#the way i spent too much time writing this.................

[pretentious-blonde]

never second best

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: after a run-in with his ex, steve reassures you that you'll never be second best, proving it in a way he knows will stick

warnings: 18+ this is smut, graphic depictions of sex, p in v, oral (f receiving), tears, insecurity

a/n: part 5 but can be read as a standalone. half of this is super long, pure filth, AND my first time writing smut so pls feedback is welcome. thank you @andvys so so much, hopefully, i didn't let you down <3

series masterlist

Steve perched on the edge of his neatly-made bed, hair painstakingly combed into that signature swoop, the red knit jumper hugging his broad shoulders just so. The sleeves are pushed up to reveal his forearms—a look he recently realised drives you a little wild, and one he now makes an effort to wear often. 

He liked to catch you staring. 

He’s wearing his go-to faded jeans, and every time he glances your way, his eyes take on a softer appearance. You’ve already spent some time in his room before, but every time he sees you there, he still can’t believe you’re in his space.

He’s trying—really trying—not to grin too widely. If he breaks into the excited smile he’s been fighting all morning, he worries he might come off too eager. But truth be told, he is too eager. Hosting Dustin’s birthday party is one thing, but now he has the honour of introducing you to everyone. Officially. 

He’s practically bursting at the chance to show you off, the very thought turned his mind all giddy. Knowing that you would be the one with his arm around your waist for everyone to witness. 

The idea distracted him from the real drama occurring not four feet away from him. 

From your spot by the mirror, you can see him watching you, and it sets your stomach off again. You’re not sure why today feels so monumental. You’ve met Dustin in passing, shared a few laughs with Robin over coffee after she basically saved your relationship a few weeks back.

But tonight is the full show. Everyone. All at once. And for some reason, your carefully chosen outfit no longer feels quite right. You tug the hem of your top self-consciously, tilt your head, and scrunch your nose at your reflection.

“I look awful,” you say, voice laced with the sort of frustration that’s all nerves. “This looked so much better in my head.”

His brow furrows, and he pushes off the bed in a single fluid motion. “That’s nonsense,” he replies, crossing the room to you in three quick strides. He rests his hands lightly on your shoulders, gaze flicking to meet yours in the mirror. "You look beautiful, sweetheart. Always do. You know that."

You huff out a breath, trying not to get lost in the warmth of his praise—easier said than done.

“No, I don’t,” you insist, staring critically at your clothes. “I should’ve brought something else.”

“Well…do you have anything else here?” He asks gently.

There were little traces of you scattered around—a few forgotten items here and there, most notably, the new toothbrush sitting beside his. Still, nine times out of ten, you took your clothes home, leaving behind only your pajamas.

“A set of pajamas.” You sigh dramatically, cursing yourself for not packing more than one option. “That’s about it.”

“Hey, that could work,” he teases, eyes crinkling with amusement. “That’s one of my favourite looks on you.” His hands slide down your arms, his grin growing as he watches your reaction.

Under normal circumstances you would lean into his teasing, but this was not the time. You turn to give him a shove, but he catches your wrist before it can make an impact.

“Steve,” you whine, trying to see the humour in this the way he is.

“What? I’m just being honest,” he says, eyes dancing. “Would you rather I lie?” 

Truth is, he does love you in those pajamas—almost as much as he loves you wearing his old shirts. Honestly, you could throw on a trash bag, and he’d still think you’re stunning.

“Please stop,” you groan.

You’re not smiling the way you usually do at his jokes—no little giggle, no playful roll of the eyes. 

The shift clicks for him: you’re actually stressed. 

Concern crosses his features, and the jovial edge in his voice softens. He lowers his tone, warmth flowing through each word, and slides his hands down to cradle your waist.

“Alright,” he murmurs, thumbs drawing gentle circles against your hips. “Talk to me. What’s not working here?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, exhaling as you sink into him. “I just feel… unprepared. I mean, I’m meeting everyone. Should I have brought something? I should’ve baked. Everyone likes baked goods.”

A breathy chuckle escapes him, and he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

Like you’re not already sweet enough.

“Angel, Robin is bringing the cake. And you”—he squeezes your waist a little firmer—“are a guest here. Your only job is to relax and look pretty. Can you do that for me? Please?”

The earnestness in his voice steals the protest right out of your throat. You look up at him, heart thumping in that heady way it does whenever he turns on the charm full-blast. 

Damn those big, stupid brown eyes. 

You turn back to the mirror, pulling at your shirt once again. There’s a crease here, a wrinkle there—things no one else would ever notice, but to you, it’s just off. You can feel his eyes on you, his concern and affection practically radiating from behind. 

He’s been so excited, so patient, and yet you can’t shake the last bit of anxiety churning in your stomach about today.

In the reflection, you watch him hover, trying to be casual even though you can see every thought flit across his expressive face. He wants you to be happy and comfortable. He wants to show you off and make sure you feel like a million bucks doing it.

“Can I wear something of yours?” you ask softly, turning to meet those wide, hopeful eyes. “I want something more comfortable.”

Comfortable.

His heart practically leaps at your request. He’s not sure why that single sentence sends a jolt of excitement through him, but it does—and it’s powerful. He tries to school his expression into something normal, but the eager beam that spreads across his face betrays him.

“Absolutely,” he says far too quickly, glad to be of use. “Knock yourself out. Have at it—any one you want.”

He opens the wardrobe, stepping aside like he’s unveiling some prized collection. You slip past him, still self-conscious, but the warm brush of his hand on your lower back comforts you. 

Leafing through the soft fabrics, you finally find one that matches the rest of your outfit—a cosy, oversized number that’s equally stylish and undeniably Steve’s. You hold it up, glancing back at him for approval.

He grins—big, unabashed. “Fantastic choice,” he declares, in an exaggeratedly formal tone meant to make you laugh.

It works—you giggle. The sound washes over him like a balm, chasing away the worry in his eyes. 

He lives for that sound.

Then, your focus shifts back to the mirror. You pull off your shirt in one smooth motion, baring your bra and the long, graceful stretch of your spine. 

The air feels cooler against your newly exposed skin, and you instantly sense the spark of awareness coming from the boy behind you.

He goes still. A part of him wants to look away, to be respectful, yet he can’t stop his eyes from drifting along the curve of your waist and the softness just above your navel.

He’s had the privilege of touching your bare skin before—tentative, lingering caresses that never ventured too far. He’s wanted more, of course he has. He’s human—he’s got a pulse. 

But you deserve slow. You deserve a careful pace, no pressure. He’d beat himself up about it for weeks if he even thought he made you uncomfortable.

But that didn’t stop his mind from running. 

He wanted to trail his fingertips down every inch of your body, to feel you melt under his touch. Imagining the way you’d arch into his palms, voice breathless as it tickled his ear, egging him on. Images of pressing you up against the mirror, sliding his hands across your hips, your ribs, your chest, discovering every inch he’s been dying to explore. 

He tears his eyes away, cheeks heating at his own explicit thoughts. 

You slide his jumper over your head, letting the fabric fall into place. Instantly, you’re enveloped in the faint smell of him: cologne, fabric softener, a hint of hairspray. 

You turn, a playful, knowing smirk on your face, you catch the flush on his cheeks—his pupils slightly dilated, his posture taut with the effort of keeping his hands to himself.

“More comfortable?” he asks, managing a wobbly smile.

“Yeah,” you smooth the jumper over your sides, nodding. “Much better.”

A smile spreads slowly across his face, relief flooding his features. He steps closer, gently adjusting the jumper on your shoulders, as if making sure you’re perfectly bundled in his warmth. His knuckles skim your collarbone, the gesture sends a pleasant shiver through you.

“Good,” he murmurs. In the silence that follows, you can almost hear the unspoken thoughts swirling behind his eyes. He drops his hands, brushes a quick kiss to your temple, and lets out a breath. “Come on, let’s get downstairs before the others barge in. The peace isn’t gonna last once the party kicks off.”

The house was buzzing with the kind of kinetic energy that made the walls hum. You can feel it reverberating through the soles of your feet the moment you step back into the living room. The cosy space was adorned with colourful streamers and a Happy Birthday! banner—Dustin’s own insistence, of course.

Steve had nearly suffered a heart attack watching you put it up single-handedly earlier, bursting into the room just in time to steady the wobbling chair beneath you.

I mean, Jesus, were you trying to take years off his life?

You had been blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, balancing precariously as if gravity was a suggestion. 

He had been right there. You could have asked for help. But no—apparently, terrifying him was just part of the fun.

None of that mattered now the party was in full swing, chatter overlapping, laughter weaving in and out of a sweetly melancholic track Max had just dropped onto the record player.

He had introduced you with obvious pride, making sure to state—loud and clear—that you were his girlfriend. Watching you greet everyone with a tender smile. His attention lingered on each reaction, quietly noting how they took in the girl he was lucky enough to call his.

It felt like unveiling a winning hand in a game he never expected to play so well—like holding onto something rare and knowing, deep down, that he’d beaten the odds.

You quickly spot your host—your boyfriend—hovering near the stereo console, running a hand through his hair, trying to appear unruffled while Max and Lucas sift through his precious vinyls. And in typical Steve fashion, failing at appearing calm, because he can’t quite hide his grin when he sees you looking. 

From across the room, he gives you a gentle wave, checking that you’re still alright. His eyes stay on you as you maneuver around the coffee table and dodge a crumb-strewn plate that might have once held cake but now looks suspiciously empty.

“Hey,” he greets, sliding an arm around your waist the second you’re within reach. His hand settles warm and comforting at your side, fingertips lightly pressing into the soft fabric of the borrowed sweater. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply, leaning into the contact without a second thought.

He seems to shine in a way you haven’t seen before. Surrounded by the people he calls family, he’s the best version of himself, brimming with confidence and a natural leadership that emerges when he’s trying to make sure everyone else is okay. 

You see it in the way he’s just handed Max the next record she was eyeing (despite complaining it’s not appropriate music for a birthday party), the way he’s offered Dustin a refill on his drink twice in the last ten minutes, and the way his entire face softens whenever he looks at you.

You hear Will’s loud gasp behind you—apparently, Jonathan just teased him about some underground album you had never heard of. The brown-haired boy claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder, spinning him into an ongoing argument about what to play next. 

Meanwhile, Robin’s perched on the arm of the couch, describing some comedic fiasco at work with her trademark flair for dramatics. You catch only snippets—something about a misfiled horror movie in the kids’ section, a frantic parent demanding a refund, and Steve heroically stepping in to salvage the day.

He rolls his eyes at that particular story, mouth curving in a half-smile. “She’s gonna exaggerate it,” he mutters to you, “just watch.”

You grin, nudging him gently. “Hey, maybe it’ll make you look good.”

“What, me saving the day?” He shakes his head. “Sweetheart, I already look great,” he says in a faux-arrogant tone, then immediately flushes when he realises how that might’ve sounded. But you know him well enough to catch the joking glint in his eye, so you laugh.

“C’mon, Steve,” comes a voice from the left—Nancy, stepping forward with a cautious smile. Her hair is pinned back, a few strands framing her face, and she looks surprisingly at ease despite the chaos around her. “Give yourself some credit. You’re basically running a daycare every shift the amount of times the kids are there,” she teases, though her tone is warm, not biting.

“Yeah, well, if it keeps me from being bored outta my mind, guess it’s worth it.” He snorts.

You shift, letting Nancy into the conversation fully. She meets your gaze with an inviting smile, and it strikes you how nice she is. 

Steve had mentioned her coming, and at first, it rubbed you the wrong way. Not in a dramatic, soap-opera kind of way, but in that small discomfort that settled in your stomach before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn’t want to be that person—the one who couldn’t handle a little shared history, who needed their partner to rewrite the past just to make the present more comfortable. But still, the thought sat with you longer than you liked.

Steve had noticed, of course. He was too perceptive when it came to you, reading the tension in your jaw before you even had the words to explain it. So he reassured you—gently, patiently, with that soft-eyed sincerity he always had when something really mattered.

Without hesitation, he’d offered to uninvite her. But you shook your head because that wasn’t fair. If they were all part of the same friend group, who were you to come in and break it apart? Nancy was part of his history, but that didn’t mean she had to be an issue in his future.

And if he could move forward without looking over his shoulder, then so could you.

She was not the intimidating figure you’d somewhat imagined— the girl he had cared about so deeply in the past. Instead, she’s approachable, her eyes bright with curiosity as she acknowledges you.

“Hi,” she says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I don’t think we’ve had a real chance to talk yet. I’m Nancy.” She offers her hand, and you take it, noticing the gentle, firm shake.

“It’s really nice to finally meet you properly.” You tell her, giving your name in return. “Steve’s told me a bit about you.”

She arches a brow at him, a playful glint there. “All good things, I hope?”

“Nothing but the best.” He raises both hands, half-defensive. 

She laughs quietly, then turns that inquisitive gaze back to you.

“So, I heard you’re, um… you work in—”

“Journalism,” you supply with a small nod. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, but I really like it. Kinda took your place at the Hawkins Post.” You joke. “They treat me a lot better now though. It’s not anything huge, but I get to read new articles, help shape them a bit, get the occasional coffee run… it’s fun and sometimes totally insane.”

Steve leans in, beaming with pride. 

It had gotten easier—less and less often did you show up at his house on the verge of tears after a shift. Turns out, grown men get pretty uncomfortable when you call them out on their bullshit directly. And damn, was he proud when they finally started taking you seriously.

He always knew they would. You’re a smart girl, after all.

“She’s underselling it.” He says, without the slightest bit of shame, gently nudging your shoulder. “She’s great at what she does.” 

“That sounds so much better than when I was there.” She shakes her head, reminiscing about her experiences. “I still do a lot of writing myself. I’m working at a local paper in Massachusetts right now.”

Something about her tone clicks into place for you, like a puzzle piece sliding in. 

“Right, Steve mentioned. You like it?”

“Yeah. It’s… challenging, to say the least.” She nods, crossing her arms loosely. “Still a small paper, still small stories. But I’m building my portfolio, hoping to maybe do bigger pieces eventually.” 

A warm sense of camaraderie blooms in your chest. You completely understand that hustle, that feeling of needing to push through the drudge work to get to the fulfilling stuff. 

“Oh, absolutely,” you say. “I used to think I’d be working on these huge headlines right off the bat, but it was mostly basic editing work. Still,” you add, “I’m kind of a sucker for persevering.”

Her eyes crinkle with a real smile, and for a moment, it’s just you two, connecting over the rollercoaster that is words. 

“I know exactly what you mean. It’s exciting to be at the start of something, you know?”

“Makes the early mornings and late evenings worth it,” you tease, and she laughs. 

This was easier than you thought.

The conversation flows so smoothly that you almost forget the context—that this is Steve’s ex you’re talking to, that the only reason you even worried about her presence was because of that shared history. But here she is: easy to talk to, friendly, and—if you’re honest—reminding you a bit of yourself in how she lights up when discussing her work. You could understand how Steve fell for her in the first place. 

And that’s when it happens: Dustin bounces by with a half-eaten cake slice, eyes going wide as he sees you and Nancy chatting. He glances between you, leans in—crumbs falling from his mouth as he finishes eavesdropping. 

“Whoa, you guys are so alike.”

“Took you long enough to notice.” Erica chuckles, passing behind him.

Steve nearly chokes on air. “Excuse me?”

“I told you—” Dustin smirks at Steve, “both super nice, pushy in a good way, and way too into all that reportage stuff.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Patterns, man. I see them.”

Nancy, amused, shakes her head but doesn’t deny it. Meanwhile, you feel a curious prickle in your stomach. 

Even though you haven’t felt threatened by Nancy at all, it’s… interesting, hearing Dustin phrase it that way, noting how similar the two of you are.

Before you can dwell on it, Steve is in full damage control mode, waving Dustin away. 

“All right, all right, that’s enough outta you, birthday boy.”

Dustin, unbothered, snickers, then scampers off to deposit his napkin onto Jonathan’s pile of party rubbish. You catch Nancy’s eye, and she looks like she wants to say something, but a flush of colour creeps across her cheeks instead. You wonder if she’s embarrassed at the topic or if she’s also noting how the conversation just positioned you and her in the same category.

“Anyway,” Nancy says softly, clearing her throat, “it was really nice talking to you. And I do want to chat more about writing. Would be great if our paths were to cross again.”

“Sure. ” You nod, smiling. “Anytime.”

She dips her head in a polite goodbye, departing to rescue Mike from an argument with Lucas. That leaves you and Steve standing there in the aftermath of Dustin’s remarks.

“Uh… sorry about that,” he mumbles, glancing down at you. “Dustin’s always been, like, embarrassingly direct.”

A wry smile tugs at your lips. “It’s okay. I’m not offended.”

The evening drifts into its final hours with a soft sun lingering in the corners of Steve’s living room windows. Most of the balloons have deflated a little, and the noise has died down into pockets of lingering conversation. 

Dustin’s boisterous laugh echoes one last time as he heads out the door, hauling an armful of presents. Max trails behind him with the rest of the kids, carrying a few he couldn’t manage. She pauses to give you a small nod and a grin—her quiet way of saying, I like you.

You thought at first she was a tad standoffish, but her actions made you feel accepted into the small group. And if they approve of you, that's a sign that maybe you do belong here, in this makeshift family. 

Not that you’re getting ahead of yourself or anything…

Robin departs next, hooking her arm through Erica’s at the last second to drag her into some half-joking conversation about finally getting a break from babysitting Steve. Which she wholeheartedly agreed with, even if she was multiple years his junior. 

Nancy laughs, glancing your way as if to share the humour, and you wave goodbye with a soft smile. Jonathan, her hand in his, offers you a polite nod. They looked so in sync, bodies unconsciously angled toward each other, moving as a unit. There’s no tension, no leftover drama—just two people who found their other half. 

The thought made you more anxious than relieved. 

When the door finally shuts, the hush that falls over the house is unsettling. You can still hear the faint crackle of the record player, the needle resting in a quiet groove before you switched it off. Now, there’s just the quiet clink of dishes in the kitchen and the soft hum of Steve’s voice—he’s singing along to the old radio as he stacks up the glasses. He told you he had it under control, and knowing you didn’t like the feeling of leftover food in the sink, he took this job for the team.

You’re left gathering discarded wrappers and balled-up napkins, your mind spiraling in circles you really don’t want to follow but couldn’t help yourself.

Nancy is lovely. Infuriatingly so. 

In fact, she was so kind, so pleasant, that it almost stings more than if she’d been cold. Because it means you can’t hate her. Not that it was your goal to do so, but you couldn’t just dismiss her as some memory in Steve’s past. 

She was right for him once, and the knowledge of how closely her life aligns with yours—similar ambitions, the same drive for success, the spark of curiosity—makes your throat feel tight.

What if Steve also sees her in you? What if every moment you thought was unique and special was just him trying to relive something he used to have with her?

You can’t stand the idea, but the rational side of your brain doesn’t seem to be cooperating. 

Steve isn’t cruel. You know that. 

He’s never been anything but considerate, thoughtful, patient with you. Hell, the amount of times he was there for you—without hesitation, without needing to be asked. Holding your hand when you were nervous, pressing a kiss to your temple when you overthought, making you laugh when you wanted to cry.

He had never once made you feel like an afterthought. He was all in. And yet, the thought gnawed at you—was he here because he chose you, or because he was still reaching for a shadow of the past? Was he even aware he was chasing her ghost?

Your fingers tighten around a crumpled paper plate, and you swallow against the lump forming in your throat. You wonder if you really are just a Nancy 2.0 as you step into the kitchen, tossing the rubbish in the bin and retreating back to the now clean living room. Not wanting to talk to him just yet. 

The water stops running, the tap squeaking as Steve turns it off. You hear him dry his hands on a dish towel, then he appears in the doorway, face lighting up for a moment—until he sees your expression.

“Finished in the kitchen,” he starts, voice warm and a little proud, then pauses. “...What’s wrong?”

He settles beside you on the couch, the cushions dipping under his weight. Your shoulders tense a little—his proximity normally soothes you, but tonight, your mind won’t quiet down, and every small gesture feels magnified. He notices immediately.

“Nothing,” you say, forcing a small, tight smile. “I really liked your friends. They’re all super sweet. I can see why you get along so well.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a warmth in his tone, a hopeful rise.

You nod, dropping your eyes to your hands. He slides closer, until his knee brushes against yours. 

“You even got Erica to like you,” he points out, sounding genuinely impressed. “It took me weeks to win her over, and you waltz in and manage it in a few hours? So not fair.”

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes. “I’m sure she’s just being polite.”

A quick scoff breaks from Steve’s throat. “Erica doesn’t do polite unless she means it.” He places his hand lightly on your arm, and despite the tension coiled in your chest, you feel a rush of affection at the contact. “No, seriously—I loved having you here, angel. Made the whole day so much better.”

“Really?” you ask, voice wavering just enough that he picks up on your uncertainty.

“Well, yeah,” he answers, brow creasing. “I’m just glad they didn’t scare you off.”

Your lips form a weak smile. “Oh, they didn’t.”

But there’s something about your tone—some waver you can’t quite hide—and his eyes sharpen. 

“Okay, spill,” he says, leaning in. “What’s going on?”

“Huh?” You try to keep your expression neutral, but his gaze pins you.

“I know you,” he insists, a furrow carving between his brows. “You’re stressed about something.”

“I’m so not,” you counter, folding your arms tight against your chest.

“Yeah, you are,” he replies, undeterred. “You have tells.”

“Tells?” you echoed.

“Yes, tells.” He shifts forward, voice low. “So tell me—what’s on your mind? Did someone say something? Because I swear to god—”

“Steve,” you cut him off, irritation sparking. “Nobody said anything.”

“Then what is it? Was I too much? I swear I just wanted people to know how much I—”

“Steve,” you say again, louder this time, frustration rolling through you in a hot wave. “I’m fine. Drop it.”

His expression crumples the instant your sharp tone slices through the air. It’s like someone yanked the rug out from under him, and he sits there, quiet and unsure, those warm eyes losing some of their usual shine. It kills you to see him look so hurt, and you can practically feel the guilt creeping up your spine.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs at last, voice soft and almost hesitant. “You… you don’t have to come to the next one. If it wasn’t fun, or if it was too much—”

“That’s not it,” you say, cutting him off. You watch the confusion linger on his face, and it only makes the ache in your chest worse. 

He just wanted to have a good time, to share his world with you. 

And now here you are, turning what seemed like a perfect day into something heavy and complicated.

“Then—what?” His shoulders sag. “I don’t know what else could’ve gone wrong.” His gaze flits over your features, looking for answers you haven’t yet spoken.

You swallow, steeling yourself. 

“It was just… Nancy.”

“Nancy?” Steve’s eyes widen in surprise. “I thought you two got along really well tonight.”

“Yeah,” you admit, speaking around the lump in your throat. “We did.”

He pushes a breath through his nose, like he’s sifting through every possible explanation and coming up empty.

“I thought you’d, I don’t know, bond over books or something. I mean, I know you were anxious before, but you’re both so… nice. She’s already with Jonathan, you’ve got me—”

“Steve.” You cut him off again, trying not to let your voice waver. “We’re similar. That’s the problem.”

He blinks. “What d’you mean?” His tone is gentle, even though you see the concern in his eyes.

You rake a hand through your hair, fighting for the right words. He shifts forward, bracing himself.

“Steve, we’re really similar,” you say at last, voice low. 

“Okay?” He nods, urging you to continue. “So you have some shared interests. Where are we going with this, sweetheart?”

A shaky breath escapes you, and you force yourself to look him in the eye. 

“Are you sure you’re not still… looking for her?”

He frowns, confused. “Looking for her? I don’t—”

“Yes, Steve. Searching for someone like Nancy because you couldn’t have her. Like I’m just the next best thing. Even the kids picked up on how alike we are.” Your voice cracks, and you hate how vulnerable you sound. “I don’t want to be some bullshit replacement, filling up the space she left behind.”

All it takes is that one word—bullshit—and the floor drops out beneath him. 

You’re looking at him, voice trembling with hurt, and the realisation that you think you’re not enough guts him. Because he knows that feeling too well. He’s been there, on the other end, wondering if he was any good for anyone. But this? This is a thousand times worse. Because it’s you—and if there’s one thing in this world he’s certain of, it’s you.

He can’t stand the heartbreak in your eyes. Can’t stand the idea that he might be the one making you feel that way. His mind scrambles for something, anything, that might put your mind at ease—words to counteract that awful notion of being not enough. 

Then, suddenly, clarity strikes. He can’t think of anything else but to go full-force, stern, direct, because you’re far too precious for soft reassurances that could be mistaken or ignored.

“Hey,” he says, voice firm enough to startle even himself, “listen to me and listen to me good, all right?”

He can see how shocked you are at the tone he’s using; you go still, your gaze locking on him in a way that assures him every word will sink in. It has to.

“Never—and I mean never—are you some kind of half-ass replacement. You hear me? So get that thought out of your head right now.”

He’s never spoken to you quite like this before, but desperation thrums under every syllable. 

I can’t lose you. Please believe me.

“I don’t care how long it takes or how many times I have to say it—you are not second place. You are not a replacement. I didn’t settle for you, I chose you. You think I’d waste my time with someone I didn’t want wholeheartedly?”

He asks the question as though there’s no logical answer except the truth: Of course he wouldn’t. And he can’t stop now; your silence pushes him to continue. He needs you to know.

“God, if you could see yourself the way I do, you’d never think this again. You would never doubt how much I love you. How stupidly lucky I feel every day just to have you. You are not some ghost of my past. You are my future. And nothing—no one—could ever change that.”

There’s a ringing in his ears from the intensity of his own words, and he breathes hard, every muscle coiled with tension. Your eyes are wide, shining with an emotion he can’t decipher—shock, relief, maybe both. He hopes to God his message got through.

And then—amid the silence—your voice comes out soft, almost a whisper. 

“You love me?”

The question slices through him like lightning. He falters, suddenly off-balance. 

Fuck.

Because he’s just laid bare his entire heart, more than he’s ever dared to before. But there’s no taking it back. No gentle way to hedge now.

“Yes.” He swallows. His voice is steadier than he feels inside. “I do... Simple as that.”

That was all it took.

The words barely leave his mouth before you surge forward, meeting him in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, messy and urgent, the taste of each other a heady mix of relief and need. 

He gasps when you grip the collar of his sweater, tugging him closer, refusing to let a single breath of space linger between you. In response, his hands slide down your waist, pulling you tight against him until he can feel every curve, every line of your body against his.

“God,” he rasps against your mouth, already sounding relieved. “You—fuck.”

You hum a soft, breathy laugh escapes as he hauls you closer, helping you out as you sit and straddle his lap. His mouth is trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat as you sink your fingers into his hair, tugging, making him hiss against your lips.

He’s so desperate he doesn’t know where to touch first—fingers skimming over the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, sliding boldly beneath the hem of your—his—jumper to feel the heat of your skin. 

Everything about you feels like an invitation, a promise he’s craved for far too long. And each gasp, each little whimper you give him, only fuels that growing ache inside of him.

“Steve,” you whisper, voice cracking with urgency. He glances up, eyes dark, pupils blown. There’s something unbridled there—devotion, longing, raw determination to make sure you never doubt him again.

He pulls you closer, one hand curling around your waist, the other sliding around to grip your ass, pulling you flush against the growing hardness in his jeans. 

Then, as though a last spark of caution flickers through his brain, he stills, pulling back just enough to look at you—really look, eyes darting between yours. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, lips reddened from your kisses. But behind that is a tenderness, a protective streak that roars beneath his surface need.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice so low it practically reverberates through your chest. He needs to hear you say it. Needs to hear you tell him it’s alright. “I want to make sure you’re positive, because I—I want this more than anything—to show you, to make you feel so fucking good, but…”

You let out a noise that’s both a laugh and a moan. 

“Steve,” you repeat, more breathless this time. “I want this. I want you. Please.”

He groans, eyes squeezing shut. Thank God. 

“Shit, you have no idea how long I’ve—” He takes a breath as he shudders against you, every nerve ending on fire. “Angel—fuck—wait, just a sec.”

You blink, momentarily dazed. “What—did I do something?”

He just about melts at the concerned look you’re giving him, hands immediately cupping your face as he presses his mouth against yours as he mutters reassurances. 

“No, sweetheart. You didn’t—you’re perfect.” He wills his brain to formulate a coherent sentence. Easier said than done when he has you sitting on his lap. “But, if I’m going to make love to you, I’m not going to do it on the living room couch.”

A glint sparks in his eyes, but there’s nothing playful about the way he suddenly gathers you up into his arms, hands cupping beneath your thighs, hoisting you effortlessly against his chest as he stands. Your squeal of surprise echoes in the now-quiet house as you cling to his shoulders, heart pounding.

You laugh out his name and his only response is to tighten his hold on you, a grin tugging at his kiss-swollen lips, before he turns and starts up the stairs, carrying you like you weigh nothing. 

Your arms wrap around his neck, your lips brushing the line of his jaw, and his low groan vibrates in your ear, spurring him to climb faster.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his foot, all too eager to finally have you in his arms, in his bed. He sets you down on the edge of the mattress, his hands lingering at your hips as though he can’t bear to lose contact. 

You’re about to tease him for being so careful, but the sight of him—flushed cheeks, hair a disheveled mess from your fingers, lips reddened—steals the quip from your tongue.

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. As urgent as he feels, there’s that undercurrent of protectiveness, that need to check you’re here with him for all the right reasons.

Your smile is a little breathless. “I’m more than okay.”

He exhales slowly, like your reassurance is the only permission he needed to keep going. Then he nudges your knees apart so he can step in closer, pressing your bodies flush. The warmth of him is addictive—solid arms, broad chest, that steady heartbeat thrumming beneath your palms.

A shiver runs down your spine when he bends to brush a slow kiss along the side of your throat, teeth just barely grazing your skin. Your head falls back, and he uses the moment to trail more kisses along your jaw, your collarbone, mapping the curve of your shoulder as if memorising every inch.

“Lie down for me,” he whispers, voice trembling with the effort it takes to keep it gentle.

You slide back onto the bed, propping yourself on your elbows, and he kneels near the edge, guiding your legs up so you’re fully on the bed. His hand glides beneath your clothes, pushing it slowly upward, knuckles skimming the bare skin of your waist. His gaze locks with yours as he slips it off over your head, making sure you’re still okay with each inch of exposed skin. You can’t help the small, playful grin that tugs at your lips. 

“Careful, Harrington,” you tease, breath hitching when he plants a soft kiss at the center of your sternum. “At this rate, it’ll be sunrise before you get these clothes off.”

He huffs a little laugh against your skin, the warm puff of air sending a tingle racing across your flesh. 

“You deserve careful,” he says, words muffled by the increasingly desperate kisses he’s leaving along the tops of your breasts, your clavicle. “But don’t think for a second I’m not dying to tear everything off you, angel.”

His fingers drift to the waistband of your jeans, undoing the button and zipper with a focus that makes your stomach flip. He eases them down your hips, helping you lift so he can slide them all the way off. Then, with a featherlight touch, he glides his hands up your thighs, sending sparks of electricity racing through you.

“Steve,” you breathe, voice catching when he leans down to kiss your newly bared skin. He starts at your calf, working his way leisurely up, each press of his lips driving you a little bit more insane. By the time he reaches your inner thigh, you’re trembling—desperate for him.

“Look at you,” he coos, voice shaking with something close to awe. His fingers slide along the band of your underwear, and he gently pulls them down, letting them join your jeans on the floor. With each inch, he leaves more of you uncovered, and the intensity in his gaze leaves you feeling bare in more ways than one.

You try to close your legs, feeling slightly exposed with the way he is gazing at you, but his hand is firm as it grips your thigh, holding you open. You hold your breath as his fingers skim over your folds, head falling back as his thumb circles your clit slowly. 

“Shit,” he breathes out, second hand joining to gather some of your wetness on his fingers. “You’re fuckin’ soaked, angel.”

“Steve,” you murmur, voice quivering with need. Your fingers thread into his hair, urging him closer, your body already winding tight from the warmth of his breath against you.

“God,” he mutters, words muffled by another kiss to your thigh. “I’ve wanted this—wanted to do this—for so damn long.”

He shifts, situating himself more comfortably. Then, with a half-lidded glance in your direction, he leans in and presses his mouth against your clit in a way that shatters every remaining thought in your head. 

A soft cry tumbles from your lips, and he groans at the sound, pulling you in deeper, his grip on your thighs tightening.

He moves carefully, learning your reactions, letting your gasps and moans guide him. Each flick of his tongue, each gentle suck, is a question: Is this good? More? Show me. And every time you arch your back or let out a ragged whisper of his name, he answers with another fervent, deliciously slow pass of his mouth.

"Fuck, angel, I could do this all night.” He dives back in. “Keep you here, keep you shaking over and over on my tongue."

He’s so tender in his insistence, balancing the sharp edge of hunger with a profound concern for your pleasure. One of his hands slides up to lace your fingers together, and he squeezes—almost like he’s grounding himself in the moment, sharing each pulse of sensation so you know he’s right there with you. The other hand strokes up your thigh and curls around your hip, keeping you anchored against him.

“Oh, God,” you gasp, voice pitching higher when he drags his tongue across your pussy with a pointed languidness. Your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and he shudders, his fingers reflexively pressing into your skin.

He pauses just long enough to rest his forehead against your thigh, breathing hard. His voice comes out in a low rasp, intense in its sincerity. 

“You taste so fucking good,” he mumbles dazed as he returns to his ministrations. Lapping against you like he couldn’t possibly get enough. 

A wave of warmth crashes over you at his words—any lingering insecurities vanish beneath the heat of his devotion. You tug lightly at his hair, guiding him back, and he happily obliges. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes at first, building you up in a dizzying ascent, then quickens when your moans become urgent.

Your heels dig into his back, and you choke out something unintelligible—his name, a plea, a broken sob of bliss. He groans in response, the sound reverberating through your entire body, heightening the sensation until you think you might shatter from it. 

There’s something almost reverent in how thorough he is, like he wants to memorise every reaction, every hitch of your breath.

“You’re making the sweetest fucking noises, baby.” He murmurs. “Driving me insane.”

Tension coils in your stomach, winding tighter with each measured flick of his tongue. Your grip on his hand is borderline crushing, but he just grins against you, absolutely thrilled by the desperation in your touch. 

That’s all the encouragement he needs to push you closer and closer to the edge. His name tumbles from your lips again, a breathless entreaty, and he groans, the vibration sending sparks skittering across your skin.

He can tell you’re close—he can feel it in the way your hips jerk, the way your pussy clenches, the way your voice climbs. And he wants it for you, wants to be the reason you come apart so completely that you’ll never doubt his devotion again. 

“Come on, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” before diving back in with a perfect, rhythmic swirl that makes your entire body tense.

The tension snaps. A rush of pleasure bursts inside you, and you let out a cry that would embarrass you if you could think about anything but the ecstasy roaring through your veins. 

Your hands grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and he moans like the taste of your release is exactly what he’s been dying for. He works you through every pulse, every aftershock, with gentle flicks of his tongue until you’re quivering in oversensitivity, pushing lightly at his head to let him know you can’t take another second.

When he finally straightens up to see you—lying back against his pillows, clad in just your bra—you spot a flicker of pure hunger crossing his face. He swallows hard and you see your release glistening against his chin as he does. He’s trying to keep himself tethered to sanity, but it’s a losing battle.

“Not fair that I’m the only one so… exposed,” you breathe out, hooking a finger into the hem of his jumper.

 “Impatient, huh?” He lets out a shaky chuckle as he licks his lips.

You roll your eyes in faux annoyance, tugging firmly at the fabric. He gets the hint. In one smooth motion, he yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him. You catch a glimpse of toned arms and the lean planes of his chest, and it steals your breath all over again.

But he’s not done—he pops open the button of his jeans, sliding them down until they pool at his ankles, stepping out with a sense of urgency that has you biting your lip. For a moment, he just stands there, letting you take in the sight of him, hair messy, eyes blown wide with desire, wearing only his boxers.

“Better?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

You drag your gaze up and down, unrepentant in your ogling. “Much.”

Steve’s eyes glitter with raw need as he hovers over you, his body pressed so tight you can hardly breathe. Every breath you take is steeped in the mix of his cologne and the sweet, desperate scent of your own arousal. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters under his breath, his gaze roaming over your curves with a barely restrained hunger. One of his hands grips your thigh, dragging it higher around his waist. “Don’t know how the hell I got so lucky.”

You can’t manage a reply—your breath stutters as he runs his other hand up your side, fingers skimming your ribs, his thumb grazing the underside of your breast in a fleeting touch. The contrast between how tender he’s being and the way his voice drips with a filthy promise makes you whimper, arching into his touch.

He leans in, teeth nipping at your lower lip before he kisses you slow and deep. It's messy and you can taste yourself on his tongue. 

“Fuck,” he whines, “I need you, sweetheart. Need you right now—can I?” His voice cracks with urgency, and you feel every syllable reverberate through your body.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling with anticipation. “Please, Steve. I—”

He cuts you off with another kiss, sliding his hand between your thighs, which have only got stickier. He groans at the way you shiver, so worked up that you feel like you might combust if he doesn’t fuck you this instant.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “So wet for me.” Then, in a lower tone. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby—gonna make you forget anything else exists except how good my cock feels inside you.”

His words took you by surprise. Your usual sweet boyfriend was downright obscene with his words.

You knew he had a sharp tongue, but you had no idea how damn filthy he could make it. 

He reaches into the bedside table and tears the condom wrapper off with his teeth, making quick work of sliding it over his length.

The moment he lines his cock up at your entrance, you can feel the tension in his body—like he’s holding back a tidal wave of desire, absolutely determined not to hurt you, to make sure you’re comfortable.

“You good?” he rasps, voice tight.

“Yes,” you pant. “Steve… please.”

He exhales a ragged breath and pushes into you, inch by inch, until the stretch of him draws a moan so raw from your lips that he answers with a guttural “Fuck.” 

Your head falls back, the sensation an exquisite combination of pleasure and the ache of being so completely stuffed. He stays there a moment, trembling arms caging you in, nose brushing yours as you grip him like a vice.

“Angel,” he chokes out, voice thick, “You—you feel so fucking perfect. Look at me.”

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze, and the ferocity of his desire sends another wave of arousal flooding through your veins, clenching around his length. 

“You feel that, sweetheart? Feel how deep I am?”

All you can do is nod dumbly as his hand presses on your lower stomach. He knows you can feel him there.

He starts a slow rhythm, hips rolling, each thrust calculated to bring you higher. And for all his filthy talk, there’s a sweetness in the way he cups your cheek, kisses your jaw, your collarbone, like he can’t decide which part of you he loves most.

“God, yes,” he groans, each thrust picking up in intensity. “You like that? Tell me you like it.”

“I love it,” you gasp, fingers clawing at his back. “Steve, you feel—God, you feel amazing.”

He lets out a breathless laugh that ends in another throaty moan as he angles his hips just so, making you keen against his lips. His pace quickens, every stroke hitting deeper, sending sparks of pleasure through every nerve.

“Fuck—baby, you’re so tight,” he hisses, his mouth at your ear. “So damn tight for me. Never want this to end—wanna keep you like this, under me, always on my cock—cumming so hard you forget your own name.”

Jesus, if you knew this was how he was going to talk, you would have given him the green light weeks ago.

He punctuates the filthy promise with a particularly deep thrust, and your toes curl, a cry spilling from your throat as you cling to him. You’re quickly losing yourself in the haze of his words, his body, his everything.

You utter his name in a choked sob, and it’s like a starter’s pistol. He shifts his angle just enough that the strokes perfectly grind against that sensitive spot inside your walls. The pleasure mounts in a dizzying spiral, your body tensing as you hover on the brink of release.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice gone ragged, snapping his hips more insistently. “God, cum for me, sweetheart. I need to feel it—want to feel it so bad.”

And with one more roll of his hips, you do—crying out, body arching as the orgasm shatters through you. Every nerve in your body lights up as you clamp down, and his guttural moan tells you he’s right there with you, grinding through your climax until he’s spilling himself into the rubber, breathing your name over and over like a prayer.

For a moment, you’re both lost in the aftershocks, hearts pounding, bodies tangled in the sheets. Then he sags against you, pressing lazy, tender kisses to your shoulder and murmuring small, breathless praises that make your cheeks burn with warmth.

The afterglow is still pulsing between you—soft, warm, and intimate. He leans down to press feathery kisses to your shoulder, your chest, up the side of your neck, murmuring words of reassurance and awe.

“You did so good,” he breathes, voice low and reverent. “So perfect.”

Heat flutters in your chest at the praise, and you can’t help but giggle, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair and guide his face to yours. Your lips meet in a searing kiss, slow and sweet. When you finally pull back, you find him watching you with those big, earnest eyes.

“Was I… okay?” he asks, cheeks turning pink in a bashful sort of way. “Like, everything good for you?”

“More than okay.” You let out a satisfied sigh, your body still humming with pleasure. “That was perfect.”

“Yeah?” he echoes, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah.” You brush a thumb across his lower lip, feeling a spark of amusement as you remember the filth he whispered moments ago. “When were you gonna tell me you had such a dirty mouth?”

Instantly, his face flames. He cannot be blamed for what he said in the heat of the moment. It was hard to have a filter when he had you mewling underneath him.

“Hey, well, uh… I don’t… I mean, I—”

“Shh.” You chuckle, placing a finger over his lips “I loved it.”

“Oh yeah?” He exhales, relief and pride mingling. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind—my girl likes it a little dirty.” 

“C’mon, lover boy.” A fresh wave of laughter bubbles out of you. You let him help you up, your legs still a bit shaky. He steadies you with a strong arm around your waist and guides you to the bathroom so you can rinse off the sheen of sweat and bliss.

The shower is warm and comforting, the water sluicing away every last trace of tension as you help each other soap up and rinse off. When you emerge, toweling your hair and feeling the pleasant ache of satisfaction in your muscles, you notice Steve holding out one of his old T-shirts for you to slip on. You beam, tugging it over your head before crawling into bed next to him, the soft cotton drowning you in his familiar scent.

He pulls you close, cradling you against his chest. The hush of the room, the warmth of the covers, and the steady sound of his heartbeat lull you into a sweet, sleepy contentment.

“Hey,” he murmurs, turning so his nose brushes yours.

“Mmm?” you reply, lashes fluttering.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

Your heart clenches at the simple sincerity in his tone. “I love you too, Steve.”

And with that, his arms tighten around you, and you drift into a peaceful sleep, knowing that in the morning, you’ll both wake up in the same bed, same sappy looks on your faces, same lovesick smiles as you bask in the golden morning light. Steve will probably be watching you already, grinning like a fool, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your back, because he’s just that smitten.

[ssour-apathyy]

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ signed, with love

hockey player!vi x basketball player!caitlyn x cheerleader!reader, fluff, secret love messages, pining, reader is lowk a dumbass, use of y/n

word count; 1,899

summary; as valentines day approaches, you start to receive anonymous declarations of love, only to find out they're sent by the last people you'd suspect

a/n; happy valentines day!! this is my little gift to you all, and i hope you enjoy. i'm gonna go ahead and claim that it's a bit awkward because they're high-schoolers and NOT because i don't know how to write stuff like this jdhfsjhfdj

It was the week before Valentine's Day at Piltover High, and the excitement buzzing through the air was almost palpable. The annual holiday event was in full force, where students were able to send love themed cards to each other, be it anonymous or not.

The hallways were abuzz with giggles and murmurs as students speculated who had sent them cards, who might send them cards, and the reactions of those they had sent them to. Everybody seemed to be deep in the tradition, well, everybody except for you.

You weren't insanely popular, but you weren't not popular. A nice middle ground, some may say. You had been on the cheer squad for a year now, which naturally meant you were higher up on the pyramid of social status compared to the rest of the student body. This wasn't the problem, the problem was that you just weren't interested in anybody.

You told yourself it was a mixture of nobody being interesting enough, and just not having enough time to pursue anybody. If you weren't doing anything cheer related, you were studying. If you weren't doing either of those things, you were spending time with Caitlyn and Vi.

Caitlyn- easily the most popular person at school. Captain of the basketball team, tall and beautiful, and just so nice. Not that fake, only doing this to keep up appearances, nice either, like actually nice. And then there's Vi- breakout star of the hockey team, a little rough around the edges, but so fucking hot. Together, they were the very top of the food chain, everybody's favourite couple, and absolutely unstoppable.

You had been friends with them for a few months now, when you had cheered at one of Caitlyn's games and she couldn't help but watch you the entire time. She just had to talk to you after the game was done, and Vi was on board immediately. All it took was one conversation and it was like you three had been friends for years, and suddenly were inseparable.

The three of you had lunch together every day. Vi would walk you to classes, Caitlyn would walk you to cheer practice, any spare time you had outside of school was almost always spent with them. People had tried to joke about you being their third wheel, but the look that Vi had sent their way had them promptly shutting their mouths. You didn't mind, though. Never at any point did you feel uncomfortable or left out, and you were happy to see your best friends so in love.

What you didn't know, however, is that both Caitlyn and Vi were absolutely smitten with you. Their feelings were small at first, like a small sprout popping up in Spring. That was until you had gone on a week vacation and they realised how much they missed you, and THEN you just had to go and bring them both home a gift- a basketball keyring for Caitlyn and a hockey stick one for Vi- and suddenly the small sprout was a grand oak tree and they just couldn't keep lying to themselves anymore.

They had a long talk between themselves, discovered that they were both on the same page, and started to plan how they would approach the subject. They cared too much to risk jeopardising your friendship by just springing it on you, so they knew that it had to be perfect.

── ⟢

Your eyebrows furrowed as the small card slipped out of your open locker door, fluttering to the ground in front of you. You slipped your textbooks into the locker before kneeling down to pick it up, turning it over in your hands as you stood back up. It was cute, a little doodle of a steaming coffee cup with 'Words cannot espresso how much you mean' written underneath. No name. You let out a soft chuckle and a little shake of your head as you slipped the card into your bag, and didn't think much of it. Probably just one of the girls on the cheer squad sending them to the team.

And then there was another.

'If I could start my life over again, I would find you sooner so that I could love you longer ♡'

"What the fuck.." you mumbled, looking around you to the other students filling the hallway, trying to see if anybody was looking suspicious. Nobody had ever shown an interest in you, not really, so to start suddenly getting valentine's cards was surprising to say the least.

Every day up until the 14th, there was a new card waiting for you. Every day they seemed to get more and more personal, and there was no doubt in your mind that they were meant for you and you alone. The girls on the cheer squad had no idea about it, but they were fawning over the cards that you had gotten, studying each one carefully. When you tried to ask Caitlyn and Vi, they had played it beyond cool.

"Wow, seems you've got yourself a secret admirer, huh? You sure you've not been out there flirting up a storm when we're not around?" Vi had teased you, causing your cheeks to burn as you snatched the card from her with a scoff.

"You don't recognise the handwriting?" Caitlyn had queried, even though it was no use. The messages in anonymous cards were written by the students handing them out for this very reason.

You got the final card on Valentine's day, and although it was the most simple and, well, least romantic, it still caused your stomach to do flips.

'Gym, after school today.'

── ⟢

Being on school grounds after hours was always slightly uneasy. The hallways were silent, your own footsteps echoing along the empty expanse of the building. You stood in front of the doors to the gym, heart racing as you wiped your palms on your jeans and shook the shake out of your hands. With a deep breath, you steeled yourself, and pushed the doors open.

The lights were off, the only source of light in the open room was coming from multiple candles scattered around the floor. In the middle of them was a picnic blanket with a hamper sat neatly on it, a couple of plastic cups tucked beside it. Both Vi and Caitlyn were sat on the bleachers behind, chatting away to each other before the sound of the door closing behind you caught their attention.

"Oh... uh, hi guys" you drawled, voice laced with confusion as you quickly checked over your shoulder before taking a few tentative steps towards them. "Sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt."

Caitlyn stood up, her varsity jacket hanging off her shoulders as she hopped off the bleachers to approach you. "You're not interrupting, don't worry. You're right on time, actually."

That increased your confusion tenfold, and it must have shown perfectly on your face as you watched Caitlyn busy herself with pouring drinks, because Vi's soft laughter was suddenly reverberating through the empty hall.

"Y'know, for somebody with your grades, you aren't all that smart sometimes" she teased, coming up to rest a hand on your shoulder as Caitlyn passes you both a cup of soda.

"Wha- but I don't-"

Your fingers wrap tightly around the plastic cup in your hand as the realisation hits you, and your eyes bounce between the two girls. Vi has a cocky smirk on her face as she sees the gears in your head turning, whereas Caitlyn looks a little nervous as she sips her drink, arms crossed over her chest.

"You sent those cards?"

"We did" Vi affirms, her hand squeezing your shoulder lightly. "Cait said the puns were too cheesy, but I think you liked them anyway, hm?"

You watched as Caitlyn rolled her eyes, even though a hint of a smile was ghosting on her lips. "We had been thinking of how to approach the subject with you for a while, and well, this seemed like the perfect opportunity."

You nodded, eyes flitting down to the picnic blanket on the floor. "And... you did all this.. for me?" you asked quietly, your voice hesitant and still coated with disbelief. Caitlyn took your free hand in hers and gently guided you to the blanket, sitting you down on top of one of the pillows as she sat in front of you, Vi doing the same to your side.

"Of course we did. You're special, Y/n. We care about you a lot, and-" she cuts herself off, playing with your fingers that she's still holding in her hand. "We were hoping you'd feel the same."

Vi clears her throat and shuffled a little closer, lifting a finger to your chin so she can turn your head to look at her. "What Cait is trying to say, is that we like you as more than a friend. This is our way of showing you that, and asking if you want to be something more."

Your heart stopped in your chest, and a warmth had spread across your face as you let everything sink in. It was like being doused in ice-water, the realisation that you did, in fact, feel the same way about them. Your lack of a love life wasn't because you were busy, or because nobody interested you. It's because they had already filled that hole in you, you just hadn't thought about it long enough to see it.

"Wow, I- honestly had no idea" you breathed out, your words coated in an airy laugh. "I mean, looking back at it, of course it seems obvious this is where it headed."

The three of you shared a laugh at that, and you lifted your free hand away from Caitlyn's to rub the back of your neck sheepishly.

"I don't want it to change anything though, not really. I mean, yeah, obviously things will change-" You blush at the thought of kissing them. "-but it won't get like.. weird or anything right?"

The two girls shared a look and set down their drinks, Vi gently taking yours out of your hand too, shuffling closer to you so they were sat on either side.

"Nah, not weird at all" Vi murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

"We won't do anything you don't want to, love. We'll take it at the pace you want" Caitlyn affirms, her voice soft yet strong.

They both lean forward and press a soft kiss to your cheeks, and you let your eyes flutter closed as the feeling of being sandwiched between them. For the first time in a long time, you had never felt as at peace.

"Okay then" you whisper into the space in front of you. "I feel the same way, so.. I think we should give it a shot."

"Yeah, sweetheart? Wanna be our girlfriend?" Vi questions in that teasing tone that you love to hate, her lips grazing against your cheek as she speaks. You just nod in response, both girls crushing you in a bone tight hug as relief washes over them.

"Now then" Caitlyn starts after a moment of the three of you basking in each other. She pulls away only to flip the lid of the basket, pulling out various different snack items. "I prepared this specially, and we have a valentine's picnic to dig into."

[cybrasigilism]

Hi, love your work! Could you write a virginity loss for the reader with thanos in the bathrooms of the games! Can y/n also be shy since it's their first time and have thanos be understanding and talk her through it +handjob ? Please and thank you!!

can’t lie i went a little insane when i saw this one 🤭🤭

Consideration (Thanos/Choi Su-bong [Player 230] X F! Reader HEADCANONS/DRABBLE)

warning: smut, crazy ik | not proofread | lowercase intended | virginity loss | soft dom! thanos (im not sure if this counts as OOC help-) | handjob | praise | public sex (it is the bathrooms after all) | this is my interpretation of this character, please be respectful even if my opinions on the character differ from your own

character: thanos/choi su-bong (player 230)

A/N: HAPPY VALENTINES DAYYYYY!! again with the point format, i feel much more at ease getting my ideas out this way, so please bear with me. my apologies if it’s hard to read because of this

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

➸ thanos, who couldn’t stop flirting with you throughout the games purely for the flustered reaction you gave almost on command.

➸ thanos, who upon finding out you were a virgin, found a way to get you alone in the bathrooms of the squid games, sneaking past the guards who surely didn’t care that he was in the wrong bathroom to begin with

➸ thanos, who had you pressed up against the cool, tiled wall of the bathroom stall as his lips crashed against yours. he wasted almost no time in sliding his cold hands up your shirt, sending a shockwave of goosebumps and pleasure up your skin

➸ thanos, who spent so much time kissing and sucking on your neck, you would have been shocked if you walked out of this unscathed by hickeys. each time his tongue passed over your sensitive skin, you saw stars

➸ thanos, who had you kneel between his legs as he pulled his dick out, guiding your hand in his up and down the length of it.

➸ thanos, who encouraged you through the entirety of the handjob. who told you “fuck, your hands are so soft”, “ngh, feels so good when you touch me like that baby..”, “you’re doing great, keep going just like that, yeah” between breathy moans

➸ thanos, who’s hands never ceased to roam your body when you decided to straddle him for the first time. he reassured you when the pressure of sinking down onto him became almost too much at points, wiping the tears from your face. of course, he let you sit there for as much as you needed to adjust.

“shit, y’re taking me so well, señorita.”

“hey, hey— you’re doing amazing so far, don’t cry!”

“fuck i can’t wait to make you feel good…”

➸ thanos, who eased you into the whole process of riding him. he was used to a faster paced, intense, more hot and heavy kind of session, but this time was different. he could see the anxiety in your eyes, he definitely knew how big of a deal this was for you, and he wanted to make it as special as possible— for these circumstances anyhow.

“that’s it, you’re practically a natural already. that’s my girl, fuck.”

➸ thanos, who moved your hips himself when you had gotten shy on him. you were insecure of how good of a job you were doing, but he wasn’t going to stand for that. you already know he was going to make sure you knew how good you were doing— or rather, how good you felt.

“holy hell, you’re so tight.. fuck i dunno how long i’ll last señorita”

“so good… so good and all f’ me”

“don’t s—top, god i don’t ever want you to stop”

“what’s wrong? you’re fucking me so good, keep going!”

➸ thanos, whose moans drove you wild when you eventually got the boost of confidence you needed to start riding him yourself. the sounds he was making made you tighten even more than you thought possible, which in turn made him cry out even more.

“shit, if you keep going like this ‘m gonna cum”

“fuck yes, fuck me like that.. you got it, oh god, you got it”

“need ya’ s’bad… i needed this so b—ad, fuck!”

➸ thanos, who wrapped his arms around you after you came. he pulled you into him, chests heaving in tandem as you both came down off this metaphorical high. he caressed the back of your head, the praises he sang for you continued flowing.

“that was fucking, wow. y’ did so good, señorita.”

“see? i knew you could do it, such a good girl for me.”

─────────────

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY GUYS!!

to the anon that requested this, i truly hope this is something like what you had in mind. and to everyone as a whole, i hope you enjoyed! i’ve been fighting off a mean writer’s block so i apologize if this isn’t my best work, but i’m just glad to put something out!

as usual, any advice/constructive criticism on how to improve my writing is appreciated and requested! have a fantastic day lovelies 💋

tags: @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @kvstjwonnie @pink-apples001 @fiicalapsiholoaga

[hollaforlyla]

Happy late Valentine's day!! could you write for Shadow x reader and they're already in an established relationship but reader is still new to relationships and is also REALLY touchstarved? Have a good day/night!

" LEARNING TO BE LOVED " ── shadow x gn!reader

so like, reader is me fr 🫶🏻 no warnings, i think, very detailed ── maybe too detailed 💀 but i love shadow, i love this concept, so im not complaining 💗 plz enjoy!!

pairing: shadow x reader

genre: fluff, hurt/comfort

Being with Shadow was the best thing that had ever happened to you. But even after months of dating, you still struggled with certain aspects of your relationship—mainly, touch.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be close to him. In fact, you craved it. Your entire body longed for warmth, for comfort, for the feeling of being held. But years of going without it had made you hesitant, unsure. The idea of simply taking what you wanted felt foreign, like it was something you hadn’t quite earned.

Shadow had never pressured you. He wasn’t overly affectionate himself, but he was perceptive, and you knew he noticed your hesitations. He always let you take the lead when it came to touch, but that was part of the problem—you didn’t know how to take the lead. You didn’t know how to ask.

Tonight, you were curled up on the couch beside him, a movie playing in the background, though neither of you were truly watching it. The flickering screen cast dim light over the room, making the atmosphere feel warmer, softer. Shadow sat beside you, his usual rigid posture slightly relaxed as he rested one arm on the back of the couch.

Your fingers twitched slightly in your lap, a silent war waging in your mind. You wanted to lean against him. You wanted to feel his warmth. But every time you worked up the courage, doubt would creep in.

Would he think you were being needy? Would he get annoyed?

“…Something wrong?”

Shadow’s voice broke the silence, his tone low but not unkind. You looked up at him, startled. His crimson eyes were focused on you, analyzing, waiting.

“I…” You hesitated, your fingers gripping the hem of your sleeve. “No. I just…”

Shadow’s eyes flicked downward, catching the way your hands clenched. He was silent for a moment before exhaling softly.

“You don’t have to ask,” he said simply.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I can tell you want something,” he continued. “If you need… anything, just say it.”

His voice was calm, patient—so utterly Shadow. The words were simple, but to you, they felt like permission. Like a safety net.

Swallowing hard, you hesitantly inched closer, pressing against his side. You half-expected him to tense up or pull away, but he didn’t. Instead, he adjusted ever so slightly, allowing you to settle comfortably against him. Your heart pounded as you carefully rested your head against his shoulder, his fur soft and warm against your cheek.

And then, slowly—hesitantly—Shadow lifted his arm from the couch and wrapped it around you.

The moment his hand settled against your back, something inside you cracked.

Warmth spread through your chest, overwhelming in its gentleness. You had spent so long aching for this kind of comfort, and now that you had it, it almost felt unreal. Your throat tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you squeezed your eyes shut and gripped the fabric of Shadow’s furred chest, as if afraid he might disappear.

His arm tightened around you in response. Not enough to smother, but enough to ground you.

A shaky breath escaped you.

“…Thank you,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Shadow didn’t reply right away. He didn’t need to. Instead, his hand moved in slow, careful strokes along your back, his touch firm yet cautious—like he was trying to memorize you just as much as you were memorizing him.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he finally murmured. “You deserve this.”

Your breath hitched.

You had never thought about it that way before. You had always felt like affection was something you had to earn—something fragile that could be taken away if you weren’t careful. But here Shadow was, holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like you deserved to be held.

The weight of that realization made your eyes sting, and before you could stop yourself, you nuzzled further into his chest. Shadow let out a small breath—something between a sigh and a chuckle—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he held you closer.

Neither of you spoke after that. You didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, wrapped in Shadow’s warmth, you finally felt safe.

And for once, you let yourself believe you were worthy of it.

RAAAHHHH IM GOING MENTAL

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

FAVOURITE CRIME

rafe cameron x fem!routledge!reader

(reader has NO specific appearance and can be john b’s adopted sister, nothing is specified !!)

SUMMARY: trapped in a deadly chase through the desert, y/n kills to save rafe—forcing them to confront love, heartbreak, and the ghosts of their past.

based on this ask !! i hope this is what you asked for anon, and i hope you enjoy it :) i kinda’ made it very angsty and emotional because that’s always been my strong suit when writing <3

(check out my other rafe cameron & drew starkey works here !!)

WARNINGS: murder (reader stabs a mercenary), detailed descriptions of blood, death, guns, mild dissociation/panic attack, cursing, angst (LOTS) w/ a soft ending, season 4 finale spoilers (but a slight twist from the actual plot of the episode), exes to lovers, mentions of peterkin’s murder, slight suicidal ideation from rafe (?). (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

THIRD PERSON +

The desert wind howled, whipping up sand in violent gusts as the group pressed forward. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the past few days—weeks, even—settling on their shoulders like an unbearable burden. The heat was suffocating, the air dry enough to sting their throats with every breath.

Y/N’s pulse hammered in her ears, her feet stumbling over uneven terrain as she clutched the scarf tighter to her face. Every muscle in her body ached, exhaustion clawing at her limbs, but there was no time to stop. Not with the Corsairs chasing them. Not with the Blue Crown so close.

She stole a glance over her shoulder. John B was leading the way, his jaw clenched with determination. Sarah was beside him, gripping a makeshift weapon she’d picked up along the way. JJ, Kie, Pope and Cleo were just behind, moving as fast as they could despite the relentless sandstorm threatening to swallow them whole.

And then there was Rafe.

Even in the chaos, she couldn’t stop her eyes from finding him. His buzzed head was covered with sweat and dust, his face smeared with dirt and blood, but his expression was the same as always—intense, unreadable. They had spent the last year avoiding each other, exchanging nothing but bitter glares and harsh words when absolutely necessary. The memories of their past still clung to her, threatening to pull her under if she let them.

They had loved each other once. Maybe, deep down, they still did. But too much had happened. Too many betrayals, too many scars.

And now, none of it mattered. They had bigger problems.

A sudden, sharp noise split through the wind—a gunshot.

“Shit,” JJ swore, ducking instinctively as the bullet kicked up sand nearby.

“They’re gaining on us!” Kie shouted over the storm.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. They couldn’t outrun them forever. The Corsairs had numbers on their side, and they were relentless.

“We need to move faster!” John B barked, urging them on.

But before they could take another step, Rafe suddenly stopped, turning to face the chaos behind them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, her voice raw from the sand and exhaustion.

“I’ll buy you time,” Rafe said, already moving toward the oncoming threat.

Her stomach dropped. “No. No, Rafe, we all have to get out of here—”

“You need to go,” he cut her off, his voice firm. “I’ll catch up.”

She hated him. She hated how easily he could make these decisions, how recklessly he threw himself into danger. She hated how, despite everything, her heart still clenched at the thought of something happening to him.

“Rafe—”

“Go, Y/N!”

The look in his eyes was final.

Her heart pounded as she watched him disappear into the storm, his silhouette fading into the swirling sand. The others hesitated only a second longer before John B grabbed her arm.

“Come on!”

Her feet moved on instinct, forcing herself to turn away, to follow the others. But her mind was screaming at her, every part of her telling her to stop.

She was furious at him. She was furious at herself.

But she couldn’t leave him.

Not like this.

Y/N broke away from the group before she could second-guess it, ignoring her brothers shouts as she turned back.

The wind howled around her, sand biting at her skin as she stumbled forward. She could barely see more than a few feet ahead, but she pushed on, heart hammering against her ribs.

Then she saw him.

Rafe was fighting one of the Corsairs, his movements fast but desperate. The mercenary was bigger, stronger, and he was winning.

Y/N watched in horror as the man tackled Rafe to the ground, pinning him down. Rafe struggled, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he fought to break free, but the Corsair had him. The knife in the man’s hand glinted in the dim, dusty light, aimed straight for Rafe’s throat.

And before she even realised what she was doing, she moved.

Time slowed as she grabbed the discarded weapon from the sand—her fingers curling around the cold steel. She had never done this before. Never even considered it. But Rafe’s choked gasp, the raw panic in his eyes, made her body act before her mind could stop her.

She lunged.

The blade sank in.

The mercenary stiffened, his grip on Rafe loosening as a strangled gargle escaped his lips, followed by the maroon liquid. Y/N barely registered the warm, sticky blood that coated her hands, her breath catching in her throat.

The man collapsed.

For a moment, all she could do was stare.

Her hands were shaking, her pulse roaring in her ears. The reality of what she had done hit her like a tidal wave.

She had killed him.

She had never—

A broken gasp tore from her lips.

“Y/N—”

She barely heard Rafe’s voice over the storm.

Her chest heaved, her vision swimming. The blood. The weight of the knife still in her grip.

What had she done?

A rough hand grabbed her wrist, jolting her back to reality. She blinked, eyes snapping to Rafe. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something she couldn’t decipher.

“We have to go,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

Her breath was still ragged, her body locked in place.

“Y/N.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. And for the first time in a long time, all the anger, all the bitterness between them faded into something else. Something raw. Something terrifying.

He was still alive because of her.

She had done this for him.

She swallowed hard, nodding as she forced herself to move.

They ran.

The desert stretched out before them, the storm still raging, but it didn’t matter. They had to keep going.

The others were waiting. The crown was waiting.

—

The cold was a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat they had just endured. It was almost as if the universe had decided that after the chaos of the storm, they were all entitled to some semblance of relief. But for Y/N, the coolness that surrounded her now did nothing to ease the fire that raged inside her chest. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion; it was the emotional weight of what she had done. What she had to have done.

The group had found shelter in an old, abandoned structure, a weathered building that seemed as though it had been untouched for decades. The walls were cracked, and the remnants of long-forgotten furniture lay in disarray, but it was a temporary haven. There were no Corsairs chasing them, no more sandstorms to blind them. For the first time in what felt like forever, they could breathe, even if it felt like the weight of the world was pressing down on Y/N’s lungs.

The howling sandstorm raged outside, but at least in here, they were safe—physically, at least.

Mentally? Emotionally? She was anything but.

The others were scattered around the shelter, catching their breath, murmuring in hushed voices. She vaguely registered JJ cursing under his breath as he checked his wounds, Sarah whispering something to John B, Kie pacing near the entrance. But none of it fully reached her. The weight of what had just happened was pressing down on her, suffocating her.

She could still feel the knife in her hands. Could still see the moment the blade had sunk into the mercenaries neck, the way the man had stiffened, the way his eyes had gone vacant.

Her stomach twisted violently.

She wasn’t a killer.

But she had killed.

For him.

A few feet away, Rafe sat against the opposite wall, arms braced on his knees, his face turned away. He hadn’t said anything since they had run. Since she had saved him.

She should have been relieved that he was still breathing. That the mercenary hadn’t been the one to walk away. But all she felt was hollow.

Her hands trembled as she looked down at them, still stained with dried blood. Her breath hitched, her throat tightening. She needed to get it off. She needed it gone.

Before she could move, though, Rafe’s voice cut through the heavy silence between them.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

It was quiet. Barely more than a whisper. But it sent a jolt through her, snapping her head up.

Her eyes met his.

He was looking at her now, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable. He looked… haunted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she breathed.

Rafe exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dust-covered hair. “I told you to go, Y/N.”

“And what? Just leave you there to die?” she snapped.

“You shouldn’t have had to—”

“I had to.”

Her voice cracked, the weight of it all suddenly crushing down on her.

“You think I wanted to do that?” Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving. “You think I wanted—wanted to—”

She couldn’t say it.

She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

Rafe’s jaw clenched, his fingers digging into his knees. “You’re not like me, Y/N. You don’t—you don’t do shit like this.”

“Yeah?” She let out a hollow laugh, her eyes burning. “Well, I did.”

His gaze darkened.

“You made me like this,” she whispered.

Rafe flinched.

“You made me like this,” she repeated, stronger this time. “Because of you, I did something I can’t take back. Something I—” She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers curling into fists. “You ruined me, Rafe.”

His face twisted, something breaking in his expression.

“You think I wanted this?” he shot back, his voice suddenly raw. “You think I wanted you to—”

“Then why do you always do this?” she cut him off. “Why do you throw yourself into danger like you don’t give a damn? Like your life doesn’t matter?”

Rafe’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Do you even care if you die?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it!”

Rafe stood suddenly, crossing the space between them in two long strides.

“Of course I fucking care!” he yelled, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

“Then act like it!”

Their faces were inches apart now, both of them breathing heavily. The tension was thick, suffocating.

“You don’t get to be mad at me for saving your life,” she hissed, her hands shaking at her sides. “You don’t get to make me feel bad for it.”

Rafe let out a bitter laugh, running his hands over his face. “Jesus Christ, Y/N, you don’t get it, do you?”

“Then make me get it, Rafe!” she shouted. “Because I swear to God, I—”

“Because I can’t fucking lose you!”

Silence crashed over them like a tidal wave.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Rafe stared at her, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wide and desperate. “I can’t—I can’t do this if something happens to you. If you—if you die because of me—” His voice cracked, and he shook his head, his expression crumbling. “I can’t, Y/N.”

Her heart clenched painfully.

“You were never supposed to be a part of this,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I never wanted you mixed up in my shit, never wanted you to—” He exhaled shakily, his hands clenching at his sides. “And then I lost you, and I thought—”

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat tight.

“You didn’t lose me,” she murmured.

His eyes snapped to hers.

“You left me,” she whispered. “You did that to yourself.”

Rafe’s face twisted in pain.

“I should hate you,” she said, her voice trembling. “I want to hate you. After everything you did to my family, after everything you put me through—”

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“But I don’t.”

She let out a shaky breath.

“I still love you, Rafe.”

It felt like the world stopped.

Rafe inhaled sharply, his entire body going rigid.

“I hate that I do,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I hate that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I tell myself I should let you go—I can’t.”

A broken sound escaped Rafe’s lips.

His hand lifted—hesitant at first—but then he cupped her face, his thumb brushing over the tear-streaked skin.

“Y/N/N,” he breathed, his voice wrecked.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was desperate.

It was everything they had been holding back for months, for over a year.

Y/N gasped against his lips, her fingers tangling in his shirt as she clung to him, as if she could drown in him and never come up for air. Rafe’s hands were everywhere—on her waist, in her hair, gripping her like he was terrified she might disappear.

Like he needed her just as much as she needed him.

The kiss was messy, frantic, a collision of emotions too overwhelming to put into words. It tasted like salt, like blood, like heartbreak.

Like love.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the heavy silence.

Rafe swallowed hard, his fingers still gripping her tightly. “I never stopped,” he admitted. “Not for a second.”

Her heart shattered.

There was so much between them. Too much.

But right now, none of it mattered.

Right now, all she could feel was him.

(divider by @kodaswrld !!)

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was such a sweet one to write :’) i’m a SUCKER for exes to lovers so if anybody has any drew or rafe requests with that trope then pls drop them !!

i really hope it’s what you asked for anon <3

[mommyslittlebird]

The Desire to Nurture

Married!WandaNat x Reader

Summary: While settling into to your new living situation, you come upon an opportunity to be the one to taking care of Natasha, instead of the other way around.

CW: Mentions of injuries, white coat syndrome

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: I apologize this one is still pretty short. I’m really struggling with platonic fluff and pacing things correctly, but the chapters will hopefully get longer as I get into things I’m more familiar with writing (i.e. romance and smut).

A/N: I got a little emotional at the end of this one.

Chapter 4 of A Room of Your Own

———————————————————

Settling into the house came easier than you anticipated. The days flowed in an easy rhythm of classes and time spent with Wanda and Natasha. You grew close to them rather quickly, perhaps by necessity or perhaps by some other worldly force pushing you together. 

It was almost like a “love at first sight” type of situation. Granted, this wasn’t quite love, but there was certainly something. There was a sort of immediate familiarity, a magnetism that you couldn’t explain. It just seemed like you were meant to be around them. 

Getting to know them wasn’t like getting to know two strangers you had only met a few weeks ago. It was like reintroducing yourself to a friend after years apart. There just seemed to be a pre-established baseline. 

You surprised even yourself with how much comfort you were finding in physical affection. You had always been an affectionate person, but most people never saw that in you. You came off as standoffish to most, and they just assumed you didn’t like to be touched. You, being a little nervous about initiating physical contact, just accepted that people didn’t want to touch you. Sure it wasn’t something you were proud of, but you had sort of come to expect it. It didn’t necessarily make you sad; it was simply a fact of your life. 

That is, until Wanda and Natasha came along. 

Wanda’s touch was always gentle. She kept short acrylic nails that she would use to massage your scalp or run down your spine. She had found a spot on the back of head and neck that would put you in a boardline hypnotic trance when she scratched it. She couldn’t help but chuckle every time she felt your body relax and watched your eyes glaze over. 

Your favorite spot on the massive couch in the living room became the leftmost armrest because Wanda's favorite spot was the leftmost cushion. You would sit slightly in front of her so she would idly rub your back while she watched tv or read her books. 

Natasha always teased you. The L shaped couch was easily large enough to accommodate 8 people and yet you insisted on sitting on the armrest like all the other seats were taken. You didn’t mind the teasing though. It was no secret you were growing fond of Wanda and loved it when she gave you attention. 

Natasha’s affection was always a lot more playful. She was certainly the less physically affectionate of the two. Sometimes it was just a little too much for her to be cuddled, and she needed a bit of space. But that didn’t stop her from giving you affection in her own little ways. 

The woman was like a walking space heater, so she was always warming up your cold hands letting you stick your feet underneath her while she sat on the couch. Not to mention, always being hot usually meant she found relief in your cold extremities. She liked to grab your wrist and put your hands on her cheeks or the back of her neck.  

You weren’t exactly sure how it started, but the two of you had a bit where one of you would fill their cheeks with air, and the other one would squeeze their face until the air came out in a funny, raspberry-like noise. 

When she was feeling particularly impish, you and Natasha would play wrestle. Mostly, it just consisted of Natasha wrapping her arms around you and picking you up while you pretended to try to get away. Sometimes she would flip you upside down and throw your feet over her shoulder, which always earned her a chiding from Wanda. 

You had adjusted your schedule to only have in-person classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You were going into healthcare, so with your general education classes out of the way, you were mostly just doing clinicals and labs anyway. You spent the other days with Wanda in her home office, silently working in the reading nook. The nook–previously pristine and untouched, flanked by two small, neatly organized–was now completely overtaken by you and your things. The decorative throw pillows were replaced with large, comfortable body pillows, and where there had been an ornamental, scratchy, wool blanket, there was now a fluffy grey throw covered in little sharks. Wanda did, at least, insist on keeping the blanket folded when you weren’t using it. 

More and more of your things were starting to find their way out of your room in general. Wanda even hung up a picture of the three of you in the stairwell. It was from a time you’d gone out for ice cream and both you and Natasha had gotten chocolate all over your mouths. Wanda had chastised both of you, resulting in her getting a sloppy chocolate kiss from Natasha, and a kiss on the cheek from you, covering her face in chocolate as well.

You started to feel less like a guest and more like a roommate and a friend.

You still weren’t exactly clear on what Wanda and Natasha did for a living. You knew they both worked for Stark Industries, though they had very different positions there. From what you had gathered, they’d actually met there when they were assigned to the same unit. Wanda had since retired to a much more cushy position that she could do from home. Natasha no longer did field work, but rather switched to training new recruits. They had talked minimally about their jobs before saying they retired because they were getting older and didn’t want to spend their time getting shipped across the world on long ‘missions.’ What these ‘missions’ entailed was still unclear, but you got the sneaking suspicion you weren’t really supposed to know. 

On one of these easy, slow afternoons, you sat in the living room with Wanda. The two of you were sitting side by side, reading, when you heard Natasha come in the garage door. 

“Well if it isn’t my two favorite ladies,” she smiled, stopping to kiss Wanda on her way in. “How’s your day been, my love?” She slung her duffle bag off her shoulder and threw it in the corner. She grabbed her shoulder, wincing and sucking her teeth as a jolt of pain shot up her arm. 

“Did you hurt your arm?” you asked, closing your book and turning your attention to them. 

“Yeah,” Natasha groans, rolling her shoulder to relieve the pain. “I’m not sure what I did to it.”

“Do you think maybe it’s ‘cause you're almost 40 and you spend your days wrestling with 20 year olds?” you teased. Wanda laughed. 

“First of all, almost 40 is brutal. I’m 38,” Natasha started, mouth wide like she was offended. “And second of all, I’m gonna wrestle your 20 year old ass into the ground.” She pounced on you, wrapping her arm around your thighs and picking you up upside down. You squealed and giggled, kicking your feet in a faux attempt to get away. After a few seconds though, Natasha gently laid you on the floor, grabbing at her shoulder again. 

You stood up and reached out to touch her. “Are you okay?” you asked, quickly switching from silly and fun to serious and concerned. 

Natasha nodded. “Yeah. I probably just need to rest it for a little while.”

“Can I look at it? That’s what I go to school for, you know,” you asked, gently grabbing her bicep. 

“I thought you were going for philosophy or some shit,” she said, taking her hand away and allowing you to move her arm freely.  

You gently moved her bicep, testing her range of movement. First and foremost, you needed to make sure she didn’t tear her rotator cuff. “I do that too, as a minor. I have an English minor as well, but those are more just hobbies.” 

You poked around at her arm for a few more minutes, assessing as much as you could. “Nothing is dislocated and it doesn’t feel like anything is torn, but you should probably get an MRI just in case-”

“No!” Natasha interrupted harshly, tearing her arm from your hand. “It’s fine. I just need to rest it, like I said earlier.” She quickly moved away from you, fiddling nervously with the zipper of her bag. 

You looked at her, confused, then to Wanda. Her lips tightened, as if she was trying to silently apologize for Natasha’s harshness. But in looking back to Natasha, you saw all you needed to know. She was afraid. Of all the horrifying things she’d faced in her life, Natasha Romanoff was scared of doctor’s offices. 

You gently approach her from behind, saying her name in almost a whisper. “Natasha…”

She turned around to tell you off, but the look she received from both you and Wanda made her decide otherwise. You weren’t angry or stubborn. You weren’t even confused. You understood. She let out a breath she had been holding and visibly relaxed. 

You both stared at each other in silence for a long moment before you spoke up. “We don’t need to talk about it. I understand,” you said in almost a whisper. “I have some things… here that might help, but we don’t have to do anything right now. I’m not gonna try to make you do anything right now.” 

Natasha looked at her feet, anxious and embarrassed. “Yeah…” she finally said. “Yeah, just… let me take a shower really quick and we can talk after.”

You both headed upstairs, her to the shower and you to your school bag. Given your field of study, you had started carrying around a small bag of medical supplies: just full of basic things you were good and familiar with. 

Natasha was out of the shower in under ten minutes and you met both her and Wanda in their room. Immediately, you could tell Natasha had calmed down quite a bit. Wanda was helping her wring out her hair while she tried not to move her shoulder. “Alright doc, what have you got for me?”

“Well, I have some menthol and methylsalicylate cream,” you said in an overly pretentious tone. “So, IcyHot, basically. And I have some kinesiology tape in…” you looked down into your pack, drawing out three rolls of tape, “blue for boys, pink for girls, and camo for… hunting expeditions? Take your pick.”

“Well, we all know I love a good hunting expedition. Give me the camo,” she chuckled. 

“Alright,” you said, dropping the other two rolls back in your bag, “take off your shirt and get on the bed.”

“Woah,” Natasha teased, “at least take me to dinner first.”

Wanda chuckled, peeling the shirt off over her wife’s head and smacking her in the torso with it. “I don’t recall you being the type that needed to be wined and dined,” she retorted, playfully shoving Natasha face down on the mattress. 

You crawled up on the bed, first kneeling next to Natasha, but then deciding it would be better to straddle her waist. You started in on her shoulder, gently massaging the sore muscles. She groaned with a mix of pain and relief. “Do you usually get this up close and personal with all of your clients?”

You shook your head, continuing to press the base of your palm into her back. “I don’t usually do this on a king size mattress.” As you started to rub the cream onto her shoulder, you couldn’t help but admire her back. She was so strong, toned with muscles from the base of her spine up to her broad shoulders. Her skin was so smooth and warm, surprisingly mostly unblemished despite her choice of career. Without thinking, you gently traced your hand down the side of her spine, taking in the soft expanse of her ribcage and shoulder blade. 

You were torn from your drifting thoughts when Natasha said, “damn, while you're up there you should just do my whole back.”

“I will if you want me too,” you replied, not quite able to tell whether or not she was joking.

“You’re very good at this,” she groaned again as you circled a particularly tight muscle. “Even when you’re pushing on it like that, you’re very… gentle.”

You smiled and blushed a little at the compliment, wiping the excess cream from your hands with a cloth. You worked your way down her spine, diligently kneading the rest of her back. She started to make little noises as you made your way to her lower back. “Mmm… fuck that feels good.”

You turned your head to find Wanda, leaning in the bathroom doorway, smiling impishly. “Careful. You might make me jealous,” she quipped, but the look on her face told a different story. She looked to be enjoying this as much as Natasha was.

The look gave you a renewed sense of confidence. You shifted slightly, adjusting your position so you were now kneeling on Natasha completely. “I don’t normally do this with my patients, but since you’re so well behaved….” You leaned forward, pressing the full weight of your knee into the muscle just above her pelvis bone. 

She hummed with delight. “Mmm, you might just be my favorite… physical therapist? Kinesologist? Is that what they call you?”

You chuckle. “I’m technically a ‘non-surgical orthopedist’, but right now I’m just your roommate kneeling on your back. This would be… frowned upon in my practice.” You shifted again, rolling off her back. “Alright, you can sit up. I’ll tape you up.”

Gently, you helped Natasha sit up. You carefully avoided looking down, fearing one glance at her bare chest might cause you to melt into the mattress. You grabbed a strip of the tape and stretched it carefully over her injured shoulder. “There. You can shower with it and everything. I’ll reapply it when it starts to come off. But you’ll have to limit physical activity and try not to lift anything too heavy. Including me, so don’t even think about trying to tackle me.”

You and Wanda helped her get her shirt back on over her head, giggling as she tried repeatedly to put her arm through the head hole. You sat back on your feet with a giddy, pleased smile on your face. It felt good to be the one helping them. You’d spent the past weeks trying to come to terms with being cared for by the two women. They had assured you as many times as you needed to hear it that they were doing this because they wanted to, because it made them happy too, but you had never truly believed them until right now. 

Sure, maybe a massage wasn’t the same as completely opening your home to and caring for a person, but this feeling, this pride, of knowing you had been able to help and bring relief was elating. You spent so much time thinking of yourself as a thing that had to be dealt with, but maybe there was some inherent pleasure to nurturing as well. You felt good. You felt useful. You felt appreciated. 

You’d read once about inmates in prison adopting pet roaches or toads because “... we all, in some form or another, have the desire to nurture.” Maybe that's what you did for them. Not in giving massages, or doing the dishes, or helping bring in the groceries, but in just existing here, for them to nurture and love. 

The weight of your burden on them suddenly felt no heavier than that of a little bug in a prisoner’s jumpsuit. You were wanted here. You always were. But you could see it now. Not in the relief on Natasha’s face, but in the smile on your own.

[7ndipity]

Valentines Day

Ot7 x Reader

Summary: How they would celebrate Valentine's Day with their S/o.

Warnings: suggestive, 

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day everyone! I thought I’d write something cute for Ot7 to celebrate. Whether you have plans today or not, know that you deserve all the candy and flowers in the world!

Masterlist

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Jin: Oh this sappy boy, I love him soo much. He’s planning a classic romantic candle lit dinner at home, cooked by none other than himself, with those cute little heart shaped chocolates like he bought on Run!Seokjin for dessert. He has red roses waiting for you, as well as a tiny little box with something like a beautiful heart shaped necklace or pair of earrings inside(he’s very intentional about not giving you any rings as gifts until he proposes). It’s all very cozy and classically romantic, just like him.

Yoongi: He would plan a very intimate night together, starting with a quiet dinner together, either at home or one of your favorite restaurants, bringing you a lovely bouquet of mixed flowers(and chocolates). After dinner, he’d take you on a late night drive out of the city so that you can see the stars, listening to the special playlist he made and talking until a song starts that you don’t recognize, realizing as it plays that it’s about the two of you. He’d spent the past month writing and recording it secretly just for you.

Hobi: Omg he would be soo fucking cute and extra! He would start the day by sending a soo many flowers(and balloons, unless you hate those) to your place, and then taking you out for brunch and shopping. The two of you would finish off the day with dinner at one of your favorite places, and then desert back at his place while y’all wear matching pajamas(bc he loves matchy things). I see him surprising you with something like a special charm bracelet with charms that are all references to your relationship.

Namjoon: I see him planning something very chill and Joon-ish for the two of you. He would book a private museum date, followed by dinner at a fancy restaurant, and then the two of you would go for a walk along the Han river, talking about everything and anything over ice cream. You’d end up back at his place, talking(and other things) for half the night until you fall asleep. When he wakes up at like 3am, he suddenly remembers your gift, gently waking you up to give you a tiny velvet box with a ring inside🥹

Jimin: I see him planning a very cute, cozy night in for the two of you. He’d set up a lil picnic and blanket fort in his living room, complete with flowers and your favorite snacks and candies, one of you favorite movies ready and waiting on the tv or on a projector, so that the two of you can cuddle together while watching(though truthfully, he has no intention of y’all seeing much of the movie, hehe😏). He’d surprise part-way through the evening with a super sentimental gift like a necklace with both your birth flowers as the pendant.

Taehyung: This man was made for valentines day. He’s bringing you a sweet bouquet of roses when he picks you up, taking you to a romantic dinner at one of the nicest places in town. Brings you back to his place where he has candles and rose petals set up, playing a playlist he spent waay too long crafting so you can dance together, things eventually turning more intimate and steamy, taking his time with you because he wants it to be romantic. At some point in the evening, he slips a gorgeous bracelet onto your wrist that probably has both your initials engraved on it.

Jungkook: I see him picking something really laid back and fun for the two of you, requesting you arrive in pajamas, as he’s constructed a massive pillowfort in his living room for the two of you so you can watch videos, play games, and sing karaoke together, though it will inevitably dissolve into the two of you just making out half the night. He’ll likely get too excited/impatient to give you your gift, randomly shoving it into your hands, nervously bouncing in his seat as you open the matching couple rings he designed special for the two of you.

Taglist: @sopebubbles-replies @btsw1fe @this-must-be-my-tardis @whitefoxgirl @bethanysnow @coffeedepressionsoup @feminympho @classicalelephant @dfqcsqueen @mother2monsters @comingupwithacoolnameishard @bo0ghol @seleneacyoflove @k4ngelz @universal-travel-er

[livelaughloveluffy]

be mine - a valentine's day special with the monster trio, ace, and law!!!

a/n: happy valentines day everyone!!! i figured since the only valentine i have in my life are all my lovely fictional men, i would write only the fluffiest of headcanons for you guys!!

nothing but fluff here 💗

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monkey d. luffy

-valentine's day morning you get woken up to luffy jumping on top of you, smothering you in kisses. he's so excited to give you the small presents he got for you (a hand-picked bouquet, a locket with his initials that nami helped him pick out, and of course, lots and lots of chocolate).

-while the captain isn't the biggest romantic in the world, he definitely had an idea of how he wanted to spend the day with you. and with some help from the crew, he was able to make it a reality. luffy excitedly led you towards nami's tangerine trees, where you spotted the cutest picnic overlooking the ocean. the two of you spend the day basking in the sun, feeding each other chocolate and other sweet treats, utterly intertwined with one another.

-quality time and physical touch are luffy's main love languages so he's expectedly clingy to you all day, not that you mind. endless cuddles are just a given. every once and a while you'll get lulled to sleep as luffy gently plays with your hair, leaving gentle but sloppy kisses on your collarbones.

roronoa zoro

-as much as he puts on the front of being a moody, uncaring guy, you know zoro has the softest place in his heart for you. but for valentines day, he at first treats it like just another day. no mention of it, almost as if he forgot.

-by early evening, it's hard to not get your feelings just a little bit hurt over the fact that zoro forgot valentines day. as you stand at the taffrail overlooking the vast ocean, you feel zoro's hand against the smalls of your back, his chin resting on your shoulder as he mumbles "c'mere... you really didn't think i forgot, did you?" as he leads you into the kitchen on the thousand sunny. opening the door to a candlelit dinner made up for two, and as your eyes well up in tears with shock, zoro places a gentle kiss on your cheek "happy valentines day"

-you couldn't help but swoon when you found out the swordsman had actually been taking private cooking lessons with sanji for months preparing for this surprise. the chef initially deemed the man to be utterly hopeless and offered to cook for the two of you, but zoro insisted he learned and did it himself.

black leg sanji

-it's literally no surprise at all that this man is a certified lover boy. you'll wake up to a room full of flowers, a love letter on your nightstand, and sanji hand-delivering his freshly made breakfast in bed for you.

-he makes the entire day about you and his devotion to you. you are utterly pampered. all meals eaten on the prettiest bedside tray, with a special place setting and flower decor. you have to practically beg the man to feed yourself, because he insisted that even lifting a spoon or fork was too much for you to do. he'll set up a candle-lit bubble bath for you in the evening and stay in the bathroom with you to massage your back and scrub your hair.

-and of course, sanji makes only the most extravagant dessert for you. you can tell the countless hours he spent in the kitchen, perfecting his recipe. and while he tries to stifle his yawns, you have to pull the hopless cook into bed with you. thanking him for everything he did, as you find your way into his arms, gentle brushing his bangs out of his face before you both eventually fall asleep together.

portgas d. ace

-ace is definitely the most casual out of all the boys about valentines day, however that doesn't mean its because of a lack of thought or effort into the day.

-the feeling of ace's large warm hand against your cheek as he leans in to give you a kiss on the forehead, the soft whisper of "happy valentines day, baby." reaches your ears. the two of you collectively agree that you'd both rather just spend the day cuddled up together. no view or restaurant would ever be more comfortable than ace's bare chest. his hand softly running up and down your back, occasionally tracing shapes and patterns into your skin.

-even though you mutually agreed to keep things casual, ace surprised you with the cutest gift he had been holding on to for you. a large bouquet of your favorite flowers, as well as a matching pair to his signature necklace and bracelet.

trafalgar water d. law

-like zoro, as much as law tries to downplay his affection for you, his sweet affection for you consistently shines through all his many actions.

-the captain of the heart pirates led you to believe that he was swamped with work on valentines day, and didn't have time for you, though he promised to celebrate over the weekend with you. so when you returned to your room to the largest bouquet of roses placed on your bed alongside your favorite candy, your heart skipped a beat. instead he had been busy planning a spa day for you. a warm bubble bath with flower petals scattered in it, handmade face masks, and of course, law, ready to pamper you.

-as the two of you are getting ready for bed, law hands you a thin notebook. it's only after reading it that you discover it's a long love letter he's been writing to you since the two of you had started dating. he'll try and brush off the gesture, his gruff voice interrupting your thanks with a grumbled "it's nothing..." as happy tears fall down your cheeks.

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tags ♡: @dindjarins1ut @chibinasuu @twiishaa @vamphoria @3v37773 @thepotatocatto @irethepotato @peachycat17 @dreamcastgirl99 @acesdiary @sanji-soup @lilypadmomentum @ermbehindyou @erose-0707 @suga-tofu @kcch-ns @hamhamhamtaro @adamsfanficstash @raddelusionaldive @sparkyvibes @certain-tragedies @roronoazoroswife @chillerkiller @teewon @sharycatx3 @phoehav @gracefulcargo51 @moonpri @thissaintjessi @sunshineagony

want to join the taglist? click here!!

enjoyed this fic? here's my masterlist!!

[devildomwriter]

They Discover You Doodling Them in Your Notebook | Others x Reader

Solomon

Solomon had called you in for another lesson in potions, one he had invented himself by mistake. At first, you were really interested and participated but now you were waiting for the mixture to settle so he was organizing his things in the meantime.

As you waited you helped yourself to some of Luke’s cookies but then he, Simeon, and Raphael turned in for the night and it was just you and your D.D.D. which was nearly dead. To pass the time left you took out your sketchbook intending to study but you were much too tired for that and your pencil had a mind of its own.

You had no intentions to draw Solomon but your eyes followed him as he walked around the room, humming an unknown archaic song. He looked as innocently cheery as ever despite being anything but.

You blushed as you studied the way his hair fell across his face, the way his gray eyes darted back and forth as he collected things with careful precision.

Then without meaning to, your eyes met and you quickly looked away pretending it didn’t happen. This was the wrong move as it made him more suspicious. He walked over with a smile hoping you were studying as you’d intended.

“My, look how studious my apprentice is being!” He beamed and before you could protest he quickly levitated the notebook in front of him as you tried to hide your blush.

“Oh my. Studying me are we? Well, I certainly don’t mind but our potion is ready now. However, I could set aside some time later tonight if you’d like?”

“For me to draw you?”

“Hm…sure if that’s what you’re really interested in. But I get the feeling that’s not what you were drawing me, is it?”

Spot on as always, you snatched your notebook back and hid your red face as he laughed and teased you further.

It was going to be a long night no matter what you decided.

Simeon

You sat up against the headboard on Simeon’s bed, writing in your notebook as he sat at his screen typing away as ideas for his novel flooded his brain.

You didn’t understand how he broke free from his writer’s block so easily. Maybe it was some divine power? Most writers procrastinated for a living, while he wrote nearly every day for millennia.

You took a sip of your drink and sat it down on his nightstand. You’d come over to spend time with him doing nothing in particular. Being in each other’s presence was enough to be content and it was significantly calmer here than back at the House of Lamentation.

He strongly encouraged you to study or take a nap, whatever you felt like but trying to study was hard to begin with, but impossible when staring at his exposed back as he sat across from the bed. You had no idea what angel garments were so open but you weren’t complaining.

You decided you’d sketch him while you could, it gave you great practice at drawing backs, something you rarely considered doodling.

As you sat there in a daze you stared at his shoulder blades, the way he hunched over the keyboard and occasionally sat back to stretch and avoid poor posture. You desperately wanted to run your hand across his soft skin and Simeon must’ve felt your eyes in him because he sat up and turned around to see you sketching away.

He was by your side by the time you saw him and you let out a small “eep” that made him laugh. He thought you were truly adorable.

“May I see?” He asked and you blushed but allowed him since he’d been so polite.

He looked at the drawing and blushed, “My, these are excellent, ___.” He praised. “You’ve spent so long watching me type away, it’s your turn now. Allow me to pose for you?”

Luke

You were at Purgatory Hall, via Luke’s invitation to help him with a new recipe. Luke had it down so you mostly watched and agreed with the comments he made about the process and taste.

Now it was in the oven and you had nothing but time. Luke decided it would be a good idea to study, and not wanting to look less responsible than the child, you took out your notebook too.

You watched Luke kick his legs and stick out his tongue as he thought about what he was writing. It was so cute you had to capture it and taking out your D.D.D. would just alert him so you quickly got to sketching.

You propped your notebook up a bit so he couldn’t see it from where he was.

He sighed exasperatedly and frowned at his assignment. “Hey, ___?” He asked.

“Yeah?” You responded without looking away from your drawing.

“I don’t really get this part, can you help me?” You set your pencil down and looked at the question.

“Oh heck no,” you said bluntly.

“Huh?”

“Sorry, I have no idea what that is at all, ask Solomon.”

“I would but he’s at the Demon Lord’s Castle today.”

“Oh yeah…”

“Well, if you don’t know anything about it what have you been working on?”

“Oof, caught red-handed. I was just drawing you,” you admitted and spun your notebook around to show him.

His eyes lit up and he smiled, “WOW, ___! This is really good!” He paused for a minute and pointed at one of the drawings.

“Why do I have cat ears?”

“Actually, those are Chihuahua ears.”

“___!”

Raphael

You watched Raphael hum as he sorted through the rows of fabrics trying to find the right one for his new embroidery project.

He’d asked you to tag along and you excitedly agreed as he wasn’t much of a social butterfly and you loved getting a chance to hand around him more. You didn’t expect, however, that finding a single piece of fabric for his new pillow was going to take over an hour.

Raphael was very particular so you should’ve expected this, maybe some part of you had as you’d brought along your notebook.

The notebook wasn’t for school or anything in particular, just something to jot down notes or ideas as they came to you. Right now all that came to you was the strong urge to sketch Raphael’s serious gaze as he sifted through hundreds of sheets of fabric.

Occasionally he’d show one to you with a sweet smile and ask for your opinion, but in the end, he chose whatever felt right.

Each time you looked up from your drawing he was in much the same position but slightly farther down the aisle until you looked up to see he wasn’t there.

You set your notebook down on the chair and stood up quickly looking for him.

“Raphael?” You called.

“What is this your drawing?” You heard directly behind you and jumped.

Raphael seemed concerned as you caught the breath he’d scared out of you. You laughed it off and sighed.

“You’re really so quiet,” you huffed.

“No…I just don’t think you were paying attention.” He commented.

He picked your notebook up to see the drawings of him across the page.

It was difficult to tell how he felt as he wasn’t very expressive until a sweet smile crossed his face and his eyes seemed to sparkle just a bit.

He handed the notebook back to you, “You have talent.” He complimented and you blushed.

“Do you think I could draw you with your spear sometime?”

He tilted his head, “what for?”

“Art?”

“Hmm…” He thought about it before smiling “Sure.”

Thirteen

Thirteen had invited you to her home to help her build her latest invention. You were excited to get in on it but she was so absorbed you were mostly left to handing her tools and trying to remember what she named them. So instead of being useless, you decided to take notes as she explained some of it to you.

Eventually, you became so lost that you just gave up and started drawing it instead and when you ran out of tools to draw you started sketching Thirteen.

It was simple at first, just brief pencil strokes in a sloppy outline but then you began to focus on her. The way her hair fell into her face as she leaned in closer, the spark in her eyes and brilliant smile as she discovered something new, the red tint on her cheeks when she caught you staring at her.

“Hey? What are you doing?” She asked and stood up walking over to you.

Too embarrassed to admit you weren’t doing what she’d asked and had been sketching her instead you hid the notebook in your backpack.

“What? You’re really not gonna show me?” She said a little surprised as you were usually very open with her.

“I…got distracted.” You admitted and she shook her head.

“Really? I was hoping you’d keep instructions for me, I plan to mass-produce these. That way if that damn sorcerer brings down one, he’ll have hundreds more to watch out for!” She began laughing manically to herself and you laughed at her antics and nodded.

You reacted for your notebook again and she quickly snatched it from you, “It’s mine now!”

“Thirteen?” You poured and she laughed and flipped through your notebook. She found the pages you’s written in and nodded approvingly until she got to her sketches and her face turned a shade of pink darker than her hair.

“Wh-what are these?”

“…I got distracted.”

She blushed again and handed the notebook back to you. “Fine, I’ll allow it,” she huffed and got back to work occasionally fixing her hair now that she knew you had your eyes on her.

Mephistopheles

Mephistopheles has called you into the RAD Newspaper’s office that morning to assist him with an interview. Lucifigus, a friend of Asmodeus’s was going to be hosting a fashion week show in the greenhouse at RAD. Mephistopheles wanted your assistance taking down notes as he interviewed to make sure things flowed smoothly.

Mephistop was already taking diligent notes as was his habit so at some point you began lazily jotting down two words here and there in between doodling. Lucifugus was a beautiful demon but you couldn’t help but be drawn to Mephistopheles and his enthusiastic but serious expression as he conducted the interview.

After what felt like an hour Mephistopheles stood up and extended his hand to Lucifigus to shake so you quickly got to your feet to do the same.

“Thank you for your time,” you mimicked Mephistopheles and Lucifigus grinned and thanked you both before leaving with a flirtatious wave.

“Well, I’d say that went very well,” Mephistopheles grinned and turned to you, holding up his notebook. “Now then, let’s compare notes.”

Your face turned a little pink and he noticed, “No need to be flustered. I’ve been doing this far longer than you so you needn’t worry about matching my level of skill.”

He reached for your notebook but you closed it abruptly. He gave you a slightly exasperated look. “___… you were taking notes, right…like I asked?”

“Uh…um…at first.”

He sighed, “At first?” He decided to investigate for himself and grabbed your notebook, flipping through it until he found what you’d been doing and his cheeks flushed a color darker than his hair.

“I-I see…” he stuttered, more flustered than you. “W-well, I suppose it’s only natural to document the most interesting person in the room.” He boasted but inside he was a melting mess. ‘How cute can this human be?’

Barbatos

You had your notebook out, ready to write down recipes for Barbatos as he experimented with improving one of Diavolo’s favorite meals. You volunteered to help so you could gain some cooking experience, something you sorely lacked.

Barbatos hummed and his tail flicked back and forth as he concentrated. Every so often he looked your way to see what you were doing and was pleased to see you happily jotting down notes in your book. After a few minutes, he noticed something strange. He’d tell you to write something down and you’d flip back a few pages to jot it down.

He frowned and quickly deduced that you were doing something other than observing his cooking instructions but decided to let you do as you pleased since he worried he’d bore you with the painfully long waiting time in between cooking steps.

You watched Barbatos with a small smile as you gently sketched his features in your notepad. You were worried he’d notice and want a look at what you were doing. That would be humiliating for you since you were far from being a good realism artist—you preferred chibi sketches, something Barbatos found odd when Leviathan did it.

Your eyes briefly met his and you blushed and watched him set a timer for the sweets before turning back to you.

“May I see what you’ve written so far?” He asked with a warm smile and you nodded and quickly flipped to the correct page.

He reached out his hand to take the book but you kept a firm grip on it, tipping him off further, so he hid a chuckle and simply observed your notes instead.

“Ah, good. But you’ll need to fix this,” he hummed and took out a pen from his apron. “May I?” He asked and you nodded handing the notebook over so he could correct your notes.

He leaned over the counter as he wrote down what he needed and you froze as you saw him quickly flip to your sketch page.

He met your eyes as he did so, a mischievous smile across his face as you quickly got up to explain.

“Um—I was just—“

Barbatos looked down at the sketches of himself and his heart skipped. He covered his mouth to hide his pleasure with what he saw, but when he saw your panicked expression he was quick to praise you.

“These are incredible, ___, why don’t I make you some tea while you continue?”

Diavolo

Diavolo sat across from you at the RAD lunch table. He’d invited you to his private booth that day since it was hard to find time in his schedule to be with you.

He grinned as he watched you studiously write in your school notebooks for what he assumed was your previous Devildom Math course, a subject he knew you struggled with.

He sipped on his tea from Barbatos who took the cup back to refill it.

“Your tea is getting cold,” Diavolo reminded you and you were brought back to reality and quickly closed your sketchbook with a small blush, worried he’d bit iced what you were doing.

Diavolo hadn’t noticed, but a certain butler did and he smiled at you knowingly and excused himself to replenish your snacks.

“I’m glad to see you working so hard here, I know it hasn’t been easy adjusting,” Diavolo complimented and you almost felt a little guilty that you weren’t studying at all.

You’d been working on your art style lately, ignoring math for as long as you could, and the current subject of your artistic inspiration was the beautiful demon prince in front of you.

“It’s more like adjusting to going back to school, than anything,” you admitted and he nodded.

“I see. Another reason you should be proud of yourself, as I am,” he grinned and reached out his hand.

You gave him a quizzical look so he laughed and asked for your notes, “May I see what you are studying? I might be able to help?”

You were caught now. Your study books were shoved in your backpack on the ground.

“Umm, actually I was just sketching…” you admitted and he tilted his head, a curious gleam in his eyes.

“Oh! I’d love to see your art if you’ll let me.” He asked excitedly so you nodded and flipped to the beginning of your sketchbook where you had normal sketches of the Devildom.

It pleased Diavolo to see you drawing his realm and the creatures in it but then he flipped a little too far into the notebook and you quickly stood up to take it back but it was too late.

“Oh, what’s this?” He asked as he saw page after page of himself from all different angles.

“I uh…” you were lost for words and defeatedly covered your blush, hiding your face in your hands.

He laughed at your reaction and handed your notebook back, “I’m sorry, did you not want me to see these?”

He gave you your sketch pad back and you blushed and hid it in your bag finally taking a sip of your drink instead. It was quiet for a moment before Diavolo cleared his throat and looked at you with a faint blush in his cheeks.

“I’d love it if you could do my portrait sometime. Nothing would make me happier than to have your art in the walls of my castle where I can see it every day.”

Brothers

[extinctlesspains]

Hey! I am not sure if you have watched the new Cobra Kai episodes yet but if you haven’t then please don’t read my request until you can or have because I don’t want to spoil it.

Would you be willing to write a Yandere!Axel one shot with a Keene!Reader or a Diaz!Reader? Maybe Robby’s younger sister after he breaks Robby’s leg (Keene! Reader) or seeing how he treats Miguel (Diaz!Reader)??

If you don’t want to write it then please ignore/ delete my request!! Hope you have a great rest of your day.

A/n: Hi! I absolutely love this request I think it's so creative and I would love to make it... Here you go and hope you enjoy!! ♡

𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒.... 𝑅𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡? [𝐴. 𝐾𝑜𝑣𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑐]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

ʀᴇǫᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ: ʏᴇs

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ! ᴀxᴇʟ ᴋᴏᴠᴀᴄᴇᴠɪᴄ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ!

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴀxᴇʟ ᴄᴏɴғᴜsᴇs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴋɪɴᴅɴᴇss ғᴏʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴊᴇᴄᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ʜᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇs ᴏᴜᴛ ʜɪs ʀᴀɢᴇ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ʀᴏʙʙʏ, ʙʏ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜɪs ʟᴇɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏɴғʀᴏɴᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟs ʜɪs ᴏʙsᴇssɪᴠᴇ ᴅᴇʟᴜsɪᴏɴ—ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ—ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀᴋᴇs ɪᴛ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Axel never thought much about you—at first. You were just another fighter’s sibling, another face in the crowd. But then, you smiled at him. Not out of fear or admiration—just casual, friendly kindness.

It was nothing to you.

But to Axel?

It was everything.

That one smile planted a seed in his mind, something that grew every time you looked his way, every time your voice carried across the dojo, every time you asked, Hey, Axel, you good? after a match.

You noticed him.

You cared about him.

And in his mind, that meant one thing—you were his.

You just didn’t know it yet.

At first, Axel kept his distance. Just observing. Watching the way you laughed with the others, how you always checked in after a brutal sparring session. Unlike everyone else, you didn’t look at him with fear or wariness—you just treated him like a person.

Then he started seeking you out.

"Didn’t think you cared about my fights," he teased one afternoon, leaning against the wall as you wrapped up a conversation with Sam.

You gave him a playful look. "Why wouldn’t I? You’re good, Axel. I mean, kinda scary in the ring, but still good."

Scary?

No, no—he wasn’t scary. He was strong. And you liked strong, didn’t you?

He smirked, tilting his head. "If you think I’m scary, why do you keep talking to me?"

You laughed. "Because I know you’re not just some ruthless fighter like everyone says. You’re more than that."

Those words replayed in his head for days.

You saw him.

You understood him.

That had to mean something.

So he made sure you spent more time together. Slipping into your conversations, walking you to your car after practice, stepping between you and anyone who got too close. It was subtle, at first. Just making sure people knew you weren’t available—not to them, at least.

But then, something changed.

He should have known something was wrong when you started pulling away. It was in the little things—how you hesitated before responding to him, how your laughs didn’t come as easily, how your body tensed whenever he got too close.

And then, he overheard you talking to Sam.

“I think he likes me,” you admitted, voice low with uncertainty. “But… I don’t. Not like that.”

Silence.

His world stopped.

Not like that?

Not like that?

Not like that?!

Axel’s fingers twitched as he clenched his fists, trying to understand. You were lying. That had to be it. Maybe Sam had gotten in your head, or maybe Robby had poisoned your view of him. But it didn’t matter—he would fix this. You loved him, you had to!

You just needed to see things clearly.

You needed to see that you belonged to him.

And if words wouldn’t convince you…

Maybe actions would. And he did exactly that... But, to make it hurt, it had to be someone who you loved.

Axel fought like a man possessed. Every match, every opponent—none of it mattered. Not until he was standing in the final round, staring across the mat at the one obstacle between him and you.

Robby Keene.

Your brother.

It was perfect.

It was someone you loved, and he poisoned your sweet, sweet, soul... He was in the way of your love.

Axel could feel your eyes on him, could picture your worried expression, the way you probably pleaded in your mind for him to fight fair. But why should he? Why should Robby get to be fine when Axel was being torn apart inside?

If he couldn’t take it out on you, then Robby would suffer instead.

The match started, and Axel wasted no time. His strikes were brutal, calculated, each one forcing Robby onto the defensive. Robby was strong, but Axel was relentless.

A kick to the ribs. A strike to the jaw. And then—

A vicious sweep, followed by a perfectly timed sidekick.

CRACK.

Robby’s leg bent at an unnatural angle as he hit the mat with a strangled yell.

The crowd gasped. The referee blew the whistle. And you—

You screamed.

"Robby!!"

Axel stood over Robby’s writhing form, breath coming fast, heart pounding—not from exertion, but from victory.

He turned, searching for you.

And when he met your gaze—wide, horrified, betrayed—he finally felt something.

Satisfaction.

But it wasn't enough.

You found him after the match, pushing past the crowd with fury burning in your eyes.

"Axel!" Your voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade.

He turned slowly, his smirk already in place. "Hey, princess."

"Don’t you dare," you snapped, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely moved. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

His smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. "That’s a lot of yelling for someone who should be thanking me."

Your face twisted in disgust. "You broke his leg, Axel! That wasn’t an accident!"

"And?" He tilted his head, watching as your hands curled into fists. "You rejected me."

You sucked in a sharp breath. "What?" How could he have possibly known that you didn't return his feelings?

Axel stepped closer, eyes dark with something unreadable. "You think I didn’t notice? The way you started avoiding me? The way you laughed with other guys but not me? You led me on, and then you threw me away like I was nothing."

Your voice shook. "Axel, I was just being friendly. That’s not the same as—"

"Yes, it is," he cut you off, voice dropping to something dangerously low. "You smiled at me. You cared about me. You don’t get to take that back." You gulped nervously.

Your breath hitched. For the first time, real fear flickered in your eyes.

Good.

Maybe now you’d finally understand.

Axel reached out suddenly, grabbing your wrist. You gasped, trying to yank away, but his grip tightened—gentle enough not to hurt, but firm enough to keep you in place.

"You belong to me, Y/N," he murmured, gaze locking onto yours. "No one else. Not your brother. Not anyone. Me." Panic arose inside of you. The location didn't do you any good either—it was an isolated hallway towards the back of the venue.

You shook your head, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears. "Let me go, Axel." You could feel tears threatening to leave.

He smiled.

But it wasn’t right.

It wasn’t normal.

It was twisted, wrong, filled with something dark and possessive.

"You don’t get it, do you?" he whispered, thumb brushing against your pulse. It was racing. "I did this for you. For us."

Breaking your brothers leg... For you?

Your stomach twisted. "There is no us, Axel."

His expression flickered—just for a second. A crack in the mask.

Then, slowly, his smile returned.

"Not yet."

And with that, he let you go.

You stumbled back, heart hammering, hands shaking. You should have run. Should have screamed. Should have done something.

But all you could do was stare at the boy who had shattered your world with a twisted kind of devotion.

And the worst part?

You knew this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

He stepped forward, his hand brushing against you cheek as he leaned in to leave a soft kiss.

"Bye bye, love.." He whispered before stepping into the dark hallway.

[natalicss]

Glitter & Crimson

kwon ji-yong x american pop star!reader

summary: you and ji-yong live busy lives. as both of you start preparing for new albums and tours, as well as manage long distance during the holiday of love, the pressure of it all seems to get to you. set in the same universe as like we were in paris

warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, reader is working herself too hard, mentions of not eating, not proofread, implied age gap (reader is mid twenties), reader crashes out a lil bit, if i missed any lemme know and ill add it (i still don’t know how to use tumblr)

word count: 4.2K

nat’s notes: hey y’all!! in honor of valentine’s day i wanted to write SOMETHING, and this is what came out. i don’t actually know how romantic this is but…it’s more of american pop star & jiyong sooo im not gonna complain. i also didn’t tag anyone cause…for some reason that scares me so whoops. OH the little divider thing below is by strangergraphics btw

Valentine’s day, a cliche holiday that people often either love or despise. You usually felt pessimistic, for years. For years, you spent the holiday with your friends, going out and drinking nights away, dancing in clubs and wearing flattering outfits. If you weren’t doing that, you were curled up at home surrounded by your favorite snacks as you binged watched your favorite show. You didn’t like Valentine’s day, but you took the day to take care of yourself.

And then you met Ji-yong.

It was almost embarrassing, how easily that man swept you off your feet. A whimsical fairytale of unexpected friends to lovers. He made every day an adventure, one way or another. Never a second did you doubt your love for him. Not even when the two of you went months without seeing each other, swept up in busy schedules. Not even when the two of you kept your relationship a secret from fans and the industry for years. That didn’t go well, considering you two leaked it yourselves by locking lips at a Chanel fashion show…oops.

You grew to love Valentine’s day, the both of you using it as an excuse to share how much you adored and cared about each other even more than you already did. Flowers, chocolates, romantic dates, you two had done it all at this point. So, you couldn’t help but feel a little ache in your heart as you walked into your LA dance studio, getting ready for tour rehearsals. 

While Ji-yong was busy himself with rehearsals, preparing for his new album, his new show, and everything else that comes with G-Dragon’s comeback, you were worrying about your own. Your fifth album was released a couple months ago, and the pending start of your tour was coming quicker than you anticipated. After the fashion show, and a few remaining days with your boyfriend, you had no choice but to return back to America and continue getting ready. You two barely had time to bask in the reality that everybody knew about your relationship, now separated by the ocean.

Your days were filled with chaos. From the Grammys, to meeting with stylists and trying different pieces, to rehearsals for choreography, to overlooking the stage setup and the designs, to picking out your microphones, meeting with various crew members, you barely had a moment to breathe. With the time difference adding on to that, you and Ji-yong found keeping in contact a bit harder than usual. For years, it didn’t matter. If one of you was busy, the other wasn’t, and the two of you could compromise schedules, take phone calls at random times, and find more free time to travel back and forth. But this? This was different. 

You were standing in a large studio with your backup dancers and your choreographer, all of you covered in sweat, your body's aching, and your hearts pounding against your chests. Valentine’s day was this week, and you tried hard not to focus on it. It was your first Valentine’s day that you wouldn’t be with your boyfriend. And while in reality, that wasn’t that big of a deal, it hurt knowing that you weren’t even certain when you’d see him next.

Trying not to dwell on it, you focused on your work. Pushing yourself farther than usual. You moved with precision and acted as if the studio was your stage. Your choreographer, who you’d been working with for years, watched you intently as you and your dancers swung your hips to the beat. You held a microphone to your lips, singing along to your latest single. You strut, looking at the mirror and the would-be crowd. You felt every movement. It burned. It ached. It stung. Your lungs felt like they were going to collapse. You hadn’t worked this hard, this long, since your first world tour. Back then, you felt like you had something to prove. New to the industry, blowing up alongside some of the best artists. You wanted to show that you were meant to be there. 

In a way, you felt like that now. Five albums later, your fourth world tour, and you felt that need to prove that you still were that American pop-princess they crowned you to be. Maybe it was the press finally getting to you. Comments on how your last tour wasn’t as extravagant, how you haven’t been in the media as much the last few years, resulting in a potential downfall in your career. Maybe it was the need to please the fans, knowing they’ve been waiting for almost two years for this tour. Knowing they were going to want it to be good, better than before. Maybe it was your team, who constantly had their own thoughts and opinions on what your setlist should be, what outfits you should wear, where your tour dates should be. It was normal, expected when you’ve been in the industry. Knowing that still didn’t diminish the weight on your shoulders as you moved your legs with an articulate move.

One of your dancers, Raphael, was trying to hide the concern on his face as the two of you continued your dance for another song. He had been one of your dancers since your second tour, and a good friend along the way. He knew you better than most people here, other than maybe your best friend who was quietly watching from the sidelines. He’d seen you working hard like this for weeks. Even before you left for Paris, he had started to get worried as he watched you push and push and push. You could take a lot, you were strong and ambitious, things he admired. But everybody had a limit. 

He thought you would have gotten some rest after your performance in Paris, taking a few days off to spend with Ji-yong before coming back to LA. That had given him some temporary relief. But when you got back, his concern was back more than ever. He noticed how little you did anything else. You were hardly eating, coming into your work days with circles under your eyes, you had started to become more agitated when anyone made mistakes, especially yourself. You barely took breaks. When the other dancers were sitting down, drinking water, eating their lunches, you were still on the floor, practicing harder moves and trying to perfect them.

Raphael was staring at you now, watching as your body faced him, your head still angled towards the mirror as you sang. Your hand pressed into his chest, pushing him slightly as the two of you moved in sync. He walked backwards, watching you closely. Your eyes were glossed over with exhaustion, red from lack of sleep, and your skin was sticky with sweat. His eyes danced over you, watching the way your hand shook holding the microphone. The way your legs started to move with less precision. You missed a note. Other dancers noticed, keeping up with their own routine but sending looks at Raphael and each other. 

You slowly blinked as you moved with them, seemingly out of it. As you spun, everything around you seemed to, too. Your vision blurred, the room rotating in odd angles as you started to stumble in your steps. Part of you knew something was wrong, but another part of you refused to accept it, pushing. You kept the microphone up by your lips, continuing to sing despite the way your lungs were burning for more oxygen. Your choreographer stood up straight, her eyebrows furrowing. You pulled the microphone away to continue a dance break, but as you started the first difficult move, the room began to spin in a nauseating way. 

Your brain couldn't catch up as you started to fall forward. Raphael wrapped an arm around you, yelling your name in panic as the two of you collided with the floor. The choreographer quickly stopped the music, everyone in the room starting to crowd around you. Your friend came over, bottled water in hand, and their phone as they looked you over. In a few moments, your eyes fluttered open, and in the one moment your body stopped overworking you could feel the way every part of you was hurting. 

“Y/N, are you alright?” Your choreographer asked, looking you over. “Give them some room,” Dancers started to step back, their eyes never leaving you. You groaned, sitting up slowly as Raphael kept a hand on your shoulder. “What the hell happened?”

“I’m fine,” You answered shortly, reaching for the water in your friends hand. “I just haven’t drank enough water today. I’m good.”

Raphael and your friend shared knowing looks. “Y/N, maybe you should take a minute. You just passed out, again-” “I’m fine!” The two of them watched as you pushed off the floor harshly. You still swayed in your steps, but you remained upwards. You started chugging the water, crushing the plastic before throwing it towards the trashcan. You shook your limbs, as if that would erase the exhaustion. “Again!” 

Raphael clenched his jaw, knowing that you couldn’t go on like this. If you did, tour wasn’t going to last more than a couple shows. You had passed out at a practice a couple weeks ago, too. When you and your crew were getting ready for the Gala Des Pièces Jaunes event, you had over-exerted yourself and collapsed. That time, Raphael hadn’t been able to catch you, and you had landed harshly on the floor. And though he had been there to catch you this time, you might not be so lucky if you were on stage. He looked in the direction of your friend, who was back on the side lines. They were thinking the same thing.

But you weren’t listening. At every concerned comment your friend made, you brushed it off with a dismissive huff, and any time Raphael suggested to you to rest, or eat, or take a day off, you shot back with a snarky remark. You were too busy to take a break. You had too much counting on this tour. You had to be perfect.

So, they had to reach out to the one person you would listen to.

Ji-yong was entirely unaware of exactly how much work you were putting yourself through. He knew you were busy, as he was doing many of the same things you were. And sure, he noticed some tension in your voice when he asked you about your days, but he thought it was just anxiety. You’d always been so nervous when big projects were coming up. It was what made your shows so amazing, the way you cared about your work, your fans. The message was clear in every lyric, every dance, and more. 

So, when he got a phone call mid-afternoon from Raphael, he was a little confused. The two of them were friends, of course, but they hardly talked one-on one. Still, he answered it, bringing his phone to his ear as he excused himself from the room filled with management. “Hello?”

“Hi, sorry to bother you man,” Raphael says. In his voice, Ji-yong can here something that he couldn’t exactly place. Like something was lurking behind his tone.

“No, it’s fine,” Ji-yong says kindly. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a lingering silence, some shuffling on the other end. Raphael sighs as he takes a moment to find the right words. “No, uh, not really. It’s Y/N.”

Ji-yong tenses, his thumb playing with the rings on his fingers. “What’s going on?” He asks warily.

“Has she told you about the tour?”

“Parts.” Ji-yong says, trying hard to keep his tone light and unnerved. “She’s been busy, so we haven’t talked about it in detail.”

Raphael scoffs slightly, “She’s been busy, alright.” Ji-yong hears Raphael shuffle more, “We’re worried about her, man. She’s been working herself to the bone.”

Ji-yong blinks. “Is she stressed?” He thinks about all the things the two of you did to cope with anxiety. Whether it was breathing exercises, meditation, listening to music, he thinks about mentioning it to him-

“She’s more than that. She’s barely sleeping, eating, she passed out at practice again–”

“What do you mean again?”

Raphael exhales loudly, “She didn’t tell you about that either?” He is chuckling lowly. Ji-yong is looking at the floor, his mind all over the place. “For that gala, she was working so much, she fainted at practice a couple days before the show.”

Ji-yong is pacing, unable to stop himself. How had you not told him? How had he not noticed? He always asked you if you ate that day, he always texted you little reminders to eat breakfast, drink water. You had always done the same for him, too, knowing his own struggles with his mental health and working himself too hard. A guilty ache in his gut made him suddenly feel uncomfortable in his skin.

“She’s not listening to anybody. We’ve all tried telling her to take a break, to eat, to take a fucking nap. She just gets mad.” Raphael’s words make Ji-yong wince, painfully understanding what that was like. “Which is why I called you.”

Ji-yong is looking around the building he’s in, looking out the window. Seoul moved around him like it always had. His team was in a room just a few feet away, working away at his album, his tour, his press tours. And yet, all of that felt silly now as he thought about you. His partner who he truly cared about more than himself. He clenched his jaw, scratching at his hair as he tries to think clearly. He could call you, scold you for your carelessness for yourself and try to knock some sense into you. But he knew you better than that, just like you did. You knew how upset he’d be at you for working too hard, so you hadn’t mentioned it, leaving out key points in conversation. And he knew you wouldn’t listen, not to a phone call. 

So, desperate times call for desperate measures.

As the week of Valentines continued, so did you. You continued working hard, refusing to acknowledge worried comments from your co-workers. Even your manager had tried to say something, only to get snapped at (which didn’t happen often). If your choreographer conveniently got sick, like today, that didn’t stop you from going to the studio and continuing practice alone. 

The music blared from the speakers, but your own heavy breathing and the squeaking of tennis shoes was louder in your ears. You chose not to sing today, the only leniency you’d give your body. Instead, you focused on the set, practicing a new song that was going to be released with the deluxe version of your album. You moved your arms with the music, tilting your body in various directions, imagining your dancers were there to help create the perfect image. You swing your body in a sensual motion, sinking lower to the ground. Your body was screaming at you, almost begging you to stop as you stood back up. You glared at your own reflection. You could see it. The exhaustion. The stress. You could feel the pressure scratching into your muscles like claws.

Tears pricked your eyes as you stared at yourself. You had lost weight, probably from the lack of meals and the extreme amounts of exercise. Your eyes red with bags under them. You looked almost sick, from how tired you were. You could feel it. And yet you didn’t let your body stop. As a particularly intense part came up, tears streamed down your pale cheeks as you pushed. Every move was hit exactly as it should be. Extreme, fast, smooth, and a hint of flirtation as you beamed at the mirror like your fans were watching from the other side. You ignored the way your throat burned at the sobs threatening to escape you. You ignored the way your arms were aching every time you moved. You ignored how your feet suddenly felt to heavy to move.

Until you hit the floor.

Your legs had given out on you, letting you land in a heap of limbs. You scrunch your face up in pain, tears falling more rapidly. You pushed yourself up slowly, staring down at the floor like it had pulled you down. It wasn’t good enough. You weren’t good enough. This tour was going to fall apart, and it’d be entirely your fault. Your fans would be disappointed, your dancers and your crew would lose their jobs, your team would be mad at you, and you would have to face it all alone-

You let out a scream of frustration, slamming your hands against the floor repeatedly. The scream eventually contorted into a strangled sob. Your body shook, no longer having the energy to get up. You leaned back down, your forehead resting against the floor a you heaved. All of the stress, the overbearing pressure, the weeks of working hours and hours a day. It all washes over you like a bone crushing tsunami. 

You didn’t notice the door opening, something dropping to the floor, and running footsteps until someone grabs you.

Initially, you flinch at the touch. Expecting it to be Raphael or your friend, you shoot up from the floor, trying to scoot away from them. But instead, you’re facing a wide-eyed mint-haired Ji-yong. Your boyfriend. Who was, last you checked, supposed to be in Seoul, not LA. 

You blink. Were you hallucinating? For a moment, he just stared at you. He’d never seen you like this. Stressed? Tired? Absolutely. But this was different. Oddly reminiscent of his own past. The thought shook him to his core. His expression softened as he reached for you, his hand falling on your shoulder. You looked back at him, his touch bringing you back to reality. This was real, he was in front of you, and he’d just walked into your studio to see you in a pile of tears. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, your voice hoarse. You look him over, he looked in much better condition than you. Except for the worry in his eyes that made you shrink back into your guilt.

“Your friends called me.” Ji-yong explains, reaching up and pushing your hair out of your face. You felt warm to the touch, too warm. “They’re worried about you, and so am I,” You looked away from him. You didn’t want to face the guilt, the anxiety, the feelings bubbling up in you the last few weeks. “Talk to me,”

You could only shrug, meek. You looked around the studio. “It’s not going to work.” You whisper. He frowns. “The tour. It’s going to fail. I’m going to mess up, or it’s not going to be good enough, and everyone is going to hate it, and I can’t risk that. I can’t mess this up-”

“Jagiya,” Ji-yong’s voice cuts through the air with an unexpected warmth. You look at him. “All of this will be perfect, but none of this is worth basically killing yourself for.” He slides closer to you, “You can’t give it your all if you’re like this. You of all people know that.” He was right. His clear calm words sinking into you. “You’re not going to mess this up. You’re not going to disappoint anyone. You’re not going to fail.” You feel tears roll down your face, and then you feel his touch. As he wipes them away, you lean into his palm for comfort. 

“I missed you,” You whimper.

“I missed you, beautiful,” He whispered back. Slowly, you came forward. You let his arms wrap around you as you curled into his chest, letting out a slow sigh as you finally let your body relax. He ran his fingers through your hair, holding you close. He rested his chin on top of your head, sitting in silence for a moment. His heart hurt with you, for you. You had always been your own biggest critic, he shared a similar testament for himself. But seeing you like this, something so unlike you, made his chest ache. “For the rest of the week, you’re relaxing.”

You sit up again, wide, fearful eyes looking at his calm ones. “I can’t! We have dress rehearsal-”

“You’re not arguing with me on this. Your choreographer already agreed.” His tone was slightly more stern, remaining soft whilst still showing how serious he was. You pressed your lips into a line. “I’m here all week, and you and I are both going to rest.” 

“But you have so much to do. The album-”

“Can wait a few days. I promise.” He lifts your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Let’s get home. I’ll run you a bath and we can watch your favorite show.”

You stare at him, pondering the offer. But he can see as your expression softens, the dark cloud looming over your features fading away. “Can we make hot cocoa?” You ask quietly. 

He can only smile. “Of course.” He tells you. You crack a smile, then. He slowly starts to stand up, pulling you with him. As he turns to grab your bags, you tug at his wrist. He spins back to face you, gasping as you kiss him harshly. His hands find their home on your waist, pulling you into him. It had been a few weeks since the two of you saw each other, and neither of you expected your reunion to go like this. You poured out every feeling into the kiss, letting him know just how much you missed him, how much you loved him, how truly excited you were to see him underneath your layers of exhaustion. 

He never let go of your hand, managing to carry both your dance bag and the bag he’d haphazardly packed before basically running to the airport in one hand. The two of you looked at each other, the conversation slowly flowing into non-work related things. It was like he could see the weight lifting off your shoulders. His presence alone bringing some sort of peace to you. He knew you needed this, and in a way he needed it too.

And when Valentine’s day finally rolled around, he’d made sure to pull out the stops. You’d woken up to breakfast in bed, a ribbon-wrapped box with an expensive necklace, flowers, flowers, and more flowers. You’d done what you could for him, too. Getting him some new rings and scarves, a sentimental handwritten note filled with words of adoration and love. For part of the day, the two of you stayed in your tangled sheets. Fingers tracing bare skin and soft kisses. Whispers of love and arms wrapped around bodies. 

When the evening came, Ji-yong had told you to dress nice. The two of you ended up at your favorite restaurant, the first nice place you took him to when he came to visit you for the first time. Of course he’d been in LA plenty of times before, but the time with you was different. It was more special than all the rest. And now, he remembered that fondly as he watches you sit at the same table (merely a coincidence, or fate he thinks), your eyes finally filled with that familiar love and light. You looked at him, smiling wide. He could die happy knowing he was ever the cause of that smile. 

“I love you, you know.” You said casually, admiring him. He blinks, his cheeks flushing a soft pink that was still noticeable in the warm light. You tilted your head, smiling even more. This is it, you think. This is what you wanted life to be like. You and Ji-yong. You realize that everything else could disappear, fall apart, slip from your grasp, but as long as you had him you’d be okay. This wasn’t the first time marriage crossed your mind, but it was the first time you ever imagined your wedding and confidently believed it would eventually become reality. The idea of walking down the aisle to your Ji-yong. Picturing him looking at you dressed in white. Spending the rest of your life with him. It all seemed like a dream, but it felt like it was all exactly what you wanted.

Ji-yong reaches for your hand over the table. He’s sure he’d never let you go if he had the choice. He looks at you, watching the way you’re glowing even in the dim lights. The way you looked at him enough to make him melt. He knew that you were it for him. You were the person he wanted to come home to every night. The person he wanted to kiss every day before he walked out the door. The person he would hold when he was upset. The person he’d bicker with until you were grey and old. The person he’d have a family with. It wasn’t a question, and there wasn’t another possibility to him. It was all a matter of time. Whether it was tomorrow, next week, next year, whenever. He didn’t know where his life was taking him, but he knew it was all going to be with you.

“I love you, too.”

[scoupsakakitty]

LOOOOOVE YOUR BLOG i'm literally obsessed with idol!scoups fics and u r soooo good in writing them <333

not sure if you are open to requests but in case that you are, i'd love to see an angsty one with idol!scoups, maybe one where they fight ??? and cheol has to go on tour or work or something so they're not okay for quite a while and make up once he gets home :(((

Silent Apologies | idol!Scoups x Reader | angst, fluff

The argument had started over something small—something stupid, really—but it had escalated far beyond what either of them expected.

"You always do this, Seungcheol!" Y/N's voice wavered with frustration as she stood in the middle of their living room, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You shut me out, and then you expect me to just be okay with it!"

Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, his patience already frayed. "Because I don’t want to fight with you, Y/N! I’m exhausted, I have so much on my plate, and the last thing I need is another argument!"

"So what? You think I don’t get tired too? That I don’t have feelings?" Her voice cracked slightly, but she refused to let it show any weakness. "You act like you're the only one who has problems, but you're never here anymore!"

His jaw clenched. "You knew what you were getting into when we started this! My schedule isn’t something I can just change!"

"I'm not asking you to change it, Seungcheol! I'm asking you to at least talk to me about it instead of pushing me away!"

He exhaled sharply, looking away. "I can't do this right now."

Y/N scoffed, hurt flashing across her face. "Of course you can’t. You always run away the second things get hard."

That was the last straw. His temper snapped. "You think I run away? I do everything I can to keep this together! I'm trying my best, Y/N! But maybe my best isn't enough for you!"

Silence followed his outburst, thick and suffocating. The words hung between them like a wound neither could take back. Y/N swallowed, blinking away the sting in her eyes. "Maybe it’s not."

The finality in her voice made Seungcheol’s stomach drop, but he was too proud—too angry—to reach for her. Instead, he turned on his heel, grabbing his jacket. "I have a flight to catch."

Y/N watched as he walked to the door. "Fine. Go."

The door slammed behind him.

The flight to Indonesia felt longer than it should have. Seungcheol sat in his seat, staring blankly at the screen in front of him, but all he could think about was her. The look in her eyes before he left. The way her voice had cracked. The way he had let his anger win instead of fixing things.

His chest ached with regret.

By the time the concert rolled around, he was running on autopilot. His members noticed. His energy was off. His mind wasn’t there. Even as he stood in front of thousands of fans, singing and dancing like he’d done a hundred times before, his heart wasn’t in it. Because his heart was somewhere else.

With her.

When the final song ended and the cheers filled the venue, Seungcheol barely let the sound settle before he rushed backstage. He ignored the cameras, the staff, the lingering adrenaline. He needed to get home.

Y/N had spent the last two days drowning in her own guilt. She hated the way they had left things, hated the last words they had exchanged.

What if something happened to him while he was away? What if those words were the last thing they ever said to each other?

The thought alone had made her sick to her stomach. So, instead of wallowing in regret, she did what she could to make things right. She cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, made sure everything was perfect. And then, she cooked. She made all of Seungcheol’s favorite dishes, the ones he always craved after long flights. Because she knew that he would come back to her.

And then, as if her heart had called out to him, the front door swung open.

Seungcheol stood there, exhausted and breathless, his suitcase slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud. But Y/N didn’t care about that.

She ran to him.

His arms were around her in seconds, crushing her against his chest as if he was afraid she might disappear if he let go. "I'm so sorry," he murmured into her hair. "I shouldn't have left like that. I shouldn't have said what I did."

Tears pricked at her eyes as she buried her face in his shoulder. "I was so worried about you. I hated the way we ended things."

"Me too," he admitted, pulling back just enough to cup her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed over her cheeks, his gaze soft but filled with remorse. "I never want to fight like that again."

She nodded, leaning into his touch. "Me neither."

A small smile tugged at her lips as she grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the kitchen. "Come on, I made your favorite."

Seungcheol's eyes softened even more when he saw the food on the table. "You really made all this?"

She bit her lip, suddenly shy. "I just… I wanted to do something for you."

His heart swelled with affection. "You didn’t have to, but thank you."

They sat down together, the tension of the past few days melting away as they ate. Seungcheol kept reaching for her hand between bites, as if he needed to remind himself that she was still there, that they were okay.

And they were.

Because no matter how bad the fights got, no matter how far apart they were, they always found their way back to each other.

[jjunbug]

hehe don’t even worry about it!! ♡♡ i’m so happy that i can finally read all your love thoughts on the prologue!! i’ve been waiting for this~~ but will do! 🫡

THE PLAYLISTTTT!!! i spent so much time on it hehe i’m glad that you like it!! and hehe the bog bodies i love that song so much and it fits so well with the future chapters too!! i’m excited for you to see it all ^^

but omg you got the subtle foreshadowing here!!! i love YOUU!!! and the worldbuilding hehe i’m so so happy that you like it so much!! and your super sweet words… stop i could cry. i’m so happy that my writing comes off so atmospheric and so visual that you can see the words like a movie!!! that’s like the greatest compliment ever and one of my goals, so you have no idea how glad i am to hear this!!! ♡♡ and published fantasy books??? i’m sobbing rn omg thank you?????

but yes!!! change is so so jarring and is literally nothing like how the (older) adults in our lives explained it to be and i wanted to show that in various ways. it’s something that i personally struggling with a lot and i’m so comforted but the fact that so many others can relate to me with this and also feel comforted by my words about it!! it truly reminds me that we aren’t in this all alone ♡♡♡

LMAOO😭 you asking if she’s a slave is killing me PLSS,,, i wouldn’t say she’s a slave, but she’s kinda like cinderella except there’s no evil stepsisters or anything just her!! her and her evil “mother” lamia lmao… but and the hound playing during all of this??? oh my… that would rip my guts out too… but hehe thank you so much!!! i literally start ascending when people compliment my music taste (∩˃o˂∩)♡♡ and lost playing while kai is introduced???? spotify perfectly lining up songs for you while reading omg,,, don’t even get me started on my blood,,,,,,

me??? a poet???? hehe stoppppp~~ (๑˃ᴗ˂) i use to be completely obsessed with poetry tho, so this is literally like the highest of compliments!!! reminds me of when i was in high school my english teacher had us write poems and she hung mine up for everyone to see for the rest of the time i was in high school lmao. but you complimenting my write,,, i will start crying omg.

but yesss!!!!! i love kai in this sm~~ him being all smooth and being like “well all queens need a king right??” like i’d literally melt on the spot me and mc are the exact same!!! and then him kissing her hand like OMGGGG,,, but yes hehe~~ this is just the prologue you’re not prepared for everything that goes down in chapter one…!!!

it’s okay lmao i laughed writing it😭😭 same with when i came up with green thumbs. i was like WAITTTT??? am i… a genius???? can you tell i spent wayyyy to much time coming up with the names of literally everything?? the oc names, the name of the inn, the name of the school…. hehe so much to tell~~ there’s literally SO much foreshadowing jam packed into this prologue that i’m so curious on how much everyone caught!!!

althea >>>>>>>>> lamia, that’s all i’ll say.

but yes yes yes THIS!!! him immediately going to her and content to just sit with her in silence if need be… literally besides althea, the only people they have in the whole world at that moment is each other, it’s so strangely comforting and so sad at the same time!! but i’m so happy that you like the dialogue!!!!! you don’t understand how many times i reread all of the paragraphs out loud just to make sure everything flowed well and that the dialogue didn’t seem so clunky… like it was kinda embarrassing but i’m so happy that it came out well!!!!!

and the artwork that inspired all of this!!!! you don’t understand as soon as i saw it i was like YES!!!!!! i need to write something about that IMMEDIATELY. i love artists and writers and poets so so much too, where would the world be without them??

but yes hehe all of the comparisons, i’m so happy that you caught it!!!! and i’m so happy you liked the inner dialogue too!!! i kinda did it a different way so i’m happy that it all paid off!! BUT YOURE LITERALLY SO SWEET AND I LOVE YOU SO MUCH AHHH!!! (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ )♡♡♡ THIS MEANS SO MUCH TO ME!!!!!! TRUST i will publish a book one day and i’ll never forget all the kind things you and so many others said to me that lifted me up so high. literally going straight into my dedications and i’m so serious.

the timestamp for burn it down by daughter is killing me tho LMAOHSIFHJDFNJDD that’s so funny😭😭

literally gonna cry reading this like,,, i’m so happy that you enjoyed the prologue and thank you so so so so SO much for reading!!! ♡♡ i’m so excited to hear your thoughts about chapter one when i (finally) release it!!! hehe i hope you stay tuned!!!~~

BETWEEN TWILIGHT SKIES ───𝓅𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗎𝖾: 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍

in a world that’s on its dying breath, the once green and lush landscapes get buried in more and more layers of ash. the once flourishing streets that were full of magic are now a dull hum. yet, there is still hope—and it lies in the hands of you and kai, the last people to possess magic. suddenly, you remember the story of a forest that watches, and a well of life that lies deep within. you’re determined to save your bleak world in any way that you can, yet, you weren’t expecting to end up in a brand new world entirely.

pairing ⸝⸝ huening kai 𝑥 fem!reader 𓄵 𝓯eat. ꔛ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳!𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘢 (𝘰𝘤) & 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳!𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢 (𝘰𝘤)

genre ⋆ 📖 ⸝⸝ angst, fluff, a lot of yearning and longing (both romantic and platonic), magic, sorcerer!kai

warnings ⸝⸝ kidnapping, toxic environments and parental relationships, implied bullying, two instances of reader getting slapped, violence, death (of people & animals), depictions of gore, implied anxiety attack and abuse, hand holding & staring into each others eyes, tension filled kissing

𝓴ipo’s note ⸝⸝ the series has finally started!! now listen, listen, listen!! i know what you’re thinking, “a prologue and it’s 7.6k????” but i need you guys to STAY WITH ME!!! stay with me and lock in and after reading it all you’ll understand why it had to be this long lmao… next chapter you’ll meet yeonjun hehe~~ i hope you enjoy!!

͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ❨ 7.6k ❩ ╱ ❨ 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ❩ ╱ ❨ 𝓼𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝒎𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ❩ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏  ︵͡   𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 (´ε｀ʃƪ)♡

‎ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏͏ 𐦍 ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏NEXT ⤇

The world around you had begun to wither away and decay long before it had started to end. As most things do, the rot had started to creep its way in through love. It had used it as a gateway, spreading its sickness all throughout the things you touched until it was the thin wisps of ash coating your cracked fingertips. Still, you let the rot in—let it corrupt the things you loved and change them into something unrecognizable, something unimaginable—something that was now dead and gone. You just couldn’t let go of the small doses of love you were granted with—naively gulping down tasteless sips to fill that hole inside your heart left by people you never even really knew.

You cradled love like a child guards its favorite toy; with fear and hesitancy. It was clear in the way your body hunched over and you looked up at every grown-up through wet lashes. Obvious in the way your dirty clothes hung limply from gangly limbs—once a tight fit but now they seemed to be made for a child much older than you. It must’ve been what enthralled her, what made her decide to pluck a random child no older than five off the street in the middle of the night and take them home.

In a way, you guess you had to thank her for the senseless crime she committed; for it gave you a warm bed to lay your head at night and food to fill your growling belly. It didn’t bother you that it all had come at a price, in fact, you were none the wiser. But, you’d know soon enough. The mask can only stay on for so long before it starts to crack—before it starts to rot like everything else did.

Lamia, is the name she sweetly whispered next to your ear as she tucked you into a bed that was never yours that night. “But, you can call me Mom,” she said, placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

It was hard watching things change in front of your very eyes. It was never the way people described it for you. Not the slow twist of vines along a column or the grass growing taller than a fence—no. It was the whipping of wind across your face. You’d go to wipe your teary eyes and find the sunny and warm scenery was now cold and dead with glittering snow laying everywhere.

You hated it.

You wished that things could stay as they were for as long as they could. You hated watching the faces of people you’ve grown to know dip and sag with age in an instant. You hated watching the life leave their eyes in a quick blink. And you hated how life seemed to go so slow for everyone except for you.

If you could dare to wish for one thing, it would be more time.

Sweet nights and even sweeter days began to sour, and Lamia—your mother—wasn’t as kind as she used to be when you were still a child. You think that that is what hurt the most with this odd whipping of wind, that you were forced to watch the love your mother held for you leave her eyes faster than you got to grow up to the young teenager you were today.

“Welcome to the Freywolf Inn!” you heard her voice exclaim to the ringing bell of the door. It was a careful blend of welcoming and cheerful. The sound was drowned out of your ears by the incessant sound of a brush against hardwood and soap mixing with water. You sat back on your knees, throwing the brush into the soapy mess and letting it clang against the floor, sighing. You wiped the back of your wet hand across your forehead and sucked in a breath.

Your knees ached and your hands were sore and cramped. This was the worst part of your mornings. No matter how hard you scrubbed these wooden floors, it wasn’t enough for Lamia. If they didn’t shine as if freshly polished when you were done then you scrubbed them wrong and she made you clean them again. Standing up on weak legs, you looked over your shoulder at the new customers as you reached for the bucket of dirty soap water. A soft gasp left your lips and you had to hold on tight to the bucket handle with both hands to ensure its contents didn't go spilling all over the floor.

You’d recognize them anywhere—the Collective, with their hooded, light forest-green cloaks embroidered with gold filigree and its golden satin insides. You never saw a member in person before—not that you were particularly excited to. Seeing a member of the Collective, so far away from the School of Pith, could only mean one thing…

The rot was here.

Frozen like a deer caught on sacred ground, you stared wide-eyed at them as they made their way to the common room, their carefree laughs carrying in the air around them. It felt like a bad omen—a confirmation. You tried so hard to ignore the fate of the things around you, but seeing that you could no longer hide from it was like a punch to your stomach.

Strangely, you also couldn’t help but be morbidly fascinated by it all. You exhaled slowly, steadying your racing heart and stilling your shaking hands that grasped the handle of the wooden bucket. Distantly, you felt the sting of pain across the back of your hands and shut your eyes. Only when every last molecule of air was absent from your lungs did you allow yourself to gulp in more to soothe the burning—just like your mother taught you.

Your eyes fluttered back open and landed on the group of sorcerers. They playfully practiced their magic out in the open—ringlets of green floating in the air and curling around their fingers and forearms. Their hands moved in peculiar ways, a jerk here or a smooth twist of their wrist there. You couldn’t understand it, but the more you watched them perform magic in front of your very eyes, the more you wanted to. 

One member stood out to you in particular. He sat off to the side, a small distance away from where the others engaged and practiced their magic at, by himself. Dark hair fell over his warm-brown eyes, but you could still see how kind they were as they watched the other members of the Collective almost fondly. His green hood was over his head and he fiddled with the seams of his white pants with pale hands. There was a ghost of a smile on his face and—unbeknownst to you—there was one on yours too.

He didn’t practice his magic like the others did. He seemed content in just watching, having no need in the selfish display of power the others showcased. It piqued your interest what set him apart from the others and already you could feel a growing favor blossom in your chest for the boy.

He had to be only a few years older than you were and your cheeks warmed at the thought. He reached his arms up and pushed the hood backwards off his head, seemingly oblivious to your staring as were the rest of them. The filtered daylight washed over his body and you saw him more clearly. Your eyes greedily scanned over the slopes of his face, desperate to take him all in as quickly as you could. You couldn’t lie, he was beautiful.

You trailed your eyes over to the wisps of the green in the air. It’s different knowing that magic exists in a world so bleak and actually seeing it in action. It made you wonder where the ash was here in your small village—the rot—so you could watch them smother it. You needed to see those ringlets of green curl around it tighter and tighter until it didn’t exist anymore. Until all of the ash was gone for good.

You wanted to know what it felt like to wield such magic. Your fingers itched to replicate their movements in hopes that green wisps of your own would emerge. Maybe then would your touch not bring about destruction.

A hand roughly grabs your shoulder and breaks you away from the trance you were under. “Stupid child! Can you not hear?”

Lamia’s wrinkled face startlingly comes into view and you feel the bite of her nails in the flesh of your arm through the fabric of the thin dress you wore. You stammered, unsure of what to say and what her previous words were, and blinked rapidly at her accusation.

Wind whipped across your face and too late did you feel prickling pain spread across your cheek. The inn fell deathly silent and your eyes started to water. You swallowed down the lump in your throat thickly, your watery eyes finding your mother’s. “When I ask you a question, you answer it. Do I have to repeat myself?” your mother asked you.

Slowly, you shook your head and willed yourself to find your voice. “N-no, mother.” Your voice came out in a quiet squeak, completely pathetic and weak.

“Good,” Lamia responded. “Dry these soap-covered floors before our customers slip. Then, I want you to ensure the rooms for them are ready.” 

“Yes, mother,” you said in that same weak voice.

She looked you up and down for a moment before tsking. Then, she turned on her heel and returned back to where she was behind the counter beforehand. Smoke curled from her mouth as she leisurely flipped through the sign-in book, unaware of the way time changed around her.

You swallowed thickly again, fingers tightening and untightening around the handle of the bucket you still held. Slowly, you turned just enough to look over your shoulder at lounging customers. No longer did they smile and laugh with a carefree attitude and swirls of green in the air. Instead, they stared at you with barely disguised shock. Your gaze snapped to the boy you were spellbound with earlier to find him staring too, mouth slack and sitting at the edge of the couch like he was eager to stand. His eyes met your teary ones and you broke away from the sudden connection.

Lifting the bucket closer to your chest, you rushed off into the direction of the rooms, embarrassment weighing you down and the once unshed tears now falling down your face. You ignored the sloshing sound of the water inside of it and the way the wood hit against your stomach, spilling over the metal lip and onto the floor below, creating an even bigger mess.

Sniffling, you hid yourself in the supply room. Your tears fell freely and a large sob wracked your body. You let the bucket slip from your fingers just inches from the rocky floor without a care and with a piercing thud. Stupid, you thought to yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Get it together. Stop crying.

Yet, the tears wouldn't stop. You heaved in breaths of air that refused to reach your lungs. You didn’t have time for this. If the floors weren’t dry and the rooms weren’t checked on in a timely manner then you’d get worse than a slap across the face. Harshly, you dug the palms of your hands into your cheeks and wiped away the fallen tears. You compelled yourself to take a deep breath, to let the oxygen reach your lungs and not be blocked by the false closing of your throat. 

Closing your eyes, you took in another deep breath, and another and another until your body no longer began to tremble. You straightened your back so you weren’t hunched over anymore and wiped your hands down the front of your damp dress. When you felt like you weren’t unravelling at the seams only then did you step out of the supply room to face the world.

Instead of the loud chattering coming from the Collective like from when they arrived, it was quiet and sparse whispers. When you got closer to where they were in the common room, the whispers grew.

You tried to drown their whispers out—opting to instead get to work on your mother’s request. Dropping to your knees, you took the clean towel and aggressively dried the wet section of hardwood floor beneath you, letting all your focus fall onto the repeated action.

Footsteps sounded behind you, but you didn’t hear them until an unfamiliar voice stunned you from your focus. “If I may?” the voice asked. You looked to the side, eyes meeting dirty brown boots whose eyelets caught in the bright sun. They trailed upwards to white pants and gold embroidered filigree onto a light, forest-green velvet fabric. Your hand halted its aggressive drying as your eyes ascended further to meet the boy from earlier’s handsome face. Your eyes widened to saucers and his seemed to be just as big as they looked down at you. “It will all go faster if I do this,” he continued, some of his words wobbling around the edges.

You remained silent, not trusting your voice to not come out raw and abrasive. The boy extended a hand out in front of him and with a twist of his wrist wisps of green emerged and wrapped around it. They swirled out around the two of you, lightly fogging across the floor. You turned to the wet floor in front of you and watched as it suddenly dried, the wood shining in the sunlight pouring in from the window. Your jaw slackened as your mouth fell open.

“It was a simple spell—you shouldn’t have to be on your hands and knees drying a floor,” the boy stated, the second part lower than the first so your mother didn’t hear. He outstretched his hand to you. Your mouth was still open as you turned back to stare blankly at his hand. An amused and warm smile pulled his cheeks upward and you suddenly came to the realization that you must’ve looked ridiculous.

“T-thank you…” you trailed off, voice barely above a whisper, still starstruck by the display of magic and the boy’s smile. You straightened your back before blinking a couple times. Clearing your throat, you accepted his outstretched hand and the boy helped you to your feet.

He chuckled and you felt your knees weaken more. His hand was still holding yours, the both of you forgetful as your gaze seared into each other. The smile slowly fell from his face, his lips parting with unspoken words as he gaped at you as if bewitched. Snickering to your side brought the two of you back to real life and you pulled your hands away from each other. 

“Uh,” the boy said, clenching the hand that was just holding yours and trying to form a coherent sentence. His gaze snapped briefly to the other members of the Collective before landing on you again. “U—No worries! It was nothing, really. Kai.” He stammered over his words before his eyebrows raised. “My name. It’s–I’m, uh, Kai.”

Kai outstretched his hand again before he thought better of it and swiftly yanked it away, instead rubbing the back of his neck with it. If you weren’t so disoriented you’d laugh, but you just stare at him instead, the heat slowly creeping up your neck. You then realize how much of a mess you must look and quickly wipe your cheeks to get rid of any remaining tears. “Um,” you start, “I… I’m—”

Your name slices through the air like a knife. You jump, eyes darting over to where your mother stood behind the counter, a saccharine smile pulling her lips as she looked at the two of you. It felt as if you were watching a snake rattle its tail. Looking back to Kai, you offer him the tiniest of smiles before rushing away again, leaving him standing alone.

You’re not quite sure when the obsession with magic started. Maybe it was when you saw how carefree the Collective looked wielding it, as if it was second nature. Or, maybe it was when Kai had so graciously used it to help you out so you didn’t have to spend the remainder of the morning on your hands and knees. All you did know was that it had sunk its claws inside of you, gripping fiercely at your heart and making the hole inside of it larger.

Maybe it was when you started sneaking away from, or even downright rushing to finish, your duties so you could watch them practice magic. Maybe it was the rush you got watching their hands twist and jerk in specific movements for specific outcomes, green coils emerging from the motions.

But, you think it started when you lifted your hands into the air, daring to copy them.

At first, it was nothing, and frustration built up like a brick wall inside you. Then, that frustration turned to resentment, and that resentment into anger.

The Collective were here for a week so far and you weren't sure how long you had left before they departed. Why weren’t you born with magic like they were? If you had magic, it would change everything. No longer would everything rot around you when you could smother the rot all out—bring everything that has long been dead and gone back to life. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

You flicked your fingers in the air angrily as green smoked around the member’s fingers and not yours. Something a mix between and groan and a growl emerged from your throat instead. But, you were determined—and you refused to give up.

Perfecting the twists of your wrists and quick jerks of your fingers, you exhaled steadily and focused on getting the same result the member of the Collective did—cracking open a single walnut without touching it. The walnut sat on the floor in front of you mockingly and you scowled at it before focusing again.

“Come on,” you whispered to yourself. “Come on, come on. Work, please.” With one final twist of your wrist, you heard the distinct cracking sound and a soft gasp pushing between your lips. Your face broke into a smile and it took everything in you not to cheer at the top of your lungs. You watched the slightest hints of green feather away around the lengths of your fingers, so fast the color was barely distinguishable. A smile spread across your face from ear to ear.

“Yes!” you proclaimed, taking care to keep your voice low. A pleased laugh left your mouth and happy tears filled your lash line, “Yes!”

Your view snapped back to that of the Collective in the dining hall. You listened to the way they joked with each other and made water spin into wine—getting themselves drunk and red-faced. As your stare analyzed them, you noticed that Kai wasn’t among them.

It was odd, you thought, but it reminded you of the first time you saw him and how he sat apart from the others. How different he seemed from them. Just from watching the Collective members interact, you already didn’t like them. Maybe Kai felt the same.

You haven’t talked to him since that day—haven’t really seen him around besides quick glimpses, either. A peculiar feeling stirred in your chest and you weren’t sure what it meant. You just hoped that your paths would cross again.

When you weren’t at Freywolf Inn, you were at the craft guild with your nose buried in a book. You were there so often that you were on a first name basis with the stationer, Althea, a sweet lady who distinctly had the look that reminded you of a barn owl. In the entirety of your small village, it seemed Althea was the only one who wasn’t victim to the rot. You felt safe being around her—and she always remarked how much you were like a daughter to her.

She let you freely borrow the books she received or binded and even let you hang out behind the counter while she dealt with artisans and people wealthier than you could ever imagine who came to see her from all over the world. You remember asking her one day why people came from all over to see her wares.

“Not that they’re bad,” you quickly added, leaning the open book onto your thighs as you looked up at her from your hiding spot underneath the counter. She threw you a witty smile over her shoulder from the press she was at, hair the color of cinnamon sticks falling over her shoulder. The two of you felt as if you were moving at the same speed—you barely realized the fact that streaks of white slowly became more prevalent in her hair. “I mean, this is just such a small village… Wouldn’t they go to communes or the King’s Roots where the school is?”

Althea’s voice was nothing like you’ve heard before despite her saying how she grew up in the village. It had a strange accent and the way she spoke was like silk against the bark of a tree. Althea turned from where she worked to meet your questioning look, leaning over and resting her elbows on her knees so she was just about eye level with you, “Not… quite. See, I offer words that you won’t find on a shelf at the School of Pith. Illustrations they wouldn’t dare to let one of their students witness.”

You sat up more underneath the counter, completely abandoning the still open book in your lap. Your eyes shined with curiosity and Althea laughed—a sound that resembled crackling fire. “What kind of words?” you asked her.

“Knowledge, my owlet. There’s much more out there than the green thumbs of Pith—the royals and the wealthy.” Althea spat out green thumbs like food stuck on her tongue. You knew she never liked the Collective, but to this day, she still never told you why.

Althea stood and walked over to one of the shelves that you never touched, but was always only open for certain customers who came inside the guild hooded and quiet. Her finger ran along the spines as her white brows drew together, “There is a forest in this world, buried deep within another.” Her brows lifted as she found the book she was looking for and she made her way back to the counter.

You crawled from beneath the counter, twisting to watch as she laid the thick book down onto it and opened it to the beginning pages. You gently discarded the book you were reading off to the side of the counter, your focus now on the twirling of words and stirring drawings. Althea’s fingers gently caressed the pages. Her face was distant and longing, like recounting a memory that happened centuries ago. “The Forest That Watches, it is called,” she continued. “It’s white-barked trees have black eyes drawn onto them by people from long ago and its drooping pink leaves kiss the sacred ground.”

For a moment, Althea was quiet. You waited patiently, decidedly taking in the open page until she was ready to speak again. You could tell that this forest was a sensitive topic for her and you didn’t want to pry. You looked up at her when she wrapped her arm around your shoulders. She regarded you with a fond smile, “The forest has never been found, though, and it remains watching—waiting. Its pink leaves hide what’s inside; the Well of Life.”

With her free arm, Althea flipped through the pages until it landed on the Forest and the Well. “Woah,” you muttered, leaning forward to get a better look at it. Even from the illustrations you could tell how beautiful it was, feel the magic that radiated from it all.

You knew why it hadn’t been found yet—why it never could be. That much power in the wrong hands would be detrimental. But, you couldn’t help but wonder how different your world would be if it had access to the magical waters Althea was telling you about.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Althea breathed wistfully. “We’ll meet there one day… under the pink leaves and drink from the Well.” She returned her gaze to yours. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Then the turning of the sun won’t seem so fast.”

You sighed to yourself as your eyes fell back to the pages. You leaned your head into Althea’s side and she wrapped her arm around you tighter. “That would be nice,” you say.

In the darkness of the night, you let the shadows listen to your deepest wishes. And how you wish that it was Althea who plucked you from the streets instead of Lamia.

You wander Althea’s shelf now, hands running along the spines. Your fingertips still buzz with the magic you emitted earlier and you swear you can feel the contents of the shelved books calling out to you. Stilling, your fingers halt onto a book. The pull was just too strong to deny and when you turn your head to read the spine you find that the lettering has been rubbed away by time. You hum in slight annoyance before pulling the book from the shelf.

You can feel how Althea’s eyes trail you, especially when you walk over to the counter to take your familiar spot under it. In the corner of your eye, you can see her head tilt. “You feel different. And you’re quiet—quieter than usual,” she says quizzically.

Looking up from your book, a corner of your mouth raises. “Magic, Althea…” Your face breaks out into full-on excitement. “I have it! At least… sparks of it…”

Althea’s face doesn’t change from its quizzical expression. She shifts in her seat in front of the press. “Green?” she asked you, accusatory. You're unsure whether her accusatory tone was towards you or not.

The excitement swiftly falls from your face and you sit up more under the counter. “I… Yeah…” you mutter, avoiding her stare.

“It can’t be,” Althea states matter-of-factly. Her white brows furrow, and she looks away from you. “Can’t be…” she quietly trails off, more to herself than to you. “Green is… can’t be, can’t be. Doesn’t make sense.”

“I think it was green…” you pipe up, voice falling flat towards the end when her piercing black eyes snap to yours. “I didn’t really see the color, it all happened too fast.” It was true, but in your heart you wished it was green. You just wanted Althea to stop acting all fidgety and looking at you the way she did. You held the book in your arms closer to your chest and Althea’s gaze dropped to the movement.

Althea’s body physically relaxed from the tense state it was in, and if you looked close enough, you thought you could see the ghost of a smile on her lips. She hummed, suddenly pleased, “Magic… how enchanting. Have I told you about the White Fawn? Or, the prophecy of Eternal Winter?”

Your brows knitted at the change in her demeanor, but you concluded that it was better to leave it be. You shook your head at her question. “What about faeries?” Althea asked. 

“No,” you responded, “what are they?”

Althea slid to the ground in front of you, a grin pulling her mouth and exposing her teeth. She tapped the book you desperately clutched to your chest with an ivory finger. “Why don’t you take a look?”

You giggled to yourself, letting your arms flow in the harmony of the wind. You twirled and moved your body to the tune of nature—to the sounds of the forest’s edge behind you with its rustling leaves and chattering animals. The crown of sticks and fallen leaves fell down further onto your forehead and you laughed more. You didn’t even notice the single brilliant blue butterfly that landed on it and completed your costume.

If your mother saw you right now, she’d be furious. She had sent you out here on punishment with the intention of having you clean the stables behind the inn. Instead, you were dancing The Dance of Youth and pretending to be the Faerie Queen.

You spent all day yesterday reading Althea’s book on anything magical you could get your hands on, which mainly consisted of faeries and the realm they occupied. The books conjured up tales, legends, and myths of those more than human—people with glittering or colorful skin, wings, horns shooting from their heads, and even human-like versions of some of the animals you were already familiar with. It was completely enthralling reading about it all, and feeling all the magic pour off of the pages made you even more giddy. The magic the School of Pith had was nothing compared to the magic you had read about.

In a kingdom so sunny and full of bloom, A deadly winter approaches to cause mass doom. Drowns the kingdom in layers of snow, And becomes a place where nothing grows and no one goes.

You sang and danced around in the grass, pretending that you weren’t human at all, but faerie. That you were queen and the lands stretching from the edge of the forest to the inn was your kingdom. You wished you lived in Faerie where all the other magical creatures resided. That you and Althea could live there together, happy. Maybe even Kai could join you too. You giggled more at the wonderful thought.

Rustling in the forest drew your attention and you halted your dance. You leaned forward, listening closely and peering at the way the setting sun shined through the leaves, but then laughed at how ridiculous the notion was. Of course there was rustling, it’s a forest. You turned your attention back to the doll propped up on a rock, watching you. “Don’t look at me that way,” you say, twirling once more before making your way over to it.

The doll was a sightly thing made out of straw and sticks that Althea gave to you as a child. After all these years you still had it, and you cherished it deeply—making sure to keep it hidden from Lamia so she wouldn’t toss it out. You could hear her voice now, “A girl born in the summer of the thirteenth year of the King still playing with dolls? How preposterous!”

You hummed, bending down to retrieve the doll. “What an odd thing to say… Why should I find a man to marry in order to rule? I am the Faerie Queen. This is my kingdom, I shall rule it how I see fit!”

Too lost in your own dream-like world, you don’t notice the crunching of leaves beneath boots. “Well, all Queens need a King to stand beside them,” a voice said behind you. You spun in place, clutching the doll to your chest. Kai tilted his head at you, an easy smile playing on his lips. “Don’t you think?” he concluded.

His cloak was covered in ash. He and the other members of the Collective must have just returned from defeating the ash in the area for good. The heat immediately rushed to your face and your mind raced. Kai stood mere feet from you and you were stumbling over your own thoughts on what to say. You stood up straighter, trying to appear nonchalant, “I-I suppose…”

How embarrassing it was to be caught in such childlike endeavors—by Kai of all people! You moved the doll behind your back in an attempt to hide it, yet Kai’s gaze followed the action before flicking back up to your face. Behind him, you saw the rest of the Collective ride up on horses towards the inn, snickering at the two of you. “I see Kai has finally found someone willing to lay with him!” one shouted sarcastically.

Kai’s face soured and he looked over his shoulder at them with a glare before turning back to you. Face softening, he took a step towards you. “Ignore them,” Kai says, “They think they’re funny and they’re not.”

He stripped off his velvet green cloak and gave it a good shake away from where you stood. Ash clouded off of it in front of him, making the two of you cough a little. “Sorry,” Kai coughed, letting the cloak fall onto the rock next to him. “So… The Faerie Queen, huh? What’s that? Does that have something to do with your dance?”

You looked down to your feet in even more embarrassment. “It’s… It’s nothing.” You sat down on the rock that your doll was previously perched on. “I can’t believe you saw that…” you muttered under your breath.

“It looked like fun,” Kai laughed, and you looked up to catch the way his smile lingered as he looked down at you. “You seemed really into it, didn’t even notice me coming up behind you. You jumped like a caught baby deer.”

It was your turn to laugh. “A baby deer?” you asked and Kai nodded. “I guess you could say that, but you scared me!” Kai sat down next to you. He pointed his chin upwards, his eyes on the crown of sticks and leaves on your head. “Is that your crown, Faerie Queen?”

Biting your lip, you took the crown off and placed it in your lap. You toyed with the leaves in it. “You should make me one,” Kai says. You looked up at him. He was much closer than you originally thought he was, his shoulder brushing up against yours making you nervous. This close up you could see all the details of his face—his eyelashes that occasionally rested softly on round, smiling cheeks, and the curve of his plump, pinked lips. And his warm, brown eyes that never left your face. “You know… Queens and Kings and all of that…”

You smiled, looking away from him so he wouldn’t see how flustered he made you. “Really?” you questioned, braving his stare once again. “Yeah!” Kai exclaimed. He leaned closer to you, “Only if you see me fit, though, my queen.”

Kai took your hand in his and bent over to press his lips to the back of it, his eyes flicking up to look at you between his lashes. The action set you alight and you were so sure that Kai could feel the heat radiating off of your body. “I’ll have to put you to the test,” you mutter, barely managing to get your words out. “Only the best can rule with me by my side.”

You felt the vibrations of Kai’s laugh against your skin before he sat back up, his hand still grasping yours. His face was even closer to yours now. All it took was one of you to lean a little closer and your lips would meet. “Well, you’ll find that I am the best of the best,” Kai spoke, lowly. His eyes dropped to your lips and he swayed a little. “Nobody stands a chance against me.”

“Is that so?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Mhm,” Kai nodded. He closed the gap between the two of you and pressed his lips against yours. With the hand that wasn’t holding yours, he used it to cup your cheek and lift your chin to kiss you deeper. You melted into his touch, your lips moving in sync with his. It was perfect, and the feeling of his soft lips on yours was like heaven.

“Why don’t you show her your magic wand!” a voice behind you and Kai yelled in your direction. The two of you broke apart, yet Kai’s hand remained on your cheek. Embarrassment crept up your neck and you could tell from Kai’s red ears that he was feeling the same way. He turned to where the voice came from, brows drawing together to form another dirty glare.

The rustling in the woods was more prevalent now and both you and Kai’s head snapped to the edge of the forest. Before your ears could even pick up on the growling, a large wolf jumped out from between the trees. Both you and Kai raced to your feet and he held a hand out to guide you behind him. You hugged your doll to your chest in fear. Besides his body being tense, Kai remained relatively calm.

The wolf growled and snapped at the two of you, its sharp teeth piercing the air as spit ran down the corners of its jaw. “Awe, he can’t even handle a single wolf… the Ash is going to smoke him out!” Members of the Collective laughed behind you, but Kai paid them no mind. He guided you slowly backwards and away from the edge of the forest.

Kai quickly glanced back at you and the way you trembled, terrified. “It must be hungry,” he said, focusing back on the wolf. Green swirls of magic wrapped around the two of you. “It probably smells the meat from the nearby butcher’s.”

“It wouldn’t kill us, right?” you asked with a shaky voice, already knowing how foolish the question was before finishing it. Kai looked over his shoulder at you again, his face the most serious you’ve seen it, “Make something scared and it’ll do just about anything to get rid of the feeling.”

Just as Kai turned his head back towards the wolf, it pounced at the two of you. Behind it, more wolves prowled out of the woods, snarling. You barely registered that the harrowing scream that filled your ears was your own before you were pushed to the ground.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion for once in your entire life. The members of the Collective who were snickering and poking fun at you and Kai jumped into action, spirals of green emerging from their fingertips. More of them piled out from the inn, along with Lamia. You don’t realize that a hand is grabbing your arm and lifting you to your feet before you’re being pushed out of the crossfire.

All you see is green. At least, at first.

Then, splatters of red cover your vision. The screams and cracking of bones fill your ears and bodies fly through the air. Hot tears run down your cheeks and you close your eyes. Then, there is complete and utter silence.

The silence lasts for a moment before all sound comes rushing back to you so fast it felt like your ears were bleeding. There was screaming and crying and more cracking of bones set into place. You opened your eyes to see that the once green pasture you danced in was covered in red—red so dark it was almost black, and disfigured bodies and torn limbs were everywhere.

You stood up from the mud, eyes scanning through the green in the air in search of Kai. When you found him, tending to one of his members whose leg was missing, you breathed a sigh of relief. He was covered in blood and viscera, but it looked like he was unharmed. Barely taking a step in his direction, nails dug into your arm, bringing about a sharp sting that you were all too familiar with.

Body swinging in the opposite direction of Kai, you came face to face with your mother. Her hand reached up to roughly grab your chin. “What have you done?!” She screamed at you.

You glanced around you, never hearing her this angry before. More tears slid out of your eyes and to the dirt below and you tried to talk around the lump in your throat. You took in the destruction all around you, at the dead wolves that were now being carried towards the butcher who stood a couple feet from you. His voice caught in the air, “...a lamb, yeah.” You looked at how many lives the Collective lost in a sheer matter of minutes—and how it was all your fault. “It… I—” you started.

“You brainless child!” Your mother’s hand striked you so hard across the face that you fell back down to the mud at your feet. “Do you know how bad this is for business? Members of the Collective are dead on my soil!” You held your searing cheek with the hand that wasn’t still clutching onto your straw doll as you looked up at your mother with tearful eyes.

“I… I didn’t m—”

“Shut up. Go. I never want to see your vile face again!” Lamia screamed, her wrinkled face turning as red as the sunset behind her. She pointed a shaky finger away from the inn. You stood up on weak legs, your knees shaking. “But—but, Mom—” you cried.

“Go!”

You gave her one last pleading look before taking off, stumbling over your own feet. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t need sight for the place you were running to. You could find Althea in the dark, bound and soundless, if you had to.

You pushed open the doors of the guild and fell to the floor just in front of the counter, startling Althea and the customer she was engaging with. Your chest heaved and your tears formed a puddled at your scraped and dirty knees. “S-She… They’re all…” Your whole body shook and you couldn’t even form a coherent sentence.

Althea rushed to you, taking you into her arms and completely abandoning her customer. You caught a glimpse of them from Althea’s chest and didn’t know what you saw… Scaly skin that caught the light before a clawed hand pulled the hood further over their face, maybe? Althea shushed you and rubbed comforting circles into your back. “It’s okay, my owlet, it’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

Love is a very wretched thing. It lets in the rot and the maggots and the ash. But, you still couldn’t help scraping off the corruption and placing it gently in your heart anyway. You couldn’t let go of the thought that maybe it could be beautiful, that it could be worth the cracked skin.

Instead of your usual hiding spot under the counter next to where Althea worked, you were hidden away between shelves at the back of the guild, alone. A book sat open in your lap, but your mind was too distracted to read any of the words in it. You heard the soft pattering of feet along the hardwood and turned to the sound.

Kai stood before you, completely distraught and still covered in blood from the wolf attack.

You waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. You moved the open book in your lap to the side as you sat up. Your lips parted as you thought of something to say. “T-Thank you,” you said finally. “You saved my life.”

Kai’s eyes weren’t the warm brown that they were earlier. Something shifts in them and you swallow thickly. They were cold, lifeless. Kai just nodded and slumped down to the floor next to you. An awkward silence filled the air and you didn’t know what to say to resolve it.

“How did you find me?” you asked in a meek voice. Kai’s eyes shifted over to you from where they looked out the window to the dark sky. “I saw you run here,” he says plainly. “Followed you.”

Silence penetrates the air before he speaks again. “They kicked me out,” Kai says, his lifeless eyes still boring into you. “They kicked me out of the School of Pith.”

Your mouth falls open in shock and you rush to apologize, saying how it was all your fault, but Kai just shakes his head and looks away from you. He’s still in his Collective uniform, but now the light, forest-green of his velvet cloak seems dull and dark. It doesn’t help that it’s now splattered with blood. “I guess it was my last chance.”

There’s no inflection in his voice, nothing to show whether the result makes him sad or angry or even annoyed. His face is expressionless. The only hint to his inner turmoil is the way his fingers pull harshly at the seams of his dirty white pants. The tips of them are reddened, like he’s been at it for a while now.

Kai turned back to you and reached a hand up to gently rub his thumb along your bruised cheek. His gaze then dipped to the book on the floor. “What are you reading?”

You hand the book to him, the page opened onto the legend of the White Fawn that Althea told you about. Kai hummed, “You don’t really believe in all that stuff, do you? This myth?”

“You don’t?” you asked incredulously. “You have magic, but don’t believe in a white deer that brings about luck and fortune?”

For the first time that night, you manage to get Kai to chuckle. “I suppose you’re right…” he trailed. “I might not be the firmest believer in myths and legends, but I do know a lot about them. We learned about them at the school—more things than you’ll read about in any book.”

Kai glances at you and catches the way your eyes light up. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips. The light still isn't back in his eyes—and his smile doesn't reach them either—but, it’s a start. You look at him as if he just hung all the stars in the pitch black sky.

“You want me to teach you?” Kai asks, and you desperately nod your head.

‎ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏  ͏͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏  ͏͏ 𐦍 ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏NEXT ⤇

[ kipo’s note . . . ] wow… a lot happened… you see why it had to be almost 8k words now?? lmaoo i had to set everything up! but tell me how you feel about it all!! what do you think about the faerie realm, or the myths of the forest that watches and the well of life? the white fawn and the prophecy of eternal winter??? lemme know all your thoughts, don’t be shy!!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡

𖥦 ﴾ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 . . . 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺.𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ﴿ ︵͡   𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 (´ε｀ʃƪ)♡

🏷️﹙ 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍? 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 ﹚ @jjunberry @gothgyuu @gyuuberries @hyukascampfire @xylatox @ghstzzn @izzyy-stuff @sunoosgfv @jihyokat @whosserina @jellymochii @innocygnet @sumsumtingz @riribelle @yeoningz @minaateez @beombunni @jiryunn @lvrs-street2mmorrow @everythingvirgoes @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @usuallyunlikelyfox @blossommi @tinycatharsis

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[scoutofmymind]

Momma I request a prompt inspired by a song of your choosing (: I L Y

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: mental health issues, mentions of past trauma, TorturedArtist!Reader, Empath!Luigi, Luigi says “go birds” after flipping off a woman, confused feelings, situationship, reader is just Very Confused in general, angst, eventual romance.

Wc: 5,107

I couldn't make it

Any harder to love me

Oh, one day, believe me

You’ll want someone who makes it easy

This has been floating around in my asks for awhile, and I wasn’t feeling practically inspired by any songs lately until Sabrina released Couldn’t Make It Any Harder and I couldn’t stop thinking about writing it.

This work was done quickly between my other ongoing Luigi projects, so I apologize for any inconsistencies or skipped backstory (you know I’m a backstory bitch) but I simply needed to get this out of my system, and remembered that an anon had asked me to write something based off of a song quite awhile ago!

Also, how could I leave you hanging on Valentine’s Day? Even if I’m posting this at 2 AM….

It's 8:30 AM at your usual coffee spot — that tiny café two blocks from Luigi's apartment where the barista always draws terrible attempts at latte art, and you’re still wearing yesterday's mascara, not because you've been crying, but because you spent the night in your studio, channeling your frustration into a new piece that's all sharp edges and bold strokes.

"I mean, we had a great time!" You're gesturing with your coffee cup, nearly spilling it. "We went to that new gallery opening, and he actually understood my rant about contemporary minimalism. Then dinner, drinks, great conversation — and now? Radio silence. Three days of nothing."

Luigi, sitting across from you, is trying not to smile at how animated you are, his laptop open beside him — he's probably got a Slack channel blowing up with messages from his dev team, but he rushed to meet you for this emergency coffee session, anyway.

The startup's dress code might be casual, but he always manages to look put-together in that effortless way that makes other tech bros look like they're not trying hard enough.

"Maybe I'm just-“ you pause, stirring your coffee aggressively, "too much, you know? Too loud, too passionate, too-"

"Stop," Luigi cuts in, closing his laptop and fixing his gaze on you again, "You're not too anything. You're exactly enough. So don’t even go there with me.” He massages his temples, “Too early for it.”

"I know that," you say firmly, because you do. "That's the thing — I like who I am. I like that I can talk about art for hours. I like that I get excited about things. I like that I feel everything so intensely. I'm not going to make myself smaller just because some guy can't handle it."

"Then don't," Luigi says, and there's something in his voice that makes you look up from the foam disappearing from your cappuccino. "The right person won't want you to."

"Exactly! And you know what? If Jake can't handle a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to say it-“ you trail off, reaching for your sketchbook. You start absent-mindedly drawing on a corner of the page.

“Ugh,” Luigi’s face screws in mock disgust, “His name was Jake?”

Putting down your pen, you lean back in your chair with a frustrated sigh. "But then again, if I'm so great, why does this keep happening? Three first dates in two months, Lu. Three. And they all end the same way."

"You mean with guys who can't handle someone who actually has opinions?" Luigi takes a sip of his coffee, his fingers tapping absently on his closed laptop. A notification buzzes on his phone — probably his team wondering where he is — but he doesn't even glance at it.

"No, see, that's just it," you lean forward, your hands moving expressively as you talk. "They love it at first. They think it's so fascinating and refreshing that I'm 'not like other girls', or whatever." You roll your eyes at the phrase, hating the taste of the words in your mouth. "But then it's like they realize I'm actually serious. That I'm not just putting on some manic pixie dream girl act for their entertainment."

Luigi's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Heaven forbid you be a real person with actual thoughts and feelings."

"Right? And I know — I know I'm not too much," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. You start fidgeting with your rings, a habit Luigi's seen a thousand times when you're wrestling with something in your head. "But sometimes I wonder if-"

"If what?"

"If maybe I should just- you know.. tone it down? Just a little? Just at first?" The words sound wrong coming out of your mouth, and you can see from Luigi's expression that he knows it, too. "No, you're right, forget I said that. That's stupid."

"It is stupid," he agrees, but gently. His eyes catch yours across the table again, his gaze steady and genuine. "Remember that installation you did last month? The one about authenticity?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you tell that bag of bones professor who said it was 'overwhelmingly honest'?"

A smile starts to spread across your face. "I told him that was the whole damn point."

"Exactly." Luigi checks his watch and starts gathering his things — he's definitely late now. "So maybe the problem isn't that you're too overwhelming,” he pats the top of your head, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “maybe they're just underwhelming."

•

You're standing in front of your last piece, forcing a smile that feels like it's splitting your face in half, as another guest explains to you what your own art means.

Behind you, you can hear snippets of conversations that make your skin crawl.

It's a bit... aggressive, isn't it?

Not quite gallery standard... these nepo kids..

Experimental, but perhaps too experimental..

Your hands are shaking, so you clasp them behind your back. You've been doing this grim waltz for two hours — nodding, smiling, explaining yourself over and over to people who look through you rather than at you, and the gallery owner keeps shooting you these looks, these little disappointed glances that make you feel about two inches tall.

You catch Luigi's eye across the room.

He's been watching, you realize, while pretending to be deeply invested in a conversation with some tech entrepreneur who probably thinks art is a good investment opportunity, and he tilts his head slightly — a question.

You shake yours — you’re not okay.

"The brushstrokes here," the current patron is saying, pointing at your most vulnerable piece, "they're rather — well, chaotic. Unorganized. Muddy. It’s strange to see. Was that intentional?"

Something inside you splinters.

"Excuse me," you manage, your voice surprisingly steady for how the room is tunneling, how your fingers begin to tingle, how your lungs have lost the ability to draw in a full breath. "I need some air."

You make it through the gallery, past the whispers and the stares, past the owner who starts to say something about maintaining appearances, past the front desk and around the corner to the back alley.

Then your legs give out.

You're gasping, trying to remember how breathing works, your back against the cold brick wall. The dress — that stupid yellow dress that Luigi said was his favorite — feels too tight. Everything feels too tight.

You tear at your collar, needing air, needing space, needing- "Hey." Luigi's voice, close but not too close. "I'm here."

"I can't-" you choke out. "I can't breathe, I can't-"

"Yes, you can." He moves slowly into your space, hands hovering but not touching. "Look at me. Just look at me. I’m right here. It’s all good.”

You shake your head violently, sliding down the wall. "They're right. They're all right. I'm not- this- This isn't-" Each word feels like it's being ripped from your throat, bloody and raw and dishonest and horrific. They aren’t right. You know they aren’t.

"Bullshit." The sharpness in his voice makes you look up. He's crouched in front of you now, his tie completely undone, his eyes fierce. "They're not right. They're not even close to right. They're looking at fireworks and complaining about the noise. Old fuckin’ bunch’a assholes.”

A sob catches in your throat, half laugh, half cry. "That's a terrible metaphor."

"Made you look at me, though." His voice softens, his hands resting on your clammy shoulders. "Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe."

You try to match his exaggerated breathing, your hands still shaking. "I put everything into this show," you whisper after your second deep breath. "Everything."

"I know."

"And they just- they- they just-“

"I know." He shifts, sitting beside you against the wall, careful to leave space, but still your shoulders bump together. "But. Want to know what I think?"

You turn your head to look at him, makeup probably ruined, dress definitely stained from the alley ground, but you’ve already abandoned ship, you’ve waved your white flag — there’s no use in pretending you haven’t crumbled in a New York alleyway now. "What?"

"I think they're terrified of you."

That startles a real laugh out of you, “What?"

"You heard me." He's looking straight ahead, but there's something fierce in his profile. "You walked in there with your soul on full display, unapologetic and raw and real, and they don't know what to do with that. People like that, they're comfortable with art they can hang in their dining rooms and forget about.” You watch him blink, gathering the words, “Your shit doesn't let them forget. It makes them feel things they don't want to feel."

You nudge him gently, a laugh flaring your nostrils. "That's a lot better than the fireworks metaphor."

Now he does look at you, a small smile playing at his lips, his cheeks blushed crimson from the wine he’d gulped down just to make himself a bit more sociable. "Yeah, well, I've had three glasses of their overpriced wine. I'm feeling poetic."

Another laugh bubbles up, watery but real. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a moment. "I don't want to go back in there."

"So we won’t." He doesn't move, letting you lean on him, his head leaning atop yours. "Let's go get real drinks instead. You can tell me all the things you wanted to say to that guy who tried to explain color theory to you."

"God, he was the worst." You straighten up slowly, wiping at your eyes. "Did you see his socks?"

"I was trying not to."

•

You're standing at the open bar, counting the minutes until it's socially acceptable to leave, when Madison — a college friend you haven't seen in years, who always seemed to help herself to open bars beyond her means — sways over.

Her champagne sloshes dangerously close to your dress, but for some reason, you don’t step back.

"Oh my god, it really is you!" Her voice carries just a bit too loud, and you can feel a few heads turning in your direction. "I almost didn't recognize you without, you know-“ she gestures vaguely at all of you, that sick smile still on her blush pink lips. "All the paint and shit all over you.”

You take a long sip of your drink, hoping it would wash away the rising tide of anxiety in your core. "Good to see you too, Mads.”

"So,” She leans in conspiratorially, her breath smelling of booze and mid-tier champagne. “I heard about your gallery show last month. The one at The Maxwell? God, that must have been-“ She trails off, eyes wide with what looks like concern but feels like something else entirely.

Your hand tightens around your glass. "Must have been what?" Your lips tighten into a line, “It was an- an honor to have the opportunity.”

Words your father had always said to you growing up echo in the far depths of your mind; Honor and Integrity.

There’s a humility in it, in accepting such a nightmare as privilege.

"Well, I mean — I saw that article that was going around Instagram. About how you just up and left? In the middle of opening night?" She takes another sip of champagne, watching you over the rim with her big, stupid brown eyes. "Is that true? That you didn't even come back to collect your pieces? God, that's crazy!"

The word crazy hits like a slap, and you can still feel the panic from that night, the walls closing in as people whispered, pointed, discussed your work like it was a car crash they couldn't look away from and did nothing to aid.

"It's not exactly-"

"And after everything with Matt, and then Jason- ugh,” She shakes her head. "I mean, I get it. Using art as therapy. But maybe actual therapy would be — I dunno — you know, beneficial?”

"Madison-"

"I'm just worried about you," she continues, reaching for your arm and her fingers feel like serpents, coiling around your skin, suffocating you. "We all are. First the whole thing with your poor father — god, remember how he used to say you were just too-"

"Don't." Your voice comes out sharper than intended, your brows furrowed at her like she’d backhanded you. “Don’t you fucking say another word.”

Madison almost gasps, clutching her necklace. “See? This is what I mean. All this reactionary stuff. The anger. The intensity. Have you thought about getting help? My therapist says sometimes when we've been through things-"

The garden somehow feels too small, the fairy lights too bright, the music too loud. Across the room, Luigi is trapped in conversation with the bride's uncle, but somehow he must sense something because his eyes find yours, his head tilted at you, his usual question.

Everything okay?

This time, you look away from him.

"I’m going to leave this conversation before-“

"No, wait, listen." Madison's grip on your arm tightens, slithering, sneering, hissing. Fangs, poison. “That show — people were talking about it for weeks. How raw it was. How fucking uncomfortable it made everyone. One of the pieces — the one with all the broken mirrors? Someone said it looked like a cry for help."

You can feel your pulse in your throat. "It wasn't a fucking-“

"And then you just disappeared! Like, who does that, girl? Just leaves their own show? The curator had to pack up your pieces himself. That's what the article said. Is that true?" She may as well have a microphone beneath your trembling lips, taking on the role of some cheap reporter for a local shittalking magazine.

Of course she read the article.

Everyone read the article.

The one that called your work a disturbing glimpse into a clearly troubled mind. The one that suggested your artistic breakdown was inevitable given your history of emotional instability.

It was laughable, truly, and anyone that knew you well enough had known so much to be so very far from the truth.

"I had my reasons," you manage, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself. “I had reason for leaving the way I did.”

"Obviously you did. That's what I'm saying. Maybe if you got some help, you know, dealt with all this and found ways to properly cope-“ She waves her hand vaguely again, like swatting away a pesky fly. "Then maybe you could make art that's more you know.. accessible. Enjoyable. Less-“

"Less me?" The words come out before you can stop them. “Bullshit. You wouldn’t know, Madison. You haven’t seen a single one of my shows, haven’t shown yourself at any of my gallery openings-“ your cheeks burn red hot, your glass of wine discarded and your hands balled into fists. “You’re lucky I don’t fucking pop that smirk right off your-“

"That's not what I-"

“It is exactly what you fucking-“

“No, it’s not! Look at yourself!”

"Hey!” Luigi's voice cuts through the rising panic. He's suddenly there, solid and real. "Sorry to interrupt, but we have that thing that we have to get to-“ he loops his arm around yours, and he swears he can feel the heat radiating off of you, hot and quivering like a volcano deciding if it’s time to erupt just yet or not.

Madison blinks at him, her nostrils flared at the sudden interruption. It seems as though this is exactly the reaction she wanted, and was pissed the show had called curtains so quickly. "What thing?"

"That very important thing," Luigi says firmly, already guiding you away. "Great catching up. Green is not your color. Go Birds.” As he turns you both, he raises his middle finger behind your back — not because you needed defending, but because that's who Luigi is; all sharp edges and fierce loyalty, a guard dog with his teeth bared in your honor, though, you catch the gesture in a reflection, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

Not because you needed saving, but because he'd always take your side, no matter the circumstances. He didn’t need to know why you were barking at this girl he’d never met before — he already knew you had good reason to do it.

You make it to the venue's back garden before your legs give out, and the fairy lights blur through tears you refuse to let fall. "Did you— fuck,” Your voice shakes as you reach to wipe away the tears before they even get the chance to glide down your cheeks. "Did you actually hear what she was saying or just see it?”

"Caught the greatest hits." His jaw is tight, his hand resting on your lower back as he hunches forward, clearly concerned but approaching all of it carefully.

You can’t help but wonder then how many times you’ll find yourselves like this — Luigi rescuing you from yet another mishap, and that alone could become a new reason to feel sorry for yourself.

And him.

"The article." You wrap your arms around yourself. "She read the fucking article."

Ironically, you had originally taken the article well.

Too well, in fact.

You'd invited them all over — Luigi, Anna, Theo — for what you called A Reading of My Professional Obituary. You'd spent all day in the kitchen, channeling your grandmother's stress-cooking legacy; bouillabaisse simmering for hours, Tarte Tatin caramelizing to golden perfection.

The good wine came out, the kind you'd been saving for a real occasion.

Perched in your chair like it was a throne, wine glass dangling from your fingers, you'd performed dramatic readings of the choicest quotes. "Sources close to the artist describe a history of emotional instability," you'd intoned, affecting a pompous art critic voice that had Luigi choking on his wine. "An unsettling collection that seemed less like art and more like a cry for help.”

The evening devolved into a tipsy game of "Guess the Snitch" — everyone taking turns suggesting increasingly ridiculous candidates for the mysterious source. "It was Gabby, in the gallery, with the emotional manipulation!" Theo had declared, wielding his bouillabaisse spoon like a gavel.

But Luigi had watched you through it all — the way your hand shook slightly when pouring wine, how your laugh got a little too loud to be genuine, and how you'd spent three hours making a perfect French dessert like your life depended on proving you weren't falling apart.

"We all did." Luigi reminds you, his voice gentle but firm. "Christ, we turned it into dinner theater. Remember how Anna did that dramatic interpretation of ' the unsettling collection'?" His hand finds your knee, squeezing. "And it was shit. Not only was it shit — it was cowardly. Didn't even have the spine to name you."

You tilt your head back, using the stars as gravity's help against the tears threatening to spill. The fairy lights from the wedding garden blur into little halos. "I know, but — these people, Lu." Your voice catches, and you hate how it betrays you. "They believe it. They're all walking around thinking I'm some unhinged artist who needs to be sedated and locked away from sharp objects." A laugh escapes, but it's wet and hollow. "God, I wish I'd understood what that article would do. I wish-"

But there's no point in wishing.

The damage was done with surgical precision.

They hadn't needed to use your name — everyone knew exactly whose exhibition had opened at Maxwell Gallery on August fifteenth.

Yours.

•

The hotel room feels smaller with each passing hour.

You've mastered a careful choreography — sliding past each other in the narrow spaces, maintaining precise distances on the king bed as you both pretend to watch some mindless cooking show. But sometimes, despite your best efforts, you slip. His hand brushes yours as you both reach for the room service menu, your feet touch under the shared blanket; each accidental contact sends you recoiling like a startled cat, though you used to fall asleep during movie nights without a second thought.

When your knee accidentally bumps his as you shift position, you jerk away so violently you nearly fall off the bed.

"Okay." Luigi mutes the TV, turning to face you. "We need to talk about this."

"About what?" But you know exactly what, can feel heat creeping up your neck and it makes you want to run.

"About how we used to share my twin bed during college when you crashed at my place, but now you act like my skin is fucking toxic." His voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of hurt that makes your core ache. "Remember that road trip to Detroit? You slept on my chest the whole way back because the car heater was broken.“ he looks desperate, grasping at the last straws of you. “I feel like we hardly look each other in the eyes now.”

You stare hard at the geometric pattern on the duvet, picking at a loose thread. "Things were different then."

"Were they?" He shifts closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Or are you just scared they weren't?"

You get up abruptly, needing to put physical space between you and that question, the Chicago night spreading out beyond the window, a constellation of lights blurring through unshed tears; each one feels like a witness to this moment, to your cowardice.

"You know what changed," you say finally, arms crossed tight against your chest like armor. "After Maxwell, after the article, after everything became public consumption — I can't be that person anymore.”

"Why not?" His voice is closer now — he's moved to the edge of the bed, but he doesn't approach further. Giving you space while refusing to let you run.

Very classic Luigi.

A laugh escapes you, bitter and dry. "Because now everyone's watching. Waiting for the next shoe to drop. And you-“ You turn just enough to catch his reflection in the window, superimposed over the city lights. "You're too important to me, Lu.”

"So you'd rather just — what? Keep pretending?" There's frustration in his voice now, raw and real. "We both know that's not sustainable. Not when we used to-“ He trails off, and you recall the many countless nights on his cramped couch, your head on his chest, his heartbeat your lullaby to the most restful sleep you’d ever known.

"Maybe not," you admit quietly. "But it's safer than the alternative."

"Safer for who?"

The question almost knocks you off your feet.

Because he's right — this careful distance isn't protecting him. It's protecting you. From vulnerability. From the possibility of loss. From the terrifying reality that despite everything, despite all your jagged edges and dark corners, he's still here.

Still looking at you like you're something precious instead of precarious.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things you're afraid to say, all the ways you're afraid to need him, and even more terrified of the way he needs you.

Eventually, you turn from the window, facing him. "It can't be simple. I won't let it be." Your voice catches. "I push and I pull and I keep everyone at arm's length until they prove me right by leaving."

Luigi stands slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal. "You've been trying so hard to make it impossible," he says softly. "Creating distance, convincing yourself I'll give up." He takes another step closer. "But loving you has always been the easiest thing I've ever done."

"Don't." The word comes out choked, your hand pressing against his chest in hopes that he’ll back away. "Don't say that when you know how complicated — how- how difficult-"

"Difficult?" He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, stood firm but not inching any closer. "You want to talk about difficult? Try watching you date other people. Try sitting across from you at coffee shops for years and watching you cry over them. Try fucking loving you quietly through every gallery opening, every crisis,“ his brows furrow, his nostrils flare, “you don’t get to tell me what loving you is like.”

Your breath catches as he reaches for you.

"You think you're pushing me away?" His voice is barely above a whisper, his hands finally cradling your face, tears dampening your cheeks that blaze with warmth. "I've been yours since that first night you fell asleep on my shoulder during finals week. Everything since then — it's just been waiting."

You clench your jaw, your heart a wild thing against your ribs. This tightrope you and Luigi have been walking for years — this delicate balance of almost-but-not-quite, of maybe-someday-but-not-now — has finally frayed beneath your feet. All those careful steps, those perfectly maintained distances, those nights of pretending your skin didn't burn where he almost touched you.

They’ve led you here, to this hotel room in Chicago, where the fantasy of staying safely suspended between friendship and something more has finally given way to gravity.

And what, you wonder, has Luigi seen in you to make him want to dive deeper into your chaos?

He's already witnessed the 3 AM phone calls when your mind won't quiet, the obsessive cleaning episodes that leave your hands raw and your apartment sterile. He's held you through the tears that come without warning, weathered the anger that burns hot and fast like summer lightning.

You're no manic pixie dream girl — you're the real thing, messy and unpredictable, with a heart that bleeds all over everything it touches.

He's either a storm chaser or a fool, you think.

Some hopeless beast tamer who hasn't realized that some creatures aren't meant to be gentled, that some storms leave nothing but wreckage in their wake.

But that's the thing — to Luigi, you've never been a storm to weather or a beast to tame. He doesn't look at you like you're broken machinery in need of repair, doesn't treat your edges like something to be smoothed away.

Instead, he's spent years matching your pace, stepping back when you needed space, stepping forward when you needed anchor. And now, finally, the weight of all that careful patience has brought him here — raw and honest in this dim hotel room, asking you to either meet him in this space between what you are and what you could be, or lay him to rest.

"Touch me," he says, the words falling soft but heavy in the space between you. His eyes hold yours, steady and sure, "Or let me go.”

The city lights paint his silhouette in gold and shadow, and you realize you've never seen him look so vulnerable, so stripped of the careful composure he always maintains. Your Luigi laid bare — not the patient friend, not the steady shoulder, but a man who's finally reached the end of his endurance.

"What if we break?" The question slips from your lips, small and honest, carrying all the weight of your fears that kept you at such a distance all these years — shattering to pieces, left broken by the man you’d loved the most.

Luigi's eyes soften, and something like a smile — sad and sweet and knowing — tugs at the corner of his lips. "Then we break," he says simply, his thumbs swiping away the tears that slide down your cheeks. "But I'd rather that than spend the rest of my life whole and wondering."

His hands haven’t moved. Patient, steady Luigi, who has never pushed but never fully retreated, either. Who has somehow found this perfect middle ground between staying and going, between asking and waiting.

And maybe that's what finally does it — the realization that he's offering you both beginning and end in the same breath. That he's standing here saying yes to all of it; the possibility of breaking, of shattering, of ending up with nothing but deadly carnage between you.

That he knows exactly what he's asking for, and he's asking anyway.

Your hand moves before you can think yourself out of it again, crossing the space between you like a prayer finally answered. When you cup his face, the scrape of stubble against your palm is both foreign and achingly familiar — like a song you used to know by heart, now half-remembered.

His eyes flutter closed at your touch, and you feel the slight tremor in his jaw, the way he leans into your hand like he's been starving for it.

His breath catches, shaky and soft, and when he speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. "There you are," he whispers against your palm, like he's greeting someone long lost, like you've finally come home after years away. "There you are."

His lips brush your palm once more before he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes dark with something between hope and heartache. "Tell me to pull away," he whispers, voice rough. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll go. I'll understand."

But his body betrays him — the slight tremor still present in his jaw under your touch, the way he's still leaning into your hand like he can't help himself. He's offering you an exit, even now. Steady, selfless Luigi, always making sure you have a way out, even when it's killing him to do so.

And that's what breaks you finally — not his touch or his words, but this endless capacity of his to put your needs first.

To stand here offering everything he has left and the chance to walk away from it.

His hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into soft flesh with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. That small sound seems to undo something in him — his control fractures, and suddenly he's pulling you down to him with a urgency that matches your own, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath your palms.

"I've thought about this," he confesses roughly, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes heat pool low in your stomach, his thumb tracing a burning path along your hip bone. "Having you like this.”

You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way he's still holding back despite everything. Even now, he's giving you the chance to set the pace, to decide how far this goes. But you're done with hesitation, done with the careful distance you've maintained for so long.

You lean down, letting your lips brush against his ear. "Show me," you whisper, and feel him shudder beneath you. "Show me how you wanted me."

He moves with a swiftness that steals your breath, flipping your positions in one fluid motion. Now he's the one hovering above you, his forearm braced beside your head, other hand still at your waist.

The weight of him, the heat of him so close — it makes your head spin.

"Like this," he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. "Just like this." He holds you like you’ll run from him — just like he’s watched you run from everything before that doesn’t run from you first.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the tension there, the way he's trembling slightly despite his strength. "I'm here," you whisper back, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

[alexusonfire]

She Blossoms in the Night

Patti!Fosca x Fem!Reader

Happy Valentines Day everyone, have a little sweet treat 🖤 Requested by @kittenpielove , mostly fluff, with a HINT of angst if you squint

She’d captured my attention from the moment I first saw her.

A pale, fragile thing, with dark hair that hung in long strands down her back. Her walk was hunched and hobbled, like the pain in her joints was almost too much for her to bear. Clothed in layers, despite the lingering summer heat, her swaying skirts could be heard down the long halls, warning of her impending arrival. Older than I, perhaps exaggerated by illness, with such sullen eyes they drew instant pity. 

I’d heard of the Colonel’s sickly cousin from my brother’s letters; “a ghost” is how he described her. Gaunt and haunting, her wails of pain were often heard long into the night. The men avoided her as best they could, on constant alert for the sway and howls; they’d even go so far as to completely ignore her at dinner, hooting and hollering around her as she sat in her own melancholy. 

Upon finally meeting Senora Fosca, I could not fathom what he’d been writing about; in all my years, I’d never found someone quite so alluring.

Our first real exchange was in the greenhouse, which I would later learn Fosca tended to herself. I’d only meant to take a short walk, something to clear my thoughts lest I be left tossing and turning. As I ambled between rows of gardenias and petunias, their scent wafting pleasantly in the air, her sudden presence in the doorway startled me. Loud as she could be in her throes, silence came just as easily to her. 

A ghost, wicked and cursed, the men would have whispered, the way she was half-hidden by shadow.

Yet I’d never seen her so beautiful.

“I did not mean to frighten you.”

I asked her to sit with me, mostly for my own selfish reasons. I could not stop admiring the way the moonlight reflected those dark strands of hair, once so dull and bland now seeming vibrant. Her skin shone, eyes sparkled; she so often hid from the sun, its rays flushing her unpleasantly, but here, in the cool glow of the moon, she flourished. I wanted to keep her here forever, if only so that I might look upon her wistful beauty as often as I pleased.

Our conversation flowed easily, lengthening well into the night. She remained firmly rooted in reality, her reality, refusing to spin pretty tales of love and fantasy. I encouraged her to speak of the small pleasantries she had, such as her piano that she often played, or the novels that lined the walls of the quarters. When she finally bestowed me with a small smile, it felt as though the sun had finally burst through the clouds on a cold, rainy day. I knew, from that very briefest of moments, that she’d captured something within me.

__

I began to ask after her, to her cousin and the Doctor, sometimes even being so bold as to knock on her door when the light barely clung to the corners of her shadowy bedroom. I longed to see her lit by the moon time and time again, so deeply it was like an ache welling in my chest. Much to my initial surprise, she never objected to my visiting, and soon began to ask after me as well. We now spent our days together, reading, gardening, or she teaching me the notes of her piano. Sometimes we would speak, other times simply be near one another. Her cousin was so pleased to see that Fosca had finally found a friend, and the doctor attributed the color she had gained in her hollow cheeks to our closeness.

As time went on, I became more and more infatuated. I took it upon myself to care for her when the doctor could not, even going so far as to share her bed when her mental state did not allow my departure. We clung to each other, more than would normally be found appropriate, but as the men were busy with their own tasks and truthfully, they were simply glad to have Fosca out of their hair, no one said a word against it.

I couldn't be more pleased with their lack of attention. I adored having her all to myself, my sweet, sad little mourning dove. Her cold hand in mine brought me a sense of belonging I hadn’t experienced in years, and one evening as we lay curled into one another, she told me much the same.

We snuck away to the ruined castle for our first kiss. Ever conscious of her declined physical state, I waited for a day she seemed brighter, lighter, more sure of herself on her feet. When the light fell and darkness rose, I gathered her and an oil lamp up, then headed down the rocky path. She held tightly to me, her boned fingers digging into the cotton of my sleeve. Her gentle voice guided me through the winding vines and crumbled stone, leading us to the overgrown courtyard gardens. She’d spoken of this place often, with such reverence. Her entire body filled with it now, her spine straightening and shoulders relaxing. When her lips tipped upwards, I could bear it no longer. I pulled her flush to me, we sharing a small moment of longing between us before her mouth melded to mine. We fit perfectly together, as though we were always meant to be connected in this way. With the moon as our witness, we claimed each other for our own, swearing our love and our lives to one another for as long as hers would allow.

–-

Ten years we shared, filled with more love and joy than either of us had ever hoped for. Though the true extent of our affections remained behind closed doors and hidden corners, we often found peace in the greenhouse while the world slept. Even when her legs weakened to needing a cane, she held my arm for support as I sat her amongst the flowers, she curling into me as we wiled away the hours discussing life and our menial day-to-day.

I lay those same flowers on her grave, as she requested of me, and took care in their upkeep every week. I would sit with her in the evenings, that block of marble shining as she did under the moon, and tell her of my life without her, how I missed her, and couldn’t wait to see her again.

My ghost. My mourning dove. My Moonflower.

My sweet Fosca.

[cozmowrites]

Valentine's Day (2025)

It wasn’t that Bakugou Katsuki hated Valentine’s Day. He just hated how stupidly obvious his feelings were on it.

For months, he’d been struggling with this.... thing. A crush. On you. And as much as he wanted to deny it, his body refused to cooperate. His eyes always searched for you first in a crowded room, his heartbeat picked up when you smiled, and—damn it—he actually cared about what you thought of him.

Today was especially awful because everywhere he looked, people were handing out chocolates, writing dumb love letters, and whispering about confessions. Worse, his stupid friends kept teasing him about his feelings. Kirishima elbowed him during class, wiggling his eyebrows. Mina kept giving him these ridiculous knowing looks.

And you? You were as infuriating as ever, laughing and chatting, completely unaware that you were wrecking him.

What he didn’t know was that you were suffering just as much.

You had been crushing on Bakugou for months, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t find the courage to tell him. He was intimidating, loud, and way toogood-looking for your sanity. Even worse, when he wasn’t yelling, he was doing things that made your heart race—like carrying your books without being asked or standing just a little too close.

And today? Today was hell.

You’d spent the entire morning overthinking. Should you confess? Should you just give him chocolates and run? Or should you pretend like this was just a normal day and suffer in silence?

Neither of you were prepared for what actually happened.

+++

It started when you both reached for the last bottle of your favorite drink in the vending machine.

“Oh,” you said, blinking up at him.

His eyes flicked to you, then to the bottle. “Tch. I was here first.”

You raised an eyebrow. “We got here at the same time.”

He scowled. “Yeah, well—”

And then, like an idiot, he just... handed it to you.

Your breath caught. “You—are you sure?”

He grumbled something under his breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just take the damn thing.”

Your heart thumped painfully. He didn’t have to do that. He could’ve taken it for himself.

You hesitated for half a second before blurting out, “I like you!”

A beat of silence.

His head snapped up so fast you worried he’d get whiplash. His face turned red in record time.

“What?!”

Your hands flew to your mouth. Oh, no.

Oh no oh no oh no—

Bakugou gawked at you, brain short-circuiting. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up, and the next thing he knew, he was yelling, “Well, I like you too, dumbass!”

A second, heavier silence.

Your hands were still clamped over your mouth. His eyes were impossibly wide. You both stood frozen, staring at each other in complete shock.

Had you seriously just confessed at the same time?!

It took all of two seconds for the reality to sink in before the both of you absolutely lost it.

Your brain shut down, your entire body heating up. You turned on your heel, about to flee, but Bakugou grabbed your wrist before you could escape.

“Oh, no you don’t!” He barked, face still red. “You don’t get to drop that bomb and run!”

“I didn’t mean to say it!” you wailed, covering your face with your hands.

He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I meant to?! It just—fuck! This is your fault!”

“My fault?! How is it my fault?!”

“You—you were just standing there, looking at me with your stupid face—”

“My stupid face?!”

“I meant—you always look stupidly cute and it pissed me off, okay?!”

You swore your soul left your body. Bakugou’s eyes went wide when he realized what he said, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to explode on the spot.

And then, because neither of you had control over your emotions, you started laughing.

You doubled over, holding your stomach, while he groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Shut up,” he grumbled. “This is the worst confession ever.”

You gasped between laughs. “You—you just called me cute while yelling at me.”

His glare was weak at best. “I’ll kill you.”

“You won’t.”

He huffed, looking away. “...I won’t.”

The laughter eventually died down, leaving a strange sort of warmth between you. Your hands fidgeted around the drink bottle. “So... now what?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “....Wanna go out with me?”

Your breath caught. “You’re actually asking me?”

“Obviously!” He scowled. “I just yelled at you about liking you, dumbass.”

You bit your lip, trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“...Good.”

Neither of you moved at first, still a little stunned. But then, hesitantly, Bakugou reached for your hand. His palm was warm, rough but careful. Your fingers intertwined naturally.

“...I’m still taking you on a proper date,” he muttered.

Your heart swelled. “Looking forward to it, boyfriend Katsuki. Happy Valentine's Day.”

His face turned red all over again. “Shut up.”

But he didn’t let go.

+++

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