#this took me too long and I had to remind myself writing it bad is better than not writing lmao

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

The joyous din of the party was distant as Wyll sat by the riverside. Wyll hadn’t strayed too far from the camp, but the celebrations and singing felt miles away, a lifetime away.

Against all odds, Majexatli had managed not just to save the tieflings, but also save Halsin, take down the goblin leaders, talk Kagha out of the Rite of Thorns, and have the title of Faithwarden bestowed upon them. They were a hero. Wyll couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of a celebration in their honor.

Wyll had helped, certainly, and he couldn’t have been more honored to be by Majexatli’s side. They were a competent leader, a skilled warrior, a sage druid. He had done his best to help them at every turn, help the tiefling refugees in any way possible. But even as he had been teaching the tiefling children how to defend themselves, when he first saw Majexatli, there had only been one thing on his mind. 

Karlach. 

The violent devil he had spent so long hunting, the monster he had sworn to cut down. The one he had traveled to Averus to kill, only to discover she was only a young woman tiefling, a victim of Zariel, forced into servitude. She was no more a monster than he was.

He didn't regret sparing her. He would do it again.

Yet—

His dreams were still haunted by how close he had come to killing her. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the hellfire burning his skin and his soul was dragged through all the levels of hell. Every time he caught a glimpse of his reflection he was reminded of it all, that he was nothing more than a devil’s puppet. Every time people looked at him, all they saw was his worst.

Wyll never regretted his pact, how could he? How much good has he done because of it, he saved Baldur’s Gate, saved countless people. He couldn’t regret it. He was the Blade of Frontiers, a monster hunter, protecting the innocent with the powers granted by Mizora. He had sworn to only ever hunt monsters and devils.

But how many were just like Karlach—

A twig snapped behind Wyll and he couldn’t help the way his breath hitched, his heart fluttered in anticipation. Perhaps it was selfish, to think that they would leave their own celebration just to see him. He couldn’t ignore that hope though, as much as he tried.

Turning to look where the noise came from, though, that hope vanished.

Stood a few yards away was a wolf, large with dark brown fur and yellow eyes trained on him.

Fear shot through Wyll for a moment, freezing him in place as his mind raced. He was unarmored, unarmed. He had left all his equipment back at camp, he wasn’t even sure how much magic he had left in him after a full day of battle.

Before Wyll’s mind could race much any further, Wyll saw the wolf lower its head and whine.  

Majexatli, Wyll realized, a warmth spreading in his chest. 

The other day, he had seen them wildshape into a wolf while fighting the gnolls on the risen road. It was a form they rarely took, at least for as long as Wyll had known them. 

For a moment on the battlefield, he had wondered what their strategy was, why that form. Often they chose something larger, a bear, a rothé, something that could shrug and walk off arrows and stabs.

His questioning didn’t last long, when a gnoll cornered him and out of nowhere the wolf jumped at the gnoll’s throat, tackling it to the ground and biting down with a jaw powerful enough that Wyll heard the gnoll’s spine crunch.

The wolf before him now looked worlds different from the one he saw with bared teeth and blood-soaked fur. Its eyes were wide and curious, fur clean and soft, though its right ear was still missing, skin raw from where a gnoll had torn it off. 

The wolf padded closer to Wyll cautiously, and Wyll let out a chuckle.

“I had hoped you wouldn’t notice I was gone,”

It was partially true. Some deep, selfish part of him hoped they would come looking for him. He shouldn’t have hoped for it, shouldn’t be glad they left the celebration. 

The wolf whined again as it approached, and mid-stride it was consumed by a golden light. In the blink of an eye, Majexatli was by his side, sitting next to him on the rock. They weren’t quite touching him, but Wyll could feel the warmth radiating off them, melting away the chill of the night. He had to stop himself from leaning into them.

“You were the first person I looked for, of course I noticed,” Majexatli said, adjusting their bad leg with a slight wince.

“Really? I mean— ahem, I’m honored,”

It was hard not to stumble over his words around them.

“Are you alright?”

Majexatli looked over at Wyll, briefly meeting his eyes before returning their gaze to the river. They rarely made eye contact; seeing Majexatli’s green eyes focused on him, even just for a moment, almost made his breath hitch. This close, Wyll could see the worry on their face, the lines on their face more pronounced as they looked out at the river.

“I’m deeply proud of you, a touch less so of myself,” Wyll sighed, joining Majexatli in looking out towards the water, “In truth, I don’t feel in a festive mood and didn’t want to cast a gray cloud over the night.”

Majexatli was silent for a few moments.

“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” 

You coming to find me already means the world.

“It’s alright, you needn’t worry. Any other time and I would love to join you in celebrating, but…” Wyll let out another sigh, “I’m a devil. I love the people from the grove, but I unsettle them deep down. As I seem to unsettle everyone nowadays.” 

“Wyll, that’s not true,” 

Majexatli’s frown had deepened, the sight almost hurt to see.

Wyll almost wanted to be honest, tell them the truth. I’ve likely killed innocent people. People used to look at me as a hero but now all they see is a monster. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, though.

“Come on, you don’t want a devil at your party. Claws will pop the balloons, you see. And the sweetcakes don't taste half as good as raw eggs with this blasted forked tongue,” Wyll smiled, trying to make light of it all, trying to keep Majexatli from seeing through him to the truth. 

“You’re no more a devil than any of us,”

In appearance, perhaps. You don’t know everything I’ve done for Mizora. And I chose to be this way. I wouldn’t change what I did. I would make the pact again if given a chance to do it over. I don’t regret it. I don’t. I can’t regret it.

“If only half the world had half the heart you do,”  Wyll said softly before he could stop himself.

“Wyll…”

They sounded so earnest. 

“Ah, but I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Wyll bit back the selfish urge to keep them here, to lean on them, to tell them everything, “You have a party to return to! Have a dance, enjoy the music. I’ll be back to my old self in no time,” 

Wyll patted their shoulder with a smile. He half expected them to leave immediately, that the moment he finished speaking, they would nod politely and be enveloped in golden light as they returned to whichever form they felt suited them.

In the time Wyll had known them, he had learned enough about them to know they weren’t particularly social. Majexatli preferred silence, solitude, being surrounded by nature rather than engaging in small talk or comforting others. 

Even in the river, Wyll had noticed their tension, the faint edge in their voice, the way they kept their distance. He knew they didn’t mean him any ill will, it was just as they had said, they were unused to being around people. They were a druid that spent their time in the wilds far from settlements, it was understandable, even the kindest druids in the Emerald Grove had seemed slightly awkward around outsiders. Perhaps Wyll should have turned down their invitation—

Wyll pulled himself from his thoughts as he realized Majexatli was still sitting there, looking down, fidgeting with their sleeve, or rather, something in their sleeve. Wyll saw the faintest glint of something silver between their fingers.

“I… I came out here for a reason, you know,” 

“Oh?” 

Majexatli shifted slightly, perhaps by accident, perhaps coincidentally, their knee touching his. The playful retort that had been on the tip of Wyll’s tongue died at the sudden contact, heart skipping a beat.

“I did,”

They fidgeted again, moonlight once again reflecting off something by their side. Wyll paid it no mind though, regaining his composure and smiling.

“And here I thought you had stumbled out here by accident, perhaps all the wine has gotten the better of you,”

As much as he was teasing them, looking at them, he could see their lips faintly stained red from wine. With the amount of bottles he had seen at camp before he left, he shouldn’t be surprised that they were likely a bit drunk. The thought hurt, somehow, the idea that what fueled their care for him in this moment might just be the wine talking—

“I’m afraid I’m quite sober,”

Perhaps it should have struck him as strange. Surely they were lying, exaggerating. He hadn’t seen them drink before, perhaps they handled their alcohol better than most.

“Is that so? Surely then you must have been looking for somewhere quiet to relax and I’ve intruded on your solitude and quite ruined your whole evening,”

Wyll was only half joking, trying to hide the fact that he was nervous, second-guessing himself. He scanned their face intently. Surely he must have misread the signs. 

“I wasn’t looking for solitude, actually,”

Majexatli shifted again, just barely, the hand they were leaning on moving over just enough that they brushed Wyll’s own hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see they were clutching something tightly in their other hand.

After a moment, Wyll slowly moved his hand over Majexatli’s. He was almost afraid, worried Majexatli might get spooked and bolt like a cornered animal. But they stayed, half turning towards him, eyes wide.

“I—It’s a long shot, but- maybe you’ve grown fond of me. Gods know I’ve grown fond of you.”

He heard Majexatli’s breath hitch.

“I think I do, have feelings for you that is,” Majexatli said slowly, occasionally flicking their eyes over to meet his.

“Then we share a similar affliction, though I can’t say I’ve earned the honor,” Wyll let out a half-laugh, “The Blade hasn’t really lived up to own reputation, I haven’t even managed to kill a single devil,”

It was true—Majexatli hadn’t seen the best of The Blade. They saw him nearly kill an innocent woman, saw him get dragged through the hells in punishment, saw the tight grip Mizora had on him. What must they think of him? If his patron punished him for being good and he hadn’t been punished like this before.

Majexatli pulled back slightly, and Wyll braced himself for rejection.

“You don't need to be the Blade of Frontiers, Wyll,” Was what Majexatli said instead, looking almost hurt, “You’re more than just the Blade,”

“The Blade is my best self, some days I even live up to it,”

Majexatli was quiet for a moment, eyes distant, face stony. What Wyll wouldn’t give to see them smile, relax, feel at ease. They looked far older than they were, aged by a constant stress and frown that seemed unfitting of a druid. As the quiet carried on, Wyll couldn’t help a gnawing guilt, that he was only adding to their stress, adding unnecessary layers to an already awful situation. Majexatli could be celebrating and drinking at a party in their honor, but instead, they were at Wyll’s side, looking more melancholy than ever.

“Does it hurt?” Majexatli asked eventually, breaking the silence.

“I— pardon?”

The question caught Wyll off guard, he wasn’t even sure what they meant. 

“Having a title you feel you aren’t living up to? Does it hurt?” Majexatli continued, “Is the Blade who you are, or is it a role, a front, character, boots you can never fill that contain some ephemeral worth?”

“What brought this on?”

Majexatli looked up at the stars above, they opened their mouth to speak but stopped themselves, tail flicking at their side.

“What happened in the Grove… with Kagha, the way she named me Faithwarden,”

Wyll wasn’t too familiar with druid customs, but he had been able to sense that it was something meaningful. He saw the surprise on the other druids’ faces as Kagha named them Faithwarden, placing the quarterstaff in their hands that radiated a faint golden light.

“I hear it’s quite an honor, you deserve it, for all you did at the Grove. I don’t know much of Silvanus, but you seem to honor his teachings well,”

Majexatli almost flinched at his words.

At their reaction, their visceral disgust, something clicked in Wyll’s mind, a puzzle piece falling into place. As enigmatic and stoic as Majexatli was, all of the little slips in their mask were compounding. Their discomfort in the Grove, their unusual coldness towards Calnys there, their seeming contempt for Wyll’s congratulations and mention of Silvanus…

“I don’t care for the title,” Majexatli said, then added, almost inaudible, “Not this time,”

There was something just beneath the surface, just out of reach.

“This time?”

For the briefest moment, he felt his tadpole twitch, flashes of images in his mind. Pale hands braiding dark curly hair. The feel of fine robes with delicate elven embroidery. Butterflies in stomach, kneeling before an older half-elf before a crowd of druids. 

With a pang of guilt, Wyll wondered if he had probed their mind without meaning to. 

“I just... I need you to know that I care about you, Wyll. I would care about you if you weren't the Blade, I would care about you if you weren't a hero. You matter to me as a person, not a story or title,”

Majexatli’s hand found Wyll’s, warm and calloused, squeezing gently, earnestly, desperately. They had turned to look at him fully for the first time that night, meeting his eyes directly, searching for something. 

This was a different Majexatli than Wyll had seen before, unguarded in a way that felt more intimate than bathing with them in the river the other day. Wyll leaned in closer without realizing.

“I—I’ll try to remember that, but I’m not sure what I have without the title,”

“You’re enough,”

Majexatli still held Wyll’s hand, looked in his eyes, leaned close to him. 

“In another life, I can imagine courting you properly, dancing in ballrooms,” Wyll said softly.

Wyll would have given anything to see it, to live it. To get a chance to lead Majexatli and glide across the dancefloor with them. To see what Majexatli would look like well-rested, well cared for. For them to see him as he used to be, some version of himself more worthy of their affection.

There was a flash of something across Majexatli’s face, something unreadable. They regained composure quickly, face softening as they brought up their hand to cup Wyll’s face. A faintly metallic smell hit Wyll, subtle enough to barely register.

“I don’t have another life, just this one, where I met you,”

Some skeptical part of Wyll had wondered if it had all been a ploy, that Majexatli simply craved intimacy with anyone and he was just romantic enough to fall for it. There was no way they meant what they said, there had to be some hidden motive, and yet—

Majexatli’s calloused thumb stroked his cheek with such tenderness.  

Hells. 

Wyll could court them in this life, even if he was a devil and they both had tadpoles in their heads and the Absolute threatening them at every turn. As much as he wanted it to be perfect, as much as he wanted to take his time—

Wyll leaned in, slowly, cautiously, half expecting Majexatli to stop him. Instead, they closed the distance, pressing their chapped lips to his softly.

The kiss lasted only a moment, Wyll’s hand finding their waist as he kissed back, Majexatli still cupping his cheek with a gentleness he hadn’t seen them show before. He had to stop himself from clinging to them and kissing back with the fevered desperation he felt, trying to chase the warmth and safety he felt in their arms.

“I—well, then,” Wyll started, cheeks burning hot as he pulled away, “Erm, you've got a party to get back to. After all, tonight is about you.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Wyll,”

Majexatli nodded with a faint smile, standing up and immediately being consumed by golden light as they once again assumed their wolf form. They trotted off towards the woods, towards camp Wyll hoped. 

As they disappeared in the treeline, Wyll realized a taste lingered on his lips. 

Not wine.

Blood.

[aila0veyou2death]

𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

𖹭 pairings: mohawk!mark grayson x male!punk!reader (A.K.A rage-fueled delinquent with piercings and unresolved mommy issues x grin-wearing misfit with a punk playlist and a history of bad ideas)

𖹭 TW: cheating, blood, violence, cursing, mommy issues, reader is slightly older than mark, strangers-to-friends with benefits trope?, slight angst, anger issues, substance use (alcohol/smoking implied), marking, unspoken feelings, unhealthy coping mechanism, overstimulation, 4nal s3x, handj0b, belly bulging, spit as lube, some gay shit, top!mark, bottom!reader, p0rn with a plot.

𖹭 author's note: there's seriously not enough mohawk!mark content out there, and even less mark grayson x male!reader fics—so i said, screw it, I'll just write one myself. This fic was inspired by @asaarii's mohawk!mark x punk!reader—definitely worth to check out ♡

Warning though: this fic is long, messy, and it's my first time writing a bl, so bear with me! Hope you enjoy :P

Mark's knuckles were still sore from yesterday.

He flexed his hand slowly under the cafeteria table, watching the faded bruises bloom purple under his skin like wilting flowers. The skin around his knuckles was split in places, rough and raw. He hadn't even noticed when it happened—he just kept swinging.

Some creature had ripped through a mall parking lot yesterday. Another ugly, screeching thing from god knows where. Mark showed up because it was what he was supposed to do—what Omni-Man's son was meant to do. Be the hero. Save the day. Do it all with a clean conscience and a smile for the cameras.

But he snapped.

He didn't just stop the monster—he beat it down until it stopped moving. Until it stopped breathing. Until it was just a twitching, pulpy mess under his fists. He remembered the sound more than the sight. The dull thuds, wet and meaty, echoing off concrete. He remembered the cameras catching every second of it. Some hero.

He didn't know if he regretted it. But he knew Debbie saw it.

The footage had aired on the news loop last night. Blood splattered across his uniform. His eyes, shadowed behind broken goggles, burned with fury. His jaw was clenched, teeth bared, looking less like a man and more like something barely human. Debbie hadn't said a word when he got home. She didn't yell. Didn't ask if he was okay.

She just turned off the TV.

This morning, she didn't speak to him at all.

She sat in silence, sipping her coffee with that same blank look on her face, like she couldn't even stand to look at him. Like having Mark in the house was a reminder of a mistake she never wanted to make in the first place. He felt like he was losing it. She just sighed, murmured something about being late for work, and walked past him like he was part of the furniture.

It always started the same: the tightness in his chest, the quietness in the house, the echo of his own footsteps. Mark hated that house. It was too clean. Too empty. Too haunted. His mom barely spoke to him anymore, and when she did, it was with that tired voice like she was talking to Nolan again.

He hated being the only damn thing left that tied him to the man he used to call his father.

And what he hated even more was that, day by day, he was turning into him.

Across from him now, Eve was still talking about yesterday's events, about what he did. Her words came soft and careful, like each one might be the one that finally set him off. She hadn't touched her food either, just picking at the corner of her napkin, glancing up every now and then like she was hoping he'd meet her halfway. But Mark was stone still, his silence was heavy and his eyes were distant. The only sign he was even present was the slow clench of his jaw and the flex of his bruised hand beneath the table.

She took a small breath. "You didn't have to kill it like that…"

Mark didn't look at her.

"You know, she called me..." Eve said after a moment. "Your mom. Last night."

That got his eyes on her.

"She didn't say much," Eve added quickly, like it would soften the blow. "Just that… when she saw you on the screen, all bloody like that—she said she could barely recognize you, Mark. And, um… she said it reminded her of your dad."

Mark's lips pressed into a hard line. "Of course it did."

"Every damn thing about me reminded her of that fucking bastard."

Eve shifted uncomfortably, biting her lip, her eyes scanning him, as if trying to read what was behind the hardness of his expression. She finally sighed, the tension between them were too thick for her to ignore any longer.

"Mark..." She began softly, her voice quieter than usual. "Are you... okay?"

He didn't answer right away, his eyes flickering to hers but quickly darting away again. Eve pressed on, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup, trying to keep her tone neutral, but there was a hint of concern in her voice. "You've been kinda ghosting me lately. I get that you've got stuff going on, but..."

He finally looked up at her and his expression was unreadable. There was something vulnerable in his eyes—just for a split second, but it was there.

"You don't have to worry about me." Mark muttered, his voice quieter now. "I'm fine."

Eve didn't buy it, and he knew she wouldn't. She knew him too well. Her eyes searched his face, her brow furrowed in concern. "Mark, don't shut me out. You can't just—" She stopped herself, the words hanging in the air.

"You don't know what it's like," he said suddenly, his voice strained, like he was holding something back. "To always be... that person. The one people expect to save the day. The one that always has to be strong. Or tough. Or... whatever."

Eve took a deep breath and reached out, placing a hand lightly on his. The warmth of her touch, so simple, was enough to break through some of the distance. "I get it, Mark," she said, her voice was soft but steady. "But that's not why I'm asking. I'm asking because I care about you... and I haven't heard from you in days. So... just let me in, okay? Don't push me away."

For a moment, Mark stayed silent, with his eyes searching for hers. There was a flicker of something behind his hardened exterior, something softer—vulnerable, even. But it quickly vanished as he pulled his hand away.

"I'm fine." he said again, the words sharper this time. "I don't need you looking out for me like I'm some damn kid, Eve. I don't need a babysitter—I need a girlfriend who actually gets that."

Eve let out a slow breath, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her voice steady. The frustration bubbling inside her was getting harder to ignore, clawing its way up her throat like something alive. "I'm not trying to babysit you, Mark. I just… want to be there for you. Is that so bad?" Her voice cracked slightly at the end, a mix of hurt and exasperation slipping through.

KRING-KRING-KRING—

The shrill ring of the bell cut through the tension like a blade.

Mark immediately stood, the legs of his chair screeching against the cafeteria floor. He scooped up a handful of whatever was left on his tray and shoved it into his mouth like he hadn't just spent the entire lunch period brooding in silence.

Eve barely had time to say anything before he was already slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Mark—" she started, standing halfway from her seat.

"I'll see you around." he muttered through his teeth, not even sparing her a glance as he walked off, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

She watched him go, still holding the edge of her tray with her fingertips, like she was hoping he might turn around. But of course, he didn't.

He never did.

He went through the day with furrowed brows and a bored expression, dragging his feet from class to class like the world had personally offended him. Professors talked, assignments piled up, and conversations buzzed around him, but it all passed through him like static.

People gave him space—some out of respect, most out of discomfort. He didn't care. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to be asked if he was okay.

Not when his head was a mess and his patience was long gone.

By sixth period, Mark's mood was radioactive.

Every hallway felt too loud, too bright. The screech of lockers, the smell of cheap cafeteria food lingering in his hoodie, the way people walked around him like he was a puddle of something they didn't want to step in—it all fed the gnawing thing inside him.

His head was a static storm, and he didn't really heard anything anyone said all day.

So when William slid into the seat beside him, Mark didn't even glance his way. He just stared straight ahead, with his jaw locked and shadows under his eyes.

"Hey..." William started, his voice careful.

Mark's fingers twitched against the desk.

"You okay, man? You've been... different lately."

Silence.

"I mean—different in a bad way."

Mark's lips twitched into a humorless smirk, but he still didn’t look at him.

"You're not answering any of my texts. You skipped out on our group project yesterday. Eve's worried too. She said you've been ignoring her for days. And then the whole..." William trailed off, like he was debating whether to go there. And he did.

"Monster thing. I saw the news. The fight.”

Now Mark turned to look at him, slow and sharp.

"That creature you fought. You didn't just beat it—you ripped it apart. It looked like a horror movie, man."

"It was a monster." Mark said flatly.

"I know," William replied quickly. "I know it was. But still—you usually hold back. You used to at least try to keep it clean. This time, you just..."

"I finished the fight."

"You slaughtered it, Mark." William's voice dropped lower. "In front of everyone."

There was something in William's eyes that made Mark’s stomach twist. Not fear. Not disgust.

Worse.

Pity.

Why?

Mark's fists clenched under the table. The bruises on his knuckles burned.

"It was going to kill a kid..." he muttered.

William sighed and said, "I'm just saying you didn't look like yourself up there. You looked... angry. Almost like a madman."

"I was angry."

William hesitated. "Does this have something to do with your parents?"

Mark's eyes narrowed.

"She called me the other day..." William continued, oblivious or maybe just determined. "Your mom. You're acting out again. Said she didn't know what to do with you anymore."

"You talked to my mom?" Mark's voice was barely a whisper, tight with disbelief. "What is it with you people talking to my mom!?"

"Look, she's upset, man." his friend said, holding up his hands. "She even embarrassed herself, ranting to her kid's friend about everything. She said you've been acting more and more like your dad and—hell, I don't know—it's freaking her out. I didn't know what to say."

"How about you just stay out of other people's business."

"Hey! I'm just worried, okay? I'm your best friend, Mark. I know things are hard right now—with your dad and everything... I-I just... I miss the guy who wasn't trying to pick a fight with the world every time someone looked at him wrong."

Mark's chair scraped back violently.

He stood up, looming over William, with his eyes dark and his mouth drawn in a tight line.

"Mind your own damn business, Will. You don't get to talk about her or what's going on with my fucking family. And don't talk like you know a damn thing about what I'm feeling."

William stood up too, but not to fight—just to try to hold his ground. "I'm just trying to help."

Mark's vision blurred red.

"You wanna help?" he said through gritted teeth. "Then shut the hell up!"

One punch—straight to the jaw. A sickening crack echoed off the walls. William crashed backward into a desk, landing hard and clutching his face with a pained yell.

For a second, the room was still. It was silent.

Then came the chaos.

A few classmates gasped and shouted. One girl screamed. Another guy jumped up and shoved Mark back, yelling, "What the hell's wrong with you?!"

Mark's temper snapped like a whip.

He swung again, this time at the guy who'd shoved him. Fists collided, desks crashed, and chaos exploded around them like a fuse had been lit. Someone tried to pull him back, but Mark jerked away, teeth gritted and eyes blazing.

Bodies scrambled. Chairs screeched across the floor. A girl screamed. The room was warped into noise and panic.

A teacher finally burst in, breathless and red-faced, shouting his name like it was something vile.

"Mark Grayson!"

It was enough to snap everything to a halt.

Mark didn't fight it when they dragged him out of the classroom, leaving a mess of overturned desks, dropped notebooks, and stunned faces in his wake. William was still sitting on the floor, hand pressed to his jaw, staring at him like he didn't know who he was anymore.

Mark didn't apologize. Neither did he explain himself.

He kept his head high and his mouth sealed shut, walking out with his bruised, bloodied knuckles burning like a badge of everything he didn't want to say out loud.

The teacher behind him spat out words about disciplinary action, and how they were going to call his mother.

As if that meant anything to him.

As if she still gave a damn.

They threw out the word “detention” like it was a threat.

Fine.

He could rot in detention.

Better than rotting in a place full of people who thought they knew him. Who thought they had the right to poke at wounds they couldn't even begin to understand.

Let them talk. Let them whisper. Let them stare.

He hates them all equally.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The fluorescent lights above buzzed like they were trying to get on Mark's nerves. He sat slumped at the back of the near-empty classroom, his cheek pressed against the cool surface of the desk. His eyes were half-lidded, locked on the painfully slow second hand of the wall clock as it ticked, ticked, ticked—like it was mocking him.

The room smelled like pencil shavings and old coffee. A single ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to move the stale air. The teacher assigned to babysit them hadn't even looked up from her book since he walked in. Mark figured she probably didn’t want to be here any more than he did.

His knuckles were still split from earlier, wrapped in a shitty paper towel he found in the nurse's office. The sting was dull now, just a reminder. A quiet throb that matched the one in his chest.

William didn't say anything when they dragged him out and just stared.

And his mom—yeah, she was probably ignoring the school's voicemail by now.

Whatever.

Mark didn't regret it.

He just wanted the day to end.

But then—

The door creaked open.

Mark lifted his head off the desk, just enough to glance at you when the door opened.

You stepped in like you owned the place—shoulders loose, boots scuffing against the tile, a lazy grin tugging at your lips like you were in on some joke the rest of the world missed.

Everything about you screamed defiance. From the bold blue and white lettering on your black Hellfire shirt to the layered chaos of your outfit, it looked like you belonged on a fashion runway and in a back-alley brawl all at once.

A red plaid wrap skirt hung over distressed cargo jeans, cinched tight at the waist with overlapping black leather belts that added a sharp edge. Chains clinked softly with every step, swinging from your belt and wrapped around your bag—the shape of it almost like a purse, covered in enough enamel pins to count as armor. A black guitar case rested against your back like a weapon, and a guitar pick swung from your neck, catching the light as you moved.

Mark slowly blinked. You looked like a warning label for every bad idea he was trying not to have lately.

The teacher didn't even lift her head from her desk. "Rules are the same..." she murmured, with her voice flat. "No phones, no talking, no food and try not to breathe too loud. You know how it is..."

You gave her a mocking salute.

Then—only then—you turned your head, catching Mark's eyes. Your grin softened just a little into something more like a smirk. You gave him a casual nod as you walked over to the desk beside him. It was cool and effortless. Like the two of you already knew each other in some parallel universe where the world made sense.

Mark stared at you. He didn't nod back. Just dropped his gaze and set his cheek against his palm like he hadn't just felt something shift in the air.

You slid into the seat next to him, like you were settling into your throne, and dropped your guitar case gently beside you. Then, without a word, you pulled out a sketchbook from your bag and a pencil from your pocket. You flipped to a blank page and started drawing—quiet, focused, like none of this mattered. Like the room wasn't full of tension and apathy and the kind of silence that cracked if you breathed too hard.

After a long stretch of silence, just the ticking clock and the occasional scratch of pencil on paper, Mark felt a light poke against his shoulder.

He barely moved, just flicked his eyes sideways in a slow, tired glance. You were staring at him with a casual expression, pencil still in hand.

"You got any sharpener there, buddy?" you asked, with your voice low but playful.

Mark sighed through his nose. "No, I don't..." he muttered, eyes flicking forward again, already annoyed.

But you didn't back off. "Hm, nah, I don’t think so," you mused, tapping your chin with the pencil. "You sure you don't have any?"

"I already told you I don't." he snapped, barely above a whisper, jaw tight. "Leave me alone."

"Too bad," you said with a shrug, tone breezy. "Looks like I won't be able to give you any hair."

Mark's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "What?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you turned your sketchbook around and held it out to him with both hands. A grin tugged at the corners of your mouth as you pointed at the half-finished drawing on the page.

It was him—the drawing was detailed, sharp, and it was unmistakably Mark. His scowl was perfectly captured, that permanent scorn etched between his brows like it belonged there. The angle of his jaw, which is tight and clenched. Even the slight hunch in his shoulders, like he was always bracing for something, was drawn with care. You'd even shaded the dark circles under his eyes with a soft smudge, capturing the weight he carried in silence.

The drawing was half-body—his arms were folded over his desk, head tilted slightly to the side, just like what he had been doing minutes ago. His hoodie was outlined with quick but deliberate strokes, the texture of it was sketched in with surprising detail.

But the top of his head?

It was completely smooth.

Bald as a boiled egg.

You had shaded it with the same level of dedication, even adding a little shine line on the crown of his skull for dramatic effect. Like you hadn't just forgotten to draw his hair—you had committed to erasing it from existence.

Mark stared at the drawing for a long second. Then at you.

You raised your brows and smirked.

"What the hell, man." Mark deadpanned, with a glare as his eyes flicked between your face and the drawing.

A chuckle slipped past your lips, low and amused as you leaned back a little, twirling your pencil between your fingers. "Don't worry, you'll get your hair back." you said, grinning. "I just couldn't see it right from the angle you were sitting at, so I figured getting your attention was the best way to get a good look at it."

Mark narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying the excuse—or maybe just not used to anyone talking to him like that without flinching.

"But now that I can see it…" You tilted your head, eyes scanning him slowly like you were taking mental notes. "That innocent haircut of yours? Doesn't suit you at all."

You didn't wait for a response, already turning back to your sketchbook. The pencil began to move again, fast and light, making faint scratching sounds as you added new lines. "A mohawk would do you more justice. Maybe throw in a couple of piercings. Eyebrow, nose, lip—hell, all three. Anything to give you a little edge."

Mark blinked, clearly taken aback. "Have you been observing me?"

"Obviously. How do you think I managed to draw you like that?"

His lips pressed into a line, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Annoyance, sure. But also curiosity. No one had ever drawn him before—let alone imagined him bald, pierced, and wearing a mohawk.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, with your lips tugging into that same lazy smirk. "What are you in for, pretty boy?"

He looked away for a second, like he was debating whether he should answer or just let the silence stretch. His jaw clenched faintly, the muscle twitching under his bruised skin.

Then, finally, he muttered, "Got into a fight."

Your smirk widened, pencil still moving on the page. "Yeah, no shit. Let me guess…" You tapped the eraser against your chin theatrically. "You broke someone's nose just 'cause they were breathing too damn loud near you?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Jaw actually... He just wouldn't shut up."

"Ah," you murmured, eyes still on your sketchbook, pencil scratching softly. "Was he a friend of yours?"

Mark didn't answer right away. His expression tightened, the way it always did when something touched too close to raw. He stared ahead, jaw locked, hands curled into loose fists on the desk.

You didn't press, just let the silence breathe.

"He must've hit a nerve." you added lightly, still doodling.

His eyes flicked toward you for a split second, cautious. You weren't grinning like an asshole now—just watching him with that unreadable calm, like you were piecing him apart without asking permission.

"Used to be..." he finally muttered.

Mark looked away again, biting the inside of his cheek. "He kept asking what was wrong with me. Said he was worried. Like he didn't already know."

His voice was tight, edged with something bitter. "Acted like I needed help. Like he knew better. Just because we used to hang out, he thought that gave him some kind of right."

You hummed low under your breath, pencil still moving across the page. "So, you hit him."

"I warned him." Mark muttered coldly, "Told him to drop it."

You leaned back a little, smirk tugging lazily at your lips. "Yeah… that kinda makes sense."

Mark's eyes narrowed at you, like he couldn't figure out if you were agreeing with him or setting him up for a joke. Your tone was too smooth, too casual—like you were letting him fall into something and not warning him about the drop.

Then you spoke again, while still not looking at him. Your voice was calm and detached. Like you were just stating facts.

"It's the classic, you know? People act like they care, when they're really just digging around in your mess. They don't give a damn about your feelings or any shit...They just want to feel like they did something about it."

Mark stared at you, with his brows drawn low.

"And when you don't let them?" You shrugged. "Suddenly you're the asshole."

The way you said it—it wasn't pity. It wasn't even empathy. It was like you were just giving shape to the thoughts that had been bouncing in his head for weeks. Stuff he couldn't even name before. And now there it was, out in the open, like you'd peeled it off his ribs and held it up to the light.

It unsettled him.

He blinked, slowly, still watching you. He didn't know whether to feel called out or understood. Whether to be grateful or pissed off. Your voice hasn't changed, still easy and almost too chill for someone who just cracked his walls open like it was nothing.

Then you looked at him—really looked at him—and said, "Either way, you did what you had to do."

A beat passed.

"I mean, maybe you're not the bad guy. It’s not your fault that loser wasn't listening."

It landed harder than it should have. And Mark wasn't sure why.

"Why are you here, again?" Mark asked, brow furrowing like the question had been burning on his tongue for a while.

You chuckled, low and amused. "Gonna be honest with you, man… I'm not here for detention. Or any real reason, honestly." You leaned forward a bit, resting your elbows on the desk. "I just like coming here sometimes. Sketch people who look like they're going through it. Crisis faces are the most honest, y'know? Raw. If they're interesting enough, I kinda turn them into something else. Give 'em a new look. A better one."

Your gaze flickered down to your sketchbook. You picked it up, flipping it toward him with a small, lopsided smirk. "Look. It's you. Or, well—what I think you should look like right now."

Mark blinked, then tilted his head slightly to get a better look.

It was him—again. Same harsh lines, same intensity in the eyes. But this version had traded his shaggy, too-long hair for shaved sides and a fierce mohawk. You added piercings now too, bold and unapologetic—one pair through his eyebrow, two on either side of his nose, and another pair just beneath his lower lip. Like a version of him from some grungy, punk parallel universe type of shit.

You tapped the page lightly. "See? It works. Matches the storm in your head a lot better than that innocent 'boy-next-door' cut."

"You're weird as fuck," Mark muttered, glancing between the sketch and you, like he couldn’t decide which one was more bizarre.

"Thank you." you replied smoothly, bowing in your seat with an exaggerated flourish. One hand splayed dramatically across your chest like you were accepting an award. "I do try."

Mark snorted, shaking his head, but you caught the corner of his lip twitching—just barely.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Ever since that day, Mark started noticing you more around campus.

You're a chaos in eyeliner and plaid, a walking contradiction—half performance art, half delinquent gospel. Sometimes he'd see you surrounded by others who looked just as reckless and alive, lighting up the dead corners of school with laughter and graffiti. Other times, it was just you—hunched over your electric guitar in some shadowed stairwell or forgotten hallway, the strings humming something raw and distant, like an old song no one remembered how to sing.

And it was weird, how often your eyes would find him. Across the cafeteria, the courtyard, in-between classes. Always with that signature smirk like you already knew the punchline to a joke he hadn't even heard yet. And you'd nod at him—greet him with the kind of ease that felt like you weren't trying to be nice. You just saw him. Like you actually saw him.

And that messed with him.

Because most days, Mark felt invisible.

He walked through school like a shadow with a pulse. Noticed only when someone needed something—answers, help, a target. He didn't reach out anymore. Friends became people he used to talk to. People avoided him now, or they looked at him like something was off. And maybe they weren't so wrong.

After all, the more he saved the day, the worse he felt. Each time he flew off to stop some disaster, each time he pulled himself out of rubble or wiped blood off his hands—something inside him shifted. Got heavier. Angrier.

His mom barely looked at him anymore. Ever since his dad vanished—no, fled—after revealing himself as a monster who killed thousands, she'd been a ghost. Sitting in silence. Staring at nothing. It was like the light inside her died with her marriage. She checked out everything—motherhood included. And Mark had to carry it. Alone.

He couldn't even talk to her about it. He couldn't talk to anyone without angry.

And then there was you.

You, with your sketchbook and devil-may-care grin. You, showing him drawings of himself with mohawks and piercings, like you were trying to see the version of him that still haven't existed yet. You didn't ask him how he was. You didn't tell him what he should feel. You just said the things he was too scared to say out loud. About people pretending to care. About the weight of being misunderstood. About the anger.

It freaked him out—how much you got it.

Because Mark was angry. At the world. At the way it kept breaking, no matter how many times he tried to fix it. At his mom, for disappearing without ever leaving. At his dad, for showing him what strength really looked like and then shattering every part of that illusion. At himself—for still wanting something back. Some recognition. Some thanks. Something.

But all he ever got was more pain.

So yeah. He started thinking maybe you were right. Maybe he should have a mohawk. Maybe he should look the way he feels—like he's been through war and no one clapped when he made it back. Maybe the world didn't deserve the version of him that kept trying to do the right thing.

And every time your sketchbook came out—every time you greeted him with that smug, lazy grin like you saw right through the cracks—he couldn't help but wonder...

Were you mocking him?

Or were you the only one who actually got it?

It was their third detention together that month—when you kinda asked him out.

You were perched on top of a rusted metal desk by the window, one leg swinging lazily, munching on a fried chicken sandwich you'd somehow sneaked in without anyone knowing. The afternoon sun made everything feel hotter than it needed to be, dust swirling through cracked window panes. Mark sat slouched in the chair beside you, arms crossed, hood up, eyes glazed in that tired, dead-inside kind of way. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—and maybe he hadn't.

You were in detention for real this time, after one of the faculty finally pieced together who'd been behind the graffiti in the east stairwell and the mysteriously exploding vending machine. Mark was in for, reportedly, beating the shit out of some assholes at lunch. Again.

"You know..." you started, words muffled around your bite of sandwich, "Me and the gang are playing tonight. Not at the club—the city kicked us outta there for good. So we're taking it somewhere more… public."

He glanced at you, brows low. "Public?"

You licked your fingers, brushing crumbs onto your already-ruined jeans. "Yeah. Rooftop by the train station. Abandoned building. Broken elevators, busted windows, rats everywhere. Total dump. But the view? Killer."

Mark looked back at the floor.

You grinned. "Cops don't care about that place anymore. Probably forgot it even exists. And rooftops just feel kinda apocalyptic these days, don't they? Like the perfect place to scream into the void."

His jaw ticked. Lately, it felt like everything annoyed him—people, noise, silence. Himself most of all.

You leaned back on your arms and said, casually, "Bring your little girlfriend if you want."

Mark stiffened, but didn't look up.

"…We're not exactly on good terms."

You raised a brow, feigning a gasp. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Fuck off." he muttered, barely audible, and scoffed bitterly under his breath.

You clicked your tongue. "That sucks. But hey, maybe some loud music and social unrest will fix your dying love life."

He finally turned, shooting you a flat look. "Shut up. You're so annoying."

"And you're so grumpy." You smiled like it was a secret joke only you got. "We balance."

You hopped down from the desk, rummaging through your backpack until you pulled out a worn, creased flyer, edges curled and ink smudged. You handed it over. "Here. It's not official—obviously. Government types don't like it when kids hand out papers anymore. Might catch rebellion or something."

He took it and unfolded it slowly. The hand-drawn logo of The Demonheads screamed off the page: a snarling skull, cracked halo glowing above its head, wings made of rusted barbed wire. Below it was written it's time and place, in a messy scrawl—"NO COPS. NO HEROES. JUST NOISE."

Mark blinked. "The Demonheads?"

"Yup." you said, leaning close enough to see the crease in his brow. "The one and only."

"Ever heard of us?"

He shook his head.

You pressed a hand to your chest with a mock offense. "Ouch. I'm wounded."

He snorted, and for the first time all day, it wasn't sarcastic. Not really.

"The city hates us," you said. "Says we're bad influence. Loud. Unstable. Dangerous. They call us anarchists like it's an insult." You shrugged. "Maybe we are. Maybe we're just angry. But someone's gotta be."

You watched him trace the ink on the paper, his thumb brushing over the crooked halo.

"This whole place—" you added, quieter, "—the world, I mean. It's a joke. Rich assholes sit comfy while the rest of us rot. Government's just another gang in suits. Heroes pick and choose who's worth saving. And people pretend everything's fine 'cause they're scared of what happens if they admit it's not."

Mark didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

Because you saw it. That flicker. The shift. Like your words hit something in him that had been vibrating under the surface for a long time.

"Sounds like a riot," he muttered.

You grinned wide, sharp. "Only if we're lucky."

He kept the flyer.

Didn't say he'd go. Didn't say he wouldn't. But something in his expression changed—just a little. A crack in the mask. Curiosity, maybe. Or that quiet desperation to belong somewhere that didn't feel like a goddamn prison.

You just smiled and looked away.

You never asked if he was coming.

You already knew he would.

It was after detention when you met her.

Eve.

She was waiting for Mark outside the school gates, arms crossed tight over her chest, back straight like she was holding up some invisible weight. Her strawberry orange hair caught the dying afternoon light, golden and soft in contrast to the scowl she wore. You spotted her right away—she had that "angry girlfriend about to beat her boyfriend's ass" energy written all over her. And judging by the way her eyes immediately flicked to you, she'd been watching the building for a while.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, the chains on your ripped jeans jingling with every step as you and Mark walked out together. You still had smudges of sharpie ink on your fingers from the flyer you gave him earlier, your boots heavy against the concrete.

Mark slowed the second he saw her.

"…Great." he mumbled under his breath.

You raised an eyebrow. "That her?"

He nodded, already tense.

"Cute," you said with a smirk. "She looks like she could make the toughest guy piss himself just by looking at him."

Eve's gaze sharpened the closer you got. Her eyes trailed over your black spiked vest, the band patches stitched to your sleeves, the silver piercings on your face, the faded eyeliner smudged around your eyes. She didn't bother hiding the way she sized you up. Judging. Reading. Assuming.

You were used to it.

Mark stopped a few feet from her, but you kept walking—slow, unrushed, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it awkward.

"Hey," Eve said, but it wasn't to you. It was for Mark. Cold and flat. Her eyes didn't leave you. “Who's this?”

"I'm his detention buddy." You replied, grinning like the devil.

Mark sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"He's a senior." he muttered. "Name's [Y/N]. He's… cool."

"Cool?" She echoed, unimpressed.

You could feel it—her judgment thick in the air like perfume. Like she thought she had you all figured out just from the scuffed boots and chipped nail polish.

You leaned forward slightly, flashing a crooked smirk. "Don't worry, I haven't sacrificed him to Satan or anything. Yet."

Eve didn't laugh.

She just looked at Mark, eyes narrowing like she'd stepped in something foul. "Mark, I thought we were supposed to have dinner at your place tonight. I told you I was gonna grab groceries and everything, and instead, you're busy sitting through detention with...him?" Her eyes slid to you, unimpressed. "Are you serious right now?"

Mark frowned. "I'm sorry, okay? I forgot." he muttered, clearly not in the mood for a fight. "It's just detention."

Eve crossed her arms tightly over her chest, jaw tense. "Is he the reason you're like this?" she asked, casting a sharp glance at you like you were some kind of bad omen. "Skipping things. Picking fights. Getting into detention for throwing punches? What the hell is going on with you, Mark?"

You didn't say anything.

You just stood there, hands tucked into your pockets, quietly chewing the inside of your cheek as your eyes flicked between the two. You could feel the heat of her judgment crawling up your neck like smoke—like she’d already made her mind up about you the second she laid eyes on your boots and torn-up jacket.

Mark exhaled hard, looking away. "It's not like that."

"It looks like that."

Eve's voice wasn't loud, but the weight of it hit harder than if she'd screamed. Her gaze lingered on Mark for a long moment—hurt and disappointed—before she shook her head and stepped back.

"You've changed," she said flatly. "And not in a good way."

Then she turned around and walked off, disappearing into the late afternoon traffic of students still lingering on campus.

For a second, there was silence.

You shifted your weight and finally spoke, voice quieter than usual. "You should go after her."

Mark didn't move.

You gave him a look, more thoughtful than mocking this time. Then you turned, adjusting your guitar case over your shoulder, already halfway down the steps.

"See you around, pretty boy." you added without looking back.

The dinner at Mark's house was quiet—tense in that way where even the clinking of silverware felt too loud. Debbie sat at the head of the table, posture straight, polite smile etched onto her face like a mask she'd forgotten how to take off. The roast in front of them was overcooked, and the potatoes were dry. Not that anyone seemed to notice.

Eve tried. She really did. She made light comments here and there, complimented the food, and asked Debbie about her work. Debbie answered everything with short, courteous replies. She was there, physically, but something about her always felt far away. Like she was operating behind glass, reaching for a life she no longer recognized.

Mark didn't say much. He stabbed his food. Ate in silence. Eve's gaze kept drifting toward him, subtle but insistent—the way she looked at him that said say something, try, she's your mother, but he never returned her looks. Just kept his head down and his jaw tight.

Debbie poured herself a glass of wine halfway through. No one commented.

The air thickened with each passing minute, like the house itself was suffocating under the weight of everything left unsaid. Eve's smile started to falter. Her back straightened. Frustration flared in her eyes.

"So, uh..." Eve started again, clinging to conversation like a life raft, "Mark said he might check out Upstate University soon. They're expanding their programs—might be a good fit."

Mark didn't even glance up when he said, "I'm not going."

Eve blinked, caught off guard. "But… you were thinking about it. You said—"

"I changed my mind." His voice was flat and final.

Debbie didn't look up from her plate, but her grip on her fork visibly stiffened. The sound of her swallowing her wine was the only reply.

Eve frowned, lips pressed tight. She leaned back in her chair, her voice a touch sharper. "You could at least try, you know. Talk to her."

Mark's eyes flicked up at her, the kind of look that could freeze a bone.

"Why?" he said coldly. "So she can pretend everything's okay?"

Debbie still didn't say anything. But her breathing shifted. Just slightly.

Mark pushed his plate away. The screech of ceramic on wood made Eve flinch. "I'm done."

He stood, not waiting for permission or even an acknowledgment.

"Mark—" Eve tried, but he was already gone, disappearing down the hall with heavy steps that sounded like every bottled emotion crashing out of him at once.

Debbie sat still for a moment. Then quietly picked up his untouched plate and began to scrape the food into the trash.

She didn't cry. She just cleaned. Like always.

Eve didn't say another word. She only watched her, and for the first time, maybe started to understand why Mark was slipping further and further away.

Mark locked himself in his room, not bothering to say goodbye when Eve left. The slam of the front door barely made him blink. He laid on his bed, hoodie still on, boots half-kicked off, staring blankly at the ceiling before letting his phone fill the silence.

The screen glowed against his face in the dim room, flickering through news articles, memes, garbage content—and then, a post. A grainy black-and-white clip of a post-punk band mid-performance. It was loud and raw. Screaming into the mic like the world wronged them. The crowd moved like a single beast, thrashing and alive.

It reminded him of you.

That casual chaos in the way you existed. The worn-out jeans, the eyeliner smudged from who-knows-what, the bite in your sarcasm that made him want to respond even when he didn’t feel like talking.

"We balance." You said, with that crooked grin on your face in detention, like the two of you are friends.

Mark stared at the video a bit longer, then typed the band name "The Demonheads" into the search bar.

Then, there it was.

Clips. Posts. Grainy concert footage. Shaky camera angles. Protest posters. A video of a rooftop set, you at the front, guitar slung low, shirt ripped at the shoulder, eyes wild. You screamed into the mic like it owed you money, like the city needed to hear you or it'd die trying not to.

There's another clip—someone caught you between songs, sweaty and laughing, flicking off the camera with a middle finger and a wink.

Mark didn't smile, but something in his chest shifted. Tightened.

He kept scrolling. Watching.

It wasn't just music. It was something else. Something angry and loud and weirdly honest. Like every part of you was up there bleeding out into speakers and cracked pavement.

He watched until his phone screen dimmed from inactivity, only then realizing how long he'd been scrolling. With a quiet sigh, he locked it and let it drop onto the bed beside him. Then, from his hoodie pocket, he pulled out the flyer you'd given him—creased, half-crumpled, but still intact.

He stared at it for a long moment, sitting up with his elbows on his knees, fingers brushing over the sharpie-scrawled ink like he was trying to feel whatever it was burning under your skin when you handed it to him.

Mark's eyes narrowed, then looked up across the room. On his desk, the glow of the digital clock blinked: 8:10 PM.

The concert wouldn't start until nine.

He stood slowly, like something was pulling him up from the weight that had been pressing him down all night. He walked out of his room and into the dimly lit hallway, made his way to the bathroom, and flicked the switch. The mirror greeted him with his own reflection—with his messy, overgrown hair, and his hoodie that had stretched and worn from too many restless nights, and eyes that carried more exhaustion than they should.

He opened the drawer under the sink and reached for the electric clippers. They were still there. Nolan's, probably. The same kind his dad used to trim up his clean, perfect image. That alone made him want to throw it against the wall.

Instead, he turned it on. The sharp, vibrating buzz filled the bathroom, and Mark stared down at it.

Then, slowly, he raised his head to the mirror.

He remembered the drawing you showed him weeks ago—chuckling, half-teasing, as you claimed, "A mohawk would do you more justice." It had been you who sketched him with a jagged mohawk and a jacket scrawled with band patches and flame motifs. He'd rolled his eyes then, said you were weird. But now… he saw it. Felt it. The version of himself in that sketch felt closer to who he wanted to be than the stranger in the mirror now.

He lifted the clippers to the side of his head.

Hair began to fall. Tufts slid down his neck, scattered over the white sink like shedding something that didn't belong to him anymore. The buzz filled the silence, grounding him in each reckless stroke. He wasn't a pro—his hands shook slightly, and it wasn't perfect. The lines were messy, the angle a little too sharp on one side—but he kept going. He didn't stop until both sides were shaved down and the middle was left tall, raw, and real.

He turned off the clippers. Silence then returned.

His reflection didn't look like that innocent Mark anymore. The boy who used to just nod along, keep his head down, try to be what everyone expected him to be. What stared back at him now was someone new—sharper, rougher around the edges, but somehow more honest.

Still buzzing with something raw, he stepped into the shower, letting the water rinse away the fallen hair and whatever else he didn't need anymore. The steam curled around him, clouding the mirror, hiding what he used to be. He stayed under the stream longer than necessary, fingers running through the damp ridge of his new mohawk. It still felt unreal. Bold. Stupid. But right.

When he stepped back into his room, towel around his neck and waist, water still dripping from his collarbones, he crossed to the closet. For once, he didn't reach for the usual hoodie or school-washed jeans. He dug deeper. Past the clothes Debbie bought. Past the ones Nolan once folded for him like it meant something.

He pulled out an old black denim vest that has rips on its shoulders—the one he barely remembered owning. Then a dark long-sleeve to wear under it. He tugged on some beat-up jeans with a few chain loops and grabbed his boots from under the bed, knocking off its dust as he shoved his feet into them.

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't supposed to be.

He glanced at the time: 8:48 PM.

He still had enough time to show up.

To see you.

That thought alone made his chest tighten—some strange mix of nerves and something warmer, something stupid and bold.

So he shoved the flyer back into his pocket, cracked the window open, and slipped out into the night.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

When he arrived at the rooftop, he touched down without a sound, unnoticed by the swarm of bodies and buzzing energy from afar. The music hadn't started yet, but the place was already alive. Neon lights flickered across the open space, casting strange colors onto swaying silhouettes. He stayed in the shadows, taking it all in. You were right—the view was killer. The skyline burned in the distance, and the wind tugged softly at his mohawk, carrying the chill of the night across his skin.

Then, it began.

A girl with wild green hair, dressed in a electric blue and black outfit that flashed under the lights, stepped onto the stage with a mic and a manic grin. She shouted something that was lost to the rising cheers, and just like that, the rooftop exploded into sound.

Lights flared, speakers boomed, and a red handheld flare shot up from the crowd, bathing the chaos in blood-colored smoke. People screamed, jumped, and danced, their shadows stuttering with each flash of the strobes.

But Mark didn't hear any of that. Not really.

Because the second your voice echoed through the rooftop—raw, loud, and commanding—the lights stuttered and then snapped to you. And there you were.

You stood at front in the center like you owned the world, shirtless, the pale light catching the sharp lines of your body. You wore only leather—black and heavy, strapped with rows of silver-studded belts that ran from your wrists, across your pants, down to your boots. Each step you took looked like it was weighed down by chaos itself, and yet, you moved like it was nothing.

You looked like a piece of art, underneath those lights.

And something twisted in Mark's chest.

His breath caught, just for a second. He didn't understand why. It wasn't like he hadn't seen you before—but it had never been like this. There was something about seeing you up there, in your element, drenched in sound and fury, screaming into the mic like you were born to tear the world apart with your voice.

He blinked. And swallowed.

He stood there frozen, with his heart pounding in a way he couldn't quite name.

Was this admiration?

Was it awe?

Was it—?

No. Whatever it was, he didn't have a word for it.

So he stayed hidden, staring. And listening.

He watched as you strummed your electric guitar—each note sharp, cutting through the heavy night air. With every motion of your hand, the lights seemed to respond, pulsing and dancing along, casting glimmers over the metal buckles and silver spikes of your belted pants. You glowed in movement, alive and uncontained.

You sang with that mischievous grin of yours, reckless and free, tossing your voice into the sky like it didn't owe anyone anything. You laughed between lines, bumping shoulders with your bandmates, playing like the world was yours and you knew it. The crowd roared and sang with you, hypnotized, addicted.

But then—something shifted.

In the middle of the chaos, as the next verse rolled in and the bass dropped, your eyes scanned the crowd… and paused.

Mark felt it again. That exact moment.

The exact second your gaze locked with his.

It was brief. Just a flicker.

But it hit him like a fist to the chest.

Time didn't stop—it just warped. The music kept going, the lights kept flashing, but Mark couldn't hear any of it anymore. Not when your eyes found him in the crowd, even from behind the smoke and bodies and noise. Not when you tilted your head the slightest bit, lips curling like you knew something he didn't.

And for some reason… his heart clenched. Hard. Like it was trying to fight its way out of his ribs.

He didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Just watched you.

And wondered what the hell that feeling was.

He watched you throughout the whole show—mesmerized, almost dazed.

Whether you were stepping forward to sing a solo or slipping back to let the other vocalists take the spotlight, your presence never dimmed. You carried the stage even when silent, even when your fingers were the only ones speaking, dragging thunder out of your guitar like it was a living thing. You didn't just play—you breathed life into every chord, every beat. You made the music move.

And god, it was fire.

He had never seen you like this.

Sure, you always looked like trouble—sharp around the edges, untouchable, wild—but now? You looked like chaos. Beautiful, roaring chaos. Unapologetic and magnetic.

Your band's songs burned through the speakers—shouting rebellion, bleeding freedom, aching with love and loss and rage and euphoria. They weren't just songs. They were war cries. Anthems. Screams from the inside. And you were at the center of it all, feeding the storm like it was your religion.

Mark stood still on the rooftop, hidden in shadow, yet feeling more exposed than ever. Something in his chest was clawing its way up, confused and fast and hot. He didn't even realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the railing until his knuckles ached.

He should look away. He should snap out of it.

But instead, he kept watching you like a man who just realized he'd been starving.

It was midnight—closer to 1 AM—when the noise finally began to die down. The music faded, the lights dimmed, and the crowd slowly unraveled into the night, laughing and buzzing with adrenaline. People were saying their goodbyes, shouting thanks for the killer performance. You and your band took turns giving small speeches of gratitude, rough and sincere, before the rooftop slowly began to clear out.

The energy was still buzzing in the air as you helped gather cables and carry down amps, sweat clinging to your skin, your voice a little hoarse from the night.

That's when you saw him.

Mark.

He stepped forward from the shadows, quiet but not exactly trying to hide. The second your eyes landed on him, you froze mid-movement, then a grin curled at the corners of your lips.

"Holy shit..." you breathed, wiping your hands on your pants and stepping toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. "You actually came!"

You gave a soft laugh, walking closer. "I thought I was just high when I saw you in the crowd, man." You looked him over with a playful smirk, gaze flicking up to his mohawk. "God, you definitely look the part tonight."

He didn't say anything right away—his throat tightened up, words jammed behind it like a traffic pile-up. Up close, with the flickering rooftop lights hitting your skin, you looked even more unreal. The metal on your pants glinted like stars, and the lingering heat from your performance clung to you like a halo.

He swallowed and finally muttered, "You were… insane out there."

Your smile didn't falter. "That's kind of the goal." You said, before your tone shifted into something softer, "I'm really glad you came, Mark."

You didn't let the moment linger too long.

Instead, you grabbed Mark by the wrist, tugging him gently as you said, "C'mon, I gotta introduce you to the gang."

One by one, you brought him around to meet your bandmates—each with a unique look, a different edge, but all warm and welcoming in their own rough way. They exchanged greetings, a few handshakes, nods of respect, and some smirking gratitude for him showing up. One of them even clapped him on the back and said, "Didn't think you were real, man. We were starting to think they made you up."

You laughed, throwing an arm over Mark's shoulder like you'd known him forever. "Well, I told you he's real. Real enough to help us pack up, right?"

Mark blinked. "Wait—"

Too late. You were already tossing him a bundle of cables and pointing to a nearby case. "Come on, rockstar. Earn your afterparty."

He didn't argue. Not really. What else did he have to do? Go home? Sit in that cold, quiet house with nothing but his own thoughts gnawing at him?

Nah.

He helped carry down amps, coiled wires, and stacked boxes with the rest of you, his movements eventually syncing up with the rhythm of your crew. The whole thing was messy and loud and filled with exhausted laughter and the occasional burst of music from someone who just couldn't stop playing.

And when you slung your jacket over your shoulder and looked at him with that wild glint in your eyes, asking, "You down to go celebrate somewhere? For the show, and for, y'know... not getting arrested, tonight." Mark didn’t even hesitate.

"…Yeah." he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Yeah, I'm down."

And just like that, the night wasn't over.

The underground club was like another world—dim neon lights glowing against graffiti-splattered walls, bass-heavy music pulsing like a second heartbeat. It smelled like sweat, beer, smoke, and something else—something electric. Your band blended right in, sliding into cracked leather booths, ordering drinks with familiar smirks, lighting up like they owned the place.

Mark kept close to you at first, still a little stiff, wide-eyed at the chaos—but you handed him a drink, your fingers brushing his, and just like that, the edge dulled.

The alcohol hit him fast. Maybe it was his first real time drinking. Maybe it was the music. Or the fact that you looked like some kind of devil in human skin tonight—jacket unzip, sweaty from the show, with a cigarette hanging loose between your lips as you leaned back with a half-lazy grin, shadows and red light dancing across your face.

God, you looked good.

Mark didn't say anything at first—just sat beside you, his drink nearly slipping from his hand as his limbs got heavier and his laugh got louder. The band was wild, one of them screaming out a chaotic love song into the karaoke mic, their voice cracking beautifully over the synths. Everyone was high. High on smoke, high on adrenaline, high on surviving another night.

You elbowed Mark gently. "Hey, pretty boy..." you grinned, "you alright?"

He looked at you, really looked at you. You had your boots kicked up on the edge of the table, smoke curling from your lips, and the glint in your eye made something twist deep in his gut. He blinked slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes glossed over from drink and something else. His mouth opened like he had something to say—but nothing came out.

You just laughed, low and soft, and nudged your drink toward him.

"Don't pass out yet, you're just getting started."

And Mark… smiled.

A real one. Loose. Crooked. Almost smug.

Something was shifting. Something dangerous, something exciting.

He leaned back, head tilting as he studied you through the blur and haze of the club's lights and sound. His lips parted again, just slightly, and even though his thoughts were swimming, one thing stood out—loud and clear through the fuzz:

You were beautiful. And maybe the kind of trouble he was starting to want.

The night blurred in colors and noise, everything spinning in rhythm with the music—your bandmates were laughing at something stupid, throwing arms around each other, play-fighting, dancing like the world might end tomorrow. Mark couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard. Maybe never. The weight that had pressed on him for weeks, months—it lifted. Just for a while, he was nobody's son, nobody's weapon, nobody's disappointment.

He was just… Mark.

And you? You were everywhere. Teasing him with that smirk, knocking back drinks like they were water, shouting out lyrics into the mic beside him with fire in your throat. He didn't know when it started—this pull toward you—but it felt like gravity now.

You leaned into him, chest nearly brushing his as your laugh turned into a shout when the chorus hit, your voices tangled together in that dumb love song. His heart was pounding, alcohol surging through him, his skin was buzzing.

He took another drink—something bitter and burning—and then he looked up.

And there you were.

Suddenly straddling his lap, body close, breath warm, eyes half-lidded but sharp. His hands landed on your waist instinctively, like it was natural, like this had always been building up to this moment.

Then your lips were on his.

And everything else faded.

The music. The crowd. Even the ache he'd been carrying deep inside—it all disappeared as you kissed him like you meant it. Not sloppy or drunk. Intentional. Confident. And Mark? He didn't even hesitate. He kissed you back like his life depended on it, fingers tightening on your waist, mouth parting under yours, breath catching somewhere between surprise and need.

He didn't know what this meant.

But he didn't care. Not tonight.

Tonight, he was yours.

You pulled away with that same cocky smirk curving your lips, your pierced tongue flicking out, a thin strand of spit still connecting you both for a heartbeat before it broke. Your eyes glittered under the club's dim, pulsing lights, and Mark felt like he was falling into something he wasn't sure he wanted to escape from.

From somewhere in the chaos, one of your bandmates let out a loud, slurred cheer.

"Yooo! Let's gooo!"

Another one threw a crumpled napkin in your direction.

"Tongue action! We saw that, man!"

Laughter erupted all around.

Mark let out a breathy, flushed laugh, still a little dazed, still high on the kiss.

"That's gay, bro." he said through his chuckle, voice rough from drinking and from whatever the hell this feeling was.

You just grinned wider, sitting comfortably on his lap like you belonged there.

"Yeah? And? you said, tilting your head, cocky and so damn cool with a cigarette lazily held between your fingers. "You complaining?"

Mark met your eyes, lips still curled into something between a smile and disbelief. He looked away for a second, heat rising to his ears.

"...No" he mumbled, biting the inside of his cheek. "Didn't say that."

You let out a low laugh, taking a slow, casual puff from your cigarette, the tip glowing red before you exhaled a stream of smoke right past Mark's flushed face. Then you leaned in again, stealing another heated kiss from his lips—tasting of alcohol, ash, and chaos. The music blared on, people kept dancing and yelling in a haze of neon lights and smoke, but Mark… he was just there. With you sitting on his lap, drunk, kissed breathless, and falling.

It was electric. It was dangerous. It was fun.

But like all things that burned too hot—it had to end.

Eventually, people started trickling out. A few were dragged off by lovers or friends. Others staggered into the night, still singing off-key lyrics or laughing like idiots. Someone shouted their love for everyone. Someone puked behind the bar. The night was winding down, but Mark looked like he didn't want it to.

He leaned against you, heavy and out of it, eyes barely staying open.

"…I don't wanna go home." he muttered.

You didn't even need to ask. You just nodded once and slipped your arm around his waist, hoisting him up and getting both of you back through the city night like it was nothing.

Your place was dark, barely lit by the orange glow of a streetlight filtering through the blinds. You dropped him on your couch with a grunt—he landed with a soft, drunken laugh, sprawling out like he belonged there.

You peeled off your layers lazily, kicking off your boots and stripping down until you were just in your black boxers, the cold beer hissing as you popped it open. You sat on the edge of the couch beside him, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, head leaned back as you exhaled into the silence.

Mark turned his head slightly to look at you—dazed, maybe half-awake, with his pupils blown wide.

"You did great out there, buddy." you said, voice low and a little hoarse from all the shouting, singing, and smoke. There was a lazy smile tugging at your lips as you took another swig of your beer, glancing over at him from where you sat, the glow from your cigarette tip briefly lighting your face in the dim room.

Mark shifted on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him as he blinked slowly, looking up at you like he couldn't decide if this was real or a really vivid dream. His mohawk was a little messy now, his cheeks flushed, eyes still glazed.

You raised your brows. "Need anything? Water? Beer?"

He blinked again, then mumbled, "You."

The moment stretched.

Your cigarette paused mid-air.

Then you let out a small chuckle, tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek, amused and maybe just a little caught off guard. "Damn," you muttered, taking another drink. "Were my kisses really that good?"

Mark groaned and dragged a hand over his face. "Don't—don't make fun of me."

"I'm not." You leaned back, smoke curling out from between your lips. "It's kinda cute."

He groaned again, face buried in a throw pillow now.

You grinned, biting back a laugh. "Beer it is, then."

You disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, and returned with another cold can of beer in your hand. Mark was where you left him—half-slouched, flushed, eyes tracking your every move like a predator trying not to pounce too soon.

You plopped down next to him, handed the can over with that lazy smirk of yours. "Here. Might sober you up a little."

But instead of taking it, his fingers curled around your wrist. Firm and steady.

You blinked, confused for a split second—then he yanked you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widened briefly, your heart skipped, but your body responded before your brain could catch up. You kissed him back with equal heat, until the taste of beer and smoke and something raw took over your mouth.

Then you gasped.

Because the next thing you knew, he pushed you down against the couch, the beer can slipping from your grasp and thudding to the floor with a dull clink!

Mark was on top of you, hovering and pressing you down, with his hands gripping your wrists and holding you there like he was afraid you'd vanish. The weight of him. The heat. The surprising strength in the way he pinned you down—it made your breath hitch.

His kiss grew hungrier. Deeper. His mohawk brushed against your face when he tilted his head. One of his knees pushed between your thighs. His body told you everything his mouth hadn't yet.

And for once… you weren't the one in control.

"You're stronger than you look." you breathed between kisses.

He smirked, lips brushing against your jaw. "You're hotter than you act."

Mark's lips then attack your neck, kissing, nipping, sucking—each one more desperate than the last. You felt his breath against your skin, warm and uneven, and then the sharp pull of his mouth leaving marks where no one else had dared before.

Your fingers gripped the couch cushions, pulse racing. The pressure of his body on yours, the tension in his movements—it was all hitting you at once.

Each nip and suck sends electric jolts straight to your core, your body arching into his touch instinctively. One hand released your wrist to grip the waistband of your boxers, yanking them downwards with a rough tug. The cool air hit your newly exposed flesh, your hardened cock springing free and slapping against your stomach.

"Fuck, you're so hot." Mark murmured and pulls away just enough to tug his own pants and briefs down, freeing his impressive cock. It's larger than you expected, thick and hard, probably around 7.5 to 8 inches long. The head is flushed deep, angry red, leaking pre-cum that he uses to slick the way as he begins to stroke your cocks together, the hot, velvety flesh sliding against your own in a way that makes your toes curl.

He leans in to growl in your ear, his breath hot against your skin as his hand continues to wrap around both of you, stroking and grinding the heat between you two.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and ragged. "Look at us… you're just as hard for me as I am for you."

A shaky breath leaves him, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Shit—you're driving me crazy."

Mark's stroking grew faster, more insistent, his grip tightening around both your throbbing cocks as he chased his own release. The obscene sound of skin moving against skin filled the room, mingling with your ragged breaths and desperate moans. His eyes burned with desire, remained locked onto where our cocks were slick and sticky with pre-cum, watching the show with a hungry, almost feral intensity.

Suddenly, your body tensed, back arching off the couch as a shockwave of pleasure ripped through you. You let out a soft gasp as both of your cocks pulsed and throbbed, painting both of our stomachs with streaks of sticky white cum.

Both of you were breathing hard, chests rising and falling as the haze of release clung to your skin. Your body was slack against the couch, a satisfied grin tugging at your lips as you looked down at the mess painting your stomach. You giggled—soft, breathless, a little fucked-out.

Your fingers trailed through the sticky white on your skin, lazy and dazed, until Mark's hand caught yours. He smirked, leaning over your disheveled form, and without a word, he brought your fingers to his mouth—his tongue warm and slick as he slowly licked them clean.

You stared at him with wide eyes, lips parting—until you let out another small, stunned laugh.

"That's so gay, bro."

Mark laughed low, the sound rolling deep from his chest as he leaned in closer, his hand already trailing down your thigh.

"I think it's hot as fuck," he muttered, voice husky and eyes dark.

Before you could respond, he pushed your legs apart with a firm grip, eyes locked on you like you were something he was starving for.

You watch with your heart pounding, as Mark brings his hand to his mouth. He makes a show of spitting into his palm, working the saliva between his fingers until they glisten obscenely in the low light. Your own mouth goes dry at the sight, anticipation coiling tight in your gut.

Without preamble, Mark reaches down and circles your entrance with a slick finger, teasing the sensitive flesh until it's dripping with his spit. Then, slowly, he pushes inside, his finger sinking into your tight heat and making your back arch off the couch.

"Oh fuck..." you gasp, the stretch unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Mark's finger pumps in and out, curling and scissoring to open you up, to prepare you for what's to come.

"Relax for me, baby… Gonna ruin you just right." Mark murmured, voice thick and dark with desire. He works a second finger in alongside the first, then a third, stretching you wider, pushing you open until you're panting and writhing beneath him.

Mark captured your lips again, the kiss rough and messy, tongues tangling like neither of you could get enough. When he finally pulled away, a strand of spit still connected you both. His fingers slipped from your hole, leaving you empty and aching for more, and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, holding you wide open beneath him.

"Tell me what you want." he said, voice low and raspy, his dark eyes roaming hungrily over your flushed body. "I wanna hear you say it."

You bit your lip, your breath shaky as your eyes met his — half-lidded, burning with lust, a cocky smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.

"Shut up and fuck me, Mark." you whispered, your voice hoarse with need. "I'm done waiting."

He smiled and grips your hips tighter, fingers sinking into the flesh of your ass, as he lines himself up. The swollen head of his cock prods against your slick hole.

Then, with a single, powerful thrust, Mark buries himself inside you, his thick length splitting you open and stretching you wider than you've ever been before. You cry out, back arching off the couch as you're suddenly, brutally filled. Mark doesn't give you any time to adjust, setting a hard, fast pace as he starts to fuck into you with deep, claiming thrusts.

"Shit—you're tight!" Mark grunts, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful drive forward. "Gonna ruin this fucking ass. Gonna make it mine."

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails digging into the firm skin and muscle as you try to anchor yourself against the relentless force of his thrusts. The room is filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your desperate, wanton moans as Mark takes you with a fervor that steals your breath.

"Fuck, yes! Just like that," you cry out, your voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. "Harder, Mark! Fuck me harder!"

Mark snarls in response, gripping your hips even tighter as he complies with your demand. His thrusts become more forceful, more demanding, the tip of his cock kissing your prostate dead-on with every plunge forward. The pleasure is intense, bordering on pain, and you can feel your own cock throbbing and leaking against your belly, aching for his touch.

The brutal pace of Mark's thrusts rocks your entire body, each powerful drive forward making the couch creak and shake beneath you. Your stomach bulges slightly with every impact, his heavy cock pushing into your core and stirring up the contents of your belly. It's a lewd, filthy sight and you can't look away, intoxicated by the raw, animalistic way he's claiming you.

"Oh fuck, oh god!"

You threw your head back in ecstasy as Mark pounds into you. The pleasure is overwhelming, drowning out any semblance of coherent thought. Your hands scrabble at his back, trying to find purchase, to ground yourself against the tidal wave of sensation crashing over you.

You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls as he splits you open. It's too much, too intense, and you know you won't last much longer.

"Aah! Gonna... fuck, I can't... I'm gonna... Aah!" you stammered, your voice high and thin with impending release. Your cock throbs urgently against your belly, the head was angry red and leaking steadily.

Mark feels it too, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Fuck, me too!" he snarls, his grip on your hips tightening to the point of bruising. "Gonna fucking flood this ass. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be fucking dripping for days."

His words push you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You moaned loudly, your back arching as your cock pulses and jerks, painting your chest and belly with streaks of pearly white. Your ass clenches down around Mark's cock, gripping him like a velvet vice as you ride out the intense pleasure.

Mark lets out a guttural roar, slamming into you one last time as his own release takes him, flooding your insides with his hot, thick cum. You can feel each, heavy spurt of his semen painting your inner walls, marking you, claiming you as his. It's an intense, overwhelming sensation that makes your spent cock twitch weakly against your belly.

"Fuuuuck!" Mark groans, his hips giving a few more shallow thrusts as he works himself through the aftershocks of his release. "So fucking good, baby... Took my cock so well."

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions of the couch. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his ragged breaths mingling with your own as you both struggle to catch your breath. Mark's mohawk is damp with sweat, a few strands plastered to his forehead as he pants softly against your neck.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you both bask in the afterglow. Your body feels deliciously sore, aching in the best possible way, a testament to the thorough fucking you just received. Mark's softening cock is still nestled inside you, plugging you up, making you feel full and claimed.

"Mmmm... that was... intense." you murmured, nuzzling into the crook of Mark's neck. You can taste the salt on his skin, smell the musky scent of sex that clings to him.

Mark chuckles, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Gotta be the best sex I ever had." He said, tilting his head to capture your lips in a slow, deep kiss. It's different from the hungry, dominating kisses before - this one is softer, almost tender. "You're fucking incredible..." he murmurs against your mouth.

He rolls his hips slightly, making you both groan at the sensation. "And we're not even close to done." he smirked darkly, a wicked glint in his eye. "I'm still horny, [Y/N]... Still so fucking hard for you. I need more—need to fuck you again."

You shiver at the implication, already feeling your spent cock twitch with renewed interest. You know you should be exhausted, but the thought of more, of endless rounds of this intense, filthy pleasure, makes your heart race with anticipation

"Can't wait…" you say, voice low and breathless, lips quirking into a smirk. "Y'know? I think I need someone to break the bed with me tonight."

You pause, just for a second, softer now. "Stay with me?"

Mark didn't answer right away. Instead, he leans in, his eyes dark with heat, mouth curling into a slow, knowing smirk. Then he crashes his lips against yours again—hungry, claiming, and promising.

And just like that, the night starts all over again.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Everything changed after that night.

You and Mark weren't just two guys orbiting the same messed-up world anymore. Something shifted. Something hot and reckless, magnetic and impossible to ignore.

Mark couldn't stay away from you after that. You'd catch him watching you across the hallway, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, full of unspoken need. He started skipping classes more, just to be near you. Smoking with you behind the school. Slipping into detention even when he didn't have to, just to sit in the same room as you, leg pressed against yours under the desk like it was some secret he wanted someone to discover.

He even showed up at your band's practice, sprawled on the old couch in your little hideout like he belonged there. Head tilted back, mouthing along to the lyrics while his eyes stayed glued to your fingers that were moving across your guitar. Sometimes after those sessions, you'd barely make it to your place before he was on you—pushing you down onto some mattress, kissing you like he was starving, tearing off clothes with shaking, desperate hands.

Sometimes, he didn't wait at all.

The boys' bathroom, after the third period—he'd lock the door and shove you up against the cold tiles, hands already down your pants. Or behind the gym, underneath the afternoon sun, with your back against the bricks, with his breath hot against your skin while he fucked you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

It wasn't just sex.

It was desperation.

It was an escape.

It was an addiction neither of you wanted to shake.

And Eve?

You never talked about her. You didn't have to.

She was still there—still his girlfriend, still part of the picture—but when you were around, she barely existed. Mark would ignore her texts while he was with you, glance past her in the halls like she was a stranger.

She didn't exist in those stolen moments when you were on your knees for him, lips wrapped around his cock while he groaned your name and tugged your hair like he'd lose his mind if he let go. She didn't exist when he whispered filth into your ear while you were bent over the school's bathroom sink, struggling to stay quiet. She didn't exist in the heat between your bodies when he panted against your neck, saying how tight, and how perfect you were.

And the scariest part?

You loved it.

Mark had changed. And people noticed.

He was sharper now. Wilder. That brooding, broken shell he once carried cracked wide open, revealing someone louder, cockier, violent—someone who didn't take shit from anyone. If someone even looked at you too long, Mark was already in their faces, eyes sharp and voice dripping venom—ready to throw punches. Like he was ready to burn everything down for you.

And then there were the piercings.

The ones you'd draw in your sketchbook couple of months ago.

And fuck—he looked even hotter than you imagined.

He wore it for you.

He was yours.

And in his own twisted, violent way…

you were his too.

With you, he wasn't numb. He was alive. You brought something out in him no one else could. He smiled more. Laughed harder. Got more reckless, more dangerous, but honest. He stopped hiding. He'd kiss you in the stairwell like he didn't care about hiding anymore. He'd shove a guy for looking at you wrong in the cafeteria. He'd lock eyes with you in a crowd like it didn't matter who was watching—because you were the only thing that mattered.

Mark never said much, not out loud. He didn't talk about how he felt or what any of this meant. He didn't put names to things, didn't label you, didn't explain the way his eyes always found you in a room like you were gravity and he was just trying not to fall apart.

But the way he looked at you?

It said everything.

It was in the heat behind his stare, the way his jaw would clench when someone stood too close to you, the way his hand always found yours when no one was watching. You could feel it in the way he kissed you—rough, deep, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin and stay there. Like he didn't know how to be gentle with something he wanted this much.

You had him. Fully, completely, undeniably.

And he had you, just as wrecked.

He was still angry. Still dragging chains from the past he never talked about. Still haunted by things you could only guess at when you caught glimpses of that hollow look in his eyes after sex, like he'd been somewhere else for a second and had to claw his way back.

But with you, something changed.

He let his guard down, if only in stolen moments. You saw the softness beneath the sharp edges—the boy who wanted to be touched, wanted to be seen, but didn’t know how to ask for it.

With you, he wasn't just surviving.

He was living.

And yeah, maybe the whole thing was messy. Maybe it was twisted and wrong and so far past the line of what should've been. But you didn't care.

Because in the end, no matter how fucked up it all was…

you wouldn't trade him for anything.

Not the calm, clean version of love people wrote songs about.

Not the easy kind of boy who smiled politely and stayed in the lines.

You wanted him.

Just like this.

Wild. Possessive. A little broken.

And entirely yours.

"I'm gonna kill you, Mark." you wheezed, body aching as you lay tangled in your sheets—sweaty, sore, absolutely wrecked. "I told you me and the gang were rioting tonight."

You turned your head, glaring at him with zero energy behind it. "Now I can't even stand without my knees shaking, dumbass."

Mark was laid out next to you, with a cocky grin on his lips, eyes still heavy-lidded from the high of it all. He had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, bruises blooming along his neck, piercings glinting in the low light. He looked like sin personified—sweaty, smug, and so damn pleased with himself.

He let out a short laugh, deep and careless, before blowing smoke toward the ceiling like he didn't just rearrange your guts.

"That's on you for moaning like that." he said, voice rough and dripping arrogance. "You think I was gonna stop when you kept saying my name like a damn prayer?"

“You're an asshole." you muttered, dragging a pillow over your face.

He just grinned wider, sitting up slightly to watch you suffer with a predator's calm. "You love it."

You peeked out from the pillow, watching as he tilted his head back and ran a hand through his mohawk, those wild curls still clinging to his forehead. His body was littered with old scars and fresh scratches—your scratches. He looked like a goddamn menace, and he knew it.

"Gotta admit." he said, eyes drifting over your naked, sore body like he hadn't already wrecked you twice, "You limping into that riot later? Kinda hot."

Mark chuckled, leaning in to press a lazy kiss to your jaw, then tracing the angry red mark he’d left on your neck with far too much pride. "You know…" he drawled, lips brushing against your skin, "If you're going out... maybe I should tag along."

You turned to squint at him. "For what? To start more chaos?"

His grin sharpened. "No, babe. I was thinking I could fuck you behind a dumpster while Molotovs fly in the background."

You blinked. "You're kidding."

He didn't even hesitate. "I'm not. That'd be so hot. Firelight on your face, sirens in the distance, you begging for me to go harder while the city burns a little."

"God, you're deranged."

"And yet," he smirked, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip, "you're still gonna let me come."

You snorted, tossing a pillow at his chest. "You're freaky as hell, man."

He caught it with ease, tossing it aside before climbing over you again, voice low and rough by your ear. "Say the word, and I'll make sure you really can't walk straight into that riot."

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: listening to Hamilton while writing this is insane :0

[rainychaoloveshack]

hiiii i stumbled across ur blog like a couple days ago and. ive been so obsessed with all ur posts theyre so yummy!!! (ESPECIALLY UR BOOM??? ik u mentioned u werent all that familar with him but,,, that one oneshot had me salivating oml)

anyways could i maybe ask for a sonic x reader where they give him a bath bc he's stinky 🤧 just modern/game is fine smile

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ 𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠.

sonic had a nice adventure outside. unfortunately, remnants of said adventure were brought into your home. its bath time.

⋆°•☁︎ content . sonic x gn!reader, fluff, sort of shitpost-esque writing but i still did take it seriously i swear anon

☂︎ wc. 1.1k ☂︎ a/n. hueheh this request had me giggling. silly dirty ass mf 😭😭😭 i was messing around during it huehehe this is your reminder to not take me too seriously sometimes 😋still pretty short but i hope you like it ^^ def not my best work but i hope you like it regardless ^^'

likes, reblogs, and especially comments are extremely appreciated!!! (i like chatting to you guys!)

“You know I can take a simple bath by myself, right?” Sonic growls, watching you kneel down and check the water's temperature for him with your forefinger. Not too hot, not too cold. “Plus, I already took a shower. The dirt’s gone already. No need for a bath, right?” Now why is he acting like that bathtub is going to kill him? 

“Could’ve gotten it all out if you hadn’t pulled me out the shower.” He mutters. “If you had wanted me to take a bath at all, you should’ve said that bef-” You frown, interrupting his rambling by knocking on the side of the bathtub with your fingers in a way that’s telling him to hurry up and get in. You can still smell the mud on him.

And it’s not bad to take precautions. Plus, if the shower didn’t get every single spec of dirt out of his quills, the bath will. Having even one spec of dirt come back inside the house after Sonic’s grand entrance of mud-filled footsteps, and right after you had to clean said mess, might just make you go crazy.

“I already said I was sorry...” He trails off, peering into the tub before taking a step back. You mutter a short curse his way and tug him by his arm, refusing to take no for an answer.

Sonic winces slightly at the volume of the water in the tub but lets out a sigh once he sees your stern expression. “Oh, alright…” He grumbles, spitting out soft curses about his distaste for water as he slips off his gloves, following with his socks right after.

… Paw-beans.

“Hmm?” Sonic’s ear flicks at your small murmuring, turning your way just as he’s about to step into the bath. “You say something?”

You shake your head, trying to make him forget your small slip-up, and urge him into the tub with a small shove. The moment his foot enters the water, you can visibly see a shiver tremble through his body.

“Eugh.” Despite his little complaints, he takes another step in the bubbly water, slowly settling himself into it with unpleasant grumbling, the water reaching up to his chin. “Make it fast. Being submerged in water for too long makes me uneasy…”

Like him? Make it as fast as ‘Sonic speed’, some might say?

His head snaps in your direction, opening his mouth to say something back to your crude teasing, but it closes instantly as you cup water into your hands and pour it over his head, watching it run off his quills and back into the bath.

That shut him up quickly. 

And so it begins.

The water runs down and seeps into his fur, then drips off once it gets too soaked, mixing with the bubbly suds already present. You rub his ear in a slow motion, cupping water up from the bath and pouring it over to get any extra dirt out. So far so surprisingly good; the baths running fairly clear, besides the small bit of dirt or so. Maybe he did get all the dirt out after all? Or maybe it was just his shoes that were the problem? No, then you wouldn’t have seen all those specs of black and brown in his fur. What, did he roll down a hill or-

“Hey, be careful with my quills!” Sonic’s body flinches as you accidentally prod and pull too deeply during your thoughts. “Can’t you be a little more gentle? The bath’s been clear for the past half hour.” He clarifies. “At this point, I’m not sure if you’re still trying to get any dirt out, or if you just like pampering me.”

Oh. Well damn.

Your hand lowers from his head, and it dawns upon you that yes, for once Sonic is actually right about your behavior, and the embarrassment washes over your figure, staggering your motions as you go to unplug the drain, but he stops you with a small kick of his foot at your hand.

“I didn’t say you had to stop.” Sonic mutters, before putting on his best ‘I deserve the world’ act a spoiled child would have towards everyone else. “I’m actually enjoying the attention!” He puffs his chest out, trying to put on a smug face for you, but a splash of water in his face turns that smugness to irritation, shaking his head around like a dog would their body as water flings in every direction possible. You hold your hands up in front of your face, your soaking wet hands dripping onto your lap and the bathroom floor as you shield yourself from the blue blurs little water assault. Ugh. Looks like he’s getting a kick out of your annoyance.

“It’s not so bad.” Sonic says plainly, flexing his fingers in the water in front of him, before adjusting himself to rest his arms on the tub’s edge, resting his head down to let your preen and run your fingers through his quills, forgetting to scrub through them at all. “You know, I wouldn’t mind if you pampered me like this more often.” Sonic reaches over and drags a soggy, wet, finger across your arm, leaving small water droplets on your skin as he moves it up towards your hand, currently resting on your lap as the other one rubs against his shoulder briefly. “Think I deserve it a little, ya’ know?” He shimmies his shoulders a bit, yet his tail wags all the same under the water, eager for your answer, even if you give him a plain ‘no’.

Well, if he could be more aware of himself and clean up after his little escapades, you would. But for now, the punishment bath it is. Though, with the way he was acting at first, someone might’ve thought he was taking a small dunk in acid.

Sonic doesn’t utter a word at your own little joke, but he shakes his head disapprovingly, glaring at you for a few seconds as his eyes flick over you up and down, then he relaxes. “You’re gonna help me dry off after this too, right?” He chirps, and you shake your head, already firm in the belief that you deserve some rest after cleaning up the house. Not to mention the other house chores you’ve already done today.

“Aw man...” Sonic says softly, before growling under his breath in your direction, ears pinning down, obviously in a joking manner, and he flicks some water in your direction off his fingertips, splashing onto your shirt and lap. “You can’t just take me a bath and then chicken out once we’re almost at the finish line! Come on.” Another flick of water comes flying your way, this time hitting you in the face, and you scowl, cupping up some water in your palm to splash it back at him.

“Aw, hey, come on!” His tone of voice makes it sound like a complaint, but his expression is the complete opposite; a fat grin spreads across his muzzle and another small splash of water makes its way to you, soaking your shirt. Oh, so that's how it is?

“What? What’re you gonna do about it?”

Stupid hedgehog. Sometimes it’s a mystery how you haven’t gone crazy by now from all his antics.

… Oh well; time to fetch that towel.

[coco-loco-nut]

Hii!

Can I please ask for an angsty fic with Max, where the reader defends him from Jos after not finishing his race in Melbourne...idk if you remember when Max kept his helmet for four hours after a race because he was afraid of what Jos would have done to him after not winning...and the reader basically tells Jos to get lost even if she's like 5'4 and definitely not as intimidating as them both lol.

And then maybe after the win in Suzuka, they "reconcile" but she still reminds him to act right around her boyfriend, who's now a man and not a little boy he could pressure like he once did.

Sorry if it's too long!! Thanks for taking your time and reading my request!

Guard Dog

Pairing: Max x Reader

Summary: You are sick and tired of watching Max take Jos' shit

TW: verbal abuse

A/n: thank you soooo much for the rec, I love writing these out so much <3

requests open masterlist

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"Maxie... are you okay?" you wait patiently by the door to his driver's room, careful not to barge in like Jos would, as you have for the past year since you first witnessed Jos' beratement of his son. He is sitting on the couch with his helmet between his hands. The fire causing an unpleasant start to the race, and you are just glad you got here first.

"I'm okay," his voice cracks and you step into the room, closing the door behind you. "I know it wasn't my fault, but I can't help but feel like it was my fault," Max looks in your eyes, the fire brewing behind them. You were genuinely the sweetest girl he's ever met, and to get you mad took a lot. God help you if Jos shows up, you are tired of Max feeling bad even when he podiums.

"You're right, you didn't do anything wrong, the car failed you today," you stay calm, sitting beside him and cuddling into him. Max stays quiet, enjoying your warmth, and decompressing from the start. He can understand why the fans were so happy to see him lose, in fact, if he wasn't himself, he would join them. No, the fear of his father is what has him on edge. Rightfully so, because a few seconds later the door is slammed open again.

"Max, what the hell did you-" Jos starts and you launch yourself off the couch. Jos and Max were big guys, and you were average height for a woman, 5'6 or so, but you didn't seem like it in that moment.

"Shut the hell up and leave. You have nothing useful to say and you are going to shift blame to Max who had NO fault in the DNF," you snarl, setting yourself up as a barrier between the two, Jos still in the doorway and Max on the couch.

"Girl, I don't know who you think you are, but I am Max's father, and I can-," You cut Jos off before he can continue.

"No, you aren't his father. A father doesn't talk to his son like that, you are simply a man who shares the same last name as Max. A father is someone like Carlos Sainz Sr or Lawrence Stroll. No, you are a man- sorry a boy in a man's body- who can't cope with the fact that he doesn't race anymore and wants the man who shares the same last name with him to be impossibly perfect and win every single race, even when the car breaks down." You sneer at the man. "You need to leave, before I call security and make them remove you," you don't back down, instead you step closer. Max watches in both awe and fear.

"I-"

"Leave, Jos, now. Don't make me repeat myself," you say, practically slamming the door behind him. You turn around and look at Max, seemingly calm and normal. He looks at you bewildered.

"That was the sexiest thing ever. Thank you, Schatje, you didn't have to do that," Max hugs you, a large weight off of his shoulders.

"Of course I did, who else will be your guard dog?" You smile at him, squeezing him tighter. "Now, get changed and get back to the garage," you tell Max, stepping out to the room. You let out a deep breath, surprised with how you treated Jos and stood up for Max. A couple minutes later, Max rejoins you, quickly stopping inside hospitality for a snack.

The two of you avoid Jos, going extremely low contact, not that he was trying to. Jos would never admit it, but he was embarrassed at how you spoke to him, and his retreat allowed him to ignore it. Instead, you and Max enjoyed your time together in Japan. The both of you were aware Jos was there, but chose to ignore it. After Max won, Jos warily approached the two of you.

"I wanted to congratulate you on winning. You drove well," Jos says stiffly, silently calling for a truce. You let Max take the lead on the conversation.

"Thank you," he says, feeling like a little boy again, but accepting the temporary truce.

"It was good seeing you Jos, but we need to go," you interject, sensing the still tense atmosphere. The older man, still a little scared of you despite your sweet demeanor, lets you go, not quite willing to cross you again.

"Love you, Maxie"

"Love you too, Schatje,"

[byechristopher]

fuck'em all, but us.

– CHRIS STURNIOLO ANGST.

Author's note: Hello, little angels. I have been gone for months, but I've been wanting to write something for a while now. Excuse me for the hiatus. However, I still can not promise that I'll be consistent from now on – but i love you still. Do not copy/steal my work. :)

Warnings: HELLA LONG. This is almost 3.000 words, sweet Jesus. As usual, if you know me, I like writing about dark, angsty shit. Nothing too bad, but you know, mention of fights, blood, smoking, etc.

I caught Chris staring at me again, that same cold, unreadable expression on his face. He had a cigarette between his fingers, as usual. His eyes were like ice, and whenever they landed on me, I felt a chill run down my spine. He never says anything — just watches, arms crossed, jaw clenched, as if I’ve done something to offend him without even knowing it. I don’t understand what I did to make him look at me that way, like he’s barely holding back some hidden resentment. And yet, every time I catch him watching, I can’t help but wonder what he’s really thinking.

I’ve seen him with a few other people. He’s not exactly warm with them either, but there’s something different when he talks to them, a sort of casual ease. With me, it’s like he’s built up walls — high, thick ones, and I’m just standing outside, banging on the gates. And every now and then, I think I catch a glimpse of something behind them, something vulnerable and unexpected, but it’s gone before I can be sure.

Chris was my older brother's closest friend, and he has been ever since they were little kids. No one ever got as close to him as my brother did. Whereas when it came to me, he was rather cold; I never understood why.

My thoughts were roughly interrupted by my brother's hand, which took a strand of my hair and pulled on it to annoy me.

"Ow, you fucking asshole!"

"Hey, wake the fuck up. I said me and Chris are leaving." I rolled my eyes and looked at Chris one more time, seeing that he still had that same look on his face.

Deciding to ignore it one more time, "yeah, bye. God." I said and grabbed the remote to switch on the TV.

I didn’t want to watch anything in particular; I’d just rather avoid looking at my brother’s best friend once again.

"Where the hell are you?"

A notification popped up and before I read the sender's name, I already knew it was Fred. My ex.

Of course, I ignored it, but deep down, I knew he was losing it. Ever since we broke up, he’s been acting stranger and stranger — showing up at places he knows I’ll be, sending messages that alternate between apologies and accusations. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants me back or wants to make me regret ever knowing him. I kept telling myself he’d get over it eventually, that he just needed time. But lately, his behavior had me on edge, and I began wondering if he’d ever really let go.

I’d never go back to him; that’s something I’m certain of. He crossed too many lines, left too many scars I can’t forget. But now, it’s like he’s everywhere—lurking just out of sight, always one step behind me. I feel his presence even when he’s not there, a constant, heavy reminder that he’s still watching, still obsessing.

I’ve started checking over my shoulder more often, catching myself dreading the sound of my phone vibrating with yet another message from him. I tell myself it’s just paranoia, that he’s all talk and no real threat. But some small part of me can’t shake the fear that this time, he might actually be out of control.

And I was right to be cautious. Because he finally crossed the line I’d been hoping he’d stay behind. When I got home, my stomach twisted as I saw it; my car, with its tires slashed and a deep scratch running along the side. It was unmistakably his work; I’d ignored his messages, blocked his number, and now he was trying to force my attention.

My hands shook as I took in the damage, a mix of anger and dread flooding through me. How could he stoop this low? He knew that car was everything to me, the one thing I’d saved for and bought on my own. The memories of late nights spent driving to clear my head, the freedom it gave me — he’d tainted all of it in a single, desperate act. I wanted to scream, to call him and let him know just how furious I was. But I knew that’s exactly what he wanted.

He wanted a reaction, wanted me to feel trapped and afraid, wanted to pull me back into his twisted little game. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I took a deep breath, locked my jaw, and stared at my car.

"What.. the fuck is that?" My brother's voice echoed in my ears and I turned around to see that he was with Chris.

"Fred. Fucking Fred." I screamed, not able to contain my anger.

"That bastard.. I will fucking kill him." He said and got closer to the car to see the damage, "calm down" was what Chris said to him.

Chris looked shocked and angry, he walked towards me, "this motherfucker lives nearby?"

"Yeah… just a few blocks away." I sat down on the ground, pulling my legs to my chest and hugging them tightly. I looked up at Chris, my voice trembling, "that was my fucking car..." a tear slipped down my cheek, and in that moment, I couldn’t tell if it was from anger or sadness.

Chris clenched his jaw, and I felt a rush of warmth as his hand reached down to cup my cheek. His touch was soft, gentle, and completely disarming. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had held me like that, with such tenderness. He looked down at me with a promising expression, his eyes filled with determination. “I’ll see what I can do about your car. I might have a friend who can fix it.”

His thumb brushed softly against my skin, and I felt a flutter in my stomach, a strange mix of comfort and something deeper. The way he touched me sent a shiver down my spine, pulling me out of my anger for just a moment. In such a chaotic moment, I couldn’t help but think it was nice seeing him like this for once. I stayed silent and leaned into his hand, seeking that warmth, desperate for a distraction from the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me.

I was rather quiet the following days – I didn't want to go out of the house much. Not because this asshole scared me with what he did, but because that car meant a lot to me. Me and my brother lived by ourselves, and that car was the only thing I could call my own. Fred would pay and I'd make sure of that.

I was alone in my room getting ready for work, trying to drown out the chaos of the previous days when I heard the front door slam shut. My heart raced with curiosity and unease. Just as I was about to head downstairs, my brother’s voice boomed through the house, cutting through the silence, “what the hell happened to you?”

I sprang to my feet, instinctively rushing toward the sound of the voices. As I reached the living room, I froze at the sight before me. Chris was leaning against the wall, blood dripping from a cut on his eyebrow and cheek, and staining his shirt. My brother stood in front of him, fists clenched, a mixture of concern and fury etched across his face.

“Chris, what the actual fuck!” my brother exclaimed, his voice a mix of anger and worry. Chris turned his gaze toward me, and in that moment, everything else faded. Despite the blood and bruises, there was a softness in his eyes that held me captive, a silent plea that made my heart race.

“I’m fine,” Chris replied, though his voice was strained. He shifted slightly, not even a single emotion of fear, or pain, nothing. If anything, he had a pleased expression on his face, I could almost make out a smile. My brother continued to glare at him, demanding answers, but Chris seemed unwilling to give them to him.

“What happened?” I asked, stepping closer, my heart pounding. Chris’s gaze flickered back to my brother, and for a brief moment, I felt a wave of unease wash over me. I could sense that whatever had happened involved more than just a simple altercation, and the tension in the air was thick with unspoken words.

"Nothing happened. I just shouldn't have gone to Mike's. There was another fight and I got involved." My brother seemed to know what he was talking about, because his whole body language changed, softened.

"I told you, asshole. You should never go to Mike's. This bar is a shithole." He went off to the kitchen, probably going to grab something to clean the blood.

I walked closer to Chris, my sweaty fingers digging into my leather bag. I reached out hesitantly, my fingers trembling as I brushed against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin contrasted by the coolness of the blood that trickled down from the cut above his eyebrow.

“Chris,” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath, my heart racing. “Does it hurt a lot?” My fingertips lingered on his skin, tracing the line of the wound as if I could somehow erase the pain with my touch. His eyes locked onto mine, a storm of emotions swirling within them — vulnerability, frustration, and a glimmer of something deeper that sent shivers down my spine.

He winced slightly at my touch but didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into my hand, a subtle gesture that felt almost intimate in the tense air between us.

“Not much.” he said, his voice low and rough, but it was the way he looked at me that stole my breath. There was a rawness in his gaze, as if he was baring a part of himself that he’d kept hidden, and in that moment, everything else faded away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, my thumb brushing lightly over his jawline, searching his eyes for reassurance. The moment felt suspended in time, a fragile bubble where nothing else mattered but the two of us. His expression softened, and I could see the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips despite the pain.

“I will be,” he replied, his gaze steady and unwavering, filled with a mixture of gratitude and something that felt like longing. It was as if, in that brief exchange, we shared an unspoken promise — a connection that transcended the chaos around us. My heart raced, and for the first time since the chaos began, I felt a sense of calm in the storm.

Having to go to work and leave him like this pained me, but I had to go, "I have to go to work.." I explained.

"Mhm. D'you want me to take you to work?" He said and I sighed.

"No. Of course not. Stay here, with my brother. I'll see you.. later." I nodded my head and said goodbye one last time before leaving.

The night air was cool against my skin as I walked home from work, each step feeling heavier than the last. The streetlights cast a faint glow on the pavement, illuminating the shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly in the darkness. My thoughts were consumed by what had happened — I couldn’t shake the image of him standing there, bloodied yet resilient, leaning into my touch.

My heart raced at the memory, but alongside it was a gnawing concern. What kind of trouble had he gotten himself into? It was like him to end up in trouble, but I'd never actually see him like this.

As I approached my apartment, a sudden impulse gripped me. I didn’t want to go home and drown in my thoughts; I wanted to see Chris again. I needed to know he was okay, to check on him in a way that felt more personal than just a casual conversation. With each step toward his place, a mix of anxiety and anticipation bubbled within me.

I turned the corner, the familiar path leading me to his apartment building. The windows were dimly lit, casting a warm glow that made me feel a little lighter despite the weight of everything else. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I was overstepping or if he’d even want to see me after everything that had happened. But the thought of him alone, nursing his wounds and possibly replaying the day in his mind, pushed me forward.

I climbed the stairs, my heart pounding louder with each step. When I reached his door, I raised my hand and knocked softly, the sound echoing in the silence of the hallway. What if he wasn’t ready to see me? But as I waited, I couldn’t help but hope that he’d open the door, that he’d let me in — not just to his apartment, but to whatever was going on in his life.

"What.. are you doing here?" He furrowed his eyebrows, a little band-aid covering the wound on his eyebrow now, a cigarette between his lips.

"Sorry, Chris.. I couldn't.. stop thinking about you. I mean.. what happened to you.. today." I was nervous, I couldn't quite understand why.

He cleared his throat and stepped aside to let me in, and of course, I wasted no time. I sat down on his couch and he sat down beside me. So many years of knowing him, and I've never actually been inside his house, so I took a quick look around, trying to take in everything I could.

"I'm fine. I told you." He insisted and sipped from his beer that was on the coffee table, his cigarette nearly done now.

"Your cheek is swollen, you didn't even bother putting some ice on it. Geez." I huffed and got up to go to the kitchen, opening the freezer and wrapping some ice cubes in a towel.

I walked back to him and sat closer to him, cupping his cheek and gently pressing the ice on his other cheek. Only then did I realise how close we were, I could feel his breath fanning over my lips, his dark blue eyes staring into mine.

"My fiend. Zack. He will help you with the car." He whispered and I whispered back, "thank you.. so much."

The sight of him so vulnerable, the blood still seeping from the cut and the way he tried to mask the pain, made something deep within me stir. I forgot about everything else — the fight, the worry, the uncertainty of where we stood. All I could focus on was him and the way he looked at me, those fierce eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and something more that made my pulse quicken.

I could see the way he held back a flinch, how he tried to remain stoic despite the pain. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, a flush of desire that surprised me. I wanted to kiss him, to close the distance between us and erase the hurt with something softer, something intimate.

As I leaned closer, his gaze flickered to mine, and in that moment, everything else faded away.

“Chris,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper, as I hesitated just inches from his face. I could sense that he was just as caught up in the moment as I was, his eyes darkening with something that mirrored my own feelings.

Then, before I could overthink it, I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips against his. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if we were both afraid of what this moment meant. But as I felt him respond, his hand gently cupping my neck, deepening the kiss, I knew I had crossed a line that I never wanted to return from.

The kiss was hungry, needy. I needed to catch my breath. As we pulled away for a breath, my heart raced, and I felt a rush of conflicting emotions, “this is so wrong..” I whispered, my forehead resting against his.

“I know,” Chris replied, his voice thick with desire. He searched my eyes, a mix of guilt and longing swirling between us, "I cant stop now.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” I breathed, feeling the warmth of his body so close. Yet I leaned in again, capturing his lips with mine once more.

He pulled back slightly, looking conflicted, “what if your brother finds out?”

“I don’t.. care right now,” I admitted, my hands threading through his hair as I kissed him again, the heat of the moment overwhelming any reservations I had, “I just want to be here with you.”

“I shouldn’t want this,” he murmured against my lips, his breath mingling with mine, “but I do.”

“Me too,” I confessed, pulling him closer, lost in the moment, “I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t,” he whispered, his eyes darkening with intensity, “don't think about anything else.”

With that, we dove back into the kiss, the world outside fading as we lost ourselves in each other.

As I left Chris's apartment that night, a rush of exhilaration filled me, and I realised that the unexpected had happened; my ex hadn’t reached out at all since the incident with the car. And for the first time in weeks, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.

A few days later, while I was passing by my brother's room, I heard him talking on the phone. Curiosity piqued, I paused outside the door, trying to listen in.

“I can’t believe you did that, man,” my brother said, his tone a mix of disbelief and admiration, “how did you even find his place?”

“This bitch peed his pants when he saw me.” Chris replied, his voice low but amused, “it wasn't that hard, just had to ask around.”

Something shifted inside of me, realizing that Chris had taken matters into his own hands.

“You know, you didn’t have to do that, I was planning on destroying his car instead", my brother said.

“But I wanted to,” Chris replied firmly, and I could hear him chuckle at what my brother said next.

I stepped back, my heart racing. So, it was Chris who had put an end to my ex’s harassment. I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a warmth spread through me. I knew then that my feelings for Chris were deeper than I had allowed myself to acknowledge, and knowing he had my back made me feel safer than ever.

I found myself running back to his apartment again, right then and there, running up the stairs of his building as if someone was chasing me. I knocked on the door, loud enough for him to open it quickly, worry written in his eyes.

"What–"

And this time I didn't let him finish. With tears in my eyes, I pressed my lips against his and lost myself in his arms.

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[im-so-normal-iswear]

hello! can you please write oneshot (or headcanons) of yandere!sonic with a reader who tries to escape/hide?? it can be platonic or romantic, you choose :)

A/N: OF DCWJSUHSNW YESS I'LL WRITE A LITTLE BIT OF ONE SHOT AND A LIL BIT OF HEADCANONS, I'm still kinda new to writing fanfics so I'm like super duper sorry if this is bad 😔😔

Tw: kidnapping (taken place before narrative), forced affection, yandere (if any more tws, let me know!!

Yandere!sonic x reader

Romantic...

Did you seriously think you could get away from him?

Small reminder here bud, he's THE fastest.

It's really not hard for him to catch you.

Sonic POV:

There was the sound of keys jingling as the door unlocked and sonic stepped inside, bag in hand, smiling widely as he called out. "Hey babe, I got us some chili dogs!"

...

No answer?

Weird...

But no matter!

He set the bag down on the table as he set out to look for you, calling your name as he looked through the house.

...

Wait did he lock the do- click, creak, kachunk

Of course...

Reader POV:

You breathed in and out quickly running as fast as you could.

Shit shit shit, damn it! Why can't you run faster.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins as you kept running. Of course you knew sonic was fast, you weren't stupid, so you tried turning corners, tried running to anywhere where you could be concealed.

...

You seemed to be running for some time now no?

It was weird, sonic was way faster than you he surely should have been here by now... But he wasn't. As anxiety set in you ran faster and faster, trying to get as far as you could, to anyone you could.

...

At this point it felt like your legs were about to give out, you shut your eyes trying to think of anything other than the sheer exhaustion you held.

Maybe you could just sit down for a sec-

Suddenly you feel something slam against you, knocking the air out of your lungs. You heaved to get air as arms wrapped around you. Looking up you felt your heart drop as you saw Sonic's eyes stare blankly at yours, still keeping a smile on his face.

"Whatcha doing there?"

"..."

"You do remember I'm the fastest right? I thought you'd remember?"

"..."

"Anyways! Sorry it took so long, had to get caught up in that show we were watching together, you don't mind that I finished it without you right?"

"..."

"Jeez why so quiet? It's like I'm talking to myself at this point! C'mon, let's get home, I could really go for some more chili dogs right now."

He carries you in his arms might just be dragging you if you were still struggling, but you're too tired to do anything at this point. Anyways, when you get home, he places you on the couch, and makes sure to lock the door.

...

...

...

After you finished eating he sat you down.

"Look, I get it, running? Love it! But I'd just prefer you tone it down, when things change we can go out together and run as much as you want, but just.. Not now, y'know? So just don't do that again. Okay?"

He sounds like he's asking but it really isn't a choice for you

He takes most, of not all things as a joke/game, and you running away or hiding isn't an exception

He would in fact purposefully take slower or just waist time before starting to run at all, he's cocky. He's sure that he could reach you quickly, so he doesn't worry about you actually getting anywhere. All he needs to do is just wait until your too tired too even move and then swoop in, it makes it way easier for him to bring you back.

I kinda focused more on running away but I didn't do too much on hiding so I'm gonna do a few head canons in this same post

⬇

⬇

⬇

Who doesn't LOVE hide and seek, plus, you finally playing a game with him? Total win in his book.

Will toy with you, not in a like "oh I'm the best and I use people as my playthings" way but a "lol, imagine trying to hide lmfao 😂😂" way if that makes sense, just feels like him idk

"Where are youuuu?"

While looking for where you could be hiding, he's acting as if he's lost some mundane item.

"Where did I put it.. Hmmmmmm"

Will pull out the scratching his head while looking confused asf combo (Looney toone moment)

If you actually think he can't find you, you're deluding yourself

As soon as you breathe a sigh of relief, any door, or cabinet, to said hiding spot will be flung open, air rushing past. "Found you! :D"

Again, all of this is just a game to him, but he's not stupid. He sees the terror in your eyes, pretending not to notice it as he yaps about how said 'hiding spot' was a good one and how it was fun.

Will get clingy afterwards, regardless if you hid or ran, cuddles, doesn't matter if you don't want them, you're getting them!

Even if you tried running away he wouldn't chain you up, or tie you down, I think he would like the chase tbh, even if realistically he would reach you in a matter of seconds, regardless of how far you were.

A/n: I hope you liked these!!

I wrote these late on a school night, I might be cooked, yall its 12:54 am 😭😭

[twisted-dork]

Damian Wayne Meets May Parker (AKA: “Who Is This Woman and Why Is Everyone Obsessed With Her?”)

(Sorry for not posting for a while I’m currently suffering from allergies)

Damian Wayne did not understand the fascination his family had with this random woman.

Tim was practically running a full investigation on her.

Stephanie kept calling her “The Cool Aunt Gotham Needed.”

Grayson had come back from meeting her looking way too pleased with himself.

And Todd?

Todd was being weird.

Like, really weird.

Not in his usual murder-y, brooding way, but in a way that suggested he genuinely liked this woman.

Which, for Jason Todd, was deeply concerning.

So, naturally, Damian had to investigate.

The Gotham Public Library was disappointing (don’t tell Babs he thought that).

Too many civilians. Too many distractions. And worst of all—

It smelled like old paper and cheap coffee.

Damian wrinkled his nose as he stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the room for his target.

There she was.

May Parker.

Sitting behind the counter, sipping from a steaming cup of tea, and flipping through a book like she wasn’t being stalked by the son of Batman.

Damian approached silently, standing in front of the desk, waiting for her to notice him.

She didn’t look up.

Damian frowned.

How dare she ignore him?

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Still, nothing.

Finally, she spoke, not even looking up from her book.

May: “If you’re going to glare at me like that, at least introduce yourself.”

Damian narrowed his eyes.

Damian: “I did not introduce myself because I assumed you would already know who I am.”

May: (Still not looking up.) “Oh, wow. That’s an incredibly arrogant thing to say.”

Damian’s eye twitched.

Damian: “Tt. I am Damian Wayne.”

May finally looked up.

And to Damian’s absolute outrage, she did not seem impressed.

May: “Nice to meet you, Damian Wayne.” (She took a sip of tea.) “Do you always introduce yourself like a prince addressing his subjects?”

Damian: “I am the son of—”

May: “Lemme guess—‘the son of a very important man’?”

Damian scowled.

This woman was insufferable.

Damian studied her.

She didn’t look special.

She wasn’t particularly tall, nor did she carry herself like a fighter.

And yet—

She had beaten the Joker into the ground.

Without training. Without hesitation. Without fear.

That was not normal.

So Damian tested her.

Damian: “You are not from Gotham.”

May: “Nope.”

Damian: “Then why are you here?”

May: (Shrugging.) “Life’s funny like that.”

Damian: “That is not an answer.”

May: (Smiling.) “It wasn’t meant to be.”

Damian clenched his jaw.

He hated vague people.

Just when Damian was about to officially write her off as another useless civilian—

A small child came running up to the desk.

Peter Parker.

And May immediately turned all of her attention to him.

Peter: (Holding up a book.) “May! Can we check this one out?”

May: (Smiling warmly.) “Of course, sweetheart.”

Damian watched as she scanned the book, ruffled the boy’s hair, and gently reminded him to be careful running in the library.

It was…

Odd.

Damian had seen protectiveness before.

His father was protective.

His siblings were protective.

But this woman?

She wasn’t just protecting Peter physically.

She was making sure he felt safe.

Like nothing bad in the world could touch him as long as she was there.

And that—

That was not something people faked.

Damian stared at her, considering this.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.

He did not tell anyone about his thoughts on her.

But later that night, he sent Jason a single text.

Damian: She is acceptable.

Jason didn’t respond.

But Damian knew, without a doubt, that Todd was probably smirking like an idiot somewhere.

[tranceinnumerabletabs]

When Johnny Comes Back pt8

Howdy y'all! It seems I'm back. I'm writing this at like 5 AM. Idk why it seems like y'all didn't like the last part? Was it too long? Were the colors overwhelming? Hopefully not cuz it's so much more in here. Anyway here's the next part. Tell me if it's too long. Also I got college tests comin up so.....expect some delays for the next few days

tags: @supermegabitchboyexceptimagirl, and @beelzebee

part1, part2, part3, part4, part5, part6, part7

------

You’re standing on a cliff side, the sunset beautiful and fleeting. Ash swirls around you. You look to where it’s from and it’s your cat Simon tipping over the urn. The ashes surround you as a mysterious laughter surrounds you, along with mocking words you don’t understand but just know they’re meant to be despairing. And that he has a Russian accent for some reason. The ash swirls faster and the next time you look at Simon he’s a charred mess of what he used to be.

“Simon?” You ask, distraught and horrified at your sweet kitty’s death. Simon’s eyes were dead and bluer than you remember. The ash surround you more and more and you sense Johnny’s presence. You don’t know why or where.

“Johnny?” You call out and the Russian’s voice grows louder and more mocking as more, sadder voices joined in. It didn’t feel like there was an outside source to the voices. It felt like it was in your mind.

"He was the best of us"

"The toughest"

"Would have fought the world barehanded"

Your location changed and you’re looking over Johnny’s dead body, the shot on his head bleeding nightmarishly. His lifeless eyes pointing at you without looking at you. You hear an authoritative voice announce: “All stations- this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized. Bomb is safe... One KIA.”

You see a strange shadowy figure loom over Sergeant Soap. His shadows reminded you of the fur on Simon.

It was hard to make out but you saw a skull with hollow eyes and knew you just knew that this was death and he was going to take Johnny away from you. You look at the horrific state of Johnny. Your mouth doesn’t move but you’re calling out to him as the reaper takes him away.

“Johnny! No! Please!”

You couldn’t move, you were running but it’s like you weren’t moving. You call out to them more but it’s like you weren’t actually screaming. You catch up to them and tackle death, but he and Johnny disintegrates into shadows and ash that surround you again. The voices come back: the Russian, the voices, Johnny himself. You couldn’t understand anything you’re hearing other than occasional words:

“KIA” “Bonnie!” “Be careful who you trust sergeant. Peo-“ “bravo six goin da-“ “-ple you know can hurt you the most” “translate that from bullshit to eng-“ “hen! I’m here” "-the toughest" “or I’ll FUCKiNG hang you from it” “would have fought the world bare handed” “LOVE! WAKE UP!”*

——————————————————

You GASP loudly as you’re shaken from your torture.

“Lassie?” He shakes you again

You look at Soap “Johnny?!”

“Aye I’m here what hap-“ you hug him tightly, just like the one you gave him yesterday: strong, tight, wet, bordering on suffocating if he wasn’t so durable, all done while you’re shaking. He grips you back, rubbing your back and ruffing your hair. “Birdie…what happened?”

You squeeze harder and he catches the hint that you just need to be grounded right now. He leans into your ear and whispers reassurances

“Jus’ a bad dream Bonny lass, yer here with me now. Yer big strong man, back from war safe and sound. You’re okay Bonny nothing is gonna hurt ya.”

“I’m not worried about myself Johnny..” you mumble. His words hit him like a brick all over again and his heart swells. he’d tease you for falling for him but…not now.

“Aye….I’m…sorry tae worry ye”

“I saw you dead…”

“…..” he goes quiet

“I saw you dead…and…and death took you…a-and…I-I tried to stop it b-but he disappeared a-and Simon also died and was burned-”

“Hey, hey…hen…jus’ a nightmare okay?”

“I’ve had this exact nightmare before. I don’t know why it keeps happening. It feels so real.” You finally pull back, looking at him. This time, when looking at the bandage on his head, you feel relieved. He’s hurt, but he’s here. Here and breathing. You place your chin on his neck and look up at him with soft puppy eyes

“I’m worried for you”

“I Ken.”

“You could’ve died”

“Aye”

“Your head was shot”

“Dinnae need ta remind me.”

You sigh and close your eyes as he ruffled your hair.

“I’m here Bonny. I cannae promise you to be back next time. I’m not that naive, seen too many a men sharing a laugh wit me one night and share a body bag the next. Hell, even civis die without warnin’ all da damn time. I cannae promise ye next month or next week, and neither can you, but I’m promising ye right now. And right now I’m layin’ in my kip with the fairest princess in the land.”

You crack a smile

“Aye, she’s even fairer now”

You giggle and hide your face into his chest.

“I’m glad you’re here Johnny”

“Haven’t heard you say that before. Say it again?”

You don’t shake your head or roll your eyes, instead you jump up to wrap your arms around his neck and hold him close to your chest

“I’m so happy that you’re here Johnny!” He growls and grips your body harshly

“I could get used tae this bein my good mornin’” he rasps

“Hmm..me t-…..” you stop, remembering something

.

.

“birdie?”

You pull back and have an annoyed look on you

“Johnny.” You say firmly

“A..aye?”

You grip his face roughly, as if trying to punish him “were you awake while I was trying to get out of your hold last night?”

“Dinnae Ken wha’ yer talking aboot’”

“Johnny.” You say ever firmer, looking at him with a piercing gaze

“Yes gorgeous?”

“Were you. Awake. While I was trying to go sleep in my bed?”

“…..”

“Johnny?” You growl, your touch now pressing into his head injury (not too hard through) to get your point across. “Tell me the truth”

“I love you mo chridhe”

“JOHNNY! YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!”

You rip the pillow out from under him and raise it above your head like a bloodthirsty barbarian, ready to strike

“Princess! Mercy please I beg o’ ya!”

“There’s no doll here now sergeant suds! Now it’s your superior! And you’re taking discipline”

He laughs at your mimicry, blocking your pillowy bludgeons to the body

“Since when-" smack "-were you-" smack "-my superior?”

You growl and increase your pace.

“I dinnae take orders from a civi!” He chuckles. He tackles you to lay down on the bed while you continue to pillow smack him.

“I’m the princess. I outrank you sergeant! Now unhand me!” You blow your tongue at him.

“Yes yer highness.” He rolls off you. You jump off the bed, face red at what you endured. He gets off and runs up to you too.

“C’mon leannan, aren’t ye glad that yer brave soldier was there to protect ye from the nightmare?”

Pause.

Well….that’s true. Who know how bad that nightmare could’ve gotten if he didn’t shake you awake and comfort you. He hugs your from behind, doing that terrible habit of leaning in close behind you to speak lowly over your shoulder while being half dressed

“I’m just doin’ by job princess. Duty calls”

“And does your Call of Duty include trapping and annoying the princess until she attacks you with pillows?”

“Tis’ Modern Warfare bonny. Things are like that these days.”

“And the bedtime story you made me tell?”

“Tis’ Modern Warfare too. I’d die for it” You sigh. He’s impossible. He leans into your ear more. “If it’s nae too late, Good mornin’ leannan”

“It’s the afternoon Johnny. It’s what happens when you sleep around sunrise”

“My sunrise happens when my sun rises”

“And when that?”

“When didja wake up?”

You blush “shut up.”

“Yes yer highness. Yer always so grumpy in the mornin’”

“You’re always annoying in the morning. Do they train you to be a nuisance the second you wake up?”

“Aye, ye never Ken when they might get piece o’ mind” You shake your head and try to move, his arms are imprisoning you fucking again*

“Johnny.”

“Nae”

“……I’ll make you breakfast”

“A big one?”

“Yes you beast. A big one. But you’ll have to get dressed more than your underwear.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. You don’t see me walking around the place with jus’ my skivvies on do you?”

He shrugs “sounds like a you problem.”

“Do it and I’ll give you the flat’s entire inventory of bacon and a dozen eggs”

He lets go and dashes to the closet to get dressed. You smile and skip to make a feast fit for an army. A one man army that is. A tiny while later he there, shirtless but at least he’s got pants on.

“Thank you honey”

“You don’t have to say that. And I’m not your honey” you say the line you’ve said many times to the point where it’s an affectionate routine like your personalized greeting

“Then why are you so sweet to me hen?” He says on cue.

“Okay you Lorne lad. Go sit down as I make you breakfast”

“I want tae hel-“

“Sit down.”

He obeys and spends the entire time staring at you, just like Simon, who’s watching nearby. As per promise you added the rest of all the bacon you had into a skillet

“Aye, little more?” He teased

“This is like a kilo of bacon”

“Not enough”

“Sush this ain’t epic meal time.”

You decide to be a cunt to prove a point make enough food to feed the entire cast of Game of Thrones. Let’s see him ask for more now. what’s in an English/Scottish breakfast again?

Eggs. How many Eggs? Well no one eats eggs like Gaston, but Gaston hasn’t met Soap.

Sausages. How much sausages? Enough to make AO3 look clean enough to have a church service in.

“Ohh leannan that looks good!”

“I said shush let me finish”

Beans. Beans? You and the boys at 3AM Lookin for BEANS and this is enough gas to keep a tank in orbit.

“Bonnie I think that’s eno-“

“Shush”

Mushrooms. He wants mushrooms? Here’s Enough to recreate The Last of Us.

Does Johnny boy want toast? Here is Enough to eradicate the local duck population from existence, then enough tea to recreate the Boston tea party and serve the queen leftover. But knowing Johnny he’ll want coffee too.

How much coffee you give him? Enough to make a college student flinch

Aaannnd finally tomatoes. That’s Enough tomatoes to boo away every mediocre LA comedian into a better profession.

“Done” you grin and turn to look back at Soap, who was visibly salivating. You chuckle “are you hungry princess bubbles?”

“Aye” he says looking at the domestic scene before him. You, in pajamas and his shirt, making him a breakfast feast when he came back from deployment. It’s not just the food he’s salivating at.

“Eat up” you start serving it all and he digs in like a wild dog. Before meeting him, You’d be disgusted and put off by this barbaric behavior, but because it’s Johnny, not only do you let it slide, you also find it endearing.

Simon jumps on the table, you shoo him away from your plate, trying to make him eat from his kitty bowl. It’s on the table because he refused to eat otherwise. He wants to eat with your two and that’s final.

He, for some reason decided to eat from Soap’s plate, which was smart because Johnny “I’ll eat anythin’ you make me” Mactavish doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

You leisurely eat your food as Johnny seems to be challenging Matt Stony for his records. You sip on your beverage, that’s in a cup, while Johnny drinks from the pitcher. He finishes his breakfast, a surprise to even you seeing how much he ate, and lays back with a groan

“I’m stuffed lass. Dinnae think I can move.”

“You didn’t have to eat all of it”

“Nae, I’ll eat anythin’ and everythin’ ye make”

“Yeah well, don’t get used to it. Do you have any idea how expensive that brand of bacon was?” You say looking at your phone casually

“Ye’d have more money if ye married me for military spouse tax benefits Bonny” You laugh, what a bold offer and yet it doesn’t sound too bad.

“I’m sure”

“Think about it Bonnie, I’ll make ye a Mactavish, you already act like one, makin yer soldier a feast after comin’ back from the war” oh is that why he was affectionate today?

You snort “oh no Johnny. Once you retire, you’re taking my last name”

“And why’s tha’?”

“it’ll do you some good changing your last name. If anyone asks why you took mine, just say you married a feminist” you sip your drink.

"what's wrong with Mactavish?" he whines through his chuckle

“You’re a war criminal Johnny.” You casually mention, as if Soap ever wanted you to know that.

Jazz Music Stops

He didn’t.

part9

[froggibus]

The Second Choice - Leon S Kennedy

Pairing: Leon S Kennedy x gn! reader

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2k

Summary: after losing Ada, Leon can’t get her off of his mind—and can’t stop comparing you to her

CW: angst, feelings of inadequacy, second guessing, unhealthy relationship, feelings of loss, allusion to death/loss, Leon comparing you to Ada, alcohol abuse, hurt comfort, groveling (but pretty weak cause I can never stay mad at this man), arguing, insecurities, allusion to panic attacks

honestly have been feeling super angsty the past few days and needed to write a lil angst as a treat to myself lol. definitely not my best work but whatever

————

It’s no secret that after he lost Ada, your boyfriend was never quite the same. Aside from having nightmares for months, he also never quite got over her.

You’d be lying if you said a part of you wasn’t relieved the day he told you the news. She was always a point of contention in your relationship and you felt as though Leon would never be able to fully give himself to you as long as she was in the picture. You thought this would be a new leaf for you guys, a step in the right direction to further progress your relationship.

You’ve never been more wrong.

The first few months of the aftermath were rough. Leon drank more and came home less, and the times he came home made you wish he never did. You tried to take a deep breath and turn the other cheek to his drinking. He’s in pain, you’d remind yourself. He needs time.

It all came to a head one night after he hadn’t been home in almost a week—too busy out on a binge. You had been texting and calling him the whole week, desperately clinging onto him when you knew he didn’t belong to you. He never did.

Leon got home with the worst hangover of his life, hoping to just crash in bed and forget for a while. It had been so long since he slept—the nightmares that plagued him chasing away any hope of rest. But today he felt tired enough and the comfort of having you at home was more than enough to have the man dreaming of sleeping the whole way home.

The last thing he wanted to see was his bed covered in your clothes, a suitcase thrown open on your side of the bed and you desperately rummaging through the closet. “Honey?” He spoke softly, voice raspy from the constant burn of alcohol.

Your head snapped up, red rimmed eyes meeting his. “You’re back.”

“What’s going on? What’s—what’s all this?”

You almost felt bad for him. “I need some time away, Leon. I-I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” He wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“This. The long nights and the drinking and you never coming home anymore. It’s killing me, Leon. And I,” your voice broke and you took a deep breath, “I deserve better.”

Leon felt his heart drop into his stomach, a weight forcing him onto his knees, He looked up at you with glistening eyes, “y/n, please don’t do this. Please. I-I love you, I don’t know who I am without you.”

You sighed, trying to swallow back the lump in your throat. It’s not fair, it’s never been fair. But it’s Leon, and you’ve always loved him, and no matter how angry you were in the moment, you knew he needed you.

“Alright,” you said quietly, placing the suitcase back in the closet.

Hope filled Leon’s eyes once more, like azure sparkling in sunlight. He wasted no time in striding over to you and wrapping his arms around you. He held you so tightly it hurt.

He whispered, “I promise things will get better from here. I promise, y/n.”

—

Leon doesn’t drink as much after that. He comes home at a normal time but even then it feels like your boyfriend is vacant. Gone. The closer he is to you, the further away he seems. 

She’s always on his mind—and he makes that obvious to you. 

Leon’s eyes practically glaze over the day he sees you wearing red. The garment clings to your body in such a perfect way, the scarlet complimenting all of your features perfectly. 

You almost smile at the way his jaw drops. He’s never been a very reactive person so seeing him like this is enough to make you giggle. Of course, that’s before he speaks. 

“Ada had a dress that was almost the exact same colour.”

Your heart sinks at the mention of her name. He’s grieving, you try to remind yourself. It's only natural she’s on his mind. 

“Red was her favourite colour, she wore it all the time.”

You sigh, trying not to let your tensed muscles show. He misses her. It’s okay. But it’s not okay, and your stomach hurts and now you don’t want to go out at all. 

“It’s kinda itchy,” you say quietly. “I’m gonna change.”

And you find yourself tossing the cloth into the bottom of your hamper, never to be worn again. In fact, you don’t feel like wearing red ever again. 

The comparisons don’t stop after that day. Ada never seems to leave his mind, and any time he looks at you, there’s a look in his eyes that says he’s not really seeing you. 

It feels like anything you do, anything you wear, any interest you have—she had it too. 

You’re watching a movie on the couch, cuddled into his side. You have your arms wrapped around one of his, feeling the muscle beneath his skin. 

You giggle and point at the tv, “I love him. He was my favorite character as a kid.”

You regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth and Leon turns to look at you. His blue eyes are clouded over with nostalgia. 

“Ada always loved him, too. Only guy that ever made her flustered,” he shakes his head, smiling at the thought of her. 

You can’t help but pull away from him and withdraw to your side of the couch. Leon looks at you in concern, head tilted to the side. 

“Can—can you stop comparing me? I hate that,” your voice comes out exasperated and desperate. 

Leon doesn’t say anything but a confused look takes over his face. His silence is almost worse than his comparisons—almost. 

He’s at a loss for words. He doesn’t know what to say. That’s just how his mind works; he makes connections between things like that. A force of habit he gained from his strenuous line of work. He thought you understood that. 

“Just,” you sigh, pushing yourself off of the couch, “nevermind.”

You trudge your way to the bedroom and throw yourself on the bed, closing your eyes and forcing the tears away. He promised things would get better. He promised. 

—

Leon notices you withdrawing from him after that. Never in his life had he heard you sound so defeated and so angry. You’ve never been good at voicing your feelings, especially not to him, so he knew something was wrong the minute you spoke up. 

“Honey?” He shuffles over to his side of the bed, the mattress dipping down under his weight. 

You don’t answer, drawing your arms and knees closer to your chest. Leon sighs—he’s really messed up. 

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize I was making you so upset.” He takes a deep breath, “I just miss her so much, and you know how my brain works and—”

You whimper, “it’s not fair, Leon. You’re not being fair to me here.”

“I-I know! But you knew how things were getting into this so maybe you shouldn’t have—”

“Shouldn’t have what, Leon?” You snap. 

The blond stays awfully silent, staring at his clenched fists in his lap. He doesn’t know how to talk his way out of this—he doesn’t know how to keep you with him. 

“I think I need some time away.” 

Leon stares at you slack jawed. As soon as you stand up, he’s jumping to his feet too. He practically dives into your way, blocking your path. 

You stare at him expectantly and try to avoid the burning in your eyes. 

He looks at you dead seriously. “For every thing you have in common with her, there’s another thing that you don’t.” 

His words are enough to get you to sit back down on the bed. The beating in his chest settles down as you do. You’re not leaving. 

“She was really athletic for one thing, and a serial flirt. I mean, she was just so beautiful she could have any man wrapped around her finger. And she loved to fight and she loved gory movies and—why are you standing up?”

Leon stares at you in confusion. Did he say something wrong? He doesn’t understand. 

Your mind races a million miles a second. It’s clear from the way he talks about her that he loved her in a way he could never love you. Even from the way he talked about her compared to you. Beautiful, athletic, charismatic. Everything you wished you were, everything he wishes you are. 

“I need to get out of here, I-I feel like I can’t breathe.” You clutch your chest, shoving past him and grabbing your keys and your coat. 

Leon watches you walk out the door, hopeless to do anything to stop you. 

—

Leon waits for you to come home, sitting in a chair by the door for hours. The more time that passes, the more worried he gets that you’ll never come home. He taps his foot in anticipation—a habit he’d never had until now. 

He can’t believe how caught up he got. He was so focused on the ghosts of his past that he forgot about his future. And sitting in this old chair, his ass hurting from sitting so long, he wishes he could go back in time and shut his own stupid mouth. 

It’s nearly 1am when he hears your key in the door. Leon shoots to his feet, standing only a foot away from the opening door. 

The minute you see him, you feel like crying again. You were hoping he would be asleep and you wouldn’t have to have this conversation now. 

You close the door behind you and lock it, not even sparing a look at Leon as you make your way down the hall and to the bathroom. You only get halfway before Leon grabs your wrist and tugs you to face him. 

He drops to both knees in front of you, looking up at you with desperate eyes. “Y/n.”

You shake your head and try to tug your hand away but Leon keeps a firm grip. 

“I am so fucking sorry, y/n. I-I got so caught up in things that I didn’t even realize how I was treating you. I want to make it up to you.”

“You promised things would get better, Leon.” Your voice is shaking dangerously, “but all you’ve done is make me feel like her replacement. Like I’m the next best thing. And it has me second guessing everything. How do I know you even love me for me? How do I know you love me at all?”

Leon’s heart aches at your words. He knew he messed up but he didn’t realize the extent to how unloved he was making you feel. 

“No, no, no. Y/n, no. Look at me.” His eyes are wet, and he looks so vulnerable sitting in front of you on his knees. “I love you. I love you. You and only you. You’re not her, and I know that. I never loved her in the same way I love you.”

Tears fall down your cheeks, splashing on the floor in front of you and Leon. 

He keeps going. “You’re not a replacement. You’ve never been a replacement. You’re the best thing I could have asked for, and I’m sorry I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately.”

Leon slowly rises to his feet, slipping his hands into yours. “Let me make it up to you. Please, let me make it up to you.”

You sigh, biting your lip and trying to force the tears away. “Leon…”

“Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how much I love you, y/n. I will do anything to make you feel happy and safe again.”

And looking into his eyes, you know he means that. 

“Alright, alright, just—” you wipe your eyes and offer a weak smile, “let’s sleep on it, okay?”

Leon nods and lets you tug him to the bedroom. He still has a lot of work to do, but that can wait until the morning. For now, he’s just glad he has you back.

[llamagoddessofficial]

Skull is happy and safe now. But sometimes, the worst habits are the hardest to break.

(Short thing I cooked up while feeling sad. It's pretty angsty, and involves dealing with family death, so be warned, but it has a bittersweet happy ending.)

---

“... Skull?”

...

He didn’t respond. He sat there, staring at the front door, motionless and silent. He’d been like that for almost two hours.

You sat beside him, but he made no move to greet you. He didn’t seem to realise you were even there. It was only when you touched the top of his hand, gently, that he spoke, iris trained unwaveringly on the door.

“... crooks’ll be home soon.” He mumbled.

Ah. Your chest ached... it was one of those days.

... Crooks was Skull’s younger brother. His only family. Skull had told you a lot about him, over the course of your time together- he told you about raising Crooks himself, a consequence of losing their parents at a very young age. He told you about taking care of Crooks before he even knew how to take care of himself. He told you about teaching him to read, to write, to cook, to use magic. He told you about Crooks’ love of puzzles and logic games, his bombastic personality and endless kindness, the hours he spent pouring over junior jumble. He told you about how when his own depressive episodes became too much, Crooks kept him from slipping. He told you about how, since before he could remember, it had always been the two of them. They were an inseparable pair.

...

Crooks had fallen to hopelessness, in the Underground. Only a few years before the Monsters were freed.

... Skull didn’t talk much about those last years. You didn’t ask. But Skull clearly never recovered from losing the last piece of his family. Deluding himself into believing that his brother was simply ‘out’ and would come home soon was his only way of coping. Of surviving.

Even now, he still wasn't good at being alone.

Skull was better, on the surface. He had new friends and acquaintances. New routines, new comforts. He had you- his partner. But sometimes, when he had bad days, he would slip back into the mental patterns that had kept him alive for so long.

... You wondered how many hours Skull had spent, alone in a silent home, down in the Underground. Waiting for Crooks to come back. Staring blankly at a door that would never open again.

...

You took his hand in both of yours. You played gently with his worn, cracked bones... giving him a little more time in a world where his brother was still alive.

...

“Skull?” You said, softly. “... I’m a bit hungry. Could you make me something?”

That was the only thing that ever worked.

...

His eyelight shifted. Then blossomed a little wider... his mouth started to make minute movements, like he was sleeptalking.

“... hungry.” He eventually said aloud. His hand twitched, then carefully curled around yours- he sounded like he still wasn’t all there.

“Yes.”

“... she’s hungry...” His eyelight flickered again. “... get up... she’s... hungry...” 

Skull swayed slightly, then stood. You stood with him... he lumbered to the kitchen, but kept a tight hold of your hand, taking you with him.

...

He was already cutting the steak, when you saw him ‘wake up’. 

There was a noticeable pause, in his ministrations. The previously almost-robotic movements of the knife slowed to a halt. You saw his eyelight shiver... he blinked, then started slowly looking around at the room. 

His line of sight focused on a vase full of flowers. The two of you had set those up, around the house, always within line of sight. Things that would remind him he’s on the surface now.

Two seconds. Three, four...

...

“... sorry.” He mumbled, putting the knife down. There he was; Skull was back. He seemed embarrassed.

“Hey, hey.” You squeezed his hand. “No, don’t apologise. It’s okay. You just needed a minute.”

He sighed, forlorn. “i cut up our good steak...”

“Well. I’d rather you handled that steak than me. I don’t trust myself with something so nice.”

He snorted, trying to hold back his laughter. When he looked at you, his eyelight was big and shiny, and you felt a smile creep onto your face.

“... might as well cook it anyway.” He mumbled, taking the knife up again. “expensive steak for lunch, huh?”

“I’m not complaining.”

Another snort. He was grinning now.

He didn’t let go of your hand... you were impressed he cooked the whole meal one-handed.

[harrysfluff]

Choices Part 2

a/n: Hi! Yes I know it has been a long time. VERY SORRY! I had a lot of big life events happen (graduated from college, grad school (apps, interviews, drama etc)). So for that i am very sorry. Because this one leaves on a cliff hanger and given my writing updates, I’m halfway done with part 3 and locking myself away to finish it. Anyway thank you for being so patient with me!

Warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), ANGST

part 1

You could feel your eyes drying out as you stared down at salad in front of you. It was bitter and way too vinegary, but Jules had recommended it. “It is unreal! I swear I argue with myself every time. Like should I get it or try something new!” Nothing had seemed appealing lately to you, so the recommendation was welcomed.

Your eyes wondered around the restaurant as you eyed the tables nearby. You and Jules had a ritual of having lunch together on Fridays as way to decompress from the week. Often the conversation would range from office gossip to the most recent episode of Love Island in the span of an hour. Today Jules was complaining about her going to see her in laws this weekend. “Simon’s mum is so protective and I’m always the bad guy because I told him to try something new.” She said grabbing her drink to take a sip. “Like I swear you would never know the cord was cut at birth,” she laughed with one hand making scissors motions.

You only cracked a smile which earned a frown from Jules. “Oh come on! That was funny. I’m wasting all my good bits on you.”

You sighed, eyes coming to meet hers. “Sorry, it was.” You paused, setting down your fork so your hand could run through your hair. “I’m just in my head. I have a bunch of stuff going on,” You admitted.

“Like a deadline?” She asked, taking another sip.

“No not that.” You bit into your cheek, trying to find the correct phrasing. It had been a week since Harry stormed out and every moment since it had been gnawing at you. Your mind had been replaying each moment transforming it into a distorted nightmare. Additionally, he wasn’t texting beyond reminding you that the electrician was stopping by and telling you he was in LA. There was a deep sense of dread in your stomach preparing for the worst. “Me and H got into a fight last weekend, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.” You felt your eyes watering up as you tried to blink them away. “I said something really mean and he’s not really talking to me and I just don’t think he wants to repair it.” You could feel a tear run down as you were quick to dab it away. “Like ugh I was just so mad at him. And I just wanted to hurt him and I did.” The tears became a quick pour down your face.

Jules’ expression softens, sliding her hand across the table for you. “I’m sure it’s gonna be okay, love,” she cooed. “He just needs time, he obsessed with you! I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

You slipped your hand into hers, soaking in the comfort. Your other hand grabbed the napkin next to you, wiping away your tears.“Yeah but I don’t think he’ll forgive me,” you replied in a calm down. You took in several deep breathes as an attempt to regain composure.

“I promise he will, he truly loves you.” Her thumb gently rubbed against your knuckles. You nodded, hoping she was right.

~

The door handle felt cold in your hand as you turned it pushing into the house. Instinctly, your hand found the light switch to flick it. However you stopped your movements noticing the lights were already on. Turning the corner, you jumped at the sudden appearance of Harry coming down the stairs. “Oh sorry for scaring you, I heard the door and assumed it was you.” He said.

He was wearing what he usually wore when lounging around the house which was gym shorts and some old shirt. Your eyes analyzed his face for any evidence of his mental state. His eyes look tired, and he had bit more scruff than usual but nothing more. It seemed your eyes were permanently bloodshot and the bags under your eyes darken. “Hi,” you replied going to set your purse on the kitchen counter. “How are you?” You asked trying to be polite.

“Fine, I just got in this morning.” Harry came to the opposite side of the counter. He was unsure how he should approach you. It felt like you both were the same ends of a magnet. “I um wanted to talk you but wanted to do it in person.” He sunk himself down on the kitchen stool, burying his face in his hands. You took note of his nervous habit.

A seed of panic began to grow inside of you, trying to swallow it all down. “Yeah?”

“I had a lot of time to think and I’m sorry for how I left and how avoidant I have been. I just needed space and I was really angry and hurt by you.” You crossed your arms across your body, feeling the dryness in your throat. “I think I was so hurt because I get comments like that all the time from the world. And to hear that from you,” he sucked in a sharp breath as his face knitted up into a scrunch. “You who is suppose to be my partner and know me. Really suppose to know me, you know?” He curled his lips into his mouth. “And if that’s how you know me then frankly I think we’re too different.”

“Harry I’m really sorry. I was just angry and upset and I know there are no excuses but I’m sorry.” You leaned across the counter, extending yourself to him. “I promise I don’t see you like that. You are such an amazing person and nothing like I said.”

His eyes harden again as they stayed fixated on the countertop. He couldn’t even look you in your eyes. “I just don’t think this is going to work. I think we’re too different.”

Your heart sank to your stomach and you felt a well of tears start to pool in your eyes. “Okay,” you mustered out.

“I’m sorry.” He stood up from his seat coming towards you. He held his arms out before engulfing you in them. You sobbed into his chest while he rubbed your back in gentle circles. After a few moments, he softly spoke. “I still you love, y/n. That’s the other part that hurts in all of this, but it’s for the best.”

Your insides crumbled as you reached your arms around his neck. You nestled your face into his bare skin, trying to memorize his scent. Pushing more into him, your lips began to faintly kiss him.

His hands moved towards your waist, firmly holding it. The familiar feeling began to erupt an explosion of desire inside of him. All week he had felt little to no interest in sex so your skin on his felt amplified. “I don’t know if this is right, y/n,” he sighed. He pushed himself into you as you sucked at his skin.

“Just let me have this,” you pleaded coming up for air. You crashed your lips onto his, “I just want you one final time.” You both melted into each other. You and Harry knew each other’s spots and how to work them perfectly.

“Believe me I want you y/n, but I want to make sure this is right.” His tensed his body as you slipped your hand into his shorts, grabbing at his warm skin.

You leaned your mouth against his ear, “I just really want you to fuck me right now,” you said eagerly. You hopped up onto the counter and Harry pushed himself between your legs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down along with your panties. Your hands lifted your top over your head, exposing your chest to him. He latched his mouth to your collar bone as left a trail of kisses along them. “Can you do that for me? Please make me cum.”

His mouth went downward and his body slumped down to his knees while his hands brought you closer to the edge. He attached his mouth to you making you heave at the sudden feeling. His tongue licked upwards against your clit giving you a growing bud of pleasure. You swung your leg over his shoulder for better access, leaning backwards to rest your weight on your arms. The intense pleasure would at times mix with the pain you felt which made you want him more. You craved him.

The waves of indulgences began to combine with one another and you could feel your release was imminent. “I’m gonna cum,” you moaned. Harry slipped a finger into you as your orgasmed washed over you. He pulled away from you, his mouth shining in the light. He thought to himself how much he would miss the taste of you. The way he could feel you expand around him when you came and how blissfully your face looked afterwards. He already missed you. He tossed his shirt over his body and quickly ridding his short away too, desiring to only feel your skin. “Do you think you can cum for a second time for me?” You nodded standing up from the counter. You turned around, laying your front side against the cool side. Goosebumps puckered up all over you skin when Harry gave a quick smack to your ass. “Hmm mine.” He immediately regretted the word as he cringed at himself. He was glad he couldn’t see your face.

He slid himself into you, giving himself to you. You moaned at the feeling, your primal needs coming out. Harry’s thumb snaked its way to your sensitive clit, and began to firmly rub in circles. You could start to feel your second orgasm growing.

The kitchen was filled with the sound of your bodies colliding and both of yours grunts. Harry kept a firm grip on you as he felt his own release coming. He wanted to savor the moment but couldn’t hold himself back. “Fuck, I love this pussy. I love the way it feels. Fuck,” he strummed out. His thumb became sloppy as you came down from your second high. Both of you were catching your breaths, Harry laid his head against your back still inside of you. “I love you.” He spoke in a gentle tone.

His words brought you out of your enlightenment, the emptiness finding its way back. “I love you, too.” You finally said after what felt like hours.

He pulled himself out of you and you could feel his cum drip out of you down your leg. Using his shirt, he wiped it away. The weight of the situation fell onto his shoulders as he put on his shorts. “I guess I should have reached for a condom, sorry for that.”

“Yeah I guess so,” you said realizing how awkward it might be to have unprotected sex with someone you’re no longer with. “Should be fine, still not pregnant so.” You felt incredibly stiffed suddenly as you grabbed your clothes. “Maybe one of us is infertile.” You tried to joke to lighten the mood.

He gave a weak laugh which made you feel like another knife had stabbed you in the heart. “You can erm have the bed, I’ll be in the guest room.”

You started to head upstairs wanting to rid yourself of this situation. “Sounds great. We can decide what to do later with all the stuff. Anyway, I’m gonna head upstairs to shower.” Once your body stood under the hot water, all the emotional toll fell over you. You curled your body into a tight ball, letting the water fall.

~

Harry had decided to stay out in LA while you sorted through everything. He felt guilty for staying there and almost gave you the house several times. Actually, he was still debating that idea since it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford another place. Either way, he couldn’t stand to see you since it pained him so deeply. He hoped the sun, beach, and work would let him escape this world he had created.

To be honest, your turmoil had shifted to a newfound panic when you realized you were late. Instead of crying yourself to sleep, you were tossing and turning at idea of you being pregnant with your now ex-boyfriend’s baby. He also dumped you.

You paced the bathroom endlessly, waiting for the timer to go off. The sudden ring jolted practically jolted your bones. Each step towards the plastic test felt like eternity till you were faced with a small “pregnant” in the window.

[djarindroid]

Can I get some Angst comfort for Cassian? Like-Reader and him got a Friends with benefits relationship but both want more-and a mission goes wrong that makes them confront the reality of there situation.

IDK-I just been missing him 😭😭

missed writing for Cassian tbh 💕

More

Pairing: Cassian x Reader Summary: A near miss causes you to realise something Word Count: 844

The adrenaline was still pumping through your veins, but it wasn’t enough to forget the sight of Cassian being shot in front of you. To say the mission had gone wrong would have been a massive understatement. Bad intel, an ambush… it was utter chaos. 

You’d seen the blaster bolt hit him, watched as the searing red light flashed in front of your eyes before it slammed into him and sent him flying to the ground. All you could do was scream his name as he lay there motionless. If it wasn’t for sheer luck you wouldn’t have even got him back to the ship.

You’d managed to help him get up on the med table, him huffing out a ‘I’m fine’ as you did. Those were the only words that had been uttered between you both since getting back to the ship. That’s how it usually was after missions for you two, no words, just touch. Just that need for release.

Instead here you were pressing down a bacta patch to the wound on his chest, your hands trembling as you did. His skin was hot beneath your touch, slick with sweat and dried bloody. The wound wasn’t the worst you’d seen, but it was too close. If it had landed a little higher...

You swallowed hard and pushed the thought away, focusing on the task at hand.

You finished dressing the wound and took a small step back, breathing hard. Your hands were still shaking as they fell to your sides.

Cassian groaned as he sat up. ‘I’m fine,’ he repeated, like it would make you feel better.

‘Fine?’ your voice almost cracked. ‘You almost died Cassian.’

He sighed and ran a hand down his face. ‘But I didn’t.’

He was trying to brush it off. Act like it didn’t matter, act like he hadn’t been a couple of centimeters from death. And he expected you to do the same. But you couldn’t, not now. 

Not now you realised what he actually meant to you. You felt stupid really, the fact it had taken him nearly dying for you to finally admit it to yourself.

It was never just about the moments after missions, the desperate tangled moments in the dark to remind yourselves you were alive. Sure, it had started that way, but somewhere along the way it had changed. You had changed.

You found yourself seeking him out, catching glimpses of him across the base just to feel a warmth settling inside you. As if everything would be okay as long as he was still there. You told yourself it was just the familiarity, but the truth was the days felt longer when he was gone. The weight on your shoulders eased slightly.

Now you were faced with the terrifying reality that one day, he could be taken from you in the blink of an eye.

Your chest tightened and you clenched your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You could feel Cassian watching you, knowing his eyes were boring into you, but you didn’t meet his eyes. You couldn’t.

‘Cassian, I can’t do this anymore,’ your voice was so quiet. 

His brows furrowed, ‘what do you mean?’

‘This,’ you gestured between the two of you, finally meeting his gaze. ‘I thought I lost you today Cassian and I-’ you swallowed the lump in your throat. ‘You mean so much more to me than I could ever tell you and seeing you hit the ground today, it felt like my heart was being ripped apart.’ A sob caught in your throat and you could no longer stop the tears from spilling out.

‘You think I haven’t spent every damn night trying to convince myself that this is nothing,’ he let out a shaky breath as he reached for you. Gentle hands cupped your face and brushed the tears away. 

Your breath hitched, your mouth opened and closed but you didn’t know what to say.

‘Everytime you walk away I tell myself it's easier, that it’s better that way. But I look for you around the base every day and I countdown for the next mission, just so I have an excuse to be near you.’ He shook his head, like he was finally letting himself say the words he always wanted to. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as you took in his words. ‘You never said anything.’

He let out half a chuckle, ‘neither did you.’

You reached up and wrapped your hand around one of his own, grounding yourself. ‘I was scared,’ you admitted.

His gaze seemed to soften, he pulled you in gently and rested his forehead against your own. ‘Me too.’

You closed your eyes as more tears slipped free. ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ you whispered.

His hands tightened on you, his lips brushing yours as he promised, ‘You won’t.’

And this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or desperate like the other times. It was filled with all of the things neither of you had dared to say before.

[eldritch-nightmare]

hi hi !! i was wondering if you could make any creepypastas of your choice (but if you can please include toby) with a final girl reader? you know that cliche of slasher movies, thank you <3

a/n: fun fact abt me my favorite final girls r carly from house of wax and princess from laid to rest. and arkin from the collector. he is everything to me. honestly wasn't all too sure who i wanted to put in this so i just sorta chose at random?? idk maybe in the future i can use this premise for some of the others if u guys want that. this is really short nd kinda bad tho and i apologize for that. i'm trying to ease myself back into writing so tht might b why tbh

warnings: not proofread. pre-relationship?? the romance isn't really there for the most part but the obsession is, attempted murder, gn reader, reader has a younger brother in lj's part, laughing jack is probably actually his own warning i think he's kinda. kinda fucked up in this. many mentions of attempted harm to a child.

includes: ticci toby, jeff the killer, and laughing jack.

TICCI TOBY

He had been tasked to kill you. He doesn't know the reason, nor does he really care. Maybe you knew too much, or maybe Slender had other reasons. Whatever they were, you had to die.

And Toby rarely ever messed up an assignment. He never had any issues killing anyone. Sure, they typically fought back, but he'd always get them in the end. He didn't think you'd be any different.

He was rather... surprised, to put it simply, when you proved to be a challenge.

You didn't want to die, so you fought back. Hard. Honestly, it was impressive how determined you were to live. He's never really met someone like you before.

This is one of those very rare times where he's a bit glad he can't feel pain, because if he could feel the pain he gained from you fighting back, he probably would've blacked out from it.

The only reason you get away the first time is because you had stabbed him one too many times and he didn't really want to bleed out and die, thank you very much.

He still had a job to finish though, so you fighting back meant nothing to him. He was told to kill you, and that's what he planned on doing.

It didn't matter how long it took. Though, as time went on, Toby couldn't help but find himself wondering what he would do with himself when he actually killed you.

He's never found any joy in hunting someone down, but he finds himself strangely excited when it comes to you. It's the first time he's ever felt this way for someone he was meant to murder.

He doesn't really want to let that excitement go just yet, and maybe he's delusional but it almost seemed as if you were having fun with these little life-or-death chases you two had.

Maybe he lets you get away a few times. You would've been dead a long time ago if he hadn't found you interesting.

And who knows... maybe he can convince Slender that you're a worthy candidate to be a proxy... that way, he won't have to kill you.

JEFF THE KILLER

Absolutely thrilled at the idea.

Jeff is a big fan of horror movies, and he's always dreamed of having some final girl type of person that he could never kill.

Key word. He dreamed of it. He's not a big fan of it when it actually finally happens, not at first.

You were annoying, always somehow dodging his knife and managing to fight back against him long enough to make your escape.

Now, normally, Jeff would've just dropped you and gone on with his killing spree. He didn't have to kill you, and it's not like he's scared of you going to the police. He's already on the FBI's most wanted, trust me, he couldn't care less.

But there was a thrill that went through him whenever he got close to killing you. Each time he's able to cut you, he feels his heart pound in his chest.

It reminds him of when he first started killing, and that feeling was becoming addictive.

He didn't even realize how obsessed he had become with killing you until he actually got the chance to kill you. He had you cornered, and there was nowhere for you to go.

He could've ended it right then and there, but he hesitated. Jeff the fucking killer hesitated to actually kill someone. What the fuck? That made no sense.

The hesitation was enough that it gave you a chance to get away, leaving Jeff alone to ponder why he had hesitated.

And during that time, he left you alone.

But trust me, once he finally figures out why he hesitated, he'll be back. You can't escape him.

LAUGHING JACK

Hates it and hates you. Your little brother was supposed to be an easy kill. He had been so desperate for a friend, neglected by his parents, that he was eager to let Jack into his life.

But then you had to come home for the holidays, and suddenly it was hard to get the brat alone without you being around. The only time he could torment your brother was when everyone else in the house was asleep.

When your little brother went to you crying about how his friend Jack was being mean, telling him horrible things, you weren't supposed to fucking believe the kid. You were supposed to be like the others, brushing off the kid's concerns and sending him back to bed.

But you didn't. You believed your brother, and now you can fucking see him, and he hated it. Oh, he wanted to kill your little brother so badly, but he wanted to kill you more for ruining all the fun.

All of the torment on your little brother stops, and instead he starts tormenting you instead. His ultimate goal was to get you to kill your little brother. It would be a satisfying thing for him to see. And maybe even poetic. You're trying so hard to protect him, and you end up being the one to kill him... that would be nice.

But you don't make it easy for him.

Seeing your fear was entertaining, especially when he was able to strike at your insecurities. At some point, he found that he didn't mind how long this little plan of his would take. He just wanted to see what made you cry. What scared you? What had you reeling away in disgust? What made you laugh?

Okay, that last one confuses him and he does not at all want to know what makes you laugh. No. No he does not.

Sometimes, he doesn't even torment you. He just silently watches you, which you find to be arguably worse than him actually trying to cause you harm.

It felt like he was studying you whenever he did that, and you hated it.

And Jack finds himself struggling to hate you the longer this takes. You've become interesting. He finds himself looking forward to seeing you, and he finds himself admiring you whenever you end up smiling when he's around.

Though, that's not something he's quite ready to admit yet.

[urfavbooblover]

Hi:) can I request a dbh connor x reader fluff? It can be anything you are comfortable with, I only carve for a cute, , nervous, blushing Connor :’)

Hi! Thank you for your request :) I apologize for this late publish, i was taking a quite long break but i still hope you’ll be happy to read this and enjoy it, i had much fun to write this cute imagine btw!

Blushing mess || Connor x gender neutral reader

Warnings: slight cursing but just fluff

(remind me if I missed any)

- Detroit become human masterlist link -

Y/N’s pov:

I was awoken from my sleep, by my annoying alarm, as i rolled onto my other side, reaching out my arm and lazily turning it off, letting out a groan of frustration. Another day of work was waiting for me and i was already not having it. So much shit has been going on lately and it seems like everyone is expecting way too much from me.

I’m surprised Hank is pretty understanding when it comes to my situation, usually he’s a big jerk but we built a good and steady friendship, which lead us to being great work buddies if i’m being honest. He can still be a pain in the ass sometimes.

I sat up on my bed, my mind wandering off to think of one special person. Well, he’s not a person, Connor is more likely a machine, one of the androids to be exact. He has been assigned to work with Hank but they don’t get along very well, i’m full of hope it’ll change any time soon though.

I felt a smile forming to my face, just thinking about him. Connor is probably one of the main reasons i still enjoy work, don’t get me wrong i actually learned to like my job, he just makes it a lot better. I couldn’t help but feel interested in him, he’s not just good looking but i started a liking in his personality too.

I reached a different type of motivation for this day and decided to get ready and have some breakfast. I didn’t notice how fast time was moving forward, so that’s when i rushed out of the house and grabbed some coffee on the way to my working place.

Arriving at the police department central station, i got out of my car, reaching the entrance. I walked in and took a sip of my still warm drink. I greeted my coworkers as friendly as i could be and finally took my seat across from Hank.

“Morning Y/N”, he spoke, gazing up at me from his computer. “Good morning Hank.”, i replied in a somewhat really nice tone, noticing he wasn’t in such a bad mood today. Kind of suspicious if you ask me.

“Oh good morning Y/N. It’s nice to see you again.”, i heard a familiar voice saying, seeing Connor back at Hanks side. “Good morning to you too Connor. It looks like you’re being positive, huh?”, i said, my eyes never leaving him. I’m not quite sure but i could bet i just heard Hank letting out a scoff.

“If Lieutenant Anderson hasn’t told you yet, we got some news for one of the deviants, it seems like he has been spottet somewhere and we’re about to investigate the location. I did a good job myself.”, Connor explained and earned an unamused glance from Hank, who wasn’t too happy about Connor’s own praise.

“Well, sounds great! You guys should inspect and move forward then. I probably got lots of work to finish here.”, i said, expressing the last sentence in a bored tone. “Actually, we want you to come with us on the mission today.”, Connor replied, trying to hide the fact, that his lips formed into a small smile.

“Yea. More like you. It was your idea Connor.”, Hank stated, letting out a huff. He was obviously exposing him there. “What? Uh, maybe i just don’t mind some help.”, he defended himself, blocking off any accusations, even though his face was slightly flushed. Androids could in fact blush, they’re designed so much like humans, it’s crazy.

And I myself couldn’t help but grin at the situation in front of me. “It’s alright guys, i’m glad to come with you. I rather be out from this place anyways.”, i stood up, waiting for them both to return the act, so we could go.

____________________________________________

On the ride to the spot, it was mostly quiet. Connor was the only one who began to talk a lot, explaining everything about the deviant he found out and it was honestly interesting, but i could see from the passenger seat that Hank was annoyed by hearing all of this again.

it didn’t take too long though and Hank finally parked the car. I took a look out of the window, seeing an old house, the color was already coming off and it seems like the people living there didn’t care much about it.

After my small inspection, i opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. Hank was on his way to the front porch, as i heard another door close behind me. I turned my head, to find Connor right next to me. Was he waiting for me the whole time or why was he still sitting in there?

“The deviant is supposed to hide here. I just know an old couple is living there.”, he spoke up still looking forward, his gaze fixed on the house, before he decided to lock eyes with me. I almost forgot how beautiful they looked.

“Well, makes sense then, that no one took care of it.”, i responded, quickly turning my attention back to Hank, where i was about to walk off to anyway, but i was stopped when i felt a hand gently wrapped around my underarm. “I should mention, Y/N. You look very pretty today.”, Connor nervously smiled at me. I wasn’t even able to respond, cause he was gone in a second.

I don’t think i would’ve ever expected this. He couldn’t even keep the eye contact, was he that nervous? Little did i know, he was practicing how he was going to confront me about it the whole car ride. I like this side of him though.

I was so stuck in my mind, i didn’t even notice anything around me, till- “Y/N! Are you coming now!”, Hank screamed me out of my thoughts. I furrowed my eyebrows at him, realizing they’re both waiting for me. I jogged up to them, my eyes landing on Connor who was grinning from ear to ear.

“You need to-“, “Pay attention, yea yea. I literally just zoned out for a second, it’s not that deep Hank.”, i interrupted his sentence, cause i already knew what he was going to try to lecture me about again. He only sighed at me in response, as i slid past him to enter the house.

“And now? Where is everyone?”, i asked in confusion, us three standing in a completely empty, old fashioned furnished house. “Yea, if you would’ve paid attention earlier, you would’ve known by now.”, Hank responded in his usual sassy voice. “Oh come on Hank, just inform me, instead of going on with ur childish games”

“Nobody responded to our knocks, Y/N. They didn’t open the door, so Hank kicked it in.”, Connor replied instead, a soft expression on his face. I gave Hank a weirded out look, as he shrugged his shoulders. Who cares if he was even allowed to do any of this, i just quickly wanna get this over with.

“Okay, you know what? I will search everything down here. You two, go upstairs.”, Hank commands, already walking away from this scene. I spun around, taking a look at Connor, who watched Hank closely with narrowed eyes.

“Let’s get going, Connor.”, i said, preceding to get up the staircase. He followed shortly behind, as his voice could be heard really close to me. “Hank is pretty hotheaded. He’s somehow always mad at everyone.”, “He got a very short tempter. It’s like he’s always mad at the world.”, i replied.

Connor nodded his head, before i decided to enter one of the rooms. My hand had a tight grip on my gun, that my belt was holding, but it wasn’t needed, the room was just as empty as the rest of the house.

Connor scanned the entire room as he suddenly crouched down, reaching out his arm. I watched as his fingers touched the blue liquid on the floor as he took a taste of it. I’m used to him doing this but i still scrunch up my face every time. “The androids blood is still fresh, he must’ve been here just a few minutes ago.”, he said.

My eyes were wide, interested in what he had to say. “And maybe he saw the cop car and us approaching the house. He probably fled cause he was too afraid to face the situation.”, Connor added to it as i crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“Well, wouldn’t you do the same.”, i said with a slight smirk on my face, to which he was taken back. A nervous expression was painted all over his face once again, making my smile just grow wider. “I guess you’re right, Y/N.”, he replied, in a soft voice.

He had such a warm and welcoming look on his face as his eyes were fixed on me. You could say i was melting right on spot, trying not to show it too much. I could see his led on his face turning yellow for a moment, meaning he was just scanning me.

He quickly looked away though, now staring at the ground, which gave me the opportunity to silently watch him. He hasn’t said anything about what he has found out. Was I showing signs of anxiety? Most definitely.

“What’s wrong Connor? Are you nervous?”, i boldly asked, making him raise his head. “Nervous? Oh i was just-“, “You don’t have to lie to me, Connor.”, i chuckled, taking a step closer to him.

His cheeks were flushed and i could swear my heart was racing at this point. I’ve never had a guy being this cute, i also never had something going on with an android, nor have i ever felt anything for one. But with Connor it’s different.

And i wasn’t the only one who was all up in my mind, Connor seemed like his thoughts were overflowing. I may regret this forever now or my future me will be thankful i did this, when i decided to reach for his hand. My fingertips touched his skin as i grabbed his soft hand, my thumb slowly moving over the back of it.

His face was only turning into a deeper red tone and i wasn’t even able to read it. His eyes turned even softer if that’s possible and they were staring right into mine. My knees felt weak, but at least they could still hold my weight, right?

Connor on the other hand looked like he didn’t know what to do at all. I was in charge of the situation, which i myself couldn’t believe with a man like him. But it’s not like i didn’t enjoy any of this. Instead i moved closer to his body, till i could feel his breath, till our lips were only a few inches apart.

Soon to be, there was no space between us left anymore. Our lips finally touched and i was taken by surprise of how good his lips felt on mine. Connor’s lips moved smoothly against my own, my hand moving to the back of his head. I gently took a hold of his wrist, guiding his hand to my waist, placing it right there.

I didn’t know that androids could have such soft lips, due to my lack of experience with them. Connor probably hasn’t had any of them yet, but he’s even cuter this way. I never would’ve thought, that i would make the first move.

The kiss lasted for a good while, but someone just had to ruin it. “Hey guys, have you found-“, Hank rushed into the room, cutting off his own sentence when he saw the scene in front of him. We broke apart real fast as i spun my head around, facing the disappointed Hank.

“Hank we can explain-“, Connor tried to talk, but was now the one to be cut off. “Really?”, Hank said all bored, shaking his head. I could hear out the sarcasm though, he wasn’t mad at us for doing this. “And i thought this would never happen.”, he continued. Right, he was just mad it didn’t happen any sooner.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Would you write something where the reader feels some kind of insecurity and by talking about it with Spencer she feels better? Only if you want!

“Spencer,” you murmured from the front desk.

It was already night in the bullpen and there were only the two of you left, so your friend didn't even look up from the reports he was reviewing to respond to you.

"Yeah?"

“Do you think I'm weird?”

"Definitely"

The response had been sudden and playful, probably without any intention of hurting you, but the pencil crashing into his long, golden hair forced him to look at you only for him to realize that you were expecting a different kind of response.

“I'm serious,” you insisted, a little sterner than the first time you spoke.

Spencer observed your lightly made-up face with a smile, not too much to make you look vulgar but enough to enhance your features, and stopped to connect with your eyes, obviously restless.

"Why do you ask me that?"

“Do you think I am?”

“There are many kinds of weirdness, sometimes they don't necessarily involve something bad.”

“Yeah, but I mean like awkward weirdness. You know, those people who are suddenly too loud or too annoying or too… I don't know, just like they don't fit in.”

The tone of genuine concern made him frown and he suddenly wondered why you were having those kinds of thoughts. Had the team done anything to make you feel this way? Spencer wasn't very good with social cues and that's why he constantly felt like a weirdo, but he never believed that someone like you would have those kinds of fears.

You were always so kind and pure, like you didn't care about anything. You had a lovely way of saying things and you brought joy wherever you were. You and Garcia were the best of friends because of that, thanks to the surprising optimism you both seemed to share even in the worst situations.

And then there was him, who loved you like he had never loved any girl even with the few years you had known him. You were passionate about completely random things and he listened attentively to all your talks about why seahorses carry their children or about the life of butterflies or about strange weather phenomena.

Spencer had always seen a little of him in you and that's why he felt great affection, as well as trust.

“I don't think you are. Not like that”

“It's just that the other day... with that officer in Washington I felt pretty stupid, you know?” you started to say. He thanked his eidetic memory because he knew exactly what incident you were talking about. “She was so pretty and professional and I felt like I was thirteen again with a mean girl. And on those occasions I see myself and, I don't know, I feel very weird”

“So what if you are?” He asked nonchalantly, “We all are, haven't you seen who you sit in front of every day?”

That comment finally brought out one of those smiles that he loved to see on your face and so he took it as a victory.

“You're right, it's nonsense.”

“I don't think it is,” he murmured gently. “It's a valid fear, but if you want a professional’s opinion I wouldn't describe you with that adjective. You're not weird, you're more like... unique”

Another smile flooded your face and then you looked away, slightly embarrassed to be having that conversation with your coworker.

"Thanks for being honest"

“Don't be ashamed of who you are. You are wonderful, we are lucky to have you here” he continued. He didn't even have to go out of his way to seek praise for you, his mouth spewed it out as if worshiping you was his full-time job.

“I love you, Reid, have I ever told you that?”

“Not as much as you should, but yes,” he responded and one of your laughs filled the air.

“How about we leave this for tomorrow? And I’ll take you home” you offered and he smiled.

Spencer's voice describing you as something unique would accompany you for the rest of the night and would repeat itself in your mind every time the situation warranted it, reminding you that, in the right eyes, we are all special.

taglist: @navs-bhat @reidwritings @tricia-shifting14 @spencerslove @instabull @rhiannonhippiegirl @r-3dlips @missabsey @olivia’s-25 @liptonsbabe

[catsushizz]

My Belle - S.R

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

Warning: fluff at first then just angst, death, grief, major character death (do tell me if I miss something)

Summary: Spencer loves you like it was breathing but what would he do when that source of oxygen is gone?

a/n: first time writing Spencer, I'm a sucker for the angst I hope you like it!

---

Look how she lights up the sky...

Spencer heard it from a mile away which brought a small smile to his lips, he heard footsteps which isn't surprising that he knew it was yours because of the skip of your steps and that melody you kept humming.

He heard you open the door still humming the song as you took off your shoes. "Hey, Angel," he says lovingly as he greets you by the door.

You smile and kiss him on the cheek "Hello Dr. Handsome" he chuckled at the endearment and engulfed you in a tight hug.

You have been dating for 3 months and Spencer knew he was going too fast by telling you to share an apartment with him but that lingering doubt quickly disappeared as fast as it came when you suggested it yourself.

Spencer knew you were it for him. He knows your favorite movies to your favorite songs he knows almost everything about you actually.

You hummed the song and dragged Spencer to the living room "What got you in such a good mood?" Spencer chuckled.

"Having you all by myself today" you grinned, resting both of your hands on his shoulder. Spencer couldn't stop smiling, he was looking at you fondly, his hand on your waist as if it was meant to be there.

"Let's dance" you whispered, nuzzling your head to his chest "Explain how we are gonna dance with no music-"

"So far above me yet I...know his heart belongs to only me" You smile as you sing the song, you love changing the lyrics, Spencer specifically loves it when you change Evangeline to his name he remembered hearing it for the first time and he couldn't stop thinking about it for months.

"Je t'adore, Je t'aime Spencer" You chuckled at how off-key it was but it didn't matter when you saw that sweet smile of his. You started guiding him to move, your head resting near his heart and his finger stroking circles on your waist as he held you closer. Loving you was something he wished he had done a long time ago, he wished that he was there your whole life.

It became a routine, you dancing with him.

After a bad case, you'd sing for him, and if he was feeling down you'd urge him to stand and dance with him and that always made him forget why he was sad in the first place. He would never get tired of that song or your voice. Whenever you fight it always ends up with both of you in each other's arms and in tangled bed sheets in the morning.

3 months turned into a year and a year turned into 4 years and now you're engaged, his love never withered and neither did yours.

his team always asked him how he got so lucky he didn't know the answer to that and he just thanked whatever God that brought you to him.

But the gods were cruel. They give and they take.

He visited your grave every day with fresh flowers in his hands but they always ended up disheveled from how tight he was holding them. Everything changed after you left, he changed and he no longer rambled about his fun facts to the team, in fact, they hadn't heard him laugh or smile in a while.

He'd get snappy with them whenever they asked a simple question, his state wasn't any better too, he looked as if he needed to seek professional help.

"Spence?" JJ knocked on his apartment door but received no answer, she was about to try again but the door swung open. Spencer stood there annoyed and a frown displayed on his lips.

"What?" He asked, he didn't mean to sound so harsh but he was just having a hard time, he had a nightmare again, usually, it was you who would coax him until he calmed down but you were gone and it was a painful reminder every time he wakes up from a bad dream, he would much rather prefer to be stuck in that dream than face the truth.

"can I come in?" JJ's voice is gentle that was something he came to despise, everyone has been walking on eggshells whenever he's around and he hates it because it just makes him remember that you were gone.

Spencer let her in reluctantly, JJ's gaze darted everywhere in his apartment, it was a mess. She looked at Spencer with worry, a question hanging from the tip of her tongue.

As if sensing it, Spencer sighed and massaged his temple "No, I'm not using Dilaudid" he said harshly.

"That was not what I was gonna say-"

"Why are you here?" For the first time since she came in, he looked her in the eye. She freezes, she did not think this through.

"Spence, I know it has been hard for you, just let me help you- let us help you," she said with a hint of urgency in her voice.

Spencer clicked his tongue "I don't need help, get out" he calmly said but the way he said it begged to differ.

"I said get out!" He snapped making JJ flinch, she had never seen Spencer act like this but instead of backing out, she fought back.

"I know this is hard for you Spencer but didn't you stop and think that the whole team not only felt guilty because they couldn't save her but they lost her too? She was like family to them." She was crying now. Spencer was about to retort that they didn't know her like he did but she stopped him.

"I know she was your fiancé, Reid, but she was my sister, and losing her meant losing half of me so don't act like you're the only one grieving because we all are, let us help you and we can fix this, it might take a long- long time but let us do it together" she pleaded and fresh tears started to flow from Spencer's eyes.

It was quiet for a while nothing but broken sobs from both of them.

"I- I can't remember her voice" Spencer's voice trembled, his hands shaking making JJ engulf him in a hug. He held her tightly, his tears staining her clothes "I can't remember her voice" he repeated again like a broken record.

"shh, it's okay" JJ coed.

"I couldn't save her, I promised her I would protect her, s-she trusted me to protect her" he stutters, his breathing becoming labored "I don't know what to do, I love her too much to let her go"

"I know" JJ's voice broke. She remembered the night vividly, the night she lost you, she remembered how nothing could calm Spencer down, and she remembered how he cradled your blooded form from the comfort of your own bed, his sobbed mix with his overwhelming fast breathing, it tore her to shreds.

When you were at the hospital, she remembered the whole team was there, she remembered how Spencer couldn't sit still and how he had been crying for hours but when the doctor dropped the dreaded news, she could feel Spencer's heart drop, how his eyes became void of any emotions in just a second.

He dropped to the floor with his hand gripping his shirt near his heart where your head always rests when you're slow dancing, just remembering that made him let out a gut-wrenching cry, his shoulder shaking as he kept repeating the word 'no' over and over again.

When he felt like he couldn't breathe Morgan coaxed him to breathe with him but nothing could work. Losing someone special is like losing your purpose to function and having you gone was something he didn't realize he'd had to face.

--

"I have- uhm, I have a video of her," JJ said, pulling out a disc from her bag. Spencer had now calmed down, and seeing the disc from JJ's hand brought him an unfamiliar surge of emotions.

"She loved recording herself talking and singing, and she mentioned you here more than I can count" she chuckled holding back herself from crying.

She handed Spencer the disc with a tight-lipped smile "I'm gonna give you some privacy" she said taping his shoulder as she made her way out of his apartment.

Spencer didn't say anything nor did he move from his spot on the couch. The disc on his hand felt heavy as he stared at it.

He's scared, he's scared that maybe if he plays this video he won't ever move on and fall into a cycle where he can't stop watching the video for fear of forgetting your face and your voice.

He didn't even realize he had played the disc until he saw you and heard your voice in the video and when he heard it, it brought a new batch of tears pouring out from his eyes.

"Oh hi! Shit, how does this thing work?" You mumbled as you adjusted the camera. "JJ? Is this thing broken or am I just tweaking?" You called out, Spencer saw the camera shift to JJ her face contoured with annoyance.

"you're holding it wrong-" The video ended and for a few seconds it came back again but this time he was met with your beaming smile. Spencer choked on his tears, his heart clenching seeing your infectious smile.

"I met a guy" you giggled making Spencer smile despite the tears flowing down his cheeks "I'm gonna marry him someday, I just know it. He's my sister's colleague, he's smart and extremely handsome, and he likes reading as well, can you believe that?" You exhaled a disbelief sigh.

Hearing that brought a wave of nausea in his system, you never got to marry him.

The video then showed JJ looking at the camera with Emily on her side as JJ tells Emily to be quiet, and then the camera shifts to you and Spencer.

He remembers this, this was 2 years ago on New Year's Day, the both of you were at Rossi's mansion but decided to come out to have the time for both of yourselves.

You were singing but it was muffled because the camera was too far away "Move closer!" He heard Emily whisper "I can't, they'll see us" JJ rebutted but Emily grabbed the camera and the sound of her running with the camera violently shaking from her grasp made him chuckle.

He heard you clearly now, he had never been so thankful for Emily. You were humming and in between the humming, you told him that you love him and Spencer had to pause the video because he was having a hard time breathing again. He didn't finish the video and he fell asleep crying.

Spencer thinks he can't ever forget you, even if he settles down with someone else (which he doubts) he knows he can't ever forget you because loving you was different, different in a way where you'll yearn for it your entire life.

And when he played the tape again, the fleeting moment in which he genuinely smiles is then replaced by him crying again whenever you mention how much you really loved him.

Nothing feels light in grieving and when time passes it gets heavier it may be subtle but it's there. His future with you was forever gone in the wind, merely a whisper in his dreams and his heart ached for your warmth to be back again.