#something normal. like crack or something

[sixeyesonathiel]

this love survives bad haircuts

synopsis : satoru makes a very questionable decision the night before school. by morning, he’s convinced he’s ruined everything—especially the way you look at him. it’s not just about hair, he learns. it never was.

wc — 4.8k ✦ tags -> character study, humor, comfort, fluff, crack treated seriously, high school au, established relationship, military haircut disaster, teenage love, idiots in love, insecure satoru

satoru gojo has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, running shaky fingers through what used to be his glorious crown of silver-white chaos and is now... this. this travesty. this crime against humanity. his hair sits close to his scalp in a crisp military cut, all sharp edges and geometric precision, and he looks like he’s about to ship out to boot camp instead of walking into first period chemistry.

the thing is, satoru has never been ugly before. not once in his seventeen years of existence. he’s been gangly, sure, when he hit that growth spurt at fourteen and couldn’t figure out where his limbs belonged. he’s been awkward, definitely, when his voice cracked during that disastrous presentation in freshman english. but ugly? never ugly.

more importantly, he’s never been ugly in front of you. you, who calls him pretty boy when you’re feeling soft. you, who traces his jawline with sleepy fingers during saturday morning cuddles. you, who literally purrs—purrs—when he nuzzles into your neck like the overgrown puppy he knows he is.

the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across his face and making his shorn head look even more alien. he tilts his head left, then right, hoping maybe the angle will make it less catastrophic. it doesn’t. if anything, it makes him look like a confused ostrich. he wonders if this is what normal people feel like all the time—this horrible uncertainty about their own reflection.

“what have i done,” he whispers to his reflection, and his reflection—that traitorous thing—just stares back with the same horrified crystalline eyes, now looking enormous without his usual curtain of hair to frame them.

the dare had seemed so simple last night. suguru and shoko, sprawled across his bedroom floor with energy drinks and homework they weren’t doing, had been going on and on about how you were obviously only dating him for his money. for his face. for the way his hair caught afternoon sunlight and made him look like some sort of ethereal prince.

it had stung, the way they’d laughed about it. not because he thought they were right, but because some treacherous part of his brain had whispered what if? what if you really were that shallow? what if the girl who remembered his coffee order and drew little hearts on his notebook margins and let him drape himself across her lap like a house cat was just playing some elaborate long game?

the thought makes him sick. because satoru gojo is pathetically in love with you. embarrassingly so. the kind of love that makes him text you good morning before his eyes are fully open, that makes him buy you little trinkets from the convenience store just because they reminded him of you, that makes him physically ache when you’re not around.

he’d always been too much. too loud, too rich, too everything. his parents had made sure he knew that—love wrapped in conditions, affection measured in achievements. so when you’d started dating him six months ago, he’d been waiting for the catch. waiting for you to get tired of his energy, his neediness, his desperate desire to be wanted for something other than his last name.

instead, you’d started calling him baby. started letting him sleep with his head on your chest. started feeding him pieces of your lunch while calling him spoiled, but with such fondness that it felt like the sweetest compliment in the world.

“she’s totally shallow,” shoko had said, blowing smoke rings toward his ceiling while picking at her black nail polish. “i bet if you showed up tomorrow bald, she’d dump you before homeroom.”

“not bald,” suguru had corrected, ever the voice of reason, though his smirk suggested otherwise. “but like, really short. military style. bet she wouldn’t even look at you twice.”

and satoru—stupid, lovesick, pride-wounded satoru—had taken the bait hook, line, and sinker. because deep down, in the parts of himself he doesn’t like to examine too closely, he’d wondered the same thing. wondered if your fingers tangled in his hair during kisses because you loved him or because you loved the way he looked in magazine spreads and instagram stories.

now he’s standing in the school hallway, hood pulled up despite the no-hats policy, practically vibrating with anxiety. his palms are sweating. actually sweating. when was the last time satoru gojo had sweaty palms? never, that’s when. but here he is, seventeen years old and terrified of his own girlfriend.

he tries to remember the last time he’d felt this kind of bone-deep terror. maybe when he was eight and broke his mother’s favorite vase, standing in the wreckage with tears streaming down his face while she counted to ten in that voice that meant disappointment. or maybe it was never this bad, because at least then he’d known the parameters of his punishment. now he’s flying blind into territory he’s never had to navigate: the possibility that someone he loves might not love him back.

students flow around him like water around a rock, chattering about weekend plans and upcoming tests, and none of them seem to notice that satoru gojo is having a complete mental breakdown. someone laughs too loudly near the science wing. a locker slams shut with metallic finality. the morning announcements crackle through tired speakers, and principal yaga’s voice drones about dress code violations.

he spots you at your locker, and his heart does that stupid fluttering thing it always does—like a hummingbird having a seizure. you’re wearing the sweater he bought you last week—soft pink cashmere that probably cost more than most people’s rent—and you’re humming under your breath while you sort through textbooks. there’s a small furrow between your brows as you squint at your schedule, and he knows you’re probably trying to remember if you have calculus or literature next.

this is the thing about loving someone, he thinks. you start memorizing their expressions like they’re a language only you can speak. he knows that furrow means concentration, not annoyance. knows that the way you’re tapping your fingers against your locker door means you’re running through your mental checklist, probably remembering that you forgot to finish your chemistry homework and trying to calculate if you have enough time before class.

he also knows that if he walked up to you right now and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, you’d make that little huffing noise that means you’re pretending to be annoyed but secretly pleased. knows that you’d lean back into him anyway, letting him nuzzle into your hair while you complained about him being clingy in that fond, exasperated voice you use when you’re trying not to smile.

you look so pretty, so normal, so completely unaware that your boyfriend has committed follicular suicide. your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulder, and satoru’s stomach clenches with the sudden, visceral realization that he’ll never be able to mirror that gesture again. no more running his fingers through matching lengths of hair. no more of you braiding small sections when you’re bored in class.

no more of you tugging on the strands when you want his attention, calling him your pretty boy with that secret smile that makes him feel like he could conquer the world.

“just walk over,” he mutters to himself, bouncing slightly on his heels. “just walk over and—”

“satoru!” your voice cuts through his spiral, bright and cheerful, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. you’re waving at him with your free hand, that brilliant smile on your face—the one that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners and shows off the slightly crooked incisor you’re self-conscious about. the one that makes him feel like he’s swallowed sunshine. “come here, i missed you!”

missed you. it’s been twelve hours since he walked you home, since you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him goodbye on your doorstep, since you whispered “text me when you get home, baby” against his lips. twelve hours, and you missed him.

his heart does seventeen different acrobatic maneuvers in his chest.

his feet move without his permission, carrying him toward you on unsteady legs. the hood feels like it’s suffocating him, but he can’t take it off. won’t take it off. maybe if he just keeps it on all day, you’ll never have to see what he’s done. maybe he can transfer schools. maybe he can fake his own death.

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. this is what happens when satoru gojo doesn’t have control over a situation—his brain turns into a hamster wheel of catastrophic possibilities. he’s going to lose you. you’re going to take one look at him and realize you’ve been dating a fraud, someone who’s only attractive with the right lighting and good genetics, and now that one of those things is gone, the illusion is shattered.

“why are you wearing your hood?” you ask, reaching up to tug at the fabric with curious fingers. your touch is gentle, familiar, and he wants to lean into it like a cat seeking warmth. wants to press his face into your palm and let you pet him until the world makes sense again. “you know mr. yaga will give you detention if he sees. and then you’ll be all mopey and i’ll have to sneak you extra cookies at lunch to cheer you up.”

the casual way you plan to take care of him makes his throat tight. this is what you do—you notice when he’s sad, when he’s stressed, when he needs just a little more attention than usual. you pretend to be annoyed about it, but you always have his favorite snacks in your bag, always save him the good seat in the cafeteria, always let him tangle his fingers with yours under the desk during boring classes.

“no, don’t—” but it’s too late. your fingers catch the edge of his hood and pull, and then you’re staring at him with wide eyes and an expression he can’t quite read.

the silence stretches between them like a chasm. satoru wants to die. wants to sink into the floor and disappear forever. wants to transfer schools and change his name and maybe join the witness protection program. your eyes are doing that thing where they go very still, very focused, like you’re trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“your hair,” you say finally, and your voice is so quiet he barely hears it over the hallway noise. your hand is still raised, hovering somewhere near his temple, fingers trembling slightly like you want to touch but don’t quite dare.

he knows that gesture. you do it when you’re trying to process something that doesn’t compute. like the time he showed up at your house at midnight because he’d had a nightmare and needed to see you. you’d stood there in your pajamas, hair mussed from sleep, hand hovering just like this while you tried to figure out if you should scold him for being reckless or hug him for being vulnerable.

you’d chosen the hug. you always choose the hug.

“i can explain,” he starts, words tumbling out in a rush while his hands gesture wildly. “it was a dare and i was stupid and i know you probably hate it and me and—”

“satoru.” you’re still staring at him, and now he can see tears gathering in your eyes. actual tears. your lower lip trembles, and you press your free hand to your mouth like you’re trying to hold something back. “your beautiful hair.”

and then you’re crying. not just tearing up, but full-on sobbing in the middle of the hallway, shoulders shaking as you stare at his shorn head like he’s just told you someone died. your textbooks tumble from your arms, scattering across the linoleum with dull thuds.

this is it, he thinks. this is the moment everything falls apart. except... except you’re not looking at him with disgust or disappointment. you’re looking at him like you’re grieving. like something precious has been lost. and that’s almost worse, because it means you did care about his hair, means maybe suguru and shoko were right about something, means—

“oh god,” he panics, reaching for you instinctively, his hands hovering uselessly around your shoulders because he doesn’t know if touching you will make it better or worse. “don’t cry, please don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry—”

“it’s gone,” you wail, and several students turn to stare. your voice echoes off the lockers, and satoru can see phones being pulled out in his peripheral vision. “it’s all gone! how could you do this to me? to us? to your perfect, gorgeous, fluffy hair that i loved so much?”

and there it is. the thing that makes satoru gojo absolutely, completely, stupidly in love with you. because it’s not his hair you’re mourning—it’s yours. you’ve claimed it, the same way you’ve claimed his hoodies and his passenger seat and his whole entire heart. in your mind, his hair belongs to you as much as it belongs to him, and someone has taken it away without asking permission.

you’re not crying because he’s ugly. you’re crying because someone stole something that was yours to love.

satoru feels his own eyes starting to water. this is worse than he imagined. so much worse. you’re crying over his hair—actually crying—and he doesn’t know what to do with that information. his throat feels tight, and there’s a burning sensation behind his eyes that he hasn’t felt since he was twelve and broke his arm falling off his bike.

he thinks about all the times you’ve touched his hair. casual touches—pushing it out of his eyes during study sessions, playing with the ends while you’re both watching movies, the way you’d run your fingers through it when he was stressed about exams. but also the possessive touches—tugging him down for kisses, wrapping the strands around your finger while you’re talking, the way you’d pet him absently while he dozed with his head in your lap.

you’ve never said “i love you” out loud. neither of you have. but you’ve said it in a thousand other ways, and apparently one of those ways was cherishing his stupid hair like it was made of spun gold.

had it really meant that much to you? had he been so stupid, so careless with something you treasured?

“i’ll grow it back,” he promises desperately, hands still hovering around your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you. he’s crying now too, which is embarrassing, but you’re crying and that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in. “i’ll take vitamins and do scalp massages and—and i’ll research hair growth treatments! i’ll do anything, baby, please don’t be sad.”

the pet name slips out without his permission, soft and pleading, and your expression crumples even more. you’ve never said it makes you feel good when he calls you that, but he sees the way your eyes go soft, the way you unconsciously lean toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.

“it’ll take months,” you sob, and you sound so genuinely devastated that his heart cracks clean in two. your mascara is starting to smudge, creating dark shadows under your eyes, and you’re hiccupping between words. “months, satoru! what am i supposed to do for months?” your voice breaks on his name, and he’s never heard you sound so genuinely distressed. “what am i supposed to play with during movies? what am i supposed to braid when i’m bored? what am i supposed to tug when you’re being insufferable and i need you to pay attention to me?”

each question is like a little knife to his heart because they’re all so you. practical and petulant and so full of casual intimacy that he wants to wrap you up and never let you go. you’re not asking what you’re supposed to look at or what you’re supposed to find attractive. you’re asking what you’re supposed to do with your hands when the thing you love most is gone.

“i don’t know!” he’s definitely crying now too, tears streaming down his face as he stares at your crumpled expression. his voice cracks embarrassingly on the words, and he wipes his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, please don’t break up with me! i’ll buy you anything you want—that bag you were looking at, or we can go to that expensive restaurant you like, or—”

“satoru.” you interrupt him, and there’s something different in your voice now. something that makes him stop babbling and focus on your face. “baby.”

the pet name stops him cold. you only call him that when you’re feeling particularly soft, when your prickly exterior cracks just enough to let him see how much you care. you’re still crying, but now you’re looking at him like he’s the one who needs taking care of.

you stop crying so abruptly it gives him whiplash. your tear-stained face goes blank, then confused, then something that looks almost like offense. “break up with you?”

“isn’t that what you’re going to do?” he sniffles, wiping his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. his hands are shaking now, and he can’t seem to stop them. “because i ruined my hair and now i’m ugly and—”

“satoru gojo,” you interrupt, and your voice has gone from devastated to something else entirely. something that makes him nervous. your eyebrows draw together in a way that means trouble, and you plant your hands on your hips in that stance he knows means he’s about to get lectured. “are you insane?”

he blinks at you, confused. water still clings to his eyelashes, making everything look slightly blurry. “i... what?”

“do you think i’m dating you for your hair?” your voice has gone dangerously quiet, and satoru knows from experience that quiet-angry-you is infinitely more terrifying than loud-angry-you. but there’s something else there too, something that sounds almost like hurt.

“well,” he says slowly, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie, “suguru and shoko said—”

“suguru and shoko can eat glass,” you snap, and now you’re glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. your hands gesture wildly as you speak, and he can see the exact moment when your sadness transforms into righteous indignation. “and so can you if you think i give a damn about your stupid hair when i’m in love with your stupid face.”

the words hang in the air between you like a confession. like a secret that’s been building for months and finally spilled over.

in love with.

you said you’re in love with him.

“but you’re crying,” he points out weakly, gesturing at your mascara-streaked face.

“i’m crying because you look ridiculous!” you explode, gesturing wildly at his head. your voice cracks slightly on the word ridiculous, and satoru can’t tell if you’re about to start laughing or crying again. “you look like a military recruit! like you’re about to ask me to drop and give you twenty! it’s so bad it’s actually offensive to my eyeballs!”

satoru stares at you, mouth hanging open. there’s something almost hysterical about the way you’re standing there, tear-stained and furious, defending his honor while simultaneously roasting his appearance. “so you’re not... you’re not going to dump me?”

“for having a bad haircut?” you look at him like he’s grown a second head, and there’s something so incredulous in your expression that he almost wants to laugh. “what kind of person do you think i am?”

and that’s when it hits him. not like a physical blow, but like a slow sunrise, warm and inevitable. you’re not upset because he looks different. you’re upset because he looks bad. because someone he loves is hurt by something that hurts him. because in your mind, anything that makes him less than perfect is a personal affront to your carefully curated world.

the realization makes him feel dizzy. you’re not shallow—you’re protective. you’re not crying because his hair was the only thing worth loving about him. you’re crying because someone took something beautiful and made it ugly, and in your mind, he deserves only beautiful things.

you’re crying because you love him, and you want him to be happy, and you think his happiness is tied to being pretty. you’re crying because in your seventeen-year-old brain, ugly hair equals unhappy satoru, and unhappy satoru is literally your worst nightmare.

it’s such a fundamentally you way to love someone that he almost laughs through his tears. of course you wouldn’t care about his looks in the way his friends think you do. of course you’d care about his looks in the most loving, illogical, completely endearing way possible.

“but you said—”

“i said your hair was gone, not that i was leaving you, you absolute disaster of a human being.” you reach up to touch his head, fingers gentle against the short strands, and your touch is so careful it makes his chest tight. “though i am going to miss running my fingers through it. and tugging on it when you’re being annoying. and the way it stuck up in the morning like you’d been electrocuted.”

you pause, thumb tracing over his temple like you’re memorizing this new version of him. “and i’m going to miss the way you’d let me braid it when i was anxious. and how soft it was when you’d nuzzle into my neck like a puppy. and the way it would catch the light during golden hour and make you look like some sort of angel.”

each word is like a little love letter, and satoru feels his heart expanding in his chest until he thinks it might burst. you’re cataloging all the ways you loved his hair, but really you’re cataloging all the ways you love him.

satoru feels something warm and desperate unfurl in his chest. the hallway around them seems to fade away, the curious stares and whispered conversations becoming white noise. all he can focus on is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s still worth something even when he’s standing there with tears on his face and the world’s worst haircut.

“so you still... you still want to be with me? even though i look like this?”

you’re quiet for a long moment, studying his face with those sharp eyes he fell in love with. your thumb traces along his temple, following the harsh line where his hair meets skin, and he can see you cataloging every detail of this new version of him.

he wonders what you’re thinking. whether you’re trying to reconcile this version of him with the one you’ve been kissing for six months. whether you’re disappointed that the boy you’ve been bragging about to your friends now looks like he belongs in a military recruitment poster.

he thinks about the way you show him off, so casually possessive. the way you introduce him as “my boyfriend” with just a little extra emphasis on the my. the way you straighten his collar before school dances and tell him he’s the prettiest boy in the room, and you say it like it’s a fact, like there’s no room for argument.

then you lean up on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his forehead, right at his hairline where the damage is most obvious.

“you’re still pretty,” you murmur against his skin, breath warm and reassuring. “still mine. still the same boy who bought me coffee every morning for a month because i mentioned once that i was tired. still the same boy who carries my books and walks me to class and lets me steal his hoodies.”

you pull back to look at him, and your expression has gone soft in that way that makes him want to do something stupid like propose. “still the same boy who texts me good morning before he’s even fully awake. still the same boy who remembers that i like my sandwiches cut diagonally and always saves me the corner piece of cake. still the same boy who holds my hand under the table during lunch and draws little hearts on my palm when he thinks i’m not paying attention.”

satoru’s breath catches. he didn’t know you noticed that last one.

“really?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, and he hates how young he sounds. how vulnerable. but you just smile at him, that soft private smile that’s only for him, and reach up to cup his face in your hands.

“really, baby,” you say, and the pet name makes his heart skip. “though i am going to make fun of you for this until it grows back. and i’m going to take so many pictures. and i’m going to show them to our kids someday and tell them about the time daddy was a complete idiot and broke mommy’s heart by cutting off all his pretty hair.”

“our kids?” satoru’s brain short-circuits. the words echo in his head like a bell, and he can feel his face heating up despite everything. “you want to have kids with me?”

you flush pink, pretty color spreading across your cheeks like spilled paint. your eyes go wide like you can’t believe you just said that out loud. “hypothetically. maybe. in the future. if you want. if you don’t mess up your hair again.”

the last part is said with such stern seriousness that satoru can’t help but laugh.

he stares at you—his prickly, bratty, wonderful girlfriend who just cried over his hair and then promised him forever in the same breath—and thinks that maybe suguru and shoko don’t know anything at all. thinks that maybe love isn’t about perfect hair or perfect faces or perfect anything. maybe it’s about someone who’ll sob over your bad decisions and then kiss your forehead anyway.

maybe it’s about someone who gets genuinely upset when you’re hurting, even if you’re hurting over something as stupid as a haircut. maybe it’s about someone who sees you make a terrible mistake and instead of walking away, plants themselves firmly in your corner and prepares to fight the world on your behalf.

maybe it’s about finding someone who thinks you deserve beautiful things, even when you’ve just proven you’re an idiot. someone who plans your future together in the same breath as scolding you for making bad choices.

maybe it’s about someone who loves you so much they cry when you’re ugly, not because they care about your looks, but because they can’t stand the thought of you being anything less than perfect.

“i want,” he says simply, and leans down to kiss you properly.

you taste like strawberry lip gloss and tears and something that might be love, and when you pull away, you’re both grinning like idiots. your hands are still tangled in what’s left of his hair, and he thinks maybe this length has its own advantages.

“i love you too,” he whispers against your lips, because if you can accidentally confess in the middle of a breakdown, then so can he. “i love you so much it makes me stupid.”

“i know,” you say, and you’re smiling so wide it makes your eyes crinkle. “you cut off all your hair because your friends dared you to. if that’s not love-induced stupidity, i don’t know what is.”

“good,” you say, straightening his collar with careful fingers. the gesture is so familiar, so domestic, that it makes his heart skip. you always do this, fix his appearance like you’re sending him off to war instead of first period. “now let’s go find suguru and shoko so i can yell at them for talking my boyfriend into this monstrosity. and then you’re buying me that expensive hot chocolate from the café across the street because emotional trauma requires premium comfort food.”

“anything you want,” he says immediately, because he’s pathetic and in love and would probably agree to rob a bank if you asked nicely enough. “anything.”

you stand on your tiptoes and press one more kiss to his nose, quick and sweet. “i want you to promise me you’ll never cut your hair again without asking me first.”

“i promise,” he says solemnly, and means it. “i’ll never make any major appearance changes without consulting my girlfriend first.”

“good boy,” you say, and the praise makes his chest warm. “now come on, we’re going to be late for class and i refuse to get detention because you had a crisis about your hair.”

satoru laughs, bright and relieved, and thinks that maybe this terrible, terrible mistake might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. because now he knows, with absolute certainty, that you love him for all the right reasons.

even if he does look like a military recruit.

[jacksabbotts]

✧ caught in the cold — ❪ part six ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . after days of avoidance, emotional overload drives you to the hospital roof—six prep sheets too many, one too-loud memory too far. you just need air. silence. solitude. what you get instead is jack abbott. already there. already listening.

. ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! emotional spiral / anxious overthinking, self-deprecating inner monologue, implied crush / unrequited feelings ( perceived ), power imbalance ( attending physician x hospital staff ), flirting in a professional setting, profanity

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHOR NOTES . i am sooo sorry it took absolutely forever to get this posted. i have been struggling on how to get morgue and jack to the next step now that she has confessed and still make it realistic with morgue girl's and jacks differing personality. also so sorry this is so freaking short its just a lil transition chap and trust me it is about to get good. lastly, i want to remind that concepts are not apart of the main universe ( aka the chapters ) and are simple au's for the main universe if that makes any sense at all.

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

JOIN THE JACKSABBOTTS 1K EXTRAVAGANZA HERE or REQUEST FOR jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

the door to the roof creaked open with its usual rusted groan.

you stepped through it like a ghost. shoulders tight. breath short. your scrubs hung loose, streaked with powder and formalin and god knew what else. your hands still smelled like bleach. your brain still pulsed with the click of scalpels and body bags and endless, impossible numbers.

six.

six full preps left behind for you. day shift gone. howell’s clipboard full. the day shift tech voice in your head cheerfully reminding you that the medical examiner's day starts at six am sharp!

your shift didn’t even have time for three. so you came up here. for air. for silence. for a breakdown in peace. you didn’t even check if the roof was empty.

'unbelievable,' you muttered, dragging both hands through your hair. 'six bodies. six. like i’m not human. like i don’t breathe. like—like it’s not insane to leave one tech with six fucking preps like that’s normal.'

you immediatly covered your mouth at the curse because that wasn't you. you weren't one to let your anger get the better of you and you weren't one to let words like that slip. all in testament to your predicament. you paced to the center of the roof. breath fogged the air in small bursts.

'i’m so tired,' you whispered. 'and i can’t even think straight because all i can hear is him.' you laughed, dry and cracked. 'what the fuck is wrong with me!'

you squeezed your eyes shut. 'because apparently one sentence—one coat—can short-circuit my entire life. i can’t go five minutes without remembering how he said i wasn’t a practice body.' your voice cracked. 'who even says that?'

a breeze blew. you didn’t notice but you did look up.

and then you saw him. jack.

oh, fuck me.

standing near the far edge. silhouetted against the skyline. arms crossed. head slightly tilted. he turned slowly. quietly. and your blood ran cold.

'oh my god,' you croaked, stumbling back a step. 'i didn’t—dr. abbot. i didn’t know you were—'

'yeah,' he said softly. 'i figured.' his voice wasn’t angry. it was something else. something that made your skin go hot and cold all at once. 'how much did you hear?'

jack took a few steps forward, out of the shadows, into the spill of light from the rooftop bulbs. 'enough.' you wanted to vanish.

'i was just—i needed air, i wasn’t thinking, and i didn’t mean—'

'why are you avoiding me?' his voice was quiet. steady.

you opened your mouth. closed it. because you didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound pathetic. he stepped closer. not too close. just enough that you could see the concern in his eyes. the exhaustion. the quiet ache beneath it.

'was it the coat?'

'no—'

'the compliments?'

'no, i—'

'was it the part where i said i liked you?' his mouth twitched like it wanted to smile but didn’t have the nerve. you finally spoke. quiet. honest. small.

'i didn’t think you meant it.'

jack blinked. 'why?'

you stared at your shoes. 'because people don’t mean things like that when they say them to people like me.'

silence.

dead, still silence.

and then jack stepped over the railing and walked toward you. you stepped back. he stopped. and then he said, voice low and level. 'i'm sorry, for making thinks worse for you.'

jack took one more step forward. gentle. careful. looking for any sign that you didn't want him to move closer to you. 'you know, i’ve been thinking about it too.'

your breath caught. 'the coat. the compliment. your face when i said it.' his voice dropped to something raw. 'and how much i wanted to say more.'

you stared at him.

he ran a hand through his hair. 'i didn’t push. i didn’t follow you after because i thought maybe you regretted the whole thing. that maybe i’d crossed a line. but hearing you talk just now…'

he finally looked at you—really looked. 'i’m not sorry, morgue girl.' his voice cracked open with softness. 'i’m not sorry i noticed. i’m not sorry i care. even if you don't believe me.'

you didn’t know what to say.

so he filled the silence.

'i don’t care how many bodies you’ve got waiting. i don’t care if you label scalpels or talk to corpses or live in the basement like a ghost.' a soft huff of a laugh.

'i like you,' he said. 'exactly as you are. warm or cold. overthinking or quiet. i like you.'

and then, quieter, 'but if you want me to stop… say the word. i will.' you swallowed hard. your eyes burned. and all you could whisper was. 'i didn't say that, i just—'

'what are you saying?' he asked. it should have been an easy question. what were you really saying? what did you want? as much as you wanted to say you wanted him and his sweet words. you couldn't make yourself speak.

he took another step closer. he was now standing right in front of you. 'tell me what you want.' it wasn't a request. it wasn't a question. it was a command, an order.

and god, if it didn't make your stomach swirl. if it didn't make you want to melt on the spot. you wanted to close your eyes. you wanted to break eye contact before you burst at the seams. you wanted to tell him exactly what you wanted. you wanted—

'you have to say it out loud, sweetheart.'

'oh my gosh.' you groaned, finally burying your head into your hands and breaking the eye contact you were sure was about to kill you. but he wasn't having it. he reached for you, finally, and his fingers brushed your own as he gentle pried your hands off your face.

'look at me, sweetheart.' he mumbled. 'look at me and tell me what you want.'

you groaned loudly. because why the heck was he so persistent. you took a deep breath and looked at him, like he told you to. you looked at him honestly and told him the only thing you knew how. 'this is really hard for me.'

he nodded. 'i know.' he mumbled and then untangled his fingers from you and you frowned. he almost thought it was cute. he brought both his hands to both sides of your face.

'i — i like the compliments. i do, its just — they make me loose focus, i can't concentrate because i sit there and i think about them non stop. i think — i think about you . . . non stop.' you confessed in the only way you knew how, word vomit. 'honestly, i don't think its really healthy the way i think about you and how much i think about you. and really its just —'

you stop talking abruptly when you see the smirk on his face and the impending laugh and you think he's laughing at you. and really you don't blame him. you probably sound so pathetic to him right now. 'and now your laughing at me. i knew this was a mistake.'

his smile immediately fell. 'no, no, no — i am not laughing at you. i am just surprised that you told me all that, your not exactly the most open person, sweetheart.'

and melt. you are a puddle on the ground. here lies the contents of you. cause of death, jack mother fucking abbot. 'so does this mean, your going to stop avoiding me like the plague.'

you flush. 'i wanna say yes, but honestly. i might unintentionally avoid you more. but please don't take it personally.' you confess.

you don't know what it is about jack abbot that makes you unintentionally bare your soul for him to judge with a mere request. he could probably say jump and you would shyly ask how high. it makes you both flush with embarrassment and makes you want to hit yourself for being so fucking whipped for a man you met a month ago ( and not to mention a man who yelled at you the first time you met. )

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[hearts4hughes]

Can you write more bsf!rafe getting surprised by readers actions please

warnings: mdni, unprotected sex, creampie

you say you’re going to the bathroom like it’s normal. like you’re not leaving him sprawled across your bed with cheetos on his chest and your netflix queue open to something embarrassing you’d never let anyone else see. “pause it,” you say, casual. “just—hold on.”

rafe doesn’t look up. he grunts, half-watching the screen and half-scrolling through your phone like it belongs to him. (you’d tossed it at him earlier so he could queue up a playlist. he never gave it back. now he’s reading your texts like he pays the bill.)

you leave, tip-toe into the bathroom. before you click the door shut, you glance back at him. he’s still laying down, eye furrowed at whatever message he’s reading. you bite your lip to surpress a giggle. he’s so clueless.

the lock clicks. rafe doesn’t think much of it. he scratches his stomach, licks orange powder from his knuckle, then flicks through your photos just to piss you off. he’s known you forever—since braces and bad bangs and the time you tried to kiss him in sixth grade and immediately regretted it. you’re his best friend. his shadow. his favorite person. you don’t get under his skin anymore.

that’s what he tells himself when the door creaks open and you step out like a secret. no sweatshirt. no oversized tee. no fuzzy pajama pants that drag on the carpet and make him think vaguely about tracing the curve of your calf just to see how fast you’d slap his hand away. it’s just you, standing there like something divine in in baby blue lace.

fuck.

he blinks once—slowly. doesn’t speak and doesn’t breathe. he doesn’t do anything except stare at the legs he’s absolutely not supposed to be staring at. “what?” you say, tone lilting, innocent, like this is something you do all the time. like it’s not the cruelest thing you’ve ever done to him.

“you’re-” he starts, then cuts himself off, jaw ticking as he looks away like the sight of you burns. “what the hell are you doing?” but his voice comes out rough and he’s already shifting his pants. you smile in reply.

“well, i got this at the mall yesterday.” you say it like this is normal. “and i think it’s really cute!” you blush, spinning around. as you move, the sheer babydoll dress lifts, exposing your matching thong. he chokes on his spit. as you hear his coughing, you halt with a frown. “do you not like it?” your lip quivers, voice all faux innocence.

he shakes his head and sputters out an incoherent sound. “n-no,” cough, “definitely not.” he tugs at the neckline of his shirt. suddenly the room is too hot and his pants are too tight. your lips curve upwards and you begin to move towards him. your hips sway with each step. as you get closer, rafe can see completely through the lingerie. your bra is just see-through enough that he can see your perky nipples. “jesus.”

the word falls out of him like a confession. and he means it—like he’s seen god and she’s wearing baby blue with a smirk that could ruin lives. you stop right in front of him. no more teasing steps, no more playful spin. just you, barefoot between his knees, and rafe’s hands still clenched in his lap like if he so much as twitches, you’ll vanish. but you don’t. you just look down at him with those wide, deliberate eyes, like you’re watching him crack from the inside.

“can i sit?” you ask, so fucking polite it borders on obscene. he nods—once and jerky. his brain’s short-circuiting and when you climb into his lap, straddling him with slow, deliberate movements, something in him snaps. he grabs your hips like he’s starving, like you didn’t just upend his entire world with a pair of lace panties and a smile. his mouth brushes your collarbone first. he’s tentative, like he doesn’t know where to start. but you thread your fingers into his hair and tug, just enough, and that’s all the permission he needs.

then he’s everywhere. his hands are at your waist, then your thighs, then hiking the flimsy fabric up so he can palm your ass with both hands. he’s kissing down your chest, mouth hot and open and hungry, teeth scraping the swell of your breast through the lace. you moan—quiet, breathless—and his hips jerk up into yours like instinct.

“this what you wanted?” he growls, voice gone low and filthy as he presses himself against the wet spot already blooming in your thong. “parade around in that fuckin’ thing until i break?” you nod, too breathless to tease, and he groans like it hurts. “then take it off,” he says. “or i will.”

you reach back, unclasp the bra slow enough to make him swear under his breath, and when it falls away, rafe loses whatever scraps of patience he had left. his mouth is on your chest, sucking, biting, hands gripping too tight like he still doesn’t believe this is real. his cock’s rock hard beneath you, straining against his sweatpants, and the friction’s making your legs tremble.

“need you,” you whisper, almost a plea, grinding down until he groans against your skin. he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to ruin you.

“condom’s in my wallet,” he mutters, already reaching blindly for the jeans he abandoned on the floor.

“rafe,” you breathe, hand cupping his cheek, “you can fuck me raw.” he stills. stares at you like you’ve set the room on fire. then something clicks. something dark and possessive and dangerous in his gaze.

“you sure?”

“positive.” that’s all it takes. his boxers are shoved down, yours are peeled off, and then he’s pushing inside. you knew he was big when you gave him head a little bit ago, but he feels even bigger inside of you. the stretch burns but it’s good, so good, and rafe’s watching you the whole time like you’re something holy.

“jesus christ,” he hisses as you squeeze around him, fingers digging into your hips. “so fuckin’ tight.” you rock against him, bodies pressed so close it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. your nails scratch down his back, his name falling from your lips in breathless whimpers, and he fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin. desperate. worshipful. “you feel—fuck, you feel insane,” he groans. “like you were made for me.”

he snaps his hips up, deep and fast, and your head falls back with a moan. “tell me you’re mine,” he says, voice wrecked. “say it.”

“i’m yours,” you pant, barely able to speak. “i’ve always been yours.” the way he growls in that low and possessive and starved way nearly tips you over the edge.

“cum for me,” he whispers, lips against your throat. “c’mon, pretty girl. i wanna feel you fall apart.”

you do. you shatter around him, gasping his name like a prayer, and he fucks you through it. moaning into your mouth as he follows, coming deep and hard and shaking beneath you. after, it’s quiet. the kind of quiet that crackles in the dark. rafe holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. like if he lets go, this’ll all fade into smoke.

but you just press a kiss to his jaw and smile against his skin. “guess i’m really yours now, huh?”

he laughs, breathless and wrecked, nose buried in your hair. “baby,” he mutters, “you’ve always been.”

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[horsesandfreckles]

Following many jokes on twitter about Marco the vampire who is mentally stuck in the fifties and kind of grossed out by the concept of biting people…I found my self doing this in an attempt to break my writers block. It’s choppy and awkwardly paced and kind of generic, but hey, it’s complete and about 5000 words, and hopefully having something out there in the world will make working on commissions a little less like pulling teeth.  Here ya go guys! Enjooyy.

God what a dork.

(Mild content warning, a little blood and sooort of blood play, I guess? He’s a vampire, you know what you’re getting in to)

There are things in life that just kind of blindside you.  Situations where you find yourself looking back over a long string of decisions, all of which seemed very reasonable at the time, very normal, very blah, all of which lead you to this completely incomprehensible place. 

Like, you know how the Mythbusters talk about having those “What the hell are we doing?” moments, when they’re about to drop a car out of a helicopter or blow up a robotic shark or whatever.  Or there’s those people who end up in extreme survival situations, like the movie where James Franco had to cut his arm off with a pocket knife.  (At least they tell me that’s what happened.  There is no amount of money, booze, or shirtless James Franco that would have gotten me into that theatre.)

Or there’s me, Jean Kirchstein, fairly normal 23 year old, college grad, sitting in the dark slightly woozy from bloodloss and trapped by a vampire.

Okay so it’s like noon and only dark because the curtains are drawn, and I’m only ‘trapped’ because he’s asleep on my chest, because he’s kinda hurt and really tired and…really really fucking cute and I don’t want to wake him up, okay. Even if he is drooling on me a little. 

His fangs retracted a while ago, which I suppose is a good thing ‘cause it means he’s not starving anymore but…the fangs are adorable, alright.  Yeah I should probably be scared of the guy with the set of hollow snake fangs behind his canines, but they kinda poke out and it makes him look like he’s biting his lip all the time and what with the coke-bottle glasses you get this kind of perpetually shocked effect and then he lisps when they fold all the way down and sue me it’s cute.

He’s cute.  He’s probably the worst vampire who ever lived, but he’s cute.

I actually didn’t even see Marco until a couple of weeks after I moved here, for reasons that are pretty obvious now…I moved in July, after all, and even in the Pacific Northwest it gets plenty hot.  And also bright and sunny.  And yeah, I know that sounds like the setup to Twilight, but the first time I saw Marco’s house reminded me of nothing so much as the first half-hour or so of Up.

Bellingham, Washington, where I’d just moved for my new job, isn’t exactly a big town, but the place I’d rented is in one of those sort of left-over hybrid areas, a messy snarl of alleys and old houses and new buildings…lots of gravel and cracked parking lots and not many trees.  And Marco’s house, this little pastel-yellow clapboard house with a blue shingled roof and a white picket fence for Christ’s sake.  No car, no garage, just an old Radio-Flyer bike that he never bothered to chain up, and which somehow never got stolen.  It has a lush green lawn and lots of flowers…at least I was fairly sure they were flowers…or would be…spiky, dark-leafed plants laden with long, heavy buds all furled up tight.  The place was clearly well loved and well cared for, but it was always quiet, heavy curtains closing it up tight as the flower buds during the day. 

I didn’t meet the house’s actual occupant until I pulled my first night shift.  My new job had me working sort of for the Coast Guard and sort of for the University of Seattle and let’s just skip the complicated part and go right to the I get to trap and track goddamn harbor seals okay how awesome is that.  The catch being that someone had to be listening to Seal Radio 24/7 to keep track of our collared critters, so everyone spent one week every few months on night shifts. 

This being late summer, the sun was only just starting to set when I left my building at 9.  The bookstore across the street, built into another old house that had survived the encroachment of fast food and box stores into the general area, was just closing up.  Hanji, the owner, who lives a floor down from me, came out the back door as I headed for my car, chatting with someone I didn’t recognize, a dark-haired guy with big horn-rimmed glasses and what looked like an honest to god Letterman’s jacket.  I barely spared them a glance, though, because I’d stopped dead in my tracks, staring at the yard of the yellow house across the alley.

The flowers were blooming, unfurling as I watched in the dusky half-light, opening into big, silvery-white trumpet blooms…and there were others mixed in with the big, showy ones, little ground creepers and some kind of climbing vine, most of them white but a few blue or yellow or even red, bloody and dark in the dim light.

“You like my flowers?”

Either I’d been really caught up by the show or he moved goddamned silently, because I hadn’t noticed him approach until he was right beside me.

“They’re…” I paused, swallowed, my normal shyness overwhelmed by the gorgeous night blooming garden.  I couldn’t come up with anything but the honest truth. “It’s incredible,” I said, still staring at the flowers.

He didn’t answer right away, and I turned my head in time to see him smile, warm and sweet and incredibly genuine, if a little lopsided.

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely.  His glasses were the real deal, coke-bottle thick, but they suited his big eyes and his soft features and the realization was creeping over me that this guy was really cute.  “I wish more people got to see them,” and there was a brief flicker, something dark and sad behind those sweet eyes.  “I’m Marco, by the way.”

“Jean.” His skin was so soft when he shook my hand, it took me a minute to register how cold he was, and he bit his lip nervously, like he wasn’t used to being touched and fuck that was cute.  

My phone buzzed in my pocket, jarring me back to reality and I realized how long I’d been standing in my lot, staring at his garden.  “Fuck.  I mean…sorry, I’ve got to get to work.  I’m on nights this week.”

“When are you done?”

“Probably around 6,” I said, and his face just lit up, and if I’d thought that shy smile was cute…shit…

“We’ve got the same hours,” he said, he’d lost that whispery shyness and gained a faint lisp in his enthusiasm.  “You should come by when you get off, and have breakfast…if…” he dropped his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck over the collar of his too-big 50’s jacket.  “If you want.”

And that was how the night-shift weeks I’d been dreading became my favorite times of the month.  Marco worked freelance for a lot of local antique dealers (Hanji’s bookshop included) doing restorations and repairs, and he explained that working at night suited him best, because it was so easy for sun to damage the delicate items he worked with.  He also claimed to be photosensitive, so he and his antiques avoided the sunlight together. 

It made it easy for me to shrug off the odd blue tinge in his otherwise fairly dark complexion (how someone who almost never saw sunlight could have so many freckles was beyond me.)  And he was so sweet, so welcoming…so easy to talk to that I never really thought twice about…about a lot of things.  Like the fact that every time he made me breakfast he’d load up two plates, but hardly ever ate in front of me.  Like the fact that all the food I’d seen him cook came out of one of those little cube-shaped dorm fridges, plugged in beside a big black freezer with a latched handle that I never saw him open, and if I left after the sun was up he wouldn’t come outside with me. 

It was late September when someone broke into Hanji’s bookshop.  It was a night shift week for me, and I returned home in the morning to find two cop cars parked in our lot and Hanji talking quietly to the officers, pausing occasionally to wipe the tears off her cheeks.  Someone had thrown a rock through the front window of her shop, grabbed anything that looked valuable and trashed the rest.  The cost of the plate-glass window far outweighed the value of what they’d taken, but the sheer stupid pettiness of it made my stomach churn. 

It was cloudy and cool, spitting rain that morning and Marco was outside, sweeping up the glass. I called my boss while Hanji talked to the cops, to lay claim to a couple sheets of plywood that had been lying around our dumpsters so we could cover the window.  Then I went to help Marco clean up the mess. 

By unspoken agreement we made Hanji stay inside, out of the rain, while we worked. She called her one employee, a sweet Classic Lit major named Moblit by loving, if unwise parents, to tell him not to bother coming to work.  He showed up anyway, after his classes got out, and joined her trying to piece the inventory back together while Marco and I tried to patch the window. Despite the rainclouds Marco swapped out his coke-bottles for a pair of wraparound sunglasses, and the faint daylight made the weird pallor of his skin all the more noticeable. We didn’t talk much, both of us running on righteous indignation and too little sleep, which is a bad combination for dealing with massive amounts of broken glass.  It was really only a matter of time, and to no-one’s surprise it was me who broke the silence in an explosion of cursing, a long sliver of glass poking straight through the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. 

“Fuckin’ piece of shit, Jesus Murphy…Marrco, where’d that towel go?” I tugged at the splinter only to have my fingers slip off in the blood…a lot of blood for such a minor slice and of course it was my dominant left hand I’d managed to fuck up.  “Marco?”

I looked up to find him staring at me, frozen, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses.  He was rigid, shoulders trembling under that dumb green jacket, sweat beading up on his forehead.  “You okay man?” I asked. 

He seemed to shake himself, and reached down to pick up an old rag off the toolbox Hanji had dragged out of the basement, his movements still weird and stilted. I reached out unthinkingly with my left hand, still coated in sticky streams of blood from the puncture in my thumb, and Marco reared back, lips parting and he honest-to-god hissed at me, the sound harsh and feral and just entirely wrong coming from my sweet neighbor.  His sunglasses slipped and he clapped a hand over his eyes, turning away from me too fast.

“Can’t…I can’t, can’t sorry—“ his voice sounded odd, slurred like he was talking around a mouthful of marbles and then he turned and ran, scrambling over the fence and disappearing through the door of his little yellow house with a snap. The blue curtains flew closed a second later.

“Fuck,” I muttered to myself, awkwardly wrapping the towel around my bleeding hand.  Poor guy must be hemophobic…and he’d been dealing with glass all day, when getting cut up was practically guaranteed…

Mo got the splinter out of my hand and helped me finish covering the empty window, and I retreated to my apartment to grab a couple hours of sleep before my Seal Radio shift started.  I was running late when I emerged again, a shuffling zombie with a throbbing hand, but I still had to pause on the doorstep to appreciate Marco’s flowers…nearly October, but his little garden continued to put on one hell of a show as soon as the sun went down. 

If he hadn’t been such a good gardener, I never would have stopped to watch his flowers bloom…and I never would have seen him.  He was sitting on the front steps of Hanji’s bookstore, curled up inside his letterman’s jacket, knees pulled up to his chest and his arms resting on top of them, practically hugging himself.  And still wearing his sunglasses at 9:30…clearly there was only one choice of song to hum as I wandered over on the way to my car.

“Hey.”

“Mm.” he didn’t look up at me, barely even made a sound.

“Hey man, sorry about earlier.  I didn’t realize you had a thing about—“  Marco just shook his head, waving me off.

“Don’ worry about it.” He still sounded weird, his normal lisp more pronounced and his words slurred and tired.

“What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“I told Hanji I’d keep watch. In case they come back.”

“You’re keeping watch?” I couldn’t help but grin.  Little skinny Marco in his 50’s jacket and his Buddy Holly glasses and his goddamn bowtie.  Marco the watchdog.  “You’re sure you don’t just wanna leave it to the police?”

“I told her I’d keep watch,” he said stubbornly, still with that faint, drunken slur.  It was cool, verging on chilly as the sun went down, but that speech pattern made the boy-scout medic in me perk up its ears.

I knelt down next to Marco and pressed my hand to his forehead.  He started and moved to slap me away, but I’d already felt plenty.  He was hot to the touch, in that unhealthy, feverish way, heat overlaying clammy cold, his hands trembled, and I was close enough to see that his lips were dry and cracked.  His skin was tacky with dried sweat, but there was no new moisture on his skin…fuckin’ hell, he was not kidding about the photosensitivity.

“Marco, get inside.”

“I told her—“

“I’ll ask the cops to drive by, come on.”  Don’t ask me how, it hadn’t cracked 70 degrees all day, but I’d been first aid officer on too many research boats not to recognize these symptoms. “You’ve got heatstroke, genius.”

I tugged him to his feet, ignoring his grumpy protests.  He swayed heavily when I got him up, leaning into me, head sagging against my shoulder.  “Noooo, noo Jean ‘m fine…”

“You are not fine, buddy.  Come on.”

He kept up a trail of woozy protests as I steered him across his lawn and into his little house’s kitchen.   He was still hot, but he’d stopped sweating and that spelled major-league dehydration.  How he’d managed to avoid puking up major organ systems was beyond me…must not have eaten much today. 

I was just a little reluctant to sit him down at the kitchen table…it probably makes me a terrible person, but whatever, it was nice, having his weight pressing into me, my arm snug around his waist as he leaned on me.  It was sweet. Comforting.  And a reminder that I’d lived here three months already and barely made any friends.  A reminder that no one had touched me for a long time.  Long enough that hauling my heatsick neighbor in to his house was making my stomach flutter.  Jean Kirchstein, functional adult human in every way…

At least I knew how to handle heatsickness. I deposited Marco in a chair and drew him a big glass of water.  Some kind of sugary juice would be good too, but dehydration was the first problem to be dealt with here. 

I held out the glass, and he just…stared, blank and confused, looking from me to the glass in my hand like I was offering him a live armadillo. He still hadn’t moved to take his sunglasses off. I stared back, confused by his confusion.

“What’s that for?”

“What’s it for—you’re dehydrated, dumbshit.” I picked his arm up by the loose sleeve of that damn jacket and slapped the glass into it.  “Drink.”

“Oh…oh!” he started, finally getting the picture (poor guy was loopier than I thought) and actually started to take the glass—and then he froze, lips peeling back from his teeth, and his hand jerked, batting my arm away and sending the glass flying, water splashing over both of us. 

It only took me a second to realize what was wrong…the bloodstained gauze pad taped to the base of my thumb.  I snatched my hand back, jamming it my pocket to hide the stain.  Dumbass.  He remembered that I liked half and half in hazelnut coffee for most of a month, and I couldn’t remember a major phobia for three hours.

“Shit, Marco, I’m sorr..y…” the apology died in my throat as Marco’s sunglasses, knocked loose by his sudden jerk, slipped down his wet nose and clattered to the floor. 

His eyes were glowing. 

Not in the cheesy bad-fanfiction sense…not even like a cat’s eyes reflecting light in the dark. His eyes were literally casting light, a faint golden haze on his cheeks, his hands, even faintly visible on the floor as he dropped his eyes to avoid my face.  It made his skin look paler…or maybe that wasn’t just an effect of the light…

I couldn’t breathe.

“Water won’t help,” he whispered, soft and indistinct.  He was practically curled in on himself by this point, clutching at the sleeves of his too-big jacket, his fingers shaking and I still couldn’t breathe right but I was also finding it impossible to be scared.  Whatever he was, he was still Marco and I just couldn’t believe he would hurt me.  I crossed the kitchen and knelt down next to him, and he twisted his face away.

“Marco…” I reached out and put both hands on his shoulders, felt him shiver inside his jacket when my bloodstained left hand touched him.  “What can I do?”

He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me, just raised one hand and pointed across the kitchen to the big black freezer, the palm of his other hand pressed over his eyes.  I squeezed his shoulders before I stood, took a deep breath and pulled the heavy latched door open.

The door swung back with a blast of serious cold, condensing mist swirling and settling around racks of…blood packs.

It barely even came as a surprise. 

I lifted one of the hanging packs down, oddly heavy and gelatinous to the touch.  Seattle Medical Center, AB+, exp. 21-07-2014…it was expired.  I looked at another label, and another…all expired.

“I don’t take O-negative either,” Marco mumbled behind me as I stared at the bag of blood in my hand.  “’s too valuable, even expired.  I don’t take anything they can still use…”

Here I was, standing in a vampire’s kitchen with a fresh stab wound in my hand, holding a bag of human blood from his personal refrigerator…

And he’s the one who sounded scared. 

I very deliberately stuck my left hand back in my pocket and held out the bag in my right.  He still wouldn’t look at me, the light from his glowing eyes a faint pool on the floor of the rapidly darkening room.  Eventually, I just set the thing down on the tabletop, next to his hand, and stepped back.

“Thankth,” he whispered, lisp more pronounced than ever, and then he finally looked up at me, those big, kind eyes glowing gold, backlit like sunlight through a glass of whiskey.  His canines were elongated now; the points would have been poking into his bottom lip even if he hadn’t been worrying it nervously between his teeth.  He looked different without his glasses…less round, soft edges, his hair was ruffled out of its normal dorky center part, falling into his lit up eyes…he almost looked cool.

“Jean…turn around?”

“Hah?”

His eyes dropped again as he picked up the blood pack off the table.  “Don’ look.  Don’ watch me…pleathe?” His voice was shaky, pleading, and I gritted my teeth and turned away, hearing him hunch over the plastic pack.

There was a faint pop, like a straw going into a juice pouch…silence…and then, right at the edge of hearing, a faint slurping sound, like a straw at the bottom of a milkshake.

His fangs must be hollow, I thought. Like snake fangs. And the longer that ridiculous noise went on, the harder it was getting not to laugh. 

“O-okay,” he stammered eventually.  The trashcan lid clattered and I turned around, searching his face as he avoided my eyes.  There wasn’t a speck of blood anywhere on him, until he licked his lips nervously, his tongue leaving a tiny streak across his lower lip.  He pulled his arms out of his jacket sleeves and hugged himself, huddled up in his shell of green leather.

We stood there in awkward silence.  I mean, what do you say when you’ve just found out that your sweet, shy night-owl of a neighbor is a vampire.  A freckly socially awkward vampire who dresses like he’s stuck in the fifties and only drinks expired donor blood.  And never O-negative. 

Dork.

Marco shivered, gritting his teeth, and for someone who was supposed to be recovering from dehydration he sure didn’t look much better.  If anything he’d gotten paler, the shadows under his eyes darker and heavier.

“You okay, man?”

He nodded, smiling crookedly.  “It’s the cold…gh…” he groaned softly as another shiver tore down his spine.  “Give it a minute…I uh.” He sighed. “I don’t generate much body heat, y’know?”

“You get your warmth from the blood, don’t you?” I said, coming a little closer.  He still wouldn’t look at me.  “Drinking it frozen hurts you.”

Marco shrugged.  He was still shivering, but the eerie glow had faded out of his eyes.  He gnawed at his lower lip, a fang digging into the corner of his mouth, we were only a few feet apart and in that second, closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around him seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. 

I slid my arms around his waist and pulled him against me, folding his heavy jacket around both of us.  It was kind of like hugging a block of ice.

You know. In a good way. 

“Mmm…J—Jean—“

“This okay?” I asked.  I’d intended it to be a tender whisper, but the second my lips parted I got a mouthful of hair, and the result was kind of choked.  He laughed weakly and his cold face pressed into my neck, sending a shiver down my spine that was only mostly from the cold. 

“More than okay,” he said, sighing into my shoulder, his arms tight around my neck, and I gave into temptation and nuzzled my face into his soft hair.

“Hey. Which way’s your bedroom?” Marco went ramrod stiff in my arms, head popping out of the crook of my shoulder, hair sticking up in all directions as he opened his mouth, mouthing soundlessly at me.  “I was gonna get your frozen butt a blanket, dumbass.”

“O-oh.” He looked down, embarrassed…and maybe it was my imagination, but he might have looked just a little disappointed…”It’s this way…”

He still looked cold and sick as he led me down the hall.  His bedroom was tiny, cozy, and mostly occupied by a huge, fluffy-looking four-poster bed.  I looked around as he sat down on the edge and picked up his comforter, suddenly very aware of the throbbing cut on my left hand,

“Hey…Marco.”  He looked up at me, glasses still pushed up on his forehead making his hair stick up in all directions, cocooned in his comforter and fucking adorable…I sat down next to him, picking up a loose end of the blanket so I could wrap it around both of us, sharing my heat.  ”You know there’s an alternative to the whole frozen blood thing, right?”  He blinked, looking confused, and I pulled my bandaged hand out of my pocket and held it up in his line of sight.

He looked away instantly, gritting his teeth.  “No.” he whispered, shaking his head hard enough to make his bangs snap against his skin, but his eyes were giving off that odd light again. “No no no…”

“I’m already cut,” I said, settling my uninjured hand on his shoulder, letting my thumb brush against his neck.  “You drink donated blood, right? Just consider it a donation straight to you.”  He glanced up at me through his bangs, enough to see that I was smiling, and huffed out a laugh. 

“It’ll make you feel better, right?”

He sighed and nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “It’d help…”

“Okay then.” I picked the tape over the back of my hand loose and tugged off the gauze, a little droplet of blood welling up where the scab pulled off, and Marco was suddenly breathing very fast beside me, under the confines of his quilt.  I crooked my fingers, and his hand shot out and locked around my wrist, shackle-tight.

“Say I’ve got your permission,” he said, voice soft and tight.

“Marco, it’s fine—“

“Say it!” he said.  “The whole thing, just say you give me permission…”

“Ohhh is this like the threshold thing?” I said, sitting up straighter, pulling my feet up onto the bed so I could turn to face him. “Can’t cross the threshold unless you’re invited, one of the vampire rules?”  Marco just looked away again.

“It’s one of my rules,” he mumbled.

“Marco…” I took his hand and flipped it over, laying the back of my cut hand across his palm.  “I’m giving you my permission to drink my blood.” He shivered, not from the cold this time, fingers tightening around my hand. 

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.  And among the things I am sure of, I am sure it is not possible for you to drain me of blood via my thumb.”

He finally laughed, really laughed, the weird gold light cast by his eyes skating across my face, and raised my hand to his lips.  I took a deep breath, my heart suddenly fluttering against my ribs, as he met my eyes and pressed a gentle kiss to the center of my palm.

“M-marco—“ the tip of his tongue flicked across the cut at the base of my thumb. The surface of his tongue was a little abrasive, like a cat’s, wiping away the scab and I felt a faint sting as the blood began to flow.  His fangs had extended…and I realized his teeth didn’t grow, he had an entire second set of canines that folded down from behind, up near the roof of his mouth.  He seemed to be holding them back though, out of the way (so they dug into his bottom lip, fucking adorable nerd) and a warm, tingling sensation flooded through my hand, up my arm and across my chest in a wave.  I was biting my own lip, wriggling and squirming as his tongue flicked over the cut, over the blood pooling in my palm, that warmth running through me in little shocks fuck did that feel good…

I pitched foreward, leaning into him, our foreheads pressed together and his fingers tightened on my wrist, thumb running in soft little circles over the sensitive skin as his lips closed over my skin.  His other hand came up, still a little hesitant, cupped around the back of my neck and his touch was no longer icy cold, warming up by the second as his long fingers trailed through the shorter hair at the nape of my neck. 

“Marco…M-marco, fuck that feels good…”

“I-I…Jean, you taste nice,” he whispered into my skin, his lips bright red with blood, my blood that should be grossing me out, but fuck if that sight didn’t go straight to my dick.  “You taste so good—“  and the wonder in his voice made me laugh.

“I wondered if you’d notice…” I said, my voice sounded blown out and breathless in my own ears and his fingers tightened in my hair.  “I’m O-negative.”

“Really?” He pulled off my hand and sat up, and the second he was distracted his fangs slipped down all the way, slotting in over his human canines.  “That’th why you tathte tho different!  I alwayth wondered…Jean thtop laughing…”

“I-I’m sorry,” I choked, between gasps of laughter.  “I can’t…it’s the teeth.”

“They’re thupothed to be thcary.” He sniffed, attempting to look haughty, wrapped in a blanket with his hair all fluffed up and his stupid protruding fangs, and with the warmth of my blood in his cheeks he was honest to god blushing and I really had no other option but to kiss him. 

He gasped into my mouth, and then his eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing my cheeks and he was kissing me back, arms winding around my neck and pulling me hard against him and I pressed the advantage, tipping us over sideways so we were lying face to face in his huge fluffy bed, his quilts tangled around us and our hands still twined together between our chests. 

“You’re so…mm…so…warm,” he stammered out, kissing me between every word and it felt like my heart was about to beat its way out of my chest. 

“You’re so cute.”

“Thcary, Kirthschth…you know what I’m not even going to try.”

I giggled, kissing him again.  “Scary, you say.”

His hands locked around my wrists again and the next thing I knew I was on my back, Marco leaning over me so we were nose to nose.  “Jean?” he purred, fangs folding back a little so they impeded his speech less and his voice was suddenly low and husky, vibrating through me where our chests pressed together.

“Y-yeah?”

“I am the night,” he rasped, and I almost kneed him in the back of the head as I doubled up with laughter.  Marco giggled and collapsed on top of me, curling up on my chest.

“You okay?”

“The night is sleepy.”

I smiled and scooted back, pulling him with me till I could lean into the mass of pillows, cuddling him close against my chest.  “Shit…I need to call my boss…”

His arms wrapped tight around my waist and I might as well have been chained to the bed. (File that idea away for future reference.)

“The night says you make a good pillow.”

“You are such a nerd.”

He leaned up and kissed me again, before flopping back down on my chest. “Shhhhhh.”

“Marco—“ a lacy pillow slapped me across the face.

“Shhhhhhhhhh.”

“I’ll just have to tell you you’re gorgeous and perfect and wonderful some other time, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I rolled my eyes up at ceiling, glad it was dark enough to hide my goofy-ass grin, and fished in my pocked for my cell phone as Marco grumbled into my chest.

How the fuck was I gonna explain this to my boss…

In which Marco is the worst vampire ever. Just. The Worst.

Following many jokes on twitter about Marco the vampire who is mentally stuck in the fifties and kind of grossed out by the concept of biting people…I found my self doing this in an attempt to break my writers block. It’s choppy and awkwardly paced and kind of generic, but hey, it’s complete and about 5000 words, and hopefully having something out there in the world will make working on commissions a little less like pulling teeth.  Here ya go guys! Enjooyy.

God what a dork.

(Mild content warning, a little blood and sooort of blood play, I guess? He’s a vampire, you know what you’re getting in to)

Keep reading

[g00d--m0urning]

Final Destination: Your House (CH. 6)

You finally get to the bottom about what's been going on with everybody.

(A/N: I'm going on vacay tomorrow and I'll be gone until Wednesday. I still plan on writing, but I don't know what we have planned, so just in case I'm too busy, I don't want to disappear)

(current list of planned in depth apology/make-up one-shots: Abel, Celia, Daisuke. Dorian, Curt&Rod (request), Eddie&Volt, Skylar, Tony, Jacque (request), Johnny (request), Hector (request), Betty (request), Mac (request), Tina (request), Kristof (request), Hanks (request))

The dateables wait and wait for you to put the dateviators back on, watching with bated breath each time you pass them, but you never do. Days go by without getting to speak with you and it’s killing them. 

Everybody knows they messed up and they want to make up for it! However, they can’t make up for it if you never speak to them again. There’s no telling who’s more distressed over the fact. Skylar is falling apart, Eddie and Volt have had several spark outs, Tony is breaking his back trying to fix things out of guilt, even Telly is starting to worry and he didn’t even do anything!

The house is falling apart and it’s your fault! Before you got those godforsaken glasses, everybody was perfectly fine without being acknowledged by you and now they can’t function without you. 

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

It’s peaceful without having all of your house alive. You almost forgot what it was like making breakfast without chatting up your appliances, or walking through doors without making some sort of teasing comment. It’s hard to tell how you feel about it. 

You’re loading laundry into Washford when the power flickers, nothing to be terribly concerned about, presumably a dead light bulb. It goes again, longer this time, as you get Washford started. There’s an annoying feeling of concern eating at your nerves and you can’t help but wonder if Volt and Eddie are ok. 

It happens two more times before you crack. The whole way up the stairs is spent debating whether or not you should be doing this; speaking with them might make things worse, if they even talk to you in the first place. 

You stand in front of the breaker box, dateviators clutched in your hand. With shaky hands, you turn them on, slowly settling them on your face. You step into the Breaker Box, looking around the deserted bar.

“Eddie? Volt?” 

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

The duo freezes at the sound of your voice, already choking up. They’ve never heard a sweeter sound. Immediately, they drop what they were doing, finding you in the main area. You’re really there, standing only a few feet from them.

“Livewire?” Volt steps out from the shadows first, a deep set frown on his normally beaming face.

Eddie follows shortly behind him, setting down the rag he had in his hands onto the bar, “You came.” 

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

“You flickered,” you shrug slightly, brushing their surprise off like it’s nothing, “It was kind of annoying… I… was also worried, so… Yeah.”

Your lips turn up just enough to clue them in on the fact that you’re teasing. It’s awkward and stiff, but it's something. “Are you guys ok?”

Both of them seem to deflate at the question, tension leaving their body by the minute. Volt gestures at the booth you always sit in, sliding into the left side, along with Eddie. You sit opposite of them, waiting for them to start.

“We’re ok,” Eddie is the first one to speak.

“No we’re not,” Volt corrects him, shooting his partner a look you can’t decipher, “nobody is.”

“What do you mean ‘nobody’?” you ask, head turning side-to-side in search of somebody else in the bar, expecting somebody else to pop up, out of the shadows. 

“You don’t see it, do you?” Eddie scoffs, running his tongue over his bottom lip, “How could you? Considering you haven’t put those dumbass glasses on in days.”

Volt stomps on Eddie’s foot, making the wire man grunt, elbowing Volt in retaliation, “What Eddie means, livewire, is that the house is a mess without you.”

Guilt burns the back of your throat like the nasty oil you guzzle with Hoove; you figured they’d all be fine without you around. They were before, “I’m not going to apologize,” you finally tell them. You’re tired of apologizing.

“No one expects you to,” Volt nods, setting his hands on the table, yearning to reach for you.

“Good,” you nod, eyes flitting from his hands to his face. You don’t take them. “Why?” is all you ask, looking between the pair. 

“That’s not for us to answer, spark. It is our wrong doing to apologize for, though. And please know, we are truly sorry,” Volt answers, placing his hands in his lap.

“... I’m sorry, livewire,” Eddie whispers. His eyes gleam in the low light with what you’d guess tears, if you didn’t know any better.

“I need time,” you respond, swallowing the lump in your throat, sliding out of the booth, “but thank you.”

Both of them stand up with you, nodding their heads solemnly, “That’s more than alright, livewire,” Volt assures, stepping forward before realizing what he was trying to do, taking a half-step back. 

You smile half-heartedly, stepping forward and pressing a kiss to each man’s cheek, “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

The kiss seemingly lights a fire under them, smiles gracing both of their faces, “Of course, spark. You take care too,” Volt says first, Eddie echoing the sentiment soon after. 

There’s a weight off your chest when you leave, feeling less like you have to drag your feet the whole way. With a renewed pep in your step, and a mission to get to the end of this, you set out for Celia’s office. If it’s not Eddie and Volt’s to share, then it has to be her’s. 

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

Word spread quickly that you put the dateviators back on, so Celia has been prepping her speech. She’s thrown out idea after idea, but nothing feels right. One apologizes too much without addressing the problem, the other does the opposite. Nothing feels right.

The door to her office opens, revealing you standing in the doorway, “I’ve been expecting you,” she tells you, pulling a chair out for you, not stepping back until you’re settled.

Celia sighs softly, sitting down in the chair next to you, facing you head on, “There’s someone else who I think needs to be included in this conversation,” she tells you, leaning over her desk and requesting Florence to send in her guest.

Skylar walks in, unable to meet your eyes as she sits down in the chair next to Celia, “Hi,” she murmurs, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Thank you for joining us, Skylar,” Celia says, smiling politely at Skylar, “Would you like me to start or shall you?”

“I want to say it,” Skylar whispers, finally looking up at you. She’s been crying, her eyes puffy behind her glasses, “I’m so sorry, everything that’s happened has been my fault.”

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

You’re unsure how to react when Skylar drops that bomb. Is it her fault? What’s she mean it’s her fault? She holds her hands up, signaling for you to let her continue before asking questions.

“I’m the reason everyone’s been avoiding you. It was my idea; after movie night, I got so freaked out over the documentary that I suggested we all leave you alone, so you wouldn’t get hurt,” she says through sobs, gasping as she tries to compose herself, “Please don’t hate me.”

There’s a lot to unpack there and you don’t know where to start. It’s shocking to learn that everybody’s behavior is partially Skylar’s fault- she can’t take the entire blame, everyone played a role in this. Especially over something as trivial as a… “Documentary?”

“Yes, documentary. You can save us the lecture, however. Telly has already informed us that our intentions, while well meaning, were… A bit misplaced,” Celia cuts in, setting a hand on Skylar’s back.

The world fades around you, a faint buzzing filling your ears. You bend over, shoulders shaking slightly, “Oh, my god,” you mumble. All of this, the panic attacks, everyone’s behavior is because they thought Final Destination was a documentary. 

You can’t tell if that makes the situation worse or better. On one hand, they were doing it to protect you, on the other, nobody even thought to talk to you.

“Are you laughing or crying?” Celia questions, eyeing you worriedly.

“I don’t know,” you exclaim, pressing your palms into your eyes. It’s both: you’re crying and laughing, “I need to go,” you tell them, standing up.

“Please don’t go,” Skylar pleads, grabbing your arm, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, we were idiots.”

“You were! None of you talked to me! Did you ever plan on telling me or were you just going to let me think you all hated me?” you ask, yanking your arm from her grip.

“We thought it was for the best!” she retorts, reaching for you again, but you don’t let her grab you again.

“I get that, I do, but you thought wrong,” you yell back, wiping your tears off with your sleeve, “I need time to think about this, Sky. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Promise,” she steps back, biting down on her lip to keep it from trembling.

“Promise,” you confirm, taking the dateviators off after.

You stagger to your bed, collapsing onto the mattress in a mess of tears. All of this, over a movie, over a grade-A miscommunication. 

Tomorrow. It’ll be fixed tomorrow, for better or for worse.

[dakusan]

K e e p y o u r e y e o n t h e b a l l — n o , n o t m e .

Kim Seungmin x Reader | summer tension, casual bullying, accidental kiss, no one talks about it

⚾Synopsis: You’ve been best friends with Kim Seungmin long enough to survive his dry sarcasm, brutal honesty, and aggressively passionate love for the Giants. But when a summer afternoon spirals into an impromptu baseball lesson, things start to feel... different. You can’t swing to save your life. He can’t seem to stop smiling at you. Between missed pitches, bad jokes, and one very accidental kiss, something shifts. Neither of you says anything about it. But maybe it’s time to stop pretending you’re just playing around.

💌a/n: THIS WAS REQUESTED BY 🐈 ANON. i really hope you like itttttt !!!!! 😭😭 this was supposed to be light fluff and then it became “he catches you mid-fall and almost confesses with his eyes” and honestly?? worth it. summer baseball bestie chaos supremacy. thank you for reading ily <3 p.s. reblogs feed my delulu and your support keeps this bat-swinging loser going p.p.s. if you want a part 2 where someone finally cracks and kisses for real, you know what to do 👀

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Love me or Leave Me — DAY6 « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:43 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You and Seungmin have been best friends since the first year of university—bonded over a shared love of sarcastic comebacks, matching dark academia pens, and the mutual hatred of your professor's existence.

Somewhere between project deadlines and late-night ramen runs, the friendship just... stuck. He became the person who knew your order before you said it, who memorized your fake laugh vs your real one. You became the person who knew when he needed space and when he needed someone to sit in that space, quietly, next to him.

And yes, you’ve had fights. He still won’t forgive you for liking the wrong baseball team.

“Wrong” being... anyone but the Giants.

You wore a cap from their rival team once to school—on purpose—and he refused to look at you the entire day. Wouldn’t even speak to you in third period.

Now, it’s summer. Classes and exams are over. You’re sprawled across the sunlit steps of a neighbourhood café, sipping iced coffee when you say it.

“Okay, don’t laugh, but... I’ve never actually played baseball.”

You meant it casually. Offhand. But his head turns so fast you wonder if he gave himself whiplash.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Not even in PE? Not even wiffle ball?”

“Not even tee-ball,” you say, grinning. “Are you judging me right now?”

“Absolutely.”

A pause. Then, almost too quickly to seem normal, he says, “Wanna learn?”

You blink at him. “Right now?”

He shrugs. “I’ve got a glove and a bat at home. The field’s, like, two blocks from here. Unless you’re scared.”

“Oh, please. I’m gonna smoke you.”

That gets a scoff. “You don’t even know how to hold a bat.”

“Teach me, then, Coach Kim.”

His mouth quirks. You pretend not to see the way he fights a smile. You always pretend.

Twenty minutes later, the sun’s hanging just low enough to stretch gold across the field. The grass is uneven in places, broken up by dirt patches and lazy summer bugs. A warm breeze skims your skin.

Seungmin stands by the first base line, glove slung over one shoulder, bat in the other. He’s in a sleeveless tee, hair swept up by the wind, and when you walk up wearing his least favourite team’s logo across your chest, he stops mid-step.

“You did not.”

You grin. “What? I figured I’d dress for war.”

“That’s not war,” he mutters. “That’s betrayal.”

“Bold of you to assume I was ever on your side.”

“Oh, you’ll be begging to switch sides once you see how bad you are.”

He tosses you the glove. You catch it with a bit too much flair, which only makes his eyes narrow. “Don’t embarrass me out here, rookie.”

“Who said I’m here for you, Giants boy?”

He rolls his eyes, spins the bat once in his palm, and says it without thinking: “You’re lucky I like you.”

You freeze. He does, too. But then he’s already walking away, toward the pitcher’s mound, calling over his shoulder: “Let’s go, traitor.”

“You really weren’t kidding,” Seungmin says, watching you hold the bat like it personally offended you.

You blink at him. “I am holding it right.”

“No, you’re holding it like it’s a lightsaber.”

“Oh come on, like you wouldn’t join the rebellion.”

He groans. “Okay. That’s it. Give me your hands.”

You expect him to just point. Maybe mimic the movement. What you don’t expect is for him to step in behind you, one arm reaching around your waist, the other curling gently over your hand on the bat.

He’s right there. Not just close—there. You can feel the heat of his chest at your back, the steady rhythm of his breath brushing your temple. One of his hands lightly adjusts your fingers, the other—hesitating for just a second—guides your shoulder into place.

“This is… okay,” he mutters, voice lower now. “Hands stacked. Elbows up. And, um, feet—hold on—”

He shifts one of your feet with his, nudging the side of your sneaker. Your brain has officially stopped functioning. So has his. Because the second he realizes how small your hand is in his, how soft your skin is, how your hair smells like you, he’s absolutely panicking. On the inside. Outside, he’s keeping it together with a perfectly blank expression, but inside?

💥🔥🚨 INTERNAL MELTDOWN 🚨🔥💥

“Okay…” he murmurs, swallowing. “Now just… swing smooth. Like—wait, I’ll show you.”

He moves with you, hips ghosting behind yours, arms guiding your follow-through. His breath stutters just slightly when your back presses against his chest.

You say nothing, just glance over your shoulder—right into his face.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes soft. A little wide.

You’re both suddenly, violently aware of how close your mouths are. You shift a little. So does he.

“Seungmin,” you whisper.

He blinks, like snapping out of a spell. Steps back so fast he nearly stumbles. “You’ve—uh. Got the form now. You’re good.” He clears his throat. “Like. Fine. Whatever.”

You lower the bat, heart thudding. “Did I pass basic training?”

He won’t look at you. “Barely.”

But you catch the flush on his ears and narrow your eyes watching him as you twirl the bat lazily in your hands, pretending not to feel the way your pulse is still echoing in your throat.

Seungmin, meanwhile, looks like he’s trying to reformat his brain in real-time. His voice is flat when he says, “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You square up again, wiggling your fingers dramatically. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

He snorts. “You look like you’re about to summon a Pokémon.”

“Don’t mock me, Coach Kim.”

“Then stop acting like I dragged you here against your will. You volunteered for this.”

“I volunteered to learn,” you shoot back. “Not to be emotionally violated in the form of public athletic humiliation.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Big words for someone who’s about to miss five pitches in a row.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He jogs to the mound and lines up. You catch him biting the inside of his cheek as he stares you down like he’s trying really hard not to smile. Or combust.

He throws an underhand toss. You swing.

Miss.

“Okay, that one was a practice round—”

“Sure it was.”

“Again!”

Second toss. Swing.

Air.

He blinks. “You might be the worst person I’ve ever seen hold a bat.”

“Say that again and I’ll throw it at you.”

“You’d miss.”

You glare. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The words fly out before you can stop them. His entire face glitches. “Sorry—what?” he calls, hand cupped to his ear, pure evil in his grin. “Didn’t hear that.”

“I said you’re rude!”

“Not what it sounded like—”

“Just pitch, Giants boy!!”

He throws another. You hit the ball this time, barely. It rolls weakly toward the pitcher’s mound. Seungmin watches it. Then looks back at you, utterly unimpressed. “That was so sad I think the bat cried.”

“Shut up—”

You charge him. You don’t mean to. But the embarrassment burns so bad, you sprint forward to hit him with the glove—just once—just enough to wipe the smug look off his stupid beautiful face.

He dodges. Barely. Grabs your wrist before you can swing again. And you both freeze. Your chest heaves. His fingers are around your wrist light but firm. You’re closer than you thought you’d get.

Again.

“You’re kind of a menace,” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow. “You like it.”

He doesn’t let go. “Maybe I do.”

And suddenly it’s not a joke anymore. It’s that moment again. Too close. Too quiet. Too something. But this time, you’re the one who pulls back first. “Still hate the Giants,” you say, tossing your glove up and catching it again, acting cool. “And your pitch sucks.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“Oh, I already do.”

“Alright, traitor. Bat up. Let’s go again.”

You plant your feet. Raise the bat. Narrow your eyes like you’re staring down a final boss.

Seungmin is unimpressed. “You look like a gremlin trying to lift Thor’s hammer.”

You flip him off with one hand. “Shut it.”

“Not even in the ballpark of intimidating.”

“That’s funny, coming from someone who looks like he skipped leg day for the past four years.”

“Excuse me?” he gasps, hand to chest like you mortally wounded him. “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He blinks. Then smirks. “Okay.”

He pitches. You swing. You spin in a full 360 and almost fall over.

“OH MY GOD,” Seungmin shouts from the mound, cackling. “YOU SPUN LIKE A BEYBLADE—”

“I slipped!!”

“You whiffed the air like it owed you money!!”

You glare at him as you steady yourself. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Correction: I’m the only reason you haven’t knocked yourself unconscious with that bat.”

“I could knock you unconscious.”

He shrugs. “Try it. I’ll add it to your record of great achievements in failure.”

You make a face. “Wow. You really flirt like this, huh?”

That shuts him up. Only for a second.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he deadpans, walking toward you with a smirk he absolutely did not earn. “This is how I treat all my hopeless causes.”

“Excuse me!?”

“I mean—at this point, we’re not even training. We’re surviving.”

You toss the bat at him. He catches it one-handed, casually. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’ve got the coordination of a baby deer.”

“Do not bring Bambi into this.”

He points the bat at you. “Bambi could out-swing you.”

“Seungmin.”

“I’m just saying—”

You run at him. He yelps, full squeaky scream, and takes off around the bases. You chase him halfway to third before giving up, winded, doubled over from laughing too hard.

He walks back, smug and victorious. “That’s the most cardio you’ve done all year.”

“Shut up, I’m gonna puke.”

“Should I write that on your jersey?”

You flip him off again. He just grins. And—god help you—so do you. But then, even as you are panting, you reach over and snatch the bat out of his hands, staring him down. “I wanna try again.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Even after what just happened?”

You glare. “That doesn’t count.”

He walks a slow circle around you, chin in hand like a judgmental game show host. “Mm. I don’t know. Pretty sure we all witnessed it.”

You point the bat at him. “Seungmin.”

He smirks. “Fine. Try again. For the fans.”

You scowl. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he sings.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t launch into orbit. He lobs the ball underhand. You swing. Miss. Again.

You turn to him slowly. “Okay. That was—warm up.”

He looks absolutely pained. “I thought you had your warm up.”

You stomp your foot. “Let me go again!!”

Another toss. Another miss.

“You’re… honestly…” he squints, lips twitching, “...kind of iconic for how bad this is.”

You drop the bat to your side, shoulders slumping. “I swear I’m trying,” you say dramatically, pouting. “This is humiliating. I feel like a clown.”

“You’re not a clown,” he says gently.

You blink.

“You’re the whole circus.”

“SEUNGMIN!”

He laughs, hands on his knees, nearly doubled over. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry—I just—your face!!”

You try to tackle him again but your limbs are too weak from giggling, and he easily sidesteps you.

“You’re evil,” you mutter.

“I’m honest.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m your best friend.”

And that, somehow, is the worst part. Because it’s true. Because he is. And you’re still standing there, clutching the bat like it might protect you from how warm he makes you feel.

He steps closer.

You raise your chin. “Fine. One more try. And if I miss again, I’m going home.”

He squints. “Swear?”

You nod solemnly. “Swear.”

He holds out a pinky. You stare. “Dead serious,” he says. “Baseball oath.”

You roll your eyes but loop your pinky around his anyway. “Baseball oath.”

He lets go of your pinky slowly, like it’s something delicate before speaking again. “Alright,” Seungmin says, backing up to the mound. “One more.”

You take a breath. Square your shoulders. Raise the bat.

He watches you with this half-soft, half-smug look on his face—like he’s proud and exasperated at the same time. “Don’t close your eyes this time,” he calls.

“I didn’t—”

“You did, like, two swings ago. Fully flinched like I threw a grenade.”

You grip the bat tighter. “Swear to god, if I hit this, I’m aiming for your face.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried.”

He throws the ball. You swing.

CRACK.

The ball flies. Not far, not pretty—but far enough to count.

You gasp. “OH MY GOD—”

Your body spins with the motion—off-balance, dizzy with adrenaline—and suddenly your foot catches on the dirt. You're stumbling. Tilting sideways. Falling. But Seungmin’s already running. He catches you around the waist just before you hit the ground, arms wrapped tight, pulling you up into him with a soft thud.

Chest to chest. Breathless. Too close.

You blink up at him. He’s already looking at you. His hands still on your waist. Yours braced against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering.

“I—” you start, but the words get tangled in the heat between you.

His gaze drops to your lips. Yours do the same. And without thinking—without meaning to—you lean in. Just a little. Just enough. And so does he. Your lips brush. Barely. A whisper of a kiss. A blink, a breath—then gone.

You both freeze. Wide-eyed. Neither of you moves. The sun dips a little lower. The air goes still.

You open your mouth. He lets go like he’s been burned. “Uh—y-you… you hit the ball,” he says, stumbling a step back. His voice cracks. “That was—good. I mean—you almost died, but still.”

Your cheeks burn. “Thanks, I think?”

He’s staring anywhere but at you. The bleachers, the sky, the base behind you.

You rub the back of your neck, trying not to combust. “So. Um. Did that count as first base, or—?”

Seungmin chokes on nothing. “WHAT—”

You burst into laughter, face hot, adrenaline still buzzing.

He glares. “You’re so annoying.”

“Let’s—uh,” Seungmin suddenly says, way too quickly, clearing his throat like he’s resetting his entire internal system. “One more round. For the road.”

You blink. “Training’s not over?”

“Oh, it should be,” he mutters, turning toward the mound again. “But you’ve still got the hand-eye coordination of a brick.”

“Excuse me—”

He doesn’t respond. Just throws you the ball. You catch it with a little too much force. “You better run,” you warn, winding up.

“I dare you.”

You throw it high and off-center—he still catches it, of course, just to rub it in.

You play for a few more minutes, not really focused on skill anymore. Just tossing the ball, swinging half-heartedly, talking smack. But every time your hands brush as he passes the bat back to you… you both feel it.

The static. The shift.

At one point, you lean forward to scoop a ball from the grass, and when you stand up, he’s right behind you. Not close-close, but… enough. You glance at him. He looks at you.

And nothing happens. And everything does.

Eventually, he claps his hands. “Alright. That’s enough public humiliation for you.”

You sigh dramatically. “Thank god. My dignity was hanging by a thread.”

He hums. “You had dignity?”

You throw the glove at him. He catches it one-handed again like he’s showing off on purpose. You both walk over to the bleachers. The air is cooler now, the sky smeared in amber and pink. You sit a step above him, knees drawn up, chin resting on them.

He tosses you a water bottle without looking.

You catch it. “Thanks.”

A beat of silence.

Then he says, voice low, “You hit the ball. That counts as a win.”

You glance at him. He’s not facing you, just staring out at the field, tapping his knuckles lightly on the step between his knees.

You smile. “Even if I almost ate dirt?”

He huffs. “Especially then.”

Another beat.

You sip your water. He rakes a hand through his hair. The silence is comfortable, almost. Almost. Your leg bumps against his lightly. He doesn’t move.

“I still hate the Giants,” you murmur.

“Good,” he says, glancing sideways at you. “I need something to insult you for.”

You smirk. “Oh, just say you love me and go.”

He looks at you for real this time. And for a second, just a second it almost sounds like he will. But instead he says, “Nah. I’m keeping it in my back pocket for when you strike out in front of actual people.”

You shove his shoulder. He shoves back.

A breeze drifts by, lifting the edge of your shirt sleeve, brushing your forearms. The kind of breeze that says summer’s not over yet, but something else might be starting.

You lean back on your hands, stretch your legs out. “So what now?” you ask, half-lazy, half-curious.

Seungmin shrugs. “Dinner?”

“Are you buying?”

He scoffs. “You’re the one who demanded private lessons and then delivered the most tragic baseball performance in recorded history.”

You shoot him a look. “I hit the ball.”

“Barely. I’m not even sure it moved.”

You kick his shoe lightly. He kicks back, just enough to make you wobble a little on the bench. You nudge his knee with yours again—this time slower, intentional. It lingers. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he glances at you sideways. His tone is easy, almost amused when he says, “If we do dinner, you’re not wearing that cursed team shirt.”

You grin. “Make me.”

A small silence before Seungmin blinks once, then tilts his head. “Alright.”

And finally, he stands. Just like that. Casual. Unbothered. You stay seated, watching him dust dirt from his palms.

“You coming, rookie?” he calls over his shoulder. He’s already walking, the sun catching the edge of his hair, painting him in amber. “Or do I have to carry you?”

You roll your eyes, gather your things, and jog to catch up. You don’t bring it up—the near-kiss, the way he caught you, the way his fingers stayed a little too long. He doesn’t either. But when you fall into step beside him and your hands brush again and he doesn't pull away?

You know. He knows.

It’s not nothing anymore. It just isn’t everything yet. Not yet. But maybe soon.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway , @jasperlvskz , @geekymommakerry , @dazzlingjade , @alisonyus , @pluto-rose , @crazy4books1 , @b3autyist3rror

[thepinkpanther83]

Imagine,

BFF!Reader is asked by Eddie to do his makeup for a Corroded Coffin gig. Later that night, that she also attends, He shouts her out for doing his makeup and invites her up on stage, and kisses her infant of everyone. After the show is over, it's just complete fluff and cuddles.

Please and thank you.

❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤

Stage-Ready, Heart-Steady

One-Shot Request: “BFF!Reader x Eddie Munson Request”

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

💌 Author’s Note: This one’s for the lovely @meankenna, thank you so much for this adorable and delicious prompt! I had fun painting this one up with stage lights, crop tops, and lap-sitting tension. Hope it makes your heart kick and your cheeks flush! 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

💄🎸Summary: Corroded Coffin’s got a gig tonight, and Eddie Munson’s backstage buzz is only half because of the crowd, it's mostly because his best friend is sitting in his lap, applying his eyeliner like she owns him. They've always been close. Touchy. Flirty. But tonight… Tonight might just be the moment everything changes.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Stage-Ready, Heart-Steady”

The air in the back lot behind the venue smelled like hot pavement, weed, and old amplifiers. You can already hear the muffled thud of the opening band through the cinderblock walls. But you’re not here for them. You’ve got a VIP pass to something way more important, Eddie Munson’s dressing room.

Technically, it’s a trailer. Half-rusted. Covered in old stickers and duct tape. But when you knock, the door flings open with the same dramatic flair as a velvet curtain, and there he is:

Eddie. Fucking. Munson.

Standing in the glow of shitty overhead bulbs like he’s already on stage, shirt cropped high enough to expose a happy trail of hair leading down into ripped black jeans, sweat glinting at his collarbone. His rings flash as he lifts his hand to push back his already-fluffed hair.

“Finally!” he grins, grabbing your wrist and tugging you inside like he’s just been waiting for you to arrive. “I was starting to think you bailed on me and left me to face the horrors of unblended eyeliner alone.”

You snort as the trailer door slams behind you. “You could always go with the raw look. Black smudge, tired eyes, y’know, punk’s not dead and neither is your sleep deprivation.”

Eddie gasps, mock-offended. “You wound me, princess. But if I show up looking like the inside of a raccoon’s asshole, our groupies will riot.”

He’s already set out the little beat-up tin you always use for his makeup, eyeliner pencils worn down to stubs, eyeshadow cracked in the corner, a compact mirror with a sticker of Ozzy Osbourne peeling off the back. You’ve done this for him before, backstage at bars, in the backseat of his van, once even in the green room of a pizza parlor that doubled as a music venue. It’s your thing.

Eddie’s already lowering himself onto the battered loveseat, legs spread, shirt riding up higher than should be legal. He pats his thighs, cocking a brow like he’s inviting you onto a throne made of denim and danger.

“C’mon. Deluxe treatment, remember? You sit pretty, I sit prettier.”

You roll your eyes, but your face is already warm. The way he’s looking at you, so unbothered, so casual about it, like it’s no big deal to let his best friend sit in his lap while she touches his face like she owns it.

You climb into his lap, knees on either side of him, your thighs bracketing his hips. You’re close. Too close. You’re both pretending it’s normal.

“Don’t squirm,” you warn, reaching for the eyeliner. “Or you’re getting a black eye instead of a smoky one.”

Eddie grins, hands resting innocently at your hips. “I’d let you beat me up if it meant you’d sit here longer.”

You shift forward just enough to balance your weight, your thighs hugging his sides, your breath catching as your stomach brushes his bare stomach. His skin is warm, too warm, and your hands aren’t exactly steady as you twist the eyeliner pencil open.

He’s quiet now. Watching you. Eyes half-lidded as you cup his chin and tilt his head back just a little.

“You gonna behave?” you murmur, voice soft with focus as you line up your strokes.

Eddie hums, the sound low and rich in his chest.

“If I say yes, I’m lying.”

His grip on your hips isn’t possessive, exactly, but it’s there, thumbs dragging slow, absentminded circles over the stretch of skin just above your waistband. Just enough to make your stomach flip. Just enough to make your hand falter for half a second as you draw the first line beneath his eye.

“You keep that up, I’m gonna draw a dick on your face.”

He snorts, smirking. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep it up. I won’t give in to your terroristic threats.”

You try to ignore the way your thighs tighten around him when he says that. You try to ignore the way he’s staring at your mouth while you concentrate on his eyes.

But you can’t ignore the heat in your cheeks. Or the way his breath catches when your fingers brush the edge of his jaw, tucking a loose curl behind his ear. Or how close your face is to his now, so close you can feel the subtle shift in the way he’s breathing. Slower. Deeper.

You pause with the pencil poised. He hasn’t looked away once.

“What?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze flicks up to yours. Not cocky, not playful… bare.

“Nothing,” he says, but his voice is hoarse. “Just thinking how dangerous it is, letting you get this close with sharp objects. Pretty girl like you could do some real damage.”

You swallow hard and go back to your work, but your pulse is skipping beats like it’s trying to keep time with the pounding bass from the show outside. His skin is smooth under your fingertips. He’s letting you paint him, touch him, like it means something.

And maybe it does. Maybe it always has.

You finish the liner on one eye and brush your thumb across the top of his cheekbone without thinking. He leans into the touch, actually leans, like a cat starved for affection.

“You’re gonna melt your mascara if you keep looking at me like that,” you say softly, half-teasing.

Eddie’s smirk curls slow and crooked.

“You’ll just have to fix it later.”

You lean in to finish the second eye, and he goes still beneath you, like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might mess it up.

But you feel it.

The shift in him.

The way his thighs tense just the tiniest bit under your own. The way his hands pause at your hips, like he’s just realized they’re there. Like he’s trying to decide if he should let go… or hold on tighter.

You brush against something firm between his legs, and the realization hits you at the same time it hits him.

His breath stutters.

You blink, brush it off. Maybe he didn’t mean to shift that way. Maybe you didn’t mean to press exactly there.

But your hand lingers on his jaw just a second too long, and he’s looking up at you with this wrecked, glassy-eyed stare, like the gig doesn’t matter, the crowd doesn’t matter, the band doesn’t matter.

Like the only thing in the world that does is you, straddling his lap with a pencil in your hand and your lip caught between your teeth.

He swallows. Hard. Then tips his head just enough to press a slow kiss to the inside of your wrist.

The move punches heat straight through your chest. You drop your hand to his shoulder, steadying yourself, and maybe you rock against him a little without meaning to.

Eddie groans, quietly, like he didn’t mean to let it out at all.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “You tryna kill me before I even get on stage?”

You try to smirk, but it’s shaky.

“I’m just doing your makeup,” you whisper, but you don’t sound convincing even to yourself.

He huffs a breath, lets his head fall back against the chair with a thud.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes closing, “and I’m trying real hard not to do anything stupid.”

You’re both silent for a moment. Just breathing.

Knock knock knock.

“Munson! Five-minute warning!”

You flinch. He doesn’t.

Instead, he just opens one eye and smirks.

“Saved by the bell, princess.”

Your heart is thundering in your chest, your fingers still tingling where they’d traced the edge of his lips.

Neither of you say anything as you hand him the compact mirror.

But the way his fingers brush yours when he takes it…

Yeah. You’re both thinking about it.

You slide off his lap too fast. Too aware.

Your knees feel weak, your skin too hot, and you can still feel the weight of his hands where they’d rested on your hips. Like some invisible tether that didn’t let go when you stood.

You smooth your hands over your jeans, brushing away lint that isn’t there. It gives you something to do. Something safe.

Eddie watches you with a lazy little half-smile, tongue tucked in his cheek. He shifts forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, rings glinting in the warm light.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling your attention back. “You’re gonna stay close tonight, yeah?”

You blink. “Course.”

He leans back, wide-legged and cocky again, the way he does when he’s about to say something that’ll live in your head for the rest of the damn week.

“Wouldn’t want my best girl too far away, now would I?”

You try to laugh it off, but it hits deeper than you’d expect. There’s a thud behind your ribs that has nothing to do with the bass you’re about to feel out there in the pit.

“Right,” you say, voice a little breathless. “Wouldn’t want to miss your big rockstar moment.”

He lifts one brow. “Nah. Wouldn’t want you to miss yours.”

Another knock at the door breaks the spell.

“Munson! Let’s go!”

He stands in one smooth motion and grabs his guitar, swinging it onto his back. Before he follows the others into the venue, he throws a wink over his shoulder.

“You look good with stage lights in your eyes, princess. Better than the ones I’ll be under.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

The venue is packed. Sweat-slick fans pressed up against the barricades, fists in the air, screaming every word. Lights pulse red and gold, the bass rattles your chest, and Eddie Munson owns the stage like he was born for it.

He’s electric. Crop top riding up further as he headbangs, those wicked fingers flying over his guitar like they’ve got a mind of their own. You’re off to the side of the stage, close enough to see the way his eyeliner’s already smudging, the shimmer catching the light, your handiwork shining under the spotlight.

And he keeps looking at you.

Every time the crowd screams louder. Every time the spotlight hits just right. Every time he sings one of those lines that makes your spine melt a little, his eyes flick your way, like you’re the only one in the room that matters.

Then the song ends.

He steps back, breathing hard, sweat glistening on his chest as he adjusts the mic stand.

“Alright,” he says into the mic, voice hoarse and hot with adrenaline. “Before we rip into this next one, I gotta give a quick shout-out.”

The crowd cheers automatically. But then his eyes lock on yours and he grins.

“This look I’m rocking?” he gestures to his face, running a ringed finger down his cheek. “All her. Makeup artist, miracle worker, and the only reason I don’t look like a sweaty raccoon up here right now.”

The crowd laughs, a few people whistle and cheer, and you bury your face in your hands for a second, mortified.

He isn’t done.

“My very favorite girl,” he adds, casual and easy and deadly, like he doesn’t even realize what those words mean. Like he hasn’t just shattered your ribcage and sent your heart scrambling for cover.

Then he jerks his chin toward you.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Get up here.”

You blink, shaking your head like maybe you heard him wrong.

But Eddie Munson’s holding his hand out, waiting, smirking like the bastard knows you’ll come.

The crowd's gone wild now, chants of “DO IT! DO IT!” echoing through the venue. Someone nudges you forward. Another hand pats your back.

And you... you take his hand and climb the stage.

The second your feet touch the platform, Eddie’s arm loops around your waist and he pulls you in.

You’re flushed, blinking in the lights, and then his mouth is on yours.

Hot. Open. Claiming.

The crowd loses their fucking minds. Someone wolf-whistles. A few people scream.

But all you can feel is Eddie, his hand splayed on your lower back, the faint scrape of stubble on your upper lip, his teeth tugging at your lower lip like he’s been waiting years to do this.

And then it’s over.

He leans back, grinning like the devil himself, presses his forehead to yours and mutters, just for you. “Felt like a good time to stop pretending, yeah?”

The lights dim, the last chord rings out, and the crowd roars its final approval as Eddie slings his guitar over his shoulder with a grin and a wave.

Backstage is chaos, roadies, buzzing energy, gear being hauled off in every direction. Gareth’s towel-slapping Jeff on the back, both of them whooping like idiots. Someone cracks a beer. Someone else yells for a cigarette.

Eddie walks off stage like he’s got tunnel vision.

You’re there, just past the curtain. Still in a daze, heart pounding, mouth tingling from that kiss. You can still taste him, peppermint gum, sweat and smoke, and it’s making your knees a little wobbly.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just walks straight to you and drapes an arm over your shoulders like you’re already his. Like nothing just happened, even though everything did.

The band’s hooting behind him, catcalls and howls and “Dude, finally!” from somewhere near the drum kit, but Eddie just grins, barely sparing them a glance.

“You okay?” he murmurs, nose brushing your temple.

You nod, then hesitate. “Yeah. Just… didn’t think you’d actually do that.”

He pulls back enough to see your face, eyes searching, expression soft.

“Yeah?” His lips curve. “Well… been thinkin’ about it since you sat in my lap, baby.”

Your breath catches, and he knows.

He chuckles low in his throat and leans in again, brushing your hair behind your ear, fingers dragging lightly down your jaw before he presses another quick kiss to your cheek.

“You looked so pretty on my stage,” he murmurs. “Think I might make it a regular thing.”

You try to roll your eyes. Try to play it cool.

But he sees the way your smile gives you away.

The teasing. The tension. The fact that maybe this was always inevitable.

The hum of stage lights has long since faded, replaced by the soft rustle of takeout bags and the clink of glass bottles.

You're both at your place now. The music’s low, something fuzzy and mellow playing from your cheap Bluetooth speaker on the dresser. Your bedroom smells like takeout noodles and Eddie’s cologne, and you’ve never felt more aware of someone’s presence in your space.

He's sitting on your bed cross-legged in that ridiculous crop top, half off now, tugged up just enough to flash more of his belly when he stretches. His eyeliner’s smudged, his rings are off and scattered on your nightstand, and he’s got a carton of fried rice in one hand and a plastic fork dangling between his fingers.

"You always eat like this after a show?" you ask, flopped beside him with your own container in your lap.

Eddie snorts, chewing. "Nah. Usually just crash. Or chug Gatorade ‘til I puke blue."

"Sexy."

"You know it."

A pause stretches between you, soft, comfortable. A new kind of tension now. Not anticipation. Not nerves.

Just something blooming.

He sets his food aside and rolls toward you, knee bumping yours. "Hey," he says, gentle now. "C’mere."

You blink. "What?"

His fingers brush under your chin. "Your makeup. Let me take it off for you."

You freeze a little, because it’s not just makeup. It’s something you use to armor yourself. Shape how you want the world to see you.

But when he leans in with that look, fond and almost reverent, you let him.

He grabs a tissue from your nightstand, and his touch is slow, careful. He swipes beneath your eye with the edge of his thumb, then brushes along your cheek with the gentlest pressure.

"Still beautiful," he murmurs. "Even without the war paint."

Your breath catches.

Then, it’s his turn.

You grab a tissue and lean over him, straddling his lap again just like before, but the energy’s different now. It’s less about tension. More about trust.

You wipe away the streaks of black smeared around his eyes. His lashes flutter, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to grin.

"You looked like a vampire who just got into a brawl with a Sharpie," you tease.

Eddie huffs a laugh. "Worth it if it got me that kiss."

You crumple the tissue and toss it. "You planned that."

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he grabs your waist, pulls you close, and kisses you again. Slow this time. Intentional. Like he’s not just kissing you, he’s choosing you.

Time blurs.

You end up beneath the covers, tangled together like limbs and breath and laughter are all the same thing now. His arm draped around your waist. Your head tucked beneath his chin. His heart pounding slow and steady against your chest.

He murmurs it into your hair when you think he’s almost asleep.

“Gonna make you my pre-show ritual every damn time.”

You smile to yourself in the dark, letting it settle in your chest like a promise.

Because yeah, this time, it’s not just makeup. It’s more.

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially, @exasperatedsighohmy, @marianaissocool, @boggerslide, @sheneedsrocknroll92, @n3lly-h3artz, @comeonatmebruh, @goingxsteddie

Masterlist

[flowergirl1243]

i miss it, i miss you

SUMMARY: Facing terminal illness, you and Oscar chase one last bittersweet adventure together, holding onto love, loss, and the fragile hope written across the sky.

PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader

WARNINGS: major character illness (terminal cancer), death, grief, mentions of hospitals/medical treatment

NOTE: I was listening to chemtrails by Lizzy Mcalpine, and oh my gosh, that song makes me feel so ill, I cannot.

You didn’t cry when they told you.

You watched the doctor’s mouth move like it was underwater, slow and rounded, clinical and soft. Every word landed like a feather, and still, somehow, each one managed to bruise.

Stage four. Aggressive. Unlikely to respond. Best to prepare.

She didn’t meet your eyes. She looked just past your shoulder, the way people do when they’re afraid of becoming part of the story. Like if she made it impersonal enough, you’d stay a statistic and not a person unraveling right in front of her.

You didn’t cry.

You just stared at the wall behind her, at the framed photo of two golden retrievers chasing a tennis ball down a sunlit stretch of sand. The ocean was bright and endless behind them. You wondered if they were still alive. If they still ran like that. If she knew what it felt like to say terminal to someone and keep breathing like she hadn’t just stolen the air out of the room.

You nodded politely. Like she was explaining a cracked pipe or an insurance clause. Like this wasn’t your body she was talking about, your life, your time, now mapped out in clinical estimates and worst-case timelines.

Oscar didn’t cry either.

He sat to your left, knuckles pressed white against his knee, jaw so tight you thought it might shatter if he moved. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the floor like if he could burn a hole through it, maybe he’d fall through to some version of the world where this wasn’t happening. Where you were okay.

He helped you out of the chair when the appointment ended, though neither of you could say what had really been said. His hand hovered near your back the whole walk to the elevator, not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of it. The way it shook.

You walked in silence through the lobby. Past people laughing at the café. Past a little girl with a sticker on her cheek and an ice cream in her hand. Past the parking meter that wouldn’t print receipts.

Everything felt normal. Ordinary. Unbearably so.

In the car, you buckled your seatbelt with hands that didn’t feel like yours. The air was too still. Oscar didn’t start the engine. He just sat there, eyes forward, like he wasn’t ready to move. Like if he turned the key, the world would keep going, and you weren’t sure either of you could handle that.

You reached for the AUX cord.

You weren’t even sure why. Habit, maybe. Instinct. You fumbled it between your fingers, like you’d forgotten how it worked, like maybe music could press rewind on the day and take you both somewhere simpler.

“Let’s just go home,” you said.

The words felt weightless coming out of your mouth, not empty, exactly, but hollowed out. Like they had once meant something and now they were only shape and sound. You barely recognised your own voice. It didn’t tremble or shake. It didn’t beg or break.

It just…floated.

Oscar turned toward you slowly, eyes rimmed red, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin. Then he broke.

No warning. No drama. No sound, not at first.

Just a sharp inhale. A full-body wince. Then the dam cracked.

He folded forward over the steering wheel like someone had taken the ground out from underneath him. His whole body shook, silent at first, then loud, gulping sobs that scraped their way out of his throat like they’d been waiting all day to be let out.

He cried like he was trying to reverse time. Like if he said your name enough, over and over again, soft and desperate, like a question and a prayer, the story might change.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching across the console. Your fingers curled around his hand. His knuckles were ice. “I’m still here.”

He gripped your hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. His head turned just enough to press into your palm. He didn’t say anything, couldn’t, but he nodded once, a jerky, broken thing that made your chest ache.

You didn’t cry then, either.

Not because you weren’t sad. Not because you were strong.

But because somewhere, deep down, you knew if you started, you wouldn’t stop. And you had to stay in the moment, had to hold him there, keep both of you from falling off the edge of it.

“I’m not gone yet,” you said, softer this time.

But the yet hung in the air between you, louder than anything else. It wrapped itself around your words like smoke. It curled into the corners of the car. It pressed itself into Oscar’s lungs until he was crying again, quietly now, the kind of grief that lingers after the first wave crashes and recedes.

You rested your forehead to the window and closed your eyes. The silence wasn’t comforting, but it was honest. And for now, that was enough.

That night, the house was too quiet. Not peaceful, hollow. Even the hum of the fridge felt loud, intrusive. The shadows on the walls stretched longer than they used to, like time had started pooling in the corners.

You lay curled on the couch, your body tucked into Oscar’s like you were trying to disappear inside him. Or maybe he was trying to pull you in. His arms were wrapped around you tight, chest pressed to your back, one leg hooked around yours as if anchoring you there. Like if he stopped touching you, even for a second, you might evaporate.

His hand rested at your waist, fingers spread like he was trying to memorise the rise and fall of your breathing. His nose was buried in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing skin every time he exhaled. He hadn’t said much since the hospital, just stayed close, unbearably close, like he could feel the clock ticking and was trying to run out the timer by holding you still.

You both stared at the ceiling, eyes tracing the familiar cracks and shadows like they might suddenly shift into answers. A message. A reason. Something. Answers written in the cracks you’d never noticed before. A message only meant for the dying. Or the ones they’d leave behind.

You were the one to break the silence, your voice soft and steady, like a confession whispered into a pillow. “Is it weird,” you said, “that I feel more sorry for you than for me?”

Oscar flinched like the words physically hit him. His arm tightened instinctively around your middle. “Don’t,” he said, rough and quiet. “Please don’t say that.”

“But it’s true.” You shifted just enough to look back at him, your cheek brushing his. “I wish I could… make this easier for you.”

He shook his head once, sharply, jaw clenched like he was chewing glass. “You’re the one—”

“I know.” Your voice cracked just a little. A beat passed. Then another.

You reached up, covering the hand he had on your waist with your own. “But I’m not the one who has to stay behind.”

Oscar’s breath hitched.

And then he did what he’d been holding back from all day — he pulled you in tighter, impossibly so. One arm wrapped around your shoulders now, his hand flat against your chest, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat like he was afraid it might stop mid-beat if he let go.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered again, voice breaking apart on the edges. “Please don’t.”

So you didn’t.

But the truth settled into the space between you anyway — undeniable and brutal. You were going. Not today. Not yet. But soon. And he would be the one left behind.

You felt his lips press against the back of your shoulder, lingering like a goodbye he wasn’t ready to say. His hand gripped yours like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.

You turned your head and leaned into him, until your forehead touched his, until your noses brushed, until the space between your breaths disappeared completely.

“I’m still here,” you whispered. “Right now, I’m still here.”

Oscar closed his eyes. Let out a shaky breath. “I know,” he said. But he didn’t loosen his hold. Not even a little.

Because the truth was still there, heavy and quiet and cruel.

You were still here.

But not for long.

The first thing you lost was your appetite. It didn’t happen all at once. Not like flipping a switch, but like the slow dimming of a light you didn’t know was fading until the room was almost dark. Meals became chores, not comforts. You’d pick at food, a bite here, a bite there, but the taste wasn’t there anymore. The flavours felt muted, as if everything you put in your mouth was wrapped in cotton. Even the smell of cooking, once a signal of warmth and home, turned sour, twisting in your stomach before you could swallow. Oscar watched you shrink away from the dinner table, but he still made your favourite meals. Sometimes he even sat with you, trying to force the ordinary back into the day. He’d laugh quietly, sharing some dumb meme on his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his hopeful smile. But the meals grew colder. The laughter faded. And you stopped pretending to be hungry.

The second thing you lost was your mornings. Not just the hour when the sun climbed over the horizon, but the feeling mornings used to bring, the soft promise of a new day, wrapped in sunlight and warmth and slow sips of coffee. You used to wake with a smile half-formed on your lips, a tangle of sheets and hair and quiet contentment. Now, you woke with a weight in your chest that pressed you back into the mattress, breath shallow, muscles heavy. Oscar learned to keep the room dark. He’d draw the curtains tight to keep the early light from cutting through your closed eyelids. He’d sit beside you, gently tugging socks over your cold feet, the touch light as a feather but filled with the fierce love of someone trying to protect a fading flame. Sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, you’d hear him whisper your name like a prayer, or feel the brush of his lips on your temple as if saying goodbye just in case.

The third was the ordinary, the everyday moments that used to fill your life with quiet joy. The small rituals you never noticed until they stopped: the way your fingers tapped rhythmically on the edge of a table when you were lost in thought; the stacks of books gathering dust beside your bed; the music that once wove through your days now silenced or forgotten. You stopped caring about the little things. The routines that made life feel safe, predictable, yours, unravelled thread by thread. Oscar saw the spaces widen between who you were and who you were becoming. He tried to hold onto those fragments, a laugh, a glance, a sigh, as if gathering pieces of you might keep you whole.

He tried so hard to pretend everything was normal. He still made you tea, even when you couldn’t bring yourself to drink it. He still sent you ridiculous memes from across the room, knowing you’d smile, even if only for a second. He kissed the top of your head every time he passed, pressing his lips like he was trying to seal a promise into your skin. Every touch was a silent vow to stay, even as the world slipped away.

But you knew. You saw it in the way his eyes searched your face when you thought he wasn’t looking, desperate to memorise every line, every flicker of emotion. You felt it in the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck when he tucked you beneath the blankets, as if trying to imprint himself on you. You heard it in the quiet shudder of his shoulders when he thought you were asleep, the weight of a grief too big to carry.

He was memorising you. Not just the person you were now, but every version of you he’d ever known. Every laugh, every softness, every half-smile held like a secret treasure. He was folding your voice into the quiet spaces of his heart, turning moments into keepsakes, laughter into lasting echoes. He was grieving you already, before the world had even finished telling the story.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. But it was happening anyway. And some days, the only thing you could offer him was a smile, small, fragile, fading, that said I’m still here. For now.

One day, you found him sitting on the cold tile floor of the shower.

Fully clothed.

Silent.

The water ran relentlessly over him, a steady, unyielding torrent that blurred the hard edges of the world and washed away everything but the weight in his chest. His clothes clung to his skin, soaked through, heavy like the grief pressing him down, pinning him to the floor. His head lolled forward, chin nearly resting on his chest, eyes closed tight against the flood inside.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stepped in, the water immediately soaking your pajamas, plastering your hair to your scalp, chilling your skin in contrast to the hot cascade. You moved slowly, as if afraid your presence might shatter the fragile moment, and curled into his lap, folding your body against his like two pieces desperate not to lose their shape.

Your arms wrapped around him, trembling but fierce, as if your hold could keep him anchored to the world. His breath hitched in his throat, shaky and uneven, a broken sound swallowed beneath the steady rush of water.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw, like he was admitting defeat for the first time.

“Yes, you can,” you said, though your own voice shook with the weight of the truth you wished wasn’t real.

He shook his head slowly, barely audible. “Why do I have to?”

You didn’t have an answer. There was no reason that could fill that hole. No explanation to soften the unbearable.

Just the two of you.

Just the warmth of your skin against his, the soft pulse of your heartbeat beneath his ear, a quiet, steady drum in the silence.

I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still—

The words caught in the thick wet air between you, unfinished and fragile, the ache of everything left unsaid hanging heavy.

He pressed his face into your shoulder, the tremor of his body slowly loosening in your arms. You could feel the heat of his tears mixing with the cool water, hear the soft hitch of his breath as the grief broke through his walls at last.

And in that moment, in the quiet surrender of everything he’d been holding inside, you both felt the full weight of what was coming.

The terrifying, endless stretch of days where time would slip away like water through your fingers. The nights stretched wide and empty, echoing with the absence of what could not be fixed. The slow fading, piece by piece, of everything you loved about each other.

And still, you held on.

Not because you had strength left to fight.

But because you couldn’t let go.

Because the last thing you could do was be there, raw and broken and real.

Together.

Even as the water ran cold and the world narrowed to the two of you, clinging to the fragile hope woven between whispered promises and shared silence.

I’m still here.

And sometimes, sometimes, that was enough.

The decision was sudden but not surprising. After weeks of drifting through hospital visits, scans that blurred into one another, and tired days that felt longer than nights, you looked at Oscar with a spark of something almost like rebellion in your tired eyes.

“Let’s get out of here. Just for a little while.”

His eyebrows knitted together, like he was trying to puzzle out if you were serious, or if this was just another passing daydream you might let go of by morning. His eyes searched yours, wary but hopeful, like he was trying to catch a glimpse of the ‘you’ that existed before the hospital rooms and the whispered diagnoses.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, voice low and careful, as if afraid the walls might hear and pull you back.

“Anywhere but here,” you said, the corners of your mouth twitching into a small, tired smile. “Somewhere I can feel the sky.”

Oscar blinked, a slow smile breaking through the tension. “The sky, huh? That sounds good.”

You both knew it wasn’t about the place. It never was. It was about a break from the endless waiting rooms and the smell of antiseptic. About breathing air that didn’t taste like fear. About catching a few stolen moments where the future wasn’t hanging over your heads like a storm cloud.

Packing was quick, no big plans, no suitcases, just whatever fit in a bag tossed on the passenger seat. You slipped into your favourite jacket, the one with the worn cuffs and the scent of home, and Oscar tossed you the keys with a grin that was equal parts nervous and excited.

The car hummed to life and pulled away from the hospital’s heavy gates, leaving behind the relentless buzz of machines and hushed voices.

Windows down, wind tangled in your hair, you felt something flicker inside — a small pulse of freedom, fragile and bright.

Oscar glanced over, catching the light in your eyes, and reached out to squeeze your hand.

“Where to?” he asked, grinning like a kid about to take you on an adventure.

You laughed, soft, real, and a little breathless. “Anywhere that feels like we can just be. No doctors, no tests. Just us and the sky.”

He nodded. “Let’s find it.”

And with that, the road stretched ahead, endless and wide, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like maybe, just maybe, the weight could lift for a little while.

One evening, you sat on the balcony, the sky a wild canvas bleeding orange and pink into the horizon, the sun slipping slow and stubborn toward the edge of the world. The air was salty and heavy with the smell of the sea, thick with the gentle lull of waves crashing far below.

Oscar’s hand found yours, fingers curling around yours like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t hold tight enough. His squeeze was gentle, careful, a silent question, an anchor.

“You look happy,” he said softly, voice low as if he didn’t want to disturb the delicate peace.

“I am,” you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear — something solid in a world that felt like it was tilting.

He kissed the top of your hair, the touch feather-light but full of everything words couldn’t hold. For a moment, time folded in on itself, past, present, future blurring into a quiet, sacred now. There was no illness, no prognosis, no shadow looming over what came next. There was only this, this fragile, perfect breath of life.

You breathed it in, the salt in the air, the distant cry of a gull, the rough grain of the balcony railing beneath your fingers, and the warmth of his body curled close beside you.

“Dance with me?” he murmured, voice rough with everything he was holding in.

You nodded, unable to find words that could hold the weight of the moment.

There was no music except the distant crash of waves and the whisper of the night breeze, but it didn’t matter. He moved with a careful grace, one hand on your waist, the other holding yours like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Your bodies swayed together, slow, unsteady, but sure, like the world had paused just for this. Your head rested against his chest, feeling the pulse of his heart under your ear, steady and real. You closed your eyes, letting the rhythm of him, of the night, of the fragile life between you, carry you.

His breath warmed your skin as he whispered, “I don’t want to let go.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone, voice barely above a whisper. “Then don’t.”

And for those quiet, suspended moments, with the sky fading from gold to ink, and the stars just beginning to blink awake, you danced.

Not because the future was promised, But because right now, this was enough.

On the last night, the world outside faded until it was just the two of you, the quiet hum of the night air, the whisper of the ocean, and the soft rhythm of your voices.

You stayed up late, tangled in blankets and memories, talking about everything you’d never made time for, dreams you’d dared to whisper in the dark, regrets folded tight inside your chest, the little things that made your life yours.

Oscar pulled you close, his breath catching as he spoke. “I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

“Neither do I,” you said, voice thick but steady, every word wrapped in the weight of love and loss tangled together.

“But if it is…” His voice cracked, raw and broken.

“You’ll carry me,” you promised, pressing your hand over his heart. “In the sky, in your heart, in everything.”

He nodded, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, held back by sheer will. He held you tighter, like if he let go, you might really disappear.

And under that vast sky, with the world so wide and quiet around you, the two of you held on, to each other, to the moments, to the fierce, impossible hope that love could outlast even the darkest nights.

You slipped away on a morning so soft it almost felt like a dream, a quiet that wasn’t quiet, a stillness so delicate it threatened to break under the weight of all that had come before.

Oscar was right there beside you, his fingers intertwined with yours like they were trying to hold your soul tethered to the world. His thumb traced small, endless circles on your skin, slow, steady, a silent rhythm meant to steady the breaking. “I’m here. I’m here,” he whispered, over and over, like those words could pull you back, could slow the slipping, could make the unbearable pause just a little longer.

The room was hushed, the kind of hush that presses into your chest, heavier than silence. The only sound was the slow, steady beeping of machines, heart monitors and oxygen levels, a mechanical heartbeat echoing in the stillness. A lifeline counting down seconds neither of you dared to measure.

And then, suddenly, the beeping stopped.

The world tilted on an invisible axis, time fracturing in that fragile space between breaths.

Oscar’s hands, so full of trembling life, moved instinctively to close your eyes, his fingertips brushing the long lashes as if afraid the faintest touch might shatter the fragile peace.

He bent forward slowly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, soft and broken and sacred. The same kiss he had given you a thousand times before, but now it held the weight of a thousand goodbyes. It was a thank you for every smile, every whispered secret, every brush of fingers in the dark. A goodbye without words, heavier than anything either of you could say. And an I love you, fierce, fragile, and absolute, folded into the quiet spaces between them.

His breath hitched, a soft, broken sound swallowed quickly, but the tremble in his body betrayed him. The weight of everything, loss, love, fear, pressed down like an ocean, and for the first time, he let himself collapse into it.

The room felt colder now, emptier. The light slipping through the window seemed too bright, too sharp, cutting through the haze of grief that wrapped around him like a shroud.

He stayed there, holding your hand long after the machines went silent, as if by holding on, he could keep you from truly leaving.

Minutes passed, hours maybe. Time blurred and folded in on itself.

He whispered your name, again and again, like a prayer, a plea, a thread back to you.

And in that fragile, aching dawn, all that was left was the echo of your touch, a whisper on his skin, a ghost of warmth he could never quite forget.

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac in Australia, but Oscar felt like he was still falling, endlessly, spiralling through a darkness he couldn’t escape. His chest was tight, his lungs gasping for air as if the very atmosphere was too heavy to breathe.

His hands clenched so tight around the strap of his bag that his knuckles blazed white, fingers digging into the worn leather as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. Around him, the airport hummed and buzzed, people rushing past, rolling suitcases and distant chatter swirling in a chaotic current, but it all felt muffled, as if he was submerged underwater, watching the world drift farther away.

He moved forward with a hollow weight, stepping through the sliding glass doors, and was immediately hit by the thick, humid air of the late afternoon. It wrapped around him like a damp blanket, sticky against his skin, carrying the sharp scent of eucalyptus and salt from the nearby sea. The sounds of cicadas droned in the background, persistent and relentless, but the familiar noises, the calling birds, the rustling leaves, felt foreign, distant, like fragments of a dream he couldn’t quite reach.

Everything that should have felt like home, the sky stretched wide and heavy, the heat clinging to his clothes, instead sliced through him like shards of glass. The ache inside twisted deeper, sharper.

When he finally reached his mum’s front door, his hand hovered over the handle, trembling. His heart pounded fiercely, a wild, desperate drumbeat that threatened to shatter his ribs from the inside. The silence around him pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint creak of the wooden porch beneath his feet.

Before he could knock, the door swung open.

His mum stood there, her face a mix of surprise and dread. The usual warmth in her eyes flickered and faltered when she saw the hollow emptiness in his gaze, the way his shoulders slumped, carrying invisible burdens too heavy for words.

“Oscar,” she breathed, voice soft and catching somewhere between heartbreak and fear.

He didn’t answer. He barely nodded, stepping inside like a ghost crossing the threshold of a place that should have been sanctuary but felt more like a tomb. The door closed behind him with a hollow, final thud, the sound echoing in the sudden, suffocating quiet.

The walls were lined with photos, frozen smiles from holidays long past, birthday candles flickering in bright colours, moments captured in laughter that felt impossibly distant now. He barely glanced at them, his eyes glazed over, as if the memories pressed too close, too sharp.

And then, without warning, he broke.

Tears spilled free, hot and unrelenting, streaming down his face in thick rivers of grief. He sank to the floor, collapsing into himself, shaking violently as sobs tore through his chest like knives. The sound was raw and ragged, a primal cry of loss and desperation that filled the empty room.

His hands covered his face, fingers digging into his skin as if trying to hold the pieces together, but the weight of everything shattered him again and again.

His voice came out as a broken whisper, ragged and pained, repeating you name like a fragile lifeline, a mantra to keep you near.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His mum was there in an instant, sitting down beside him, arms wrapping around his shaking shoulders like a fragile shield. Her own tears fell silently, wetting his hair, and in that moment, two broken souls found solace in their shared grief.

They stayed like that, locked together in the unbearable silence that screamed everything they couldn’t say aloud. Minutes stretched into hours, time bending under the weight of sorrow and the fragile thread of comfort between them.

Oscar didn’t know how to move forward, how to find air again in a world that had suddenly stopped breathing with him. He didn’t know how to live without you.

All he knew, in that quiet, shattering moment, was that here, in this room filled with memories and loss, he could finally fall apart.

Because if he didn’t break, completely and utterly, he wasn’t sure how he’d survive at all.

The cheers still echoed around him like a distant storm as Oscar stepped away from the podium, trophy cradled awkwardly in his arms. The flashes of cameras burned behind his eyelids, but his vision felt blurred, not from sweat or adrenaline, but from the tight knot of something raw and hollow inside.

Out there, under the dazzling lights and roaring applause, he was the champion. The winner. The man who had crossed the finish line first.

But here, in the quiet of the cramped, dimly lit corridor behind the scenes, the victory felt fragile, a beautiful mask stretched thin over the ache in his chest.

He sank down onto the cold floor, back pressed against the rough concrete wall, the trophy resting beside him like a cold, distant relic. His hands trembled as they unfolded from his lap, and the weight of the moment finally crashed down, the victory and the loss tangled impossibly together.

His breath hitched as the tears came, slow at first, then spilling free like a broken dam. No one saw. No one could see the way his body shook with grief, how every sob was a quiet scream for you.

He whispered you name into the silence, a fragile prayer, a desperate call across the distance between now and then.

I did it. I’m here. But I wish you were too.

The memory of you smile, soft and steady, flared through the dark like a candle flickering against a storm. The way your hand felt in his, the warmth of your voice in the quiet moments, the laughter they’d shared in those impossible, beautiful times.

He pressed his forehead against the wall, breath shallow, heart breaking in slow, jagged pieces.

There was no crowd here. No cameras. Just the quiet, the unbearable stillness that screamed louder than any cheer.

And in that stillness, he allowed himself to grieve. To miss you. To feel the weight of the empty space beside him that no trophy could ever fill.

Because winning without you was its own kind of loss, a victory marked by absence.

Slowly, painfully, Oscar wiped the tears from his face. He picked up the trophy, fingers curling around the cold metal, and for the first time, he let the grief and pride coexist, two halves of the same fragile truth.

He wasn’t just racing against others now. He was racing against the shadow of what had been taken.

And maybe, just maybe, holding onto that ache was the only way to keep running.

Late at night, when the world finally softened and the noise of the day fell away, Oscar sat alone in the quiet of his room. The darkness pressed close, swallowing everything but the small, smooth stone resting heavy in his palm, cold and unyielding, a cruel reminder of all he had lost.

He traced its worn edges, fingertips lingering over scratches carved by time, each one a ghost of a memory, a fragment of a past he could never reclaim.

His mind drifted to mornings they’d never have again. The way sunlight once spilled warm and golden across the sheets, catching the dust in lazy beams. The soft weight of your head against his shoulder, the quiet rhythm of breath mingling in the stillness before the world woke.

He missed that lightness. The effortless comfort of ordinary days where love was as simple as a shared smile or a hand held tight.

He thought about the laughter that once filled rooms, bright and unrestrained, now only an echo in the hollow chambers of his heart.

The ache was sharp and raw, a jagged pain that settled deep and refused to fade. It twisted through his chest like a slow, relentless burn, hollow and heavy all at once.

He swallowed hard, his throat tight with the weight of unshed tears, and whispered into the silence, to the shadows, to the empty space beside him, to the ghost of a voice that had once been his world —

“I miss it. I miss it so much. The way things were, the way you were. I miss every quiet morning, every stolen moment. The way love felt like breathing, easy, natural, endless. I miss you. More than words can hold. More than I can bear. Sometimes it feels like my heart is breaking all over again, a thousand small fractures in the same place. I want to hold onto it, this ache, because it’s all that keeps you alive inside me. But God, it hurts. It hurts like hell.”

His breath hitched, tears spilling slow and steady down his cheeks, soaking into the dark fabric of his shirt.

He closed his eyes and let the grief wash over him, fierce, unyielding, endless, because in that brokenness, in that aching longing, there was still love.

And love, even when it’s pain, is never truly gone.

Every race day, before the engines roared and the world blurred into a frenzy of speed and adrenaline, Oscar found a moment of sacred stillness.

In the dim light of the garage, surrounded by the hum of preparation, he’d reach for his helmet.

On its sleek, polished surface, tucked near the visor, was a small but unmistakable mark: a delicate symbol, something only he truly understood. It was his homage to you, a silent thread connecting him to the memory that fuelled every lap, every corner, every heart-pounding moment on the track.

Before pulling the helmet down over his head, he’d press a soft kiss against that mark, his eyes closing for a brief, trembling second. A whisper in the chaos. A promise carried in the brush of his lips.

“I’m here. I’m racing for you.”

And after the race, whether triumph or struggle, when he peeled off the helmet and the roar of the crowd faded into distant echoes, he’d bring it back to his lips again.

That kiss was a benediction, a thank you, a quiet “I miss you” folded into the space where words failed.

Those around him began to notice the ritual, the way his eyes lingered on that mark, the gentle reverence in his touch. They understood, without needing explanation, that behind every fearless driver is a story of love, loss, and the rituals that keep us grounded.

And for Oscar, that small, sacred mark on his helmet was the tether to a love that still raced beside him, lap after lap.

Life moved forward, slow, uneven, and beautifully imperfect. It wasn’t a sudden leap or a sharp turn, but a gradual unfolding, like a sunrise pushing through the horizon after a long, dark night. Each day brought new colours, new sounds, new moments that slipped quietly into the spaces left behind.

Oscar met new people, strangers who became friends, conversations that blossomed into laughter, and faces that softened the edges of his loneliness. He learned to smile again, not because the pain had vanished, but because it had found its place beside something hopeful, something gentle.

He laughed, sometimes unexpectedly, a lightness that surprised him. He loved again, too, though not the same way, not the way he once had. It was quieter now, slower, a love shaped by loss and tempered with gratitude for every small connection.

But beneath all of this, beneath the smiles, the new beginnings, the growing light, there was always a space in his heart that belonged only to you.

A soft, sacred corner, untouched and unwavering. No matter how full his life became, that space remained, a silent sanctuary where your memory lived on, tender and alive.

Sometimes, in the stillness of evening, when the sky faded to gentle shades of lavender and gold, Oscar would find himself pausing. He’d look out at the vast expanse above and feel a quiet presence, as if you were there, watching, whispering in the soft rustle of leaves or the warm brush of a summer breeze.

You weren’t gone.

You had simply changed form, no longer beside him in the way he wished, but woven into the very fabric of the world around him.

A part of the light that filtered through the trees, the warmth that lingered long after the sun had set, the hush of night folding gently over everything.

In that knowing, there was comfort, a subtle, enduring truth that love doesn’t vanish. It shifts, it transforms, but it never truly leaves.

And so life moved on. Not perfect, never easy, but filled with the quiet grace of memories carried softly, like whispers carried on the wind.

Because love, real, lasting love, holds a space for forever.

And in that space, you remained.

Always.

Um, I think I'm evil what the actual heck did I write. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed. As always, I am always open to suggestions and thanks for all the support!

[edwardhartenjoyer]

can you do the "one bed" trope too please? with maybe Jiro, Towa, Alan, Lyca, and Subaru? If thats to many, feel free to take some off the list ^^

Hi Anon!! Happy to do that trope for you!

Only One Bed

You were out on a mission with some of the ghouls. It was taking a long time, though, and it was clear you'd all be staying overnight.

Some rooms are gotten, and everyone has to share a room. You choose to go with the ghoul you've been secretly crushing on, and when you get to your shared room, there's only one bed...

Featuring: Jiro | Towa | Alan | Lyca | Subaru

Jiro Kirisaki - You stared into the room in mild horror. Sure, you'd agreed to share a room with Jiro since Yuri had complained that having to share with anyone would disrupt him from his work, but this really wasn't what you had been expecting.

"You can just take the bed, I likely will not be sleeping." Jiro said from beside you, and you glanced up at him, noting the bags under his eyes that weren't related to his sickness.

"When's the last time you slept Jiro?" You asked him gently as you sat down onto the edge of the bed.

"A few days." He shrugged. "Yuri has been working on something and required my assistance."

You narrowed your eyes at him. Despite the awkwardness the situation presented, you didn't want to be the reason for Jiro missing out on yet another night of sleep.

"Sleep is good for your health." You huffed. He opened his mouth, likely to rattle off the benefits of sleeping that he was well aware of when you cut him off. "We can just..share...the bed.." you suggested.

He paused, and though his expression retained his usual emotionless look, he seemed to be considering what you suggested. Finally he nodded.

"If this is what you wish, then we can share."

You nodded and started to get ready for the night. By this point, you were used to changing while Jiro kept his back turned, so this is what you did before sliding into bed after turning away so Jiro could change too.

Jiro turned off the lights and slid into the bed next to you, lying stiffly on his side of the bed.

"Night, Jiro." You whispered.

"Goodnight, MC." He whispered back.

You closed your eyes and tried to sleep. It's a struggle and evades you. You shift around, thinking maybe you are just not able to get comfortable, but nothing helps.

Just as you're about to give up, an arm wraps around you and pulls you so your back is pressed against Jiro's chest.

"You're struggling to sleep. Does this help you?" Jiro whispered as he held you close. You tried to calm your racing heart, glad he couldn't see how red your face was in this light. You did find you were more comfortable like this though, the warmth of his body against yours calming your mind.

"Yeah.." You whispered in response, your eyes slipping closed. With the warmth of his body feeding into yours, you were soon lulled into sleep.

When morning came, you woke to find yourself still nestled in Jiro's arms. You carefully turned around in his arms and watched his face as he slept. His face was much more relaxed than it normally was, and it warmed your heart to see him looking so unguarded and open.

"Sleep well?" Jiro muttered as he began to wake, opening his eyes to look at you.

"Best sleep of my life." You admitted. A small smile cracked across his features.

"Perhaps it would be beneficial to do this again then. For your health of a proper sleep."

You blushed and hid your face against his side. "Yeah..for health..of course."

Towa Otonashi - "Okay, team! We've got two rooms, so we split into pairs to share the rooms!" Haru chirped happily as you all got to the cabin you were all sharing.

Before anyone could say anything, Towa gripped your arm. "Dandelion shares with me ~"

You didn't really have any objections to this, so you followed Towa to your shared room. When he opened the door, though, you paused in the doorway. There was only one bed.

Towa spun and grinned at you. "Dandelion! We get to share a bed!~" he hummed happily, beaming with delight.

You blushed at the idea of sharing with him, but you didn't really have any objections to it. You were exhausted, and you weren't going to make him sleep elsewhere because that would have just been mean.

You slipped away into the washroom to get changed, and when you came out, Towa was already sitting in the bed waiting for you.

"Dandelion!~" He called, beconing you over. You smiled and crawled into the bed. He instantly wrapped his arms around you and held you close, resting his head against your chest. "Sleepy cuddles okay, Dandelion?" He asked

You blushed and nodded, running a hand through his hair, shocked at how silky soft it was. "Yeah, this is okay."

He hummed happily and nestled closer to you, closing his eyes. You kept petting his hair until you slipped off to sleep.

When morning came, you cracked open your eyes to see Towa hovering aboe you, face inches from yours. A deep blush crossed your features. "~~~~" he hummed happily, beaming at you.

"Morning, Towa." You replied softly. He grinned and leaned in to kiss your cheek before leaping out of bed to start the day. You stared after him, a happy grin slowly spreading across your face.

If this mission took a few days, you definitely wouldn't complain.

Alan Mido - You chose to share a room with Alan. You ignored Leo's mocking as you walked off after Alan, though, when you reached the room, you nearly smacked into Alan who had frozen in the doorway.

You peered past him and saw what had made him pause. There was only one bed in the room.

"I'll just go share with Bandana and Leo." Alan muttered, turning to leave. You reached out a hand to stop him.

"Odds are their room only has one bed too, and three people sharing would just be awkward. We can just share this one." You suggested, even though your cheeks heated up at the idea.

"I don't want to hurt you." Alan replied immediately, a look of concern crossing his features.

"You won't hurt me. I promise." You assured. He still seemed hesitant, so you gently took his hand and pulled him into the room, shutting the door behind the two of you.

His shoulders slumped a bit as he gave in, though he was still clearly worried about hurting you.

You slipped off into the bathroom and got changed, slipping into bed when you were done. Alan did the same, slipping into his side of the bed, far from you as he could get.

You whispered a goodnight to him, and slipped off to sleep pretty easily.

When you woke in the morning, you were surprised to find yourself wrapped up in Alan's arms. He held you close, a protective pose as he curled around you.

You blushed and relaxed into his arms, relishing in his warmth. You knew when he woke up he'd leap away, apologizing for his actions before checking to make sure you weren't hurt. But you were happy to just enjoy the moment and see how relaxed and peaceful Alan looked.

You hoped that later, once you assured him you were fine, he'd agree to doing this again.

Lyca Colt - "That dumb Gigalo can't even get a room with two beds." Lyca huffed as he followed you into the room you'd agreed to share with him.

"Well, I'm really glad now I chose to room with you. Otherwise, I would have had to figure out how to share a bed with Rui without him accidentally killing me or have to share with Ed." You joked, trying to lighten the werewolf's mood.

Lyca glanced at you, his faze narrowing at the mention of his two housemates. "No way, I'm not letting you share with those creeps!" He pouted.

"Don't worry, you're my first choice to share a bed with." You admitted before blushing darkly at your own confession.

He didn't seem to catch onto it, though, as he stalked forward to flop onto the bed beforing eyeing you. "You coming?"

"Just let me get changed first." You called, going off to get changed. You came back when you were done and flopped down next to him.

He suddenly seemed awkward, like he was unsure what to do. "So..now what?" He finally asked.

"Now we sleep." You replied. "If you want to sleep on your side of the bed, you can... I'd be okay with cuddling, though.." you explained, whispering the last part.

He still heard you, though, and he blushed a bit before shifting closer to you, wrapping his arms around you. "This okay?" He asked, and you nodded in response. You wrapped your arms around him in turn and settled in. Sleep soon overtook you both.

When you woke in the morning, Lyca was still nestled close to you, using your chest as a pillow. You smiled and ran a hand through his hair gently. He leaned into your touch, cracking an eye open.

"Can we stay here, like this for a while?" He asked, voice husky with sleep.

"Yeah, let's stay here." You replied, content and happy.

Subaru kagami - "Ah, this is, not an ideal situation.." Subaru lamented as you followed him into the room. You were confused until you saw past him to the only bed in the room.

"Oh.." you mumbled. You had a massive crush on Subaru, but the sudden thought of being made to share a bed with him filled you with nerves.

He turned to you and bowed in apology. "Take the bed, MC, I'll sleep down on the floor."

You frowned. "No, that would be way too uncomfortable for you. We can just share." You suggested.

"I couldn't ask that of you."

"Please, Subaru. I wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise, knowing you were uncomfortable because of me." You pleaded, and he relented.

When you both slipped into bed, you stayed on opposite sides. You fell asleep quickly, but Subaru stayed awake to watch you.

He hadn't known there would be only one bed, but he was pleased with the outcome. It meant a chance to share with you in what he hoped was only the first night of getting to sleep in the same bed. After this, he selfishly hoped you'd want to do this again.

He carefully slid closer to you and wrapped his arms around you, mindful to not do anything to set off his stigma. Not yet. He'd rather those thoughts were freely given.

As he held you in his arms, he finally began to drift off, content, and hopeful for the future.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tag list: @cloudcountry @ash0-0ley @ventisimpilysm @tinumaru

Wanna be added or removed? Let me know!

[lillilybells]

Maybe it’s me, but I think I would’ve loved in family dinner chapter IV Stephanie and Barbara reaction finding out basically they broke Damian and reader up in the alt ending, whether it goes back to them back together like angst to happy ending or stays as angst with their reaction and guilt. Idk maybe it’s me but it’s like they got no consequence ya know??? Either way LOVE YOUR CHAPTERS!!!

thank you!! And so many people have asked for this lmao😭 but you just gave me like such a good idea for how I wanted them to makeup and I wasn’t planning for like this ‘alt ending’ to go anywhere but I wanted to give yall some closure💔

this is not officially a part of the ‘family dinner’ series!!

Alternate ending II:

Damian stood in the cave with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, jaw locked, eyes burning with a sting he refused to acknowledge. He blinked hard, furiously wiping at his face before storming up the stairs toward the manor.

Tim spotted him first. “Hey, Damian—your girlfriend just stormed outta here like she was ready to take on Bane.”

Damian didn’t respond. His jaw clenched tighter.

“Did something happen?” Jason asked casually, raising a brow. “Did you guys get into it?”

“She didn’t seem like the type to argue,” Stephanie added offhandedly, twirling her bo staff. “Quiet. Sweet. Honestly kinda surprised she even raised her voice.”

Barbara nodded. “Yeah… she didn’t strike me as someone with a temper.”

Damian froze mid-stride. Slowly, he turned to face them, and when he did, his eyes were practically glowing with fury.

Dick stood from the couch, sensing something was off. “Are you guys okay?”

“No, Richard. We are not okay,” Damian snapped, striding toward Stephanie and Barbara with sharp, clipped steps. “We had a fight. A bad one. And guess what? You two lit the fuse.”

The girls exchanged a look, suddenly very aware of the shift in energy.

“Wait, us?” Stephanie blinked. “Damian, we didn’t even know she was your girlfriend at first.”

“You interrogated her. You knocked her out. You tied her to a chair—then you made her cry, then you told her she wasn’t my type. You told her she was normal.” Damian’s voice cracked slightly. “Why would you even say that?”

Barbara held up her hands. “Damian. We honestly didn’t know who she was. She showed up alone in the cave in pajamas—”

“And what, that makes it okay to insult her?” he shot back. “She was already scared. Then you humiliated her. You made her feel like she didn’t belong—and now we might be done.”

He stormed past them, heading straight for the manor’s upper floors. “So thanks for that.”

Jason whistled low. “Damn.”

“Wait—break up?” Tim echoed, standing abruptly.

“You two made them break up!?” Duke turned to glare at the girls. “What the hell did you even say to her?”

Barbara winced. “You don’t want to know.”

Stephanie crossed her arms. “Okay, it wasn’t that bad—”

Dick stepped forward, his voice sharp. “No. You need to fix this. Now. Damian’s barely socializes on a good day, and this girl’s the one thing that actually makes him act like a person.”

Stephanie and Barbara exchanged a nervous look.

By the time you got home, your face was a mess of tear tracks and red splotches. You barely mumbled a word to your concerned parents before disappearing into your room. You flung yourself onto the bed, clutching the stuffed animal Damian had given you, and pulled the blankets over your head.

You didn’t expect the Batcave interrogators to show up again so soon.

“(name)?” Stephanie’s voice cut through the quiet as you peeked out from under the blanket to see her and Barbara standing awkwardly at the foot of your bed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you croaked, voice hoarse from crying, though there was no real venom in your tone.

“Just hear us out,” Stephanie said gently, walking over and lightly resting a hand on your shoulder. She guided you to sit up between her and Barbara, both perched on the bed now.

Barbara started, voice softer than you’d expected. “We’re really sorry. Truly. Don’t take what we said earlier out on Damian—he doesn’t deserve that.”

You sniffled, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “But… you were right. I’m just some normal girl. I don’t fight. I don’t come from some League of Assassins bloodline. I haven’t died and come back to life— I’m not like the rest of you.”

Stephanie opened her mouth to object, but Barbara beat her to it. “That’s not what we meant. We were wrong to say it.”

“We didn’t know who you were,” Steph added. “And yeah, we went a little... overboard on the whole ‘interrogation’ thing.”

“You think?” you mumbled, voice wobbly.

Barbara offered a sad smile. “We’ve seen Damian closed off for years. But with you? He lights up. We were just... caught off guard, but we were also being jerks.”

“Yeah. Seriously,” Steph nodded. “Flatline was cool and all, but she also, like, literally killed him once. I’d take you over her any day.”

You let out a surprised snort through your tears, eyes darting down to your phone as the screen lit up—a picture of you and Damian, arms linked, his face pressed into your hair.

You stared at it for a long second. Then sniffled. “I should probably call him, huh?”

“Yeah,” Barbara said softly. “You really should.”

[softvalentines]

cnc with mark, butttt it's like him resisting??

pairing: mark grayson x reader cw: smut, afab reader, stronger!reader, dub/noncon, breeding, descriptive details of bodily fluid (cum)

a/n: just a reminder, i do write dark content !!

ideally, you're stronger than mark, because if we’re being realistic, he’s got the power to level a city block without breaking a sweat, to snap a normal human’s neck with a twitch of his fingers. and you like that about him, like knowing what he’s capable of under all that wide-eyed, soft-boy, lovestruck shit. but in this scenario? it’s better this way. better that you’ve got the strength to pin him down, to shove him where you want him without worrying he might accidentally put you through a wall when he thrashes.

he fights. of course he fights. makes these wild, angry noises in the back of his throat, spitting curses you’ve never heard leave his mouth before, the good boy act dropping so fast it makes your head spin. calls you crazy. calls you a bitch. calls you fucking insane.

he wants it. and you can tell. you can tell from the way his hips twitch when you straddle him, from the way his cock strains against the front of his pants while he’s snarling at you to get off. from the way his breathing goes ragged the second your fingers find his throat, pressing him down into the mattress, his pulse hammering beneath your palm. it’s the fight that gets him off, the losing. the being overpowered. he won’t admit it, won’t fucking say it, but you see it plain as day in the way his pupils blow, in the way his lips part around a gasp when you lean in and bite his jaw hard enough to leave a mark.

he fights until you get your hand down his pants, until you wrap your fingers around his cock, flushed and leaking and embarrassingly hard for a guy pretending he doesn’t want this. makes this guttural, broken little noise and bucks his hips, tries to twist away and ends up grinding against your palm instead, the traitorous arch of his back giving him away. you work him with ruthless precision, jerking him off slow at first, thumb swiping over the tip to smear the mess he’s making, drinking in every ragged moan he tries to swallow.

“stop…fuck, s-stop,” he grits out through clenched teeth, but it’s weak, and you both know it. you squeeze a little tighter, pump a little faster, and when you lean down and spit in his mouth — thick, stringy, obscene — he whimpers. actually whimpers.

by the time you sink down onto him, he’s begging. or as close as someone like him gets to begging, muttering “don’t, don’t, fuck, wait—” his voice cracks even while his hips chase yours, even while his hands claw at the sheets like he’s desperate to hold on to something. you ride him hard, unforgiving, using his body like it’s yours to ruin, watching the fight drain out of him with every snap of your hips.

he goes dumb for it. turns pliant and glassy-eyed, moaning brokenly when you clamp a hand around his throat again, his skin hot and slick under your fingers. every time you squeeze, his cock twitches inside you. every time you spit in his mouth, his lips part without him realizing.

and when he cums — when he finally breaks, sobbing and thrashing, nails raking down your back, thick cum filling your insides — you don’t stop. keep fucking him through it, through the overstimulation, through the gasping, desperate little “no more, no more, please—”until he’s a ruined, wrecked, sobbing mess beneath you.

[kingkruell]

THE MORNING AFTER — friends with benefits was supposed to be simple. then sukuna started staying after, touching soft, and wanting more. he’s not in love. probably. maybe. shit.

the first time, it’s nothing.

you look good under him, sure. better than most. but sukuna’s had pretty things before, what matters more is how easy you are about it. no clinging. no questions. no asking what this is, or where it’s going.

it starts with just a message that says “your place or mine?” and then followed by the sound of your moans echoing in his chest.

so, yeah. he keeps seeing you. but only because it’s convenient. only because you look so fucking pretty when your mascara smudges and your breath hitches. only because you don’t ask for anything. that’s the whole point.

he doesn’t even remember who started it. maybe it was you. maybe it was him. doesn’t matter. all he knows is that you’re in his bed again, skin warm, hair damp with sweat, legs tangled with his like you belong there.

and now—you’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling slow, a little smirk tugging at your lips like you know you did something to him. maybe you did. he’s not sure yet.

“you always stare this much after?” you murmur, eyes still closed.

sukuna scoffs, “you’re imagining things.”

you crack one eye open to look at him, and god, you’re smug. smug and tired and glowing from the inside out. it pisses him off. but not enough to pull away, it seems.

he tells himself it’s just sex. you’re hot. you’re fun. you don’t ask for anything. that’s rare. he likes that. that’s why he keeps calling you over. that’s all it is.

still, his hand lingers on your waist longer than it should. not even groping, it’s just resting there, thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin. he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it until you shift, blinking up at him.

“…you good?”

“yeah,” he says too quickly.

you hum like you don’t believe him, but you don’t press. just flop back down and close your eyes again, body relaxing right up against his like you trust him or some shit. like he’s not a walking red flag with blood on his past and a temper sharp enough to cut bone.

he watches you breathe. watches the way your lashes flutter when you start to fall asleep. and it hits him, out of nowhere, like a sucker punch to the gut: he likes you.

no—he fucking likes you.

he could live with finding you attractive. that’s normal. that’s easy. but this? this heat in his chest, this dumb itch to ask you about your day, this weird anger at the thought of anyone else touching you?

no. he doesn’t like that. he doesn’t like that at all.

his hand still hasn’t moved from your waist. you haven’t said anything. you’re just breathing slow and even and peaceful beside him, like you don’t realize you’re becoming a problem.

sukuna swallows. he shifts a little, then stops himself from pulling away. it’d feel like flinching. he doesn’t flinch.

“you staying?” he mutters.

your voice is muffled in the pillow. “you kicking me out?”

“…didn’t say that.”

a sleepy laugh escapes your lips, one that he’s grown too familiar with.

“guess i’ll stay, then.”

you’re out cold a few minutes later. he doesn’t sleep. just stares at the ceiling and curses himself in silence.

this was supposed to be nothing. but you’re still here. and for some reason, that doesn’t feel like a mistake.

[your-decay]

pairings: sae itoshi x reader, faint rin itoshi x reader cw: incest (brother/sister dynamic), reader is the eldest sister of both rin and sae, older woman/younger man, smut, creampie, possessive behavior, emotionally unhealthy / codependent relationship, semi-public car sex, degradation (light), breeding kink implications, rough sex (bruising grip, biting), unresolved emotional neglect/abandonment themes, casual discussion/normalization of incestuous relationship (sae knows about rin and the reader)

read part one here !

you manage to catch sae at the very end of the u-20 match, throat sore and raw from how loud you’d been yelling, your voice cracking on those last few desperate calls of “rin!” as the clock wound down.

you’d pressed yourself against the barricades, leaning over so far security kept eyeing you like they were waiting for you to fall onto the pitch. your skin’s sticky with sweat — your own and rin’s both, clinging to you from when you’d thrown yourself at him the second the ref blew the whistle, arms winding tight around his shoulders before he could even turn around. he’d smelled like grass and heat and that faint metallic tang of blood from a busted lip you were too scared to look at properly. he hugged you back, of course he did, buried his face in your neck for a split second like he needed the anchor of you before he let himself be dragged off by the rest of them.

but it stayed with you, that sharpness under the surface. you could feel it. couldn’t quite shrug off the way his voice had gone flat, his eyes a little distant even in the middle of all that chaos. calling it a change felt too permanent, like putting a name to something that might still go away. no — whatever it was, rin was upset about something. pissed. bitter. you could see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his knuckles stayed white around the collar of his jersey. and you knew better than to ask. not here. not in front of cameras and teammates and half the goddamn country. later though. later when it was quiet, when his cock was snugged deep inside your cunt, when the world got soft around the edges and his voice turned warm again, you’d ask then. when he was too fucked out to lie.

but right now, you had a different problem. one standing a good head taller than you, with arms like tree trunks and an earpiece you could hear crackling.

“i’m his sister,” you barked out, shoving at the guy’s shoulder like you could move him. you sounded half unhinged, voice wrecked, hair sticking to your cheeks, still wearing rin’s jacket he’d thrown over your shoulders before the match started like it meant something. the bodyguard didn’t buy it. not even a flicker of belief in his eyes.

honestly — you didn’t blame him. you probably wouldn’t either.

but it stung, anyway. something ugly curling up in your throat when you finally caught sight of him, standing by the curb like a ghost you weren’t sure was real. sae. in the flesh. not a grainy tv broadcast. not an interview clip you forced yourself to watch in the dark when you missed him so bad it made your teeth ache. no, here. home. if you could even still call it that.

and god, he looked… different. sharper. older. expensive watch gleaming at his wrist, red hair slicked back like he hadn’t even sweat through it during the match. and a ferrari. of course it was a ferrari. it suited him. sleek. untouchable. like he wasn’t built for the same world as you anymore.

he was already halfway to it when he paused. and you swore for a second your heart stopped dead in your chest because he looked at you. not past you. at you. a long, unreadable stare that made your stomach turn inside out because you didn’t know what it meant. didn’t know if it was relief, or regret, or nothing at all. and when his mouth moved, it was so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

“let her pass.”

and just like that, the bodyguard stepped aside.

you stumbled forward before you could even think about it, legs moving like they didn’t belong to you, breath catching sharp in your throat. it wasn’t a welcome. it wasn’t even an invitation. it was permission. and fuck, you were so desperate you’d take it.

you slip into the passenger seat before he can change his mind. ferrari smells like leather and something sharp you can’t place, some cologne that costs more than rent and doesn’t suit him, not really. the door clicks shut behind you and for a minute neither of you say anything. just the low hum of the engine and the dull, far-off roar of a crowd still high off the match. sae’s hands stay loose on the wheel, ring glinting against his skin when he shifts. his gaze fixed dead ahead.

up close like this it’s worse. he’s not some headline. not a post-match interview or a too-clean photo op. no, he’s just sae. tired. jaw tight. the faintest smear of sweat clinging to his temple. and it guts you a little. “you played good,” you say, voice rough from yelling, not even sure why you bother. maybe because it feels too fucking heavy, sitting in silence like this.

he huffs. not a laugh. not quite a scoff. just a sound. like he doesn’t believe you, or doesn’t need to.

“you and rin,” you add, picking at a loose thread on the hem of your skirt. “was…good to see you both out there.”

another pause. long enough you think he won’t answer at all. then, quietly, like it costs him something. “you look different.”

you don’t ask if it’s a good thing. you don’t ask if he missed you. you don’t ask why he disappeared. because then his hand slides up your thigh, slow, fingers heavy and sure, and whatever you were about to say falls right out of your mouth. you’re already wet. shouldn’t be, not with the way he left, not with the way he’s looking at you now like you’re just another thing to scratch an itch with, but fuck it. you’ve never been good at telling him no.

he moves fast after that. pulls into some half-lit underground lot you’re sure he’s not supposed to be in, one hand still on your leg, thumb rubbing circles into your skin like a threat. the second the car’s in park you’re climbing over the center console, dragging yourself into his lap, and his hand’s already up your skirt before you can settle.

the angle’s awkward as fuck. cramped. your back hitting the steering wheel sometimes. but you don’t care, not when his cock’s thick and hot against your palm, already straining against his briefs. you don’t even remember unzipping him. just the sharp little sound he makes when your fingers wrap around him.

“you're so fucking wet,” he mutters, but his voice breaks halfway through it and you pretend you don’t notice. you sink down onto him slow, and it’s messy, wet enough that it should be embarrassing, but you both lost the right to be embarrassed years ago. he stretches you open and it aches, more than you’d admit, but you chase it anyway. his head tips back against the seat, mouth slack, a muscle in his throat working when you bottom out.

“fuck,” he breathes, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll bruise.

you roll your hips, find a rhythm you can keep in the tight space, the sharp sting of his belt buckle digging into your thigh. he feels good. too good. better than you remembered. or maybe you just missed him that bad. his hands slide up your back, pull you down until your chest is flush to his. you can feel his heart hammering against your ribs. his lips find your neck, tongue wet and rough, teeth grazing the skin hard enough to make you flinch. not tender. not soft. claiming.

“missed this pussy,” he mutters, low and ruined against your skin, and you don’t trust yourself not to say missed you too, so you just fuck yourself down onto him harder, chasing the heat pooling in your belly. the windows fog. the car rocks. and when he cums, it’s sudden and sharp, biting down on your shoulder to muffle the sound, his hips jerking up, cock pulsing thick inside you. it spills out around him, makes a mess of your thighs and the seat beneath you.

and you stay like that. for a long moment. forehead pressed to his. breathing each other in.

you still don’t ask if he missed it, you and rin, the nights you'd spend together, the touches that you promised to keep secret.

you already know.

[hearts4hughes]

RACES AND RIVALS

rafe cameron x enemy!reader | warnings: mdni, public sex / semi-public setting, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, rivals-to-lovers, outdoor setting (against a tree), mild exhibitionism / risk of getting caught

"rafe," you snap, tugging your helmet into place, "if you try to cut me off like last time, i will ram your bike so far up your ass they'll have to bury you with it."

he doesn't look at you. not right away. he's crouched beside his bike, tightening something on the back wheel, sleeves shoved up, forearms streaked with oil and dirt and every bad decision you've ever made. when he stands, he doesn't brush himself off. just turns, slow and cocky, like the heat doesn't touch him. "you threatening me, sweetheart?"

you flick the visor up, just so he can see your eyes when you smile. "i'm warning you." his mouth curves. too smug, too practiced. it's always like this with him-taunts passed like gum between teeth, sharp and familiar, laced with the kind of tension that makes other people uncomfortable.

normally, you race against him. today, you're on the same side. kooks vs. pogues means pack mentality. someone got jumped last weekend, tires slashed, blood spilled in the sand and now it's retaliation time. it's only two teams, one stretch of asphalt along the abandoned airfield, and no real rules.

you're fast. rafe's faster. but only by a hair, and you've made damn sure he knows it. you swing your leg over your bike and feel the engine hum beneath you. next to you, rafe straddles his like he was born for it. always so casual, commanding, like gravity bends a little differently around him.

he glances over. eyes narrow. “you sure you can handle this?” he revs his bike, eyes still boring into yours. you don’t answer right away. just lean across the distance between your bikes, close enough to catch the flicker of surprise in his face. close enough to smell smoke and cologne and the thrill of the stupid, dangerous game you’re about to play.

“you’re asking the wrong question.” you whisper, taking off your helmet. rafe blinks. you look straight out of a damn magazine. your hair is blowing in the wind, a little tousled from the helmet. he can’t help but look down at your body which is clad in racing gear that highlights your curves in all the best ways.

he raises a brow. “oh yeah?” you nod and before he can react, your lips are on his. the kiss is hard and fast. open-mouthed, dizzying, just long enough to knock the smirk clean off his face. you pull back before he can react—before he can think—and plop your helmet back on.

“the question,” you say, voice muffled now, engine roaring to life beneath you, “is whether you can.” the starter raises the flare. one second…two. his mouth is still parted when the light hits green and you’re already gone. a cloud of dust ghosts where you just were. he curses under his breath and throws his helmet on.

the wheels burn rubber. gravel spits. you don’t look back. the track isn’t pretty. it’s just a long, brutal stretch of cracked asphalt that cuts through the edge of the old airstrip, lined with busted fencing and overgrown brush. the wind claws at your jacket. every bump shakes your spine. and still, you grin. you can hear him behind you. not see—hear. the snarl of his engine, louder than the rest. he’s weaving through the pack like he’s chasing blood.

you dip lower, body tight to the frame, the world narrowing to speed and sweat and the threat of him gaining ground. somewhere in the chaos, jj screams something obscene as you cut him off. someone else eats dirt in your peripheral. none of it matters. you’re leading. he’s closing in.

then, suddenly, there he is. his front tire parallel to yours, that black visor reflecting your own face back at you. your knees nearly knock. he guns it for half a second, gets ahead, and you curse this time. not a chance. you push harder, full throttle, the wind tearing at your skin like punishment. your teeth are clenched. your knuckles are white. you slip past him on the turn, almost too close, and you swear you hear him laugh in his helmet like he likes it—like you just made this fun for him.

the finish line’s a blur up ahead. no flags. no cameras. just an old cone spray-painted red and a couple of kooks waving their arms like it’s the olympics. you and rafe cross at the same time. your brakes shriek, dust flies, and your boot hits the ground to steady the stop, chest heaving. your hands tremble from the adrenaline and the sting of the heat, but god, you feel good.

rafe pulls up beside you, yanks his helmet off, and just looks at you. his eyes are wild, his hair’s a mess, lips parted like he wants to say something but can’t decide between a threat or—“what the fuck was that?” he pants, voice wrecked.

you pull your helmet off slowly. your smile is pure venom. “i won,” you lie.

he scoffs, breathless, stepping off his bike. “you kissed me before a race,” he says, still winded. “you cheated.”

“oh, please,” you shoot back, swinging one leg off, your voice low and satisfied. “you loved it.” his eyes drop to your mouth again. they linger on your plump lips. yeah, you definitely won. “say it,” you murmur.

he takes a step closer, boots crunching in the gravel. “say what?”

you tilt your head. all innocent and utterly cruel. “that i threw you off.”

he laughs. the sound is sharp and disbelieving. “you ambushed me.”

you hum, taking a lazy step back toward the tree line, where the others can’t see. “still didn’t stop you from chasing me.” his gaze darkens, full of heat and something a little unhinged. he follows without needing to be asked. it’s quieter here—just the hum of engines in the distance, the buzz of cicadas and the leftover rush of the race still crawling under your skin. you lean back against a tree, hands behind your back, pretending not to notice the way he’s watching you like you’re the real finish line.

“you’re insane,” he says, stopping a few inches in front of you. “you know that?”

“mm.” you blink up at him. “and yet, here you are.” he looks down at your mouth again. then your throat. then back to your mouth. you barely get a breath in before he’s on you. the kiss isn’t sweet—it’s brutal. all tongue, teeth, and pent-up tension, like he’s been waiting all summer to lose to you just so he could do this. your back hits bark. his hands are everywhere—rough, greedy, pressing into your hips like he’s staking a claim.

you make a sound into his mouth—something smug and satisfied—and he groans, low and wrecked, like you’re driving him out of his mind. “fuck, you don’t shut up,” he mutters, lips dragging down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“don’t need to,” you whisper, fingers fisting in his shirt. “you like it.” he bites your shoulder in response. it’s just hard enough to leave a mark. you gasp. your leg lifts on instinct, hooking around his hip, dragging him flush against you.

he grinds into you, hard and slow. you both feel it. both know this has been coming for months. “tell me to stop,” he says, mouth hot against your ear.

you pull his hair. “try and i’ll kill you.” his hand slips under your waistband. skin on skin. you’re already soaked. he groans like it physically hits him. he wasn’t expecting that. he thought this would be a quick fix to the tension and not a full unraveling. his forehead drops to yours, breath shallow, fingers curling between your thighs like he wants to memorize the shape of you.

“fuck, baby…” he mutters, like it slipped out before he could catch it. like he didn’t mean to sound that wrecked.

you smile, smug and breathless. “told you i’d win.” he doesn’t answer. just kisses you again. his lips move deeper this time, slower, more teeth than tongue. your hips roll into his hand and his fingers slide in like they’ve been there before, like your body already knows him. your back arches off the tree, legs shaking just a little.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs, lips dragging down your throat. “that from the race, or from me?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper.

he curls his fingers. you bite back a moan. “that wasn’t a no.” he works you open with maddening patience, each movement deliberate, meant to ruin you. the leather of your jacket scratches against bark. your helmet hangs loose in the crook of your arm. the wind rushes past, hot and heavy, and you’re still trying to breathe through it when he pulls his hand away and undoes his belt like he’s got nothing left to prove.

but he always has something to prove. he turns you quick, hands rough on your hips, pressing you to the tree. your cheek scrapes the bark. your pants are around your thighs before you can say yes, but you don’t need to. your body already has. the wetness, the heat, the way you push your ass back into him like you’re daring him to move. he slides in with a groan punched through his teeth. no teasing, just the kind of stretch that shuts your brain off. your hands grip the trunk. your eyes slam shut.

“jesus,” he rasps. “you feel like fucking heaven.” you bite your lip to keep from whimpering. but he moves again—harder this time—and your control shatters. “say it,” he breathes, fucking into you like he wants you sore tomorrow. “say you wanted this.”

you want to deny it. stay cocky. stay in control. but your body gives you away before your mouth does. the way you rock back into him. the way your thighs tremble. the way you pant, “faster,” like it’s a prayer or something devout. a laugh escapes his lips. then gives you exactly what you ask for.

it’s a fast, filthy, teeth-clenched rhythm. one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise, the other sneaking up your shirt, under your bra, tugging and teasing until your whole body is strung out tight. “you gonna come?” he mutters, mouth at your shoulder, kissing and biting and biting again. “you gonna come for me right here where anyone could see?”

“shut up-” you try to snarl, but your voice breaks into a moan when he hits that spot. your climax crashes through you like the race all over again—violent, all-consuming. your body jerks against him and he groans, low and feral, thrusts stuttering before he spills into you, hips still rolling through the aftershocks like he’s trying to make it last.

you both go still. your pants echo through the trees. the sun is still high in the sky, shining down upon you and rafe. beads of sweat fall down your forehead. the wind shifts. someone whoops from the direction of the road. you freeze. he just grins against your skin.

“guess i’m not the only one who finishes first.”

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa @imtalkinnonsense @strawberrymilk99 @angel06babysworld @rafesteddy @drewrry @urcoolgf @thegirlnextdoorssister @sydneysslove @dsfault @missabsey @ivysturnss @kisses4rafey @katiebby04 @kelbrave @bebebambs @leviathan0000 @yolgart @jkmylove97 @blushhbambi @lightreadingty

[santaasi]

shut up and pass the blanket

pairing: james potter x roommate!fem!reader

summary: in a too-small bed during a too-cold summer, comfort blurred into something else — something dangerous, and far too tender to undo

warnings: fluff, no use of y/n, english isn't my first language

word count: 2.5k

a/n: I'm back with new works and more inspiration. hope y'll like it, lovies

ᯓ★ now playing…

the neighbourhood - sweater weather

THE WEATHER THIS SUMMER WAS WORSE THAN ANYTHING LONDON HAD THROWN AT YOU IN YEARS — which was saying something, considering London was a city that practically lived under a damp gray sky. For the past two weeks, the rain hadn’t stopped once. It drummed against the windows with the persistence of a lullaby meant to sedate you, blurring the days into a sleepy fog and making it nearly impossible to concentrate on preparing for your final exam of the semester.

Summer showers weren’t exactly rare here, but no one had been prepared for the plunge in temperature but not in the middle of July. On Tuesday, the suffocating heat that had left you limp and irritable finally broke. By Wednesday, your apartment had transformed into a glorified fridge – not cold enough to preserve anything properly, just cold enough to be unpleasant. Like someone had cracked the freezer door open just to see what would happen. The landlord, in his infinite laziness, insisted it would be “fixed soon,” which, in his dialect, translated roughly to “never.”

James Potter – your roommate for two long, chaotic years and annoyingly attractive in that boyish, smirking, doesn’t-try-but-somehow-glows kind of way – acted like the whole thing was nothing more than an adventure.

“I’ve been through worse,” he said dramatically, half-buried beneath a heap of mismatched blankets on the sofa. Only his face was visible, peeking out from the cocoon like a man preparing for noble death. His hair stuck out in a dozen directions, and his expression was a tragic mix of boredom and defiance. “It builds character.”

“You didn’t even pass the midterms,” you replied coolly, drawing your own blanket tighter around your shoulders like armor. “You almost cried during that economics test last week.”

“That wasn’t about survival,” he sniffed, offended. “That was personal betrayal. There’s a difference.”

By evening, the cold settles in like an unwelcome guest – not dramatic, not loud, just quietly invasive. The kind that creeps under doors, slides up your sleeves, and wraps around your ankles like a chain. Outside the window, the temperature dips dangerously low, and somehow, inside the apartment, it feels even worse. You do everything in your power to fight it off: layer every hoodie you own, pile on blankets until you resemble some tragic matryoshka doll of seasonal depression, and down mug after mug of scalding tea, praying your ancient kettle doesn’t finally give out from overuse.

None of it works.

The cold isn’t just around you. it’s in you. It seeps into your bones, settles between your knuckles, crawls up your spine. By midnight, you’re half-convinced your soul has frozen over, brittle and numb.

Then comes a soft, desperate knock – or more like a panicked thud – at your door. Before you can even respond, the door creaks open and James slips inside like he’s outrunning a blizzard, shutting it behind him with a dramatic urgency that makes you snort despite yourself. For a second, he just stands there, clutching a pillow under one arm, shivering slightly, his curls a chaotic mess and his eyes pleading but determined.

"Okay, move over," he says, without preamble, like this is a perfectly normal Tuesday night occurrence.

You blink at him from your fortress of fleece and cotton, only your eyes visible from the mound. “What?”

“Body heat exchange,” he replies seriously, as if he's citing a medical journal. “Unless you want to freeze solid and haunt me out of spite. Which, to be fair, would be totally on-brand for you.”

You blink again. You understand. Oh, you absolutely understand. But your brain refuses to process the image of James bloody Potter – menace of your mornings, butter knife thief, your roommate and an irritatingly handsome embodiment of chaos – suggesting he sleep in your bed. With you. For heat.

“James, we have two separate beds,” you say slowly, as if he’s forgotten the entire floor plan of the flat.

“Yes, and that’s exactly the problem,” he replies, shifting from one foot to the other. “Separation makes us vulnerable. Vulnerable leads to frostbite. Frostbite leads to death. I don’t make the rules.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m practical,” he counters. “We can freeze alone or survive together. Totally your call, but just know… if I die tonight, it’s on your conscience.”

Your common sense, the very small, desperate part of it still functioning through the frost, screams at you to say no. This is dangerous. Reckless. Catastrophically stupid.

Sharing a bed with James Potter – the same James Potter you’ve been lowkey, highkey, painfully drooling over since the moment you met him – is not a good idea. It’s not even in the same galaxy as a good idea.

But the apartment is an icebox. Your fingers feel like they might snap off. No amount of hoodies or socks or blankets has been enough, and James is standing there, a walking furnace, a human campfire with ridiculous curls and a face that could melt glaciers. Worse, he's good at this. Good at making bad ideas sound logical, cozy even. He’s always been good at making you forget why exactly you were trying to keep your distance in the first place.

So despite the alarm bells ringing in your head, despite the heat that has nothing to do with temperature rising in your cheeks, your body – cold and treacherous and craving warmth – makes the decision for you.

You sigh and shift over, lifting a corner of the blanket in defeat.

James doesn’t hesitate. He slides in like he’s done it a hundred times, like this is some well-established nightly routine you just forgot. He brings with him a rush of heat and something else, something uniquely him. The clean smell of his shampoo. That familiar way he takes up space like he owns it, even when he’s technically invading yours. The way his knee brushes yours under the covers. The casual graze of his fingers against your hand, light and meaningless, except it absolutely isn’t.

Your whole body shivers, and not from the cold. Damn it. You’re so screwed.

“Relax, love,” he murmurs, settling in with the practiced ease of someone who belongs here – next to you, near you, with you. His voice is low, drowsy, and warm enough to soak into your skin. “It’s just me.”

Yes. That’s exactly the problem.

You lie frozen. Not from the cold anymore, but from the unbearable awareness of him. Every movement he makes registers like a tremor across your body. The dip of the mattress. The brush of his arm. The quiet sound of his breathing, so close to your ear. He’s completely at ease, infuriatingly comfortable, already half-asleep as if this isn’t a defining moment of your slow descent into madness.

Then, without a word, his arm wraps around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand settles just beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, finding bare skin – your frozen skin – and igniting it with one casual, devastating touch.

You jolt, involuntarily.

“Love,” he breathes again, even softer now, lips near your ear like a secret. “Go to sleep.”

As if this is something he does every night – curls into your bed, pulls you to his chest like you’re his, touches you like it’s instinct, whispers things that make your heart stop. Like you’re the only girl in the world and he’s known that all along.

And somehow, as soon as he says it, as soon as he purrs it like a sleepy cat, all warm breath and gentle gravity – your body begins to loosen. Your eyes flutter closed, despite every last nerve buzzing with tension.

“It’s all right, love,” he murmurs one more time, curling around you like a living promise.

And for one stupid, dangerous, glorious moment – it is. It’s all right. Absolutely fine.

But then it happens again. And again. Until it’s not a moment anymore. it’s a pattern.

By the second night, it stops being something you question. It becomes habit. You don’t bother layering every hoodie in your wardrobe or cocooning yourself in a ridiculous tower of blankets. You pare it down to just two: your favourite plushie blue one and the thick one James’s mum mailed over last winter, the one that still smells vaguely like her laundry detergent and safety. And you wait.

You don’t say anything when you hear his soft, familiar knock. You don’t tease or raise an eyebrow or pretend to hesitate. You just shift over, silently lifting the edge of the blanket in invitation, like you’ve been doing it your whole life. Like this bed has always been his, too.

And James – he doesn’t say anything either. He just slides in, warm and drowsy and completely, unfairly at ease. Like this is his natural habitat. Like you’re his pillow. Like you’re his.

The bed is too small for two people who are trying to be “just friends.” There’s no space for boundaries, no room for platonic distance. His legs tangle with yours. His arm always finds its way around your waist. And James Potter has never believed in personal space. Not when he’s awake, and especially not when he’s asleep.

His hand ends up on your hip most nights, tapping out some vague rhythm until he drifts off. Sometimes his fingers trail along your arm in loose, absentminded patterns that make it impossible to focus on anything else. Once, you feel him tug lightly at the hem of your T-shirt in his sleep – llike he’s anchoring himself there, like even unconscious he doesn’t want to let you drift too far.

You don’t mention it. Neither does he.

You tell yourself – firmly, repeatedly – that it’s just the cold. That this is purely survival. That James, for all his softness, doesn’t mean anything by it. That as soon as the heat comes back, so will the boundaries.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. A fluke of bad weather. A glitch in your otherwise carefully managed friendship. But every night, it gets a little easier. And every morning, it gets a little harder to pretend. But then, the heat comes back.

A week later, summer remembers what it’s supposed to feel like. You fold up the heavy blankets, swap thick socks for bare feet, and finally slip back into your silk pajamas – light and soft, like a promise of normalcy. You even crack the window at night, letting in the hum of the city and a breeze that finally, finally doesn’t hurt.

But not everything changes. Not everything resets. James doesn’t.

He still shows up at your door. Still knocks like he lives there. Still slips under your covers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Except the first night it happens, he doesn’t come right away.

You're alone, stretched across your bed like you're supposed to be, body warm but spirit restless. Sleep doesn’t come. You shift, roll over, stare at the ceiling. You tell yourself this is how it should be. That this was always temporary. That it was just the cold. A glitch. A harmless, forgettable thing. But logic has never had much power over emptiness — and that space beside you? It aches.

You try not to look at it. Try not to think about how lonely the room feels without James’s uneven breathing or the weight of his arm or the way he always mumbles something right before sleep takes him. You tell yourself you’re fine.

But at 2:03 am, there’s a knock.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. James is James. And James doesn’t wait for permission.

The door creaks open a second later, and there he is – leaning in the frame like he didn’t spend a week sneaking into your bed and turning your heart into something that won’t sit still. He’s in sweats and a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess, eyes soft and tired.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you – like he knows. Knows what it did to you, having him there. Knows what it’s doing to you now, not having him. Then, with that lazy, lopsided half-smile that always gets under your skin, he says quietly, “I can’t sleep.”

It shouldn’t make your chest tighten.

But it does.

God, it does.

“James…” you whisper, but it’s barely a protest.

“Shut up and pass the blanket,” he mutters, already kicking the door shut behind him.

You should stop him. You know that. You should say no. Tell him this can’t keep happening. That summer’s back, and so are the rules.

But then he’s sliding into bed like he never left it, his arm wrapping around your waist like it never belonged anywhere else. He exhales, melting into your back, his forehead resting in your hair. Like he’s home. Like you are home.

And maybe that’s the worst part… how right it feels.

You tell yourself this is just comfort. Just instinct. Just James being James. But then he kisses you.

Gently. Slowly. Inexorably.

His lips find yours like he’s been waiting. Like this was always where things were headed. Like the past two years of pretending hadn’t mattered at all.

And in that breathless, burning moment, as his hand settles at the curve of your jaw and you kiss him back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you realize something terrifying and beautiful all at once:

You never really wanted him to leave. And now, you know you’re never going to ask him to.

thankx for reading <3

to everyone who so patiently waited for me — thank you. truly.

I saw every message, every like, every reblog. even when I was quiet, I felt your support echoing in my inbox and notes, and it meant more to me than I can ever properly express. you didn’t just wait — you stayed. and that’s something I’ll never take for granted.

I'm coming back now with new projects, the continuation of old stories, and more inspiration than I’ve had in a long time. my mind is full of half-dreamed characters, unfinished conversations, slow burns, chaos, softness, mess, and magic. I can't wait to share it all with you.

there are still many ideas waiting patiently in my inbox. I’m not the fastest writer (and I’m really sorry for that), but I promise — I see them, I love them, and I will write them all. someday.

and if you’ve got new ideas or soft dreams you want to see written, my inbox is always open.

I’m here. I’m writing. thank you for waiting for me. 

                                    – your santi 🪐

james m.list // main masterlist

[thesoftboiledegg]

I never thought about it before I watched "Nomortland," but we've never had a true Jerry episode. We've had Jerry and Rick episodes, Jerry and Beth episodes, and a couple of Jerry and Morty episodes (I can't think of one where he's paired up with Summer), but none that allow Jerry to carry the plot on his own.

I wouldn't have expected a Jerry to find a new form of interdimensional travel, but that's part of this episode's charm. Jerry might act like a dorky dad on the surface, but he can be smart, resourceful, harsh and even deadly. This episode shows you what happens when he's willing to take charge.

And after all of Rick's reality-bending adventures, it DOES make sense that cracks in his universes would start to form. The writers could've turned that concept into yet another apocalyptic multiverse epic, but that's been done so many times in other shows and movies that I'm glad they went with a more laid-back storyline.

Throughout the episode, I kept waiting for a twist that the other Jerry was evil or part of a conspiracy or something similar, but nope--he's just an ordinary guy who lost touch with his family. I think that was a much better choice than stretching Jerry's character to the extreme. In the end, he's just a normal guy in wacky circumstances.

Well, except for the villain, who was the closest we've seen to an evil Jerry. The fact that a Jerry figured out how to beat down a Rick seemed like it was building to something, but the episode never quite got there. I also wondered what happened to make him hate his fellow Jerrys so much--another parallel to Evil Morty.

With 20 minutes of almost non-stop Jerry time, we got a lot of insight into his character: he sees Rick as a badass who would ultimately protect him ("You don't wanna mess with me, pal. My Rick could kick your ass"), he's not afraid to mouth off to people, he hates waiting around, he's impulsive, he's adventurous, and he enjoys the occasional shower beer.

And he and Rick aren't that different, either. When "Mooch" kills the evil Jerry, C-137 Jerry imparts these words of wisdom: "You can't think about it. It's the one thing I've learned. You can't think about it."

Rick's still mean as hell, but despite his best efforts, the therapy is clearly working. When he confronts Jerry in the kitchen, he starts by lecturing him, then backs down and starts talking to him normally...and then he blows up again to overcompensate.

It feels like he's trying to figure out who he wants to be. He doesn't want to let his guard down too much, but nobody falls for his "I don't give a shit about any of you" act anymore, including Jerry.

When Jerry picks up a picture frame in his bedroom, we see that Rick's finally made it to the family photos (I think this is the first time we've seen a picture of him in the Smith household?), so he clearly doesn't plan on bailing any time soon.

I also loved the detail of Rick immediately figuring out what Jerry's up to. He's probably aware of Jerrys sneaking through the multiverse, and now they've finally arrived at his household. For a moment, he's angry, but then he admits that some interdimensional adventures might be good for Jerry--which immediately freaks Jerry out, of course.

Then, we see Rick and Jerry enjoying some bonding time in the post-credits scene. They really do understand each other more than they let on. I don't know why Beth's so shocked about Rick sitting around naked--he tears his clothes off in every other episode!

C-137 Jerry ended up in this dimension by mistake, but that fateful hand-off in "Mortynight Run" (which this episode references) might've been the best thing that could've happened to him. His family is a hot mess, but they cared enough to look for him. Plenty of other Jerrys can't say the same.

And now that he's gone on a solo adventure, he can say that he's joined the family's group of interdimensional travelers.