#to see what its all about if nothing else

[mariasont]

HI i have an idea and its making me really giddy

ok so reader is a translator for the bau and they’re always reading and translating texts or calls or anything like that. and the reader to spencer is basically like penelope to derek. they flirt all the time and all of those lovely things.. and it’s kinda just where they’re flirting on the phone and morgan teases reid about it and reid gets all flustered

IDK IF IT CAN WORK I JUST LOVE FLUSTERED SPENCER :(

anyway i’ll probably be in your inbox a bunch uhhh so call me h or something

-h

Warm Under the Collar - S.R

summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying. pairings: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: heavy flirting, pre-relationship mutual pining, verbal sparring as foreplay, workplace hr violations, use of angel wc: 0.6k

“Are you thinking about me, Dr. Reid? Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Spencer exhales, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as if loosening it might alleviate the sudden stranglehold of your words. He wasn’t sure if it was always this constricting or if it was conspiring against him at the mere sound of your voice.

He rolls his eyes, performative, really, because you can’t see him, and it’s easier to feign exasperation than admit the effect you have on him. His mouth, however, twitches in betrayal, flirting with a smile before he crushes it. 

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas. 

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly. 

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature. 

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.” 

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[txttletale]

what’s to incentivize people to make art if not for copyright? you might point out that creatives often don’t own their own work, they are paid a wage by a company who owns the IP. but even still, they are only paid that wage at all because the company is incentivized to pay people to make art that they can sell. in a world with no copyright laws, how would people make money off creative works? in a world where people can’t make money off creative works, would we have any art aside from passion projects? would that be a good thing?

i recognize that i’m probably wrong, but please consider explaining why (even though i know you probably have a really funny dunk on the stupid anon locked and loaded).

i mean, just frankly, i struggle to think of any great work of art that's happened because of the profit motive, rather than because somebody wanted to make it, with the need to monetize it hanging around its neck like an albatross. there's a reason why "cash grab" is a perjorative, innit. i think 'passion project' describes essentially all art that's actually worth a damn -- whether it's a blockbuster film that makes billions or a tgirl's edgy poetry that gets 10 notes, every piece of art that's any good has been made because someone (or several someones) wanted it to exist.

moreover, the world i advocate for is not a capitalist world with copyright laws cleanly snipped out, affecting nothing else, but a socialist world, in which people are free to create art without having to worry about it paying the rent. the entire capitalist mode of production is a decidedly bad thing if you want to see more art, interesting art, thoughtful art, good art!

[alicentsgf]

we talk a lot about shauna losing jackie and her baby boy and yes those are major traumas. however, i think the moment that truly changed her fundamentally was butchering javi. that moment is truly symbolic of what shes sacrificed for all of the others. she let him die to save nat and then his blood was literally on her hands because no one else could handle the burden of butchering him. this is a kid she LIKED. that she had some small bond with. she had to pull her headband over her eyes because she couldnt bear to look at what she was doing. and the others just left her alone out there cutting up his body because none of them could bear to even watch it. so shauna shoulders it alone. how does the human brain even cope with that experience? especially since every single time gen brings back a kill, shauna has to butcher that animal and relive that moment in some way again and again

and whats crazy is yes shauna resorts to violence easily, shes impulsive and deeply angry, but she doesnt enjoy killing. when she threatened the carjacker her words were much more about the power she felt over him, enjoying the fear of someone who'd wronged her, than actually threatening his life. shes willing to kill for power and control, but her relationship with the actual physical act is complex. sometimes trauma can become strangely familar and soothing, maybe thats why shauna butchers the rabbit in season 1. its like a fucked up coping mechanism based in her need to feel a level of control. and it was okay in her mind, because the rabbit had wronged her, ruined her flowers. but when gen comes back from a hunt with nothing, dont you think shaunas the one who chooses which innocent duck or rabbit has to die so that everyone can eat? like why do you think she cried over the goat? It was probably the first time in her life she was handed something innocent and told, very explicitly, that she was not going to have to hurt it.

essentially what im saying is you dont have to agree with shaunas actions to see her point of view. all she does is feed them. she told them it was what jackie wanted. she told them to wait for javi to drown. each time shes shouldered the actual burden of the choice. and all whilst not even having any faith, in the wilderness or otherwise, to alleviate her guilt. pregnant and starving and she never took extra, she makes sure everyone eats to the detriment of herself, and what does she get in return? shes left alone. in pain. she lashes out at anyone who comes near her and because of it they give up on her, like she isnt what they made her. reliving her trauma every time she peels the skin off a stag. her baby is turned into a diety for a faith she doesnt even believe in. jackie and javi too. the others take her real, human losses and make them mythology, stake a claim on them before shes even had a chance to properly grieve. and ofc these are just kids in an impossible situation needing something to believe in, so you cant even rly judge them for it. but that doesnt make shaunas rage any less understandable

[graceface1712]

How Sweet Pouge reader met Rafe!

Soft RafexSweetPouge reader

Summary: Rafe is known to hate Pouges. All of them are nuisances to him. Until one particular girl catches his eye. He asks Topper if he knows her name and only for Topper to tell him that she’s a Pouge. 

Warnings: Nothing!

Enjoy 🫶🏻🫶🏻

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊

The beach party was in full swing. People were drinking, dancing, and partying their asses off. Rafe on the other hand, was busy trying to make sure Topper’s psychotic girlfriend, Ruthie, didn’t start any more fights with people. She was literally insane.

“Topper. Control your girl. She’s being a fucking lunatic.” He bites out to Topper. Crazy ass bitch. He thinks to himself. His eyes scan the beach, making sure everything is going smoothly. Then all the sudden, his eyes land on you.

You’re wearing a bright pink tank top, it’s spaghetti straps fighting to hold in your boobs that are threatening to spill out from you jumping around. It shows just a sliver of your tan waist, but it’s enough to make Rafe want to wrap his arms around it. Your toned legs are clad in a pair of jean shorts and beaded brackets decorate your arms.

You look so carefree, so happy. Dancing around with everyone. Your smile is stunning. It takes Rafe’s breath away in the best way possible.

Rafe turns to Topper. “Hey, who is that?” He asks him. Topper tries to see who Rafe is pointing to.

“Dude, there’s about 20 people you could be pointing to right now.” Topper says sarcastically.

“Her. The girl in the pink tank top and jean shorts.” Rafe says growing impatient, even though he knows Topper had a point. It’s a giant group of dancing teenagers and Rafe could have been pointing to any of them. But he needed to find out who this girl is.

“Oh. Man that’s Y/N. She’s hot but I would never mess with her. She’s a Pouge, the Pouge princess as many people refer to her.” Topper spits the word out with disgust. Rafe’s eyes widen.

Now he remembers. Of course he knows how the Pouge Princess is. I mean, he’s the Kook King.

Well you being a Pouge isn’t going to stop him. He may hate Pouges but most of them are annoying and make stupid decisions. He’s never even heard of you so you must be normal.

Rafe walks over to you confidently. When he wants something, he gets it. And you’re no different.

When he lightly grabbed Y/N’s arm, she was startled and turned around to see who the culprit was.

She was even more surprised when she was met with Rafe Cameron staring down at her. Y/N along with everybody else knows that Rafe doesn’t interact with Pouges unless he has to. And typically it’s in a violent way.

Rafe has never done anything bad to her before. Honestly, she doesn’t get out too much anyways. Usually her dad is making her scrub down their little shack, and if not, she’s out at the beach tanning and surfing.

Y/N just lives her life to the fullest. Her family is dirt poor, the only reason they have a roof over their heads is because her grandpa built her house when he was younger. But other than that, life is all about the experience for her. She tries to be kind to everybody and will never ever judge someone for what they look like, or how they are. That’s why many people in town refer to her as the “Pouge Princess”.

But she has no hard feelings towards Rafe unlike many other kids on the cut her age. She doesn’t blame them though.

“Hi.” Rafe says. He can smell her intoxicating scent. She smells like a warm, vanilla, bakery. The breeze is making her scent drift right to his nose.

“Hi!” She giggles and its music to ears. “Do you need something from me?” She asks him.

He lets go of her arm and runs a hand through his buzzed hair. But something caught his attention, there was no judgment, no nasty look, or condescending tone in her voice that was directed at him. Most people in town couldn’t even look at him without wincing. Whether it was from fear or disgust. So naturally, Rafe was drawn to her.

“Well I just wanted to come talk to the prettiest girl on the beach.” He said with a grin stretching across his face. Y/N’s face burned with a blush.

“You think I’m pretty?” She shyly asked him

“I think you’re the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He leans down and whispers in her ear.

The red staining Y/N’s cheeks turned to a dark crimson. Y/N has struggled with her appearance for a long time. Her dad being the main cause of that, always calling her ugly and worthless. The compliment meant a lot to her.

Rafe and Y/N shouted over the loud music, talking to each other about everything. Y/N was dancing and swaying to the music, and Rafe was trying to keep her still so her words wouldn’t jumble up while she was bumping around.

After a while, Y/N got tired. She smushed her face into Rafe’s chest.

“I’m tiredddd.” She complained. Rafe wrapped his hands around her forearms and guided her to a big piece of driftwood down the beach. Now they were away from the craziness of the party.

Rafe was looking at Y/N with something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She’s asks him.

“Can I go on a date with you?” The words fly out of his mouth before he can even register what he’s saying. Y/N’s mouth falls open.

“What?” She asks.

“Can I take you out? On a date. Tomorrow.” Rafe says. Now his words are collected and put together.

Y/N teases him a little. Taking a long time to come up with an answer. Even going as far as tapping her pointer finger on her chin and making it look like she’s thinking about it. Obviously there is only one answer.

“Y/N.” Rafe mutters.

“Of course I will!” Y/N happily says, finally giving up on her teasing. A sigh of relief escapes Rafe. Like she was really going to say no.

“Thank goodness. Here’s my phone you can give me your phone number so you can send me your address.” Rafe says while fishing his phone out of his pocket and opening his contacts app.

Y/N’s whole mood changes. More red flush adorns her cheeks, but not out of the fact that she has butterflies or is nervous, it’s out of embarrassment.

“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks her. He noticed her mood change.

“Ummm. I don’t have a phone.” She says.

“Why are you grounded or something?” Rafe asks her.

“No, it’s just my parents can’t afford to get me a phone.” Y/N says embarrassed.

Rafe’s eyes widen. He has never experienced a life without having some sort of electronics thrown in his face. Ward had always tried to buy his and his sister‘s love with either the newest gaming console or tablet or iPhone.

“Oh. Well that’s okay. You can just give me your address and I’ll write it down in my notes app.” Rafe says. It’s obvious that she is uncomfortable about not having a phone, so he doesn’t want to make it something it doesn’t have to be.

“Okay.” Y/N says and then proceeds to tell Rafe her address. She’s glad he didn’t make a big deal out of the situation. I mean it’s the 21st century almost every kid her age has a cell phone, especially in the Outer Banks. But unfortunately, her parents don’t make enough money to be able to give her a phone. So she goes without one. The only way her friends can communicate with her, is verbally.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, 6pm sharp. Wear something comfortable.” Rafe says and smiles.

“Okay. I’ll be ready” Y/N beams up at him.

“Can’t wait baby.” That’s the last thing Rafe says before walking off and disappearing into the crowd of teenagers.

What just happened? They both wonder to themselves.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

First one! 🫶🏻

[shroompette]

It's not like his mates didn't know about you; Soap always bragged about the sweet little bird he had at home. They just had no idea that he was being...literal.

After the latest successful mission, Johnny invited them for a dinner at his place. They arrive around seven, with bottles and flowers as gifts for the missus, but she's nowhere to be found when Johnny beckons them inside. "She'll be here any minute. Bird gets antsy if she doesn't have a flight before dinner." He opens the window wide and peeks out, as if looking for you. Ghost huffs. "She a bloody Batman or something?"

Johnny simply chuckles and crosses his arms on his chest, leaning against the radiator.

Not even five minutes later, a tiny European robin lands on the inside windowsill. They recognize the bird; it was Johnny's favourite to draw. At least that's what they assumed when they watched him flip through his art book during missions. Pages and pages of birds, but this specific one appeared the most often; raven, cardinal, canary, robin, crow, swan, robin, robin, blue tit, swallow, robin, woodpecker, robin, hummingbird, pigeon, robin, robin, robin...

"Aye, there's my little feathery luvie," Johnny coos, finger gently stroking down the orange patch on the bird's chest.

Gaz and Price exchange a slightly concerned look while Ghost gives him a deadpan stare.

"I told you, one of these days, you'll stand too close to an explosion and it's gonna fuck with your head."

Johnny glances at him briefly, opening his palm and letting the robin hop into it. "Dinnae know what yer talking about."

"Son," Price began, a tired look on his face. "You...you don't think of the bird as your partner, do you?"

"What else would she be?" he questions, looking genuinely surprised, as if there's nothing unusual about claiming the little chirping thing in his hand is his girlfriend.

Gaz lets out a snort of disbelief, unsure if he should laugh or be seriously concerned for his friend.

Before anyone can say anything else, the robin flaps its wings and its form contorts into a human shape. Suddenly, there you stand. Dolled up and dressed in a cute little flowery dress, a bright smile on your face. The men sit there completely flabbergasted while Johnny, wearing the most shit-eating grin ever, leans in and kisses the top of your head before introducing you: "Guys, this is my darling bird."

After fumbling out awkward apologies and introducing themselves, the men dine with you two, asking how you met and where you're from. They're surprised to learn Johnny came across you while he took a trip to his motherland during leave.

When he wasn't with his family, he'd spend the days in the forest, sketching whatever caught his eye. At one point, it was you. A cute little thing, perched up on a branch, singing sweet melodies to which he started responding with whistling. That supposedly caught your attention and you started posing while he sketched you. This would happen daily for nearly a week before you flew down and sat on his shoulder, looking at all the drawings of you, seemingly pleased.

One day, he brought you a pebble. It was just a goof, a funny little thing he remembered his superstitious granny saying whenever he'd walk with her in the nature as a little lad and point out all the different birds in the trees. "If ye give a pebble to a female robin, she'll bring ye a pretty lass to cherish."

He was eager to see what you'd do with it and nearly fell on his ass when you shifted to a human in front of him in all your naked glory, holding the pebble in your palm, eyes sparkling and soft chirps flowing from your mouth. He had a very difficult time explaining to his Ma and siblings who this bare lady clinging to his arm was when he brought you home.

You still chirp when you talk, but your speech is pretty clear. Soap looks like a lovestruck puppy, heart-eyed, hanging onto your words and you're no better; pressed against his side at all times, batting your lashes and holding his hand under the table, your ring finger adorned by a golden band with the fateful (proposal) pebble in the middle.

masterlist

[wvyik]

tease me. d.w. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

dean winchester x fem! reader

summary; after a day of teasing, dean finally gives in, showing you just how much he’s been craving you. passionate and intense, it’s everything you both needed.

warnings; mdni! smut, explicit content, sexual themes, rough sex, adult language, teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, intense physical interaction, consent implied, dirty talk, mild degradation if you squint, possessiveness, passionate and heated moments.

notes; guess who’s getting more comfortable writing smut… anyways!! here’s your dose of dean winchester, no filters, no holding back. buckle up, baby, it’s gonna get wild.

words; 971

The second Dean’s lips met yours, it was no longer the teasing, slow burn you were used to. No, this was desperate, urgent— his hands tugging at your clothes as if he couldn’t wait another second. And honestly, you weren’t much better.

“You wanted this,” he growled against your mouth, pulling your shirt over your head in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him. He didn’t even pause to admire you, just yanked your shorts down, rough and impatient, before lifting you off the ground with a strength that made your head spin.

“Dean—”

“Shut up, sweetheart.” He kissed you again, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, demanding control, and you gave it to him willingly, pressing your body against his as if you couldn’t get close enough. His hands gripped your hips hard, pinning you against the door of the Impala as he ground his hips into you.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he rasped, his teeth biting down on your neck, making you moan. His hands slid between your legs, fingers slipping into the wet heat of your pussy without hesitation, making you gasp.

“So fucking wet for me already,” he muttered, his breath hot against your skin as he slid a finger inside you. “Did you want this all day, huh? Touching me, teasing me? Now you’re gonna get what you asked for.”

You moaned as his finger worked inside you, his thumb brushing against your clit with every stroke. But it wasn’t enough. It never was with him.

“Please,” you begged, your hands scrambling to push his jeans down. “Dean, I need more.”

He smirked, the bastard, and pulled his fingers out, leaving you whimpering in frustration. “You’ve gotta earn it, baby,” he said, voice low and rough. He shoved you against the window again, his hand tight around your throat as he kissed you hard, his free hand finally unzipping his jeans. “I’m not gonna just give it to you. Not until you beg for it.”

You swallowed hard, your body aching, needing him like nothing else. The only words that left your lips were a soft, desperate, “Please, Dean, I need you.”

That was all it took. Dean wasted no time, pulling his jeans down just enough before aligning himself with your entrance, his green eyes locking with yours. “You asked for this,” he growled, and in one swift motion, he thrust into you. The sudden fullness made you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as you adjusted to the stretch.

You barely had time to think before he slammed back into you, his cock pushing deep, filling you in one smooth motion. The stretch was dizzying, your body not quite ready for him, but Dean didn’t care. He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Dean groaned, his fingers digging into your skin as he lifted your hips, forcing you to take him even deeper. “I knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Been thinking about this all damn day.”

Your nails dug into his back as you gasped for air, your body jolting with each thrust. The pressure was already building in your core, every nerve on fire as he fucked you harder, faster. You could feel him everywhere— inside you, beside you, taking control in a way that made your head spin.

“Dean…” you whimpered, your voice barely a breath as he hit a spot deep inside you that had you seeing stars. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more. “I can’t… I—”

“Shut up,” Dean growled, his hands tightening around your waist, pulling you closer as he pistoned in and out of you with animalistic force. He was relentless, pushing you to the edge with every deep thrust. “You’re gonna cum for me, baby. You’re gonna scream my name.”

The tension in your body was building, unbearable. Every inch of you felt like it was on fire, your muscles trembling as Dean fucked you harder, faster, his rhythm steady but unforgiving. The sound of your skin slapping against his filled the car, mixing with the desperate moans spilling from your lips.

He pulled out briefly, just enough to flip you around and slam back into you from behind. You cried out at the sudden change, your face pressing into the seat of the Impala as Dean’s hand fisted your hair, pulling you back to meet him with each punishing thrust.

“You like that, huh?” Dean growled, his voice rough and unrelenting. “Like being fucked like a dirty little secret?”

“Yes, Dean,” you gasped, your hands gripping the car for support as he fucked you even harder, the sound of his hips against your ass drowning out everything else. “God, yes, please don’t stop...”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers expertly finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you. The pressure in your belly was building, the need to release almost unbearable. “C’mon, baby, you’re close,” Dean grunted, his breath hot against your neck. “Cum for me. I want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You couldn’t hold back any longer. The orgasm hit you like a freight train, your body shaking as you cried out Dean’s name, the release crashing through you in waves. Dean followed right behind, his grip tightening as he filled you, his hot breath on your skin as he groaned your name like a prayer.

You both collapsed against each other, breathless and trembling, the only sound the heavy rhythm of your breathing. Dean’s hand rested on your hip as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“That’s what you wanted, right?” he whispered, his voice still thick with lust. “You got it.”

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[rafeysbangs]

°🂶 ༘˚↷rafe is always just out of reach

warnings ; not proofread sorta... , simply just angst, sortof almost a mention of fwb? ish?, interpret this how you will as to yours & rafe's relationship !

notes ; HI !! i'm so happy to be back. srry this is straight up angst. but i hope you enjoy. can you tell uni is strangling me lol ( this was actually sitting in the drafts.. waiting... oops )

rafe cameron is an enigma you can’t quite solve. a puzzle with missing pieces, a shoreline that recedes every time you step forward. you think you have him—hands grasping the edge of something real—only for him to slip through like sand through parted fingers.

you watch him from the passenger seat, the engine humming beneath the weight of silence. his knuckles are tight against the steering wheel, pale from pressure. he’s always holding on too hard, to everything, to nothing. a boy who doesn’t know how to let go without breaking something in the process.

"you’re quiet," you say, just to fill the space. to remind him you’re still here.

his jaw flexes, a brief movement, barely anything at all. then a chuckle, low and humourless. "that’s a first."

it’s a dance, this thing between you—if you can even call it that. he keeps his distance, but it’s not apathy. it’s something else. something tangled up in the way his hands tighten around whatever’s in his grasp, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long when he thinks you won’t notice.

you do notice. you always do.

you see it now, in the way he shifts gears with more force than necessary. in the way his hands tremble when he runs them through his hair. in the way he looks at you, like he wants to say something but won’t, like it’s locked behind his teeth, rusted shut with years of unsaid things.

and you—what are you to him? a distraction? a reminder? a tether to something softer, something he doesn’t think he deserves?

"you don’t have to do that," you say, softer this time.

he glances at you, brow furrowed. "do what?"

"pretend like you don’t care."

his lips part, but no words come out. just a sharp inhale, a slow exhale. and then he laughs again—quieter, this time. almost bitter.

"maybe i don’t."

but he does. you know he does. it’s in the way he says your name, in the way he always finds you first in a crowded room, in the way his fingers brush against yours but never stay long enough. it’s in the way he pulls away just before he gets too close, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

rafe cameron is a hurricane dressed as a boy. all storm and sharp edges, all lightning that never quite touches the ground. people talk about him like he’s reckless, like he’s all impulse and violence, but you know better. you see what they don’t—the hesitation, the flicker of something softer just beneath the surface. you see the way he clenches his jaw when he’s trying not to feel. the way he swallows words before they can make it past his lips. the way his hands shake when he thinks no one’s looking.

he is not empty, not hollow like he wants the world to believe. he is full of things he will never say, full of rage and grief and longing. full of a love he will never let himself hold.

and you—maybe you are just another thing he cannot let himself have.

you could reach for him, could close the space between you, could press your palm against the warmth of his arm and wait for him to lean in instead of pull away. but you already know how this ends.

he’ll let you get close. close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

and then he’ll slip away—just like always.

( no taglist bcs its wayyy to old um i'll be redoing that too so look out for a post - sorry guys ! )

[steddieas-shegoes]

lone stars

for @steddiemicrofic prompt 'ride'

rated m | 453 words | cw: implied sexual content | tags: cowboy/western-ish au, eddie is a sweetheart, getting together, first kiss, lowkey horsegirl steve harrington

🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎

He's sipping on the last of his broth when he hears it.

It sounds like a group of people, heading right for his spot near the river. He didn't expect to get interrupted this late in the evening, most intelligent travelers knowing better than to continue walking in the forest after sundown.

He stands and starts to mount Grit, his horse since childhood, but is interrupted by a hand on his leg.

"Stay quiet."

The shadow of a person is standing close to him, long hair tied back in a low ponytail. His eyes are glowing, but nothing else about him stands out. He must be wearing all black.

That's never a good sign.

"Let go of me. I'm not standin' around to see if they're friend or foe," Steve whispers as he tries to jerk the reins so they can ride off into the night.

"They're neither, but they'll bother ya for days if they see ya," the man whispers back.

Steve pauses. "You got a horse to get outta here?"

The man shakes his head, and he's becoming a bit clearer as Steve's eyes adjust.

"Hop on. What's your name?"

"Eddie," he says as he hops up behind Steve. Grit huffs, but seems to understand that he shouldn't make any other noises. He's always been an attentive horse. "Where ya headin'?"

"Not sure yet. You?"

"Anywhere you're goin'."

Eddie's hard to shake.

Steve doesn't really try too hard.

They ride together for a few weeks, getting to know each other. Eddie's past is dark, but so is Steve's in its own way. They're both loners trying to find a place to call home, maybe find others to help them feel a little less lonely.

Eddie's funny, and charming, and tactile. He's unlike anyone Steve's been around before. Even as a child, his friends were more of the burly boys who didn't hug type, but Eddie always finds reasons to touch him, to reach out to comfort or keep him warm or show him joy that can't be contained in a smile or laugh alone.

Steve doesn't know why he does it. The fire is warm, the stars above are stunning, and Eddie looks like the sun.

He kisses him.

Eddie hesitates. Steve thinks about being killed here, hopes Eddie will at least care for Grit.

"You too?" Eddie asks, voice shaking with what seems like fear.

"I s'pose so," Steve shrugs.

Eddie kisses him, he strips him down, covers them both up with the sheet they picked up at a general store a week ago. They push and pull, touch and kiss. They find each other and themselves.

"Want this every night," Eddie gasps.

"Take it, then," Steve bites his shoulder.

[rose-writes-for-march]

March for More: An itch...

MASTERPOST

As the CEO of Wayne Industries, Tim Drake has a responsibility to keep an eye on the competition. Which, for the most part, means meetings and galas and back-and-forth emails. Honestly, he doesn't even do that much personally due to the efforts of his secretary and other employees.

Though, reluctantly, Tim’s been keeping a very close eye on his newest… rival in the business. The Godson of one Vladimir Masters of Vladco; Daniel Fenton. The company photo of him was a worrying sight on its own, without considering how strange it was as the only photo Tim could find of the guy. No school photos, online presence, or signs of life other than his place as Masters godson and future owner of Vladco. The guy hadn’t made much noise, nothing big or worthy enough for Tim’s attention, and yet… well. Tim had an itch. A gut feeling.

So, he stalked researched Daniel’s life, compiled a too small file, and invited the boy and his guardian to a gala. Tim couldn’t say it was a good idea—it wasn’t even a fully formed idea by the time he hit send on the email to Vladco—but he found it better to be hasty than to find himself unprepared when shit hit the fan.

The first thing Tim noticed when the two arrived at the gala was Daniel's appearance. If Daniel had looked sickly in his Vladco photo, he looked dead in real life. The second thing he noticed were the hunched shoulders, the fisted hands, the lowered eyes, and the... fear that encompassed him as he was forced to stay by his godfather's side throughout the party.

Cass sent him a look and he nodded to show he was on the same page. If Tim didn't need her help to see it, either Daniel was bad at hiding it or too tired to try. Mind made up, he figured it was about time to talk to the recipients of his personal invitation.

As he approached, it didn't take long for Masters to notice him. Tim watched as he squeezed his godson's shoulder—too hard if the wince Daniel gave was any sign, though if Masters noticed, he didn't seem to care for any discomfort he caused. "Ah, if it isn't the CEO himself. A pleasure, Mr. Drake-Wayne. We thank you for the invitations, don't we, Daniel."

The words must have carried more weight than Tim knew of, for Daniel winced in blatant pain but forced himself to look up and nod at Tim anyway. It was a shaky thing; hardly a nod more than a harsh jerk of his head, and if Tim wasn't worried before, he was now.

"A pleasure indeed, Mr. Masters. I must admit I have some... ulterior motives for your invitations, if you don't mind me being so bold?" Tim laughed, lifting the drinks he'd brought from the catering and offering one to Masters.

Masters took it happily, though he didn't drink. "I am no stranger to boldness; after all, my Daniel is a spitfire of a boy. Do tell."

If the guy hadn't been standing right there looking like all of fifty pounds soaking wet and a wrong step away from finding out what a concussion is—though he may already have one—Tim might have thought Masters was talking of someone else.

Tim grinned nonetheless, giving a subtle signal behind his back where he knew two of his family were watching. "Fantastic! You see, I've been working on things behind the scenes of WI and... I wouldn't mind some of Vladco's particular expertise."

At this, Daniel's head shot up with a look of absolute horror, and Tim was startled back as he looked between them. Masters squeezed his shoulder again, a warning no doubt, and Daniel reluctantly looked away again. Masters laughed it off before Tim could even question, "Ah, don't mind him. He's been feeling unwell, is all."

Tim hummed, taking it as a chance to inspect Daniel without it being weird. The boy was haggard, his eyes were wide, and he seemed to be whispering to himself though Tim couldn't hear more than the air escaping his lips. "Maybe he should go sit down or get some water? This conversation would be better without... distractions, anyway."

Masters seemed reluctant, but with a look between the two, his hand lifted from Daniel's shoulder and with it some of the tension. "Go. Do not stray from my sight; I worry." Masters said, eyes narrow and voice a warning despite what Tim thought was supposed to be care.

They watched as Daniel walked away, shaky-footed and slow, but as soon as he made it to the catering table, Tim dove back into the conversation.

Slowly but surely as the conversation continued, Tim carried them further and further from Daniel, subsequently turning them so that Tim was facing the catering and Masters back was to it. Once Masters was fully turned away, Tim signaled the others.

Tim mentally apologized to Daniel for sicking his siblings on him when he was clearly sick, but he wasn't too sorry if it meant getting him away from what was clearly his abuser. Though... it felt too easy. The itch was back; had never really left.

Something was still wrong here.

[wortsandall]

YES THE SEX THING !!! it bothers me so much but i see it less so i didn't mention it. but like jazz is friendly and charismatic and his whole thing is music, so i feel like people have this idea in their head that those traits automatically = a nymphomaniac or something.

which would be fine on its own as a standalone context but in context for jazz-it does become an issue because of the connotations of a black coded character being written that way.

especially since jazz has not been depicted like that in any media that has him in it (as far as im aware) so it's an authors personal choice to add this in there for essentially the reason of...? why?

its NOT a jazz character trait. as far as i've seen anyway as i haven't seen every jazz character ever written but i also feel like if he was intended to be seen like that, they'd have no problem doing that. other characters have been written to be like that-there's jokes about certain characters flirting with earth cars and stuff. i mean knock out's entire vibe is tf prime is something like that with his voice, he canonized interface as a cybertronian word for sex, borderline flirting with starscream, etc...

where the nuance comes in here is that there's nothing wrong with a headcanon. and people can headcanon jazz to be like that. and theres nothing inherently wrong with being a flirt and liking sex, whatever.

it just becomes odd that this trait ive only ever seen be added to jazz and never anyone else. and the way its written 50% of the time is completely the 'black guy with a big dick he loves to swing around' stereotype that makes me click off.

(i read one where because jazz is a spy its mentioned he's had to rape people for interrogation purposes before and i immediately clicked off because what the hell are you talking about ???? it felt completely out of place. i guess you could write a story in which that happens-i've got zero issues with dark fic.

but using jazz of all people? i didn't like that. i know jazz is a spy and he's done bad shit before but i just couldn't believe in that.

its the whole 'he wouldn't fucking say that' thing. because people can do whatever they want (all i'm asking is to be a little more socially aware of stereotyping) but ultimately when you're writing fic and you want it to be in character you have to write a set of circumstances that would make a character actually say that. throwing it into a fic that is ultimately the same universe with the same circumstances just slightly tweaked is not enough of a circumstance to make me believe that he would do that to interrogate people. its bad out of character writing. but this is a tangent)

this is getting long (sorry!) but basically yes the "jazz is a beast in the sheets and needs sex 24/7 and we'll talk about every type of past relationship he's ever had and also did you know he's had sex with EVERYONE on the ark" is something that i find so distasteful. because its not jazz.

when i read the idw comics and saw jazz i did not see what these writers were seeing. and it feels like a purposeful choice to see him like that versus the guy he actually is. im not an expert but he's just a charming musician who's pretty laid back and uses that as an advantage for a spy stuff sometimes.

i don't think it's really an act that he's a generally nice dude who just also has the whole "i got to do what needs to be done thing prowl has" but he actually does feel guilt (which is why i don't think he would ever take an interrogation far enough to rape somebody jesus christ) and he does let emotion get in the way like when he killed that guy on earth.

its feels off putting to turn the guy i described above into the type of guy that would:

- continue to flirt with prowl after being rejected over and over again (comes up a lot in jazzprowl)

-disrespect boundaries/be sexually aggressive in general

-talk about sex all the time even when inappropriate

-run off to jerk off or have inappropriately timed sex

all things ive seen across various different fics. and if you want to write jazz that way you better create a set of circumstances that makes me believe it. because throwing it into tf animated of all continuities (as an example) just make me immediately side eye your priorities

tldr; the jazz sex fiend trend does bother me. i don't think writing him that way or enjoying him written that way automatically makes you racist. but i do encourage people to explore any subconscious bias they may have because that trait doesn't make sense for jazz. especially if you want to write in character jazz fics.

in the spirit of honesty...the way some of yall write jazz in transformers fanfic is honestly appalling. it screams ive never met a black person in my life. it screams i watched michael bays 2007 transformers and took notes, as if the bayverse hasnt been criticized for its terrible stereotyping.

yes, he has an accent. yes, he uses slang. but jesus christ. his usage is not as egregious as yall write it. yall write him like hes stupid and uneducated. the ultimate caricature of a black man. its super insulting.

and i get that he's not actually black due to not being human but he is black coded and the treatment is abysmal at times.

my advice? JUST WRITE DIALOGUE. our brains do the rest. i know what he sounds like, i can fill it in myself.

stop writing "ay, ya sure ya got shit handled, fam'? bro, i 'aint no fool, i gots that dog n' me."

ESPECIALLY BC JAZZ HAS NEVER. SPOKEN LIKE THAT ANYWAY.

sincerely, a (very) frustrated black person.

[legendofmorons]

Written in the stars (forever on loop) Chapter two - Catch my breath (what else can I do?)

Pairing: eventual Poly! Chain x reader, platonic Wind & reader

Series Rating: T

Summary: Day two with the chain has its challenges. Thankfully, Epona and Wind are there to make things better. Four and Sky have a heart to heart while a late night talk with Warriors leaves you with some questions and thoughts.

Warnings: grief, cursing

Other: If I missed anything, please let me know

Previous masterlist. Next

Breakfast is your saving grace in the morning, especially because you need something to do that isn't focusing on everything that happened yesterday.

You sit by Sky again, though Wind sits on your other side.

Sky looks exhuasted, blinking blearily and having to stifle a yawn every so often. He's got puffy eyes... has he been crying? Maybe it was just a bad day...

No one else speaks to you or sits near you, though. There's a tense atmosphere you could cut with a very dull butter knife.

"So, what do you do back home?" Wind asks before stuffing a bite of his food in his mouth.

You smile politely, "I work, I listen to music, I talk to my friends and family. Nothing exciting. What about you?"

"I like to sail a lot." Wind says.

This isn't a surprise. He gives off pirate gremlin energy anyhow. It's good to know it is from a hobby and not just your own interpretation of what is apparently more than a video game.

You smile a little more real this time. "That's good, it's important to have hobbies. Do you live near the sea?"

"You know about the sea!" Wind declares excitedly.

You laugh a little, "Of course I do."

You can feel the way all the others look at you with strange gazes and furrowing brows or outright glares.

You focus your gaze on Wind, blocking out the others.

Wind looks absolutely delighted, though, his grin wide and bright. "No one else but Wild knows. You do, though!"

"I do." You agree easily.

The young teen is adoreable in the excitement that causes his ears to twitch a little.

Sky smiles too, "He's a fan of the sea."

"Maybe we can visit it." You offer.

Wind cheers, beaming at you. "I hope so!"

Time clears his throat to get everyone's attention. The air goes thick again around you.

You turn your gaze to the oldest, wondering yet again why he has the fierce diety marking on only half his face if he has them at all.

"We're going to keep looking for a town today, we need to get our new friends some supplies since they were caught unawares." Time says.

He hasn't looked at you. Most of them haven't looked at you. Not really.

You feel your face heat up a little. Embarrassment floods your being.

If you had known you were going to end up here, you would have prepared more!

"We should also probably see about finding a river or something soon." Warriors adds firmly.

The others agree with both sentiments.

Wind elbows you playfully, "Don't worry, we all got caught unawares at least once. I started my adventure by hitting things with sticks."

The teen gives a wink at the end, like he's telling you a secret.

You laugh, recalling that sequence in Wind Waker. Immediately, you feel guilty simply for having loved and played the games.

Apparently, the world of Hyrule is real.

Oh.

Right.

This is all so bizarre.

You played through what were probably horrible quests and memories for fun. (You didn't know! If you had known - breathe. You remind yourself to breathe.)

Last night's dreams were weird.

Everything is so different

"Don't overthink." Sky chides lightly although, it sounds like it's something he says on autopilot, his face twisting with an unreadable emotion.

Grief, maybe? But worry, too.

"Okay." You manage.

"Twilight, Wild, Wind, Legend, and Sky, you'll all look for a river. Warriors, Four, Hyrule, and I will take (Y/n) and look for a town." Time says.

No!

You don't want to leave Sky and Wind. They are the least tense!

At least you'll be with Four and Hyrule. They are far less intimidating than Time and Warriors.

"Don't worry," Wind whispers to you as he nudges your side lightly. "They're all big softies."

He gives you a dramatic wink.

You crack a weak smile. "Really??"

"Really." Wind assures.

"Thanks." You say softer.

The teen grins at you. He looks pretty eleated in general.

"Alright, when you are ready, we'll head out." Time says to you. He's finally looking at you, but his face is stony.

You acknowledge his words and work on finishing your food.

After you've eaten and everything has been packed up, the groups split up.

You are flanked by four men as you walk. Warriors and Four on either side of you with Time in the back and Hyrule beside him.

None of them talk except to tell you if you're turning. Their eyes never seem to be on you, but you swear they're watching.

The silence is strange. (Some strange subconscious part of you rails against the tense air around you. This is wrong!)

"So... uhm... what's with the portals?" You ask after a good twenty minutes of walking.

This seems like a solid start point. The silence is too much anyway.

The others seem to share a silent conversation around you. None of them look at you.

Warriors looks at you as he answers. "There is a Sahdow opening them and letting lose monsters of different eras."

You nod. That sounds like some Legend of Zelda stuff right there... You should probably stop thinking of this as a video game world.

Four sighs. "Of course we're all here because we're heroes."

"That makes sense... why am I here?" You ask, feeling as if you're in free fall without a parachute as far as information goes.

There's a beat of silence.

The men exchange glances around you, yet another silent converstion exchanging in seconds.

"We don't know." Time says evenly, a measured tone flowing in his voice. His gaze is still too heavy on you, as if he's daring you to do something.

"Okay." You manage.

Four offers you a slightly strained smile. "We'll figure it out."

His smile is wrong. His eyes are wrong. He dosen’t believe in what he says, does he?

"I hope so."

Hyrule hums once. "Are you a hero where you're from? That might make it make sense if you are."

You laugh a little, startled at the notion. "No. No, my life back home is... boring enough."

Four and Warriors both look spooked by your laugh, looking at you with frowns. The latter looks a little angry, too, with pinched brows.

Okay. Maybe it was rude to laugh?

"Oh." Hyrule says.

"Boring can be good." Warriors offers after a moment, face fixing itself into an overly polite mask.

You smile weakly. "I guess so."

"Are you a royal then?" Hyrule asks.

You laugh again. "No. I'm definitely not."

The silence comes back, heavy and awkward. You don't bother trying to break it again.

There's something wrong in the air. You just can't place it. You have barely interacted with any of them!

At least Hyrule and Four just seem to avoid watching you. Or maybe it just feels that way because Warriors and Time won't stop - even if you don't catch them, you can feel it.

What is it with these heroes and the staring problem?

Yeesh.

Hopefully, when you see Wind again, He can lighten the mood.

-------

The trip to town was awkward, stilted, and almost painful. When you're dropped off at an inn to what for the boys to get the others, you are relieved.

You've gotten a travel pack with a place for your bed roll. You've also been given a few spare clothes, which is nice.

You are apparently to share an inn room with someone tonight.

Hopefully, it's Wind or Sky. They haven't glared at you or made you feel unwanted.

You settle on one of two beds, wondering what you have done to earn their cold shoulders. Did you... over step somehow?

Maybe they know about the video games? They aren't self-aware in the game, hopefully?

Nothing makes sense anyway.

There's a knock at the door before someone calls. "Hey, it's just me! We're roommates!"

Wind.

Thank goodness.

The door opens to reveal a grinning Wind.

"Did you have fun?" You ask.

The teen is practically bouncing. "I did! It was great, oh my goodness! Wild and Sky got tangled up in some roots, and we had to finish a mini dungeon!"

"That sounds... busy?"

"It was fun! We got some rupees, too."

"That's good!" You say a bit more cheerily.

The boy grins.

He asks you about your trip, and you just say it was okay, a little awkward, but not horrible.

Dinner is quick, and every time you try to make conversation with anyone but Wind they look pained by the attempt, and it peeters out.

Even Sky seems a little skittish about you during dinner, although his eyes look puffy again. Maybe he's going through something?

You sigh, deciding to go see Epona. Maybe she'll let you pet her?

Epona is at least less scared of you. She just sniffs your hand curiously.

As soon as she sniffs you, she's pressing her face into your hand insistently, as if asking for attention. Who are you to deny her?

She's sweet, at least.

"Such a good girl you are." You coo to Epona sweetly.

She isn't at fault for the tense atmosphere of the boys.

Petting her mane gently is relaxing in ways you hadn't quite expected. She's all but leaning into it, a few soft snorts here and there but otherwise seemingly content to be near you.

"Aw, I wish I had something to give you, sweetheart."

Epona just leans a little more into your touch.

"I'll just keep an eye out. Maybe we can find an apple or something for you."

You can feel a few others watching you, but you don't turn. It's much nicer here with Epona than with the heavy silence and strained attempts at conversation provided by the boys.

Although Wind is certainly picking up some slack there, he deserves some cookies or something.

"How'd you get to be so sweet, pretty girl?" You muse.

It's a nice break from havin to be around anyone. Epona is so gentle and sweet, at least with you. She's happy to let you pet her man and sctach behind her ears gently.

Animals are amazing.

-------

Sky and Four take to their room, both looking forward to getting away from the painful reminder you are. They know it's not your fault, you seem nice, but still...

Grief is funny sometimes.

The moment the door closes, Sky's carefully polite face is falling into twisting grief.

Four just flops himself onto his bed. His head hurts, pounding like a horribly novice out of step marching band is playing their show inside his skull.

It's too much.

Sky just leans against the door, sinking to the floor with his head leaning back.

"Why couldn't they look different?" Sky asks in a shaking whisper.

The question escapes his mouth on accident.

Four turns over, so he's staring up at the ceiling. "I don't know."

Sky dosen’t turn. Instead, he just closes his eyes.

"It's not their fault." Four says, staring at the ceiling.

"No." Sky agrees. "It's not."

"I feel so bad for them." Four manages.

He does.

Against the grief and the anger and the stupid hope that twirl around his lost love, there's sympathy. Sympathy for the unexpected start of an adventure.

Sympathy for the lost look in their eyes at unfamiliarity scripts of hylian writing.

"Goddess... They looked terrified when they first saw me." Sky whispers into the room.

He uses that expression of terror to ground himself. It sounds bad. He knows it sounds bad.

But your terror is proof that you aren't his beloved sunshine.

His sunshine... never looked at him like that. They were never scared of him. Not when they saw him seal the imprisoned. Not when they saw him fight Demise.

They were never scared.

The expression of terror on your face chafes at his soul, but it helps him remember you aren't anyone else but a stranger in a scary situation.

"I think they're scared of Time." Four says.

Sky laughs weakly. "He is intimidating..."

"It's uncanny... They're identical in looks and personality."

"I know."

"How do you do it? I can barely look at them."

"I - can barely look away." Sky laughs, though it almost sounds like crying.

Four hums once, thoughtful mostly. His entire being, all of his colors, struggle under the grief you've stirred up. His empathize for his soul brothers is endless.

His grief is even more vast.

"Goddess. They'd be ashamed of me." Sky admits, "Dancing around a stranger trying to keep everything under wraps and falling apart as soon as the door shuts."

Four narrows his eyes, pushing up to lean on his elbows. His glare is trained on Sky. "Don't sully thier memory by assigning your shame to them."

"What?" Sky swallows, looking at Four with wide eyes.

The hero of skies looks like a kicked puppy, glassy eyes, and shaking form.

Four dosen’t care. Not now. Not when the memory of their soulmate's memory is being treated so poorly.

"They wouldn't be ashamed of you for doing your best in a hard situation. They wouldn't blame you for having complex feelings. Your own guilt shouldn't be projected onto their memory." Four says, or maybe that's Blue and Vio in control for now. Who can tell?

They all miss you. Every piece of him misses you.

"How could they not be?" Sky asks. "I'm messing everything up!"

"Legend hasn't stopped glaring at them, Time just stares silently, I can barely look at them. Sky, you're being more normal about this than anyone!"

"Wind is doing much better."

"Wind hasn't lost them yet. Of course, he's doing better." Four rolls his eyes, pushing down the envy.

"I know. I... Why does he still have them when no one else does?"

"He's fourteen. There's plenty of time for him to get fucked over like the rest of us." Four snaps.

"I didn't mean- I just miss them."

"I know." Four sighs, closing his eyes. "I know... I think we all do."

Silence falls over the room, heavy but not uncomfortable. It's the silence that falls over loved ones when they've had a hard conversation and need to think but still feel safe together.

Four falls back against the bed, trying to remember the way his lover once held him. Perhaps it's self destructive, but when it helps him cope, he dosen’t care.

He can feel the colors, his head is still pounding.

Blue is restless as ever, a rage at the reminder that you're gone. Anger that Sky could speak of your memory so poorly.

Green and Red are trying to calm it all down. They're trying to focus on the better times they had with thier lover.

Vio... is Vio. He's focusing on the facts again.

Like always.

Four focuses on his breathing, pretending that it's them here counting it instead of him.

Who knew trying to keep himself together would be so hard?

-------

You're outside trying to get some air after having the same dream from last night. The argument and lead up to something horrible in the dream is - draining.

The night air is chilly, but it's a nice relief from the stifling feeling of the bed.

Stars above you make out patterns you shouldn't be able to recognize, but you swear you see a set of stars that's supposed to be a harp. It isn't the harp constellation from your world, though. It's different.

You sit on the steps that lead up to the inn porch, leaning against the banister.

There's some sort of spinning string instrument tune stuck in your head, unplayable as the origin of the second and strange harp constellation.

There's the sound of the door opening and closing behind you. Probably another person in search of some air.

"What... are you doing our here?" Asks a man.

You turn, looking over your shoulder to see Warriors, still in his entire outfit, chain mail, and all.

His gaze is heavy, not as bad as Time's but strange as ever.

You sigh, trying to avoid tensing up at the sight of him. "I needed some air... I guess you do, too."

Warriors sighs, "You could say that."

"Don't let me stop you." You say, turning your head back to facing forwards and gazing out at the small town before you.

A lazy night breeze blows across you, ruffling your hair a little.

Warriors is silent behind you, a large presence. He's unmoving.

You're left wondering if he's still there for a moment.

It seems rude to check, though.

How he can be so still is beyond you, but you suppose that's probably a skill he picked up from the war. (A war you're not meant to know about.)

Warriors moves finally, walking until he's beside you. He stands there, unmoving again as he stares up at the stars.

"You shouldn't be out here without a weapon." He says finally.

You glance up at him. "Why? It's a small town."

"Ambushes can happen anytime anywhere."

"I can't say that's something I've had to worry about much." You admit. Which is true, for all the creeps and killers of your world... none of them are literal monsters.

Besides, you don't have a weapon right now. Why would you need one while traveling with the group?

"Count yourself lucky." Warriors tells you, "You should start worrying about it, though. Our group gets ambushed often."

You take a slow breath, trying to decide if you're supposed to respond or not. What do you even say to that?

He looks at you, face carefully neutral in a way that feels vaugley threatened. "You... aren't a fighter, are you?"

"Not the way you guys seem to be."

"You've never fought a war... have you?" Warriors asks in a soft voice.

He sounds- he sounds like your answer is important to this question. He sounds like you have some huge sway over what happens with this answer.

His face is still carefully blank.

"No. I've never fought in a war." You say slowly, trying to make sense of whatever this is.

Warriors let's out a slow, heavy sigh. "I hope it stays that way."

"Me too." You say.

You mean it, too. How could you not? Who hopes to get pulled into a war? Not you.

Moments pass, and thick silence seems to press in on you.

"I'm sorry." You say finally.

Warriors looks at you, face still unnervingly calm.

What life has he led that he's so good at neutral poker faces?

"Why?" He asks you.

That's a great question. Why are you sorry?

There's so many reasons.

You're sorry you played their games and enjoyed them.

You're sorry that you're here and slowing them down.

You're sorry that you came unprepared, and they had to step up.

You're sorry he's lost so much.

"I'm sorry I've been such a pain." You settle on. "I know I slowed you guys down and that you stepped up yesterday to help make sure I'm set up for whatever it is we've all been dragged into."

Warriors sighs while something heavy flashes through his eyes before it disappears. "You don't need to apologize. We weren't going to kick you aside."

"I guess. I'm still sorry."

"Do you know how many times I've heard these kinds of apologies?" He asks.

You shake your head. "No."

He looks up to the sky again. "Too many times. Too many people have told me they're sorry for things they can't control. That they're sorry for me doing something simple."

"Oh."

"Don't waste time or words on things like that." Warriors tells you with a stern look.

You would imagine it's a look he picked up as a captain.

"Okay." You breathe out softly.

"I mean it, (Y/n)." He says, though he sounds far away. It's like he's actually speaking to someone else.

Someone he lost.

"Okay." You say again softer.

-------

Next

[gdinthehouseee]

I Belong To You: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: after years of being separated, and a night of stolen glances and unspoken feelings, your ex-boyfriend, ji-yong, invites you to his penthouse.

word count: 4024

tags: angst to fluff; exes to lovers, jealousy, slightly spicy towards the end

ao3 link

Ji-yong swirls the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way it catches the light, pretending he doesn’t notice the way cameras keep panning to you. But he does. How could he not notice the way you’re dressed in something stunning, the way you continue to command attention without lifting a finger, the way you’re pretending not to notice him too. He knows you a little too well for your liking—he always has.

Briefly pulling him out of his own head, the audience erupts into polite applause as the host rattles on about the next category, but the words barely register in his mind. He knows the drill—clap, nod, look engaged. He’s done this a million times. But tonight, it’s different. Not because you’re here. No. The two of you have been pretending not to see each other sitting so close yet so far from each other for a few years now.

Tonight is different because this time you’re not alone.

The artist you recently collaborated with is sitting beside you, leaning in too close, whispering something in your ear that makes you laugh. Ji-yong doesn’t have to check his phone to know what’s already happening. The cameras have caught it, the fans have seen it, and the internet is losing its mind. There will be clips, slowed-down edits, overanalyzed expressions. People will pick apart every second, searching for something—anything—to confirm their theories. Some will say you’ve finally moved on. Others will refuse to believe it, insisting you’re just trying to make him jealous. And maybe, in some twisted way, they’re right. Because the longer Ji-yong watches, the more certain he becomes that you know exactly what you’re doing. And it’s working.

The whispers had been there for months. Quiet speculations, half-serious comments under posts.

"Why haven’t they been seen together lately?""Ji-yong didn’t like her last three posts… something feels off.""She used to wear his jewelry all the time. When’s the last time we saw it?"

But nothing set the internet on fire like the day you released that song. It wasn’t an outright breakup anthem—no names, no obvious details. But it was melancholic. Raw. The kind of song that settled under the skin, playing in the back of people's minds long after it ended. And the lyrics…

You weren’t angry. You weren’t bitter. You were heartbroken. It didn’t take long before the theories started rolling in.

"Wait. Wait. WAIT. Is this a breakup song??"“Please tell me she just felt like making a break-up song…” "If they’re still together, why would she write this??""IS THIS ABOUT GD???”

Some refused to believe it, digging for loopholes, convincing themselves it was just a song. But the more they analyzed the lyrics, the deeper they spiraled. Someone found an old interview where you had casually mentioned, "I write best from experience." And that’s when the internet really lost its mind.

Breakup edits flooded timelines. Your old moments together—laughing, whispering, looking at each other like no one else in the world existed—now repurposed under the saddest soundtracks imaginable. Fan accounts were in shambles. Some mourned. Others coped through denial. But one tweet said it best:

"If this song is really about Ji-yong, I don’t think I’ll ever recover."

Ji-yong saw that tweet. And he hasn’t recovered either.

He should have known tonight wouldn’t have been any easier than the last few award shows. From the moment you walked into the venue, the cameras couldn’t get enough of you. The fans couldn’t stop screaming your name. And now, as you stand on stage beside him, accepting the award for Best Collaboration, Ji-yong feels a familiar, sinking weight in his chest.

You thank your team, your fans, everyone who made this happen. Your collaborator smiles beside you, the two of you standing close—too close—and Ji-yong knows the internet is already eating this up.

The lights shift. The first notes of your song together play. 

Ji-yong leans back in his seat, jaw tight, as you and your collaborator exchange a glance before stepping into position. The performance is effortless—smooth, intimate, rehearsed. Every look, every touch, every perfectly timed harmony makes it clear why the song was a hit. The chemistry is there, and Ji-yong isn’t the only one who notices. Fans are already screaming. Social media is probably on fire.

And then—just when Ji-yong thinks he can finally breathe—the lights don’t turn up again, in fact, they dim even lower. There’s a pause. Murmurs ripple through the venue.

Then, a single spotlight. It lands on you, and the opening chords of that song begin to play.

Ji-yong stiffens. He hears the collective gasp from the audience, feels the energy shift. Because this—this wasn’t publicly announced. This wasn’t planned. And yet, here you are, standing alone in the center of the stage, staring straight into the camera as you sing the first words.

"I don’t blame you, I just miss you."

The same line that had sent the internet spiraling. The song is stripped down—just a piano, raw vocals, and heartbreak woven into every note. Ji-yong doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. The entire venue is silent, hanging onto every word. Because this is the moment. The confirmation. The truth. No one can deny it anymore. This is the breakup song. This is the proof. This is what the fans had been speculating about for years.

The camera pans through the audience, catching dropped jaws, wide eyes, people clinging to their seats. Some fans are already in tears. Others are recording with shaking hands.

And Ji-yong? He’s gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turn white. Because the way you sing it—soft, emotional, your voice cracking just enough on the high notes—he knows it’s real. He knows it’s about him. 

When you reach the bridge—the part that had wrecked him the first time he heard it—your voice softens, turning almost fragile. The lyrics cut through the silence like a confession, every word laced with something raw, something unspoken. He feels it in his chest, the weight of your voice pressing down on him like gravity. The way you linger on certain lines, how your lips part just slightly before the next note—it’s all too familiar. Because he knows this song. He was the one who used to hear those words before anyone else. He was the one who knew what they truly meant.

Then, for the briefest second, your eyes flicker across the room.

And when they finally land on him—just for a moment, just long enough to steal the air from his lungs—Ji-yong forgets everything else.

It’s barely noticeable, but he catches it. The slightest hesitation, the way your breath hitches before the next lyric, the flicker of something deep in your gaze before you force yourself to look away. But he saw it. And it’s enough. Because no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many headlines or rumors or new collaborations have tried to fill the space between you—this moment tells him everything.

You still feel it, too.

Ji-yong exhales, shaking his head, running his tongue over his teeth before looking down at his phone. Without a second thought, he opens the contact that never blocked him. The contact that maybe should have blocked him all those years ago. The contact that shut the door, yet never locked it.

Your heart is still racing as you make your way back to your seat. The applause is deafening, a mix of cheers and shocked murmurs rippling through the venue. You don’t need to check social media to know it’s already in flames—fan theories igniting, clips of your performance circulating within seconds. But none of it matters. Not right now.

Because the only thing on your mind is him.

Sliding into your seat, you smooth your dress over your legs, trying to steady your breathing. Your collaborator leans over, whispering something about how insane that moment was, how the internet is probably imploding, but his voice barely registers.

Your phone vibrates in your palm.

“Come over once this is done.”

You stare at the words, fingers tightening around your phone. The weight of his message settles over you, heavy and intoxicating all at once. He’s not even pretending. No casual “Congratulations.” No vague “We should catch up.” Just this. Direct. Certain. Exactly like him, painfully so.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment before you start typing. “Yours or mine?”

The reply comes almost instantly.

“Don’t make me wait.”

A slow exhale leaves your lips. The meaning is clear.

You lock your phone, not even bothering to reply, pulse thrumming against your skin. The award show continues around you—more speeches, more performances, more things you should probably be paying attention to. But the only thing you can think about is the fact that in just a little while, you’ll be face to face with Ji-yong again. Something tells you neither of you will be walking away unscathed. You can’t help but think of the last time you were in his penthouse.

Maybe it was the rain that made everything feel heavier that night, or maybe it was the way Ji-yong wouldn’t look at you when he said it. “Maybe we should stop this.”  You had known, deep down, that he was already halfway out the door, that the fights weren’t really fights anymore but drawn-out endings neither of you wanted to name. “Would you have ever let me go?”  He had asked, voice quiet, almost pleading. And you hadn’t answered—because the truth was, you never would have. So he did it for you. And now, after standing under those stage lights, singing the words that had lived in your chest ever since—I don’t blame you. I just miss you.—you knew he was out there, listening. You knew he understood. He has always known you a little too well, and he always will. 

The city pulsed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, neon signs flickering in and out of focus, their glow reflecting off the sleek marble floors. Inside, it was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that felt deliberate, heavy with the things neither of you had said in too long.

You stepped further in, the soft click of your heels the only sound between you. The air smelled like him—something warm, familiar, laced with the faintest trace of smoke. Ji-yong stood by the window, back turned, a cigarette burning between his fingers, untouched. He wasn’t smoking it. Just holding it, watching the city below like it might have answers.

"You came," he murmured, not turning around. His voice was lower than you remembered, a little rough around the edges.

"You told me to."

He finally turned then, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering. His lips curled into something unreadable—half a smirk, half something else, something more cautious. Like he hadn’t actually expected you to show. Like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted you to.

"Hell of a performance tonight," he said, voice deceptively light.

You swallowed, tilting your head. "Which part?"

"You know which part."

Of course you did. It had been impossible to miss—how the audience lost their minds when the first chords of your solo rang out, how the camera panned to him the second your voice wrapped around the lyrics. The ones you had written with him still lingering in the back of your mind. The ones he recognized the moment you sang them.

You shifted, arms crossing over your chest, suddenly too aware of the weight in the air. "Did you mean it?" you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

His jaw tightened. "Did you?"

It wasn’t an answer. But maybe neither of you had one. Not yet. The silence between you stretched, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. Outside, the city still pulsed, but here—here, it was just you and him, standing in the aftermath of something neither of you had figured out how to name.

Ji-yong finally moved, stepping away from the window, snuffing out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray on the table. "Sit," he said, nodding toward the couch.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you knew what this was. You knew the pattern, the pull, the way the air always seemed to shift when you were in the same room. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, how many miles had stretched between you. The moment you let yourself be near him, the distance never seemed to matter at all. Still, you sat.

Ji-yong watched you for a moment before settling into the armchair across from you, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze flickered over your face, like he was searching for something—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to find it.

"How long are we gonna do this?" His voice was quieter now, less teasing, more careful.

"Do what?" You knew what he meant, but you weren’t ready to give him that. Not yet.

He huffed out something like a laugh, shaking his head. "You know what. The stolen glances. The bullshit small talk when we run into each other. The way half the internet still thinks we’re secretly together."

You tilted your head, letting the words hang between you for a moment before saying, "Depends on what your definition of ‘stopping’ was."

His lips parted slightly, and you saw the moment the words hit—like an echo of that night, when he’d stood in this very room and told you that whatever this was… wasn’t working. That the two of you should stop seeing each other. When you hadn’t answered, because you hadn’t wanted to stop at all.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know why I texted you."

You leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly. "Do I?"

"I saw you up there." His voice was lower now, quieter, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud. "Singing that song. Looking at me."

"It’s a song, Ji-yong." Your fingers curled slightly against your lap.

"Don’t do that." He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flashing. "Don’t act like that was just a song. Like you weren’t—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You meant it. I know you did."

Your stomach twisted. Because he was right. The song wasn’t a lie. It was the closest thing to the truth you could bring yourself to say, wrapped in melody and lyrics and the weight of everything left behind. You had known the moment you performed it that he’d hear every unspoken word between the lines. And yet, a part of you had still been surprised by how much it seemed to hit him.

Ji-yong leaned forward again, his elbows braced on his knees. "Did you write it because you were angry?"

You blinked. "What?"

"The song." His gaze burned into you. "Was it because you were angry at me?"

You let out a breath of something close to a laugh, shaking your head. "No, Ji-yong."

"Then why?"

"Because I missed you."

The words hung between you, heavier than anything else in the room. Ji-yong’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging at the strands in frustration. "So what, you missed me, but you moved on?" His voice was lower now, rough around the edges, like he was forcing himself to stay calm. But you knew him too well—knew the tension in his shoulders, the way his leg bounced slightly, the heat in his gaze.

You frowned. "What?"

"Him." He tilted his chin toward the muted TV, where clips of your performance still played, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You and him." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his jaw flexed. "That’s real, isn’t it?"

"Ji-yong—"

"Just say it." His voice was firmer now, raw with something that almost sounded like desperation. "Tell me you’re with him."

Your breath caught in your throat. "I’m not."

Something flickered in his expression—relief, maybe—but it was gone in a second, buried under something heavier. "But you could be, right?" He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "You look good together. The internet thinks so, anyway. Maybe that’s what you needed—someone who wasn’t afraid to have you by his side, out in the open."

You flinched at the accusation in his tone. "That’s not fair."

"Isn’t it?" He leaned in, his eyes burning into yours. "You think I don’t see the way people talk? How they say you’re happier now? How they beg you to move on from me?" His voice dropped even lower, like he was choking on the words. "Maybe you already have."

Your chest tightened. "Ji-yong, it was just a song. Just a performance."

"Doesn’t look like that’s all it was."

"And whose fault is that?" The words snapped from your lips before you could stop them, and Ji-yong stilled, his breath hitching.

Silence stretched between you yet again. Your heart pounded, but you didn’t look away. "You were the one who said we should stop, remember?" Your voice wavered, but it didn’t break. "You walked away first. And now you’re angry because someone else was willing to stand next to me?"

Ji-yong’s throat bobbed, his fists clenching against his knees. "I—"

"You don’t get to be mad about this."

"Like hell I don’t." His voice was rough now, sharp with emotion as he sat forward, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white. "You think I wanted to walk away? You think I don’t regret it every fucking day?" His jaw clenched, his eyes blazing. "Do you know what it does to me, seeing you with him? Seeing the way you smiled up at him tonight, the way he had his hands on you like he had the right?"

Your breath caught, your stomach twisting. "Ji-yong—"

"It makes me sick," he rasped, his voice nearly breaking. "Because it should be me."

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with everything unspoken, everything left behind. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your fingers trembling against your lap.

And then, softer this time, almost like he hated himself for admitting it—

"It should’ve always been me."

The weight of his words settled between you, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension in the space closing in, crackling like a live wire. His eyes searched yours, dark and desperate, and something in you snapped.

Before you could second-guess it—before reason could talk you out of it—you surged forward, gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him in.

Ji-yong barely had time to inhale before your lips crashed into his. A sharp inhale, a shuddered exhale—then he was kissing you back with just as much fire, his hands flying to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The moment his fingers dug into your skin, a quiet, broken sound slipped from your throat, and that was all it took for him to completely unravel. His hands slid up, one tangling into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. His lips were frantic, almost desperate, molding against yours in a way that felt both familiar and like something entirely new. You gasped against his mouth as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, and he took the opportunity to press even closer, his grip tightening like he was terrified you’d slip away again.

The taste of him—faint traces of champagne and something unmistakably him—sent a shiver down your spine. Your fingers fisted in his shirt, as if holding onto him could stop the past from swallowing you both whole. It was intoxicating. Overwhelming. And so, so dangerous.

When the two of you finally needed to breathe, your breaths tangled in the space between you, uneven and desperate, his forehead pressed against yours like he couldn’t bear to let go. His grip on your waist was firm, his fingers still curled into the fabric of your outfit, as if releasing you meant losing you all over again. His name was on the tip of your tongue, but the weight of everything—the past, the pain, the longing—held it back. Instead, you exhaled softly, your fingers loosening their hold on his shirt just enough to smooth over the wrinkles you had left behind.

"It always has been you."

Ji-yong tensed. His breath caught, and for a second, he didn’t move. Like the words had struck him too deeply, like he wasn’t sure he had heard them right.

And then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching, desperate for something—reassurance, confirmation, maybe even permission. "Say it again," he murmured, his voice rough.

Your hand slid up, resting against his cheek, your thumb brushing just below the dark smudge of eyeliner that had started to smudge from the heat between you. "It always has been you, Ji-yong."

Something in him broke.

With a sharp inhale, he crashed his lips against yours again, this time with even more urgency, like he had something to prove. Like he needed to remind you, remind himself, of everything you had once been. His hands roamed, gripping, pulling, desperate to keep you as close as possible. You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with a groan, deepening the kiss until the rest of the world blurred into nothing.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your head just the way he liked. The kiss deepened, his lips pressing into yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation, like he was trying to erase the time you had spent apart. Like he needed to remind you exactly who he was, who he had always been to you.

"You don’t know what you do to me," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough, his breath warm as his mouth trailed lower. His lips ghosted over your jaw, down the column of your throat, lingering at the spot just below your ear. "I tried, baby." He exhaled shakily, his grip tightening at your waist. "I really fucking tried to move on."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, needing something to ground yourself as his teeth grazed your skin, his lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck that had your breath hitching. "Ji-yong..."

With a growl, he grabbed your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the nearest surface—a sleek, marble counter, cool against your overheated skin. His hands spread your legs, stepping between them as he pulled you in, molding himself to you like he belonged there. And he did. The two of you belong to each other.

Your lips met again in a mess of teeth and tongues and unspoken words, the air between you thick with everything you had left unsaid. His fingers trailed up your thighs, his grip firm, possessive, like he was reminding himself that you were really here. That he could touch you again.

"Tell me you still feel this," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with want. "Tell me I’m not the only one losing my mind."

You didn’t answer—not with words. Instead, you tugged him closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, "I never stopped."

Ji-yong cursed under his breath before crashing his lips to yours again, this time deeper, hungrier, as if those words had undone something inside him. His hands slid to your waist, gripping tight as he lifted you off the counter effortlessly, carrying you through the familiar space like he’d done a hundred times before.

Your back hit the couch, his body covering yours in an instant. His mouth never left your skin, trailing fire wherever he touched. "You’re mine," he murmured against your collarbone, his hands sliding down, gripping your thighs to pull you even closer. "And I’m yours."

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy @seunghyunwifey @mattsturniolosbabymama @redhoodedtoad @bettelaboure @petersasteria @allthoughtsmindfull

[rosenclaws]

Heey! I think your requests are closed, but when you open them, do you think you could write about Logan (any variant) with a reader who has a bad relationship with food? I kinda need the comfort right now, I have to eat to survive, but I hardly ever want to eat, and when I do I feel guilty about it, specially if it's not something super healthy or low cal.

I think Logan would be a really good partner and show support, make sure his partner eats well or doesn't slip meals and even cooks for them :')

Hi! Absolutely I can, I understand what you're going through and I want to know that you're loved and you have my full support <3 I picked origins Logan for this, he just gives off the softest vibes and would be a completely supportive and sweet partner. It's a little short and I apologize but I hope it helps <33

warnings: eating disorder/bad relationship with food, please don't read if this would possibly trigger you

Logan could tell something was off from the moment he walked through the door. His stomach rumbled as he smelled whatever delicious meal you were making for dinner. As he entered the kitchen he saw you pulling a pan out of dinner. Lasagna, his favorite.

"Smells fucking amazing," He purrs as he wraps his hands around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

He still smells like pine needle and dirt from work. Normally he doesn't get back till way past dinner time but today was an easy day. How lucky he gets to eat dinner with the love of his life huh?

"Logan! You scared me." You huff as you gently push his arms off your body.

"Go clean up dinners almost ready." He frowns as you shoo him away.

Lately things have just felt off. You smiled and laughed like you always do but there were little things that just didn't feel right. Especially around meal times.

"Okay sweetheart, I'll be right back." Logan can't help but wonder what could possibly be wrong.

Are you sick? Is something bothering you? If so why wouldn't you tell him? Worries start to invade his thoughts. What could be going on that you can't even go to him about it? After a quick shower and a change of clothes he heads back to the kitchen. Only to see one plate of food sitting on the counter.

"I made it with the sauce you like, not the off brand one." You say with a smile but Logan's worry remains. He sits at the counter and takes the plate.

"Where's yours?" He asks. Your face falls for just a second. Anyone else would have missed it but not Logan. Not when it comes to you.

"Not hungry." You try and play it off, pushing the plate closer but Logan grabs your wrist.

"Logan, I had a big lunch. I'll eat later." You try and tug out of Logan's grip but he remains firm. Never enough to hurt you but enough to keep you there. To keep you from running away.

"I don't believe you. In fact, I've barely seen you eat anything in the last couple months."

The memories come flooding back. He's seen you eat, but its never much and it's always healthy. Shame starts to creep into his bones as he realizes he's failed to put the pieces together. All this time.

"Please sweetheart, whatever is going on you can tell me." Tears start to well up in your eyes as Logan speaks.

You never meant for him to find out. You thought you could handle this on your own. You had been so careful and eat just enough so that he never caught on. But the truth is you're exhausted. Food is nothing more that a means to survive. Everyday you force yourself to eat just enough and no more. Its been exhausting. Especially if the food you eat is too many calories or just plain unhealthy.

Logan almost jumps across the counter the moment he sees the tears, fearing the worst. He abandons his dinner in favor of wrapping you in his arms on the couch. Cooing softly as you cry and explain everything to him. He doesn't say a word, he just listens. Rubbing your back and letting you soak his shirt with tears.

When you're done you prepare for the worst. What if Logan leaves? I mean it would certainly be easier for him to not have to deal with. All of this. But he doesn't. With gentle hands he cups your face and dries your tears.

"I'm so sorry." He mumbles. Sorry that he didn't notice sooner and sorry you've been carrying this for so long.

"Are you mad?" You ask quietly.

"No, of course not." Logan presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Listen honey, this isn't healthy." He knows that you know that but its not as easy as just a flip of a switch to change habits that had been built for years.

"I'm going to be with you every step of the way alright?" He says, tilting your head up so you can look him in the eyes. He wants you to know that he truly means every word.

"Okay," Logan pulls you into a tight hug, whispering sweet words over and over. He wishes he could take all your pain away in an instant. He'd bear it for you without even asking, but he can't.

But he stays true to his promise. Logan is there when you need him, to remind you to eat and taking it upon himself to make meals for you and with you. Some days were harder than others but Logan carried the weight you couldn't.

Things still aren't easy, but with Logan by your side you think you might be able to do anything.

[callme-holly]

Can you write the gang with like a famous reader? Like reader is a famous musician and stuff, that kind of thing. Thank you!!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

a/n: guys im so tired and feel kinda sick. sorry this is so bad :(

Darry Curtis:

Darry is very supportive of you, but sometimes your fame can stress him out and he struggles to keep up with your schedule on top of his own. He always wants to be there for you and wants to be present for every little thing you do; however, sometimes your plans clash and he can’t always go along. 

He’ll make sure you’re sleeping, eating, and drinking, making sure you’re not getting too caught up in it all and that you’re actually taking care of yourself. He doesn’t care for the glitz and glam, and will just stand beside you, arms crossed, casually looking incredibly proud. 

He isn’t exactly star struck, but if you mention him in an interview or sing something about him, he’ll melt and get a little starry-eyed. 

Sodapop Curtis:

Soda loves that you’re famous and will constantly brag about it to everyone; he isn’t ashamed of you, and wants everyone to know exactly who you are and who you’re with. 

He’s very clearly in it for you and not the fame; while he thinks all the cameras and stuff are cool, he doesn’t see it as more important than you, and anyone can see just how smitten he is for you. Money doesn’t matter. 

Because of his very outgoing personality, your fans come to love him and are very drawn to him. It’s clear how much he loves your music and whatever else you do, and he is so incredibly proud to call you his.

Ponyboy Curtis:

Pony is in awe of your talent, and while the paparazzi and fame can become a little overwhelming to him, he can also see why you love it so much. He doesn’t like any sort of attention on him, choosing to let you do the talking and to instantly turn anything directed at him back on you.

he ‘ll always support you, and take care of you, not wanting you to burn yourself out or become stressed about all the high expectations people have of you. 

He loves your music and probably helps you write lyrics when you need it, refusing any and all credit, wanting you to take it all. 

Johnny Cade:

Johnny is so proud of you but doesn’t always know how to handle all the constant attention on you and struggles to separate the time. He’ll get quite overwhelmed with it all, and while he can easily handle and stand up for himself, he also trusts you to know what you’re doing with them.

He loves watching and supporting you in whatever you do, sticking to the sidelines, but he much prefers when its just the both of you, in private, so he can shower you in praise.

If you dedicate anything to him, he’ll quite flustered and will appreciate it like nothing else. He worries about youit'slot, reminding you to drink, eat, and rest, and is always there to pull you aside.

Dallas Winston:

Dallas will try and act like your fame is no big deal, but in reality he is so incredibly proud of you and loves that you’re famous. It really strokes his ego. He’s incredibly protective of you around paparazzi, making it clear who you belong to and who people are answering to if they mess with you.

He doesn’t really care much for fancy events, usually going for the drinks, parties, and just to see you in nice outfits. He’ll always try to look effortlessly cool in the background, telling everyone that he’s your boyfriend and loving the attention he gets as a result. 

He’ll pretend he’s too cool to be a fan, but sometimes you’ll catch him humming your songs to himself.

Steve Randle:

Steve lives for the energy your fame brings and admires you so much. He loves coming backstage all the time and just getting to watch you work, sometimes trying to distract you so he can get you to himself and remind himself that it’s all real.

He’ll hype you up all the time, and is clearly so proud of you. He’ll tell everyone he knows about you, praising you and bragging about your career to anyone who will listen.

He’ll always fight any rude fans or critics, and can be very protective when it comes down to it.

Two-Bit Mathews:

He’s always taking advantage and milking the fact that he’s dating a famous person, sometimes using it to get free shit or jsut for people to ask questions about you and give him an excuse to brag.

He knows every one of your songs off by heart and will randomly just sing them to tease you and get you flustered. He’ll always lighten the mood when you’re   making sure you take care of yourself and that you aren’t wearing yourself out too much.

If he hears anyone talking bad about you, he’d jump in immediately, fronting them out and trying to start a fight to defend you. 

[4zahara]

02 | Let's Stay Home

←Previous. Masterlist. Next→

Word Count: +4k

A/N: English is not my first language. Please be patient with the grammar. I really tried to finish this chapter earlier. I had it written halfway but things happened and it arrived a week early! I think... my sense of time has left me and this ship.

His sister was weird.

Jason had no idea what, exactly, to pinpoint—other than her general demeanor made him reach the conclusion. It wasn’t just your eyes, which always seemed to search for a face on his head, or hair which looked like it had survived electrocution. Maybe it was your personality.

Whatever had been bothering him seemed to settle the longer he sat on the floor, however, processing his new situation.

He wasn't comfortable. He shifted onto the couch when (Name) returned with towels—actually clean ones. Jason placed a folded one on the cushions under him and sat down again, another draped over his shoulders to warm him up—you looked genuinely worried about him getting sick and needing a hospital visit neither of you could afford—the third was involuntarily forced over his head for good measure. He might as well cross "Halloween costume" off his to-do list. He'd be Casper the Friendly Ghost this year.

Although, he wiped the metallic taste of either blood or hunger with the back of his sleeve to speak again, a yawn won its way out. Swallowing saliva could only do so much for him the longer the night got.

"I have—" a voice called from the kitchen, about five feet from where he sat. "Pizza? There are some leftovers too, but I doubt you'll want that."

Jason's drifting attention focus for once and he perked up immediately.

"You have pizza?" he asked—not exactly excited.

Unlike most kids, Jason didn’t get excited at the mere thought of bread with things on top. Even if beloved for many the dish had long since lost its appeal to him. When had a large pizza not been cheaper than a bag of vegetables around here? Too much of anything was unhealthy—not that he really thought about that. He had eaten enough in a single week to make him want to avoid cheese altogether. Eating healthy was expensive. It didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

"What are the leftovers?" he asked, forcing a strained smile through gritted teeth.

"I'll heat it up for you. It's just rice, chicken, corn—basically a salad."

Jason quickly stood on shaky legs, his eyes never leaving the silhouette of you. Obviously there was lack of trust. Maybe—and just maybe—you reminded him too much of Catherine too.

Weirdly enough, the thought eased his sore chest. Something about seeing you, Jason didn’t want to think too hard about.

He missed his mom.

You looked like her.

Without another word from you, he trailed into the kitchen, dismissing the ache spreading everywhere.

"So... you came because of Mom? What happened?" You hesitated. "Did she and Dad got into another fight? Is that why he's arrested?"

A complicated look crossed his eyes just as he forced the noncommittal response.

"No, it wasn't like that. Willis went away for something else... Mom is—she's not taking it well and... needs you," he leaned against the counter, facing away but still watching you.

Ever since hearing you describe Catherine as unfit to be left alone—even if she not alone with Willis anymore but by herself—Jason’s worry skyrocketed. He kept telling himself she’d be fine without him for one night...

Now keeping his jaw clenched at the thought.

Willis could shove a rusty pipe up his ass.

As the stove flickered to life, heating up the so-called "salad", it was safe to say, a microwave-sized box was too big to hide and too heavy to run with, when you had none.

His sister glanced at him briefly then back to the stove—an action you repeated often. It was obvious you had questions enough for Jason to notice.

Even admitting it would be wishful thinking; to assume it was for his sake you were keeping all of them in.

His gaze flickered around the room to nothing in particular, as if wasn't even made aware of how restless his mind had become—grasping for anything to distract him.

Old bruises and burns on his skin layered with the fresh ones from getting mugged, started to ache. Random memories surfaced, each more unwelcome than the last. And then, the worst thought of all—what else was happening back home?

Dad was gone. But when he realized Jason had up and left, he would’ve been furious.

He’d probably have taken it out on Catherine.

Jason took a shaky breath, trying to suppress the anxiety clawing its way up his throat. He looked at the ceiling, at the stains there, forcing himself to focus. Trying to calm down.

Everything around him seemed to halt—until you placed a plate in front of him. Only then did Jason snap back to himself.

It took him a moment to pull out of his thoughts, and when he did, his eyes widened slightly. He stared down at the plate—rice, chicken, and whatever else you'd thrown in.

You didn’t have anything for yourself, but he caught you eyeing the pizza slices in the fridge.

“…Thanks,” he muttered before shoving a bite into his mouth. It wasn’t poisoned. And, surprisingly, it was good. Then again, maybe that was just the hunger talking.

It took him barely thirty seconds to finish half the plate. He wanted more—needed more—but forced himself to slow down. His body wouldn’t handle too much too soon.

You watched for a moment.

You handed him a glass of water.

Jason glanced at it, then back at you, silently studying your expression, trying to figure you out.

You were… kind. You’d taken him in, given him food—at the very least, you pitied him.

God knows why.

No.

Jason knew why. He knew exactly what he looked like. But he figured you had no business judging him, considering your own appearance.

Not that he was one to judge, either.

He reached out and gently grabbed the glass, taking a sip and letting the cool liquid soothe his dry throat. He would’ve thanked her, but he didn’t.

“What’s with the name on that mug?”

He asked, glancing beside her at a Christmas-themed cup with a name that definitely wasn’t yours.

"Ah. Dunno... I guess it’s the lady who’s supposed to be living here?"

"Someone lives with you?"

"If someone taller than you asks, then yes. Auntie—" She squinted, holding up the mug to read the name. "Gloria... Huh."

Yup. Definitely weird.

Jason knew it wasn’t true the second the name passed her lips because Catherine never mentioned a sister or an aunt. But Willis? That was a different story…

Jason blinked on edge again.

“Auntie Gloria?” he repeats, his eyebrows furrowed together as he tries to think of how to face a possible adult. The idea of an older relative living with you and him not noticing until now was confusing enough on its own, but the name was unfamiliar.

“Wait… she’s related to us?” Carefully adding himself to the mix, but for the sake of his mental health, he indulged for the first of many times to come in not asking about it again when you looked even slightly conflicted.

Ignorance was a blessing and you were underage, so it'll make sense you'll lie to adults about an imaginary aunt.

Jason couldn't risk slipping. You'd be everything he'd had to rely on when he manages to convince you to come with him back home to help with mom.

No doubt that he'll drag you home if he had to.

He had no choice.

He needed your help with Mom and he hated it. Hated how the air felt heavier the longer he stood there. Hated that his sister had chosen *this* place over home.

But mostly, he hated the gnawing fear in his chest—the one that had only grown stronger ever since he walked through that door.

"You need to come back," he said, voice tighter than he meant it to be. He’d practiced what he was going to say on the way here, but now it was all unraveling like the blocks he walked talking to himself under the rain meant nothing. "Mom’s sick, and I—I can’t do this alone, (Name)."

It was a rare admission for him.

You took a seat in front of him and his half eaten plate. Cross-legged under the table but changing your posture as if never truly settled. Probably why you didn’t look up right away. The dim light made your already hard to read face, harder than it was, casting sharp angles where softness used to be.

You exhaled through your nose. "Jason—"

"Please," he cut in, wanting to stand up, heart hammering against his ribs made his legs disobey. "I need you. She needs you."

Something flickered across your face then, quick and uncertain that made you chew on your bottom lip and your fingers tangle absentmindedly, and for a second—a brief, agonizing second—Jason thought you might refuse outright.

He readied himself and picked a counter argument of which he had a lot.

Instead, you sighed.

"Tomorrow," you said. "It’s dark. And it’s raining."

His breath caught. "So… you’ll come back?"

You hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then you nodded. "Tomorrow."

Relief crashed into him like a wave, but it didn’t settle right. There was something about the way you said it—vague, distant, reluctant.

Telling him what he wanted to hear. Just to soothe him.

Jason swallowed hard, pushing that thought down. Tomorrow. You said tomorrow. He'll only calm down once you are at home, but this was enough for now.

Even if something about the way you sat in that dit felt like you were slipping through his fingers.

══════════════ • ✧ • ══════════════

The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it was getting worse—pounding against the windows, turning the city outside into a smear of dim streetlights and endless shadows.

Jason had refused the bed you so kindly offered him in favor of dozing off curled up awkwardly in the couch, exhaustion pulling him under despite the unease still crawling under his skin.

You sat by the window, knees drawn to your chest, eyes distant, not going to bed yourself because you'll feel guilty for sleeping comfortably while your baby brother struggled to sleep on the couch with a humid towel as a blanket.

And just maybe he thought you were weird for that.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until his voice—low from disuse but child-like pitched—broke through it.

"Is it bad to miss someone you can’t even remember?"

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, you turned your head.

The words settled deep into your bones, curling around old wounds, reopening stitches sewed with dental floss you have been holding shut with both hands around the stretch marks simulating fingers.

It was not the time for an analogy but your unaware grip tightened slightly against the fabric of your sleeves.

"I missed you," words pushed through softly.

The rain kept falling.

No memory could fill the gap—it had been too long ago, and he had been too young. All he could do was piece together imagined scenarios, trying to soothe himself, only to shudder at the thought of them.

Maybe wanting a real family had been too much to ask for.

A home without a deadbeat dad. A mother who wasn’t drowning in addiction. A sister who never would have left him—never would have left him like you did. And maybe even a family dog.

But that wasn’t the life he got.

And you? You failed.

A bad sister to Jason. A bad daughter to Catherine. You left them with your father, and that truth weighed on you like an unshakable burden. The one absolute you carried on your shoulders.

You felt cold as the monster of your own making clawed at your ribcage from the inside, desperate to break free.

But the real problem—the one you couldn’t afford to face—was how much you missed home.

You couldn't do that to yourself. You couldn't want what you ran from.

Because nothing was more dangerous than the illusion of a family that never really existed.

Jason paused at your words, glancing up.

Normally, your carefree nature would have prompted some teasing remark about staring. But now, the silence stretched between you, heavy and unbroken.

Something he had to say without letting himself stutter.

"You missed… me?"

Almost wanting to brush it off as an empty platitude, something said out of obligation. But deep down, in the twisting knot of his gut, Jason knew you meant every single word. The weight of it had been steeping in years of regret and unspoken sorrow.

And then there was the very idea of you missing him—which was both baffling and, to his surprise, oddly comforting.

"A little weird, out of the blue. I know," you admitted, backpedaling. "I just don’t get why you hardly remember me… I wasn’t gone that long."

Yet weird was putting it lightly.

Jason swallowed hard, his heart clenching painfully under the weight of emotions he couldn’t fully name.

He wanted to remember. God, he wanted to remember you—everything about you. Whatever moments you’d shared, whatever time you'd had together before it all went to hell. He reached for those memories, clawed for them, but nothing surfaced. Nothing real.

His breath wavered as he forced himself to stay steady.

"I… I wish I did. Dammit." His voice was quiet, edged with frustration.

"It 's okay. I'll remember. It’s not enough, but it’s what we get."

Jason nodded slightly, but something about that statement stuck with him.

He couldn’t remember you. And he probably never would.

Other people got their warm family moments, their second chances. But not them.

He took another shaky breath, fighting the lump in his throat, while you turned away, staring blankly out the window.

"It sucks," he murmured, avoiding your gaze. There were no portraits on the walls, just a scattering of trinkets everywhere.

"Like Dad used to say—‘Life’s a bitch, and then you die.’"

Jason scoffed. Of course that was something Dad would say.

"Don’t do that, though..."

He looked up, meeting your tired expression as you side-eyed him.

“Don’t die…?” he echoed, lacing his words with sarcasm. “Yeah, okay… I’ll get right on that.”

"Good boy." You offered a thumbs-up.

Jason snorted in disbelief, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms.

Still… he appreciated it. Keeping himself alive had been hard, but something about the praise made his chest feel a little warmer. Not that he was about to acknowledge it.

"You talk like some old lady," he teased.

"You eat like a dog."

Jason gasped, feigning offense. "I do not eat like a dog," he argued, his voice dripping with exaggerated indignation. "I eat like a growing boy who’s going through puberty and also hadn’t eaten in days and was basically starving, thank you very much."

"What puberty could you possibly be going through? You're eight."

Jason huffed, rolling his eyes before responding, utterly insulted. "I’m turning eleven next month. Which means I’m almost twelve. And then thirteen."

He sounded genuinely offended.

"And I’ve already started growing," he added, even though it was painfully obvious he hadn’t—still a four-foot ball of snark.

"Oh? Growing roots or…?"

Jason groaned, pouting in annoyance. He clearly hated the teasing.

"I've grown, I’ll have you know," he insisted, trying his best to sound confident. "I can cook now and—and I found my way here alone, too."

"I can tell you did," you said, watching him carefully. "Can’t imagine what that must’ve been like."

It was subtle. A small probe, a quiet way of fishing for details.

Maybe Catherine had known you were here.

The smirk faltered—but Jason covered it with a scoff. Mouth opened to ask how you ended up here. But then he hesitated, remembering the promise you’d made him make earlier. He didn’t want to risk breaking it.

Still, it tugged at him.

He thought about asking anyway. But it could hurt.

“…Why here, anyway?” His voice held a tinge of curiosity. “Do you really live here alone?”

"You met the neighbor," you replied, lips curling into a squinting little smile.

Glasses. That had to be it. You probably needed glasses—that’s why your eyes looked so weird.

Focusing on that theory was a hundred times better than thinking about the kind of people who might live here. The kind that had you so scared before.

Because he’d already decided—he was going to believe you weren’t scary.

His gaze flickered around the abandoned building again. Yeah… still not convinced.

It was subtle, but Jason had a habit of checking his surroundings. Always. And you noticed.

“How bad is your vision?” he asked bluntly.

"My vision?" You raised an eyebrow. "I can see you just fine."

Jason rolled his eyes, smirking. "I’m not saying you’re completely blind. I’m asking if you need glasses."

He didn’t add that the squinting seemed suspicious. Instead, he flashed you an innocent smile before adding,

“You look like an owl when you do that, you know that, right?”

"Do what?"

You tilted your head slightly, just like a bird—clearly on purpose, just to mess with him.

Jason couldn't help the small smile tugging at his lips.

"That." He motioned toward your head. "Stop that."

He wasn’t really annoyed, though. He was amused.

Something about the way you focused on him, how you responded to everything he said, how you kept looking at him—not just hearing him but listening…

It made his chest feel warm.

Jason shifted, reluctant to leave the warmth of the couch. Exhaustion clung to him, but something about the quiet moment pulled him up.

With a sluggish motion, he pushed himself upright, the towels draped over his shoulders slipping slightly. Instinctively he grabbed onto them, pulling as they were his armor against the lingering cold. The one on his head slid forward though, nearly covering his eyes, and he huffed. There had to be a reason why he tugged it back into place before letting out a quiet sigh when he could have just thrown them around.

Bare feet padding softly against the floor, made his way to your side. Towels rustling with every step. The warmth they held was fading, but he kept them wrapped around him anyway.

By the window, he didn’t say anything at first—just gave a little jump to sit on the counter with you, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, staring out at whatever had your attention.

Jason reached out, one hand wrapping around your arm while the other cupped your cheek, gently but firmly keeping your head still.

His eyes narrowed studying you—staring at you—his expression unreadable.

“Do you need glasses or something?” he asked bluntly.

"What?"

"You keep closing one eye like that. You look like an owl." He repeated.

"An owl? Like... hoot hoot?"

Jason scoffed at your lame attempt at an owl impression.

“Owls don’t even make that sound,” he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm—but the amused smirk tugging at his lips betrayed any real annoyance.

"I tried," you defended with a small shrug. "I’ve never seen an owl in my life."

"Me neither. But I know they don't sound like that,"

With a sigh, Jason finally let go of your face and arm, but not before tapping the top of your head in some vague, brotherly gesture.

“Now answer me. Glasses—yes or no?”

"Probably?" You popped the *p* before hesitating, still smiling but uncertain.

"I can see…" Your eyes narrowed, focusing like it required actual effort. Finally, with newfound, almost forced optimism, you pointed.

"The couch," you declared with newfound optimism from somewhere.

Jason didn’t even bother holding back his expression—half unimpressed, half entertained.

You just couldn’t help it. Something about him was so amusing. If not a little annoying.

“You’re nearly blind, then,” Jason said, his eyes widening like he had just stumbled upon a groundbreaking discovery. Somehow, despite being as blunt as ever, he didn’t sound mean—just genuinely baffled.

“So, the door? You can barely see that behind me? And—and when you stared at me outside, it was because you couldn’t see me?"

“Yeaaaah, sure,” you drawled, dragging out the word. “That’s why I stared at you for so long…”

Jason didn’t catch the sarcasm. If anything, the idea only made him more fascinated, his eyes practically glowing with curiosity.

He turned his head away, trying (and failing) to hide the red creeping up his face behind a cough.

“Wait, wait, wait—you mean to tell me that you were just standing there, squinting at me like that because you couldn’t even tell it was me at the door?”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, not when he looked at you like that—like a kid uncovering some great mystery.

The truth was, you hadn’t recognized him at first. And then, when you did, you had hesitated for too many seconds, unwilling to acknowledge it.

So instead, you just stained your smile onto your face, squinted at him again, and shrugged.

“A bit.”

You’d rather let him think you were blind than admit to the real reason. And, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely a lie—your vision did blur every so often.

Jason let out a short laugh at your answer, shaking his head.

“A bit, you say? You straight up stared at me, and I thought you were just crazy or something.” He laughed again, but after a second, his expression shifted. His gaze flickered over the way your eyes kept narrowing and refocusing, and a small frown tugged at his lips.

“…You can’t see anything far away at all, can you?”

"Hey!”

Jason raised a brow, crossing his arms as he held up two fingers right in front of your face.

“You can see what… how many fingers am I holding up, then?”

Deciding to humor him, you rolled your eyes before deliberately answering wrong.

“Four.”

“Ha! Nope, wrong.” Jason waved the two fingers closer to your face, smirking as if he’d just won a game. “You really got that wrong? C’mon, try again.”

His grin was practically gleeful as he held up the same two fingers, waiting expectantly.

You squinted dramatically, leaning in like a grandma reading the fine print on a receipt.

“Oh! …Two!”

Jason narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Is that an actual answer or a guess, you blind bat?”

Before you could answer, he held up four fingers this time, wiggling them teasingly.

“How about this number?”

“Okay, okay, enough eye testing for tonight,” you dismissed, waving a hand.

Jason snickered, finally lowering his hand, but the playful spark in his eyes remained.

“But I was just getting to the fun part.”

Then, as his laughter faded, he leaned in slightly. His smirk stayed, but his expression turned more serious.

“Seriously, though. You’re basically blind,” he said, shaking his head. “You gotta get glasses.”

You shrugged, giving a half-smile. “Maybe one day.”

And why wouldn't he catch the way your voice dipped slightly? Or how your fingers twitched against the counter? Obviously something about the way you said it—too casual.

Jason was young, not stupid.

Of course you didn’t have glasses. Of course, you couldn't just get them. Just like how dinner was either pizza or leftovers. Just like how there was no microwave.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

“…You can’t get them, can you?” he asked, quieter this time.

You blinked at him, “I could if I wanted to.”

Jason stared.

You sighed, finally breaking on that front.

“No, I can’t.”

Surprising even if it shouldn't have been. And for some reason, it made his chest feel tight. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much—just one more thing neither of you could have. Jason nudged you lightly with his elbow, like he wasn’t about to say what he was about to say.

“…Guess I’ll just have to be your seeing-eye dog or something,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Oh, so now you admit you eat like a dog?”

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Okay, no! That’s not what I meant.”

But when your expression had softened—not in pity, but in something almost grateful, so did he.

And Jason decided right then that until you could afford glasses, he’d just have to be your extra pair of eyes.

[charlieluver]

🅿🅻🅰🆈 🅳🅰🆃🅴

(Ben Shelton × fem!reader) Word count: 720 Warnings: none

Ben loved tennis. His passion for tennis is beyond any possible level you could ever imagine. And he loved you. So when both of the things he loved coincided, Ben was the happiest man ever. This is the reason why at 8 am on a Sunday morning, Ben dragged you out of bed for a play date. "Ben seriously? You couldn't sleep in one Sunday that you get off?" "Babe please, I love seeing you play cmonn imma teach you some cool stuff alright? I even picked a cute fit for you, lets go."

The warmup that Ben makes you do before playing is killing you. "Ben babe please let me drink a sip of water." "Nuh uh, its not good for you," he says as he hands you the racquet. "But babe-" you pout, giving him puppy eyes. "tsk, fine have one sip. You really know how to persuade me." he rolls his eyes playfully.

You back touches his hard chest, his hand holding yours as he is guiding you on how to serve. "You eyes should always be on the ball, the hand eye coordination is very important..." His words drown as you feel his heartbeat, his breath tickling your neck. You could only concentrate on his cologne, how it makes you feel so calm and safe. His embrace makes your heart beat a little faster. "Y/n, why aren't you moving your arms? I'm holding you just to guide you, you gotta do all the work, ok hon?" Confused as he got no reply from you, he spins you around and you yelp. "Baby, you feelin ok ? Your face is red. If we want we can-" "H-huh what Ben?" Ben notices your face how your eyes are blown and you look dazed, your eyes lingering over his muscles a little bit longer, until you meet his eyes. "Yeah I was teaching you how to serve and well, you were thinkin about something else." he smirks at you. You blush deepens, "N-no I was paying attention, ok?" "Sure y/n" You dismiss his teasing and try to focus on the next set of tips he is trying to tell you. He laughs at your flustered reaction. "Cute" he mumbled to himself

The rally you both start playing goes smoothly, with every shot you return, Ben encouraging you, "Thats a good forehand!" "Woah, thats a clean down the line shot y/n." "Come on, no way you haven't played tennis before," he says, laughing as he walks to the net. "Oh please", you say, panting as you reach the net. "Just because I'm your girlfriend doesn't mean you have to butter me up." "But babe you played amazing, and look amazing," he flashes you with his gummy smile as he sits on the bench. "Sure." You take a sip of water, sitting beside him. His hands reach out and pat your head. "You did a great job today, seriously" he whispers, filled with sincerity. And this simple gesture makes you feel butterflies in your stomach.

"My legs are dead I can't walk ." You let out a tired sigh, after changing your sweaty clothes in the locker room. "Will you give me a piggy ride back home please?" Ben look at you, his gaze softening. His hands cupped your face, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "Sure, not even a question." After dropping off the racquets, he picks you up effortlessly. Your arms around his neck and his hands holding your legs, firmly , but not strong enough to hurt you. He starts walking, his curly hair bouncing with every step. You have a sudden urge to kiss his hair. You plant a kiss on his head. "I love your hair so much Ben." "Hmm, nothing else?" He asks you, voice full of playfulness. "Let me see.....I love your muscles" You laughed, squeezing his bicep with one of your hands. "Anything else?" "Well, I love your cheeks too, they're kinda cute," you tilt your head to give him a kiss on his cheek. He laughs, the sound resonating in your heart. "Girl, cmon.." he giggles. "Ok Ok I love you the most, for who you are Ben" "I love you so much y/n ". Your heart flutters. You hug him a little tighter, just to let him know you would never leave him, ever.

welp ben's been on my mind these days