#the place they built with their hands. to have it just... stop. not in a way of repeating and staying in the moment

[stylesispunk]

"A lot to live without"

outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

summary: what are you supposed to do if there is no him.

wc: 2k>

warning: angst, grief. (yes)

a/n: I have more fix it fics to work in, but I also wrote this short one yesterday because i was feeling like shit. Besides, angst is part of my package so why not?

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

You still couldn't wrap your head around the idea your fingers were caressing a name craved on stone.

"beloved father"

"beloved brother"

But what about the beloved lover? that one who had torn apart his walls just to let you in. The one who had kept you safe from your nightmares when he still had his torturing his own mind like demons chasing him constantly.

Oh god, you sobbed, in between short breaths, while leaning your head towards the stone. As if you could feel the warmth of his breath mingling yours, as if his hands would wipe you tears with those callused fingers you loved wrapped yours with. As if you could open your eyes and meet those brown eyes that had softened after the life he had made with, the one he had built with you in here. In peace and quiet.

You almost felt his fingertips caressing your cheeks with tenderness, fingertips caressing with the warmth it comes with life, a life that now has been ended in the cruelest way.

Your heart hurt in a strangely different way. A kind of pain you haven't had felt before. Not even a broken bone or a knife throbbing in your middle could compare to this revolting feeling.

It wasn't physical. It was the kind of pain that seemed to have crushed your soul. That kind of pain that would never pass, would never heal. The one that could eat you little by little because it has sucked the life out of you.

A week had passed.

Seven full days without seeing his face, without waking up with an arm around your middle and a head resting on your chest.

Seven.

Without warm. Without sunshine caressing your skin. Instead, in its place a monstrous cold that had soaked into your bones, like the touch of his hand after his death.

God.  Joel Miller and death couldn’t go in the same sentence. It felt almost ridiculous for a man who has survived all these times just for his life ending in a weak act of revenge.

The world stopped. Yours had stopped.

It stopped the moment Ellie, Dina and Jesse’s horses came through those gates with blood-stained saddlebags and a rolled-up blanket that could’ve been anything. Should’ve been anything. But you knew.

Just it wasn’t supposed to be Joel’s lifeless frame.

Your legs had moved before your brain could stop them, a scream building in your chest, clawing at your throat, spilling out in broken, incomprehensible sound the second you saw it. Tommy’s face — like a man carved from stone, grief hardened in every line, his hand on your shoulder grounding the truth you didn’t want to face.

It was a day of blood under your fingernails, gravel cutting into your knees, and Ellie’s face crumpling in a way you wouldn’t wish on the cruelest soul. The weight in your chest so heavy it pressed your ribs inward until you swore, they’d snap. You begged the earth to swallow you.

It didn’t.

You didn’t know how you were able to get there, how your legs moved beneath you, how your hands pushed the door open past Tommy, but you fell to your knees beside him, the blanket peeled back like some horrible.

There he was.

Joel.

Your Joel.

His face bloodied, bruised, lips split, but still him. Those lashes you used to kiss at dawn. That jaw you traced when you thought he was asleep. Skin pale, lips bluer than they should’ve been.

You reached out, fingers trembling so badly you barely made contact, brushing over his cheek.

Cold.

Not the kind of cold that came with this winter, with long patrol nights or chilled hands warming beneath blankets. The kind of cold that didn’t leave. The kind that sank into skin because there was no warmth left inside.

You sobbed.

“Oh god, Joel,” your voice cracked, a sound you didn’t recognize, “Joel, please—”

And then Tommy was there, kneeling beside you, face wrecked and wet and older than it had ever looked.

“He’s gone,” Tommy choked, like it physically hurt to say.

You cradled Joel’s cheek, tried to find anything, anything warm in him.

“He’s cold, Tommy,” you whispered, your throat raw, “We should—we should wrap a blanket around him. He’ll get sick—”

Your fingers tangled in the blood-matted hair you’d brushed from his face just that morning. Just hours ago, when the sun barely came up and he mumbled about five more minutes, pulling you against his chest, breath warm on your skin.

“He’s cold,” you repeated, voice cracking completely, “He’ll be cold like this—”

Tommy’s hand was on your shoulder, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises you wouldn’t notice for days. His face was twisted, voice breaking as he spoke.

“I know,” he said, ragged and useless, “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

But you didn’t stop.

You curled yourself over him, forehead pressed to his, as if you could will the life back into him. As if the warmth you gave could fill him again. As if the world could undo itself.

But the cold stayed because he wouldn’t come back.

During the second day, you didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t move, unless someone made you.

Your body became foreign. Limbs you didn’t recognize. Hands that trembled even when you told them not to. You sat on the front porch where he’d spent a thousand mornings watching sunrises he pretended not to care about. The chair beside you empties. You didn’t cry this time. You just stared.

People spoke to you. Said words. Food. Rest. Breathe. All pointless.

He wasn’t in any of them.

Just flowers around your house. One you couldn’t face to step inside the door now.

The third day, the dreams started. Not of him alive, that would’ve been a mercy.

You saw his body. Over and over. In the barn. On the road. On the place where he taught you to shoot. Every time you closed your eyes, it was there. And waking up was worse. Because for a second you forgot. For a single, brutal second you reached across a bed for him. And then the cold came in.

You broke the mirror in Maria’s and Tommy bathroom.

Didn’t even feel the glass slicing skin.

During the fourth day, you face yourself and your pain. You stepped inside the house for the first time since his death and the house smelled like him.

It was the soap. The old jacket draped on the back of the chair. The coffee mug you still unwashed. And it was a cruelty, because every breath you took was a lie. The scent fading. You could almost pretend if you kept the door closed, didn’t let the world in, he might still be here.

You found one of his shirts in the laundry.

Sat on the floor with it, knees to your chest.

Cried until your throat burned.

At day five, anger came. That was new.

It came in sharp and bright. Rage at everything. At the world. At the sky for daring to be so blue. At Jackson’s walls for being too damn high to matter. At yourself for surviving. At Joel himself for leaving you behind.

You screamed until your voice went hoarse.

And then it was empty again.

During day six, you counted every hour. Every minute. The clock in the living room ticked so loudly it became a torment. Time moved in jagged, unnatural ways. Minutes stretched into eternities. You watched the light shift through the window like you were watching for him. As if maybe — maybe, he’d step through the door with that crooked, half-guilty smile, calling you by that nickname only he was allowed to use.

He didn’t.

And you hated yourself for hoping.

You wanted to die.

And now, at the seventh day, with you still kneeling on his grave. You told him you didn’t know how to keep going. It was true, you meant it.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” you whispered. Your voice sounded foreign in the still air. “I mean it, Joel. I don’t. I don’t know what the fuck to do now.”

The words clung to the silence.

And then you felt it — not a sound, not a voice, but a presence near you. You knew it without looking. Ellie.

She’d been avoiding you all week. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Wouldn’t come near you. And God, you understood. You understood that guilt, that heavy, ugly thing gnawing at her broken, now healing ribs. The way it twisted her mouth when she tried to speak and couldn’t.

But it hurt. It hurt more than you could stand because you needed her. And she was too far away.

You lifted your head, your face blotched and raw, and there she was. A few yards away. Standing like a ghost, her arms crossed over her stomach, her face as pale as the clouded sky above.

You could see it in her. That look. Like she wanted to come to you but thought she didn’t deserve it. Like the grief belonged to her alone.

So, you did the only thing you could. You lifted your arm.

In a quite small, weak gesture, but it was everything you had left to give.

Her chin quivered. You saw the shine in her eyes, the battle in her chest. “C’mere,” your voice cracked, half a sob, half a plea. “Baby girl… c’mere.”

And slowly, like she was afraid you’d take it back, she moved.

Step by step.

Until she was close enough for you to wrap your arm around her.

Until her knees hit the dirt beside yours.

Until her head was buried in your shoulder and your fingers tangled in her hair.

And for the first time in seven days, the ache inside you shifted. Not gone. Not healed. But a little less lonely.

Her shoulders shook against you, ragged sobs breaking loose the way neither of you had let yourselves fall apart in front of each other all week. The air was sharp with cold, damp earth clinging to your knees, but neither of you moved. Neither of you could.

You kept your hand in her hair, fingers trembling as you combed them through the tangled strands like you’d seen him do a hundred times when she was upset. And maybe you were doing it for yourself too. Maybe it was the last piece of him you had left.

“I miss him so much,” Ellie whispered, her voice so small it made your heart physically ache.

“I know, baby girl. I know.”

The words cracked apart in your throat. Joel used to call her that. Since when things were still simple in their own complicated way.

She pulled back, just enough to look at you, her face blotchy and red, eyes rimmed with swollen skin. “I… I should’ve—”

“No,” you cut in, your voice firm despite the tears choking you. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to carry a guilt it doesn’t belong to you.”

“But I—”

“No.” You grabbed her shoulders, made sure she was really looking at you. “He loved you. You hear me? Nothing about what happened changes that.”

Her mouth wobbled, fresh tears welling up, and you knew there was more she wanted to say, but something inside you splintered then. The weight you’d been carrying, this secret pressing against your ribs, rising in your throat every night, it was too much.

And now, with her here, with the grave between you and the cold earth around you, you just… couldn’t hold it anymore.

You looked at Joel’s name craved on that stone, then shifted your gaze back to Ellie.

“Ellie,” your voice broke, rough and soft all at once. You took her hand, pressing it to your stomach, though there wasn’t anything to feel yet. Not yet.

“I’m pregnant.”

She stared. Like the words didn’t make sense at first. Like her brain had to piece them together.

And then the breath left her in a hitched, broken sound. “What?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t get to tell him,” You managed, the sob catching on your lips before you could stop it. “I was gonna—“you sobbed again, “But you know he was getting older and I was scared-“

Ellie’s hand trembled against you.

“I don’t know what to do,” you confessed, shaking your head, pressing your palm over hers. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”

Her face crumpled again, tears spilling over, and this time it wasn’t just grief. It was something softer. Something terrified and protective and bone-deep yours.

“I’ll help you,” she whispered. “I’ll—I’ll be here, okay? I’m not gonna leave you. I swear.”

You pulled her back against you, burying your face in her hair as the wind blew through the trees, rattling branches like brittle bones. And in that hollow, ruined space inside you, something fragile sparked. Not hope, not yet — but the thin, flickering thread of not being alone.

And for now, it was enough.

Ellie stayed there, curled into your side, the two of you pressed together against the cold earth like it might anchor you to the world before it slipped away entirely.

You didn’t say anything for a while. Just breathed. Just existed.

The wind whistled low through the trees, carrying with it the faintest hint of pine and cold earth, and somewhere nearby, a crow croaked out a single, harsh note. The world was still turning. It felt cruel.

Ellie shifted then, her hand still resting on your stomach, and tilted her head to look past you — at the headstone. At the name carved in stone like it could contain a man so big, so stubborn, so him.

Joel Miller.

Beloved Father.

Beloved Brother.

And to you — beloved everything.

You felt Ellie’s breath stutter against your shoulder, the faintest catch of her throat before she spoke. Her voice was rough, but there was a thread of something else in it now. Not light. Not humor, not quite. But a kind of aching tenderness you’d only ever seen her give him.

“Did you hear that, old man?” she whispered hoarsely, her fingers brushing against the grave marker like she might get a reaction. “You’re gonna be a dad again.”

The words hit the air and settled between you like a living thing.

And your chest cracked open all over again, but this time it wasn’t just pain. It was longing. It was grief. It was love so enormous it hurt to hold.

Because you will have to this alone, without him.

You let out a ragged breath, your lips trembling into a small, wrecked smile, and you leaned your head against Ellie’s.

“Yeah,” you whispered to the dirt, to the wind, to the man you’d lost. “You better stick around somehow, Miller. ‘Cause I can’t do this shit without you.”

Ellie let out a wet, broken laugh.

The two of you sat there, together, the grave in front of you and the cold world beyond it. And for the first time in seven days, the unbearable weight in your chest felt a little less sharp.

Still heavy.

Still raw.

But you weren’t alone.

And neither was he.

[aeniiverse]

CO-PARENTING A CAT

Synopsis — You and Karina broke up three months ago. It was clean, it was adult, it was entirely her idea. But neither of you thought about what it would mean for Miso your shared, overly dramatic, tuna-obsessed cat who now requires joint custody and emotionally complicated drop-offs.

contains — fluff, angst (maybe a sprinkle), exes to lovers, miso is a bit sassy 😭 (I love her), not much warnings lol

WORD COUNT — 2.5k

A/N — Karina just wants to get back together with you and the cat is a perfect excuse 🙏, have this short fic while I start planning out a longer one

You don’t expect to see her when you open the door in your oversized hoodie and one sock missing, but there she is. Karina. Holding Miso in one arm like a prize she’s just won in a claw machine, lips pursed and eyes wide like she wasn’t planning on seeing you either. The cat meows bored, judgmental, as if she’s the one being inconvenienced and Karina finally speaks.

“She was at my door again,” she says, shifting her weight like the three seconds of silence have started to burn. “Scratched it too. I think she hates me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Miso hates everyone. She’s fair like that.”

“She didn’t hate you when we were dating.”

You pause. And that’s the thing about Karina. She’s always been good at slipping the most dangerous sentences into the most harmless moments. Like she’s tossing grenades in with the groceries. You open the door wider, silently letting her in because fighting in the hallway would mean acknowledging to your neighbors that you’re still, sort of, accidentally, in each other’s lives.

Karina walks in like it’s still her place, like she remembers the way the floorboards creak near the fridge and where you keep the emergency Miso treats even though you moved them last month. Miso jumps out of her arms the second she spots the empty food bowl, trotting off like this whole “shared custody” arrangement isn’t ruining your peace.

“You cut your hair,” Karina says, and you swear her voice softens. You resist the urge to touch it, resist the part of you that wants to explain how post-breakup chaos spiraled into a salon visit where you panicked and said “surprise me.”

“You dyed yours,” you shoot back, because this is what the two of you do now, dodge real things with stupid observations. But then you see the way she smiles, just barely, and you hate how much you missed it. How much you still know it by heart.

Karina crouches to pet Miso, who rolls onto her side and purrs like she didn’t just abandon you two hours ago. “I think she’s manipulating us.”

“She’s a cat.”

“She’s your cat.”

You don’t say it, but that’s not true. Not anymore. Miso was a joint decision. She was an “our” cat. Back when you were an “our” instead of a weird arrangement involving Google calendar custody swaps and avoiding the third drawer in the kitchen because it still has Karina’s chopsticks in it. You don’t throw them out. You don’t know why.

“So,” Karina says, standing up and dusting her hands like she just did something heroic. “Should we talk about the scratching or…?”

“She’s probably just mad you don’t feed her the good stuff.”

“I literally bought that overpriced tuna mousse she likes.”

“You mean the one you used to say ‘smelled like ocean trash’?”

“I’ve grown. People grow.”

You snort, and you hate that it feels natural. You hate how she still makes you laugh in that stupid, knee-jerk way. Like your ribcage remembers her before your brain can stop it. She notices of course she notices and that smug, infuriating smile spreads across her face like it never left.

“I can leave,” she offers suddenly, even though she hasn’t moved an inch. “I just didn’t want her to get run over again. You remember last time—”

“I remember you crying harder than she did.”

“She had a cone! She looked like a furry UFO!”

You laugh. Really laugh. And for a second, it feels like you’re back in that strange little bubble you two built together. Where nothing made sense but it didn’t have to, because at least you had each other. But then the silence creeps in again, heavier this time. And you both know what’s missing.

Karina clears her throat. “Anyway. I can… take her back tonight if it’s too much.”

You want to say no. You want to say yes. You want to ask her if she still uses your Netflix profile and if she misses falling asleep next to you and if she meant it when she said it was better this way. But instead you say, “She’s already here. Might as well let her stay.”

And maybe you’re not just talking about the cat.

You’re halfway through a sad microwave dinner and a worse true crime documentary when your phone buzzes with a message from Karina: ”Miso’s acting weird. Like… really weird. Is she supposed to do that thing with her eye??” There’s a photo attached. Miso, mid-yawn. Not dead. Not dying. Just annoyed. You blink at the image for a long moment, then reread the text. Twice. Because it’s either an actual emergency or Karina being dramatic, and you’ve known her long enough to know those two things often look exactly the same.

Still, she said “really weird.” And that’s just enough to push you out the door.

When you show up at Karina’s apartment, you’re out of breath and slightly pissed, mostly because you didn’t have time to put on real pants. She opens the door in her stupid soft cardigan and even stupider wide eyes like she’s genuinely surprised you came. Which is insane. She knows you. She knows the second she says “Miso” and “weird” in the same sentence, you’ll drop everything.

“She stopped blinking for like twenty seconds,” Karina says as you step inside, voice hushed like Miso might hear her and take offense. “That’s not normal, right?”

You walk straight past her to the living room where Miso is perched like a smug little gremlin on the back of the couch. She looks up at you, unimpressed. You reach out a hand, and she immediately headbutts it, purring like an engine. Zero signs of trauma. No eye twitching. Just healthy, spoiled indifference.

“She’s fine,” you say, turning around slowly. “You made me run over here because she blinked weird?”

“I panicked!” Karina throws her arms up. “It was either call you or Google it, and I didn’t want to see something that said she had feline eye cancer or some shit.”

You want to be mad. You really do. But she’s doing that thing again wringing her hands in her sleeves, lips pressing into a guilty pout, eyes flickering everywhere but your face. Like she’s trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.

“You could’ve just said you wanted to see me,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

The silence that follows is loud enough to make Miso flatten her ears.

Karina looks at you. Actually looks. And for a moment, it’s like you’re both back at the beginning, before the breakup, before the calendar swaps and cold distance and pretending you don’t miss each other. Her face softens, jaw unclenching just slightly. “I didn’t think I had the right.”

You sit on the edge of the couch, gently scooping Miso into your lap. “You gave her tuna mousse last week. I think you forfeited your moral high ground then.”

Karina groans and flops onto the other end of the couch like she’s been holding her drama in all day. “Okay, but have you seen her face when she eats it?.”

“She’s a cat.”

“She’s a tiny angel with expensive taste.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Miso stretches luxuriously across your legs, clearly enjoying the attention. Karina glances at the two of you, then hugs a pillow to her chest like it might keep her from saying something stupid. It doesn’t.

“I thought I was over this,” she says quietly.

Your heart stutters. “Over what?”

“This. You. Wanting to make up reasons to text you. Sitting around hoping you’ll ask for a sleepover again just so I can pretend it’s not a big deal.”

You freeze. Because you weren’t expecting that. Not from her. the one who ended it. The one who said she needed space, clarity, whatever. You’d nodded, swallowed your hurt, let her go. But now she’s looking at you like none of it made her feel better. Like maybe walking away wasn’t some strong, mature decision but a mistake wrapped in fear.

“Then why’d you end it?” you ask. The question hangs in the air like smoke thin and choking.

Karina doesn’t answer right away. She picks at the edge of the pillow, lips tugging down. “Because I thought you deserved someone who wasn’t scared all the time. Who didn’t freeze every time things got serious. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You ruined it anyway.”

“I know.”

And that’s the part that stings the most, how calm she is about it. How she says it like she’s been carrying the guilt around every day, tucked inside all the moments where she played it cool and acted like she didn’t miss you. You shift under the weight of Miso and the truth pressing down on your chest.

“I kept your hoodie,” she says suddenly. “The blue one. It still smells like you.”

You blink.

“I didn’t mean to. I just… never gave it back. And now it’s like… this comfort thing? Is that weird? That’s probably weird.”

You stare at her. “Do you sleep in it?”

She shrinks into the pillow. “Sometimes.”

Your laugh is soft, disbelieving. “You fake a cat emergency and sleep in my clothes and you’re wondering if that’s the weird part?”

Karina groans and hides her face. “God, I sound so creepy.”

“No,” you say. “You sound like someone who didn’t want to let go.”

She peeks out, hopeful. “What if I don’t?”

You look down at Miso, who’s blissfully unaware of the emotional mess she’s caused. Then back at Karina, at the flush on her cheeks, the nervous curl of her fingers, the quiet hope in her voice. She doesn’t look like someone who’s moved on. She looks like someone who’s been waiting for a sign.

“You didn’t have to pretend,” you say softly. “You could’ve just said you missed me.”

Karina bites her lip. “I missed you so much it was pathetic.”

You smile. “Good.”

Her eyes widen. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you say, nudging Miso gently to the side as you shift closer. “Because I missed you too.”

There’s a pause, charged and soft at the same time. Then she leans in like gravity’s pulling her there, like she’s done waiting. Her voice drops just above a whisper. “So… does this mean I can stop inventing medical emergencies to see you?”

“No promises,” you tease. “But maybe next time, just say hi like a normal person.”

“Normal’s boring,” she murmurs, and then she kisses you.

It’s tentative at first. Careful. Like she’s afraid you might change your mind. But you don’t. You kiss her back, slow and sure, and when she exhales against your mouth like relief, you realize you’re both still in love. Just slightly less afraid now.

Miso meows loudly between you, possibly out of protest. Possibly because she’s no longer the center of attention.

Karina pulls back, grinning. “I think she’s jealous.”

“She’s just mad she can’t fake another crisis now that the truth’s out.”

You both laugh, leaning into each other, the tension finally breaking.

And maybe it took fake emergencies and tuna mousse and an emotionally manipulative cat to get here, but you’re here. Together. Again.

Sort of.

Almost.

Just enough.

You wake up to the sound of purring and something soft against your cheek. For a brief, disoriented second, you think it’s a dream the one of those warm, sugar-fogged ones where everything is right again and Karina’s still yours. But then you blink, and the ceiling isn’t yours, and the blanket smells like Karina’s detergent, and Miso is fully sprawled across your face like the world’s most possessive weighted blanket. You groan, gently shifting her to the side, and that’s when you feel it. Karina’s arm curled loosely around your waist, her breath steady against the back of your neck, like she never let go at all.

You don’t move. You don’t even breathe for a second. Just lie there, frozen in this strange, tender limbo where maybe you’re not exes, maybe you never were, maybe last night was the first step back to something you weren’t brave enough to fight for before.

Then her voice breaks the quiet, sleepy and rough at the edges. “You drool in your sleep.”

You reach back and smack her arm without turning around. “You kissed me last night.”

“Technically, you kissed me back.”

You finally roll over, careful not to disturb the ball of fur between you. Karina’s hair is a disaster, her eyeliner smudged, one cheek creased from the pillow and she still looks stupidly, unfairly pretty. You hate that it makes your heart do cartwheels. You hate that all it took was one dumb night of honesty and tuna mousse to unravel weeks of distance.

“You really missed me?” you ask, quieter this time. Not teasing. Not testing. Just needing.

Karina nods, eyes meeting yours. “I missed you so much I started naming my plants after you. Even the cactus.”

You stare. “Why the cactus?”

“Because it’s prickly and hard to take care of but it still makes me happy.”

You bury your face in the pillow to muffle the groan. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been emotionally constipated for weeks. Let me live.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make both of you feel the shift. Like something fragile is settling between you, just out of reach. You lift your head and meet her gaze again, softer now.

“So what does this mean?” you ask. “Was last night a one-time makeout brought to you by guilt and cat anxiety, or…?”

Karina hesitates, then slowly, carefully, reaches for your hand beneath the blanket. Her fingers lace through yours, and her grip is warm. Steady. “It means I want to try again. If you’ll let me. No more running. No more hiding behind Miso.”

You glance down at the cat, who is now asleep with one paw dramatically draped over Karina’s stomach like she’s claiming her.

“She forgives you,” you say.

Karina smiles. “What about you?”

You think about the hoodie she kept, the look on her face when she kissed you, the way she’s holding your hand like she never wants to let go again.

“I think so.”

Karina squeezes your hand. “Good. That means I’ve got time to win you back properly.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Properly? Is that code for elaborate gestures or more fake cat emergencies?”

She grins. “Oh no. I’m done lying. Next time I want to see you, I’m just gonna show up with coffee and a tragic playlist and say, ‘I’m still in love with you, please let me in.’”

You snort. “That sounds terrifying.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, tugging you closer until your forehead brushes hers, “so is losing you again.”

And when you finally lean in, kissing her like you mean it this time no confusion, no fear. Miso lets out the most offended meow imaginable and storms off the bed like she wasn’t the reason you’re here in the first place.

[squipa]

baby, i want some of your love

aka how you healed him

———

jason todd wears glasses now.

jason never really took care of himself after dying. his body was so hopelessly out of rhythm, everything slightly wrong and out of place. his bones creak underneath his skin, his muscles, which had nearly rotted and decayed, could never quite figure out how to relax. sometimes he’d forget to breathe, or blink, the actions no longer involuntary, and before you? he didn’t have it in himself to care. his health had fallen to the least of his worries.

but you were always so worried about him. you noticed things about himself he hadn’t even realized, how he winced when he chewed with the left side of his mouth, how he squinted at street signs whenever you went on walks, how his muscles were always tense until you massaged them into relaxation. you pointed them out, pouting whenever he’d shrug it off. to him, it was nothing, he was used to the pain, the inconvenience; he didn’t consider his own wellbeing important enough to pay any mind to.

to you, it was torture. watching the man you loved so dearly treat himself with so little care had you ruined. all you wanted for him was happiness and safety, for him to have what he had given you so freely, what he guarded himself from so intensely. he didn’t realize how much you cared until he noticed how much you finally pushed him to treat himself better.

“i scheduled you a dentist appointment.” you said, matter-of-factly setting down a few documents in front of him begging his patient history. he looked up to you, eyebrow raised, entirely confused. you answered his question before he could even think to ask it. “you wince when you chew.”

he wouldn’t say no to you. despite his disdain regarding the idea of a check up, he went. you came with him, fiercly speaking a language of medicine he didn’t understand. when he left the dentist, you gave him a lollipop. “i’m not five.” he ate it anyways, savoring the taste between strawberry-stained lips as you drove him home.

he stopped noticing when you made him appointments to get shots, or when you subtly slipped the card of a dermatologist behind the picture of you he kept in his wallet. he started actually caring about what he did to his body— gut health and all that. yes, he was jacked, his body had been built like a machine ever since it had patched itself back together in the lazarus pit, but he couldn’t remember the last time he ate a piece of fruit.

he didn’t realize how much better he felt until dick pointed it out for him. “you got glasses?” he asked, pointing to the thick black frames that sat on the bridge of his nose.

he nodded. he does wear glasses. he has silver caps on two of his teeth. he has a nice layer of body fat covering his muscles because he eats three well-balanced meals a day. he has a standing appointment with a chiropractor every other wednesday at two, and another with a therapist on mondays at one. he gets a checkup every six months and goes to the dentist every four, he’s been to the dermatologist three times in two years, he has all of his shots up to date, he takes vitamins in the morning and he sleeps at least five hours every night.

he cares about himself. he puts effort into making sure he stays healthy— and at first it was for you. only for you, to ease your constant worry about him. but now it’s second nature, your guiding hand has healed him, made him want to stay alive and healthy and whole, not for just you, but for himself.

the moment the realization washes over him of just how much you’ve given him, he rushes home and tells you in no less than a thousand ways just how grateful he is to have your love.

———

[writing-girlie]

Just for tonight

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Blurb: When Jack finds you sitting around after shift he doesn’t ask you to explain, just offers a drink and a moment of quiet. No expectations, no pressure.

WC: 1k

Warnings: [Soft] smut, unprotected sex, I think thats all?

Notes: I don't know where this came from. I can't stop writing for this man.

You had reached the end of another shift. This had been your life for a few years now and you loved it but it was a lot. You’re hunched over on the bench, elbows to knees, staring down at your fidgeting hands. Jack stops walking when he sees you.

“Your shift ended nearly half an hour ago.”

You exhale a slow breath, “Yeah. I know.”

“Rough day.” Jack leans against the wall across from you, arms crossed. You let out a soft, dry laugh.

He stays quiet. You finally glance up. There’s no sharpness in your voice, just tired honesty.

"I just needed to sit for a moment. Breathe before I go home like this. I didn’t want to bring it with me.”

“Most of them are. I just want something that feels good. Something real, even if it’s just for a night.” You shake your head, embarrassed by the words as soon as they leave your mouth. “It’s stupid. I know. This isn’t exactly the job for comfort.”

Jack looks at you for a long time, like he understands exactly what you mean.

“No,” he says finally. “It’s not stupid.”

You blink up at him.

“Come to my place, just for a bit. We’ll have a drink. Sit down. You can breathe.”

You nod.

The drive to his place is quiet but not uncomfortable. When he opens the door you follow him to the living room. His apartment is calming, lived in but organised.

“I’ll get you a drink” he says, his voice quieter now.

You nod, sinking into the couch. You let your head fall back and close your eyes. Jack’s footsteps softly echo to the kitchen and back again. When you open your eyes, he’s holding out a glass of whisky.

“Thanks.” He sits down, not too close, not too far. You both take a sip.

“I didn’t mean to come off desperate earlier.”

“You didn’t.” He’s quick to reassure you.

You exhale, eyes still forward. “I just- I go home, force down a bite of something, I barely sleep, and when I do stop moving, I feel like I’m going to break.”

“You don’t have to keep doing it alone.” He softly says.

“You say that like it’s simple.”

“It’s not,” he agrees, glancing your way now. “But neither is walking around with all that weight and nowhere to put it.”

You hold his gaze for a second too long. Then you both look away at the same time. You place your drink on the side table to stop yourself from taking constant sips just because you don't know what to say.

When your eyes meet again, it’s different. You both lean in at the same time, your lips meeting in the middle. It’s not what either of you expected when you agreed to come over. You feel his hand come up, settle against the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and when you pull back just slightly, your forehead rests against his. You don’t say anything. Neither does he, but he knows what to do next.

He gets up, places his drink down, and reaches for your hand. When you take it, he leads you down the hallway to his bedroom. You just stand for a moment, fingers laced in his. He reaches for the hem of your shirt slowly; he moves with care, giving you every chance to pull back, but you don’t. You lift your arms, letting him pull the shirt over your head.

You do the same for him. Your eyes trace over his well-built frame, the freckles that are speckled over his shoulders, and the soft rise and fall of his chest. Piece by piece you undress each other; nothing is rushed. You both know that this is about feeling something real and grounding.

Jack guides you back a few steps. When you lie back on the bed, Jack follows, bracing himself over you. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then over your collarbone. With the soft kisses, he reaches down and lines his hard length with your pussy. He pushes inside inch by inch, filling you completely, your arms wrap around his back, and your nails softly trace over his skin.

You both stay still, just embracing how you feel until you whisper his name. He starts to move, setting a gentle rhythm. You can feel every part of him, and for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you’ll break. You lift your head to kiss him again, and your hand then naturally finds rest in his hair. His pace never falters or speeds up. It feels like he’s trying to remind you that you’re still worthy of softness.

The space is filled with the sound of shared breaths and a quiet creak of the bed. His eyes meet yours again, and something about it makes your heart beat faster. You move one of your hands from his back to besides your head to hold his hand. He holds your hand, gently squeezing it.

Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him closer as you feel yourself get closer to the end of this moment. Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Don’t stop.”

Jack's hand tightens around yours briefly, silently telling you that he won't stop. He rests his forehead against yours, your breath mingling. He lets go of your hand and slips it beneath your back, holding you closer.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice husky, and that’s when you feel yourself slipping, unravelling into the safety of his arms.

Your breath hitches as you reach the peak, and soft moans follow. It hits you gently, like rolling waves, and it leaves you trembling, your body pulsing around him. You nod at him, and mumble a please. You feel Jack's body tense as he fills you up. He buries his face into the crook of your neck.

After a moment he lifts his head and presses a kiss to your lips. He rolls onto his side, pulling you with him. You snuggle into his embrace, your head resting on his chest, his arms wrapped around you. You listen to his heartbeat with the sound of the city as background noise.

In that silence it’s just him and you, and the quiet realisation that maybe this isn’t just a one-night escape.

[tiredandkindaoverworked]

Gavin is Satisfaction.

Satisfaction was pretty much Gavin’s entire purpose when he coalesced. Sure, he was a demon and could do a laundry list of cool things with his magic, but he was an incubus first.

He knew lust like the back of his hand. Attraction was nothing new to him, but somehow, they always came with the same look in their eyes. Eager and excited, sure. But always just a little devoid of something. Warmth. Affection. Love?

He didn’t need to experience those things. He was built to pleasure people, to give people a bit of fun, both for their enjoyment and his next meal. So, imagine his surprise when a foolish Freelancer walks in on him getting blown in a dingy 7-11 to ask for directions. Are they serious?

The next time he meets this freelancer, they’re studying for their History of Magic class. Yawn. He knows of a lot of things that are much more fun than studying. He sarcastically quips about their hoodie and their newfound place in the magic world. He feels their feelings of neutrality quickly turn to shame as they turn back toward their book. Shit.

Over the next few months, he finds himself coming back to the freelancer. Sure, there’s the sex. The sex is great. He’ll never turn down a chance to sink his cock deep into them, feeling them shudder under him or the early mornings when he wakes up to their lips around him.

But it’s not just that. Not with them.

One day, he watches them squirm under his touch. They look so beautiful, captive under his magic. So sweet, so earnest, so… trusting. God, they really do look beautiful. When did they start trusting him so deeply? When did he start trusting them so deeply?

No, this has to stop here. He can’t keep lying to himself like this. He feels confusion, nervous, worry coming off of them, not dissimilar to what he’s feeling now, but there’s one more feeling there. Fear. Fear? Why are they fearful? Of him? Of the situation they’re in? No. No more dancing around this subject.

“Wait, I-I need a minute. I need to stop. I need to stop.”

A snap.

“I need to talk to you. Not as a dom or as an incubus. As Gavin.”

He never stayed more than the awkward morning after. No, the morning after was never awkward for them. Tangled limbs and messy hair and warm looks with a feeling that radiated off of them like the sun.

Warmth. Affection. Love.

He was a fool, madly in love with his Freelancer. They never wanted him to adjust his form, never expected him to change how he acted. They didn’t care that he was an incubus and while they at most gave a mildly disapproving frown when he spoke of his little teasing adventures throughout the day, he knew that there was nothing but care for him behind those eyes.

Being an incubus was fun and all, he’d never deny that. Sex was an integral part of him and he enjoyed it immensely. With Freelancer, he now knew that it didn’t just have to be lust. They showed him grace, showed him love. He knew that they were satisfied with spending the rest of their life with him and, honestly? He was pretty satisfied with that too.

Gavin is satisfaction personified.

——————————————————————————

A/N: I was actually gonna do Guy first, but I’ve been true to my name and overworked for like the last 3 days so my brain is fried. Writing Gavvy is easier for me and I saw @chimckenns’s post about choosing Gavin first, so that inspired this one today LOLOL

back 2 da grind

[glasskey]

Episode 5

The Handmaid’s Tale is not a comedy, but this week there were a bunch of moments that were so darkly funny I couldn’t help but laugh. Let’s just run down this weeks highlights.

First victim this week was Lawrence. Poor Lawrence; he told Bell that no one liked or respected him and then found out that it was actually the other way around. To add insult to injury Lawrence finally learned that New Bethlehem was being used as a trap. Lawrence has done it again built a world that he believed would be better, only to have it corrupted by these black hearted little fuckers. Pretty sure that Lawrence will be happy to help Jezebels go boom boom once he squeezes the details out of June and Moira. These bombs at Jezebels are giving me a very season 4 vibe. Given that Blaine delivered those in Chicago, we’d all better hope that he continues to stay away from Jezebels in the future

Janine showed up to be reunited with June and Moira, with June asking her to come along and Moira saying no. It all seemed very reminiscent of Moira sneaking June back from Chicago. Just like Chicago, I’m not sure our Janine is going to be making it out. The fact that the letters got locked in the safe, speaks to how these women's voices are silenced once again.

June and Moira had a spat over who has the most PTSD and then almost on cue a beligerent rapey guardian walked in to bust up their discussion, giving the two of them the opportunity to work their shit out old school. Cleansing.

Luke in his usual style of going from 0 to 100 and all the way back down again, somehow clowns his way into a highly complex mission and then at the very first sign of a guardian he starts stammering like an idiot until they finally smack him to get him to stop. Realising how wildly incompetent he is both June and Moira throw up their hands and wisely make a run for it, leaving him behind. Time to shed some dead weight.

Turns out Serena will sell out her principles, and her eternal soul to the Prince of Darkness for a library. Guess all Tuello really ever needed to do was get her a voucher for Barnes & Noble and the whole thing would have been done and dusted season 5. Live and learn.

Last but not least, Nick Blaine stopped by the hospital to tie up some loose ends. Highlights for me included Blaine being called “an angel” (wrong kind of angel hun), and Nick talking about the little fellas doggy. They really cranked the volume up to 11 on this one. Apparently he’s just an innocent little guardian, who REALLY admires Nick and the first thing he wants when he wakes up is to see his dog. This was so obvious in it’s efforts to convince audiences that Blaine was now just murdering random innocents, that I laughed out loud. Is this The Handmaid’s Tale or Old Yeller? Fuck that stormtrooper. My black little heart can’t wait for the day that Blaine burns the whole place to ash.

This will obviously have wider repercussions, but I can’t help but notice that ALL of this is the direct result of Luke and Moira’s decision to lie to June and fuck off to Mayday. Once again Nick is left to clean up the mess, he’ll get no thanks of course and end up paying the price. But honestly, what would you have him do? Tuello won’t let him leave across the border, he had to protect June, Luke and Moira, and last but not least, if he’s found to be a rebel not only he, but all the members of his household will end up on the wall. So yeah. Not really feeling the villain vibe here.

As a side note, this episode kicked in at less than 40 minutes which is pretty poor, especially for a last season. Fans have been buttered up by the PR machine for over a month about how jam packed this season was going to be and how this was Nick and June’s season. Here I am watching ridiculously short episodes with milked sections of dialogue tying up precious time and once again crammed with Luke and June trying to resuscitate their long dead relationship. It was bad in season 4, it was worse in season 5, now it’s just torture. Blaine is a fan favourite, where is he? Nick and June and Serena and June are fan favourite character dynamics, where are they? Exactly how is this a season designed for the fans? Apart from June reuniting with her mother and episode 3, the season so far has been somewhat lack lustre. Perhaps it would have time to get off the ground, but with episodes this short, it barely stands a chance.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

Doesn't Have to Be Just Right Now - Built to Be Wanted

Previous

idk if this is even good or if there’s any mistakes, i’ve proofread it a million times but my brain is so slow from this fucking ear infection😭

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

warnings: refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.99k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The walk home feels longer than usual. Not because your legs are tired—though they are—or because the wind’s picked up and chilled the sweat clinging to your back. It feels longer because it’s quiet. Too quiet. And your thoughts won’t stop circling.

You wrap your arms around yourself, hands curled into the fabric of your scrub top like you’re holding something together that wants to fall apart. The path from the hospital to the Victor’s Village is familiar now, the turns worn into muscle memory. But tonight it stretches, and your chest stretches with it���tight, aching, too full of things you can’t say out loud.

Things were going good.

They were.

You’d started to feel… not confident, exactly, but less like you had to flinch every time he looked at you too long. Less like Haymitch’s teasing was some long, cruel joke you hadn’t figured out the punchline to. You’d been trying—really trying—to believe him. When he said you looked nice. When he touched your hip to guide you closer. When he pulled your legs into his lap like it was natural. Like you were allowed to be there.

And you were letting yourself want it. Want him. His hands, his voice, the way he says peach like it means something only the two of you understand.

You were finally letting yourself hope.

But that hope was broken by the same thing it's always been shattered with.

A few words.

Said lightly. Like they didn’t matter.

But they landed hard. Mean.

Sharp in that familiar way that latches on and echoes.

You didn’t cry. You just froze. Blinked. Went back to your lunch like you hadn’t heard it, like it didn’t punch through every fragile little piece of progress you’d made. You smiled through the end of your shift. Hugged Yaminah goodbye. Said you’d see her Monday.

Now you’re walking home and it feels like every step pulls the air tighter around you. Like you’re back inside that too-small version of yourself again—trying to shrink so no one has more to aim at.

You don’t want to remember it. You don’t want to feel it still sitting in your skin.

But you do.

You keep your head down when you reach the gate to the Victor’s Village. Your throat burns from holding in too much. Your arms squeeze tighter around yourself like that might help hold something together inside you, too.

You don’t want to talk.

You don’t want to be seen.

You don’t want to explain why it feels like everything’s crashing again.

The door creaks softly when you open it, hinges familiar now. The house is warm, lit in that low, cozy way he always keeps it in the evenings. You hear the clink of glass before you see him—Haymitch, seated on the couch, a book open in one hand, a half-finished drink resting on the armrest beside him. His eyes flick up as you close the door behind you.

“You’re late,” he says, not sharp, just noticing.

You nod, toeing your shoes off in the same place you always do. “Had a few extra things to finish.”

He hums like he doesn’t quite believe you but won’t press.

You start toward the hallway, but he speaks again before you disappear down it. “Peach.”

You stop.

His tone is low, unreadable. “Everything alright?”

You force a smile he can’t see. “Yeah,” you lie. “Jus’ tired.”

And then you’re moving again. Down the hall, into your room, the door closing behind you with a soft click.

You grab your towel, heart still thudding with all the words you didn’t say. You don’t look in the mirror. You don’t sit down. You don’t breathe until you’re in the bathroom with the door locked behind you, forehead pressed to the wood.

The silence hums in your ears, louder now than it was outside. You peel your clothes off slowly, the way you do when everything feels heavy. Step into the shower. The water scalds, but you don’t turn it down.

You scrub your skin with practiced, mechanical motions—arms, chest, stomach, thighs. You wash like you’re trying to erase the shape of yourself. Like if you scrub hard enough, you’ll come out smaller. Quieter. Easier to love.

When the soap rinses off, you don’t reach for the towel. You don’t even move.

You just sink down onto the tile floor, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your legs. Water beats against the top of your head, your neck, your shoulders—hot enough to sting. It doesn’t help. Nothing does.

The new apprentice first made a jab this morning—something about your scrubs being stretched a little tight. You were too startled to reply, but Yaminah had been there. She’d shut it down quick, eyes sharp as flint, voice hard and unwavering. You’d felt safe then. Protected.

But toward the end of your shift, she’d stepped out early. And that’s when he caught you.

You’d just been sitting in the break room, finishing the little fruit cup you’d packed from home. You remember the way he stood in the doorway like he owned the place, leaned against the frame with that casual smugness that only ever means danger.

“I still can’t believe they let someone like you treat kids.”

You didn’t look up. Thought maybe if you didn’t acknowledge it, he’d go away.

But he didn’t.

“You know what’s gonna happen, right? They’ll see someone your size in scrubs and think it’s healthy. Think it’s normal to look like that.”

Your stomach clenched. You wanted to disappear. You couldn’t even chew.

He chuckled. A low, cruel sound. “You should really get yourself in shape before you worry about the health of others.”

And then he left.

Just walked out like he hadn’t said the ugliest things you’ve heard since you got to District 12. Like it hadn’t cracked straight through the fragile skin of all the self-worth you’d been building. Like he hadn’t reminded you, in the span of thirty seconds, of every time someone looked at your body and decided it was wrong.

You hug your legs tighter.

The shower keeps running, water puddling around your thighs, steam curling around your face as your chest begins to hitch and shake. The sob that finally breaks from your throat doesn’t feel like something new—it feels old. Like something you’ve been carrying since childhood.

And even now—after weeks of soft smiles and gentle teasing, of letting yourself believe someone could want you, really want you—one stranger’s voice still echoes louder.

You cry until your face hurts. Until your throat aches.

Until the water turns cold.

And even then, you don’t move.

You only get out of the shower once your teeth start to chatter.

The water’s long gone cold—icy needles hitting your bare skin—and your body’s curled so tight on the floor that your knees ache when you finally start to move. You force yourself to stand, limbs heavy and clumsy, and reach for the towel hanging on the hook. You wrap it around yourself before stepping out, quick and tight, like maybe if you don’t look down, you won’t feel everything that’s clinging to you.

You avoid the mirror. Keep your eyes low as you pad down the hall, water dripping softly onto the wood floor beneath your feet.

In your room, the overhead light feels too bright. You flick on the small lamp by your bedside instead and shut the door quietly behind you.

You towel off in silence—quick, rough movements, just enough to stop your skin from staying damp. Then you turn to your dresser and pause.

Your fingers hover over the drawer, knowing what’s inside.

The only clean pair of pants left is your black leggings. The ones that cling. The ones that always make you feel more visible than you want to be.

You hesitate. Swallow hard. Then take them out and slide them on anyway, tugging your oversized towel around yourself like it might shield you a little longer. It doesn’t.

You don’t look down.

From the closet, you pull out the deep blue sweater your mom sent last week—the one she embroidered herself, little white stars scattered across the sleeves and chest. You remember the note she tucked inside the parcel, her handwriting looping and soft: Thought this color might look nice on you. Miss you every day. You slide it on slowly, grateful for how big it is, how it hangs low past your hips. How it hides the way you’re curled in on yourself.

Then the socks. The pink fuzzy ones with little white stars. They don’t really match your sweater, but they don’t have to. You just need something warm. Something kind.

You towel off your hair just enough to keep it from dripping. It still clings to your neck, damp and cold, but you don’t have the energy to do more.

Finally, you glance toward the mirror.

Only your face.

Your nose is red. The skin beneath your eyes is splotchy, puffed just enough to make you wince. Your lips are pressed together so tightly they’ve gone pale.

You look like what you feel—wrecked. Small. Like someone who tried to hold herself together and failed.

You turn away from the mirror and toward your bed, already half-convinced it’s where you’re meant to be. The idea of curling up under the blanket and hiding until morning is tempting—safe. If you sleep hard enough, maybe the ache in your chest will dull. Maybe tomorrow the words won’t echo so loudly. Maybe you’ll feel less like a hideous creature.

Your legs carry you halfway there before you stop.

Because you think of him.

Haymitch.

The way his presence alone has started to feel like something steady. Something anchoring. He doesn’t even have to speak—just being in the room with him softens the knot in your shoulders, the tension in your hands. And when he does speak—when he calls you peach, when he looks at you like he’s not waiting for you to get smaller, quieter, easier—you almost believe he means it.

Almost.

Even on the days he’s gruff and dry and buried in a book, he still makes the world feel less sharp. Less cold.

You take a breath. Then another. And you leave your bedroom behind.

The living room is quiet, save for the low crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the floor beneath your socks. Haymitch is still on the couch, exactly where you left him earlier. You feel his eyes on you the second you step into the room, but you don’t look up.

You cross to your usual spot in the corner and sit down—not curled up, not folded in on yourself like you always are. Just… sitting. Legs tucked to the side. Hands in your lap. Back straight but tired.

Your fingers find the edge of your sleeve, the soft thread of one embroidered star catching beneath your nail. You tug it gently, just enough to give your hands something to do. Your gaze stays fixed there—on your sweater, on the shaking line of your breath.

You feel him watching you.

It wraps around you like warmth and pressure all at once.

You want—more than anything—to ask him to hold you. Just pull you into his side, wrap his arms around your body, and make you feel like you aren’t unraveling.

But the words stick.

They stay lodged somewhere behind your ribs, heavy with fear.

Because what if this is the moment he touches you and realizes what everyone else sees? What if this is when he finally feels what’s under his hands and understands why boys used to laugh when they pretended to like you? What if he looks at you up close and wants to pull away?

You twist the sleeve tighter between your fingers, eyes burning again.

So you stay quiet.

And you stare at your hands.

And you try to pretend you don’t notice how badly you’re shaking.

“Peach.”

It’s quiet—barely more than a murmur—but it slices right through the silence.

You don’t move. Don’t look up. Your fingers keep twisting the edge of your sleeve, tighter now, like if you just keep fidgeting, he won’t notice how much effort it takes to breathe.

You don’t answer.

You hear the fabric of the couch shift slightly, the soft creak of old cushions adjusting under his weight. He waits a beat. Then tries again.

“Peach,” he says, a little softer. “Look at me.”

Your throat tightens.

You hesitate, shoulders curling in just the tiniest bit, like your body’s trying to protect you from something you can’t name. You turn your head after a second—but only just. Enough to acknowledge you heard him. Enough to show you’re trying.

But you don’t meet his eyes.

You can’t.

You stare somewhere near his collarbone instead, vision going a little blurry as you try to keep your face from crumpling again. You hear the sigh he lets out—not sharp, not impatient. Just sad. Gentle. Like he knows this version of you well enough not to take it personally.

Then the couch shifts again.

He moves closer.

Not all at once. Just enough for your knees to brush, for the space between you to shrink.

His hand reaches for yours.

And you flinch—only a little, not because you’re scared, but because it’s hard. Being touched when you feel like this. Being seen.

But his touch is light. Steady. Like he’s saying, I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.

And for the first time tonight, something in your chest eases. Just a little.

His fingers brush over yours—gentle, slow. Just resting there, not gripping, not pulling. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll let him stay.

You don’t pull away.

You can’t lift your eyes, not yet. But the heat of his hand against yours burns into your skin in a way that steadies you.

You swallow hard. Your throat still aches from crying in the shower, and it stings worse now, raw from holding everything in.

“I’m…”

The word is barely audible. It catches in the back of your throat like it doesn’t belong there.

His thumb moves just a little, brushing soft against your knuckles.

You try again. “I’m sorry.”

But your voice breaks halfway through—splintering on the word like it cuts you in half to say it. Like it costs something to let it out.

Your eyes blur again. You blink fast, but the tears are rising too quick to stop.

“I—I don’ mean to be—” Your breath hitches. “I don’ wanna be like this, I jus’—”

You don’t finish. You can’t.

The sentence falls apart somewhere between your chest and your mouth, and suddenly the room feels too small again. Too quiet. Too much.

You keep your eyes down.

You wait for the part where he lets go.

Where he says something to push the moment away, tells you you’re too sensitive, too emotional, too much.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just moves.

Careful. Steady.

His hand moves from your hand to your shoulder, and the other finds your waist, guiding you gently toward him. You don’t resist. Can’t. The warmth of him pulls you in like gravity.

You let yourself go when his arms wrap around you.

He draws you in close until your head rests against his chest, right over his heart. It’s strong and steady, beating beneath the worn fabric of his shirt like it has no idea how broken you feel. His other arm settles around your back, firm and sure, holding you like he has no intention of letting go.

Not just comforting.

Claiming.

And not in the way that takes something from you—but in the way that says you are worth keeping. Even like this. Especially like this.

You don’t mean to make the sound that slips out—a quiet, breathy sort of sob that trembles against his ribs—but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stiffen or pull away or sigh like you’re a burden.

He just holds you tighter.

Like this is exactly where you belong.

The room is quiet, save for the slow, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

Yours is still shaky—soft, uneven exhales against the front of his shirt—but steadier than before. His hand rubs slow circles into your back, the weight of it grounding, the pressure just right.

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t ask questions. Just holds you like this could be forever if you needed it to be.

Then, after a long stretch of silence, his voice rumbles low against your ear.

“Y’know,” he says, “you don’t have to fall apart alone.”

The words aren’t sweet. Not really.

But the way he says them—soft, certain, no room for argument—wraps around you like a blanket.

Your breath catches.

He shifts a little, just enough to look down at you, though you keep your face tucked into his chest.

“Hell, peach,” he murmurs, quieter now, “you don’t have to fall apart at all. Not if I can help it.”

His arms tighten around you again—firm, steady, like a promise.

You stay quiet for a long time.

It’s easier, here—his arms around you, your face tucked into his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing giving you something to hold on to. But the ache in your chest hasn’t left. It’s just dulled at the edges, quieted enough that now it hurts in a different way.

A way that makes you want to speak.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, like you need to hold on tighter to keep the words from slipping.

And then, so quietly you’re not even sure he’ll hear it, you whisper, “It was one of the new apprentices.”

You feel his arms tense—just slightly—but he doesn’t speak.

You keep going. You have to, or you’ll choke on it.

“He said somethin’ this mornin’. Yaminah stopped it before it got bad, but…”

Your voice falters. You take a breath that catches on the way in.

“But later—toward the end of my shift—I was alone in the break room, an’ he…”

You swallow hard.

“He looked at me like I was disgustin’. An’ he said he couldn’ believe they let someone like me treat kids.”

You force the words out like they’re knives you’ve been hiding in your throat. “Said I’d make ‘em think it’s okay to be… like this. That I should get myself in shape before tryin’ to help anyone else.”

You don’t realize you’re shaking until his hand moves up to cradle the back of your head, steady and warm.

You press your face harder against his chest, voice cracking again.

“An’ I was tryin’. I’ve been tryin’ so hard to believe that I’m not…” You trail off, unable to finish the sentence.

“I thought maybe you mean the things you say to me. That maybe I’m allowed to want someone lookin’ at me like that. Touchin’ me like that. An’ then he—”

You cut yourself off, shoulders curling in.

“Jus’ a few words. Thas’ all it took. An’ now everythin’ I’ve been buildin’ up jus’ feels gone.”

Your voice is barely a whisper now.

“Like I was stupid to ever believe I could be wanted at all.”

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Doesn’t rush to fill the silence with something comforting or convenient. He just holds you, his palm still resting against the back of your head, thumb brushing slow and steady through your damp hair. His other hand stays warm on your back.

You can feel the tension in him now—subtle, but there. Like every muscle’s gone tight under his skin, held back only by the weight of you in his arms.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Rough.

“You ain’t stupid, peach.”

It lands heavy—not soft, but solid.

You try to say something, but he cuts you off gently.

“No. Don’t argue with me. I ain’t got it in me to say it twice.”

He exhales through his nose, the sound tired. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the world you live in.

“You being soft? That’s not the problem.”

His hand slides up your back just slightly, anchoring you.

“The problem is how many people look at you and see that softness as a weakness instead of a goddamn miracle.”

Your throat tightens. You press your eyes shut.

He shifts again, just enough to tip his chin against the top of your head, voice dropping low like he’s letting you hear something no one else gets to.

“Let me tell you something about assholes like him. They don’t get to decide what’s good. They don’t get to decide who’s worthy. And they sure as hell don’t get to tear you down for being everything they’re too small to understand.”

You go still against him, heart thudding like maybe, maybe he means it.

He holds you tighter. Says the next part like it costs him nothing. Like it’s just truth.

“I see the way you try, peach. Every day. You think I don’t notice? Think I don’t see you letting me touch you more, starting to believe I mean it when I look at you like I do?”

His voice dips, quiet, raw. “I do mean it.”

He pulls back just far enough that he can tip your chin, just barely, his touch still light. Still waiting.

“I ain’t gonna let one worthless little shit undo all the work you’ve done just to start feeling like maybe you deserve better.”

His thumb brushes your cheek.

“You do deserve better.”

You don’t say anything.

You just move.

No hesitation this time. No thinking. No flinching.

You fall into him fully, like your body finally understands that it’s allowed to. That he’s not going anywhere. That you don’t have to hold yourself upright anymore, not with him.

Your arms wrap around his middle, fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt, and your face buries itself against his chest. Right where his heart is. Where it beats steady and warm and real.

The tears come again, but they’re different now.

They don’t shake your whole body. They don’t hit like thunder. They just fall. Quiet and constant. Like something that’s been waiting to be let out for a long, long time.

You don’t sob. You just press yourself into him, clinging tighter than you meant to, your breathing hitching every so often.

And Haymitch doesn’t move away. Doesn’t say a word. He just wraps both arms around you, strong and sure and unmoving. His hand rubs soft circles into your back, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head.

He holds you like it’s nothing.

Like he wants to.

He doesn’t loosen his hold.

If anything, he pulls you in closer—his hand steady at the small of your back, the other curled protectively around your shoulder. You’re tucked against his chest like he’s trying to shield you from the world. From yourself.

The silence stretches, thick but not uncomfortable.

And then, without shifting, without prompting, he speaks again—low and quiet against your hair.

“You ain’t gotta explain it all to me.”

His thumb moves slow along your back.

“I know what it’s like. Letting yourself believe you’re worth more, only to have someone rip it out from under you. Like they got the right.”

You breathe in, sharp and trembling.

He keeps going, voice soft but sure.

“But you’re not back at the start, peach. Not even close.”

His hand settles just over your ribs, like he can feel your breath struggling to steady.

“They didn’t ruin you. Might’ve knocked the wind outta you, but you’re still here. You came home. You let me touch you. You’re letting me hold you now.”

He pulls you tighter against him, breath warm against the top of your head.

“You don’t know how brave that is, do you?”

You don’t respond. You just press in tighter, like the only answer you’ve got left is being held.

And still—he holds you.

“People like him don’t get to decide how you see yourself,” he murmurs. “You already started changing that. And I’m not gonna let you forget it.”

His lips brush your hair, barely there.

Your voice is raw when it comes—thin and quiet, tucked into the space between breaths.

“I don’ like myself.”

It slips out before you can swallow it back, and the second it’s in the air, your throat tightens. You feel Haymitch tense slightly beneath you, but he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t shift.

So you keep going. Because if you stop now, you won’t start again.

“I’ve felt disgustin’ in my own skin for as long as I can remember.”

You pull back a little, fingers twisting into the hem of your sweater, pulling it down even though it already covers everything. Like maybe if you could disappear under it, the words wouldn’t feel so loud.

“I try to tell myself I’m not. That I’m… fine. That I’m allowed to exist like this. That softness doesn’ mean broken or bad or ugly. I try to stand in front of the mirror an’ love what I see.”

Your voice cracks again, and you press your face harder into his chest, ashamed of the sound.

“But I don’. Not really. I jus’… see everythin’ I’ve been told to hate. The parts of me that people wrinkle their noses at. The ones that make me the punchline. The reason they look away. Or stare too long. Or say things like today.”

Haymitch’s hand rubs slow, steady circles into your back, saying I hear you without interrupting.

You keep your face hidden. It’s easier this way.

“I look at myself and I feel wrong. Like somethin’ that needs to be fixed. An’ the world—it jus’ keeps proving it. That no matter how kind I am, or how much I try, I’ll never be enough. Not for this job. Not for someone to love. Not for anythin’.”

You swallow hard.

“The world isn’ kind to people who look like me.”

Your voice goes even softer, barely there.

“And I don’ think it ever will be.”

There’s silence after that. Thick and aching.

You stay curled into him like you’re afraid if you move, the shame will catch up and swallow you whole. You’ve never said it out loud before. Never let anyone hear just how deep it goes. How much it hurts to live in a body the world doesn’t make space for.

The silence stretches.

But he doesn’t let go.

His hand stays firm on your back, the other still curled around your shoulder like he’s anchoring you in place. You can feel his chest lift with every breath, steady against your temple. The weight of him, holding you together.

Then, softly—so softly you almost miss it, “Yeah. The world’s a real piece of shit about people it don’t understand.”

His voice is low. Rough. Like it’s scraped up from somewhere deep.

“People think if someone looks different—feels different—they get to decide what that person’s worth. They don’t even know they’re doin’ it half the time. Just trained to hate anything that takes up space.”

He shifts just slightly so his cheek rests against the top of your head.

“Doesn’t make ‘em right.”

His hand moves again—slow, deliberate, like he’s reminding you that he’s still here.

“And it sure as hell don’t make anything about you wrong.”

You don’t say anything. Just press your lips together and try not to cry again.

But then he adds, voice even softer,  “I look at you, peach… and I don’t see any of what you just said.”

He pauses.

You grip his shirt tighter.

“I see a woman who takes up space, yeah. And thank fuck for that. ‘Cause I’m real tired of being surrounded by people with nothing in their chests but dust.”

He draws back just a little, just enough that you feel him look at you even if you don’t meet his eyes.

“You ain’t ugly. You ain’t disgusting. You ain’t broken.”

His voice doesn’t shake. Doesn’t rush.

“You’re real. And you’re mine to hold right now. If you’ll let me.”

You stay quiet for a beat.

Letting his words settle.

Letting the ache in your chest shift into something softer—still tender, still aching, but not sharp anymore. Not splintered.

And then, slowly, you ease back.

Not far. Just enough to lift your head and look up at him.

Your eyes are puffy. Your cheeks flushed and damp. But you don’t look away this time.

You wipe at your tears with the sleeve of your sweater, clumsy and quiet, then glance up at him again. Still not quite meeting his eyes, but closer.

“I’ll always let you hold me,” you murmur, voice hoarse and shy. “It… it doesn’ have to be jus’ right now.”

You say it so softly you’re not even sure it counts as a confession.

But his face changes—just a little. A soft quirk at the corner of his mouth. That familiar glint in his eyes, muted but still warm.

“Well,” he drawls, “that’s dangerous information to give a man, peach.”

You blink.

And before you can stop yourself—

You giggle.

It bubbles up fast, startled and small, but real. It slips right past your lips and immediately makes your face go hot.

Haymitch’s eyebrows lift. His grin sharpens.

“Was that a giggle, peach?”

Your hands fly up to your face, half mortified, half trying not to laugh again.

“I—no, it wasn’—”

You bury your face in your sleeve, flustered beyond saving.

He lets out a low, pleased sound and leans in just enough to brush his nose against your temple.

“It was cute.”

You groan softly into your sweater, face on fire.

He just chuckles.

And when his arm wraps around you again, pulling you gently back against his chest, it feels less like comfort and more like being somewhere you belong.

[missmadella]

Stitches & Signals (Bonten x Reader)

Different scenarios with Bonten have been running wild in my head, and I tried to write them like a story to make it a bit easier to read. I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: You’re Bonten's darling, the emotional heart of the gang, and while they’re tough, you bring a lighthearted, fearless energy to the group. With your playful nature and quick wit, you’ve caught the attention of the Bonten members, not only for your charm but also for your uncanny ability to read people and situations. Whether you're accidentally stumbling into important meetings or catching someone lying, you always seem to know exactly how to handle things, keeping the gang on their toes.

Words: 11906

The meeting room was silent, filled with smoke, tension, and false pleasantries.

A rival gang leader was seated stiffly at one end of the long black table, running through negotiations that sounded carefully rehearsed—too carefully. Across from him sat Bonten’s elite: Mikey at the head, cold and unreadable. Kakucho beside him, arms crossed and eyes sharp. Sanzu was spinning a butterfly knife into the wood between his fingers. Ran and Rindou looked like they were either deeply amused or two seconds from violence.

And in the plush white couch tucked near the window?

You.

Legs curled under you, oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, crocheting.

The quiet click-click of your hook against soft red yarn was the only gentle sound in the room. You were calm. Humming. Content.

You were the softest thing in Bonten headquarters—and, somehow, the most untouchable.

Not Mikey’s. Not Sanzu’s. Not anyone’s. You were Bonten’s darling. Their little light in a place built on blood.

So when you paused, head tilted ever so slightly, and your fingers stilled mid-stitch… they noticed.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t speak.

You just watched the rival boss—watched how his eyes flicked to the door, how he licked his lips too fast, how his words started to run together with too much confidence.

He was lying.

You finished the row anyway. Knotted it. Snipped the yarn clean.

Then you stood up and padded softly over to the table.

The man kept talking, but Bonten watched you.

Mikey leaned back just enough for you to approach. Without a word, you held up the scarf.

“Finished it~,” you said gently, like there wasn’t a storm building around the table.

“For me?” Mikey asked, already knowing.

You nodded and reached forward to loop the scarf around his neck. As you adjusted it, your fingers brushed his hand, and you tapped it—twice.

No words. Just the signal.

Two taps. He’s lying.

Mikey’s eyes didn’t move, but his hand rose to yours, catching your wrist gently. He tugged you down—not into the chair next to him, but into his lap. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You giggled softly and nestled in sideways, yarn in your lap. His arm came around your waist, loose but protective.

Kakucho shifted to give you more room. Rindou offered you the yarn ball that had rolled away. Sanzu paused his spinning knife and leaned forward, lips curling.

You began crocheting again, perfectly calm.

The rival boss blinked. “Uh…”

Ran leaned back lazily. “Y’know,” he said, “you’d think people would stop lying when she’s in the room.”

“She doesn’t even know what we’re discussing,” the boss scoffed. “She’s just… what? A trophy wife?”

Silence.

Then—

Kakucho stood up.

Ran dropped his smile.

Rindou cracked his knuckles, and even Sanzu stopped twirling the knife.

“She’s not a wife,” Sanzu said, slowly and darkly. “She’s family.”

“She’s the reason you’re still breathing,” Rindou added, voice light, dangerous.

Mikey didn’t speak. He just looked at the man across the table with the calm, soul-freezing stillness that always came before something ugly.

You leaned your head back against his chest and murmured, “Can I stab him?”

“No,” Mikey said flatly.

“Please?”

“…Maybe later.”

The scarf looped again. The yarn tugged gently.

You didn’t need to say more. You’d already said everything that mattered—without a single word.

And Bonten handled the rest.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The meeting room had long since emptied. Well—emptied of outsiders.

The rival boss had been escorted out—barely. His crew trailed after him, pale and shaken, murmuring apologies they weren’t sure would matter.

Bonten hadn’t followed. They didn’t need to.

Instead, they stayed behind—because you stayed.

Now, you were curled up on the massive sectional in Bonten’s private lounge, swallowed in a black hoodie you “borrowed” from Sanzu’s room (you never gave it back). Your bare feet rested on Mikey’s thigh, your head leaned gently against Ran’s shoulder, and your yarn sat nestled beside you like a pet.

You were halfway through a new scarf—this one a deep plum purple.

“Is that one for me?” Ran asked, flicking a lock of your hair with casual fondness.

You hummed. “Nope.”

He gasped like you’d stabbed him.

“Betrayal.”

“It’s for Rindou,” you said, winking as the younger Haitani brother beamed from the bar. He raised a glass in your direction like you’d just handed him a crown.

“Hell yeah,” Rindou grinned. “I win.”

“You didn’t win,” Sanzu called from where he was hanging upside down off the arm of the couch, a lollipop in his mouth and a knife in his sock for some reason. “You just exist in her favor. We all do.”

You didn’t look up. “Exactly.”

Kakucho, seated in the corner with a tablet in hand, let a rare smile pull at his mouth. “She really is the only one of us that makes sense.”

You turned your face into Ran’s shoulder, hiding a laugh.

“I'm not even a part of the meetings," you teased. "I’m just the designated emotional support human."

Mikey’s hand, resting on your ankle, flexed slightly.

“You do more than you realize,” he said simply. His voice was soft—but the weight behind it made everyone pause.

The truth was: you saw what they couldn’t. Not just lies. Not just danger.

You saw them. All of them. And never flinched.

You tapped your crochet hook lightly against the edge of the couch and looked up at them—these terrifying men, these broken pieces of Tokyo’s underworld—and smiled like they were just your boys.

“Okay,” you said, stretching a little, “who’s next?”

Ran immediately raised his hand. “Me. You said Rindou, but I know you didn’t mean it.”

“I did mean it,” you said sweetly.

“Traitorous.”

Kakucho cleared his throat. “She started mine last week. She’s just pretending she forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” you said, mock-offended. “Yours is the olive green one. With the pattern that looks like waves.”

Kakucho’s ears turned a little pink.

You didn’t call him out for it.

Sanzu rolled onto his stomach, chin on his hands, swinging his legs like a child. “Can mine have blood splatter in it?”

“No.”

“Fake blood?”

“Still no.”

“Ugh.”

Mikey hadn’t said anything else, but his fingers traced slow, absent-minded patterns against your ankle as the room buzzed around you. You weren’t sure he was even listening.

But then he spoke.

“Red. For mine.”

You blinked. “You already have a scarf.”

“I want another.”

You smiled gently. “Okay.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—and there was something unreadable in his gaze. Something you didn’t press.

Because Bonten didn’t need declarations. Not with you.

You were the only person they didn’t have to guard themselves from.

You resumed your stitching, your yarn looping like quiet magic through your fingers, and the room settled into a strange sort of peace.

Danger would return tomorrow. Blood, chaos, negotiations.

But tonight?

Bonten was warm. And you were exactly where you belonged.

___________________________________________________________________________

“I’m out of red,” you mumbled, staring into your yarn basket like it had personally betrayed you.

The rest of the room went still.

Ran, who was painting your nails for fun, glanced up. “You mean like... one of the reds?”

You held up your little yarn ball dramatically. “No. The red. Mikey’s red. The soft one.”

Sanzu’s eyes narrowed. “Who used it up?”

“I did,” you sighed. “Because I made Mikey’s scarf... and a matching headband... and maybe a heart-shaped coaster for my tea.”

Kakucho blinked slowly from across the room. “So… you need more?”

You nodded, bottom lip pushed out in a soft pout. “But I don’t wanna go alone.”

You didn’t have to say more.

___________________________________________________________________________

The bell above the door jingled softly, but the atmosphere inside the store immediately shifted. The Bonten men had entered. Six of them. Tall, brooding, and intensely intimidating in the yarn aisle.

The first employee behind the counter blinked in shock as they walked in like a storm—a mix of mafia vibes and... yarn. Their eyes darted to each other nervously. One pulled out their phone, half-tempted to call for backup.

At the head of the pack was Mikey, calm as ever, his cool, almost ethereal aura cutting through the store. He glanced around like he was sizing up the place, scanning the shelves with precision, as if planning the perfect way to get you what you wanted without anyone being harmed—yet.

You bounced excitedly in the middle of the aisle, bouncing the empty red yarn ball like a small child who had just lost her favorite toy.

“I need more of this color!” you announced, holding it up. “But it has to be the exact same blend, or my project is ruined.”

Mikey’s eyes softened for a second, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips as you pouted.

Ran nudged your side. “Come on, darling. You know exactly what you need. Just tell us where it is.”

“You’re so smart, babe,” Sanzu said with a grin, leaning over and taking your hand briefly before reaching for a random skein of yarn on a shelf. “I bet I can find it faster than Mikey.”

“Stop messing around,” Kakucho snapped, his voice always calm but a bit sharp. He was scanning the rows of color-coded yarn with intense focus, eyes flicking between labels. “We’re here for a reason, not to entertain you.”

You smiled up at him. “I like it when you’re serious, Kaku-chan.”

He gave a small, barely visible smile before returning to his task.

From the opposite side of the aisle, you heard a voice that made you roll your eyes.

“Is this the color, babe?” Ran called out, holding up a skein of bright neon pink with a mischievous grin on his face. “Or do we need something a little more subtle for your delicate hands?”

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, but the smile tugging at your lips was undeniable. “Stop messing around.”

“Messing around?” Rindou chuckled, walking over with a handful of different shades of red. “This is serious business, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, serious,” Sanzu added with a playful tilt of his head, flashing you that signature grin of his. “But can you blame us? We’ll do anything to make our girl happy.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Stop calling me your girl in public. People might start thinking you’re all crazy.”

“Baby, we are crazy,” Sanzu replied with a wink. “Crazy in love with you.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, but you couldn’t stop your heart from warming. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Kakucho murmured, finally pulling down a bundle of yarn from the top shelf. “Found it.”

You turned to look and immediately gasped. “Yes! That’s it! That’s the one!”

“You really do have the best taste, huh, princess?” Ran teased, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Could’ve found it in half the time if we just listened to you.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Well, I could’ve told you, but I didn’t want to look like a show-off.”

They all froze.

“You’re not a show-off, sweetheart,” Mikey said, walking over with the perfect shade of red yarn in hand, holding it up like it was precious. “But you’re always right.”

You beamed at him, your eyes sparkling. “Thank you, Mikey.”

“You’re welcome, princess,” he said softly, his hand lightly brushing your hair, before stepping back.

“That’s it,” Sanzu said, smirking from behind you. “C’mon, babe, let’s go pay before these guys start getting real weird with the employees.”

You barely heard him, your gaze still on Mikey as he took your basket of yarn and followed you to the counter.

The young woman behind the register stood frozen, her eyes wide in disbelief as she scanned the items. She seemed unsure of whether to compliment you on the beautiful color choices or be terrified of the towering, tattooed men standing silently behind you. The tension was thick.

Mikey glanced down at you with an unreadable expression, his fingers brushing your back gently, and whispered, “We good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.” You nodded with a smile.

The woman hesitated and then asked, her voice a little shaky, “Will that be all today?”

Before you could answer, Ran leaned in from behind, his voice as smooth as silk. “We’ll take whatever she wants, sweetheart. All for her. Got that?”

The cashier nodded hastily, scanning everything through. You felt your face burn with embarrassment, but the affection in their voices made it all worth it.

Sanzu leaned against the counter, eyes glinting mischievously. “Next time, we’re bringing her shopping in the middle of the night, so we don’t scare the poor people. Right, baby?”

“Next time, maybe you won’t come,” you teased.

They all chuckled.

As you gathered your items, Mikey walked beside you, his hand on your lower back, guiding you out of the store like he was the only one who could protect you from the overwhelming affection coming from his men. He could feel your slight discomfort at the attention, so his thumb brushed your back soothingly.

You looked up at him, your soft smile reassuring him. "I’m okay, Mikey. Just a little... embarrassed."

“No reason to be,” he murmured, his fingers gently brushing your side before sliding into yours. “They’re just jealous they don’t get to spoil you the way we do.”

___________________________________________________________________________

As you walked out of the yarn aisle, your eyes landed on something completely different—something totally unrelated to yarn.

A display of dresses.

The bright colors and intricate details drew you in like a magnet. You stopped in your tracks, staring at one in particular—a soft lavender dress with lace trim and a delicate flow to it that screamed elegance. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Do you see that?” you asked, eyes wide and innocent as you turned to the men who had been walking with you. “That dress is gorgeous!”

Ran raised an eyebrow, following your gaze. “You want it?”

“Yes! I want to try it on,” you said, practically bouncing on your feet. You didn’t care that you were in a craft store. The dress was beautiful, and you felt like it was calling your name.

The rest of the group paused. They were used to you finding things that caught your attention in unexpected places, but this? This was a bit new.

“I don’t know about this, babe…” Sanzu started, eyeing the dress with his usual casual disdain. “Are we really gonna buy a dress in a craft store?”

You gave him a playful look, hands on your hips. “What’s wrong with that? I think it’s perfect.”

“I’ll let you try it on,” Mikey said softly from behind, ever the calm one. “But only if you promise not to take forever in the fitting room.”

You beamed at him. “Promise! I’ll be quick!”

Rindou snickered, his voice teasing. “What’s next? You want to get boba too?”

Your eyes lit up, and you turned to face him with an exaggerated gasp. “Yes! I want boba. Can we get boba after?”

“Do we look like a boba run kinda crew?” Sanzu grumbled, his lips curling into a playful smirk.

“Oh, please, we can do both!” you insisted, already darting toward the dressing room. “Please! I need both the dress and boba.”

Mikey, still watching you with a protective eye, couldn’t suppress a smile. “Fine. Go try it on, and we’ll get the boba.”

You squealed and ran off toward the fitting rooms, the rest of the guys standing there as though you’d just dragged them into a storm of unpredictable cuteness.

“Is she really making us do this?” Kakucho muttered, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re doing it because she’s our girl,” Rindou replied, grinning widely. “It’s not like we can say no.”

___________________________________________________________________________

You stepped out of the fitting room, twirling in the lavender dress, the soft fabric flowing around you like it had been made just for you. You looked over at the Bonten men—who were all standing near the entrance, watching you with varying expressions.

Mikey’s gaze softened when he saw you in the dress. His eyes followed the movement of the fabric and the way it made you shine, and he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips.

“You look amazing,” Mikey said, voice hushed but filled with something sincere.

Ran, leaning against the doorway, grinned like a cat that had just caught a mouse. “That dress looks even better on you than I imagined. Damn, girl.”

You laughed, spinning again. “You guys are too sweet!”

Sanzu wasn’t even looking at you anymore. He was inspecting the price tag on the dress with a frown. “Why’s it gotta be this expensive? It’s just fabric and stitching.”

“You’re the last person I would ask about fashion,” you shot back, a little teasing. “But thanks for looking out for me.”

Kakucho, ever the cool one, gave a small, approving nod. “It fits you well.”

Rindou smirked, raising an eyebrow. “I gotta admit… you’re gonna look real good in that dress, princess. It’s perfect for you.”

You blushed slightly but kept the smile on your face, feeling their attention make you both bashful and proud at the same time.

“Do I look like a princess?” you asked playfully, knowing you were already spoiled in every other way.

“More like a queen,” Mikey responded, stepping closer with a grin.

“I think it’s settled then,” you said with a wink. “I’ll take it!”

They all followed you as you made your way to the counter, a few of them muttering about how expensive it was, but no one objected when you handed over the money. After all, you were their darling, and if you wanted the dress, you’d get it.

Next Stop: The Boba Shop

“Okay,” you said after leaving the store, feeling giddy. “Time for boba!”

“You’re killing us, sweetheart,” Sanzu groaned, but he was already pulling open the door of the van for you to hop in.

“Relax,” you teased, grinning widely. “You all love it. Admit it.”

Rindou laughed from the backseat, slinging an arm around your shoulders as he sat down next to you. “Yeah, we do, princess. But don't think you’re getting out of paying for your own.”

You stuck out your tongue at him. “I’ll let you buy me boba this time.”

Sanzu rolled his eyes but smirked. “Lucky for you, we’ll make an exception... but only because I’m craving it too.”

The van took off, heading toward the nearest boba shop. As you chatted about what flavors you wanted, Mikey sat quietly beside you, his hand resting casually on your leg, fingers brushing lightly against your skin as if it was second nature.

When you reached the shop, they all swarmed in after you, their intimidating presence causing the employees to freeze in place as soon as you walked in. You grabbed a menu, grinning and pointing to your favorite flavor.

“Can I get the matcha with red beans, please?” you asked sweetly, smiling at the flustered employee.

“You know I’m just getting the regular one,” Ran muttered, glancing over the menu, trying not to seem too out of place.

“You always get the same one, old man,” Rindou teased, poking him in the ribs.

Sanzu ordered his boba with no hesitation, and Kakucho just glanced at the menu, leaning slightly over to you.

“Got your flavor right, princess?”

You giggled. “Of course you do.”

Mikey ordered something simple, his eyes never leaving you as he stood by your side, his presence as steady as ever. He squeezed your hand once, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles in that quiet, protective way he always did.

___________________________________________________________________________

You woke up to the usual chaos of Bonten, but today there was a calmness in the air. The guys were lounging around, and the tension of the past few days seemed to melt away. There were no big missions, no urgent matters to attend to—just an afternoon where you could let your guard down.

You were sitting on the couch, legs tucked under a fluffy blanket, a bowl of snacks in your lap. Mikey, always the one to give off an air of indifference, was seated next to you, his head resting against the back of the couch, but his hand rested lightly on your knee, his fingers brushing your skin every so often.

He wasn’t talking much today, but his presence was more than enough for you to feel secure, comfortable, and loved.

Ran was sprawled out on the other couch, his legs stretched out lazily, a smirk on his face as he eyed you. “You know, princess,” he said with that signature smug grin. “You’re really gonna make it hard to get through the rest of the day without taking a nap. You’re too cute.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You know you’re not supposed to flirt with me like that in front of everyone. You’ll give the guys ideas.”

“Eh,” Ran shrugged, “They already know I’m the one who steals your heart first.”

You playfully nudged him with your foot, but you couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re such a dork.”

From the other side of the room, Sanzu raised an eyebrow and shot you a teasing smile. “Can we talk about how much this guy flirts with you, even though he’s technically our princess?”

You blinked at Sanzu, grinning. “I know, right? Ran’s always acting like he’s the one who gets to spoil me.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Ran shot back, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I’m just giving her the attention she deserves.”

Mikey, who had been quietly observing the conversation, let out a small chuckle. His gaze softened, and he reached out to pull you into him, wrapping his arm around your shoulders with a gentle, protective motion.

“No need to fight over her, boys,” he said, his voice smooth as he pulled you closer to his chest. “She’s our princess. All of us spoil her in our own way.”

You smiled up at Mikey, the warmth of his touch and his calm demeanor making you feel even more cherished. “Thanks, Mikey. But you spoil me the most,” you said, your voice light and teasing.

He chuckled softly, the sound making your heart flutter a little. “You know it’s true, sweetheart. But don’t let the others know,” he added in a quieter tone. “I don’t want them getting any ideas about how much of a soft spot I have for you.”

You turned to look at Ran, who was now pretending to sulk dramatically on the couch. “Don’t worry, Mikey. I’ll keep your secret,” you said playfully.

Rindou, sitting near the window, glanced over at the interaction and couldn’t help but comment. “You two are ridiculous. But we all know who has her heart,” he said with a knowing grin.

You smirked back. “It’s not like I have a favorite, but I do appreciate the attention.”

Kakucho, who had been silently sitting beside you, gave you a small but warm smile. His hand reached for the back of your head, fingers lightly brushing through your hair. “We know, princess,” he said softly. “And we’ll always be here for you.”

The calmness of the room, paired with the easygoing atmosphere, made it feel like time had slowed down. No rush, no pressure, just a moment where everything felt right. You leaned back against Mikey, your head resting against his chest, and felt his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and comforting.

“That’s the best thing about today,” you whispered, closing your eyes for a moment. “No one’s in a rush. We can just be together.”

Mikey nodded quietly, his hand absentmindedly brushing your hair back. “Exactly. It’s nice to just be with you, princess.”

Ran, clearly not one to be left out, leaned over from his spot on the other couch, shooting a playful smirk in your direction. “Alright, alright, I’ll admit it. Today’s a good day. As long as I get my turn for cuddles later.”

“I’ll take my turn first, thanks,” Sanzu chimed in, his voice light but with a certain possessiveness that made you laugh.

“You guys are ridiculous,” you teased, but you were smiling, knowing that no matter how much they bickered, it was all out of love.

The soft chatter and the comfortable presence of the Bonten gang wrapped around you like a blanket as they took turns teasing each other, all while making sure you were tucked close to Mikey, the center of their world.

___________________________________________________________________________

As the evening wore on, you shifted to make more room on the couch, curling up between Mikey and Kakucho. Rindou sprawled across the other couch, his feet resting on the armrest while he scrolled through his phone. Sanzu ended up with his legs resting across your lap, his head leaning against the edge of the couch, as if he could’ve spent the entire night like that.

Ran, who had been pretending to ignore everyone, finally sat up, leaning over to poke his head in your direction. “So, what’s the plan now, princess? You gonna make us all watch those rom-coms again?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You grinned, leaning back into Mikey’s chest as he pulled you closer. “If you insist, I will.”

“Oh god, please no,” Rindou muttered from across the room, rolling his eyes. “I can’t deal with the ‘will they, won’t they?’ plotlines tonight.”

“Too bad,” you said with a playful shrug. “You’re stuck with me.”

Mikey chuckled, and you felt the vibrations through his chest as he nuzzled into your hair. “I think we all know we’ll be watching whatever you want, princess. We don’t mind.”

With that, the Bonten crew settled into a comfortable silence, the air heavy with warmth and a sense of belonging. You had a blanket spread over all of you, your body nestled against Mikey’s side while Kakucho’s arm was casually draped over your waist. Ran laid across the couch with his feet near your head, while Sanzu made himself comfortable with his legs thrown lazily over your lap. Rindou kept his distance, but even he couldn’t resist the gentle camaraderie that filled the room.

No more talking. No more teasing. Just the sound of the TV in the background and the soft hum of contentment that hung over the room.

You felt secure, happy, and loved in this little pocket of peace. It was a rare moment—just being with them. All of them. And that, you realized, was enough.

___________________________________________________________________________

The atmosphere in the Bonten lounge was calm, almost too peaceful. The members were sprawled across the room, some on their phones, others simply lounging in the laid-back comfort of the space. You were nestled between Mikey and Kakucho, having dozed off after a long day of being pampered. Your soft, even breaths filled the silence as the guys looked on, each of them too comfortable to disturb your peaceful slumber.

But the moment was short-lived.

Kokonoi, ever the professional, stood at the entrance of the lounge, clearing his throat as he glanced around at the relaxed atmosphere. “Alright, enough with the downtime,” he said, his voice sharp but calm. “We’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes. Everyone up.”

As his words cut through the tranquility, the members started to stir. Sanzu muttered something about not wanting to move, Ran let out a long yawn, and Rindou grinned as he stretched, knowing Kokonoi’s orders were not something you could easily ignore. But as everyone began to get ready, their eyes naturally fell to you—still completely unaware, deeply asleep in Mikey’s arms, your head resting against his shoulder.

“Looks like our princess is out for the count,” Ran noted with a chuckle, his fingers brushing through his hair. “We can’t exactly drag her to a meeting like this.”

Kokonoi, looking more concerned about the meeting than your rest, raised an eyebrow. “She needs to be moved. We can’t have her staying in here while we handle things. We need to keep things professional.”

But the tension in the room was brief—no one wanted to disturb you, especially when you looked so peaceful.

“You think we should just leave her?” Kakucho asked quietly, glancing over at the others. His expression was one of concern, not wanting to disrupt your sleep, but knowing the meeting was important.

Before anyone could suggest anything else, Rindou spoke up. “I’ll carry her,” he said casually, but there was a softness in his tone that told the others he was already prepared to help.

You shifted slightly, murmuring in your sleep, but didn’t wake. Sensing the moment was right, Rindou slowly made his way to the couch where you were sleeping. He kneeled down beside you, his expression gentle as he carefully placed his hands beneath your shoulders and knees.

“There’s no way we’re letting her miss out on this meeting,” he said softly, his voice warm with affection as he gently lifted you into his arms. Your head lolled slightly against his chest, still deeply asleep.

Kokonoi watched the scene for a moment, eyes narrowed in professional calculation. “Make sure she stays comfortable. She can sleep in the meeting room, but don’t let anyone bother her.”

Rindou nodded, his face softening as he glanced down at you in his arms. He walked toward the meeting room, making sure to move with care and precision. He could feel the soft rise and fall of your breathing against him, the weight of you in his arms almost grounding him.

__________________________________________________________________________

The meeting room was a sleek, minimalistic space, typically used for intense discussions and high-stakes decisions. The large table in the middle was surrounded by chairs, each occupied by a Bonten member, their usual confident, business-minded energy settling into place. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the city, but today, the focus wasn’t on the outside world. It was all about what was happening within the room.

But there was one thing out of the ordinary.

You were nestled comfortably in the corner of the room, resting peacefully on the couch, still fast asleep in Rindou's arms. Your head had lolled onto his chest, your soft breathing and occasional shift of your body the only sounds that filled the otherwise quiet room. The rest of the members seemed to have an unspoken agreement to keep things low-key, not wanting to disturb your rest.

Kokonoi, ever the professional, cleared his throat, calling attention to the meeting at hand. “Alright, let’s get started,” he said, his voice sharp but not unkind. “We’ve got a lot to discuss today. We need to make decisions regarding the new territory, and the logistics of moving the product through new channels. We can’t afford any more slip-ups.”

The room fell into an immediate hush as everyone straightened up and gave their undivided attention to Kokonoi. Even with you asleep in the corner, the business side of Bonten remained ever-present.

Kokonoi adjusted his tie and paced slowly in front of the table, making sure everyone was paying attention. His gaze flicked over the group—Sanzu leaning casually in his chair, his eyes half-lidded with disinterest, Ran tapping his fingers rhythmically against the surface of the table, and Rindou who had a protective hand resting on the side of your waist as you slept in his lap. The other members were all alert but trying to maintain their usual, laid-back vibe.

“We can’t afford another delay with the shipments,” Kokonoi continued, his sharp eyes flicking to each member as he spoke. “Mikey, I need you to push the plan forward with the other gang leaders. We need that deal to close fast.”

Mikey nodded, his eyes scanning the documents in front of him. “Got it. We’ll make sure it goes smoothly,” he said, his voice cool and authoritative, but his gaze occasionally drifting to you, still curled up comfortably in Rindou’s lap. There was a protective glint in his eye that wasn’t lost on the others.

Sanzu, ever the curious one, leaned forward in his chair and glanced at Rindou, his eyes briefly landing on you. He let out a low chuckle before speaking up. “You know, this meeting's a little more fun when you’ve got someone cute napping in the corner.” His tone was playful, but there was something warm in his voice as he looked at you.

“Don’t start,” Ran shot back, his tone teasing as he smirked at Sanzu. “You can’t be serious. How are we supposed to get anything done with all that cuteness around?”

Rindou shot Sanzu a look, a quiet but firm warning in his eyes. He didn’t like how the others teased, even if it was all in good fun. You weren’t just some trophy to be ogled. You were their darling, and they each protected you in their own way.

“You all need to focus,” Kokonoi added, shooting a sharp glance at the group. “There’s no time for distractions.”

Rindou adjusted his position slightly, still careful to make sure you were comfortable in his lap. He had his arm around you, the gentleness of his touch almost in contrast with the intensity of the meeting. His fingers lightly brushed against your hair, not wanting to disturb your rest but keeping you close.

“You’ve got her all cozy,” Ran remarked with a sly grin, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He was teasing, but his eyes softened slightly as they looked at you. There was something undeniably peaceful about the scene, and it made him feel oddly content despite the weight of the discussion. “Who knew Rindou had a soft spot for our princess.”

Rindou just let out a low hum, his expression unreadable as he continued to watch over you. He didn’t respond to the comment directly, but his actions spoke volumes. He gently adjusted the way you were resting in his lap, making sure your head remained supported while your body curled closer into his chest. He lightly rubbed his hand up and down your arm as if to reassure himself that you were okay.

It wasn’t typical for him to be so affectionate in front of others, but the peace you brought him—when everything was chaotic and unpredictable—was more than enough to make him want to protect you with everything he had.

Kokonoi, still discussing logistics, looked around the room, noticing that the attention had shifted momentarily. His sharp eyes caught the soft, almost protective glances the others were giving you.

“We can’t afford to be distracted,” he reminded the group, his voice cutting through the lull. “Get it together.”

Rindou’s eyes met his for a brief second, but his response was quiet. “She’s sleeping, Kokonoi. Let her rest. We can focus, too.”

For a moment, there was an unspoken understanding between Rindou and Kokonoi. Kokonoi didn’t argue, though his expression remained businesslike. “Fine,” he said, his tone softened just enough for Rindou to hear. “But make sure she stays safe. We can’t have her vulnerable.”

Sanzu, who had been lounging in his seat, shifted his attention back to the discussion at hand. “Alright, enough with the soft talk. We’ve got work to do. Mikey, what’s the deal with the new shipment? I thought we had a deadline this week?”

Mikey looked up from the papers, his face all business now. “We’re pushing it forward. There’s no more room for error.”

For the rest of the meeting, the room operated like a well-oiled machine. Everyone spoke with authority, debated the issues with sharp intellect, and pushed forward with the task at hand. But despite the usual hustle of Bonten’s business, the gentle presence of you—sleeping soundly in Rindou’s lap—remained at the heart of the room.

As the conversation turned toward the finalizing of the deals, Sanzu leaned back in his chair again, his eyes glancing at you as he quietly asked, “When this is over, you think we can all just rest for the day?”

Mikey, who had been the one to take charge of the meeting, glanced over at you with a soft smile. “I think she’s already doing that for all of us.”

The members exchanged quiet chuckles, their usual demeanor softening as the meeting wrapped up. Kokonoi made the final call, and everyone rose to their feet, the room shifting into the next phase of business.

But even after the meeting ended, they remained quiet around you, each member sharing a knowing look, a silent understanding that while they could manage Bonten’s affairs, you were their grounding force.

___________________________________________________________________________

The Bonten meeting room was, as usual, filled with the quiet hum of conversation and the weight of business that needed to be handled. Mikey, Kokonoi, and the others were gathered around the table, preparing for the crucial meeting with the gang handling the next shipment. It was a critical moment—the timing had to be perfect, and the details had to be flawless if they were going to ensure everything went smoothly.

On the couch, curled up under a soft blanket, you were still deep in slumber. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the relaxed expression on your face, was a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere in the room. Rindou sat with you, his hand carefully resting on your waist, watching over you while the others talked business. He couldn’t help but glance at you every so often, the comfort of your peaceful presence settling his otherwise restless mind.

Meanwhile, the other members of Bonten were talking logistics—timing, routes, security—and the meeting with the shipment gang was about to begin. Sanzu sat back in his chair, a toothpick in his mouth, watching the others like he didn’t have a care in the world. Kokonoi, ever sharp, was taking notes, his usual efficiency in full force. Ran, his arms crossed, was quietly assessing everyone’s input with a distant look in his eyes.

__________________________________________________________________________

The room was quiet except for the sharp voices of Bonten's leaders and the murmurs of the other gang’s representatives. Mikey, Kokonoi, and the rest of Bonten were discussing the shipment deal, making sure every detail was in place. You were comfortably seated on the couch with a soft blanket, your eyes closed as you tried to rest amidst the chaos of the meeting. The weight of the room's tension barely fazed you, as you had become accustomed to the heaviness of Bonten’s business. Your presence, however, was an odd comfort in the cold, calculating world they worked in.

But it wasn’t long before the silence was broken by an unintentional, yet loud, clattering noise.

One of the men from the shipment gang, a lanky individual who seemed a bit too nervous for this kind of business, had fumbled with the coffee cup in his hands. His sudden shift in movement caused it to tip over, spilling the contents onto the table. The cup hit the surface with a loud bang, and that was all it took to pull you from your light sleep. Your body shifted on the couch, the blanket falling partially off as you groggily blinked your eyes open.

The room instantly went quiet, as if everyone had been holding their breath, waiting for your reaction. The man who had caused the spill froze, panic flashing across his face as he glanced over at Bonten's members, his eyes quickly darting to you.

Sanzu, ever the opportunist, smirked lazily from his seat across the room. “Nice job, pal,” he said with a half-amused, half-annoyed tone, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ve officially woken up the princess.”

You rubbed your eyes, still trying to shake off the sleepiness, and noticed the eyes of every person in the room on you. It wasn’t exactly the way you wanted to wake up, but you sat up and stretched, sighing.

“Great…” you muttered, realizing that the tension in the air wasn’t only from the deal. It felt like a thousand eyes were on you now. “What’s going on?”

The man who had knocked over the cup shifted uncomfortably, his voice shaky as he apologized. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you—”

Before he could finish, Rindou shot him a look that could freeze anyone in place. His protective nature kicked in immediately as he leaned forward, hand resting on your shoulder. “You just disturbed our princess’s sleep,” he said coolly, his voice dripping with a barely concealed irritation. “Be more careful.”

Mikey, still sitting at the head of the table, glanced briefly at you before looking at the shipment gang's representatives with a dangerous calmness. “Keep it together,” he said, his voice sharp, but not raised. “We’re here to do business, not babysit.”

The other gang members shifted uncomfortably at Mikey’s tone, clearly aware of the subtle, but very real, threat in his words. The tension thickened as Bonten’s members exchanged subtle glares at the shipment gang, who were trying desperately to save face.

Kokonoi, ever the strategist, didn’t hide his displeasure. “This isn’t a daycare,” he muttered, tapping a pen on the table as he glared at the other gang’s members. “If you can’t keep your shit together, maybe we should end this meeting right now.”

The shipment gang's representative who had caused the spill flushed red, clearly on edge. “My apologies, we’ll be more careful,” he said hurriedly, fumbling with his papers to divert attention from himself. “Let’s just continue the deal, alright?”

Despite the tension in the room, you stretched again and rubbed your eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “It’s fine,” you muttered, giving a soft, but slightly irritated, wave of your hand. “I’m awake now.” Your voice still held a hint of sleepiness, but the irritation at being woken up was clear in your tone.

Bonten’s members, still not entirely happy about the disruption, exchanged looks, but they didn’t push it further. Sanzu shot one last teasing remark your way, “Waking up from your beauty sleep like that, huh? Must be a pain.”

Mikey, who had been watching the interaction closely, didn’t even flinch. “If you’ve got something to say, say it now,” he said to Sanzu, his voice commanding but with a hint of warning. His gaze flicked back to the shipment gang members, the weight of his attention sending an unmistakable message that any further disruption would not be tolerated.

Kokonoi let out a low sigh, and with that, the meeting resumed, though the air was thick with unspoken tension. Mikey gave the nod to continue, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table as he kept his eyes on the shipment gang.

__________________________________________________________________________

As the meeting went on, the conversation returned to the shipment deal. Mikey and Kokonoi led the negotiation, but everyone in the room was on edge. The shipment gang’s representatives seemed to understand they had overstepped, and their words became more careful, more measured.

You, still seated on the couch, finally shook off the last remnants of sleep and decided to pay attention to the deal. Despite the awkwardness, you could tell that the shipment gang was still trying to salvage the meeting, but Bonten was already on guard.

It wasn’t long before the deal was finalized. Mikey stood up, his eyes cold as he addressed the other gang one last time. “We’ve got what we need,” he said, his voice firm. “Next time, don’t make the mistake of waking her up.”

There was no room for argument. The shipment gang nodded, clearly eager to leave the room with the deal still intact.

Once the other gang members left, the tension in the room loosened, but it lingered in the air. Rindou moved to sit beside you on the couch, wrapping his arm around your shoulders protectively. “You alright?” he asked softly, looking at you with a mixture of concern and irritation.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’m fine. Just a little annoyed,” you said, running your hand through your hair. “But whatever. It’s over.”

Mikey, still standing by the table, gave a small sigh. “We’ll make sure they don’t mess up again,” he muttered, clearly still irritated by the earlier disruption. “Next time, there won’t be any chances given.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The meeting had finally come to an end. The shipment deal was settled, the signatures all secured, and the representatives from the rival gang filed out of the room, eager to leave with their business done. The Bonten members, however, lingered. Mikey, Kokonoi, and the others were finishing up the last of the details while you, seated on the couch, were barely holding on. Your exhaustion was palpable, and you could barely keep your eyes open.

Mikey glanced over at you with a soft chuckle, his lips curling up just slightly. He had been watching you throughout the meeting, and though you’d tried your best to stay alert, he could see the drowsiness taking over.

“Looks like someone’s about to pass out,” Kokonoi teased from across the room, an amused glint in his eye. “Maybe we should let her get some rest.”

You blinked, barely lifting your head from the plush cushions, but when you saw the others glancing your way, you tried to muster enough energy to speak.

“I’m really tired...” you murmured, the words coming out thick with sleep. “Can I just go to bed now...?”

You shifted slightly on the couch, your hands reaching out as if to ask for help. Your fingertips brushed against the armrest as you looked up at the others with sleepy eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can someone... carry me to my bed?”

The room went silent for a brief moment, Bonten’s members exchanging soft glances. They all knew what you needed, and your request made them feel protective over you. Mikey looked over at you with a small, fond smile, but it was Sanzu who spoke up first.

“You look like you could barely move a muscle, doll,” Sanzu said, his voice teasing but with an edge of concern. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

You let out a quiet sigh of relief, and before you could even respond, you raised your arms slightly, palms open as if asking for help. It was a simple gesture, but one that spoke volumes. You needed comfort, and you knew that Bonten—your family—would always be there to provide it.

With a grin, Sanzu moved swiftly toward you. He crouched down in front of the couch and, without missing a beat, slipped his arms around you. You didn't protest as he gently lifted you into his arms, your head resting against his shoulder as you snuggled into him.

“You’re not getting away from me now, darling,” he murmured softly, his tone playful, but there was a softness in his voice as he held you securely.

You sighed contentedly, your eyes fluttering shut as you relaxed in his embrace. The warmth of his arms and the steadiness of his movements made you feel safe. As he stood, carrying you toward your room, the rest of the group followed behind.

“Can’t let her get too comfy without us, huh?” Kokonoi teased, his eyes glinting with amusement as he watched you cuddle into Sanzu’s chest.

“Let her rest,” Mikey said quietly, though the hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. “We’ve handled the business. She deserves it.”

As Sanzu walked down the hall with you in his arms, he looked down at you, his lips curling into a small smile. “You’re really something else, huh?” he said with a soft chuckle, his voice full of warmth. “Always so needy, but you know we don’t mind.”

You gave a soft hum, your face pressed into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I just like being taken care of,” you mumbled, your voice growing softer as sleep began to overtake you. “You all spoil me...”

When you reached your room, Sanzu carefully placed you onto your bed, adjusting the blankets around you as he tucked you in. You were already halfway asleep, but before you drifted off completely, you managed to mumble, “Can... can someone cuddle with me?”

Sanzu chuckled softly, leaning down to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Of course, doll,” he said, his voice gentle and full of affection.

As he settled beside you on the bed, the others slowly filed in, each of them taking their place. Mikey sat at the edge of the bed, his expression softening as he looked at you. Kokonoi grinned and lay down on the other side, his arm extending across your waist in a protective manner.

“Get some rest, baby girl,” Kokonoi said softly, kissing the top of your head before settling beside you.

Rindou, who had followed them all in, didn’t hesitate either. He laid down on the other side of you, his hand gently resting on your arm. “We’re all here, doll. You’re safe with us,” he whispered, his voice soothing and tender.

The room felt warm and peaceful as Bonten gathered around you, making sure you were comfortable and at ease. You could feel their love and care surrounding you. The constant teasing and banter had melted away into something softer now that you were tucked in, surrounded by your protectors.

Mikey, always the one to make sure everything was just right, leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Sleep well, darling,” he whispered.

As the room grew quiet, you finally allowed yourself to drift off into a peaceful sleep, surrounded by the comforting presence of Bonten.

The weight of the day had faded away, and for now, everything felt right.

___________________________________________________________________________

You woke up slowly, feeling the comforting weight of the blanket that had been carefully tucked around you. The warm, soft environment felt soothing, but there was an odd shift in the air that immediately caught your attention. It wasn’t as peaceful as it should have been.

You opened your eyes, blinking softly to adjust to the light, and looked around. Mikey was seated on the edge of the bed, his usual cool demeanor now tinged with something slightly off, though his gaze softened when he saw you wake up. Kokonoi was across the room, glancing your way before quickly looking away, as if trying to mask something. And over by the couch, Sanzu and Rindou were lounging, but their glances towards each other told you that something had shifted.

Kakucho, who had been sitting quietly near the window, also noticed you waking up. He shifted his gaze to you, but instead of his usual calm expression, there was a small, unreadable tension in his eyes. You could tell something was bothering him, but you weren’t quite sure what.

“Did I miss something?” you asked sleepily, your voice soft as you stretched beneath the blanket, rubbing your eyes. “You all seem... a little tense.”

The room fell into a brief silence, and then Sanzu smirked, though his voice had a teasing edge. “Guess someone’s been getting too much attention,” he joked, glancing between Kokonoi and Mikey. “Everyone’s feeling a little possessive, huh?”

Mikey's eyes flickered with amusement, but there was a hint of something else in his gaze. “I just don’t like the idea of anyone hurting my doll,” he said nonchalantly, but there was an underlying possessiveness that was hard to ignore.

Kokonoi finally spoke, but his tone was terse. “It’s nothing. Just... nothing important.” He waved his hand dismissively, but you could sense the frustration behind his words. He was avoiding looking at you, which was unlike him.

Rindou leaned back in his chair, observing the situation with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve got everyone worked up today, doll. Mikey’s being extra clingy, and the rest of us are just... fighting for your attention.”

You blinked, trying to process the words. You had no idea you were causing any sort of tension, but you could feel it now. You never meant to make things difficult, but it seemed like your affection for them was creating a subtle rift between the members.

“Hey, no need to make a big deal out of it,” you said softly, standing up from the bed, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. You walked toward Kokonoi, who was trying to act like everything was fine. He looked up as you approached, but quickly looked away again.

Without hesitation, you leaned down and kissed him, pressing your lips gently to his. It was a simple kiss, but you could feel the surprise in the way his body froze before relaxing. When you pulled back, he blinked in surprise, his lips curling into a small smile, his usual sharp expression softening just a little.

“That’s one,” you said, your voice light as you moved back.

The room seemed to exhale as everyone let the tension drop, but you could tell they were all watching closely, waiting to see what you’d do next.

You moved on to Sanzu, who was leaning against the couch, his playful smirk never far from his face. You walked up to him, and before he could react, you pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Two,” you said, your voice teasing. Sanzu chuckled softly, his arms wrapping around you for a moment, pulling you a little closer before letting you pull away.

Then, you turned to Rindou, who was watching you intently, that mischievous grin of his not fading in the slightest. You didn’t hesitate, kissing him softly, feeling the warmth of his hand brushing against your cheek before you pulled away.

“Three,” you said with a soft smile, and Rindou let out a quiet laugh, clearly pleased.

Next, you walked toward Mikey, who was still watching you with that unreadable gaze. You leaned down and kissed him gently, feeling his hand slide to your waist as you pulled back.

“And four,” you murmured, your smile soft and satisfied.

Finally, your eyes shifted to Kakucho, who had been quietly observing from the corner of the room. There was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but you walked over to him and, without saying a word, leaned in and kissed him too. His reaction was immediate, his hands settling on your back as he kissed you back softly before you pulled away.

“And five,” you said with a small, teasing grin. Kakucho couldn’t hide the small smile that tugged at his lips, his usual stoic expression cracking just enough to show how pleased he was.

“And the last one’s six,” you said as you made your way over to Ran, giving him a quick, soft kiss on the lips. What you didn’t expect, however, was for him to place his hand on your cheeks and kiss you like a man starved for affection—something that earned plenty of protests from the others.

The room was silent for a moment as everyone processed what just happened. But this time, the tension had disappeared completely, replaced with an atmosphere of ease and affection.

Kokonoi leaned back in his chair, still trying to act cool, but there was no hiding the small smile on his face. “You really know how to make everything better, huh?”

Sanzu grinned widely, his arm slipping around your shoulders as he pulled you closer. “Guess that’s one way to get everyone back on track.”

Rindou chuckled, shaking his head, clearly entertained. “You really know how to handle us all, doll. But don’t think this means you’re off the hook.”

Mikey watched you with a soft smile, a rare moment of warmth in his gaze. “You always know how to get to the heart of things,” he said, his hand resting on your waist. “Can’t stay mad at you for long.”

Kakucho, who had been quiet throughout the entire ordeal, gave you a small, affectionate smile. “You’ve got us all wrapped around your finger, haven’t you?”

You chuckled, relaxing into the moment. “I’m not going anywhere. You all know that, right?”

There was a chorus of affirmations, a mix of teasing and genuine affection, as Bonten settled around you, each member finding their place in your space. Kokonoi casually brushed your hair back from your face, his usual sarcasm softened by the warmth he felt for you. Sanzu leaned his head against yours, and Rindou flashed you a grin as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. Mikey kept you close, his arm around your waist, while Kakucho simply looked at you, a quiet understanding in his eyes.

As you all settled into the comfort of one another, the earlier tension was nothing more than a distant memory. You were Bonten’s darling, their princess, and they were yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

The evening had fallen into a comfortable quiet as the Bonten members lounged in one of the plush lounges. Mikey, Kokonoi, Sanzu, Rindou, Ran and Kakucho were all seated, the usual energy of the gang replaced by an unusual calm. The room felt warmer than it usually did, a soft intimacy hanging in the air. The conversation had shifted to you, naturally—the one who had become the center of their world in the most unexpected ways.

“Do you guys remember the first time we met her?” Kokonoi asked, his usual cynicism softened by a nostalgic tone. His feet were propped up casually on the coffee table, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts, glancing toward Sanzu. “She really did catch everyone off guard that day.”

Sanzu let out a smirk, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he glanced at Rindou before looking back at the group. “How could I forget? She just waltzed into the meeting like she owned the place—no hesitation, no fear. We were all so caught up in the business talk, none of us even noticed her slipping in.”

You hadn’t been expecting it that day. You had no idea you’d end up in Bonten's territory, but you’d walked into the wrong room—an honest mistake. The way you had stood there, trying to gather your bearings, completely unaware of the heavy atmosphere in the room, was almost endearing. It was almost as if the air had shifted the moment you entered, catching everyone by surprise.

Ran chuckled, his grin wide as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms across the backrest. “What really gets me is the fact that she didn’t even flinch. She just casually strolled in, picked up her yarn, and—bam—exposed that guy for lying.”

You had been there for a completely different reason—just searching for your yarn that had rolled under Mikey’s chair—but you hadn’t missed the fact that the guy talking had lied straight through his teeth. And you hadn’t hesitated to call him out on it.

Mikey smiled softly, remembering how he had watched you, intrigued and impressed. “I didn’t expect her to read him like that. I’m pretty good at spotting lies, but she made it look like child’s play. She didn’t even bat an eye.”

___________________________________________________________________________

It had been just another regular business meeting with a rival gang, tense negotiations over an important shipment. The members of Bonten were seated at the table, but the mood was anything but calm. They’d been speaking in cryptic phrases, guarding their words carefully, knowing that one slip could cost them. As usual, Mikey had been at the helm, keeping everyone in check.

But the real shift came when you stepped into the room.

You had walked in unassumingly, looking like you were just there to grab something you had lost. The gang members immediately stiffened, unsure whether they should ask you to leave or wait for you to leave on your own.

Mikey, ever the calm one, had simply looked at you, nodding as if your presence was no more than a casual occurrence. “It’s alright,” he’d said, his voice warm. “She’s with us.”

You hadn’t noticed the tension at all, your mind only focused on finding your yarn, rolling beneath Mikey’s chair. As you bent down to pick it up, your gaze flicked around the room, and without meaning to, you’d caught the flicker in the eyes of the rival gang leader sitting across from Mikey.

It was a small thing—something most wouldn’t have noticed. His posture had shifted ever so slightly, his eyes avoiding direct contact as he flashed a fake smile. The room was thick with suspicion, but no one had dared speak it aloud, except for you.

You didn’t even hesitate. “You’re lying,” you said, your voice quiet but firm.

The entire room froze. Everyone turned toward you, the words hanging in the air. The rival leader stammered for a moment, his confident smile cracking, before he recovered and tried to brush it off. But you’d already seen through him.

Mikey, leaning back in his chair with that cool smirk of his, had raised an eyebrow. “Explain,” he’d said, eyes twinkling with curiosity. He was fascinated—he’d seen many try to outwit him, but this was something different.

You had simply tilted your head and pointed out the small details—the way his posture had shifted, how his hands had trembled, and how his eyes avoided meeting yours. “When people lie, their bodies give it away. It’s the little things—eyes flickering, posture shifting—he’s uncomfortable, and he’s trying to hide it. The shipment details you’re presenting aren’t true.”

A long silence followed. Everyone in the room was stunned. The rival gang leader’s expression shifted, his confidence faltering. Mikey glanced at his men, who were just as shocked as he was. It wasn’t often they were caught off guard, especially not like this.

Kokonoi, ever the strategist, had leaned back, his gaze fixed on you. “That’s impressive,” he murmured.

And just like that, you’d already proven yourself. You didn’t even know it at the time, but you had unknowingly captivated their attention—and just like that, you became a part of their world.

Back in the present, Mikey was leaning back in his chair, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. You were now sitting across the room, your focus on the soft yarn in your hands as you crocheted, your concentration completely unbroken.

Mikey’s gaze softened, his usual coolness melting into something more genuine as he reflected. “I don’t think anyone expected you to be such an important part of Bonten when we first met you. But from that moment on, I couldn’t ignore you.” He laughed softly, shaking his head as if remembering the moment fondly. “You impressed me. Hell, you impressed all of us.”

Kokonoi chuckled, leaning forward slightly, the usual sharpness in his voice replaced with affection. “Yeah, I’ll admit, I didn’t see her sticking around either. But she just… got it. She understood the way people worked. And now, here we are.”

Sanzu, who had been lounging casually, let out a playful laugh. “You really had no idea what you were getting into, did you? You walked into our meeting, and now you’re the one who keeps us on our toes.”

Ran grinned, raising an eyebrow. “And you’ve got Mikey wrapped around your finger now too.”

Mikey smirked, giving Ran a pointed look. “Let’s just say I know a good thing when I see it.”

Finally, Kakucho, who had been silent for most of the conversation, looked over at you, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I always thought Bonten was just about business. But when we met you, everything changed.”

You glanced up at that moment, catching his gaze. He gave you a small, affectionate nod, the usual stoic exterior softened as he spoke his next words with warmth. “You’ve become part of this family, whether we planned on it or not.”

The group fell silent for a moment, everyone absorbing the unspoken understanding that hung in the air. You weren’t just a casual part of their lives anymore. You were someone they had come to care about deeply—someone who could read between the lines and see things no one else could.

And as you sat there, the weight of their words hanging in the air, you couldn’t help but smile softly, feeling more at home than you ever expected.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was supposed to be an ordinary day. You were out running errands, humming to yourself as you walked down the street, totally oblivious to the dangers lurking around you. Bonten was busy as usual, and though they’d always warned you to be careful, you had a way of getting lost in your own little world.

That’s when it happened.

You didn’t see them coming, but you heard the footsteps—the heavy, deliberate ones that signaled something bad was about to go down. Before you could react, a hand shot out from the shadows, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a van. You kicked and screamed, but they were prepared. A cloth pressed to your face, and everything went black.

When you woke up, it took a few moments for the fogginess to clear. Your hands were bound behind your back, and your surroundings were unfamiliar—a dimly lit room with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor. You could hear muffled voices from outside, but there was no sign of your captors.

At first, the situation felt dire. But then, you remembered something important.

You weren’t helpless.

You were Bonten’s darling, and you weren’t going to let some random thugs make a fool out of you. The little tricks they had used to tie you up? Not going to work. You grinned to yourself.

You may have been tied up, but you had more than one trick up your sleeve. The moment you had been dumped in the room, you had already started analyzing the situation. You’d been trained in self-defense, and you knew how to break free when you needed to.

With a little bit of shifting and a few clever movements, you worked the knots loose around your wrists. It wasn’t long before you were free, silently creeping toward the door.

Moving through the dimly lit hallways of the building where they had taken you. As you crept further, a plan started to form in your mind.

One of the thugs had followed you out of the room—clearly thinking you were still helpless. Wrong move.

You grabbed him by the collar and yanked him toward you, pulling him off balance. A swift knee to the stomach made him grunt in surprise, but it wasn’t enough to take him down completely. But you didn’t need him to go down immediately. You dragged him, ignoring his confused and pained protests, down the hallway toward the exit.

You could hear footsteps getting closer—faint at first, but they were definitely getting louder. Mikey and the rest of Bonten were getting close, and you had no intention of letting the thug out of your grip. The fact that he was still struggling just made this moment more fun for you.

His feet shuffled awkwardly against the floor as you pulled him out of the hallway, closer to where Bonten was heading. You could almost taste the satisfaction in the air, the thrill of it, as you dragged him into plain view. And when you finally saw Mikey, Sanzu, Kokonoi, and Rindou rounding the corner, you couldn’t help but grin.

You yanked the thug into full view, making sure Mikey and the others saw you—and the man now on the floor at your feet. You let him drop to the ground with a thud, just as Bonten approached, their eyes widening in amused surprise.

Mikey, at the front of the group, took in the scene. His gaze flicked from you, to the thug lying on the floor, and back to you with a raised eyebrow. “And what do we have here?” he asked, his voice light but carrying the usual authoritative edge. “Did you need help with him, or was this all you?”

You crossed your arms and shot him a playful wink. “I was just showing him the door,” you said casually, tilting your head toward the thug, who was groaning on the floor. “They really didn’t think I could handle myself.”

Sanzu let out a low chuckle, eyeing the guy on the ground. “That’s one way to deal with it,” he said, clearly impressed. “You didn’t waste any time. But, seriously, that’s gotta be a new record for you. Kidnapped, then escaping and taking one of them down all by yourself? Damn, Princess, you really do love the chaos.”

Kokonoi wasn’t far behind, his lips curling into a smirk. “I’m starting to think we should’ve had you on guard duty instead of wasting time with the usual muscle.” He looked over at Mikey, as if to imply you were a more efficient choice. “Looks like she can handle herself better than half of us.”

You shrugged, dropping down beside Mikey, a playful grin still on your face. “I don’t mind helping out when I get a little bored. Besides,” you added, nodding toward the guy still on the floor, “I think he learned his lesson.”

Rindou, leaning against the wall nearby, smirked. “You really are something else. Just dragged him out like he was a ragdoll.”

Mikey’s smirk widened, clearly entertained. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” he muttered, as if this was just another regular day in the life of Bonten’s darling. But there was a certain warmth in his gaze, a pride that shimmered beneath his cool exterior. “Good job, kid.”

You let out a satisfied sigh, feeling the tension from the situation slip away. Your eyes scanned over the gang. Kakucho had been standing quietly behind everyone, a calm presence as always, but even he couldn’t hide the soft smile tugging at his lips as he looked down at you. “You know, you really do make things interesting.”

You tilted your head back, smiling up at him. “What can I say? I aim to entertain.”

Then, without skipping a beat, you turned back to Mikey. “Now, I’ve had enough of all this excitement. Can we get some boba and McDonald’s now? I’m starving.”

A beat of silence passed before Mikey raised an eyebrow, glancing at the others. “You really think after all this you can just ask for food?” he asked with a smirk, though there was a flicker of fondness in his eyes.

You stared up at him, the glint in your eyes mischievous. “Absolutely. I’ve earned it. And I’m not leaving until I get it.”

Without another word, Sanzu pulled out his phone, already typing away. Kokonoi leaned against the doorframe, clearly amused by the entire scene. Rindou and Ran just shook their head in disbelief. Kakucho, standing slightly off to the side, let out a low chuckle.

Mikey just shook his head, but he couldn’t hide the affectionate grin that spread across his face. “You really do make things more entertaining than they need to be, don’t you?”

You grinned back, settling down comfortably as Bonten began to prepare your order. “It’s what I do best,” you said. “Besides, who else could deal with a bunch of idiots like this and still want comfort food?”

[theweepingwitch001]

fanfiction review #1

Fateful Beginnings by @ellesthots

Review 1/5

Rating: 5/10

I am a general enjoyer of long fics that allow the reader to really delve into the psychology and inner thoughts of characters. I certainly respect writers who are able to write so many words and not tire. There are parts of this fic I truly enjoy, however…

It feels quite bloated so far, and almost allergic to editing. While the word count is impressive, it is a symptom of a problem. Most scenes feel overwritten and dragged out beyond usefulness. The stronger parts of the story suffer because the author does not seem to know when to stop writing. At times it felt like I was reading paragraph after paragraph of just internal monologues, which felt badly placed. I am a person who can enjoy a well written internal monologue when appropriate but it feels overloaded in this fanfic.

Another issue that arose while reading this fic is the big range in chapter lengths. One thing I believe is crucial to keeping a fic’s pacing is to have roughly the same length of chapters, however the range is quite large. Although, this could be a total nitpick on my part and is generally up to personal preference.

I grew up reading Batman comics and consuming all types of Batman media from a young age - from comics to animated series to the Nolan trilogy. I am a big fan of Matt Reeves’ The Batman, especially its focus on Batman’s detective nature. This fic reduced Robert Pattinson’s characterisation of Bruce Wayne/Batman to wet paper. The personality of a wet piece of bread? I think that’s the saying. The Batman in this fic is quintessentially a one-dimensional mess of mood swings and ‘tortured’ glances. He is moody when it’s hot, violent when it’s sexy, and soft when it’s convenient to the story.

Bruce’s trauma is constantly referenced in this story, yet rarely used. He’s sad, closed off, broody. Yes. We get that. But how does that bleed into his current life and position as Batman?

The pacing at the beginning was too fast for me, and this is not a problem exclusive to this specific story alone but rather a major problem within Batmanxreader or any of the batboys to be honest. By chapter three, Batman is alreayd thinking of the self insert. Take for example,

“You again. He didn't know what to make of you. You were difficult to read. You didn't look like the city; you looked too innocent, too kind. Yet you had this persistence that made you do such ridiculous—if not impressively tenacious—things such as wandering around a crime scene in Gotham City in the dead of night.”

Chapter three marks a massive tonal shift and structural failure when it comes to this scene specifically. In simple terms: it is emotionally undeserved. You have given Batman - a character renowned for his hyper-vigilance and guardedness - a moment of emotional curiosity about a complete stranger based on nothing but her poor decision making skills.

This sort of writing has blaring signs that scream: “I want the slowburn, but I also want them to be emotionally tethered immediately.” It would’ve done you better to set them both up as separate characters and work on a more natural and realistic approach to their meeting.

Some of the chapters have physical descriptions that suggest this is not a reader insert but perhaps an in between of a reader and an OC? I vividly remember the ‘reader insert’ being described as having dark hair, and other descriptions tend to get quite specific. Reader inserts are generally meant to be completely ambiguous as the reader is supposed to be imagining themselves. I believe the author would much prefer writing xOC stories as it would allow you to delve into much deeper detail on these things.

The most disappointing turn of events in this story was the ‘reveal.’ If it can even be called that… The reveal dropped before the story developed any weight or importance. The audience didn’t crave it at that point and the narrative hasn’t built towards it. You handed it over to the reader insert on a silver platter and called it a day.

In a well-paced story as long as this one, this moment is one of the major climaxes. It’s a shift in dynamics, perhaps a point of conflict for characters. But here, it feels like a massive bullet pint being checked off just to jump into the slowburn aspect of the fic.

Another reason why it itches me is because it’s so… implausibly easy. She just recognises him. Batman - THE Batman, just accidentally let her deduce his identity from seemingly nothing. If it truly were that easy, then wouldn’t half of Gotham City know who the Batman is at this point?

You wrote the world’s most paranoid, meticulous man, then degraded him so badly that an undergrad student managed to figure him out instantly.

The reveal being too early undermines the characters. It gives the reader insert that glamourized wattpad feel to her, where she’s too special too soon. Aka main character syndrome. As for Batman, it neuters his competence. His intelligence and stealth is suddenly overpowered by a twenty something year old with a GPA.

Theoretically, if an average citizen came to the same conclusion, Bruce would deny it with every bone in his body. Bruce Wayne himself is the mask, he is able to gaslight others, so why would he just accept the accusation that he’s Batman? He would deny, gaslight, lie, anything to keep the secret. He would not relent to a college student…

Well, that concludes the first part of my review out of a five part series for this fic before moving onto the next work I will be reviewing! Hope this was insightful.

[pollka1]

You don't gotta die today

Summary — Josh spends his last day alive at the bar

Genre — Angst

⚠️ Warnings — Talks of suicide ⚠️

Characters — Dr. Hill, Josh Washington, random stranger i came up with

Character speech is NOT colour coded for this fic

Josh Washington was going to die tonight.

He’d picked the date like some people pick wedding days—specific, symbolic. A closing of the circle. It had been a year, more or less, since the mountain swallowed him and never gave him back. His body made it out. Everything else stayed buried.

This bar wasn’t part of the plan. But he’d walked past it on the way home and something inside had whispered, Why not one last drink?

So here he was, slouched on a cracked leather stool that squeaked every time he moved, nursing a glass of whiskey with no intention of finishing it.

The air smelled like old cigars and cheap cologne. The kind of place people came to forget things they couldn't fix.

Josh had nothing to say, and that was fine. No one asked.

Until someone did.

“Mind if I sit here?”

The man was older, worn around the edges like an old photograph. Corduroy jacket, salt-and-pepper beard, eyes like he’d seen too much and stopped being surprised by any of it. Josh didn’t answer, just gave a vague shrug. The man took it as permission.

They sat in silence for a while. The old man sipped from his glass—a dark drink, neat. No ice.

"You look like someone who's made up their mind," the stranger said softly, not unkindly.

Josh didn’t respond.

The man kept going, his voice low and steady. “I’ve seen that look before. Wore it myself once. It's the look of someone trying to convince themselves there’s nothing left.”

Josh’s hand twitched around the glass. He hadn’t told anyone. He didn’t plan to tell anyone. How did this guy know?

The man gestured vaguely toward the bartender. “Places like this…they draw broken people like porch lights draw moths. Quiet, dusty corners where no one asks who you were before the sadness settled in.”

Still, Josh said nothing.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through,” the man added, “and I’m not gonna pretend to. But I know pain is loud in your head and quiet on your face. That’s how it fools everyone—including yourself.”

Josh swallowed hard.

The man didn’t look at him. He just kept talking.

“Some people say suicide is selfish. I don’t. I think it’s desperation wearing a mask. I think it’s people just wanting the ache to stop. But here’s the thing, kid—pain is like a storm in winter. It tells you it’ll never end. But the season always changes.”

Josh finally spoke. Barely a whisper. “What if it doesn’t?”

The old man turned his eyes to him—sharp, clear. “Then you make it change. You find something small—a book, a person, a song, a damn cup of coffee—and you hang onto it like it’s a life raft. Because one day, without realizing it, the weight will shift. You won’t be light again, maybe. But you won’t drown either.”

Josh looked down at his hands, then at the drink he no longer wanted.

“You don’t have to want tomorrow,” the man said as he stood. “You just have to get there.”

Josh didn’t watch him leave. The door clicked shut behind him like the punctuation at the end of a sentence Josh hadn’t finished writing.

He sat there for a long time.

Then, for no reason he could name, he reached for his phone. Not to delete the note. Not yet.

...

Josh left the bar without saying a word. No one noticed—why would they? He was just another shadow passing through a place built to hold them.

Outside, the cold hit his face like a warning.

He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and walked without purpose, not home, not anywhere in particular. Just moving. Breathing. Existing for one more moment than he meant to.

The streetlamps flickered like they were trying to decide whether or not to stay lit. He related.

His phone buzzed. One notification. No one important. A news alert, probably. He unlocked it anyway, thumbing through his notes until he found it—the one.

The plan.

Simple. Clean. Quiet.

No mess. No attention. No apologies.

He stared at the screen. And then, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he tapped the “edit” button. The blinking cursor appeared at the bottom like it was waiting on him.

He wrote:

Some guy at the bar talked about storms. Said seasons change. Not sure I believe him. But I didn’t think anyone would notice tonight, and he did. So maybe I’m wrong about other things, too.

He saved it. Didn’t delete the plan. But didn’t follow it either.

That felt like something.

...

He got home. Shoes off, lights off, jacket still on. Sat on the edge of his bed like a ghost haunting himself.

His room looked exactly the same and entirely foreign. Bed. Desk. A chair with a hoodie slung over it from days ago. It had been months since Hannah and Beth's disappearance, but he still felt like he was waiting for someone to tell him what to do next.

He pulled the hoodie over his head and crawled into bed.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t shake. Didn’t feel much at all.

But he didn’t go through with it.

That mattered.

...

Months pass, and Josh was in Dr. Hill's office.

Dr. Hill looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “You mentioned someone at a bar.”

Josh gave a slight nod. “Yeah. Just some guy. Don’t know his name.”

“And what did he say to you that stuck?”

Josh leaned back in the chair, arms folded, fingers twitching.

“He said I didn’t have to want tomorrow,” Josh said slowly, “just get there.”

Dr. Hill smiled, small and proud. “And you did.”

Josh didn’t smile back. But his voice was steadier than it had been in weeks.

“Yeah. I did.”

[mjonthetrack]

moon bound

Chapter One: The Years of Watching

Jonathan Fatu leaned against the weathered stone wall of the tribal grounds, his gaze distant, his mind far away. The winds whispered through the trees, and the ocean’s waves crashed against the shore in rhythmic melody, but none of it reached him. Not today.

His brothers—Jey and Sefa—stood a few feet away, deep in conversation with the elders. The laughter of children echoed in the distance, their carefree voices carrying through the air, but to Jonathan, everything felt distant, hollow. Like he no longer belonged to this world.

“Aren’t you happy for them?” Jey had asked a while ago, his voice gentle but full of understanding. Jey was always the one who tried to keep the peace, tried to pull Jonathan out of the darkness he often found himself in.

Jonathan had only grunted in response, his eyes fixed on the picture-perfect family Jey had built. His mate—Tama'ita'i, as he called her—was by his side, their three children running around them, laughing and shouting as they played. The sight hit Jonathan like a hammer every single time. His brother had everything Jonathan could never have. A mate. A family. Happiness.

The wolves of their pack were more than just family—they were everything. Their bonds, their packs, the strength of the mate connection was the heart of their world. And Jey’s bond was a perfect reflection of it.

“Jey, you spoil them too much,” his wife teased, grabbing one of their sons as he climbed onto Jey’s back. Jey laughed and kissed her forehead.

Jonathan’s gaze darkened. “You have a good life, brother,” he muttered, barely audible to the others.

Jey’s eyes flicked to him, a knowing sadness in them. “I didn’t ask for it. I just… I was lucky,” he said softly, his hand resting on his wife’s shoulder as he watched his children, the word pups slipping from his lips with such ease that Jonathan flinched.

He had never had the privilege of calling anyone his pup. Not like that.

“You’ve been watching them too long, Jonathan,” Jey added, his voice rough, as though he knew what was brewing in his twin’s chest. “We will have our time. We’ll lead our pack together. And when the time comes, we’ll make sure you—”

Jonathan cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. “No. You’ve had yours.” His words came out like a growl, full of a bitterness he couldn’t keep down. “You’ve got your pups—your family, your life. I’m still here. Watching. Wishing. And it’s not fucking fair, Jey.”

Sefa, Jonathan’s younger brother, stood beside them, his hands resting on his wife’s rounded belly. His eyes were full of love as he smiled at her. She was carrying their first child, the thought of which made Jonathan’s chest tighten. His pain was now compounded by that.

“You’ve got your mate, Sefa. You don’t know what it’s like to have it all and still feel…” Jonathan’s voice trailed off as he looked toward his younger brother.

Sefa caught the look and sighed, placing a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “It’s not a competition, Jonathan. We all have our roles. You’ll find yours too. You’ll lead them—just like us.”

But Jonathan couldn’t find comfort in those words anymore. Every time he saw Jey with his mate, every time he saw Sefa and his wife, it drove the knife deeper. He should’ve had his own by now. He should’ve had the same joy, the same pride, the same love filling his home, his heart, his life.

“They don’t care about that,” Jonathan muttered, his tone a mix of anger and despair. “You know that. They never will.”

The wind shifted, carrying a faint scent with it, one that made his body stiffen, his senses going on high alert. His chest clenched as the familiar—yet distant—scent reached him. Jasmine. Honey. But there was something else too, something that burned with a need so powerful that it almost stopped his heart.

“Do you smell that?” Jey asked suddenly, his gaze narrowing, as if he too had caught the shift in the air.

“Impossible,” Jonathan rasped, almost to himself. He stood up straighter, his mind scrambling to make sense of it. No, it couldn’t be.

But it was.

Her scent—Selene’s scent—hit him like a tidal wave, dragging him under, suffocating him. Every cell in his body screamed for her. His instincts flared to life, wild and feral, all the years of pent-up agony and longing coursing through his veins like fire.

Without thinking, he turned sharply, eyes scanning the distance for any sign of her. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest, it drowned out everything else.

“You okay, bro?” Sefa’s voice broke through the haze, but Jonathan barely heard it. His eyes were locked on the edge of the village, where a figure stood—a woman, her back to him, unaware of his presence.

He froze.

“Selene,” he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips, a declaration of a fate that had been denied for years.

She was here. On their land. And he would never be the same.

———-

Chapter 2: The Return

The sun hung high over the lush, green hills of Samoa as the airplane touched down. Selene Carter barely noticed the beauty outside the window—her focus was on the work ahead. A photo shoot on the island, a campaign for Chanel. It was what she’d always dreamed of, but she couldn’t help but feel the weight of nostalgia pressing against her chest.

She hadn’t been back to Samoa since she was twenty-three, just a girl, naive to the wild world that had once been her reality. Now, seven years later, she was a woman. Stronger, more confident. Her curves, once soft and innocent, now held an undeniable power. And the tattoos that decorated her skin? They were like a map of the woman she’d become—each one marking a chapter of her life.

Her fingers brushed over the piercings on her chest, the delicate rings cold against her skin. She didn’t think much of them anymore, just like she didn’t think much of the fact that she could hear the murmurs of the crew in the distance, all of them offering smiles, compliments, and flirtations as she walked by. They didn’t know her. They didn’t know the woman who had once been left standing at the altar. The one who’d learned to survive without him.

She pulled her oversized sunglasses down from her head, scanning the set as she approached. The crew was busy getting things in order—shuffling props, adjusting lighting. Her eyes swept across the landscape. The place looked the same, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted in her. Her legs felt a little heavier with each step, the ground beneath her almost vibrated with energy.

Her heels clicked against the earth as she made her way toward her trailer. A breeze blew through the air, the scent of saltwater carrying on it. It wasn’t the ocean breeze that caught her attention, though. It was something else, something faint.

The scent—something heady, musky, and raw—lingered in the air. It was intoxicating, like jasmine and honey, but darker. Earthier. There was an undercurrent of something primal, something dangerous. She dismissed the feeling as nothing more than the exotic surroundings messing with her senses. It was probably the heat, the smell of the land that had once been home to her ancestors. She’d always been sensitive to scents, a leftover trait from childhood.

She stepped into the trailer, shaking off the unease. The door closed behind her, and she let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. It was a moment of peace before the chaos of the shoot would begin. She dropped her bag onto the small bed, kicking off her heels. Her feet found the cool floor as she unbuttoned her white blouse and reached for a drink of water.

Meanwhile, not far away, Jonathan Fatu stood in the shadows, just out of sight. The moment he saw her, something inside him twisted with a force he hadn’t felt in years. The bond—the one that had been ripped away from him, the one that had tormented him through every year—flared back to life. His body went rigid, his mind spun with the memories of what he’d lost. Her scent, the very thing he’d spent years pushing away, now wrapped around him like a drug.

Jasmine. Honey. Her scent was sweeter than before, stronger. And beneath that? Something more. Something he hadn’t noticed until now. It clawed at his insides.

He leaned against the tree, his eyes locked on the trailer where she’d just disappeared. The sight of her—the way she moved, the confidence she exuded—made his blood burn with an ache he couldn’t silence. He hadn't seen her in seven years, but she hadn't changed. Not in the way that mattered. She still had that fire, that spark in her eyes. But now, it was laced with something else. She was no longer the girl he left behind. She was a woman.

"Jonathan," his brother Jey's voice broke through the haze of his thoughts. "You good, bro?" Jey was standing just a few feet away, watching him with a knowing look. "You look like you're about to snap."

Jonathan swallowed hard, blinking as he tore his eyes away from the trailer. "I can smell her," he muttered, voice hoarse.

Jey raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "Selene? She’s here?"

Jonathan nodded, his gaze distant. "She’s here. And I can't... I can’t ignore it." His fists clenched at his sides. His senses were on fire. The primal urge to claim her, to mark her, to make her his... It was overwhelming.

"You know it’s not that simple," Jey said softly, his voice full of understanding but tinged with sorrow. "We can’t just—"

"I know," Jonathan cut him off sharply. "But I’m not gonna let this chance slip again. I don’t care what the elders say. I’ll fight them if I have to."

Jey sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just be careful, Jonathan. You’ve been carrying this for years. It’s dangerous. For both of you."

But Jonathan’s focus was already elsewhere. His eyes flickered back toward the trailer. Her scent was everywhere now, and he could feel it, deep in his bones, calling to him. Something was different, and he didn’t know if he was ready for it. But that didn’t matter anymore.

He had to have her.

Inside her trailer, Selene was oblivious to the silent storm just outside. She pulled on a pair of comfortable sweats, her mind wandering. She'd always felt the pull of this place, but it was different now. Stronger. Her heart raced, and she shook her head. Maybe it was just nerves. A new shoot, a new campaign—she was used to it by now.

But as the door to her trailer opened and the cool air hit her skin, she felt it again. That pull. That strange, haunting tug. Something was off.

Before she could step out into the sunlight again, she heard a voice from behind her.

"Teine."

Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of the deep voice. She turned, only to find no one there.

And for a moment, just a fleeting second, she thought she smelled something familiar. Something from long ago.

———-

Chapter 3: Pressure & Pineapples

The island sun stretched long golden fingers across the sky, warming the sand and setting everything aglow with a tropical haze. The crew bustled around the beach-set location while Selene sat cross-legged on a cushioned lounger beneath a wide umbrella, popping cubes of fresh pineapple into her mouth with the slow grace of someone who had no intention of rushing.

Sweat beaded on her honey-gold skin—not from effort, but from the heat. Her curly hair was piled high in a loose puff, a few spirals escaping to kiss the sides of her face. Large shades shielded her eyes, but her smile was clear as she nudged a piece of melon toward her best friend and assistant, Kadeem.

"You see dis sweetness?" she said, holding up the fruit dramatically. Her Trinidadian lilt rolled like syrup, smooth and thick. "Yuh sure yuh don’t want a piece? It bussin', real nice."

Kadeem laughed, brushing her hand away. "Girl, if I eat one more thing you offer me, I won’t fit in my jeans by next week."

"Dat’s a you problem, not mine," she teased, grinning wide as she tossed the fruit into her mouth. “Yuh jeans too tight anyway.”

Just then, a familiar voice cut through the laughter. "You still think you stronger than me, Selene?"

She turned her head, catching sight of her trainer, Darius, standing with arms crossed and that challenge glinting in his eyes.

"Always thought it," she replied, rising to her feet with a cocky tilt of her head. Her hips swayed naturally as she walked toward him. "And I could still drop yuh if I really wanted to. Bet dat."

The crew nearby gave a chorus of oohs and laughter.

"Aight then," Darius smirked, dropping a gym bag by a cleared stretch of grass. “Lemme see what that mouth really talkin’ about. Let’s work.”

Selene peeled off the oversized T-shirt she’d tossed on earlier, revealing a black sports bra and matching compression shorts that hugged her body like a second skin. Her Nike Dunks tapped the ground with confident rhythm as she stepped onto the grass.

Muscle rippled under smooth skin as she stretched, arms overhead, glutes taut, abs carved in definition. She was a walking goddess, and everyone knew it. Her body was proof of work, of pain and passion, of hours dedicated to becoming exactly who she wanted to be.

The workout was fire. Push-ups, mountain climbers, core burners—Selene didn’t hold back. Her breath came in steady bursts, determination etched across her brow. Every movement was crisp, powerful, and precise. She trained like she had something to prove, even if no one else knew who she was proving it to.

When it finally ended, she stood with her hands on her hips, body shining with sweat, chest rising and falling.

“Told yuh, I run dis,” she huffed at Darius, who lay on the grass dramatically as if slain.

“I’m dead,” he groaned. “You win, Queen. Every damn time.”

Laughter rippled through the crew as music started up from a nearby speaker. Island rhythms—afrobeats, soca, a splash of dancehall—filtered into the air.

Selene didn’t hesitate. Her hips started moving, smooth and slow, the music guiding her like muscle memory. The dance lived in her bones. Kadeem joined her, mirroring her movements as they both broke into smiles, twirling and whining in sync.

“Yuh see me?” she called out, twirling with playful flair. “I might buss down and turn heads, but ah still got strength like a bull!”

“You more like a tigress,” Kadeem shouted back.

She threw her head back and laughed, carefree, radiant.

What she didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that just beyond the tree line, half-hidden in the shadows, Jonathan stood watching. Again.

His jaw clenched. His pupils dilated.

Every sway of her hips, every breath she took, pulled him deeper into madness.

Her scent had changed again.

Still jasmine. Still honey. But now, there was heat buried beneath it. A subtle pulse of something darker. A shift that tugged at every instinct inside him.

He could hear the men on set joking, laughing, eyes lingering on her. His lip curled slightly.

“Control it,” he whispered to himself, clawing his fingers into the bark of the tree beside him. “Not yet.”

His brothers’ voices echoed in his mind.

She’s human, Jon. It’s not time. You’ll scare her.

But Selene was laughing. Dancing. Alive.

And he was a shadow watching a world he was forbidden from stepping into.

Not for long.

The music shifted—thick bass, drums rolling like thunder, heavy with that deep afrobeat that made the blood move on its own. Selene’s body responded before her mind caught up, rolling her hips in time with the rhythm, low and slow, a smirk tugging at her lips.

She turned around, back to Kadeem, dipping into a wining motion that had him laughing and throwing a towel over his head like “I’m out, nah you playin’ too much.”

Jonathan’s nails scraped the tree bark behind him.

His throat worked once. Twice. That same growl, low and buried, clawed at the edges of his chest.

She looked so different—but still so her. Full in all the places that made his hands twitch with memory. Grown. Confident. Dangerous.

And then his eyes locked on it.

A ring. Left hand. Fourth finger.

Something in him snapped.

His breath left him in a hiss. A burn settled in his chest that had nothing to do with the sun.

She was claimed?

By a human?

No. No.

The image of her with someone else—his hands on her waist, waking up in her bed, hearing that laugh in the morning—made Jonathan feel like he could tear through trees. Like his wolf might burst from his skin and obliterate whoever had dared touch what was his.

But he stayed frozen, lips parted, chest rising. He couldn't go to her yet. Couldn't storm the beach set like a madman. He wasn’t allowed to. Not yet.

And yet—

She threw her head back, laughing again as Kadeem mock-danced behind her. Her hand flicked up, brushing her curls from her face, the ring catching light again.

His fangs pressed against his gums.

He couldn’t smell another bond on her.

That mattered.

He couldn’t smell another man in her soul.

But still… that ring. That fucking ring.

“Oe,” his brother Sefa had said earlier, after catching Jonathan’s scent spike. “You gon’ explode before you get to speak her name again.”

Maybe.

Or maybe he'd tear through every human on that set until he found out if she was really claimed.

——-

[cent-scratchnsniff]

here together

[cuttledreams-bugs]

me trying to hype myself up to posting online again despite The Horror

[khioneee]

caleb won't ever let you go.

‘here’s what you don’t understand,’ caleb said, his voice low and steady as he stepped closer. his gaze bore into yours, unflinching, filled with an intensity that made your heart stutter. ‘i would live a thousand lives just to get to you.’

caleb’s hand came up, and he rested it against one of your cheeks, his thumb catching your lip. you swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat, but he wasn’t done.

‘i would die time and time again, dig out my own grave if it means i can come home to you,’ he said, his voice trembling slightly with the weight of his confession.

you just witnessed your heartbreaker break into a thousand pieces, the vulnerable side of him slowly unmasked, and you saw it. he looked so, so tired. he was all pale skin contrasted with harsh colours; his eyes were bruised violet underneath, his lips were chapped to a raw red, and his usual glowing irises were a dull, cold black.

his lips were so close to yours now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. you wanted to push him away, wanted to move out of his grasp, but you weren’t strong enough for any of it.

‘if i can’t have you in this universe,’ he murmured, his voice barely audible, ‘i’ll make sure i’ll be there in the next.’

it felt like surrender to close your eyes, to let caleb touch his lips where he wanted, to let his mouth ghost your cheek, but you were tired of the battle. he must have felt the resistance give away, because he cupped his hand purposefully around your jaw and tipped your mouth up with a finger on your chin.

he paused, his breath hitching, before backing away just enough to meet your eyes fully. his gaze softened but remained resolute, holding a depth that made you shiver.

‘you belong with me,’ he said firmly.

your unsteady heart was about to detonate. you opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat as he added, softer now, gentler, as if he were speaking a truth only he could see.

‘you just can’t see it… yet.’

his words lingered, weaving into the air around you like a thread that couldn’t be broken. you wanted to fight it, wanted to deny him, but the conviction in his voice planted a seed of doubt in the walls you’d built to keep him out. and that terrified you more than anything.

caleb blinked at you. the storm had cleared in his eyes. he almost looked surprised to see you standing there. he put his cap on, his movements slow, deliberate, as if bracing himself to leave.

‘you’re not the same person i knew,’ you said suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper. the words spilled out before you could stop them, heavy and trembling with unspoken pain.

caleb met your torn stare as you observed him closely, trying to detect what it was that was currently going through his mind.

‘not the same,’ he repeated, shaking his head with a quiet, bitter laugh. he looked at you then, his eyes heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. ‘i still love you, don’t i?’

the words hung in the air, raw and piercing, cutting through whatever resolve you thought you had left. he turned slightly, as if to leave, but hesitated, his shoulders stiff, waiting for a response you weren’t sure you could give.

but he stepped away, disheveled and breathing hard, staring harshly at you. the look in his eyes was terrible. terrifying. then, as if the silence itself pushed him to speak again, his voice low but steady.

‘i’m the same person,’ he said, his gaze locking onto yours. ‘i’m just not willing to let you go this time.’

[maskedbyghost]

cw: manipulation, possessive reader, suggestive language

You told him you didn’t do casual.

You didn’t make it a big deal. You just said it like you meant it, not trying to sound dramatic or emotional about it. Just honest.

“I don’t do casual,” you said, eyes on your drink. “It always ends up messy, and I’m not built for that.”

Simon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s alright,” he said eventually. “I’m not looking for anything serious.”

You nodded. No reaction on your face, no shift in tone. “Then we can just be friends.”

He raised an eyebrow like he was trying to figure you out. “You sure?”

You smiled a little. “Yeah. I like hanging out with you. We don’t have to fuck.”

“…Alright,” he said, after a pause. “Friends.”

And that was the start.

Except friends don’t show up to his gym when he’s meeting a girl for a workout date.

Friends don’t slip him a text during his Tinder dinner like,

“you left your hoodie here again. i’m wearing it. smells like you.”

Friends don’t show up to the pub when he’s got plans with someone, all dolled up like you just rolled out of a damn music video, giving his date a once-over and offering a tight smile that says run, babe.

You’d always act surprised when things didn’t work out. “Oh no, she ghosted you? That’s so weird.”

And Simon? He wasn’t completely oblivious. But he was tired, and lonely, and honestly kind of lazy when it came to trying to figure women out, and you were just so easy to be around, so warm and funny and low-maintenance and somehow always around when he needed someone.

So when he started seeing you more than anyone else, it didn’t feel weird. It felt right.

He told himself it was just friendship.

Even when you leaned against him on the couch. Even when you started sleeping over. Even when he started feeling a little sick thinking about you with anyone else.

The night it finally changed, he had just come back from a shit deployment — nothing too dangerous, just long and annoying and cold, and you’d been waiting at his place (with your own key, because somehow that had happened), and you were in his clothes, curled up in his bed with takeout, and when he saw you like that he just… stopped thinking.

“You’re perfect for me,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself.

You blinked, looking up from your phone. “What?”

“I was so fucking stupid,” he muttered, dropping his bag, walking toward you like something magnetic was pulling him in. “I didn’t see it. I don’t know why.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him for a second, then smiled, slow and easy, like you’d been waiting for him to finally figure it out, like none of it really surprised you, but you were still happy to hear it out loud.

From there, it was easy.

The relationship happened fast. Slipped into place like it had always been there. He’d gone from “I don’t do serious” to leaving his toothbrush at your place, to falling asleep with his face buried in your neck, to holding your hand in public without even realizing he was doing it.

He was happy. Stupidly happy. The kind that made his friends suspicious and his coworkers tease him. The kind that made you look like the hero of some cozy domestic fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong and love is enough.

It wasn’t one big moment. It was a bunch of little ones that slowly added up until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Like how you always just showed up when he had plans, how his phone would buzz with a text from you right before he left for a date. Or how you’d casually mention how certain girls “weren’t his type,” even when he never brought them up to you.

And then one day, while you were going through an old playlist together, you said, “God, I remember this song. I used to listen to it every time I thought about you with someone else.” And you didn’t even blink after saying it.

And the more he thinks about it, the more it starts adding up.

You’d played him. You’d baited him.

And now he’s sitting on the couch, watching you walk into the room in one of his old T-shirts, holding a bowl of snacks, looking like home, and he honestly doesn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed off or bend you over the arm of the sofa and remind you who he is.

You plop into his lap like you do it every day (because you do), nestling in like you’re settling into your rightful throne, and he wraps his arms around your waist automatically, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“You know what I realized today?” he asks, voice low.

You hum. “What?”

He tilts his head like he’s thinking it through. “We’re together because you manipulated me.”

You pause for like… half a second. Then?

“Yeah,” you say, nonchalant. “And?”

He squints at you, mouth twitching like he can’t decide if he wants to smile or frown. “You sabotaged every girl I tried to hook up with.”

“I did,” you say, and lean forward to grab the remote. “Most of them were trash anyway.”

“You tricked me into thinking you weren’t interested.”

“Mhm.” You don’t even look at him. “Worked, didn’t it?”

There’s this long silence, and then Simon groans and lets his head fall back on the couch dramatically.

“I should be mad,” he mutters.

“You’re not,” you say, smiling down at him like he’s your prize. “You love me.”

“Fuck, woman,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. “That turns me on.”

You grin, shifting your weight so you’re straddling him properly, hands sliding up his chest slowly until your fingers curl around the back of his neck. You squeeze—not hard, just enough to make him feel it.

“You belong to me,” you whisper against his ear. “Always have.”

He shivers. Actually shivers.

“…Jesus.”

You kiss his jaw, slow and smug. “Say it.”

“…Yours.”

“Good boy.”

And yeah. He is.

PART 2

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

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[lqveharrington]

The Alchemy | D.M.

summary: Although Draco promised that he would keep your relationship a secret just for you, he can’t contain himself after winning the Hogwarts quidditch cup.

pairing: draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader

includes: FLUFF, established relationship (and a last name of Evergreen for the reader)

a/n: inspired by the olympics recently ❤️

When Draco asked you out in fourth year, you thought it was a joke. Sure, you were both acquainted due to your pure wizardry bloodline, but you were in Hufflepuff. The only time the other houses thought you were useful was when they wanted to sneak into the kitchen. So when he came up and sat down beside you when you were studying potions, you were disheartened.

“Malfoy, please don’t do this.” You sigh, rubbing your forehead. You were just starting to understand what ingredients made a truth serum.

“Do what? I’m asking you if you want to go to Hogsmeade together this weekend.” He spun the Malfoy signet ring adorning his hand.

You look up at him with tired eyes, “Did someone put you up to this?”

“What? No no, I—“ He cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks warm at how you were able to fluster him with even a small glance. “I’m really asking you to go on a date with me.”

You search his face for any indication of a lie, before biting your lip softly and looking down at your parchment. “Are you really?”

“I am.” Draco dropped his hand onto yours to stop your fidgeting with the quill.

You felt your own face heat up at the notion. He thumbed your palm softly as you stayed quiet, not minding his closeness. Finally, you looked up at him, “You have yourself a date, Malfoy.” He sent you a soft smile but before he could say anything else, you interrupted. “Please don’t let me down.”

Draco never let you down. Despite your earlier doubts, you saw how kind and thoughtful the Malfoy heir was underneath his hardened shell his father had built around him. In private, he was always attentive, loving, clingy — there wasn’t a moment where he was separated from you. In public, he had to rein in those feelings just for you.

Even when you started your seventh year at Hogwarts, you were still terrified what others at school would say about a Hufflepuff dating the Slytherin Prince. Sure, his parents and your parents knew, but not the entirety of Hogwarts. You had asked Draco to keep your relationship private until you were ready to face the reality of your relationship to the rest of the world. He begrudgingly agreed, respecting your wishes; but the need to kiss you in front of the entire student body to rightly claim that you were his was wavering.

Especially when it had been three years since you first started dating. And right now, you were currently hiding below the stands together as you greeted him with good luck kisses for his final quidditch match as a student in Hogwarts.

“I.” Kiss. “Love.” Kiss. “You.” Kiss. You say softly as he holds you close by your hips — smiling into all your kisses. “Good.” Kiss. “Luck.” Kiss.

“You’re killing me here, love.” Draco murmurs against your lips. He pulls away gently to look at your ever so loving gaze. He draws small hearts on you hip, “You done?”

“Never.” You kiss him again, hands cupping his jaw. “I want you to be stuck with me forever.”

He hums into the kiss as you thumb his cheeks softly, “I will after I win this game, my love.”

You separate again, grinning like a lovesick puppy. “Good luck, Dray. I’ll see you later.” You press one last kiss to his lips before leaving his arms and running up the Hufflepuff stands to cheer. You couldn’t deny that even after all these years he still made you giddy and red.

Draco shook his head with a soft smile only you could coax out of him. He walked out from the stands and hopped on his broom, ready in the air for his final match as Slytherin’s seeker. Cheers filled the stadium as the players took their place, captains shaking hands.

The final match for Slytherin and Gryffindor was probably the most anticipated all year round. Since it was also Harry Potter’s last game as seeker, and the two seekers were known as rivals, it was hyped up to be one of the best end matches of the season.

As the game progressed, Slytherin and Gryffindor were constantly tied. It was really up to the seekers to find the golden snitch to determine the winner. There were bets taking place in the house stands, mind fixated on earning a few galleons for the last time. For the Hufflepuff stands, they were a house divided. Many cheered for scarlet and gold while the other half cheered for green and silver.

You didn’t mind the division between your house. After all, you only watched the games for Draco. Your friends were cheering for the Gryffindors whilst you carried the small Slytherin flag in your hands — eyes trained on the blonde high above the game itself. The second you blinked from the blazing sun, Draco was soaring after the golden snitch, Harry close behind and eventually flying right next to him.

The shouts from the stands only fueled the seekers’ attention to the flying gold. Draco and Harry were chasing in circles after the snitch, attention focused on nothing else even as the bludger zoomed past them.

You held your breath as they both reach out for the snitch. Your friend held your shoulder in anticipation, watching the two closely. Before you could register what happened, she gasped and shook your shoulders in frustration.

“I lost ten galleons to that!” She sighed heavily as Draco flashed the golden snitch in the air.

The rush of the win made you scream happily with the other Hufflepuffs and houses cheering for the Slytherin team. You wear clapping your hands as the team began flying around in victory. You watched as Draco flew around the stands more as the rest of the Slytherin team settled on the grounds. His eyes scanned the stadium until they lit up when they saw you at the very front of the Hufflepuff stands — waving your Slytherin flag with pride.

“Seems like Malfoy is off showing the last snitch he’ll catch for the Slytherin quidditch team! But we all want to know where the trophy is!” The third year announcer spoke, voice casted across the stadium.

You smiled at Draco softly when you finally met his eyes. And before you knew it, he flew right over to you and cupped your face, kissing you senselessly. You grinned into the kiss as you held his cheeks, the shouts and screams from your housemates blending in your ears.

“Aw, quite a beautiful way to celebrate the win. Don’t you think so, McGonagall? Honestly, I wasn’t expecting Malfoy and Evergreen— Ow, sorry.” The third year announcer spoke once more, rubbing the spot the professor lightly hit them with a newspaper.

You part from Draco with a blinding smile, “I think I agree, this is a beautiful way to celebrate.” You say quietly only for him to hear, pressing quick kisses to his lips.

“I’m proud of you, love.” Draco nudges your nose with his to gently stop your kisses for a second — even though he did want more.

“Me? You just won the quidditch cup for your house!” You laugh while wrapping your arms behind his neck, careful in trying not to pull him off his broom.

He rubbed the apples of your cheeks, “You just let me kiss you in front of the entire student body… I think that’s more important.” He pulled you in for another mind searing kiss, making you smile helplessly.

“AGAIN?” The third year announcer shouted into the microphone once more. “Is there—“

“Alright, we’re done announcing, boys and girls.” Professor McGonagall spoke and shut the speakers off; although she was quite happy for the couple.

You giggled as he pulled you into a hug. “I love you.”

Draco pressed kisses to your cheek repeatedly, “I love you more.”

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms