere behind your ribs, in that strange part of your chest that still remembers the way chaewon touched you—gently, like you were made of something soft.

and you think: she didn't feel dangerous. she didn't feel wrong.

she felt like spring.

like wildflowers and warm hands and something you didn't have a name for yet. your fingers sink deeper into the basin. your cheeks burn, and not just from the cold.

"don't talk to her again," your grandmother says, voice quiet now. final.

you nod. not because you agree.

but because you don't trust your voice to stay steady.

the basin ripples with your movement. one of the leaves slips beneath the surface and disappears. and all you can think about is how her hand had cupped your cheek. how she didn't flinch when she touched you.

the rest of the day moves like fog.

you help bring in the drying herbs. sweep the floor of the storehouse. tie bundles of rice straw with tired fingers. everything smells like sun and soil, but it all feels dull—like the air's gone too thick to breathe properly.

you don't say anything, not even when someone asks if you're feeling alright. you just nod. smile, even. but it doesn't quite reach.

you eat dinner in silence, the soup going cold in your bowl. your grandmother hums softly as she folds napkins beside you. it's like nothing happened. like those words didn't stick to the roof of your mouth like ash.

and when the stars come out and the air cools, you don't go to bed.

you walk.

the path by cliffs is quieter at night. the wind tastes like salt, and it pulls at your sleeves like it's known you've been keeping something in. the moon hangs heavy above the sea, stretched wide over the waves like a secret. and you keep walking, boots dragging along the dirt, heart pulling you toward something you won't name.

you don't mean to look for her.

you don't.

but you round the bend past the shrine tree, and there she is. far off. just a glimpse. like something the island's conjured up on its own.

chaewon.

she's by the water, standing barefoot on the rocks with her shoes tucked neatly beside her. her white skirt flutters with the breeze. her arms are loose at her sides, fingers brushing the air like she's feeling for something she can't see.

you freeze. your breath catches. you're too far to call out, and even if you weren't, you wouldn't know what to say. not after everything.

not after that word.

not after how your heart had twisted when she touched you.

so you just stand there.

watching her.

and you don’t understand why your chest aches the way it does. or why the sight of her—so still, so quiet, so there—makes your throat burn.

you should turn around. you know that.

but your feet don’t move.

she steps forward, just slightly, like she’s testing the tide with her toes. and for a second you wonder if she knows you're watching. if she can feel it. the way your gaze keeps catching on the curve of her spine, the way her shoulders rise and fall like she’s sighing through her whole body.

and you think: maybe she’s lonely too.

you should walk away. you know you should. your grandmother's voice still lingers like smoke in your lungs—don't talk to her again—sharp and bitter, something final tucked beneath her breath.

but chaewon turns around, when her eyes catch yours through the blue dusk, the whole island goes still. she raises her hand in a soft, slow wave. like it's the most natural thing in the world. like she knew you'd be here.

and for a moment, you hesitate. your feet rooted in place, heart tangled between guilt and want. the sea crashes behind her in a steady rhythm, and it sounds like it's calling you closer.

you take a step. then another.

and before you can think better of it, you're standing beside her, close enough to see the wind tugging at the loose strands of her hair, the curve of her cheek lit by moonlight.

she turns her head towards you. her expression is unreadable, soft around the edges. "didn't think anyone else came out here this late."

you swallow. "I was just...strolling."

she lifts a brow. "strolling?"

“mm.” you nod, eyes flicking out to the ocean—anywhere but her. “just needed some air.”

chaewon doesn’t say anything right away. she just tilts her head, studying you. and then— “you were watching me.”

you blink. “what—no, i wasn’t—”

“you were,” she says, voice light, almost amused. “i felt it. before i even saw you.”

heat crawls up the back of your neck, your hand already reaching to rub at the skin there like that’ll ground you somehow. “i wasn’t watching you,” you lie, and it’s a bad one. “i was watching the sea.”

chaewon hums. “must be a very captivating sea, then.”

you risk a glance at her. she’s not smiling exactly, but there’s a curve to her lips that feels dangerous anyway. the kind of look that makes your chest ache. the kind that unravels something slow and tender inside you.

“you always this jumpy?” she asks, gently nudging your elbow with hers.

“only when i’m being accused of stalking strangers by the ocean,” you mumble, which makes her laugh—soft and real and sudden.

you don’t know what to do with that sound. so you tuck your hands into your sleeves and look back out at the horizon, heart knocking against your ribs like it wants to escape.

chaewon lets the quiet settle again. the wind brushes past both of you, smelling like salt and memory. and even with the whole island between you and home, this moment feels closer than anything has in weeks.

finally, she says, “you left pretty fast last time.”

your breath hitches. “you were bleeding,” she adds, “and then you weren’t there.”

you don’t know what to say. you think of the way your fingers had curled around her wrist. the look on her face when you said you didn’t need help. how she’d come back for you and found nothing but an empty wall and a stain on a handkerchief.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, because it’s the only thing you can give.

she nods, slowly. “you don’t have to be.”

but you are. for running. for feeling. for wanting her in a world that told you not to.

she looks over at you again, and this time her gaze is softer. searching. “does your cheek still hurt?”

you touch the spot without thinking, fingers ghosting over the place where her hand had been. it’s healed, mostly. but it’s not the wound that aches anymore.

“no,” you say. “not really.”

and she just nods again, eyes drifting out to the water, like she’s letting you keep your quiet. like she already understands the parts of you that you’re too afraid to name.

the two of you fall quiet again. not the kind of silence that begs to be broken—but the kind that stretches. holds.

the sea roars below, steady and endless, but it fades beneath the thrum of your pulse, the heat of her shoulder a breath away from brushing yours. and when you glanced sideways, you catch the way the wind lifts a strand of her hair, sweeping it across her cheek.

without thinking, your hand twitches—like you might tuck it back for her.

you stop yourself. you dig your nails in your palms and look away. "this place feels different at night," you say, just to say something. anything. "lonelier."

chaewon hums beside you, like she knows what you mean. "sometimes I like the quiet," she says. "it makes things easier."

"easier?"

she nods, eyes still fixed on the dark line of the sea. "when it's quiet, people leave you alone. they stop asking things they don't really want the answers to."

you don't say anything to that. because you understand. you understand more than you want to.

"they talk about you, you know." you say before you can stop yourself. "the others."

chaewon doesn't flinch. her mouth just presses into a line. "I know."

you bite your lips, feeling suddenly cold despite the breeze. "they don't know anything."

she turns to you, really looks at you. "do you?"

the question stuns you. it's not accusatory—it's quiet, careful. like she's offering you a way out, if you want. but you don't take it. you can't.

"no," you say, voice soft. "I think I'm still trying to figure it out."

chaewon nods. doesn't push. just lifts her eyes back to the sea, the wind picking up around you both again. "I don't mind if you don't talk to me," she says after a beat. "if that's what they want. I won't take it personal."

your throat tightens. "but I want to."

the words fall before you can catch them, soft and breaking. and she turns to you again, slowly—like she's trying to see past everything you're not saying. you can't hold her gaze. not for long. but when she nudges your shoulder this time, it's gentler. like a promise.

"then stay." she says.

just that. simple.

you don't move. not yet. but your throat feels tight again, and your heart is stammering in your chest.

you clear your throat. "you—shouldn't say things like that."

chaewon lifts an eyebrow. "like what?"

"like that." you gesture vaguely, not trusting yourself to look at her. you turn your face toward the wind instead, hoping it might cool the heat rising under your skin. "people might get the wrong idea."

there's a pause. just for a second. then she exhales, a soft laugh tucked into it. "or maybe the right one," she murmurs.

you glance at her, startled. she's already walking, stepping towards the edge of the rocky shore. the water glints in the fading light—silver and deep and cold.

“what are you doing?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

she glances over her shoulder, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “getting in.”

“it’s freezing. you’ll get sick.”

“so?” she wades in a little deeper, letting the water lap against her calves. “it’s only cold if you think about it.”

you scoff, but it’s half-hearted. “that’s not how it works.”

chaewon turns fully then, water swirling around her legs, hair dampened slightly by the mist. she smiles at you—something teasing and quiet and too beautiful for how your chest is aching.

“come on,” she says, holding a hand out toward you. “just for a minute.”

you shake your head. “i’m not like you.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

you bite the inside of your cheek. everything. it means everything, and nothing you can say out loud.

instead, you just mutter, “i don’t belong here.”

chaewon doesn’t move. doesn’t drop her hand. “neither do i,” she says. “but that’s not always a bad thing.”

the wind gusts again, lifting your hair, tugging at your sleeves. her hand is still there. still waiting.

and for a moment, just a moment—you want to take it.

you almost do.

but then you think of your grandmother’s voice. the way she wouldn’t say the word but meant it all the same. she’s one of those.

you take a step back instead. not far, just enough.

chaewon doesn’t say anything this time. just drops her hand and turns back to the sea.

she doesn't wait for you to answer.

one moment, she's standing in the sea—water lapping around her knees, wind pulling at her shirt, eyes glinting in that almost-dusk-light—and the next, she's coming back around toward you, steps splashing and certain.

"what—chaewon," you start, already stepping back, "I said no—"

but she's grinning now, something wild and soft in the corners of her mouth. "come on," she says again, like she didn't hear you, or maybe just doesn't care. "just live a little."

"you're going to get me in trouble," you say, voice sharp but breathless.

"you're already in trouble," she replies, reaching for you.

you don't get the chance to step away. not really. she catches your wrist and tugs, and suddenly you're stumbling forward, feet slipping on wet rock, shoes half-sinking into the sand—everything off-balance and dizzy and real.

the water is cold, sharp as glass where it touches your skin, soaking through the hem of your pants as you wade in, but her hand is still wrapped around yours, grounding you, holding you steady.

you laugh. you don't mean to.

it's startled, breathless, the kind that bubbles out before you can stop it—and chaewon's smile breaks wide when she hears it.

"see?" she says, tugging you a little deeper. the water's at your thighs now, salt clinging to your skin. "not so bad."

"you're crazy.' you mutter, but it's without bite. you're still holding her hand.

chaewon shrugs, eyes catching yours again. "maybe."

the two of you just stand there for a moment—waves swaying around your legs, the sky going darker, the air thick with the smell of seaweed and something warmer beneath it. her fingers tighten slightly around yours, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you she's there.

you should let go. you know you should. but your hand doesn't move. and neither does hers.

"I haven't seen you around lately," she says, voice softer now.

"i've been busy."

"avoiding me?"

you look down. the water swirls around your knees. your shoes are ruined, and your heart is loud in your chest.

"no," you lie.

she hums. not like she believes you. but she doesn't push.

"you looked cold." she says instead, brushing a strand of hair from your face with her free hand. the touch is gentle, almost reverent. "now you're freezing."

"thanks to you."

"you needed it." chaewon's smile slips a little, turns quieter. "you're always so tense. like you're scared of yourself."

that makes you stiffen. your fingers twitch against hers—but you still don't pull away.

"you don't know anything about me."

"maybe not." she glances out toward the open water, where the waves curl soft against the rocks. "but you're still here."

your breath catches. because she's right.

you are.

standing in ankle-deep in cold sea foam with her hand in yours and your heart in your throat and nothing makes sense, not really—but it's the freest you've felt in a long time.

maybe ever.

chaewon doesn't say anything else. she just lets the silence hold. and even when you finally let your hand slip from hers, even when you turn toward the shore again, something lingers. salt, warmth, the ghost of her fingers brushing yours.

something you're still too afraid to name.

it's late afternoon, and the heat hasn't let up.

the sun hangs low but heavy, turning the air syrupy. the cicadas have been screaming for hours, and even the breeze has gone still. everything feels so slow, sweat-drenched, endless.

you and chaewon sit on the wooden steps just outside her house—shoulder-to-shoulder, legs side by side, your knees barely not touching. the popsicles drip down your fingers faster than you can eat them. hers is lime. yours is strawberry.

neither of you is really talking.

the cicadas fill the silence. so do the birds. so does your heartbeat.

your shirt clings to your back. the back of your neck is damp. you can feel the warmth of her thigh brushing yours every time she shifts, just slightly, like she's trying not to move too much. and still—still—you feel it.

chaewon brings her popsicle to her lips again, and when her tongue flicks against it, slow and absentminded, your throat goes dry. “hot,” she mutters eventually, licking a bead of melted juice off her wrist. “think i’m melting.”

you nod, eyes trained on the red stain creeping toward your own knuckles. “you get used to it,” you murmur. “summer’s worse.”

“i like summer.”

“why?”

she shrugs, that same easy kind of smile tugging at her mouth. “i like things that feel like they’ll never end.”

you glance at her then, and immediately wish you hadn’t. her skin glows under the sunlight—bronzed, freckled, a little dewy—and her eyes are on the sky now, squinting just slightly. like she’s not saying what she really means.

you swallow. your popsicle drips onto your skirt. you don't wipe it away.

"people talk too much in the summer," you say quietly. "they get restless. say things they shouldn't."

chaewon's gaze flicks to you, but she doesn't say anything right away. just lets the silence stretch again. lets it simmer. and when she finally speaks, it's barely a whisper.

"do you think they're right?" you don't ask who she means.

you already know.

you keep your eyes on the dirt path in front of you. you don't trust yourself to look at her. "I think people are scared of what they don't understand," you say. "and they call that wrong."

she hums. "what if it's not wrong?"

you don't answer. you can't.

not when the world feels like a burn on your tongue. not when your grandmother's voice still echoes in your ears. not when chaewon's arm is brushing yours and your whole body is humming with it.

you finish your popsicle. toss the stick into the bushes.

chaewon doesn't move.

"you're quiet again," she says after a while.

"I don't know what to say."

"you never do."

that should sting. but it doesn't. not coming from her. not when her voice is still soft. not when she's still sitting beside you like this—close enough to touch, close enough to ruin you. the cicadas scream louder. a bird calls out somewhere in the trees. and you wish, not for the first time, that you were someone braver.

you don’t realize how long it’s been since either of you spoke until chaewon shifts beside you, the wooden step creaking beneath her. you glance over, and her face is already turned toward you, eyes soft, unreadable.

her hand brushes against yours—the one you’d left resting behind you for balance. just a touch. barely there.

but it sends a pulse up your arm, hot and startling.

you go still. you can’t help it.

“can i…” her voice trails off before she finishes the question. but she doesn’t have to.

you know what she’s asking. she’s closer now. and it’s all over her face.

that question you’ve been too scared to ask yourself. that possibility you’ve buried, over and over again. and yet— here it is.

you stare at her. then, slowly—so slowly—you nod.

she doesn’t move right away. just looks at you like she’s waiting for the earth to split open beneath you both. when it doesn’t, she leans in. her hand grazes your cheek first—gentle, trembling—and then her lips are on yours.

it’s soft. almost too soft.

like she’s still afraid you’ll pull away. like she’s still afraid you’ll break.

you freeze—not because you don’t want it. not because it’s wrong. but because your body doesn’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness. not from a girl. not like this.

and still—

her lips taste like lime. like sugar. like summer, sweet and dizzying and too much all at once.

you feel the gloss she reapplied earlier, sticky-soft against your mouth. her hand is cradling the back of your neck now, steady, sure. like she’s trying to make it okay. like she wants this to be okay.

you don’t remember when you closed your eyes. you just know that, when the kiss deepens, you’re still there.

still kissing her back.

still chasing the warmth of her lips and the way she breathes into the space between you. still pretending—for just a second—that this could be simple.

when she finally pulls away, your heart’s still beating in your throat. chaewon doesn’t say anything. just rests her forehead against yours, breath caught in the space between you both.

you don’t say anything either. you can’t. because whatever just happened—it’s cracked something open. and you don’t know if you’re ready to look at it yet.

chaewon's breath hitches in her throat just before your lips meet again, and this—you're not scared. this time, you lean in fully, almost hungrily, drawn to her warmth like you've never been before. she tastes like lime again, but it's different now—deeper, softer. her fingers curl at the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if she's trying to hold you in this moment forever.

just as your lips press together, something sharp stabs through the air—footsteps. heavy. fast. angry.

chaewon tense, pulling back in an instant, her eyes wide, confused. and before you can even open your mouth to explain—your grandmother's there.

you freeze.

her gaze locks on you both, eyes hard and fierce like a storm waiting to break. the wind seems to stop, the world slowing down in that dreadful moment.

you don’t even have time to react before she’s storming toward you—her hands like iron on your arm, pulling you away from chaewon as though you were nothing more than a doll she was yanking around.

“what is this?” her voice is sharp, demanding. it’s not a question—it’s an accusation.

you stand frozen, caught between the warmth of chaewon’s touch and the suffocating grip of your grandmother’s. your throat goes dry. your pulse pounds in your ears. you feel your heartbeat in your fingertips and your knees. and you want to speak, to explain—but your voice feels locked in place.

chaewon’s face falls. you can’t look at her.

your grandmother pulls you further away, forcing you to walk backward. her grip on your arm doesn’t loosen, and every step feels like she’s dragging you away from something you can’t even name.

“answer me!” she snaps, her voice shaking with fury. “did she force you into this? did she make you—touch her like that? did she—”

“no,” you whisper, the word slipping out without thinking, like a lie that’s meant to numb you. “no… she didn’t.”

chaewon’s eyes are wide with hurt, confusion—betrayal. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand it, but you keep nodding. keep lying.

no—she didn’t force me. but this is the lie that’ll keep us safe.

"you're not okay," your grandmother growls, her voice low and furious now. "she’s no good for you. you’re not to see her again. do you understand?"

chaewon’s lips part as if she wants to say something. but the words don’t come.

she doesn’t speak. she just watches you, standing behind the wooden gates of her house.

and it hurts. hurts in a way that makes you dizzy.

you want to look at her. you want to apologize. you want to scream that it’s not her fault. that she never did anything wrong. but instead, you keep your gaze fixed on the dirt path ahead, barely able to breathe through the lump in your throat.

“you’re not going back there,” your grandmother continues, her grip never once loosening. “not to that girl.”

you nod again. again. because that’s the only thing you can do.

chaewon doesn’t fight it. she doesn’t try to follow. she doesn’t call after you. but you can feel her eyes burning into your back as you’re pulled further down the path.

and you don’t know how to make sense of any of it.

the first snow falls quietly.

thin at first—just dust on the rooftops and the rocks—but it thickens as the wind picks up. the village is quiet now. quieter than usual. it's a kind of silence that makes every sound louder than it is. your boots crunch on the frozen dirt path as you walk, arms pulled close to your body, scarf pulled up to your nose. the cold stings at your cheeks. your breath fogs in front of you.

you hadn't meant to walk this way. you tell yourself that every time.

but your feet always know where to go. even after all these months.

chaewon’s house sits at the top of the hill still—except it isn’t hers anymore.

the gate is left open, swinging with the breeze. the windows are shuttered, the porch swept clean. nothing lingers of her. not the pale blue blanket she used to hang out to dry. not the little pots of wildflowers. not her laugh echoing off the stone.

just the house.

just the memory of her.

you stop at the gate, hands buried deep in your coat pockets. your eyes linger on the steps where you sat beside her, shoulder to shoulder. where she kissed you with lime on her lips. where you let her believe you didn’t want her at all.

you can still hear her voice sometimes. “then stay.” like it had been so simple. like the world would’ve let you.

the guilt twists somewhere low in your stomach, slow and familiar. it hasn’t gone away. it probably never will.

you don’t know where she went.

you’d heard whispers—that her family left for seoul. that they couldn’t stay here. not after everything. not after you.

your grandmother never spoke of her again. and you never asked. you don’t know what you would even say if you saw her again. sorry doesn’t feel like enough. it never did. you take a step back from the gate.

snow begins to collect in the creases of the stone wall beside you. this was the first place you saw her. the first place she looked at you like she knew.

and now it’s just empty.

your fingers curl into fists in your pockets. your breath hitches, just once. then you turn. you keep walking. you don’t look back. but god—you wish she hadn’t left.

you wish you had said something. anything. held her hand a little tighter. kissed her like you meant it. let yourself stay.

but you didn't. and now winter has taken her place. your footsteps fade into the snow, slow and steady. the cold bites at your skin, but you don't flinch. not this time. you keep walking, one foot after the other, like that will make you forget.

you never said goodbye. maybe that's why it still hurts.

maybe it always will.

[jessiso]

"Let's pretend (we're not falling)"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Spencer Reid asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for a family wedding, but the line between fake and real begins to blur. Between slow dances, sleepy confessions, and soft smiles, something real quietly blooms.

cw: mild language, emotional vulnerability, light romantic jealousy, kissing and cuddling, fake dating, VERY FLUFFY.

w/c 4,812

(Longest one I've written yet - I could've kept going but felt like this was ENOUGH fluff for one fic!!)

...

You’re halfway through alphabetizing your bookshelf—again—when your phone buzzes with a name that always makes your heart skip: Spencer Reid.

"Hey, I know this is weird, but...would you be willing to pretend to be my girlfriend for a weekend?"

You freeze, a half-shelved copy of Pride and Prejudice in your hand. “I’m sorry—what?”

"Okay, so it sounds worse than it is," he rushes on, his voice tumbling over itself like he's tripping on his own thoughts. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Everyone’s going to be asking questions about my love life, and I may have...kind of already told them I have a girlfriend."

You blink. “You did what?”

"I panicked," he admits, and you can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting like they do when he’s nervous. "My mom kept asking, and it just slipped out. And then everyone was excited and asking when they could meet her, and—I didn’t want to disappoint them. I know it’s ridiculous."

You walk over to the couch and sit down, phone pressed closer to your ear. “So... your brilliant solution was to invent a girlfriend?”

"Technically, I didn’t invent you. I just… repurposed you. Temporarily," he says, and you can almost hear him wince at his own phrasing.

“Wow. I feel so honored,” you say dryly, but there's a smile creeping into your voice.

"No—I mean, you were the first person I thought of. You’re smart, charming, and we already spend time together. I figured if anyone could pull it off without making it weird, it’d be you."

Your heart does a little skip. “So this is your version of a compliment?”

"I think you’re amazing,” he says quietly, more sincere now. “But if this is too much or just weird or uncomfortable, I understand. I shouldn't have asked you like this.”

You let the silence stretch for just a moment, savoring the warmth in your chest. Then:

“Spencer,” you interrupt gently, smiling. “I’ll do it.”

He exhales in visible relief, and even over the phone, you can feel the warmth behind his "thank you."

"You’re sure? There’s a hotel room involved. And dancing. And my extended family. They’re a lot."

“Positive,” you say. “I’ve always wanted to go to a wedding where I can fake a romance with a handsome genius. Besides, it’ll be fun.”

He chuckles softly. “You might regret saying yes when my Aunt Patty corners you about astrology.”

“I can handle Aunt Patty,” you say confidently. “Just promise you won’t leave me alone with the bouquet toss.”

"Deal," he says.

You hear the smile in his voice, and it lingers in your chest long after the call ends.

...

Spencer picks you up in his vintage Volvo, nervously fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater.

His hair is a little messy in the way you like best, and there’s a stack of books in the backseat, including The Evolution of Marriage in Sociology and A Beginner’s Guide to Wedding Etiquette.

“You studied for this?” you tease, climbing in with your overnight bag.

He shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I just wanted to make sure I knew what to expect. Statistically, weddings can trigger heightened emotions due to social pressure, alcohol, and romantic ambiance.”

You laugh. “So you're emotionally bracing for impact?”

He glances at you, sheepish. “A little. I also wanted to be the best fake boyfriend possible.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you, Dr. Reid.” You smile and buckle in.

The drive begins with your usual easy banter, but quickly shifts into something more comfortable.

Spencer starts reciting facts about the towns you pass through, pointing out obscure historical landmarks like he’s hosting his own nerdy podcast. You playfully correct him once, and he lights up.

“You’ve been paying attention when I ramble,” he says, sounding genuinely touched.

“Of course I do. It’s one of my favorite sounds,” you admit before you can stop yourself. The car goes quiet for a beat too long.

“Really?” he asks softly.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. It’s kind of like background music. But smarter.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you notice the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

A little while later, he turns on a podcast about penguin mating rituals. “I thought this might be thematically appropriate.”

“Because of the wedding?”

“Because some penguin species mate for life. I thought it was... sweet.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

Eventually, the road hum and soft voice of the podcast lull you to sleep.

Your head drifts until it finds his shoulder, and he stiffens only for a moment before relaxing.

When you wake up, your cheek still pressed to him, you find his hand resting gently on your knee.

“You were snoring softly,” he says with a smile, his voice low. “It was cute.”

You flush and stretch, not moving away. “You let me sleep on you?”

He shrugs. “You looked comfortable. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your heart does a soft, silly somersault.

You look out the window and smile. “This fake boyfriend thing? You’re already really good at it.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah. I might be in trouble."

You glance over at him, catching the way his fingers tighten just slightly on the steering wheel.

“In trouble how?” you ask, voice light, testing the waters.

He swallows, eyes flicking from the road to you, then back again. “Just… starting to realize how easy it is to pretend. Too easy, maybe.”

You don’t respond right away. The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s soft, brimming with something unspoken. The kind of silence that only exists between people who are on the edge of something new.

Spencer clears his throat. “Also, your head is surprisingly heavy for someone so… not heavy.”

You snort. “Did you just call me dense?”

“I said surprisingly heavy. That’s different. Scientifically.”

You hum, mock-pensive. “I should’ve known you’d insult me with science.”

He smiles again—small and fond. “I wouldn’t dare. You’re very aerodynamic. Perfect for shoulder naps.”

You both laugh, and it breaks the tension just enough to breathe again.

The sun dips lower as the car winds through golden hills and quiet towns.

At one point, Spencer reaches across the center console and gently adjusts the blanket you'd haphazardly thrown over your lap earlier. His fingers brush your thigh, featherlight.

He doesn’t pull away immediately.

You turn your head, and for a heartbeat, you both just look at each other.

It’s not dramatic.

It's not a movie moment with music swelling.

It’s quiet.

Still.

But you feel it settle somewhere deep and certain.

You smile at him. “We’re gonna pull this off.”

He nods, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think we already are.”

...

The inn Spencer’s family reserved is charming in a way that feels almost too picturesque—wooden beams, soft lighting, flower boxes under every window.

It smells faintly of lavender and old books when you walk in, which feels on brand for a Reid wedding weekend.

Spencer checks in at the front desk while you take in the lobby, smiling at the framed photos of local landmarks and antique clock that ticks loudly in the silence.

The woman at the counter—Nancy, according to her name tag—hands Spencer one keycard and a warm grin. “We’ve got you both all set. Room 203, queen bed, garden view. Breakfast starts at seven, and congratulations, by the way!”

You blink. “Congratulations?”

Nancy winks. “You make a lovely couple. I hope the wedding goes beautifully.”

Spencer doesn’t respond—he just nods, thanks her politely, and practically power-walks you toward the elevator.

When the doors close, you look at him. “So… queen bed?”

He winces. “Apparently my cousin booked everything through a family rate package. She assumed we’d want one room since we’re…” he clears his throat, “a couple.”

You cross your arms, amused. “She really committed to the bit for us.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” he blurts, eyes wide. “I mean, or the chair, or—do hotel bathtubs count as beds if you’re desperate enough?”

You laugh. “Spencer. Relax. It’s just a bed.”

He hesitates, glancing at you sidelong.

"Right. Of course. Just a bed.”

The room is cute—floral wallpaper, a vintage desk, and yes, a single queen bed neatly made with a pale blue comforter. One bed. Right in the middle. No pullout couch in sight.

You drop your bag near the closet and sit on the edge of the mattress. “At least it’s fluffy.”

Spencer stands awkwardly by the window like he's unsure whether to sit, pace, or teleport out of the room.

You pat the other side of the bed. “C’mon. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

He walks over slowly, toeing off his shoes before sitting beside you, careful not to shift the mattress too much. “I know. I just… didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You glance at him, softer now. “Spence, you’ve read me bedtime stories when I couldn’t sleep, and once accidentally bought us a matching pair of Star Wars pajamas. I think we’re past ‘uncomfortable.’”

He smiles at that, eyes crinkling. “I forgot about the pajama incident.”

“I haven’t,” you tease. “Mine had little Ewoks.”

His voice is warm when he says, “You looked really cute in them.”

You both go quiet again.

Outside, the sun is dipping low, casting soft gold shadows across the room. It feels like you’re caught in a moment that doesn’t quite know what it wants to be yet—more than friends, but not quite labeled.

Not yet.

Finally, Spencer lies back carefully, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m just saying, if I roll over and accidentally elbow you in my sleep, it’s nothing personal.”

You slide under the comforter beside him, settling in with a little smile. “Noted. And if I steal all the blankets, you’re allowed to steal them back.”

He glances at you, eyes fond. “Deal.”

For a while, you both lie there in the dimming light, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

And even though the room only has one bed, somehow, it feels like just enough.

The room is dark now, save for the warm glow of the bedside lamp Spencer insisted on leaving on “in case you need to get up and don’t want to stub your toe,” which you’d teased him about affectionately.

You’re both lying in the bed, backs to each other at first—an unspoken, awkward little agreement made after brushing teeth side by side and pretending not to notice how close your shoulders were.

But now, a few long minutes later, Spencer shifts, and so do you, until you’re facing one another in the soft hush of the room.

“Are you warm enough?” he whispers.

You nod. “Mhm. You?”

“I think so.” He pauses. “The comforter is a little thin. But the proximity to another human increases shared body heat by at least three degrees.”

You smirk. “Was that your way of asking to cuddle?”

His eyes go wide. “No! I mean—unless—was it? I didn’t mean to. Unless you wanted to. Not that I’m assuming you do. Just, thermoregulation and all—”

You reach over and gently tug the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Spencer. Come here.”

He hesitates, but then scoots a little closer, tentative and sweet. You meet him halfway, curling into his side, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slipping around you like it was always meant to be there.

His heart is beating faster than usual. You can feel it against your cheek.

“You’re a very good fake boyfriend,” you murmur, letting your eyes close.

You feel him smile into your hair. “Thanks. I’ve been studying.”

You let out a sleepy laugh. “I can tell.”

Silence settles again—safe, content. His fingers gently trace circles against your back, slow and absent-minded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

After a long while, just as you’re about to drift off, you hear him whisper:

“You smell like the lavender shampoo you always use.”

You hum. “You notice that?”

“Always.” He pauses, voice quieter now. “I notice a lot of things when it comes to you.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, but before you can say anything back, his breathing shifts, slowing into the steady rhythm of sleep.

You don’t move. You just smile, curling in closer, and let the feeling carry you gently into dreams.

You wake to soft light filtering through the gauzy curtains and the distant sound of birdsong.

For a moment, you’re not quite sure where you are—everything feels too warm, too still, too perfect.

And then you shift, only slightly, and realize there’s an arm wrapped around your waist.

Spencer.

His hand is resting on your hip, fingers curled just enough to anchor you there against him.

Your back is pressed to his chest, your legs tangled under the covers, your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces.

He’s still asleep, breath slow and warm at the back of your neck. You can feel it each time he exhales, like a secret.

You should move.

You should, except… you really, really don’t want to.

Instead, you let your eyes flutter closed again, and for a few minutes more, you simply exist in the comfort of it.

The quiet, the softness, the way his presence fits so easily into the morning.

Eventually, you feel him stir behind you.

His fingers twitch slightly against your side before he freezes, like he's just realized where he is and what he’s doing.

“…Good morning,” he says, voice husky and sleep-rough.

“Morning,” you whisper back, smiling into the pillow.

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts just enough to get more comfortable. You hear him exhale, like he’s been holding his breath since waking.

“I didn’t mean to—uh—sprawl,” he says, sounding adorably apologetic.

“You didn’t sprawl,” you say gently. “You snuggled. It was nice.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You think I snuggled?”

“You absolutely snuggled.”

“…Did I snore?”

You laugh. “Not even a little. Though you did mumble something about echidnas.”

He groans quietly. “Great.”

“I thought it was cute.”

You turn slightly so you can look at him.

His hair is a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and his cheek is creased from the pillow.

He’s never looked more endearing.

He gazes at you for a long, quiet second.

"This is going to sound strange, but… waking up with you felt really natural.”

Your smile softens. “It didn’t feel fake.”

“No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”

He reaches up, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear like it’s something he’s always done. His fingertips linger for just a moment too long.

You lean into his touch without thinking.

The knock at the door—his cousin announcing brunch downstairs—startles you both out of the moment.

But even as you untangle yourselves and climb reluctantly out of bed, the feeling lingers.

Something has shifted.

You both know it.

And maybe… maybe you don’t mind one bit.

...

The dining room smells like fresh cinnamon rolls and sunshine.

Golden light spills through wide windows, catching dust motes in the air and warming the linen-covered tables already cluttered with carafes of orange juice and scattered cutlery.

It's loud—but in that cozy, familial way that makes it feel like every voice has a place.

You and Spencer step in together, freshly dressed.

His sweater vest is just slightly crooked, and he’s fussing with his sleeves again—a telltale sign he’s nervous. You reach over and smooth the hem with a casual familiarity that catches even you off guard.

“Better?” you murmur.

He blinks down at you, nodding like you just saved his life. “Infinitely.”

His cousin—a woman with a messy bun, lipstick on her teeth, and an air of authority like she runs every group chat—waves from the far end of the room.

“Spencer! There you are! And this must be the famous girlfriend!”

A chorus of greetings follows. Chairs scrape. Someone makes room by scooting down with a dramatic sigh. You squeeze Spencer’s hand once before letting go and sliding into the empty seat next to him.

"Welcome to the chaos,” he murmurs, looking like he wants to sink into the floor and disappear.

You smile warmly. “Chaos is charming.”

"Spoken like someone who's never seen my family at a wedding."

Introductions come fast—half the table seems to be named either Julie or Dave, and every person seems determined to quiz you about how you met Spencer, what he’s like outside of the BAU, and most importantly, whether he’s always been “such a little know-it-all.”

“I heard he could recite Pi to, like, a thousand digits when he was eight,” one cousin says around a bite of blueberry pancake.

“I’m not that bad,” Spencer mutters, clearly mortified. “Just 1,022 digits.”

You bite back a grin and casually lace your fingers with his under the table.

His posture straightens immediately, his head turning to glance at you in soft surprise.

“Come on,” you tease gently. “It’s kind of impressive.”

“It’s kind of terrifying,” someone else says. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Spencer says automatically, but you can see the pink rising in his cheeks.

Later, the toddler brigade shows up—small children with juice mustaches and suspiciously sticky hands.

One of them, a wide-eyed girl with pigtails and a glittery dress, marches straight over to your side of the table.

She climbs into your lap like it’s her birthright and points an accusatory finger at Spencer.

“You! Tell me all your favorite dinosaurs. Right now.”

He blinks, startled. “All of them?”

“Just five. But the best five.”

Without missing a beat, he rattles off, “Deinonychus, Parasaurolophus, Therizinosaurus, Diplodocus, and Quetzalcoatlus.”

The little girl gasps. “The flying one?”

He nods. “Largest known pterosaur. Wingspan over thirty feet.”

She stares at him, awe-struck. “You’re like a real-life museum.”

You lean toward her and whisper loudly, “He even does the museum voice.”

“I do not—”

“He does!” you interrupt gleefully. “Give us your best ‘Welcome to the Natural History Exhibit’ voice.”

Spencer groans but plays along, deepening his tone with mock-solemnity. “Welcome to the Hall of Mesozoic Life, where the past comes roaring back to life.”

Laughter bubbles around the table. One of the uncles claps. The toddler claps. You beam.

Later, after she’s wandered off in search of more syrup, Spencer leans in close, eyes sparkling.

“You're really good with kids.”

You shrug, heart thudding a little. “You're really good with facts.”

“I didn’t mean that as a joke,” he says quietly, gaze lingering. “You just… fit in. Better than I ever expected.”

You try to breathe past the warmth blooming in your chest. “I like seeing this side of you.”

“What side?”

“This… soft, sweet, occasionally flustered side. And the dinosaur trivia doesn’t hurt.”

He ducks his head, hiding his smile in his teacup.

Halfway through brunch, a spontaneous toast begins—someone stands and clinks a fork against their mimosa glass, calling for “a round of love stories.”

“Oh no,” Spencer whispers, squeezing your hand.

“What?”

“It’s a tradition. Everyone shares how they met their partners. Every single couple. I didn’t think we’d get called on.”

You grin. “Guess we’d better improvise.”

When it’s your turn, you straighten your posture and beam at the table.

“We met in the library,” you begin, and Spencer exhales slowly beside you, relieved. “I was trying to reach a book on the top shelf—The Psychology of Collective Memory, if anyone cares.”

“She called me tall and intimidating,” Spencer adds dutifully.

“You were looming,” you say, teasing.

“She thought I worked there,” he says.

“You had a name tag!”

He leans closer, his smile lazy and warm now. “You asked me out a week later.”

You look at him, surprised—but nod. “I did. Best impulsive decision of my life.”

The table collectively awws. Someone mutters, “Get a room,” and someone else offers to officiate if “things escalate before the ceremony.”

Spencer’s hand is still in yours under the table.

His thumb strokes across your skin, soft and slow.

There’s something very real about it now—too warm to be performance, too natural to be coincidence.

And when the toast ends and you lean into his side just a little, he lets you. Quietly, easily. Like he was always waiting for the chance.

After brunch, as the family begins to scatter and the kids start racing up and down the hallway with napkins on their heads like superhero capes, you and Spencer hang back at the table.

He looks over at you, shy and fond. “Thank you for doing this.”

You bump your shoulder gently against his. “I’m kind of having fun.”

“I keep forgetting it’s not real,” he says quietly.

You meet his eyes. “Same.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his family and the leftover smell of syrup and orange juice, you realize—pretending doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

It feels like something you don’t want to let go of.

The pre-wedding reception is held outside, under strings of golden fairy lights and the soft hum of a hired jazz trio.

Everything smells like lilac and freshly mown grass.

Tables are scattered across the lawn, twinkle lights woven through centerpieces of wildflowers and white roses.

You and Spencer arrive just as the sun dips low on the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. He's beside you, freshly changed into a deep navy blazer and that soft, nervous smile he wears like armor.

“You look beautiful,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You glance over, heart doing that ridiculous flutter it’s been doing all weekend. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Dr. Reid.”

His ears flush pink. You nudge him playfully with your shoulder.

The two of you are barely through your first round of canapés when Spencer is whisked away by an aunt determined to introduce him to someone she swears is a cousin but might actually just be her neighbor.

You’re left alone, sipping your drink, watching kids chase bubbles near the dance floor.

That’s when he appears.

Ryan. Spencer’s second cousin. Or third? You can’t remember. He’s charming, golden-tanned, and clearly two drinks in.

He plucks a champagne flute from a tray and slides into the seat beside you with a grin that’s just shy of too confident.

“So… you’re the famous fake girlfriend.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He smirks. “I figured. No way a guy like Spencer pulls someone like you without divine intervention. Or bribery.”

You stiffen. “Well, I guess miracles happen.”

“I’m just saying,” Ryan continues, leaning a little too close, “if this whole thing is just for show, maybe you’d want some… real company later?”

Before you can respond—or throw your drink in his face—a familiar voice interrupts, quiet but sharp.

“She’s already in real company.”

Spencer’s back.

He’s standing just behind Ryan, eyes unreadable but jaw tight. His hand finds yours instantly, fingers lacing through yours with more certainty than you’ve felt all weekend.

Ryan laughs, holding up his hands. “Hey, man. No offense. Just thought she might want some actual fun.”

Spencer tilts his head slightly. “Fun, statistically speaking, often involves mutual interest. And consent.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Ryan mutters something and slinks off toward the bar.

You turn to Spencer, surprised, but he’s still holding your hand, thumb brushing across your skin in slow, grounding strokes.

“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah. Thank you. That was very… chivalrous of you.”

He shifts, a little embarrassed now. “I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”

“You didn’t have to come to my rescue, you know.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

Something flickers between you—warm and full of questions you’re not ready to ask yet. The music shifts to something slower, something sweeter.

And before you can overthink it, Spencer gently tugs your hand. “Dance with me?”

You let him lead you onto the grass, where a few couples sway under the fairy lights.

His arms slide around you, one hand settling at your waist, the other cradling your hand against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder, “if you keep doing things like that, I might actually fall for you.”

His breath catches, but when he answers, it’s soft, honest.

“…Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

The music plays on. The stars blink to life above you. And in his arms, nothing feels fake anymore.

...

The wedding ends in a blur of dancing, laughter, and sparklers flickering in the night air.

By the time you and Spencer stumble back into your shared room, shoes in hand and cheeks still flushed from spinning each other around the dance floor, the inn is quiet.

Only the muffled sound of someone giggling down the hall reminds you the night hasn’t quite ended for everyone.

Spencer sets your shoes by the door like they’re made of glass, then shrugs off his jacket, looking content and sleep-soft in his white button-down and loosened tie.

“That was…” you start.

“A lot?” he finishes, smiling gently.

You laugh. “I was going to say beautiful.”

He turns toward you, face lit only by the lamp you flicked on by the bed. “Yeah. It really was.”

There’s a pause. A warm, quiet kind.

“I cried during the vows,” he admits suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know,” you say with a fond smile. “I noticed. You were blinking really hard and pretending to adjust your tie every five seconds.”

He groans. “I was trying to be subtle!”

“You were about as subtle as a fire alarm,” you tease, walking over to him and gently fixing the part of his tie that’s askew. “But it was cute.”

His gaze finds yours and doesn’t let go.

“I guess weddings are just… a lot for me,” he says softly. “So much love in one place. It’s overwhelming.”

You nod, fingers still at the knot of his tie. “In a good way?”

He hesitates. “In a way that makes me wish I had that. For real.”

The quiet between you deepens. Thickens.

You look up at him, your hands slipping from his tie to rest lightly on his chest.

“Spence…”

He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he’s debating whether or not to say the next words.

But when he opens them again, there’s only honesty there.

“I thought pretending to be with you would be harder,” he whispers. “But it’s not. It’s easier than pretending not to want this all the time.”

Your breath catches.

“I know we said it was fake,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper now. “But every time I looked at you tonight—laughing with my cousins, dancing with me, kissing my cheek when my aunt got too nosy—I kept forgetting we were pretending.”

You feel the words sink into your chest, warm and weightless at once.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you say, quiet but certain.

His eyes widen just a little. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head, stepping closer.

“I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted to slow dance with you. I wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up and do it all again tomorrow.”

Spencer looks stunned—like someone just gave him a map to a place he never thought he’d reach.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You mean it?”

“I do,” you whisper.

He lets out a breath—half laugh, half relief—and leans his forehead against yours.

“I’m kind of in love with you,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. Or maybe a lot.”

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. “That’s good. Because I’m kind of in love with you too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes shining, smile soft and disbelieving.

Then he cups your cheek like you’re something fragile and precious and presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You melt.

The two of you change into your pajamas in a haze of quiet giggles and stolen glances.

When you finally crawl into bed—your bed, not just the one assigned to two fake lovers—you curl up beside him without hesitation.

His arms wrap around you instantly. Like he’s meant to be there. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

“You know,” you murmur as your fingers trace lazy shapes on his chest, “this fake relationship really took a turn.”

He laughs, a sleepy, golden sound. “Best plot twist of my life.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, your hand in his, the weight of every unsaid thing now lifted.

And in the quiet warmth of that shared bed, everything finally feels real.

[sqgeism]

anaxa and phainon with a reader who has nightmares? :c (i havent slept in a week plz help me ╯︿╰)

hru doing btw? i hope ure good <3

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬 | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

love mail — hi anonnie!! thank u for the request, and yes i'm doing well ♡ ≡(＞。＜) i genuinely miss my colors sk bad... writing this in a bus since i wanna finish up some requests! hope you're alright anonnie :( hugs n kisses ! i hope u sleep good soon MUWAH

i don't think anaxa gets nightmares often, but he knows you do. actually, you got one on the very first night you two began sleeping together.. queue a somewhat panicked anaxa who is unsure how to help.

now that you two have lived together for a while, he's been trying to find different ways to help. big or small gestures, whatever stops your trembling form and shaky breaths.

one night, while you sleep in and anaxa stays up late in his lab — his usual silence is changed by a knock on the door, attention shifting from his research to something more important; the pretty little thing at his door. "it's bothering you again?" he doesn't even hesitate, turning his chair around as you throw yourself into his lap, curling against him to fit nicely as anaxa sighs. not of annoyance, far from, just.. worry. "i'm here if you need me. must it be words of comfort, or just a shoulder to lean on, i'm here."

hands that he's believed were unloveable slowly rub against your back, and in this moment anaxa can only think; they are safe here. it isn't exactly a statement, no, he's processing it. you find comfort in the shell of the person he once was, when he believed that no one could love him for who he was. yet you're here, seeking his warmth, his existence. to hide away from the nightmares that eat at you.

anaxa's research is forgotten, he doesn't mind. he'll be there for as long as you need him.

waking up panting and afraid sets something off in mydei, and he's just as fast to get up as you are. he turns on the bedside lamp and gently cups your face, guiding you to look at him and ground you back into the moment. you're not in a nightmare, you're home. you're with him, as you should be. unlike the terrors that rob you of peaceful slumber, you're with the embodiment of assurance.

slowly, carefully, he rubs your cheeks with his thumbs and shushes you softly. "you're here," he mumbles, kissing your temple in a way that lingers. "nothing can hurt you. not when i'm at your side, i'll sooner burn the bridges between life and death than let something hurt you.

if you fall back asleep quickly, he cuddles you as the big spoon and whispers comforting scenarios for you. hoping it'll trick your mind (the only form of manipulation he'll do) and give you sweet dreams instead. his firm, warm arms keeping you safe and quick to wake you if you start fussing again.

if not, and you seem to be too shaken to fall asleep, he'll help you do things you love to calm you down. tracing his markings, asking him questions or stories of his life, and his personal favorite.. letting him kiss all his favorite parts of you. honestly, just an excuse to lavish you in affection, but he's glad it helps. it soothes the silent battles of his mind, after all.

phainon's probably the most lighthearted of the three, when you jolt up from the initial nightmare, he's already holding your hand and letting you squeeze him as tight as you need it. sometimes, he lets out a fake wince so you snap out of it for a second out of concern, he takes that opportunity to compose himself and tease you about being a worrywart. he notices you frown, but begin to smile as he brings your hand to his lips — kissing your knuckles as he offers an ear to listen.

should you choose to talk about your terrors, phainon takes your words seriously and sincerely. he rests on your lap, or the other way around, and you play with each others hair depending on how it's positioned. (you like how soft his hair is, it kind of looks like cotton candy..) he listens to you and comforts you with little words of affection. "i'm so sorry, i'm here for you", "that's horrible. but you're here now, alright? i love you." and something along the lines of; "nothing will ever happen as long as i'm here, okay? i'll make sure of it."

if you don't, either too tired or just don't want to talk about it, phainon tries to make you laugh instead. embarrassing tales of his adventures, stupid jokes, even showing you saved videos on his phone. little things that he's noticed help you greatly.

and when you finally yawn, and he knows his job is done, he lets you lay on top of him and 'cages' you there. listening to the heart that beats for you as you drift off again, a reminder that you'll never be alone when you wake up, because you know you'll always have someone waiting for you.

[mandiemegatron]

𝕭𝖆𝖉 𝕭𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 [𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝕿𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌]

𝖭𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌. 𝖨𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗁 𝖣𝗈𝖿𝗅𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖱𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 13 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖮𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗌. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌. 𝖵𝗂𝖾𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗂𝖼, 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖡𝖺𝖽 𝖡𝗅𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖡𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖣𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖳𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗒 𝖱𝗈𝖾 𝖪𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺.

Shock. 

Pure shock, immediately ravaged over by rage and a tinge of fear. Sweat gathers over an intricately plucked brow, though it never falls.  

“You're supposed to be dead.” 

Silence was the answer, as it always was, even so long ago. Fury only rose higher in Doflamingo's chest at it. 

“You forget, I know you can speak.” The words were spat out like poison, betrayal and irritation laced in every vowel. 

“...”

ᵂᵉ ʷᵉʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘⁿᵍ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈʳᶦⁿᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵃʳᵏ

ᵀʰᵉʳᵉ ʷᵃˢ ⁿᵒʷʰᵉʳᵉ ᵉˡˢᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵍᵒ

ᴬⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ˢᵃᶦᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ʰᵃᵈ ᵐʸ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ

ᴼʰ, ᵇᵘᵗ ʰᵒʷ ʷᵉʳᵉ ʷᵉ ᵗᵒ ᵏⁿᵒʷˀ

A tight string streaks across thin air and strikes the near spitting image of himself, just as a resounding BANG echos. The string embeds itself through the others left shoulder, only to disappear moments later. 

Doflamingo looks down as agony rips through his torso. A large hand covers over a slowly seeping wound just under his ribcage, barely missing his heart.

ᵀʰᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉˢᵉ ᵃʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵇᶦⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ

ᵀᵒᵍᵉᵗʰᵉʳ, ᶠᵒʳᵉᵛᵉʳ

ᴬⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵉˢᵉ ˡᶦᵗᵗˡᵉ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ᵈᵉᶠᶦⁿᵉ ʸᵒᵘ

ᶠᵒʳᵉᵛᵉʳ, ᶠᵒʳᵉᵛᵉʳ

Doflamingo winces slightly, frowning as his strings refuse to thread the wound shut. His eyes flicker from his wound to his once dead brother not ten feet away, holding a gun that looked all too familiar, now resting in a steady hand this time. 

A lit cigarette sat between painted lips, black sunglasses covering those same markings that he'd always paint, with that same deep purple feathered coat covering broad shoulders - though now broader than they used to be all those years ago. 

Doflamingo smirked to himself, keeping his hand pressed against the wound as he decides to try a different approach.

ᴬˡˡ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵈ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ʰᵉʳᵉ

ᵂᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ᶦᵗ ᵈʳʸˀ

ᴵᵗ'ˢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᶜᵒˡᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵉᵃʳˢ

ᵂᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ᶦᵗ ˡᶦᵉˀ

“You've grown into a fine man, little brother.” 

“...”

Irritation flares inside Doflamingo again at the continued silence. He goes to snark a biting remark when the prodigal son finally opens his mouth, cutting off the Heavenly Demon.

“And you've continued to grow ugly, older brother.”

Doflamingo's smirk widens into a playful grin, unable to bite back the chuckle of remembering such simple sibling badgering. It had been too long, he'd almost forgotten how quick witted his clumsy brother was. 

“Still snappy as ever, Rosinante.”

The gun in Rosinante's hand still smoked, a warning that a second shot wasn't far behind if Doflamingo didn't behave.

ᴵᶠ ʷᵉ'ʳᵉ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᵉᵛᵉʳ ˡᵒᵒᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵇᵃᶜᵏ

ᵂᵉ ʷᶦˡˡ ᵈʳᶦᵛᵉ ᵒᵘʳˢᵉˡᵛᵉˢ ᶦⁿˢᵃⁿᵉ

ᴬˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈˢʰᶦᵖ ᵍᵒᵉˢ, ʳᵉˢᵉⁿᵗᵐᵉⁿᵗ ᵍʳᵒʷˢ

ᵂᵉ ʷᶦˡˡ ʷᵃˡᵏ ᵒᵘʳ ᵈᶦᶠᶠᵉʳᵉⁿᵗ ʷᵃʸˢ

“Come now, brother mine! Must you hold that thing in my face-”

Another shot echoes out, this one whizzing right past Doflamingo's sunglasses and cheek, cutting a thin line across a high cheek bone that immediately oozed red.

“What was it you said?” Questioned Rosinante, as his thumb pulled back the small mechanism for a third shot to ring out at any time he wished. “There's no way you can shoot me, you are too much like Father…?”

Doflamingo grits his teeth, both from the gunshot and unbridled rage. He hissed back, 

“Clearly you've outgrown your cowardly ways.” 

Rosinante huffs, a slight look of disbelief washing over his features as he asks, “Is that so?” 

ᴮᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ᵃʳᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᵈᵃʸˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵇᶦⁿᵈ ᵘˢ

ᵀᵒᵍᵉᵗʰᵉʳ, ᶠᵒʳᵉᵛᵉʳ

ᴬⁿᵈ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ˡᶦ��ᵗˡᵉ ᵗʰᶦⁿᵍˢ ᵈᵉᶠᶦⁿᵉ ᵘˢ

ᶠᵒʳᵉᵛᵉʳ, ᶠᵒʳᵉᵛᵉʳ

Sticky warmth seeps through Doflamingo's long, lithe fingers. “Sea stone bullets, brother?” He muses darkly, somehow both unimpressed and proud of the sneaky move. 

“I've been keeping a close eye on you all these years, Doflamingo.” Rosinante lowers his sunglasses just enough that his eyes show, dark circles under his bottom lashes showing how many nights he went without sleep, knowing his brother was still out there causing chaos. He raises them back up as Doflamingo sputters out a low, mirthless chuckle.

“A shame I couldn't do the same for you, considering I thought you were dead,” the Heavenly Demon spat in return, digging a finger into the gunshot and feeling around for the bullet. He grunts as his fingertip just brushes against it. 

“A shame?! You were the one to fill my chest full of lead! Or have you forgotten that in your years of slaughtering the innocent?” 

The gun shakes slightly as the ferocity in Rosinante's voice raises. 

“You shot me then left me for dead! A shame?! The only shame was my own, not having the strength to do what I'm going to do now.” 

ᴬˡˡ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵈ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ʰᵉʳᵉ

ᵂᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ᶦᵗ ᵈʳʸˀ

ᴵᵗ'ˢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᶜᵒˡᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵉᵃʳˢ

ᵂᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ᶦᵗ ˡᶦᵉˀ

A chill runs down Doflamingo's back at those words, his brow furrowing in mock curiosity as he comments in a thick voice, “Revenge, eh? A disgusting look for you, Rosi.” 

BANG.

Doflamingo grunts again, feeling a second bullet enter his chest the same way his own had sunk into Rosinante's. Coughing up a decent amount of blood, Doflamingo roars out, 

“You are a ghost! You are dead, and the dead cannot take from the living. The dead cannot tell lies, the dead cannot bring peace, the dead cannot change their mistakes-” 

BANG.

Doflamingo falls back as a third bullet hits his navel, a through and through this time. His blood stains the gravel under him, even as he tries to shuffle his massive form backwards, long arms and legs tangled in the now soaked pink feathered coat he treasured. 

ᴵ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ʰᵉᵃʳ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵃᵈ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ᵃⁿʸᵐᵒʳᵉ

ᴵ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʰᵉᵃʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵃˡᵏ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᶦᵗ ᵃⁿʸᵐᵒʳᵉ, ᵒʰ

ᴵ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ʰᵉᵃʳ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵃᵈ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ᵃⁿʸᵐᵒʳᵉ

ᴵ ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʷᵃⁿⁿᵃ ʰᵉᵃʳ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵃˡᵏ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᶦᵗ ᵃⁿʸᵐᵒʳᵉ

“Brother, don't do this-” 

BANG.

Another harsh cough splatters Doflamingo's wounded chest with his own blood, a pained grimace overtaking the irritated and snarky look under those rose tinted glasses. 

Panic truly began to settle into Doflamingo's bones, his fingers frantically trying to tie the wounds shut to no avail. He gave a pathetic shout of rage, biting back angry tears as he demanded once more, 

“You can't do this! I am the Heavenly Demon, and you are fucking dead!” 

ᴬˡˡ ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵇᵃᵈ ᵇˡᵒᵒᵈ ʰᵉʳᵉ

ᵂᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ᶦᵗ ᵈʳʸˀ

ᴵᵗ'ˢ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᶜᵒˡᵈ ᶠᵒʳ ʸᵉᵃʳˢ

ᵂᵒⁿ'ᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵉᵗ ᶦᵗ ˡᶦᵉˀ

Rosinante kneels on his brother's chest and shoves the gun to his forehead, pulling back the mechanism again with a faint click. Doflamingo's whole body freezes as Rosinante remarks ever so gently, 

“And yet, you're the one rotting in jail. See you again soon, brother.”

BANG.

With a shout, Doflamingo hits cold cement. His large body smacks the floor with utmost disgrace, tangled in chains and his own limbs, bleary eyes trying to make out surroundings only for a deep-seated agony to rip through his bones and muscle like a hot knife through butter. 

Tricked? By his own mind? Nightmares flashing through his brain as if he were a child frightened by a lightning storm. 

“Must you make so much noise, Doflamingo?”

The Heavenly Demon sneers through his jail bars at Tsuru, who stands with arms crossed and an unimpressed expression across her tired face. 

“Calling out for your murdered brother will not help you,” she comments in a matter-of-fact tone, sighing deeply as she adds, “Or have you forgotten that you yourself killed him?” 

Doflamingo remains silent, sitting up and resting his aching back against the cold stone of his cell with a hand covering his chest where he swore he'd been shot. 

Right where that final shot hit Rosinante. 

“...”

Tsuru simply sighs again, shaking her head and walking away from Doflamingo's cell. “Back to bed, Donquixote. No more shouting for dead relatives.”

The second the main door shut, Doflamingo cradles his head in his other hand, ignoring the stinging ache in his eyes as he blinks back angry tears. 

“Still miserable and uptight as always, isn't she?” 

ᶠᵉᵉˡ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵒʳᵐˢ ᵉᵃᵗᶦⁿᵍ ʰᵒˡᵉˢ ᵗʰʳᵒᵘᵍʰ ᵐʸ ᵐᶦⁿᵈ

ᴸᶦᵍʰᵗ ʳᵉᵍʳᵉᵗˢ ᵗʰᵃᵗ’ˡˡ ᵏᶦˡˡ ᵐᵉ ᶦⁿ ᵗᶦᵐᵉ

ᵂᵃˡᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵇᵃᶜᵏʷᵃʳᵈˢ ᶦˢ ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ᵃ ᵍᵘᵉˢˢ

ᴰᶦˢᵗᵃⁿᵗ ᶠᵃᶜᵉˢ ᵇᵘʳⁿ ʰᵒˡᵉˢ ᶦⁿ ᵐʸ ᶜʰᵉˢᵗ

Doflamingo freezes as a familiar voice echoes in his ears once again. Slowly, he pulls his hand down, wide eyed and slightly shaking as he takes in the very solid form of none other than Donquixote Rosinante, sitting with a leg casually thrown over the other sitting comfortably on his cot.

Doflamingo immediately shuffles across the floor, back dragging against the wall and digging into his delicate skin, ripping it open in some places as he tries to create more distance in the small cell.

ˢʰᵃᵈᵒʷˢ ᶠˡᵒᵃᵗᶦⁿᵍ

ᵀʰᵉʸ’ʳᵉ ᵒᵘᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃˡˡ

ᵀʰᵉʸ ˢᵗᶦˡˡ ʰᵃᵘⁿᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵒⁿᵍ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉʸ’ʳᵉ ᵍᵒⁿᵉ

ᴮᵘʳᶦᵉᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵃˢᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ

ᶜᵒˡᵈ ᶜᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ

ᴰᵉᵃᵈ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗᵃˡᵏᶦⁿᵍ

ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ᵖᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵗᵒ ʳᵉˢᵗ…

“The dead don't speak,” Croaked Doflamingo. “The dead don't speak, the dead don't speak…”

Rosinante simply sits back a little further, a grin on his painted lips as he nearly purrs, 

“And yet, I speak.” 

ᴳʰᵒˢᵗ ᵃᵗ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵈᵒᵒʳ

ᵈʳᵉˢˢᵉᵈ ᶦⁿ ʷʰᶦᵗᵉ ˡᶦⁿᵉⁿ ˢʰᵉᵉᵗˢ

ˢᶜᵃʳᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜʰᶦˡᵈʳᵉⁿ

ˢᵃʸˢ ʰᵉ’ˡˡ ⁿᵉᵛᵉʳ ˡᵉᵃᵛᵉ

ᴴᵉ’ˡˡ ᵇᵘʳⁿ ᵈᵒʷⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵒᵘˢᵉ

ᵀᵃˢᵗᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᵐᵒᵏᵉ ᵒⁿ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵗᵒⁿᵍᵘᵉ

ᴴᵉ ᵘˢᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ˢᵒᵐᵉᵒⁿᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ˡᵒᵛᵉᵈ…

Doflamingo cradles his head in his hands with a pained groan, wishing the image of his brother away as he continues to mutter over and over, “The dead don't speak, the dead don't speak…”

He refuses to look up for the rest of the night, even as the smell of burning cigarettes fills his senses. 

ˢʰᵃᵈᵒʷˢ ᶠˡᵒᵃᵗᶦⁿᵍ

ᵀʰᵉʸ’ʳᵉ ᵒᵘᵗ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ʰᵃˡˡ

ᵀʰᵉʸ ˢᵗᶦˡˡ ʰᵃᵘⁿᵗ ʸᵒᵘ

ᴸᵒⁿᵍ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉʸ’ʳᵉ ᵍᵒⁿᵉ

ᴮᵘʳᶦᵉᵈ ᶦⁿ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵃˢᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ

ᶜᵒˡᵈ ᶜᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ

ᵈᵉᵃᵈ ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵗᵃˡᵏᶦⁿᵍ

ᶜᵃⁿ’ᵗ ᵖᵘᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ᵗᵒ ʳᵉˢᵗ…

[callingitquits]

How Johan Handles Family, Friends, and Rivals—[requested]

How Johan interacts with different people in your life. Whether they’re loving, toxic, or competitive. I usually keep things gender-neutral where I can, but in a few moments, using she/her just carried the weight and clarity I needed for certain scenes. Hope that’s okay.

If Your Family and Friends Are Kind, Supportive, and Loving:

He Watches Closely Before Moving

At first, he says nothing. Just observes. Watches how you light up around them. How they ground you. He notes every laugh, every name, every shared memory. And beneath his silence, something starts to tighten.

He Never Says ‘I’m Jealous’

Instead, he lingers just a moment too long after you mention them. Asks questions that sound casual.

“You see them often?”

“They matter to you?”

The smile stays soft, but the pause after your answer speaks volumes.

He Finds Subtle Ways to Separate You

He’ll never tell you not to go. Instead, he invites you somewhere else the same day. Offers to help with something that just happens to fall during family plans. You might not even realize you’re drifting….until the distance is there.

He’s Perfectly Polite When He Meets Them

He’s charming. Polite. Just vulnerable enough to disarm. They’ll say he’s lovely. Thoughtful. A little quiet, maybe, but kind. But behind his eyes, he’s measuring every one of them. Deciding which ones matter. Which ones are threats.

He Plants Doubts Without Seeming To

“They mean well.”

“They just don’t know what you’ve really been through.”

“You seem tired after you see them.”

His tone is always gentle. Supportive. Like concern. But he’s shifting the lens. Making you question what’s always felt like home.

He Tries to Become Home Instead

He learns your rituals. Brings you the tea your mother makes. Remembers the traditions. He doesn’t erase them. He absorbs them. So slowly, so gently, that one day you look around and realize: he’s your only constant now.

If Your Family or Friends Are Toxic, Controlling, or Hurtful:

He Notices Before You Admit It

He sees it in the way you shrink when their name shows up on your phone. In the forced laugh. The too-long pauses. The subtle jitter. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. He already knows.

He Offers Quiet Validation

“It’s remarkable. After all this time, they still own your silence.”

“You don’t speak like yourself after talking to them.”

Not judgment. Just observation. Precise. Unnervingly accurate. Like someone holding up a mirror you weren’t ready to look into.

He Never Tells You to Leave. He Makes You Want To

He lets you come to the conclusion.

“You deserve better than that.”

“They don’t see you.”

He never pushes, never demands. But every word drives a wedge between you and them with surgical intent.

He Can Be Vicious Without Raising His Voice

If they confront him he stays calm. Smiles. But his words hit like knives.

“She told me how you speak to her.”

“You taught her to be afraid of love.”

And when they flinch, he leans in softer.

“But I suppose you did your best.”

He Eliminates Quietly, Permanently

If someone is truly harming you, he won’t let it continue. But you won’t see the moment it ends. A lost job. A sudden crisis. A permanent move. He’ll never admit involvement. He’ll just hold you afterward and say, “It’s over now.”

He Becomes the Safe Place You Were Denied

Not loudly. Not tenderly. Just by being there. The way they weren’t. The way they never could be. You’ll cry and he won’t flinch. He won’t comfort correctly, but he won’t leave. And in his stillness, you’ll start to feel safe in the wrong ways.

He Doesn’t Forgive Them, Even If You Do

Even if you reconcile, make peace, move on….he doesn’t. He never forgets who hurt you. He watches them with quiet loathing. And if they ever cross the line again, he will act. Not for justice. For you.

If Someone Thinks Something Is ‘Off’ About Him and Tries to Warn You:

He Knows Immediately

He can sense it the moment they look at him too long. The moment their tone changes around you. He registers the hesitation, the guarded glances. They’ve already decided. They’re going to try to ‘save’ you.

He Doesn’t Confront. He Performs

He becomes exactly what they think he’s not. Warm. Open. Vulnerable. He smiles at the right moments, helps clean up, toasts the hosts.

“I’m so grateful she has people who care about her.”

And just like that, they begin to doubt themselves.

He Makes Them Feel Like the Problem

Without saying a cruel word, he reflects their suspicion back at them.

“I hope I didn’t make them uncomfortable.”

“Do you think they’re okay?”

He plants concern instead of defensiveness. Now you start wondering why they’re being so aggressive.

He Twists the Narrative Just Enough

“They seem protective of you. That’s sweet.”

“But it feels like they don’t really trust you to make your own decisions.”

Just like that, it’s no longer about him being off. It’s about them not believing in you.

He Weaponizes His Gentleness

If they push harder, warn you directly—he steps back. Withdraws, just a little. Not with anger. With hurt.

“I don’t want to come between you and your family.”

“Maybe I should go.”

Now you’re defending him. Now he’s the one who’s being mistreated.

He Makes Them Out to Be the Threat

He never accuses, but he lets you feel it. That they’re judgmental. Controlling. Overstepping.

“You don’t have to choose, I promise. But I won’t fight for space in your life where I’m not wanted.”

He sounds calm. Mature. You feel torn.

If They Keep Pushing, He Dismantles Them

If they won’t let go….he finds their pressure points. The fight they had with you two years ago. The secret they thought no one knew. The addiction. The affair. The hypocrisy. He doesn’t expose it directly. Just leaves it where it’ll be found. Quiet sabotage.

Eventually, They Leave or You Drift

Maybe they say one last thing. Maybe they just fade. But Johan makes sure of one thing: you don’t believe them anymore. You trust him. Even if a part of you still wonders, he’s woven doubt so delicately into the dynamic that you’ll never untangle it fully.

If You Have a Jealous Rival Trying to Sabotage You (Including Your Relationship with Johan)

He Recognizes the Threat Immediately

He doesn’t need to be told. He watches. Quietly. The way this person interrupts you, subtly undermines you in front of others, offers ‘friendly advice’ that always ends in doubt. He’s seen envy before. He knows it by scent.

He Lets It Happen. At First

He doesn’t intervene right away. He wants to watch. Wants to see how you handle it. Wants to see what you believe you deserve. He stores every slight. Every look. Every lie. Every attempt at character assassination. He’s building a blueprint.

He Is Impeccably Polite to the Rival

Charm turned up to just the right level. Nothing overt. Just enough to make the rival feel small in comparison. Johan gives them the kind of attention that feels like being dissected under a smile. A single compliment from him feels like mockery. They hate it. They feel it.

He Begins the Isolation Subtly

He doesn’t need to ‘ban’ them. He just makes you unavailable. Plans things when the rival can’t come. Shifts dynamics so they’re always one step removed. Slowly, the rival finds themselves outside the circle they thought they controlled.

He Sows Seeds in the Right Places

“Were they always like that with you?” he asks someone else, casually. “It’s strange—they seemed so kind when I met them.” He never accuses. He simply whispers doubt into the ears that matter. The rival begins losing social ground and doesn’t even know why.

He Turns the Mirror

One day—just once—he gives the rival the look. That Johan look. The calm, blank, full-eyed gaze that sees everything. And says, in perfect composure:

“You don’t have to compete. There’s nothing here you could take.”

They know, in that moment, he means it. He doesn’t say it to you. He says it for you. In defense. Without raising his voice or changing his tone. That’s the worst part.

He Makes the Rival Implode

Eventually, they get sloppy. The frustration builds. They say something too harsh. Act out in front of the wrong person. Try to humiliate you one last time, and look a mess. Johan doesn’t even flinch. He just watches. He lets them destroy themselves.

And He Holds You Afterward, Like Nothing Touched Him

He reassures you without ever calling it a ‘victory’. He wraps you in something warm.

“They never saw you clearly. But I do.”

That’s all. His quiet presence becomes your shield, your comfort, and your quiet realization that no one—not even envy—can reach you when he’s there.

If You Have Fair Rivals Who Compete with You Honestly:

He Observes Quietly. Not to Eliminate, But to Understand

Johan watches the dynamic. This rival isn’t cruel or manipulative. They push you to be better. They make you sharper. Stronger. They might frustrate you, even outpace you sometimes, but it’s mutual respect. That interests him.

He Rarely Interferes

Johan doesn’t disrupt something that’s genuinely good for you. If the rivalry challenges you in a way that doesn’t diminish you…if it builds your confidence, makes you more determined—he lets it unfold. He might even subtly encourage it.

He’s Unbothered by Their Presence

He’s never threatened. That’s key. In fact, his demeanor toward them is neutral, even cordial. He might speak well of them to you in his own way:

“They know your worth. That’s why they try so hard to keep up.”

He Pays Attention to What the Rival Brings Out in Her

If they make you laugh—really laugh—he notices. If they bring out your competitive fire, your focused silence….he watches with quiet admiration. There’s a part of him that likes watching you fight for something you want. It reminds him you’re still alive in there, not swallowed by fear or doubt.

He Learns From Them, Too

A fair rival can expose parts of you Johan hasn’t seen yet. Your resilience. Your pride. Your stubbornness. He tucks it all away. It helps him understand you more deeply.

He May Even Respect Them, Quietly

Johan doesn’t respect many people. But someone who challenges you without cruelty, and makes you stronger, gets a silent pass. He may never say it aloud, but he doesn’t view them as obstacles. If anything, he considers them—occasionally—useful.

But He Will Step In If They Overstep

If the rivalry ever shifts from fair to cruel, or if they say something that genuinely hurts you….he will know. And he will make it known, very gently, that he noticed.

“I thought they were better than that. You deserved more grace.”

That’s all it takes.

He Doesn’t Compete with Them. Because He’s Already Won

Johan never stoops to one-upmanship. He doesn’t need to prove himself. He simply remains your constant. Unshakeable, watchful, eerily composed. While the rival runs their race, he’s the one standing at the finish line, hands in his pockets, smiling faintly when you reach him.

[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙃𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙭 𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Slow Burn Warning: Mentions of emotional pain/heartbreak, Past toxic relationship, Crying scenes, Heavy emotional comfort, Slow healing process, Best friends to lovers trope, Extremely soft Bang Chan (Husband Material™), Domestic fluff & rainy day vibes, One (1) very patient and loving Aussie man, no proofread, etc...

---

It was one of those days where everything felt a little too loud, even in the silence.

The rain outside had been falling since morning, steady and persistent, like the sky had decided to cry on her behalf. Y/N had shown up at Chan’s apartment without warning, soaked through, hair sticking to her cheeks, eyes red and swollen from crying. And Chan… well, he didn’t ask questions.

He just opened the door, pulled her into his arms, and whispered, “I’ve got you.”

That had been hours ago.

Now she sat curled up on his couch, wrapped in his hoodie, the sleeves too long for her hands. His blanket soft and worn from years of use was tucked around her shoulders like a shield. The TV was playing something neither of them were really watching, its colors flickering faintly against the walls. The scent of vanilla and rain filled the air, the kind of quiet that made you feel like time was standing still.

Chan moved around in the kitchen behind her, the clink of a mug and the low hum of the kettle the only indication that he was still close.

She blinked slowly, fighting back another wave of tears.

How did love manage to feel so beautiful and so cruel at the same time?

When he came back, he didn’t say anything at first. He just placed a cup of tea on the table beside her, sat down on the floor in front of the couch, and looked up at her like she was the most fragile thing in the world.

His voice was gentle, the way it always was when he sensed she was barely holding it together.

“Talk to me?”

She bit her lip, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

“Okay.” He nodded, reaching out to lightly rest his hand on her knee. “Then don’t. I’m still here.”

Y/N stared at him, that familiar ache pressing against her ribs. Chan had always been her safe space. Ever since their uni days, when she first met the Aussie with the easy smile and kind eyes, he had been her anchor. But she never thought she’d be here again completely undone in front of him, heart shattered, feeling stupid for believing in someone who treated her like she was replaceable.

“I thought they loved me,” she whispered finally. “I really did.”

Chan’s jaw clenched slightly, but his voice remained soft. “They should’ve. You love with your whole heart. Anyone would be lucky to have that.”

“They said I was too much. Too sensitive. Too emotional. I cared too deeply.” She swallowed hard. “Like it was a flaw.”

Chan shifted slightly so he was fully facing her, resting his arms on the edge of the couch. “It’s not a flaw. It’s a strength. You feel everything so deeply, Y/N. That’s what makes you you.”

Her eyes welled up again, and she blinked fast, looking up at the ceiling to keep the tears from falling.

“I don’t get it, Chan. I gave them everything. And they just… walked away. Like I was easy to leave.”

Chan exhaled, voice cracking just slightly. “Some people don’t recognize love even when it’s handed to them. That’s not your fault.”

“But it still hurts,” she said brokenly. “It hurts so bad I can’t breathe sometimes.”

Chan reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with the softest touch. “I know,” he murmured. “I’d do anything to take it away.”

The tears fell then quiet, unrelenting. And Chan didn’t hesitate. He stood, gently easing her up so he could slide onto the couch beside her. She folded into him like she belonged there, head resting against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like a promise.

“You’re not too much,” he whispered into her hair. “You’re not too emotional. You’re not unlovable. You’re human. And you deserve someone who sees all of that and chooses you anyway.”

She let herself cry then not just for the heartbreak, but for the relief of finally being seen.

Minutes passed in silence. Her breathing evened out. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, grounding her.

“Why are you always here for me?” she asked quietly.

“Because I love you,” he said. No hesitation. No dramatics. Just the truth.

She froze.

“Not just as a friend?” she whispered.

Chan held her a little tighter, like he was afraid to let her slip through his fingers now that the words were out.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he admitted. “But I never said anything because I didn’t want to rush you, or lose you. And then you fell for someone else… and I just wanted you to be happy, even if it wasn’t with me.”

Y/N pulled back slightly to look at him, her heart thudding painfully loud.

“I’m not ready for anything new,” she said honestly. “Not yet.”

“I know,” Chan said, his smile soft and sad but genuine. “I’m not here to ask for anything. Just… don’t push me away. Let me stay. Let me be your comfort, even if I never get to be more.”

She stared at him, really looked at him, and felt something in her chest loosen like a part of her that had been tightly wound had finally exhaled.

“You already are more,” she said softly. “You’re the reason I’m still holding it together.”

Chan’s hand found hers, fingers intertwining. No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

Love had hurt her deeply.

But Chan was here.

And somehow, that made everything feel a little less painful.

---

Healing didn’t happen all at once.

There wasn’t a magical moment when everything stopped hurting, when she suddenly stopped thinking about what went wrong, when her heart stopped aching. No, it happened in pieces quiet, gentle moments stitched together like a patchwork quilt of becoming okay again.

And Chan was in every single piece of it.

He never asked for anything.

Never once brought up his confession again.

He just… stayed.

Stayed when she had nightmares and called him at 2AM. Stayed when she had a panic attack in the middle of a grocery store and couldn’t catch her breath. Stayed when she cried during a movie that wasn’t even sad because her emotions were just too much again.

He’d rub her back, make her tea, wrap her in his hoodie, and sit beside her until she found her way back to herself.

It was a Thursday evening when she realized her feelings had shifted.

Chan was in the kitchen, humming softly while making dinner. She sat on the counter, watching him stir pasta sauce, his hair messy from running his hands through it, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms (which were a problem, let’s be honest). He turned to ask if she wanted more basil, and she found herself smiling.

Not just the small, polite kind.

The kind that tugged at her chest. The kind that whispered, Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.

That realization scared her more than she expected. Because falling for someone again? After what she’d been through?

But the thing about Chan was… loving him didn’t feel scary. It didn’t feel like a cliff she had to jump off.

It felt like a warm blanket. Like coming home.

It took her months to get the courage to say anything.

She waited until another rainy day, the kind they always seemed to fall into comfort with. They were on his couch, watching the sky drip quietly outside the window. He was beside her, legs stretched out, his head tilted toward hers, sleepy and soft.

“Chan,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He blinked, turning toward her instantly. “Yeah?”

Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t back down. Not this time.

“Do you still love me?”

He froze. His brows drew together just a little, concern flickering in his expression. “Yeah. I never stopped. Why?”

She looked at him, really looked at him, the way she always should have.

“Because I think I’m falling in love with you too.”

He didn’t move for a second just stared, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

Then a slow smile bloomed across his face, filled with so much softness she felt her eyes sting.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly, like he didn’t want to scare her.

She nodded.

His kiss was tender, patient, full of all the things he’d been holding back for months. He didn’t rush. He never did. And she kissed him like someone who was finally choosing to believe in love again.

Because with Chan, love didn’t hurt.

It healed.

[iizora]

Hello! I hope you’re doing well. Can you do a Shadow x reader where Shadow has had a bad day, and he snaps at the reader when she asks for something or tries to talk to him and it hurts her feelings? I’m talking like he yells at her or something and it makes her cry. Then later Shadow apologizes and explains himself.

Thank you! ☺️

you heal the parts of me i never knew was broken- shadow angst

Author note: I am not good with dialogue sry if this is bad

Trigger warning: slight cursing

Everyone has bad days but it's been a month since seeing your lover, none of your texts went through, he was never home, any and all ways you've tried to communicate with him he shut down instantly, that paired with his work that had this man on a tight leash. You were getting sick of this, was he was just not going to put any thought or care into the relationship you worked so hard to build with him.

It's the middle of the night alone again not expecting anyone to bother you while you binge watch all the good shows on Netflix before they get taken down. The door harshly opened and shutting with a slam caused you to fall off the couch, the last thing on your mind was maybe it could be your lover finally returning, it was to grab the nearest item to use as a weapon.

Half way into trying to attack the figure the dim moonlight revealed a tired pissed off shadow just glaring at you from where he was standing, the chill from the hedgehogs eyes completely took any and all back bone you had, making you lower your items in just stand in front of him in awkward silence.

He simply took your silence as a way to avoid a conversation taking his chance to walk away from you. The hurt feelings from all the other few encounters you two had flooded into your brain repeatedly chanting to go talk to him this could be the only chance of knowing whether he truly still loved you.

"shadow can we talk... please" he stopped at your words as if he was thinking about it but nothing could come out of his mouth before restarting his steps. "Shadow please this is important" your words sounded more harsh then intended yanking his hand back as an effort to stop him.

"Can you get off my ass for a minute" he angrily snapped at you, this was the first time he's ever yelled at you or even raised his voice high enough to be considered rude to you. "Maybe I would if you stopped ignoring me every chance you get" Any sort of rational thoughts were left behind, any coherent thoughts were curses in your head telling you how much you hated each other in that moment.

The pointless back and forth seems to have no end no real goal or comprehension to get at. "why can't you just talk to me for once it won't kill you to be a tad bit more carrying" the argument wasn't going anywhere he's just too damn stubborn to listen "well you could be a little less affectionate from time to time do you not get how frustrating it is to have you breathing down my neck like a love struck puppy every minute".

you knew months of those pent up emotions just can't handle another word from him but the shocked look on your face when tears started flooding in, the chocked sobs were the last thing he heard before you just left. if he doesn't care enough to love you at your best then you knew damn well you wouldn't let him see you at your worst. nothing else was spoken that night until he could find you.

your face Buried into your knees at the empty park just sobbing and questioning why is he acting like this. Are there any good reason to help justify your broken relationship.

After a while you left a familiar chill behind your back the one of supposedly the love of your life with a regretful look on his face not saying a word just sitting down next you letting the uncomfortable silence blow over. "Am sorry, I shouldn't have yelled like that" he muttered "do you still want to talk, work out our problems together" he finished looking at you trying to calculate your face for any hint of sorrow or discomfort at the thought. Simply giving him a nod not wanting this fight to last longer then it already has "what's the real reason you've been avoiding me, please be honest"

"Your love has healed parts of me I didn't know were broken, and know that we've been together for so long I couldn't help but worry you'd get hurt because of me" the look he gave you made your heart absolutely break, the world never felt so bright and color before he came along the thought of losing him made you hold back a few tears. rapidly embracing him into the tightest hug "so you still love me" your words nearly let out a faucet of tears go “You make my soul feel complete, like no one else ever could. I will never stop loving you”

That night all you two could do was stay embraced in each other's arms afraid one might disappear if you let go.