#write it out and tape it to your wall and read it every night before bed and every morning because you are worth so much more than this

[yuta-nakamots]

The Number One Girl Stays A Little Longer - L.Jeno

Pairing - Baseball!Jeno x Team Manager!Female Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, University!AU

Warning(s) - unofficial relationship (a situationship, if you will)

Summary - Jeno is the golden boy of the baseball team, all eyes on him, except his are always on you. What starts as quiet support behind the scenes turns into something neither of you dares name, until time runs out and choices have to be made. Love blooms in between the dugouts, the late nights, and the quiet goodbyes.

Word Count - 6.6k

Author’s Note - Perhaps I cried while writing this…Perhaps I did not. It’s like a curse that I only write angst for Jeno

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls @chenlesfeetpic @awktwurtle (join my taglist!)

Part of my NCT J-Line: Roses Are Rosie Collection.

Now playing: Number One Girl - Rosé, Stay A Little Longer - Rosé

The stadium roars around you, a wall of sound vibrating through the bleachers, through the dugout bench beneath you. The lights overhead cast the field in a sterile tint, harsh and brilliant, as if the whole stadium were holding its breath from behind a microscope. You glance at the scoreboard. 

Bottom of the ninth inning. Tied score. Two outs. Bases loaded. 

None other than Jeno Lee steps into the box. The number 23 is stitched in bold blue across the back of his white jersey. He’s been one of the team’s star players since his rookie season, the kind of athlete that headlines articles and carries expectations on his shoulders like it weighs nothing at all. 

For years, he’s been the golden boy of the university’s baseball program. Eyes were always on him. All eyes, except his. Because his? They were always on you.

You were never supposed to be here, not really. You only applied for the team manager position in your second year of university because a friend dared you to after you both attended a game. You’d barely understood baseball then, only that it made your heart thump a little harder when the camera zoomed in on your school’s players. 

By some event of fate, you had gotten the position. You learned fast, quickly grasping the importance of the position to the team. How to log pitch counts and rotate equipment. How to wrap a wrist so it holds just right. How to read silence and soreness. You stayed late when no one else did and showed up early, even when the skies threatened rain. 

That’s how he noticed you. Not with flash or drama, but in the quiet, consistent way only someone like Jeno paid attention to. You earned your place on this team. Earned his trust. You memorized the way Jeno likes to tape his hand. Two strips over the knuckle, one across his palm. Somewhere between his second pulled muscle and third-year slump, you became the person he went to when his shoulder ached, when the pressure became a little too much, when he didn’t want to be Jeno Lee, the headliner, the star athlete, just Jeno, the boy who never forgets to thank you after every water bottle you delivered to him. 

Now, he adjusts his helmet and rests his bat on his shoulder. His stance is relaxed, deceptively so, the kind of ease that comes only from years of repetition and weight behind every swing. 

You’ve seen this look before. He wears it before every game-winning hit, those calm eyes, loose fingers, and a breath held just behind his teeth. 

You don’t call his name. You don’t even shift forward on the bench, but he finds you anyway. He glances over his shoulder, quick but precise, enough to land squarely on you. For a moment, just a beat between heartbeats, it’s like the noise fades and you’re back in the gym, wrapping his wrist, your fingers moving carefully across his warm skin. 

The pitch comes in fast. Crack. The ball soars. 

The crowd doesn't wait. They erupt before the ball even clears the fence. You shoot to your feet in the dugout, clipboard forgotten, heart in your throat. 

Jeno doesn’t watch the ball. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he runs. 

The stadium is chaotic as the runners cross home plate, followed by Jeno. Players storm the field, coaches throw their arms into the air, and someone dumps a cooler of Gatorade that soaks multiple people. 

And Jeno? He doesn’t run to his teammates and join their group celebration. Helmet off, chest heaving, he jogs toward the dugout, toward you. His eyes find yours and never leave them, not once. You nod in acknowledgement, and that was all he needed. 

Cameras are flashing, fans screaming his name, teammates waiting to throw him into the air, but he stops in front of you first. He’s close enough that you can see the sweat beading at his temple, the dirt smudging his cheek. Neither of you says a word. His fingers brush the back of your hand, brief but electric, before pulling you into a tight hug. A thank you, a promise, a beginning. 

The locker room buzzes later, the clatter of cleats, music thumping from someone’s portable speaker, the team still high off the win. You’re folding towels at the back of the room when someone shouts over the noise, teasing, “Hey Jeno, was that your good luck charm I saw you running to after the homer?”

He doesn’t look up from unlacing his shoes. “Yeah,” he says casually, but his voice carries over the room. “She always was.” He doesn’t say your name because he doesn’t need to. Everyone already knows. 

Late one night, after the stadium had long emptied out following practice, Jeno calls you over from the dugout where you helped the team pack up equipment. “Wanna stay a little?”

You glance up from the ball bag you were zipping closed. “You mean…like, now?”

He shrugs, already shouldering his bat. “Just to watch. You don’t have to do anything.” You nod and follow, wishing his teammates a good night. 

The batting cages are a short walk from the main field, tucked beside the back parking lot, quiet now except for the buzz of cicadas and the hum of a lone fluorescent bulb flickering overhead. The mesh netting rustles softly in the warm, spring night air. Jeno drops his duffel outside the gate of the cage before stepping in and taking a few practice swings while you turn on the pitching machine. 

You watch him through the net. It’s not a performance. He’s not showing off. There’s something therapeutic in the repetition of his bat meeting the ball, the low clunk of contact echoing in the stillness. Sweat gathers at his jaw and trickles down his throat, but he doesn’t stop. Swing after swing, breath after breath. 

Eventually, he speaks. “They’re sending scouts next week.” 

You blink, pulling your mind away from ogling the way his sweat-slick skin glistened under the light. “Scouts? Like for the major league?”

He nods, keeping his focus on the machine, eyes narrowed as the next ball shoots out. “Yeah. And that team from Japan. They’ve been keeping tabs on me all season, apparently.”

You lean against the netting, arms folded across your chest, the air between you thick with unspoken things. “That’s good,” you say carefully. “Right?”

He exhales hard through his nose. “It’s what I wanted. It’s what everyone wanted.” He glances back at you. “But sometimes I don’t even know if I’m still playing for me or just…not to disappoint anyone.” You let the silence sit.

He swings again, landing another solid hit, another thump against the far end of the cage. “Do you ever feel like that?” he asks. “Like everyone is watching, and if you screw up, it’s not just your dream that breaks, it’s theirs too?”

You nod slowly, tracing your finger along the twine of the net. “I do. All the time.”

He glances over his shoulder, just for a second, as the machine gears up to spit another ball at him. “Really?”

You laugh under your breath, a little bitter, a little sad. “I’ve been the background girl for years, Jeno. I show up, I organize, I patch you guys up when you’re hurt. I make everything easier for everyone else. And when I’m not needed, I just…disappear. No one really notices me until I make a mistake.” He turns toward you fully after clocking the last ball in the tank, bat hanging at his side, shoulders loose. 

You don’t mean to keep going, but it spills out anyway. “I’m writing a thesis no one’s going to read aside from the committee. I’m graduating into a world that I’m not sure wants me or even has space for me. Sometimes I feel like I’m only visible when I’m useful.”

He’s quiet for a long time. “I see you.” Your breath catches. He says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world, like it doesn’t carry the weight of your whole chest. “I always see you,” he adds, softer. “Even when you think no one is paying attention. Especially then.” You blink hard and look away. 

He walks toward the gate of the cage, and you meet him there, pushing one of his water bottles through the opening. “Here,” you say. “Make sure you stay hydrated.” He takes it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. “You know,” you start again, voice steadier now, “you should’ve majored in communications. You’re weirdly good at talking people down from ledges.”

He cracks a smile. “Only yours.”

You roll your eyes. “Seriously, you’re enough, Jeno. Even if you’re scared, even if you don’t have all the answers yet, even if you don’t have a plan sorted out.” His eyes search yours like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your words. Then he nods, just once. 

When he steps back into the cage, something shifts. He reloads the balls into the tank, gearing up for another round. His swing is sharper this time, cleaner. The thwack of the ball against the net sounds crisper now, like it knows it’s going somewhere. Like he does, too. 

The university’s banquet hall is decked out in warm lights, too-loud music, and round tables dressed in blue and white. You almost didn’t go to the athletic banquet this year. The sheer thought of putting on fancy clothes and pretending to mingle sounded exhausting, especially as finals were drawing closer. But the team insisted. “Just come for the food,” someone has said. “The players want you there,” one of the coaches added. 

When you arrived at the venue, nerves buzzing beneath your skin at the increased attention the baseball team had drawn during their season, you felt every eye turn. Jeno spots you immediately. You’re wearing a varsity jacket, heavy on your shoulder, the number 23 stitched over your heart. The jacket was originally his. You had found it earlier in the season, folded neatly on a bench in the equipment room, and tried to give it back to him, but he refused, saying he thought it would look better on you. It still smells like him, fresh grass, pine tar, and something warmer, like safety and strength. 

When the baseball team is called up for their team photo, you stand off to the side with the other staff. The boys roughed each other up, arms slung over shoulders, all laughter and inside jokes, and right in the center of it all stood Jeno. His smile is bright, easy, and confident.

But when the camera flashes, he’s not looking at the lens. He’s looking at you. You look down, flustered and suddenly aware of how his jacket drapes across your frame. When you look back up, he’s still watching you, like you’re the only thing in the room worth seeing. 

The rest of the evening flows in hazy beats of speeches and cheers, clinking glasses, plates scraped clean. The athletic director gives a long-winded speech and leads a toast, kicking off a series of MVP awards to various athletes from all the sports the university has to offer. 

When it comes time for the baseball team, the trophy practically flies into Jeno’s hands. His teammates chant his name, pounding the table. He just laughs, half-embarrassed, holding the award in one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. But even while the room applauds, he’s not smiling at the crowd. He’s smiling at you. 

At some point, one of the boys bumps shoulders with him, voice too loud. “Damn, Jeno, didn’t know you had it in you to get a girlfriend.”

You freeze, heart in your throat. But Jeno? He just grins. Not sheepish, not panicked. Proud. He doesn’t correct them, doesn’t even blink. He just says, “Yeah?” like it’s the most natural thing in the world and takes a slow sip from his water. 

It wasn’t a confession, not blatantly, not out loud. But everyone hears it. 

When the night winds down, the crowd begins to trickle out. You say your goodbyes to the team, collecting stray napkins on the floor along with a few compliments on your way out. “Couldn’t have done the season with you, team manager!” one of the guys shouts. You give him a smile and a short wave before slipping away. 

You don’t even realize Jeno’s already waiting until you see him by the door, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn’t ask you to stay, just waits. And when you walk toward him, he smiles like he knew you would gravitate to him. 

The banquet hall around you hums with fading noise, laughter echoing from somewhere near the dessert table. You stop beside him, close enough to brush shoulders, and you tip your head toward the door. 

“You know,” you murmur, careful to keep your voice low enough for just the two of you, “that was a bold move earlier.”

His smile tugs wider, unapologetic as he knew exactly what you were talking about. “Was it?”

You narrow your eyes at him, though it lacks any real heat. “What if I weren’t your girlfriend? What if I didn’t want to be your girlfriend? That could’ve been awkward.” 

He shrugs, too casually. “And yet here you are, with me.” Then, more quietly, “even if we haven’t said it.”

You should correct him, remind him that there has been no official confession, no boundaries drawn, no promises made. But instead, you just shake your head with a faint laugh. “You’re lucky you’re so charming.”

“And you’re lucky I like girls who wear my jackets.”

You roll your eyes, lightly hitting his arm. For a moment, the world narrows down to the warm space between you, to the way his gaze softens like he’s trying to memorize this moment, you, here, in his jacket, laughing effortlessly. 

“I should go,” you finally say, glancing toward the exit. “I have classes in the morning.”

He nods, like he already knew you’d say that. “See you at practice?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

You don’t hug, nor do you linger. But when you turn to leave, you feel him watching you until the door clicks shut behind you. 

Later that night, you take off your shoes by the front door of your apartment, shrug out of your jacket, and fold it gently over the back of a chair. You’re about to start your night routine when your phone buzzes from where you threw it onto your bed.

A message. It’s from Jeno. It was a blurry photo of you, taken from across the room, half-laughing, caught mid-motion in the varsity jacket. 

You’re my number one. 

That was all he said, and yet it made you smile as if he had written you a sonnet. 

The first practice after the banquet is lighter than usual. The drills are more relaxed, and the coaches are distracted by logistics for senior night. The sun hangs low, golden and kind, while a breeze flutters across the infield. The air smells like freshly cut grass and sunscreen.

You’re sitting on the team’s bench in the dugout, jotting notes into the lineup spreadsheet for the seniors’ walkout songs while the outfielders run pop-fly drills. A familiar presence drifts toward you, and you can feel him before he even speaks. 

“You forgot to bring water.” Jeno appears at your side, holding a bottle from the vending machine in one hand and his glove tucked under the other. 

You glance up, raising a brow. “You say that as if we don’t prepare far too many water coolers each practice.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d try to impress you with my effort.”

You snort, nudging him with your elbow as he takes a seat next to you. “You hit a walk-off homer and won an award last week. I think you’ve impressed me enough for a while.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your mouth and lingering for a second too long. Then he leans in just slightly, enough for only you to hear. “But I want to impress you.”

Before you can come up with something clever to say back, a loud voice cuts through the calm. “Jeno!” One of his teammates yelled. “Don’t let her distract you, man. Scouts are gonna be at the next practice and the game!”

Another player calls out behind him. “Nah, let him stay distracted. Maybe then he’ll loosen up for once.” 

Jeno waves them off, grinning, but you catch the brief shadow that crosses his expression. The weight slips back onto his shoulders, scouts, expectations, futures that feel too big for just one person to hold.

You lower your voice. “You okay?”

He nods once, then cuts himself short. “I should be excited. But something just feels like…I don’t know. Like I’m waiting for a train that might not stop where I’m waiting to get on.”

You reach for his hand, just a brush of fingers. You’ve touched him before, taping his knuckles at workouts, patting his shoulder after a game well played, fixing the collar of his uniform, but this feels different. Softer. Quieter. The kind of thing you don’t need to explain anymore. 

“You don’t have to get on if it doesn’t feel right,” you tell him. “You’re allowed to want something else.”

He turns to look at you. The noise of the field fades like it always does when it’s just the two of you. “But what if everyone’s already packed my bags for me? What if they’re already waving goodbye?”

You squeeze his finger. “Then maybe they were cheering for the idea of you. Not the real you.” He exhales slowly, like your words permitted him to just be for a moment.

Their coach yells for the team to set up for a new drill. Jeno reluctantly pulls away, jogging to join the rest of the guys, but not before turning back, catching your eye like a secret. You smile, just enough to steady him. 

It’s senior night, the final home game. The final time this exact team will take the field together. And somehow, even in the electric buzz of the crowd, there’s an ache in the air, like everyone knows nothing else will feel exactly like this moment. 

The stands are packed, louder than usual. Families are dressed in the whites and blues of your school, phones out for photos and videos, voices caught between pride and emotion. Posters of the graduating players wave in the breeze. 

The last inning moves more slowly than the rest of the game. The team is winning enough to breathe a little easier, but not enough to forget what this night means. 

You’re in the dugout with the rest of the players who weren’t taking the pitch at the bottom of the final inning. Your clipboard is held firmly in your hand, but you weren’t using it for notes or checking stats anymore. Not when each senior steps onto the field like they’re saying goodbye to something sacred. Not when Jeno jogs out to his position one last time, the number 23 bold on his back, his head held a little higher than usual.

Every step he takes is heavier. Every pitch, every crack of the bat, every cheer from the crowd lands deeper in his chest. The coaches aren’t barking instructions anymore. The team isn’t playing for the rankings tonight. They’re playing for each other. For the moment that will become a memory. 

When the final out is called, a pop fly drifting up into the glow of the lights before falling safely into a glove, the stadium erupts, but it’s different this time. On the field, there’s no dogpile, no champagne celebration, just this…pause. It’s as if no one wants to leave, as if they’re holding the moment in their palms, reluctant to let it slip through their fingers. 

After the final scores are announced and the stats are run, the announcer’s voice cuts through the static, calling the seniors one by one. The team was crammed into the dugout, patting each other on the back, congratulating each other for the last time. They parted as the seniors stepped out to cheers and camera flashes, receiving framed pictures of themselves in action, along with flowers and handshakes from the coaches. 

When Jeno is called, he doesn’t try to hide the way his smile tugs unevenly. He bows, shakes hands, accepts the applause, but when his achievements and contributions to the team echo through the loudspeaker, your chest tightens from the quiet knowing that this version of him, the one in dirt-smudged cleats, sweat on his brow, and heart on his sleeve, is slipping into memory. 

After the team lines up near home plate to take one last group picture, the head coach steps forward with a microphone. His voice is gruff but thick with something softer behind it. “These boys have given their all,” he begins. “They’ve played with grit, with grace, and with heart. And tonight, we say thank you. For the early morning, the late nights, the busted knuckles and bruised egos, and for every second they wore this jersey with pride.” 

The coach pauses, scanning the line of seniors. “I hope you remember what this field felt like. I hope you remember each other. Because teams change, life moves fast. But no matter where you go next, this? This was yours and nothing can take that away.”

Beside you, Jeno exhales slowly. His shoulders shift, the way they do when he’s trying not to show his emotions. His gaze stays ahead, sharp and quiet, but his hand lowers, brushing yours. And this time, he doesn’t pull away. His fingers lace with yours as if he’s done it countless times before, like he’s been holding back for months and finally doesn’t have to. The weight of his palm against yours is steadier than anything in that moment. 

You don’t turn to look at him, you just hold his hand tight as the night carves itself into your memories. You don’t need to look at him to know what he’s thinking. You feel the way he squeezes your hand. 

‘I’m here. This is real.’ 

You squeeze back. ‘I’m here too. It is real.’

The celebration that follows the ceremony is loud. There’s music blasting from portable speakers, laughing spilling from every corner of the dugout, seniors being hoisted onto shoulders, and group photos taken in blurry bursts. Your name is called a few times, thank yous thrown your way between high fives and strong hugs. But you barely hear any of it.

Your world feels narrowed down to the residual warmth of Jeno’s hand in yours. The feeling lingers like a ghost on your skin as the night winds down. Later, when the floodlights of the stadium flicker off and the last of the trash has been scooped into bags, the finality gradually sets in like the sound of cleats walking away for the last time. 

The locker room is quieter the next day. Players trickle in to clear out their belongings. The locker room is filled with the rustle of plastic bags, the dull click of lockers opening, and the occasional laugh over a long-forgotten item. 

You find Jeno standing in front of his locker, a box at his feet filled to the brim, his fingers resting over the number plate that bears his name just above the door. It’s loose now, barely clinging to the screws. You step in without needing an invitation. “Need help?” you ask gently. 

He glances back at you. Something in his eyes says ‘thank you’ before his mouth does. “Yeah,” he breathes, stepping aside to let you have access to his locker.

You stand beside him, reaching for jerseys folded too many times, pants faded from too many washes, pine tar-stained gloves, cleats worn smooth at the edges. It’s not just gear. It’s everything he’s been, everything he’s given. 

When he pulls out an old game ball, scuffed and inked with a barely legible signature from his freshman year, he hesitates, then presses it into your hands. “Keep it,” he says. “For luck.” You curl your fingers around it, grounding yourself in its weight. 

Jeno exhales, glancing down at the overflowing box near his feet, then over at his duffel bag, barely zipped, sitting on the bench. “I might have overestimated how much I could carry in one trip,” he admits, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

You tilt your head at him. “You? Overestimating yourself? I’m shocked.”

“Okay,” he huffed a laugh. “Maybe just this once.”

You let the teasing fade before you offer, quietly, “I can help you get it back to your place.”

His smile softens into something endearing. “Are you sure?”

You glance down at the game ball sitting in your palm. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I want to.”

So you help him load his boxes into the back of his car along with extra bags you scrounged from the coach’s office. Everything that made up the last four years of his life with the team was packed into the trunk and backseat of his car. 

The drive is short but quiet, the kind of silence that holds things that refuse to be spoken. When Jeno unlocks the door to his apartment and leads you inside, it feels like stepping into a different season entirely, one already shifting toward goodbye. 

Later that evening, you’re in his bedroom, helping him go through all the things he brought home. You fold his shirts and organize his pants into neat stacks. He packs them away in silence. You don’t speak much, not because there’s nothing to say, but because neither of you wants to say what really matters. 

You find an old photo stuck in the grooves of a worn-out glove, one of the early practices from the past season, a group shot with the team, and in the background, barely visible, you with the rest of the staff. You stood behind a ball bucket, a spare catching glove on your hand. They made you throw with them that day. Jeno watches you turn it over in your hands. 

“I didn’t know I was in this,” you remark. 

“I did,” he replies. “I saw you.” Something in your chest crumpled inward. You set the photo aside and keep folding. 

When the last of his stuff is emptied from the box, you stand in the doorway of his room. Jeno walks you to the front door, his expression unreadable in the dim yellow glow of his desk lamp. His hand finds your wrist, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin. 

“Don’t forget to wrap mine next season,” he says quietly. 

You nod, your smile caught somewhere between hope and ache. “Don’t forget your bat.” He chuckles under his breath, but neither of you really laughs. 

You leave before he can ask you to stay. 

Your phone lights up with his name on a night that would’ve been filled with practice, drills, and dugout banter. 

‘No practice today. Feels kinda weird not seeing you. Wanna come over?’

That’s all he says, but it’s enough to send you out the door to pick up food on your way to his apartment. When you show up knocking at his door, he greets you in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair damp as if he had just taken a shower. He looks at you like he hasn’t seen you in weeks.

“Hey,” you greet, lifting the bag of food like a peace offering. “Thought you might want dinner.”

He just nods with a smile growing on his face. “And you.”

You follow Jeno inside like it’s instinct, like you’ve always belonged there with him. 

Together, you unwrap the chosen dinner for the night. It’s fast food, greasy and guilty, exactly the type of food he wouldn’t have allowed himself to indulge in during the season. Even with everything spread out on a table by the couch, you don’t call it a goodbye dinner, but that’s what it is. 

You eat side by side, knees bumping, dipping fries into shared sauces and pretending like this is normal, like there’s still time. He laughs at a joke you make, his mouth full, and for a second, it feels like nothing’s ending at all. 

When the food is mostly gone and the quiet starts to stretch, Jeno glances toward the window, then at you. “Wanna go up to the roof?”

“The roof?” You echo. 

He stands, gathering the trash in his large hands. “It’s where I go when I can’t sleep…or when I think too much.” 

You hesitate just for a breath before nodding. “Okay, let’s go.” You help him gather the rest of the items on the table, clearing it of empty wrappers and used napkins. It all gets tossed in the trash before you’re following Jeno out the door.

He leads the way out of his apartment and up the narrow staircase to the rooftop door. The city greets you in silence, a sprawl of lights and concrete stretching endlessly beneath the stairs, glowing faintly. It’s not cold, but Jeno had brought a blanket, one he had often thrown at you when the morning practices made you shiver. Before you could protest, he’s reaching around your shoulder, an edge of the blanket in his hand, stretching it open like a cape. You settle beside him, shoulders touching, the blanket feeling like a shield from reality. 

Jeno’s breath is warm against your cheek when he leans in just enough to murmur, “I signed to a team.” You turn to him, but his eyes remain fixed on the city lights. “The team from overseas. Minor league affiliate. They offered a contract. I told them yes.”

You don’t speak right away. The words land like a stone in your stomach, not unexpected, but still sinking heavily. “That’s…” You force a small smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes. “That’s great. Really.”

He finally looks at you, and something in his gaze falters. “You don’t sound like you mean that.” 

You look down at your hands in your lap. “No, I do. I’m happy for you, Jeno. I just–” you swallow, “I guess I wasn’t ready to hear it out loud.”

He lets out a heavy breath, as if he had been holding it this whole time. “Me neither.” 

That surprised you. “You weren’t?”

He shakes his head. “I thought signing would feel like relief. But instead, it just felt like I was turning the page on something I’m not finished reading.” Your heart aches at his words. You don’t know what to say to that, or maybe you do, but you don’t trust yourself to say it. “I don’t want to leave,” he says then, something raw in his tone. “Not yet. Not from here. Not from–” He breaks off, gaze dropping to where his hand sat on your shoulder. “Not from you.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself together. “Can I be selfish?”

He exhales in a sound that’s almost a laugh. “You always are,” he teases, but there’s no malice. 

You jab at his side with your elbow. “Then let me ask you this. What would you do if you didn’t have to leave?”

“I’d stay,” he answers without hesitation. “For you. For us. If I knew how to make it all work. I’d stay.” 

It felt like everything had stopped, and then he leaned in, slow and careful, his eyes on yours like a question. When yours flutters shut, he kisses you like it’s an apology and a wish all in one. It was soft and lingering, the kind of kiss you memorize in case you never get it again. Jeno holds you like a memory already slipping through his fingers, and you let him, your hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, your breath tangled with his. When you finally pull apart, neither of you speaks. 

That night, you sleep in his arms for the first time while acting as if it were the last because it just might be. You hold him like a goodbye you don’t want to give. 

The weeks that follow blur in warm, golden tones. It’s not quite summer yet, but already softened around the edges like something you’ll miss before it’s gone. 

You fall into a rhythm that doesn’t need naming. Jeno starts keeping two toothbrushes in his bathroom. You never talk about it. You cook pasta together in his tiny kitchen, bumping hips while arguing about sauce ratios. He steals bites off your fork, and you pretend to be annoyed because you like the way he grins when he gets away with it. On rainy afternoons, you fold his laundry while he reorganizes his baseball gear for the hundredth time, his cleats, gloves, tape rolls in plastic bags labelled with your handwriting. 

Nights are slower and softer. You crash on his couch, cuddled against him while watching games from the team he’ll soon be playing for. Your head always finds the nook where his shoulder meets his neck, and he always tilts his head to rest against yours. One evening, he reads to you from a dog-eared notebook he used to write notes in during practice. You ask him why he doesn’t throw it away. 

“Some things are worth remembering,” he says simply. You don’t ask what they are, but you have a feeling you already know. 

Then the boxes and bags start piling up again. Jeno’s apartment becomes a warzone of cardboard and clothes, bubble wrap and leftover takeout. You kneel next to him on the floor, helping fold his winter jacket that refuses to be pinned down while he whines that he won’t need it. 

You laugh, but you hate being reminded that in just a few days, he’d be gone. He notices and tries to lighten the mood by tossing a stray sock at your head. You pretend to be scandalized, causing him to kiss you on the nose. “Thank you for still being here.” 

You want to say, ‘of course I’m here. I’d follow you anywhere,’ but you hold yourself back and instead, you only smile and go back to wrestling with the puffy jacket. 

That’s what love looks like when time is short. It’s not grand declarations, but it was helping someone pack, all while wishing the box was just a little more empty so they’d have to stay one more night. 

On the dreaded day Jeno was scheduled to fly out, you woke before the sun did. Jeno’s room is still, painted in the softest shade of early morning light, looking like a skeleton of the room you first saw all those nights ago. Beside you, he breathes slow and steady, one arm slung around your waist like his body knows what his mind is still denying. 

You don’t move, not right away. You take the time to memorize him, the curve of his lashes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the warmth of his fingers resting against your ribs. It’s the last time. You both know it, even if no one says it. 

When he stirs, you pretend you’ve just woken up too. No one mentions the time. 

He gets dressed in silence, pulling on a hoodie and the same beat-up sneakers he’d wear to practice before changing into his cleats. His backpack sits ready by the door with the rest of his luggage. You wonder which of them holds the life he’s about to live and which holds what he couldn’t bear to leave behind. 

You help him take them all to your car, a regular in his apartment building’s parking lot, neither of you saying much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because nothing would be enough. 

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper, when he slides the last bag into the trunk of your car. 

You didn’t mean for Jeno to hear you, but he did. He doesn’t answer, instead choosing to pull you into a hug so full, so complete, it says ‘no, you won’t. Neither will I.’

The sky shifts from dark ink to cobalt as you get closer and closer to the airport. The drive was short, but you wished it were endless. 

When you pull up to the curb outside the check-in area, Jeno gets out and opens the trunk. You hate how easily he lifts the bags and how good he looks doing it. You hold his luggage together, watching the early travelers file into the terminal. Hardly anyone looks back. Everyone has somewhere to be, and so does Jeno. 

You stay with him as he checks in with the airline, and you help him tag his suitcases, each moment feeling more heart-wrenching than the last. All too soon, his bags are being carried away by a conveyor belt until he’s left with nothing except the backpack on his shoulders. 

“I’ll walk you to the gate,” you say, already moving. 

But Jeno stops you with a shake of his head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you state. “But I want to.” Just like when you helped him to clear out his locker. 

When you reached the start of the security checkpoint and saw how the line was inching forward already, you knew you were running out of time. Right before the entrance to the line, he turns to you, eyes rimmed with something too sharp to name. 

“Stay a little longer,” you whisper, voice cracking. 

“I wish I could,” he says back, like it’s both an apology and a confession. He fidgets with his hands, then presses something into your palm. A wristband he made in his first season during a team-bonding activity, frayed with use. His number is etched into the beads, faded from sweat and sun. 

“You don’t play without this,” you gasp, eyes going wide. 

“Now you don’t either,” his lips going tight as he tries to smile, but it doesn’t hold.

You close your fist around it like it’s the only thing tethering you to him. And maybe it is. He hugs you then, hard and whole and trembling. He smells like detergent and everything else you’ve tried not to memorize. You clutch the back of his hoodie like you could anchor him with just that. 

You don’t say ‘don’t go,’ but your eyes do. 

He doesn’t say ‘I love you,’ but his arms do.

When you finally separate from him, you feel hollow. You practically rip your gaze away from him, and in that moment, he joins the crowd of people going through security. Practically against your wishes, you find yourself tracking the back of his head as he gets through the line until he’s gone in the sea of people finding their gate, their path to somewhere else. When you finally lose sight of him, your heart cracks like a bat on impact. 

During your drive home, your phone buzzes. It’s a photo he took from the window seat, a view of the sky and clouds. You never open it fully because you knew if you did, it would make everything feel all too real. 

Yet now you wore his number around your wrist, a reminder of who he was, and what once was. 

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like We Go Up - L.Mark

[mrsmangi]

found - luigi mangione

♡ summary: luigi spends his nights haunted by dreams of you—vivid, tender, and impossibly real. each morning, he wakes with the ache of losing you, over and over, with no foreseeable end. how much more can he take? ♡ w.c.: 6.3k ♡ a/n: hi. this is a continuation of my fic, past life. it was absolutely devastating to write, but i will post this with pictures of luigi in his red sweater (again) to make myself feel better because it's my favorite outfit of his thus far. hope you guys enjoy!

♡ trigger warnings: this work contains themes of depression, grief, and suggestive content. please proceed with care.

—

The soft click of the apartment door echoes in the stillness as Luigi steps inside, his hand lingering on the cold metal doorknob for support. The familiar scent of perfume drifts toward him, engulfing him in a warmth that feels too good to be true. He pauses, a faint flicker of awareness settling in his mind. 

Luigi is dreaming, again–he knows it. The clarity of the moment, the way every detail feels sharper than reality feels unmistakable, but he knows this isn’t his world. 

These dreams had become more frequent since the first–when he had met you. He felt each of them pulling him into this world, further and further down the rabbit hole, where you waited for him. Although he was beginning to become acquainted with it–his abnormal awareness in his dreams–, it never stopped feeling strange to him. It was as though he continuously existed in two places at once: as the man in his dreams, showered with intimacy from his lover, and the man outside of it, alone. 

He is unsettled. Not just by the vividness of his illusions, but how natural it all feels, as if this version of his life is just as real as the one he always returns to in the morning. The longer Luigi stands, the harder it is to ignore the whispers of longing plaguing the back of his mind. Despite knowing it isn’t real, he can’t help but wish it were. 

So, he chooses to stand and take it all in. It feels like home. 

That’s when he sees it. 

Streamers criss-cross on the ceiling in haphazard lines. Balloons floating lazily in corners of the living room. Taped to the wall in large, uneven letters is a banner that reads: “WELCOME HOME, LUIGI! ♡” Glittery, colorful, slightly crooked letters–but perfect. He blinks, heart dropping to his stomach. An overwhelming sensation; one that pleasantly surprises him. 

You stand in the center of it all, clutching a poster board almost as tall as you, the word “HI” scrawled across it in colorful marker and uneven glitter glue. Your grin (that beautiful grin he just adores) stretches wide. You are sunshine personified, he realizes fondly, a dazzling beam of joy. You only grow brighter the moment your eyes lock. 

Immediately, you burst into laughter, poster board slipping from your hands and clattering to the floor as you sprint toward him. 

“Luigi!” you call out, voice bursting with excitement and relief. 

Before he can react, you crash into him, arms wrapping gently around his waist. He stumbles slightly, caught off guard, body stiff and protesting the sudden movement. He doesn’t care. Dropping his bag to the floor, he folds himself around you, breathing in the familiar scent of your hair. The warmth of your body against his is almost enough to make him forget the ache in his back and the heaviness of his legs. 

Your lips find his in a kiss so tender, he thinks his knees might buckle from beneath him. For a moment, Luigi feels no pain. The accident never happened and he was never escorted to the hospital, or bedridden for over a week. There’s just you, soft and warm and impossibly close. He leans into you, hands curving around your waist, melting into place. 

When you finally pull away, your hands cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as you study him. “Hi,” you whisper cheekily. 

“Hi,” he breathes. 

“I missed you so much,” you sigh. “You have no idea.”

Luigi’s lips twitch into a faint smile. His chest swells with gratitude. “I missed you more,” he confesses softly. Luigi knows this won’t last. It never does. 

The welcome banner, the streamers, your smile–none of it will follow him when he wakes. He’ll wake up, alone in a bed half empty because you won’t be there. But even knowing all of it, Luigi lets himself savor every moment he has with you, holding onto you like a lifeline. 

He will let himself believe it’s real, even if it’s just for a fraction of a second. The pain in his spine becomes more pronounced, and he can’t tell if it’s just because he’s post-recovery or because he knows this is only temporary, especially when he wants it to be permanent so desperately. 

“Are you still with me?” Your voice pulls him out of his thoughts. He snaps out of it, looking down at you as you smile up at him, teasingly. You always seem to know when his mind begins to wander. You are so patient. He likes that about you. 

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking,” he pauses, arms still hooked around your waist. He looks over the room once more. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble just for me.” 

“Don’t be silly. It wasn’t any trouble and even if it was, yes, I did,” you say. “You’ve been stuck in bed for over a week in that awful hospital room. I just couldn’t wait for you to come home. I wanted so badly to remind you how loved you are.” 

Luigi swallows hard. There’s a lump in his throat that makes it impossible to speak. Instead, he tightens his hold on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You only laugh and run your fingers through his curls. For however long it lasts, he wants to lose himself in you. Pretend this fleeting world of light and warmth and all things good will last forever. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs into your skin, quietly.

“Stop that,” you scold gently, pulling back to meet his eyes. “You deserve everything, Luigi. I’m just getting started.” 

You take his hand and lead him to the couch, guiding him to sit down. He winces slightly as he lowers himself onto the cushions, a strain in his back reminding him of his limitations. You notice in an instant, as perceptive as always. Your hands flutter over him as though you could soothe his pain with sheer willpower. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, worry etched into your features. “How is your back? Do you need a pillow? A hot pad? Water? Anything?” 

He chuckles despite himself, shaking his head. “I’m okay,” he reassures you, although the throbbing of his spine indicates otherwise. “Better now that I’m home. With you.” 

You kneel between his legs, resting your hands lightly on his knees as you tilt your head up to look at him. “Bedridden for over a week and still handsome as ever,” you tease. The tone of your voice is playful, but there’s something in your expression that feels darker. He releases a shaky breath, clearing his throat subtly. 

“Talent,” he replies dryly, a small smirk curving across his lips. 

You laugh. It sends a pang of languish straight to his heart. It hasn’t hit him just how much he’s missed hearing that sound until now. It’s only been a few days since the last dream, but to him, it’s felt like years. 

“Seriously, though,” you say, eyes softening. “How are you really feeling?” 

He hesitates, smile faltering. “I’m getting there,” he admits. “It’s still difficult. The pain isn’t great, and I’m not exactly thrilled about having to take it easy for who knows how long. But…” He gazes at you, then around the room. All the effort you had put into making this moment as special as possible. All for him. “Coming home to this? To you? It helps so much more than you know.” 

His heart skips three beats at once when you grin, leaning forward and resting your cheek against his knee. “Good,” you say gently. “I’m so excited to have you home. It’s so boring without you.” 

He breathes out another laugh, but before he can reply, your hands slide upward. Your fingertips trace the pattern of his jeans–slowly, deliberately. He feels his breath hitch as you gently pry his legs apart, movements unhurried but undeniably calculated. There’s a lustful glint in your eye that sends a jolt of heat through him. He doesn’t find it in himself to look away, entranced by your movements. 

“You’re stuck with me now,” you whisper, kissing the inside of his lower thigh gently. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

Luigi’s breathing becomes heavier as you work your way up his thigh, and he opens his mouth to reply, but the words never come.  

—

When he awakes, Luigi stirs in discomfort. His eyelids feel heavy as they open slowly. The emptiness of his apartment hits him like a tsunami. The silence washes over his body, drowning him. His legs feel sore, his chest throbbing as he lays motionless, staring at the ceiling.

He rubs a hand over his face, as if he could chase away the remnants of the dream, but it’s done in vain. He knows he couldn’t erase you from his mind, even if he tried.

“Are you even real?” he wonders aloud, eyes boring into the plain paper of the ceiling above. 

When no one answers, he sighs. He sits up and the pain returns. In his head, in his back, in his stomach, and within his heart. His mind feels foggy. 

It’s not just the dream that haunts him, but the life within it: the life where you exist, where he isn’t so fucking miserable and alone. 

The day unfolds sluggishly, each hour stretching longer than the last. Reluctantly, Luigi forces himself out of bed, his body protesting every movement. He spends the morning shuffling through small, mindless tasks–folding laundry he forgot to put away, wiping down the counters in his kitchen, and clearing the clutter off his nightstand. All things that should distract him, but in reality, it does little to lift the weight pressing down on his chest. 

Even as his apartment is neater and cleaner, he feels no real sense of accomplishment nor satisfaction, only a quiet, gnawing emptiness eating away at his being. His thoughts always seem to drift back to you. 

By midday, he stares blankly at his computer screen, shuffling through emails he has no intention of answering. A notification from a friend briefly catches his eye, but he hesitates to respond. What could he even say? There’s nothing to say, he tells himself. The words feel distant, unreachable. Instead, he closes the laptop and sits in silence. 

The hum of the fridge in the next room is the only sound that breaks the stillness. When his stomach eventually growls, he throws together a half-assed sandwich, eating it mechanically while staring at the muted television. The show he puts on–once a comedy that made him laugh–fails to hold his attention. The afternoon drags on. Luigi drifts from task to task with no real purpose, his movement more on autopilot than anything else. He tries to focus on a book he’s been meaning to finish, but the words blur together on the page. 

“Fuck off,” he groans, setting it aside and leaning back into the couch he sits on. The ceiling stares back at him. 

The evening settles in. He makes another half-hearted attempt at cooking dinner, though the plate ends up sitting untouched on the counter. The hours stretch endlessly, and all he can think about is how desperately he wants for the day to end. He misses you. 

He needs you. 

He needs to feel tethered to something real, even if it’s only fleeting. 

Luigi’s eyes drift to close, the corners of the room growing hazy and darkening as he dozes off.

—

“You don’t have to push me away, Luigi.” 

Something is different about this dream, Luigi notices. He can hear it in the way you say his name: unbearably frustrated, but somehow still gentle. He feels it in the strange sense of detachment that ties him to his spot before you. Although he knows this is just a dream–just another insufferably short dream–, the words manage to make him flinch, as if he’s a match struck against sandpaper. There’s a fire catching in his heart before he has the chance to smother it, and the flame is your voice.

His body reacts before he even has the chance to register that it’s your voice. He feels like a passenger in his own skin when it hits him: he’s not in control. 

He feels his hands curl into fists at his sides, nails biting into the flesh of his palms. There’s a familiar tightness in his back sending sharp, burning pulses of discomfort through his body down to his legs, one he can’t simply ignore, but it seems painless in comparison to the throbbing of his stomach.

Are you two fighting? He doesn’t want to fight. 

“I–” Luigi begins, but the words get caught in his throat, trapped by the weight of his shame as he gazes at your confused expression. He can’t look at you like this, so he doesn’t. He shifts his gaze away. 

“You’re shutting me out again,” you say. Your voice is steady, but he hears the tinge of pain it carries. It’s familiar, it’s recognizable; a pain similar to his own. “I know you’re hurting. I know this feels absolutely frustrating and impossible to overcome, but do you really think I would leave you because of something like this?” 

He hears himself release a sharp, harsh breath, turning his face away as his jaw tightens. He runs a hand over his mouth before holding his head in both hands. “It’s not as simple as that,” he hears his voice mutter. There’s a bitterness in his tone that he can see startles you from his peripheral vision. It startles him, too. He pretends it doesn’t bother him. He sees the flicker of hurt in your expression; he wants to reach for you, to tell you that he’s not in his right mind, but his hands remain motionless. He keeps talking. “You don’t get it.” 

“Then help me get it,” you urge him, stepping closer to him. 

He’s sitting on the couch. You kneel before him and take the hands that carry his head into your own. 

“Luigi,” you breathe, eyes scanning his face for a sign of understanding. “You don’t have to carry this alone. Please, let me be here for you. I want to stay.” 

He can’t look at you. He trains his eyes to burn holes into the carpet rug of the apartment floor.

There’s a numbness that he feels settling in, brushing against the nape of his neck, crawling its way down his chest and curling upward to his temples. His heart churns and twists beneath his skin. He’s caught between his desire to let you in–let you hug him, console him, reassure him–and the fear of his inescapable reality: he will drag you down with him if he allows you to remain with him any longer. 

I don’t want to hurt you, he thinks. The words you hear instead are: “You have no idea what it’s like.” His voice is low, tremors racking his throat. “You have no idea what it feels like to wake up, knowing I can’t be everything that you deserve.” 

“Luigi,” you plead. “Luigi, you are everything to me.” 

“You say that now,” he laughs bitterly, shaking his head, “but what happens when it’s too much?” He finally looks up at you. He feels the word vomit creeping up his throat. This doesn’t feel like him. He can sense it–he’s about to say something he’s going to regret, but he can’t help himself. You need to know. 

“I can’t do the things I used to,” he says as a matter of fact. “I’m 24-years-old. I’ve barely lived. I can’t surf or hike or go to the gym like I did before. I can’t even fucking sit for too long without feeling like my spine might shatter. It seems like every single, miniscule movement I make fucks with the way my entire body feels. My friends are getting sick of hearing how depressed I feel–” He pauses, making eye contact with your broken gaze before continuing. “And you,” he breathes, watching your nostrils flare as tears well in your eyes. “You’ve been so fucking patient with me, baby. You’ve been so damn good, and you know, I can’t even fucking make love to you,” he hears his voice crack. He sees your eyes glint with indignance and he knows you’ll attempt to protest. He continues. 

“Do you know what that’s like? To look at you and not be able to give you that part of me anymore.” His hands twitch on his lap, fists clenching and loosening.

Luigi sits in horror of himself. He wants to take the words back, to silence the voice coming from his mouth, but he can’t do anything but watch. It’s torture. Can’t he just shut up? 

No, he can’t. The person in charge of his body keeps going.

“It might be a stupid thing to be worried about, but I know I can’t pleasure you like I used to. You can sit here and deny it all you want, but you and I both know ever since that stupid, fucking accident happened, everything has been different and it’s not just about the sex. You drop everything for me to go to doctor’s appointments, pick up my prescriptions, you don’t go out with your friends or see your family anymore. I mean, for fuck’s sake, baby,” he places emphasis on your name, tearing his hands out of yours to grasp your face. 

His thumbs brush your cheekbones, holding your face as if it was made of porcelain. They wipe away your tears. Tears he’s responsible for prying out of you. Luigi has never hated himself more. 

“Your whole life has been placed on hold for me,” he whispers. “You’ve given up so much. How am I supposed to live with myself knowing that? I’m a burden to you.” 

You’re staring up at him, helpless. He knows the words hang in the air, igniting an overwhelming silence to suffocate the two of you. The thought that he’s pushed you too far, teetered your state of being over the edge, crosses his mind. He desperately hopes that isn’t the case. 

As your tear-filled stare searches his face, he has a feeling it isn’t, but there’s something unreadable in your expression. There are hints of perplexion, hurt, and confusion, but something else. Something healing: tender, unrelenting love. 

Slowly, you reach up and he feels your small hands over his own where they hold your face. 

“Luigi, I love you,” you say softly, “I love you so much. That’s why I’m here, not out of obligation. You could never be a burden to me, Luigi. You never have been and never will be.” 

He feels his hands falter, dropping from your face as his shoulders sag. I believe you, he wants to scream out. His body won’t allow him to. There’s doubt that lingers in the back of his mind–doubt he refuses to claim as his own. 

For a moment, Luigi thinks his body will finally relent. That, by some kind of miracle, he’ll collapse into you and let the heat of your body consume his own. But instead, he feels himself pull away from you. His hands fall completely, weight shifting as he pushes himself up from the couch. His legs feel as heavy as ever, but they move him away anyway, carrying him to the door. 

“What are you doing?” he hears your voice rise, panicked. “Luigi–where are you going? Please, let’s talk about this.” 

He hears the steps of your feet against the cold, wood floor, the quick catch in your breath as you follow after him. 

Stop, Luigi pleads. Turn around. Don’t do this.

When Luigi realizes he doesn’t, a scream builds in his chest, desperate to escape. He feels his jaw tighten, shoulders tense, and his steps are automatic. Then, you do something that makes him falter–you throw your arms around him, wrapping yourself tightly against his back. Your fingers grip the fabric of his shirt to anchor yourself to him, refusing to let go.

He freezes as he feels the warmth of your body pressed to his, your trembling breath against his shoulder. 

“Please,” you beg, voice raw and breaking. “Don’t do this.” 

He feels it then: a tender, desperate kiss pressed between his shoulder blades. The warmth of it burns through the layers of fabric resting on his back, searing into his skin like a brand. Your lips linger there, trembling, and it feels as though you’re willing him to stay. He feels every ounce of love and hope that you’ve poured into a single touch. 

This is what you want, he hears his own voice urging him to accept it. To stay. This is what you need. Don’t let her go. He feels nauseated when his hands reach down and pry yours from his torso. His movements are gentle but firm. To Luigi, it feels like the cruelest betrayal. He’s a prisoner in his own skin. 

“I can’t make you happy anymore, (Name).” Your name rolls off his tongue without him even having to think about it. Luigi can feel defeat ruminating in his soul, causing him to tremble. He finally knows your name and it’s come to him in the worst way possible. It’s wrong, it’s unfair. He can do absolutely nothing to console you or wipe away the tears that continue to spill from your cheeks because his asshole body won’t let him. His voice sounds muffled, distorted and distant, yet unmistakably his own. The words spill out like they belong to someone else. He doesn’t recognize himself. “This isn’t the life you deserve.” 

He steps forward, heading for the door, slipping out of your grasp completely. He misses your warmth already. Your arms fall to your sides. He feels a sense of relief that isn’t his own wash over him when you don’t move to follow him, but an overwhelming sense of grief overcomes him.

“Luigi,” he hears you call out to him. 

Stop.

His legs halt with his hand on the doorknob. He doesn’t dare to look back.

“I’ve never cared about having a perfect life,” he hears you say, voice mirroring his own defeat. “Ever since I met you, I,” you pause to release a shaky breath, voice cracking with each syllable you verbalize. “All I’ve ever wanted is you.” 

Luigi’s heart plummets, the weight of your words settling heavily in his chest. 

Luigi has never loved anyone the way he has learned to love you. It was ridiculous of him to believe he could love someone the way he loves you–relentlessly, unconditionally, and all-consuming–without consequence.

The phrase still punctures him right to the core, like a knife being plunged into him, over and over. The tremble in your voice, your unmistakable sincerity, cuts him deeper than any pain he’s ever known. All Luigi truly wants to do is turn around. 

To fall to his knees and beg for your forgiveness, to tell you you’re everything he’s never known that he’s always wanted. 

But his fingers only tighten around the doorknob, legs trembling as they continue to push him forward. Slowly, he pulls the door open. The hinges creak softly, the sound piercing through your shared silence. 

Once he steps into the threshold, the warmth of the room behind him–your warmth–slips away, right between his fingers. The cool air of the hallway bites at his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the chill in his chest. He feels himself hesitate, shoulders falling under the heaviness of it all. 

Say something. Anything. He screams at himself, but his lips remain shut. 

He closes the door behind him. When the latch clicks gently, its sound feels deafening. A symbol of the finality of his choice. He only stands for a moment, just as he did before, when the warmth of your love came over his body. He ruminates in the cold. He lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding when the stifled sound of your muffled sobs bleeds through the wood of the door behind him. 

He nearly breaks, right then and there. Nearly. 

He turns and wills himself to walk down the hallway, each of his steps feeling heavier than the last. The fluorescent lights above cast long, harsh shadows upon him, but he pays them no mind. He ignores his vision blurring, head spinning with grief, helplessness, and anger. Your words only ring in his ears, growing louder with every echo of his heels. 

All I’ve ever wanted is you.

It becomes a chant in his head–a mantra playing on a constant, never ending loop in his mind. Everything else becomes drowned out. He feels his fist clench at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms as if the pain might awake him. It doesn’t. He reaches the elevator, feet dragging. He presses the button, the weak ding of the elevator arriving and pulling him from his haze. 

The doors slide open, he steps inside. The metallic chill of the space envelops him. The light of the elevator reflects off its stainless steel walls, making him feel small. 

He reaches for the button for his floor but hesitates, hand overing over the button, mid-air. 

Don’t.

He does anyway. He presses it with the sharp exhale through his nose. 

Just before the doors slide shut, Luigi feels his legs finally give out, and he leans against the wall. His head falls back as he stares up at the metal ceiling. His chest heaves, breathing uneven, legs numb, vision blurring even further. 

All I’ve ever wanted is you. 

It begins before he processes what happens. The tears fall from his eyes quicker than he can manage to wipe them away. Luigi heaves a gut-wrenching sob as the pain in his chest blooms. His body shakes with the force of his anguish, raw and irrepressible. 

As the elevator doors close with a dull thud, he’s finally able to scream. 

The dream shatters.

—

When Luigi wakes, the tears are already falling, hot and heavy against his cheeks, flooding his ears. His chest wracks his being with silent sobs. His fingers brush against his damp face as if trying to wipe away the echoes of your voice and leave them behind him. But it doesn’t leave him. He has a feeling it never will. 

He lays there for what feels like hours, unmoving. He feels like a corpse. 

It takes him longer than he would like to admit to realize something is missing. The realization doesn’t hit him until later that evening, when he’s standing under the steady hot stream of the shower. The water pelts his skin, but does nothing to soothe the ache of his entire body. He runs a hand through his curly, wet locks. He tries to scrub away the fog in his mind, scrub you away, but it’s no use. The fog and the memory of you cling to him like a second skin. 

He steps out of the shower, towel tied loosely around his waist, he stops in front of the mirror. The steam blurs his reflection, so he wipes away the condensation of the mirror when something catches his eye in its reflection. In another mirror behind him, there’s the trace of a mole on his back, faint. 

A mole on his back, in the exact same place you had kissed in his dream. He freezes as the fragments of the dream rush back to him. 

The name–your name. It was there, in that horrendous God-awful dream, vivid and sharp. It echoed in his mind just moments ago. Now, it’s slipped away from him, gone as quickly as it came. It’s there, on the tip of his tongue, he can feel it but he just can’t remember. The harder he tries to hold on to it, the faster it disappears and fades farther away. He closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against the glass of his mirror, and exhales shakily. 

You were gone.

After that, so were the dreams. 

Days without dreams blurred into weeks. The dreams that had once been a cruel comfort had abandoned him entirely. The rest of his life drags on in a haze of monotony, each day more dreary than the last. He wakes up, gets himself out of the house, comes home, and repeats the cycle. 

There’s an emptiness gnawing at him from the inside out. 

The flowers of the corner stand he passes when he leaves the house used to catch his eye–the bright daffodils and carnations bursting with life–but now, they’re dull. The colors of their petals muted by the overcast sky of New York. Luigi finds himself stopping to stare at times, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. He gazes at them as if they will remind him of something, anything. They don’t. 

When the silence of his apartment is insufferable, Luigi goes out to eat instead of cooking at home. Yet, every coffee he orders tastes bitter, no matter how much sugar he adds, and every piece of food he shoves into his mouth leaves a bland aftertaste in his mouth. 

Occasionally, his friends text or call, asking him to meet up. He finds himself declining more often than not. It’s not that he doesn’t care, really, it’s not. It’s simply because he can’t find the energy to fake being “okay.” On the rare instance that he does go, however, he finds that their laughter and lighthearted conversations–that should be comforting–feel static in his ears. So, he sits silently, nursing a drink he can’t muster the willpower to finish.

He takes midnight strolls to avoid resting, wandering the city aimlessly. He lets the cold air penetrate his skin as he searches for something he can’t name. Perhaps a purpose, maybe a sign, an indicator of your presence. Anything to fill the empty pit in his stomach that has grown every day since you’ve been gone. It all feels so futile.

 When Luigi is home, the clock ticks loudly. The hum of the fridge grates on his nerves. The TV drowns out his silence, but the dialogue of the shows he plays are nothing but meaningless background noise. 

The ache in his chest persists.

—

Months pass before Luigi begins to convince himself he is moving on. Slowly, reluctantly, but moving on nonetheless. The dreams never returned, and with them, the constant emptiness in his gut that made him feel hollow. The name–the one he couldn’t bring himself to remember–had grown quieter in his mind.

His days filled with monotonous routines ground him. Errands, nights out with friends, light exercise, reading helps him from thinking about you for too long. He’s forced himself to return texts more regularly, forcing himself to engage. 

He tells himself it’s progress. That he’s healing, maybe even healed completely. Deep down, he knows better. 

The ache hasn’t disappeared, but he’s learned to live with it. It’s only buried itself deeper, settling into a quiet part of his mind he tries not to pay any mind to. Though, it sometimes resurfaces in unexpected ways: in the warmth of sunlight creeping through his blinds or in seeing signs with bright, colorful lettering as he walks through his neighborhood. Small things. Things that should be insignificant to him but now, because of you, aren’t.

Still, Luigi tells himself it’s enough–that the progress he’s made, however small or hollow it feels, is better than being stuck. For a while, it is. He believes it. 

Until he sees you. 

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind he’s found usually blur into the rest. Luigi wanders the streets without purpose, allowing his legs to move him along wherever they please. Then, through the fog of his rumination, you appear. 

You sit in a coffee shop, your head bent over a book, a mug of coffee settled beside your hand on the table. The gentle glow of the afternoon light spills through the window and catches in your hair. Just like in his dreams. 

For a moment, the world stops and all Luigi can do is stand there, across the street, frozen on the sidewalk, staring like a deer caught in headlights. 

It was you–unmistakably, indubitably you. 

His breath hitches. He wants to look away; convince himself this is some cruel trick of his imagination. He can’t. There’s no mistaking you. The gentle curve of your face, the way your lips press together in concentration as you turn a page. He could cry. 

Without realizing it, his legs begin to move, carrying him across the street, weaving through the bustling crowd. 

The bell above the coffee shop door chimes as he steps inside. The cheerful, bright sound cuts through the muffled conversations and clinking dishes of the shop. 

It’s fate, his heart says. The universe rings a bell, just for him, to tell him this is exactly where he needs to be. 

You look up at the sound, your eyes scanning the room briefly before they land on him. Everything else fades away. The noisy hum of the coffee shop fades to a distant murmur, the busy streets outside a blur of motion he can no longer see. All that exists is you. 

Your eyes lock onto his, your expression shifting into something resembling recognition–or maybe confusion. But then your lips part slightly, and the smallest hint of a smile forms as your eyes soften. The smile he’s seen so many times in his dreams, now real. He can feel it: that familiar flick of a flame igniting itself in his heart, spreading across the space between you. 

Luigi steps closer, the weight he had been carrying on his back for weeks giving way to something lighter. He focuses on making his way to you without his legs giving out, heart thrumming against his ribcage like a trapped animal. 

As he reaches your table, you close your book gently, placing it on the table beside your coffee. Your head tilts slightly, eyes never leaving his as the faint smile on your lips grows just a little wider. His chest tightens, his mind racing to find the words he’s always wanted to say to you, but now that you’re here–now that you’re real–they vanish. 

Once he’s before you, he stops stupidly. You stare up at him, expectantly. 

What does he say now that you’re here? Do you even know who he is? He must look like such a freak right now, but still, you manage to look as beautiful as ever–even more so in person. 

“Hi,” your voice rips him away from his thoughts. The single word carries more familiarity than he thought possible. 

His throat tightens as he swallows, sound barely audible over the pounding in his ears. His lips part, and for a moment, nothing comes out. He panics but masks it when he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, managing to find his voice. 

“Hi,” he whispers breathlessly.

“Can I help you with something?” you ask gently.

He tenses. The truth gnaws at him. You don’t recognize him, don’t feel the connection he had spent months dreaming about. The world feels like it’s been tilted on its axis. He stares at you, breath catching in his lungs, unable to comprehend the realness of it all. Every detail of you: from the way the light frames your face to the soft curve of your lips, all down to the bridge of your nose. Every detail of your figure he had spent all those weeks dreaming about, every part of you he memorized with meticulous care, it’s all here. He can’t look away, can’t tell himself it’s an illusion. 

“I,” his voice comes out softer than he expects. He clears his throat gently, to steady himself as he speaks. “My name is Luigi,” he says. “I just wanted to say…” He pauses, looking you over from head to toe. It’s you. The girl of his dreams. “How beautiful I think you are,” he breathes.  

He watches your confusion melt into bashfulness. Your face quickly softens into a flustered smile.

“Oh,” you say, heat blossoming in your cheeks. “Thank you so much, Luigi. That’s very sweet of you.” A pause before you laugh–a melodic, gorgeous sound. “I’m (Name).” 

“(Name),” he repeats. It tastes sweet on his tongue. It feels good, it feels right. “You’re very beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” you repeat, laughing once more. Luigi knows at that moment, he’d dedicate himself to making you laugh for the rest of his life if you’d let him. 

He lets out a small, shaky laugh of his own, scratching the back of his neck. “Well, I should let you get back to your book,” he says, gesturing awkwardly toward the table. He forces a smile and takes a step back. “That was really all I wanted to tell you.” 

What a lie, but you don’t recognize him. What more can he do? 

“It was nice meeting you, (Name),” he says gently, and he sees your mouth open to speak, but it feels like too much.

Before you say anything, he turns to leave, moving for the door. The bell above it chimes as he prepares to step out. Just as he reaches the threshold, your voice stops him. 

“Luigi?” 

This feels like deja vu. He makes sure to turn this time, though, meeting your gaze. He watches you hesitate slightly, before gesturing to the chair across from you. 

“Would you like to join me?”

Luigi stares at you, his mind struggling to process what you’ve just said. Then, something shifts within him, just as it did all those months ago as he laid in bed, before the first dream had ever occurred. It eases the ache that has lingered for so long.  

He nods, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he takes a step back toward you. He sits in the seat across from you and you smile once more. He is whole. 

For the first time in his life, Luigi feels the fullness of a love that is unwavering. He has found everything he never knew he needed, and it’s more beautiful than he ever could have imagined. 

[skywalkoverme]

𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐞

a/n: Here is the threesome I mentioned yesterday!! I hope you enjoy!! Sorry, Ewan's photo wouldnt load :(

𐙚 Anakin x Fem x Kenobi 𐙚 THREESOME 𐙚 || 18+ MDNI

Summary: You spend the night at your friends dorm.

Warnings/contains: College AU, Anakin + Kenobi are athletes, smut, p's in v, double penetration, sex tapes, multiple creampies, face fucking, slapping, hair pulling, choking, marking, hickies, sex modeling, sexual teasing, proof read-- english is not my first language!

Word Count: 4.1k // More on my Master list! + follow & reblog pls

Athlete’s Dorm: ‘9:02 PM'

“What do you mean, broken?!” He stood in his dorm hall with his roommate. Soon, the hall was filled with students fanning themselves and chattering.

“I mean, there’s a guy here to fix the AC, Skywalker. Just bear with me, ok?” Anakin folded his arms, and leaned back onto the door frame as more people asked the RA questions. “Alright, everyone! Calm down! There are fans in the lobby! You’re welcome to—” The students began to push past the RA to the elevators. “Whatever.”

“I hate this building.” Anakin groaned, pulled off his shirt and left the door to his dorm open.

‘10:12 PM���

He sat at his computer, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, and two energy drinks by his keyboard. The fan on his shelf blew warm air onto his sweaty, shirtless torso. After procrastinating for a week, his essay for his government class was due as well as a handful of chemistry assignments. As he typed, he thought of all the time he wasted crashing in other’s dorms or jerking off after class--- “Ahg!” The young man grumbled and folded his arms. “I’m goin’ to the vending machine, ya want anything?” He asked his roommate, Kenobi.

“Empty calories. No.” Kenobi said with his back to Anakin as he went over his biology notes with a highlighter.

Anakin sucked his teeth and grabbed his wallet before heading to the elevator. I fucking hate this old ass building…stupid fucking government class. Interrupting his thoughts, the elevator took him down to the lobby.

Every area was filled with sweaty and complaining students. Some lay on the floor and others, across furniture and against walls. Anakin was quickly distracted by a group of his teammates who stood together. “What’s so funny?” He placed a gentle hand on one of the guys.

“Girl in your room?”

Kenobi would kill me. He thought. “I’m writing an essay.” He called over his shoulder as he got a water and something sweet from the vending machines.

“That can wait. We’re about to take a walk~” A friend of his raised his eyebrows.

“Tempting. But no.” A few of the guys groaned, some sighed.

“You’re missing out!” One guy called out.

“Oh, yeah?” Anakin continued to walk around the lobby, eventually finding his way to the RA telephone on the desk behind the counter. He walked around the desk and started to dial a number---

“Skywalker! What do you think you’re doing?!” One of the staff asked with a groan, trying to avoid staring at his bare torso. He raised a finger to his lips. The woman gasped and stormed towards the coordinator’s office.

After a few rings, you picked up the landline on your nightstand. “Hello?”

“Hey, beautiful.” Anakin said smoothly after taking a sip of his water.

You turned over your left wrist and smiled at your watch. “It’s late, Mister Skywalker. What is it? Ran out of Red bull?” You speak into the landline as you remove your jewelry for bed.

He chuckled, playing with the phone cord. “An hour ago, yes. But that’s not why I’m callin’, Sweetheart.” You rolled your eyes, a hand on your hip. He was a known sweet talker and did nothing to hide it. You’re sure he could convince you to balance fine China on a tightrope with a simple smirk. “How was your day?” He leaned on the desk of the lobby.

“It was good.” You bit your bottom lip, a lock of hair around your fingers. “Yours?”

“Rather lonely, can you believe that?” He asked softly.

You shook your head before realizing he was simply on the phone. “U- Ahem, no.”

“Do you want to know why, Sweetheart? I didn’t see you in class.” He whispered the last part; your lips spread with need. “Where were you?”

“Doctor’s appointment.”

“And you thought to tell no one?” He asked sweetly, your feet swung under you as you sat at the end of your bed. “You should know, I sent out a whole calvary to find you. I was worried.” That charming sarcasm always grasped you so tightly.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, handsome.”

“Tsk, well you did.” He sighed, “You’ll have to make it up to me, Sweetheart.”

���Yeah, I know.”

“As the Teacher’s Assistant…it’s your job to help students in need, right?”

You rolled your eyes playfully, “I suppose. It depends on what that student needs.” Breathlessly, you spoke while imagining him on the phone with you. Making that sly smirk, toying with something that didn’t belong to him.

“My essay. Will you come help me?” You knew he’d have you in his dorm until morning. Not that anyone cared in his dorm, but this was looked down upon. A TA sleeping with her student; you should be ashamed but thank God you aren’t.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He chuckled, “Bye now…”

You arrived in lobby only four minutes later and quickly walked up to him, holding an armful of books with crooked glasses on your face. He could tell you put on a subtle amount of makeup in the car. Pajama pants waved in the wind created by the fans in the lobby, your tank top clung to your distracting figure. His eyes traced down your body. “Why is it so warm in here?” You asked while glancing over the groups of students.

“Shit. I forgot to tell you: the AC blew.” He shook his head, walking closely as you went to the elevator.

“Damn, I’m sorry. But that explains…all this.” You took a long look around the room again at the shirtless men and women in sport bras. You muttered, more needy than you expected, “You are…so lucky to live in this dorm.”

“Tsk, get in the elevator.” He lightly slapped your ass. You quickly shuffled into the elevator; your books in his arms as the doors closed. “Kenobi’s likely still in there. Midterms are knocking him on his ass.”

“He’s not the only one, I’m guessing.” You shrugged and Anakin ignored the comment before entering his dorm.

“I was thinkin’ more…write a paragraph, get some head in the study nook down the hall. Y’know, alternate between the two.” You rolled your eyes faster than he could get the words out.

“Hey, Ken.” You hugged his shoulder before sitting at Anakin’s desk. He hummed a ‘Hello’ and continued highlighting. Anakin rolled his eyes as you pushed his trash into his already full wastebasket.

“Alright, Interior decorator.”

He leaned over you as you sat, his palms on the top of the desk. “You should…get a new rolodex…” You whispered as a drop of his sweat dropped and slipped down your right breast. “It’s full.” Your heartbeat thumped quickly in your chest before you looked up at him and he was smirking.

“It’s been filled for a while now.” He added. You turned your attention to his computer. “It’s an argumentative essay over state law and federal…who should have more power or somethin’.” He waved a dismissive hand and opened your government textbook to the unit. “You’re my TA. Don’t you have the answers?”

A single line of sweat ran from his adam’s apple down his collarbones, to his pink nipple. “A- uh.” His tanned skin continued to draw your eyes back, “It’s an essay. Not a multiple-choice test.” You mumbled, “Did you keep the rubric?”

Anakin ran a hand through his hair and looked through his mess of papers from his desk. “Maybe I dropped it.” He went to Kenobi’s desk and picked his government binder from the shelf.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“See, I knew you wouldn’t mind. I just need it for a few seconds.” Anakin offered you Kenobi’s binder as you began to type his essay onto the file. “Make sure you include a few spelling mistakes.” He said while leaning over you.

'10:59’

Minutes passed and he began blabbering about his game and spinning a ball on each of his fingers—or at least trying to. “…with Notre Dame. Coach said tighten up but I’m not stressing. Half of ‘em are on coke anyway.” He shrugged, “So are you coming?”

You turned from the computer and to him. “What?”

He groaned and rolled his eyes, “Are you even listening?” He tossed his ball into a laundry basket across the room. “Come to my game!” He groaned again, his head tucked into your neck, his nose buried in your hair. “Ken’s gonna be there.”

Kenobi rolled his eyes, “I must be there. I’m the team manager. Don’t guilt trip her.” His broad shoulders strained against a sweat-soaked cotton shirt. Ken blew cool air into his shirt before he pulled it off his body. “Fuck, it’s hot.”

Anakin ignored his friend, his hands on your sides. “I can’t focus on you right now, Anakin.” You whispered as he playfully licked your neck.

“I’ll let you work.” He said, resting his chin on your shoulder as you wrote his essay.

“I expect to be paid handsomely for this.” You referenced Kenobi’s notes and your textbook as he simply watched you work.

He peered over his shoulder to be sure Ken wasn’t listening, “How about a few rounds of leg-shaking head?” You slapped one of his hands softly, “Oww!” He whispered, hugging you tighter. “For my girlfriend, you are quite feisty.”

“I’m not your girl, Ani.”

“Why is that again?” He asked before slipping his large hand into your pajama pants.

You whipped your head in his direction, “What are you doing?” You hardly whispered.

He pressed his lips against your temple, “I’m helping.” Before you could disagree with him, he moved the chair closer to the desk to conceal the location of his hand. “Just some motivation.” He whispered into your hair as his fingers ran up and down your slit. You decided to give your attention to his paper. “See? It’s working.” His fingers rest over your warm slit. “Someone shaved~”

“Oh stop! I did that before you called.” He snickered, “Ken, I need your help.”

“Don’t call him over here.” Anakin groaned and took his hand from your pants.

“Yeah? What’s the matter?” When you turned your head, your eyes were met with Ken’s bare torso. His chest covered in blonde hair as he rubbed his mustache. You stuttered for a moment before Anakin turned your head towards the computer by your braids.

“Uhm…c- could you both read this? I want it to sound natural like Anakin.”

“Sure thing.” Their hands rest on the back of the chair as they read through the paper; “You mind?” You took the warm mouse in your hand and scrolled down some. “The paper looks good…just…” Ken leaned down until his chest hair rubbed your shoulder and he began to make a few changes to the conclusion.

“Sounds like me.” Anakin shrugged.

“Alright, we can print it before class on Monday.” You began to stack your books and offered Kenobi his resources.

“Where are you going?” Ken asked as the room’s fan tossed the young men���s hair, sweat ran down their tanned bodies as you fixed the strap of your tank top. “Home already? I thought you’d stay.”

“Really?” Anakin turned his head to his dormmate. “You never let me have guests.”

“This is different.” He shrugged and organized his books on his shelves. Your eyes shifted between the two and ran down their toned backs. “She’s a TA, a good influence.” Anakin could feel that Kenobi was trying to butter you up. And right in front of him?!

You weren’t focused on the unspoken words, just the two figures, glistening with sweat under the faint desk lights. Both men were powerfully built, their muscles taut under tanned skin. Kenobi, a stockier man with a porno mustache (that you suggested), wiped a hand across his brow, leaving a streak of sweat. Anakin ran a hand through his damp, dark hair. His chest heaved slightly with each breath, revealing the network of muscles beneath his skin. 

Both men, clearly uncomfortable in the stifling heat, radiated an almost palpable aura of sexual frustration.

‘12:04 AM’

Anakin offered you his jersey and in the bathroom, you changed out of the heavy pajama pants and sweaty tank top. The airy jersey and panties gave you room to breathe as you lay in Anakin’s bed with an ice pack over your head.

“How about you stay still so I can kill you!” Anakin snapped as they leaned over the console; fingers shifting on their controllers.

“He never wins.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Anakin barked behind him as you lay on your side, observing the two. After a tussle, Anakin covered Ken’s eyes and won the in-game match. He smirked and tossed his controller on his beanbag.

“No, no, no! Rematch! That was cheating!---” Anakin followed Kenobi’s gaze to his bed. You were bent over while adjusting his puffy pillows for your head. When the room fell silent, your attention shifted to them.

“What’s wrong?” There was only silence as their hungry gazes ran over your tanned thighs and round ass up to the open sleeve of the jersey; your perky breasts showed from the side before you quickly covered yourself with a pillow. “Don’t stare!”

“You look like a model.” Anakin drooled.

“An indecent one.” Obi-wan sneered before putting his hands up, “I meant no offense!”

Anakin folded his arms over his chest, “What did you mean? Y’know, she’s my girlfriend.”

You chuckled and moved hair behind your ear. “No, I’m not.”

“Tsk, Y/n!” Kenobi was messing with something by his bed as Anakin began to beg, his face on your warm, thick thighs. “You’re the only girl I’ve seen this month!” You rolled your eyes and pushed his forehead, “I want to take us seriously. Why are you so hesitant?”

“Because you’re a man-whore.” Ken said over his shoulder as he slipped a new battery into his digital camera. You curiously sat up on your knees as he turned it on.

“What’s that for?” You asked as your hand ran through Anakin’s hair and down his back. His eyes were shut as your nails gently scratched his skin. Kenobi pressed a finger to his lips to shush you and raised the camera to his face. You discreetly moved the fabric of the jersey over and flashed a tit at the camera.

Behind Anakin’s back, you’d been fucking Ken. Only when Anakin had class and even then, he’d find any excuse to skip so it wasn’t easy. It’d been two weeks since you last fucked Ken; he’s starving for you and your teasing didn’t help. The man bit his lip as he stared at your hard nipple.

When Anakin picked up his head, you quickly kissed him. He was fairly distracted by your gesture but as the flash of Obi-wan’s camera went off, he pulled himself away. “M- mhh! What are you doing?”

“Taking pictures of my pretty girl.”

Anakin was angered as you bit your nail, a knowing look traded between you both. “What is he talking about?” A pause. “You slut.”

“Like you’re so different.” Anakin didn’t find you funny. “Just come here, Ani.” You pat the bed, crawling backward to make room for him.

“I don’t want to share.”

“You’ve been doing it for months.” Ken adds while taking more pictures of you. In the covers, Anakin couldn’t lie, you looked stunning. More than that, you looked like a woman straight out of his Playboy magazines. Anakin took the camera from his dormmates hands and began to go through them. The two turned to each other and back to you. “I have a camcorder.”

The light flashed red as it rest on the bookshelf, pointed to the bed. You rest on your hands and knees; Ken pressed his crotch against the front of your face as you left messy kisses along his cock and full balls. The two had suckled on your neck and attacked the flesh with passionate kisses. Already, the purplish-red bruises marked your skin. You’d experienced groping before but nothing so possessive. The two men groped, licked and slapped the curves of your breasts, thighs, ass and throat.

Anakin’s hands gripped your hips as he moved against you, the pace was fast and rough, but it felt so good while you arched your back. Your clit bumping into his pelvis while he bucked into you harshly, the sound was slick and wet. “You feel so fucking good~”

Ken took your tit into his hand, pinching and rolling the nipple over again in his forefinger and thumb. His breath was hot as he murmured, “Take that down your throat.” His cockhead pushed past your lips and deep into your mouth. Your fingers clung tightly to the covers as your eyes watered. “Don’t bite me.” He warned as he grabbed you by the braids and guided your hot mouth along his shaft. His head threw back as you swirled your tongue around his shaft.

The room was filled with a symphony of sounds - the creaking of the bed, the slick slap of skin against skin, and your combined moans, chokes and gasps. Obi-Wan's eyes met Anakin's, a look of shared pleasure passing between them.

As you were turned by Obi-Wan's strong hands, he took a moment to admire your curved back and the plump flesh of your rear. Ken’s blue eyes darkened with lust as he positioned himself behind you, his muscular frame hovering over your smaller form. He leaned down, his blonde hair brushing against your back as he pressed hot kisses along your shoulder blades.

Anakin fisted your long, dark hair, pulling your head back and exposing your neck as he positioned himself at your plump lips. The scent of sex and the musky aroma of the men’s arousal filled your nostrils, making your head spin. Anakin rubbed the slick tip of his cock against your soft lips, smearing them with his pre-cum. “Hm,” He chuckled, slapping your face with his cock. “Of course you want two cocks in you. I should’ve known.”

“Open your mouth.” As you parted your lips, Anakin pushed forward, sliding his hard length into your warm, wet mouth. He groaned at the sensation, his grip tightening on your hair as he began to move, fucking your face with deep, steady thrusts.

Obi-Wan matched Anakin's rhythm from behind, his hips rolling forward to bury himself deep inside of your tight heat. The dual sensations of having both men pleasuring you was overwhelming; you could feel yourself being pushed closer to the edge for the first time tonight.

Obi-Wan took the camcorder into his hand and filmed the sight of your jiggling ass that slapped so lewdly against his hips. His hand slid down to slap your ass a few times; staining your cheeks with red marks. Your pussy tightened from the slaps and unique grind of Ken’s hips. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of their balls against your skin, and their ragged breaths and moans. “Haha!” The man filmed the sight of saliva on your face and in your hair as Anakin treated you roughly.

Anakin continued to thrust into your pretty mouth, his grip on your hair tightening as he found his sweet spot in your throat. “Look at me.” Your eyes lolled up to meet Anakin’s gaze. He could feel you choking and whining; your throat vibrating around his sensitive cock, only serving to make him cum faster. Ken drove into you with deep, and quick strokes that had you seeing stars.

Obi-Wan's hands slid around to your front, finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around the sensitive nub. You pulled your head from Anakin’s cock and broke down trembling, pathetic squeals left your lips. “Shhh.” Ken chuckled past your ear as he filmed your face. He could feel your walls starting to flutter around his hard length, and he knew you were close.

Anakin couldn’t care less about your helpless whimpers. He took the camera and pulled you by your hair, his balls pressed onto your face. You lapped at the swells and took them into your mouth.

Anakin placed the camera behind him and pulled his balls out of your mouth with a groan, a string of saliva connecting his package to your swollen lips. He flipped you over onto your back, holding your legs up and spreading them wide for Ken. Obi-Wan followed suit, never breaking his rhythm as he continued to drive into your hot, tight core.

Together, they worked in tandem, their bodies moving as one as they brought you closer and closer to your orgasm. Anakin leaned down, capturing your swollen lips in a lewd kiss, swallowing your gasps. Ken’s fingers began to work your clit once more, rubbing and circling the sensitive bud as he felt his own release approaching.

Before long, Anakin’s cock filled your tilted mouth again.  Your back arched off the bed, your nails digging into Anakin's thighs as you finally let go. Your orgasm crashed over like a tidal wave, your inner walls clenching and spasming around Ken’s pistoning length.

As you lay on your back, Anakin gripped your hair tightly and picked up the pace of his frenzied thrusts into your mouth. His hips snapped forward rapidly, slamming his thick cock deep into your throat with each stroke. “Good girllll…” Ken continued to drive into your fluttering, over-sensitive pussy from below, extending that perfectly intense orgasm. As you purred, he could feel your walls still clenching and unclenching around him, milking his own release.

Anakin's pace became erratic as he neared his own climax. With a strangled groan, he pushed himself balls-deep into your mouth and held himself there, his cock pulsing as he spilled his hot seed down your throat. His balls covered your nose as you began to search for air. Obi-Wan followed seconds later, spilling his own release deep inside your quivering core with a low, deep moan of your name.

“M- more.”

Anakin and Obi-Wan exchanged a glance, a look of surprise and renewed arousal passing between them at your plea.

Some time later

Anakin sat up, his sculpted abs glistening with a sheen of sweat. He scooped you up into his arms, his hand gripping your thigh possessively as he positioned you to straddle his lap. His cock, already hardening again, prodded against your cum-covered entrance.

With that, Anakin pulled you down, spearing you onto his hardening length in one smooth, deep thrust. At the same time, Ken pressed against your back, his own fat cock nestling between your warm ass cheeks as he began to grind through them. Your hands cuffed around Anakin’s face as they exhaled onto your sweaty skin.

Anakin gripped your hips, slamming you down onto his thick cock with each powerful thrust. Behind her, Obi-Wan's hands slid around to grope your breasts, kneading the soft flesh and rolling your stiff nipples between his fingers. He caught your lips in a passionate kiss, swallowing each cry of pleasure as the sex grew more intense. “You want me to cum in your ass?”

You could only moan and whimper in response, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of being so thoroughly taken by the two athletes. You could feel Obi-Wan's hard length pressing insistently against your backside, grinding in time with Anakin's relentless thrusts.

Their pace grew more intense, more urgent, as they chased their next releases. The small room was filled with the sound of their harsh breaths, and of course, your needy moans. You could feel the coil of another orgasm building low in your belly, your walls started to flutter and clench around Anakin's plundering length.

“Please…I- I” Your voice quieter than you expected as they each took a side of your neck into their mouths. Ken gently slipped inside of your tight ass; his hand pressed on the back wall behind Anakin’s head.

Anakin watched your twitching features. “Cumslut.” Your body convulsed, back arching as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. Your pussy clenched and spasmed around Anakin's pistoning length, milking him for all he was worth. “A- hmp!” His head hit the back of the wall as he buried himself deep inside of you. Ken’s cock pushed past the tight rings of your asshole as he came within the perfect, suckling heat.

Your lips were taken by Ken’s before given to Anakin. You tried your best to keep your mind still as their cocks nestled inside of you. Anakin’s tongue rubbed against yours; Ken’s tongue licked up and down your neck as their sweaty skin pressed against yours.

a/n: long one, hope you enjoyed!! I wrote this a month-ish ago so pls ignore the mediocre writing here.

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Dividers (as always) from @cursed-carmine

[kwanniverse]

the way back home

[you as seventeen's 14th female member series]

relationship: platonic genre(s): lots of comfort, very touching, happy ending!! warning(s): none word count: ~3.3k summary: it's simple. they miss her. so does she. fate brought them together as fourteen, and fate lead her the way back home, to them, to seventeen, to the fourteen of them together.

pt 3 of 14th member 'home' short series, read pt1 here, and pt2 here! special epilogue here!

this is the last part that i'm so sorry took ages to upload i was facing some glitch issue but its finally here! thanks for all the support on this one and this series was sm fun to write! finally happy ending haha, hope you enjoy and if you like this, follow for more works!

you stared at the screen, heart stumbling in your chest.

“please... if you ever read this, just let us know you're okay.”

simple. soft. almost too careful. and somehow, it shattered your breath in your lungs.

it didn’t say "come back." it didn’t demand forgiveness. it didn’t pretend like everything was fine.

just… are you okay.

a second ding snapped you out of your thoughts.

slowly, you unlocked your phone and the same message reappeared.

your thumb hovered over the reply box. the cursor blinked expectantly, a small, pulsing invitation. your fingers trembled. you didn’t know what to say. how to answer. how to unravel the storm of emotion that churned beneath your ribs.

you had spent weeks burying the ache. painting over your grief with quiet routines and solitude. the first night alone, you didn’t sleep. the second night, you cried so hard you thought the walls would crack. by the fifth, your tears ran dry—but your heart stayed heavy.

and still, you stayed away.

you remembered the exact words thrown at you like knives. remembered how they didn’t flinch when you begged to be heard. remembered walking out with your dignity fraying, wondering if any of them would run after you.

none did.

you told yourself that was the end. that you had to move on. you filled your days with meaningless errands, sat alone in cafes where no one knew your name, stared at your reflection until you couldn’t recognize the girl who once stood on stage beside thirteen boys who promised you forever. but no matter how far you tried to run from that night, the memories lingered like bruises beneath your skin.

and yet... here was this message. not a grand gesture. not an apology.

a thread.

a whisper in the dark.

your thumb moved instinctively. maybe to type. maybe to block. maybe to finally scream everything you never got to say. but your chest tightened. your breath caught. your vision blurred.

you couldn’t answer. not yet.

forgiveness wasn’t easy. and love—once shattered—didn’t always come back whole. sometimes it returned cracked and tender, quieter than before, needing time to find its shape again. you closed your eyes, pressing the phone to your chest, as if you could absorb their remorse through the glass. the silence pressed in. your tea remained cold.

but there was something else now.

a seed. not quite hope. not yet forgiveness. just... a crack in the door. and yet, you smiled. faint, small, weak, but it was a smile. your lips curved upwards, your eyes twitched, and you smiled. you smiled.

and maybe a smile was all it took to change everything.

as it seems fate must have seen your smile, everything that unfolded the next few days went past in a blink of an eye.

it started small.

a box at your door. no name, no label—just a small, careful thing wrapped in brown paper and string. inside, a tiny fox plush you thought you’d lost forever. the one you used to carry on every tour stop, tucked safely into your bag. the one you clutched in your dorm bed during hard nights when the noise of the world grew too sharp. the one you left behind in your rush to escape the silence.

its fur was ragged. its eye was a little crooked, sewn back on with mismatched thread. but it was there. home. taped to its ear was a note. just three words, scrawled in a handwriting you knew by heart.

"we kept it."

you stared at it for hours, fingers curling tightly around its small body, the thread catching on your skin like memory. you didn’t cry. not yet. but the ache in your chest shifted. just a little.

two days later, your name trended. not for scandal. not for speculation. not for the usual rumors that followed silence. but for a song. seventeen had released a new track—no teasers, no schedule. just lyrics. and those lyrics were for you. you.

not directly. not by name. but in the way they sang about missing pieces. about empty spaces no light could fill. about the sound of laughter that no longer echoed in the corners of their home.

“we counted stars and missed one. the one we let fall.”

“we built a stage, but without you, it echoes.”

“sorry doesn’t rewind time—but if it could, we’d have shouted your name louder than our pride.”

the bridge was seungcheol’s voice—raw, hoarse, frayed with the weight of words too long unspoken.

“we thought silence would keep the peace. but we let it bury you.”

and when the chorus hit, something in you cracked. not like a break. more like the sound of a door finally creaking open after being shut too long. this wasn’t for image. this wasn’t to win anyone back. it was a confession laid bare, trembling on a melody. they didn’t stop.

little things. quiet things. deliberate things.

a delivery of banana milk—your favorite brand, always hard to find—arrived at your door, with a sticky note clumsily written in pink pen: don’t forget to eat, shortie <3 you knew that handwriting. woozi. though he’d never admit the heart was his.

then came a hoodie. yours. worn, familiar. it smelled faintly like jun’s cologne and the detergent from the dorm. something tucked into the pocket. a usb drive. you hesitated. then you remembered your smile from just a few days back. you missed smiling like that with them. you missed the pillow fights, the binge watching of kdramas at midnight (where you and seungkwan cried together every time), you missed the dorm chaos, the late night convenience store runs for instant noodles and hoshi's very important jongga kimchi, you missed the many hours of non-stop practicing and falling on your backs, exhausted when you were done but seventeen always encouraging you, you missed singing in woozi's recording studio, and yet most of all, you didn't want to admit it, but you missed them. without a second's thought, you plugged it in. your hands trembled.

it was a video.

no makeup. no glamour. no edits. just the thirteen boys you once called family, huddled in the messy dorm living room. no script. just heart. seungkwan was the first to speak.

“hi, y/n. if you’re watching this… i guess you didn’t block us. yet.” he tried to smile, but his lips trembled. “that’s… already more than we deserve.” he stepped aside, and the others took turns—raw, breaking, real.

jeonghan didn’t smile for once. his voice shook. “i was cruel. i acted like you were a burden. but it was me. i couldn’t admit how much i needed you. so i hurt you first. that’s cowardice. i know. and i’m sorry.”

mingyu looked like he hadn’t slept in days. dark circles, red-rimmed eyes. “you begged us to listen. and i… i stayed quiet. i thought it’d blow over. that you’d come back on your own. but you didn’t. because we broke something. and we’re the ones who need to fix it. not you.”

vernon didn’t say much. he sat in the back, silent tears tracing paths down his cheeks. his voice was quiet, almost inaudible. “i miss you every day. and god i'm sorry. for everything i said, i know my words hit you the hardest and i'd regret them every day for the rest of my life.”

joshua spoke gently, his voice a hushed apology. “i used to call you my little sister. but i wasn’t the brother you needed. i saw you slipping. i knew you were breaking. and i looked away.” his voice broke. “i failed you. i’m so sorry.”

dk had drawn something—a crumpled comic of you and the group, stick figures with exaggerated smiles and sparkles. at the bottom, it read: we’ll wait. even if it takes forever, because forever is the 14 of us. hoshi didn’t speak much. just held up a sign. you’re our 14th. you will and have always been. nothing changes that.

the camera panned. seokmin was crying silently, holding a tissue to his nose. even wonwoo—stoic, usually unreadable—was blinking fast, jaw clenched like he was holding back a sob. minghao’s voice, usually sharp and precise, came softer this time. “i thought i was being honest. but honesty without empathy is just… sharp edges. i was so focused on being right, i forgot what it meant to be kind. i forgot you. i’m so sorry.” then it was seungcheol again. he sat at the front, hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“no excuses,” he said. “no begging. just… if you still have space for us—any space—we’ll fill it with love this time. the kind that listens. that stays. that protects.” his voice cracked. “we’ll never be whole without you. but we don’t expect you to come back to broken promises. so this time, we’ll earn it. we'll wait, as long as eternity takes because fate will always bring us together, all fourteen of us, fate will lead the way back home.”

you didn’t reply. not right away.

but you watched that video three times a day.

you slept with the fox plush again. you cried into your pillow until your chest ached from the effort. you whispered their names like prayers, like scars, like lullabies. you missed them. you missed them. you missed seventeen.

and suddenly, one day, you showed up.

no warning. no message.

just the quiet sound of your footsteps outside the dorm, your hand hesitating on the door handle. your stomach lurched and hurled, your heartrate increasing rapidly. you could hear the blasting of music inside and the laughs that didn't quite resonate with you. those laughs weren't their laughs. you could imagine and picture how they smiled, but their smiles never really reached as high as usual. you breathed, and you pressed down the door handle. when you opened it, the music stopped. bodies froze. thirteen pairs of eyes turned toward you. the silence was deafening.

the dorm was dim, soft yellow light flickering against the walls, casting long shadows that felt more comforting than eerie. the quiet hum of the heater filled the space between heartbeats. no one spoke for a while—not out of awkwardness, but reverence. like they were sitting in the presence of something sacred.

you found your way back home.

you were back home.

you were home.

home.

you stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, heart thundering. and for a moment, no one moved. then seungcheol stepped forward, slow, cautious, like you were a dream he was afraid to touch. he didn’t reach out. didn’t overwhelm you. just looked you in the eyes. “don’t say anything if you’re not ready,” he whispered. “we won’t mess this up again. just… let us show you. let us try.”

and you broke.

not in anger. not in bitterness.

you folded.

you wept.

and they ran to you.

seungcheol was the first to break the silence, voice low, heavy.

“i rehearsed this a hundred times in my head,” he said, hands folded tightly in his lap. “and every time, i thought it wouldn’t matter. that maybe… we were too late. i led us. i’m supposed to protect us. and i failed you. i let the room turn against you, let the air grow too heavy for you to breathe. i thought if i kept quiet, if i stayed neutral, i could keep the peace. but silence was the wound. you didn’t need me to be neutral. you needed me to fight for you.” he looked down, knuckles white. “i’m sorry. i’ll never choose peace over you again.”

jeonghan leaned back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he couldn’t bear to look at you directly. “you were always the softest of us. so easy to tease. i thought it was harmless—jokes, sarcasm, a little push here and there. but i crossed lines. i saw the cracks and kept poking anyway, because i didn’t want to deal with my own guilt. when you left, it felt like karma. and it hurt. because i finally saw how much you gave us, and how little we gave back. i’m sorry i didn’t protect your heart.”

joshua reached for your hand gently, like he was asking for permission just to hold it, and you let him. “i always said i’d be your big brother. but i wasn’t. i saw how tired you were, how much you wanted to be heard, and i did nothing. i thought… maybe you’d tell someone else. maybe it wasn’t my place. but i knew. and i didn’t act. and that’s worse than ignorance, isn’t it? i love you. we all do. and you deserved every ounce of that love when it would’ve mattered most.”

jun’s voice was quiet, but steady. “you made us laugh. even on days we didn’t deserve to smile. you stood beside us, even when we made you feel like you stood alone. and that’s what kills me. i let you feel alone. you were never a guest in this group. you were one of us. my family. my sister. and it breaks something in me to know you didn’t feel that. i’ll spend the rest of our days showing you differently.”

hoshi sat forward, elbows on his knees, heart in his throat. “i’m the mood maker, right? the sunshine. but when you needed light, i was somewhere else. i brushed off your pain. called it a bad day. told you to just cheer up. but you weren’t being dramatic. you were drowning. and i didn’t throw the rope. i let my brightness blind me. i’m so, so sorry.”

wonwoo cleared his throat, eyes fixed on the floor. “i don’t talk much. that’s not new. but with you, i thought you could feel my care, even in the quiet. turns out, silence doesn’t always equal comfort. sometimes, it’s just emptiness. i should’ve said something. anything. stood up. said, ‘hey, she’s hurting. why aren’t we listening?’ but i didn’t. and that silence, it haunts me.”

woozi was next. his voice, usually sharp and purposeful, cracked on the first syllable. “i pride myself on my words. on knowing how to say things in songs when i can’t in real life. but i had no lyrics for you. no defense. i failed you as a producer, as a member, as a brother. you were hurting right in front of me, and i just… turned it into fuel for another track instead of holding your hand. i don’t want to write about you in past tense anymore. i want you here. and i’ll work every day to earn that.”

minghao leaned forward, gaze intense but gentle. “i thought i was being fair. critical. honest. but my honesty cut too deep. i wanted you to grow, but not like that. not at the cost of your spirit. i forgot that growth without care is just cruelty. and i know now… i wasn’t helping. i was hurting you, and calling it ‘tough love.’ that’s not love. and i see that now. i want to be better. for you. for all of us.”

mingyu’s hands shook a little as he spoke. “i’m supposed to be the warm one. the one who notices when someone’s quiet, who cheers people up. but i didn’t notice you were breaking. i was too focused on my own stress, my own tunnel vision. and i took your strength for granted. thought you’d always bounce back. but you weren’t okay. and i didn’t see it until you were gone. i’m sorry. i missed you so much it hurt.”

dokyeom’s voice was thick with emotion, his eyes already red. “every time i laughed after you left, it felt wrong. like something sacred was missing. you were our harmony. our balance. our smile. and i didn’t defend you when the room turned cold. i should’ve shouted. should’ve cried. should’ve done something. but all i did was smile like everything was fine. and when you left, i realized… my smile was hollow without you.”

seungkwan didn’t try to hide his tears. “i was so mad at you. not because you left. but because i couldn’t stop you. because it hurt so much to watch you walk out and not chase after you. i was scared. scared that if i ran after you, you’d say goodbye to my face. and i couldn’t handle that. so i said nothing. and every day since, i wished i had done anything. screamed. cried. begged. something. because now all i have is regret.”

vernon was quiet, then said softly: “i didn’t know how to help you. i never know what to say when things go bad. but i saw you. i noticed when your smiles didn’t reach your eyes. i noticed when you stayed behind after practice. and i noticed… when the light in you started to flicker. and i just watched. i’m sorry i didn’t speak up. you deserved someone louder.”

dino reached for your hand last, eyes wide and brimming. “i always looked up to you. you made me feel like i wasn’t the only one who had to prove something. we were the youngest. we got each other. and i let you down. i thought if i stayed quiet, they’d stop fighting. but my silence made them think it was okay. i miss you so much. please let us try again. please let me stand with you this time.”

you looked around the room—at the broken boys who had once let you walk out without a word. and now, they were here, laying their hearts bare on the floor, asking for another chance not through performance or apology—but through vulnerability. your voice shook when you finally answered.

“it’s not perfect. i’m still healing. but… i believe you.”

the relief that washed over them was silent, like a storm breaking.

you were home.

and this time, they’d never let you feel alone in it again. they slowly huddle together, forming a circle around you, and then cheol asked, his voice shaky, "may we hug you?"

you didn't answer, yet your open arms gave them a good enough answer to absolutely give you the most tight-squeezing, suffocating hug you've ever been hugged your whole life. it wasn't to smother you, it wasn't to fix it in one hug. but to hold you. to cradle every piece of you that fractured that night. to apologize with every trembling breath.

dino clung to you, his body trembling. “i thought you hated me,” he sobbed. “i thought we lost you forever.” you cupped his face, tears streaking your cheeks. “you didn’t lose me,” you whispered. “i just needed time to find myself again.”

joshua stood behind him, eyes red. “can we… start over?” you smiled through your tears, voice shaking. “no. let’s pick up where we left off. but better.”

that night, the dorm felt like home again. laughter returned—cautious, softer, but real. you all sat in a circle. takeout containers half-eaten. hands tangled in yours. hoshi placed a paper crown on your head.

“for our princess,” he grinned. “the 14th star.” you laughed. really laughed. and so did they. their real laughs this time.

and something in you began to mend. they didn’t pretend everything was perfect. they didn’t rush your healing. but they stayed. they listened. they learned how to love you the right way.

and finally, for the first time in what felt like forever…

you let them, because you knew the way back home would always lead you to them, to the 13 quirky dorks that made your life both miserable and full of joy, to the thirteen of them you couldn't express enough gratitude towards, to seventeen.

[leejenowrld]

first ballerina dream

paring — single father! na jaemin

word count — 720 words

synopsis — single father na jaemin, finally free from the shadow of hospital rooms, holds his miracle girl’s hand as she twirls into her very first ballet class. every step is a triumph, every laugh a gentle unraveling of all their old fears. in the hush between piano notes, he learns what it means to witness your child’s dream—soft and shining—come true.

the characters in this drabble are characters from my na jaemin fic ‘𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓,’ this drabble is slightly off the main plot and a reimagined world. just something i wanted to write.

There are mornings when Jaemin wakes before the sun, curled protectively around the small, warm body of his daughter—her cheek pressed against his chest, one tiny fist curled in the fabric of his shirt. These are the hours when the world is silent and the only sound is Haeun���s breath, soft and uneven from so many nights spent fighting for every inhale. Sometimes, Jaemin just watches her sleep, one hand splayed over the gentle rise and fall of her back, guarding her heartbeat like a sentry on a forgotten shore. Even in sleep, she stirs at the smallest shift, her lashes fluttering against his collarbone, and he’s reminded again of every night they counted machines’ beeps instead of sheep, every lullaby sung beneath fluorescent bulbs. He never lets himself forget—not the weight of her, not the way his hands still tremble when she coughs too hard, not the promise he makes anew with every sunrise: as long as he breathes, nothing will ever touch her.

When the diagnosis first arrived, it crashed through his life like a tidal wave, sweeping away every illusion of safety. He remembers carrying her, so small she fit into the crook of his arm, into exam rooms painted in sterile blues and grays, hearing words like “congenital,” “rare,” and “life-threatening” echo off cold tile. He learned the taste of fear—sharp, metallic, constant—as he watched doctors draw blood from chubby arms and nurses tape wires to her chest. Jaemin became the unmovable wall between her and the world: every doctor had to answer to him, every medicine was triple-checked, every chart scrutinized with a surgeon’s eye. His possessiveness grew not out of pride, but out of survival—if he blinked, he feared, she might slip away. He would hold her during procedures, whispering soft encouragement, his body physically between her and anything that hurt, memorizing the curve of her fingers as she gripped his thumb and the shudder of relief that rippled through her when he wiped her tears away.

In the darkest months, when hospital walls closed in and hope seemed to waver on the edge of every doctor’s voice, Jaemin built their world out of ritual and touch. He learned how to braid her hair one-handed while she clung to his sleeve, how to read her favorite story upside-down so she could see every picture, how to draw sunbeams on her cast with a purple marker until she giggled through her pain. He dressed her in yellow—always yellow, the color of stubborn joy—laid soft blankets over her, carried her pressed close against his chest from room to room. If anyone looked too long or asked too many questions, his gaze was ice; if anyone tried to suggest she needed less—less comfort, less holding, less of him—he bristled, every muscle taut with the urge to shield her. His love for Haeun was possessive not because he needed to keep her, but because he had nearly lost her, and the ache of almost was carved into his every touch.

Now, every milestone is a small, private victory: when Haeun’s fever finally broke, he wept in the bathroom with relief; when she took her first steps, he nearly crushed her with the strength of his hug, whispering “brave girl, you’re so brave, you’re everything.” Even a trip to the ballet studio is an act of courage, a silent promise to the world that she’s more than her scars. Jaemin watches her with a gaze that never wavers, ready to intervene if her breath falters, hovering at the edge of the room while she learns to spin and leap, shoes too big for her feet, tutu slipping sideways. He is present for every moment, every giggle, every stumble—so alert that even joy feels fragile in his hands. Anyone watching would see a man haunted by fear, made beautiful by it, a father who would torch the world for his daughter and still gather her close, whispering vows against her hair: “No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here. You’re safe, baby. You’re safe.”

It’s a morning spun from honey and cotton, the kind of fragile, golden newness that tastes like hope. Jaemin kneels to lace up tiny ballet shoes, his big hands moving clumsily over delicate ankles, careful as if he’s stringing pearls or learning a prayer for the first time. Haeun sits on the studio bench, grinning around a mouthful of hair as she tries to tug it into a ponytail herself. The light from the windows paints the pale wisps of her hair gold, and when she lifts her arms for help, Jaemin swears his chest might break open with pride and disbelief—she’s here, she’s whole, she’s his. He gathers her close, knotting her hair with a pink ribbon. “Ready, sunshine?” he whispers, and she nods, solemn as a queen.

He crouches beside her as they walk into the mirrored studio. Haeun’s dress is the softest shade of yellow, skirts like whipped butter, and she clutches her bunny in one hand, unwilling to let go even for her debut. The teacher kneels to greet her, and Jaemin watches her introduce herself in the shyest voice, holding tightly to his leg. “This is my Dada,” she announces, wide-eyed. “He’s my bestest.” Jaemin tries to hide his smile, nodding at the other parents, the edge of nerves sweetening his awe—after so many months of beeping monitors, cold hands, and the taste of fear, this feels almost like a fairytale.

He sits quietly on the floor as the music starts, heart in his throat as Haeun tiptoes after the other girls, arms outstretched like little wings. Her movements are clumsy and soft, but every time she glances over her shoulder, Jaemin smiles wide, hands over his heart, mouthing encouragements—that’s it, baby, you’re doing it, you’re flying. She beams, mouth open in wonder, cheeks flushed with pride and effort. Each little twirl is a miracle, every giggle a psalm. At one point, she wobbles and nearly trips, but catches herself and runs to Jaemin, throwing her arms around his neck. “Dada! I ballerina now! Did you see me?”

He lifts her onto his lap, squeezing her gently, forehead pressed to her temple. “You’re the prettiest ballerina in the world, Haeunie. Daddy’s so proud of you.”

She giggles, whispering, “Daddy, can you spin too?” And he does—clumsy and enormous, arms sweeping her up into the air, the two of them laughing as they spin, dizzy with lightness and relief. Other parents smile, teachers laugh, but in this moment it’s only the two of them—her safe in his arms, pink ribbon trailing, bunny squished between them.

When class ends, Haeun sits on his lap, sweaty and spent, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I love you, Dada. You come every time? Even when I’m big?” Her voice is a whisper, uncertain, as if the world might change again if she says it too loud.

Jaemin kisses her brow, squeezing her tight, promising, “Always. Daddy’s never missing a single dance. Not ever.”

He wipes her cheek as she munches her snack, still in her tutu, sticky hands clutching his fingers, legs swinging above the floor. The sunlight lingers in her hair, gold halo catching every little movement, every sign of her hard-won joy. She turns and kisses his nose, giggling, “You smell like home, Daddy. You make my heart happy.” Jaemin’s eyes sting, but he just laughs, pulling her in close, memorizing the weight of her in his arms, the sound of her voice, the gentle miracle of this ordinary, extraordinary morning. In this room of music and mirrors, she is whole, and so is he—her dancer, her hero, her forever place to land.

moodboard of our ballerina girl 🫶🩰

interested in what you read? check out ‘𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓’ heart to heart is a gritty, devastating, and ultimately healing medical drama about a cold, brilliant chief pediatric surgeon and a younger, timid intern who falls into his orbit—all bound together by a sick, abandoned baby girl who needs saving as much as they do. expect age gap, single dad, forbidden workplace romance, found family, medical realism, and angsty, dominant smut that pushes every boundary. this is a story of healing and destruction: trauma, touch, and the raw lengths people will go to for love, with every kiss, every loss, and every reunion written in blood and sunlight. at its core, it’s about three broken souls who find home in each other, even as the world tries to tear them apart.

[wlwoceaneyes]

The weight of what we left behind

pairing: emily prentiss x masc!reader word count: 2.4 k summary: When Spencer Reid’s world unravels, your path crosses with Emily Prentiss again — and so does everything you thought you’d left behind. You’re the sharp-suited attorney brought in to save him from prison. She’s the Unit Chief trying to hold her team together. And between you? Unfinished history, quiet tension, and a spark that never really went out. tags: unresolved feelings, tension you can taste, defense attorney!reader, Unit Chief Emily Prentiss pictures: Kelly Sikkema Unsplash // Hermes Rivera Unsplash

A/N: This story is based on this anonymous request I received — thank you, whoever you are, for the prompt and the trust! I really hope this hits the notes you were hoping for. And I hope you like it, I got a bit carried away while writing...

The first time you see her again, it’s at Quantico. You’re wearing your usual: a tailored navy suit with crisp lines, open collar, and polished shoes that catch the light as you move. You don’t wear this outfit to impress, — never —but because you’ve learned that presence matters in rooms like these. People underestimate how much power lives in a clean cut and quiet confidence. Still, there’s a flicker of something in Emily Prentiss’s eyes when she sees you in the hallway. Something that starts as surprise and twists quickly into something warmer, heavier, and far more complicated. You try to hide your amused grin behind your folder, which you lift up as a greeting.

She steps toward you, slow but purposeful, like she’s still deciding whether this is a welcome reunion or an inconvenient echo from another lifetime.

“Didn’t expect to see you back here,” she says, arms crossed, tone attempting neutrality but fraying at the edges.

You arch a brow, the familiar smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t expect to get called in on an FBI internal disaster. But then again, I never say no to a challenge.”

A shadow passes over her face — not from you, but from the reason you’re here. Reid. You’ve read the file. Every line of it. You’d followed the case from a distance — as much as anyone outside the Bureau could. Reid, arrested in Mexico, caught crossing the border with a controlled substance linked to an unsanctioned trip and a body in his wake. His motives blurred by personal desperation, by the crumbling health of his mother, by a web of international jurisdiction and internal politics no one at the FBI seemed eager to unravel.

They hung him out to dry.

You’ve seen it before. You’ve built your career on cleaning up the mess left when institutions protect themselves before their people. And Spencer Reid, despite everything, is still one of theirs. Still a profiler, still a colleague, still Emily’s team. And if there’s one thing Emily Prentiss doesn’t do, it’s abandon her own.

You glance past her shoulder, through the glass walls of the bullpen. A team unraveling. Pressure pressing from every side. And there she stands in the center of it, trying to hold it all together with duct tape and sheer will.

“You’re the only one I could trust,” she says, after a pause too long to be professional. Her voice is softer now, rough around the edges like it’s been ground down by months of crisis.

You tilt your head slightly. “That’s a dangerous thing to say to a defense attorney.”

Her lip quirks. “Then let’s keep it between us.”

It’s not just a formality. There’s a weight in her voice. And you nod, once. “Then let’s bring him home.”

And just like that, you’re pulled back into orbit. Same gravity, same burn.

You and Emily haven’t spoken properly in years. Not since that case in Marseille, when you were both younger and still pretending your lives were simple. You remember the tension then, the long nights, the way she always read your thoughts before you spoke them. You remember the almosts, the drinks you didn’t have, the silence after she left.

And now here she is, Unit Chief of the BAU, standing a little too close, eyes scanning your face like she’s wondering how much has changed.

You become a fixture at Quantico. A disruption at first not in the loud, brash sense, but something subtler. Your presence shifts the balance. You command space and you don’t apologize for it.

Each morning you arrive with coffee, three cups in a tray and one in your hand for her. You hand it over without a word, and she accepts it without thanks, because there’s no need. You still remember how she takes it. Black, no sugar.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Garcia watches you like she’s watching the second act of a drama she’s been rooting for since season one. One afternoon she plants herself beside you in the bullpen and sighs dreamily.

“That suit is illegal in five states,” she says, chin propped on her hand. “Seriously, you make Armani look like a lifestyle choice.”

You smile around the rim of your coffee. “Flattery will get you classified files, Penelope.”

She winks. “And Emily? Blink twice if you’re emotionally compromised.”

Emily doesn’t blink. Just walks past with a muttered, “You’re all children,” but her gaze lingers on you longer than necessary.

--

It’s in the interrogation room that you see her — really see her — again. Not the composed Unit Chief shaped by years of protocol and paper-pushing, but the woman you met in smoky bars and narrow alleyways, the one who once stood shoulder to shoulder with you under the hot Marseille sun, a cigarette in one hand and danger thrumming beneath her skin. The fire in her eyes now is the same. Unfiltered and unrelenting.

You stand back, arms folded across your chest, blazer tailored to sharp angles, shoes planted like you own the ground beneath them. You only watch, because Emily Prentiss doesn’t need help. She needs space to act. And you’re not the type to get in the way of a storm in full swing.

Emily leans across the table, palms flat against the metal, her voice like cut glass — smooth, cold, and devastating. Her blouse dips slightly as she moves in, hovering just close enough to make the air feel heavier.

“You think you can lie to me?” she murmurs, tone even but lethal. “You think you can twist your story into knots and I won’t notice the frayed ends?”

The suspect shifts in his seat, there is a twitch in his jaw, a flicker in his gaze. She’s got him.

She begins to move — slow, deliberate — the way a hawk circles prey that’s already bleeding. Her questions are scalpels now: slicing, layering and precise. Each one tighter than the last. Each answer he gives pulls the noose a little more.

What he thought were clever lies unravel into threads of panic. And in the silence between her words, the fear blooms.“If you so much as breathed near Spencer Reid with intent,” she continues, and you catch the subtle quiver in her fingers, the steel threaded with fury, “I’ll bury you in federal process so deep, you’ll beg for solitary just to remember what your own voice sounds like.”

The man breaks, not with a bang, but a slow, visible collapse. His breath stutters in his chest before it ever makes it to his mouth. His eyes dart from Emily to the door, his hands tremble. You watch as something in his shoulders folds inward, caving under the weight of her words and the inevitability of the truth.

He tries to speak, but the syllables tumble out in fragments — half-formed, half-swallowed, like his mouth can’t keep up with the panic clawing up his throat.

“I… I didn’t mean— It wasn’t— I just…”

His gaze drops to the table, as if the cold surface might offer sanctuary. But Emily doesn’t let up — she doesn’t need to. She simply straightens, her eyes never leaving his, and in that charged silence you see it: he’s done.

Not because she shouted, not because she threatened him. She saw right through him, and he knew it.

Emily straightens slowly, the faint crack of her bones echoing in the tense room, a breath held tight deep in her ribs, fire banked but far from extinguished. She doesn’t meet your eyes again until the door hisses shut behind her.

“That was…”

“Hot?” you offer, one brow arched, the corner of your mouth tugging upward.

She turns that signature glare on you, but there’s a flicker of amusement behind it. “Effective.”

You grin wider, shoulder to shoulder now, warmth blooming between you.

--

She sees you in action, too. It’s not the same, there is no mirrored glass, no interrogation table, but it’s no less commanding.

The courtroom isn’t built for grace, but you move through it like a conductor guiding an orchestra of chaos. Every step is deliberate, every gesture precise. Sometimes it feels like a carefully learned dance: the steps, the mimicry, the controlled movements. You stand beside Reid, shoulders straight, confidence rippling from you like silk under tension. Your suit, dark and perfectly cut, shifts with every breath. Your presence fills the room, not loud, and never aggressive, just undeniable.

When you speak, the prosecution leans in, wary. The judge watches you like she’s waiting for a reason to interrupt, but never finds one. You dismantle the narrative with cool exactness, pointing to gaps and protocol failures with a tactful ruthlessness that makes even seasoned agents squirm. But never once, do you let Emily’s name cross your line of fire.

She’s in the back during the hearing. Doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. You can feel her gaze — quiet, unwavering, trained on you like a pressure point between your shoulder blades. She never did like being powerless. And watching someone she cares about on trial? That’s never been something she could sit with easily.

Afterward, the hallway is quiet, fluorescents buzz overhead, and the scent of bitter coffee clings in the air. You’re leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, cuffs rolled just enough to bare the line of your forearms. Your tie hangs loose, your posture relaxed — the kind of worn elegance that reads like ease but was honed from years of war in courtrooms and backrooms alike. The coffee in your hand is awful, but you sip it anyway.

When Emily appears at the far end of the corridor, her steps are slow. Not hesitant, just heavy, like she’s still holding the weight of everything that just passed. She stops a few feet from you, gaze traveling over your face, down to your loosened collar.

“You were… impressive in there,” she says quietly. “You didn’t pull punches.”

You glance sideways at her, a slow smirk tugging at your mouth. “I’m always good. You just never stuck around long enough to see it.”

The words come out softer than they could have. There’s no accusation in them, only memory. The echo of a hotel hallway in Marseille, years ago, and a door that never opened again. You will never forget the silence.

Emily exhales slowly, looks away for a moment, like she‘s considering what to say next.

“I left because I was scared,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Not of you. Just… of what it was turning into.”

You can only nod. Not because you forgive her, you never really blamed her. But because you understand. Because you’ve been running, too.

Your eyes find hers. Your heart is pounding in your ears, but you need to be honest with her.

“I was scared too,” you admit, voice low, roughened at the edges. “Just didn’t get the chance to run first.”

That draws a flicker of something from her, not quite a smile, not quite regret. A shared truth, a shared pain. For a second, neither of you speaks. The air between you is still, charged with the quiet gravity of two people orbiting something they never dared to name.

Then her phone buzzes — a case update, maybe. Reality creeps back in, and Emily glances at the screen with a frown, then back at you. “Duty calls.”

You nod. “It usually does.”

She hesitates, like there’s more she could say, but instead, she just touches your arm as she passes. Her fingers linger just long enough to make you wonder what might’ve happened if either of you had opened that damn door years ago.

And then she’s gone. But the silence she leaves behind isn’t empty this time. It feels like the end of a chapter, or maybe just the pause between two.

--

The night Reid walks free, the sky splits open. Thunder grumbles across Quantico, and rain lashes the asphalt like it has something to prove. The team celebrates in hushed tones, the kind of joy tempered by weeks of fear and exhaustion. Laughter echoes down the hallways, plastic cups thudding gently against tables, the quiet sound of relief shared in sips as you step into the bullpen.

They want you to celebrate with them, but you slip away because you want to see her.

You find her in her office. The blinds are drawn, and Emily leans against her desk, a folder in her hand. You’re drenched when you step inside. Your shirt is clinging to your chest, your suit jacket folded over one arm, tie hanging loose like an afterthought.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” you say, a goofy smile on your face.

“You’re not,” Emily replies, her voice softer than you expect.

She moves toward you, slowly. No longer Unit Chief, no longer agent. Just Emily. Just a woman standing in front of someone she should have let go of years ago but never did.

She stops close, close enough to see the droplets still caught in your lashes, to feel the heat radiating off your skin beneath the wet cotton of your dress shirt. Her fingers brush yours, barely there. But it’s enough.

“You did good,” she says, eyes never leaving yours. “More than good.”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Careful, Prentiss. That almost sounded like praise.”

She tilts her head, a rare and vulnerable smile tugging at her mouth. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

You step closer, bridging the last few inches. Voice low. “Too late.”

And then you kiss her.

It’s not fireworks, it’s gravity. A slow collapse into something inevitable. Her hands find your chest, fingers curling into the fabric. Yours slide along her waist, memorizing every inch you once had to ignore. It’s the kind of kiss that’s been building through every coffee, every sideways glance, every word unspoken in Marseille and every step untraveled since.

When you break apart, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling between you, you whisper “So… how’s that for timing?”

She laughs, the sound warm and cracked open. “Long overdue.”

And when she kisses you again, it’s not with heat or urgency, it’s with the weight of everything you’ve both carried. The regret, the longing, the impossible timeline you’ve finally stepped free of. A future no longer out of reach.

There’s no need to say anything more. Because this, the press of her hands to your soaked chest, the feel of her lips brushing yours again and again as the storm rages outside, this isn’t closure. This is continuation.

And this time, you’re not letting go.

[supernotnatural2005]

Cherry Pie

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Dean's feeling blue when he believes you have forgotten his birthday... or have you?

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Swearing, SMUT!! (18+ONLY) fluff.

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN WINCHESTER!! 🎉 in honour of @scoobydoodean 's birthday party for Dean 2025 post, I have wrote a little something for our favourite hunter. Boy it's a ride 😅 but I really enjoyed writing this one. I hope you enjoy. ☺️

Masterlist

Dean wasn’t one for birthday celebrations. To be honest, he’d never truly experienced one—not in the way most people did. Growing up in the life of a hunter didn’t leave much room for cake, candles, or balloons. Birthdays were just another day, marked by a new set of scars, another hunt, or a quiet night spent patching himself up. 

In his adult years, if he wasn’t in the middle of a case, he’d spend the night nursing a beer in some dimly lit bar, convincing himself he didn’t care. If he was lucky, he’d even find someone to warm his bed for the night, a fleeting distraction that never really filled the void. Birthdays were hollow, just another tally to another year alive.

But then, everything changed when he met you.

You’d stormed into his life like a hurricane, dismantling his defences and staking a claim on his heart before he even knew what hit him. At first, your insistence on making every occasion special baffled him.

He’d brush off your plans with a dismissive shrug, insisting he didn’t need all the fuss. But you were relentless. You made it your mission to show him he was deserving of celebration—of love—and you did it with such conviction that, slowly but surely, his walls began to crumble.

It wasn’t easy for him to accept at first. The scars of his past ran deep, and the idea that someone would go out of their way just for him felt foreign—almost wrong. But you had a way of breaking through his stubbornness with a smile, a laugh, or a simple touch that reminded him he wasn’t alone anymore. Over time, you turned his scepticism into something unexpected: anticipation.

However, as he shuffled into the kitchen that morning, seeing as you weren’t in bed when he woke up, he couldn’t help but glance in your direction, half-expecting some grand gesture or, at the very least, a good morning kiss. Instead, you barely looked up from the coffee machine, murmuring a quick “morning” before heading out, muttering something about reorganising supplies, leaving him confused beyond comprehension.

The rest of the day was no different. Every time Dean tried to strike up a conversation, you were already onto the next task—cleaning, organising, cataloguing. By lunchtime, he’d given up entirely, retreating to the war room with a beer in hand.

Dean told himself he didn’t care. It was just another day, after all. But the lack of acknowledgment, at all, from you stung more than he wanted to admit. He kept replaying moments from the day, wondering if he’d done something to upset you. Maybe he’d said something stupid. Maybe you were just tired of him? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

By the time evening rolled around, Dean was nursing his third beer and wallowing in a cocktail of self-doubt and resignation. “Figures,” he muttered to himself, leaning back in his chair. “Not like it matters anyway.”

But the ache in his chest told a different story. Maybe it was childish to sulk, but it was you who had made him this way. He was happy going on not caring, he didn’t need it. But you had somehow made him want it.

He eventually dragged himself to the kitchen for another drink. However, when he opened the fridge, his eyes landed on a folded note taped to a bottle of beer. Frowning, he pulled it off and read it:

“Beers on me, birthday boy. First clue: Where you pretend to ‘hit your mark’.”

Dean blinked at the note; it took him a minute to realise you’d been playing a game this whole time. He released a scoff of disbelief as well as slow smile creeping across his face. Boy did he feel dumb. Of course you wouldn’t forget.

A jolt of giddiness as well as warmth sparked in his chest, until he reread the note. “Okay, smart-ass,” he muttered, pocketing the paper.

He made his way to the armoury, scanning the shelves until his eyes landed on a second note taped to a shotgun.

“Nice work. Next stop: The place where you steal my snacks.”

Dean chuckled, especially at the hand drawn angry face. Shaking his head, he headed toward your bedroom. Sure enough, another note was waiting on the little snack box you stashed in your top draw.

“Getting warmer. Now, find the place where you brood the most.”

“That’s a low blow,” he grumbled, making his way to the war room. The next note was tucked under a stack of books on the table.

“Last one, Dean. Head back to where you lay your pretty little head at night.”

Dean laughed outright this time, pocketing the final note before heading to his room. When he pushed the door open, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The room was transformed. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed the walls, casting a warm, intimate glow. On the desk to his left sat a cooler of his favourite beer, what looked to be a homemade baked pie. Apple, from the sweet and cinnamon’y scent, and a small box wrapped in colourful paper with a neatly tied with a bow. 

You stood in front of the bed, dressed in a pretty silk robe; your smooth legs bare, leaving him wondering if the rest of you was underneath, with your hands clasped nervously in front of you, a shy smile on your face.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” you said softly.

Dean stepped into the room, his eyes taking in every detail in awe. “You did all this?”

You nodded. “I… uh, baked the pie early this morning. That’s why I wasn’t here when you woke up. And I know it’s small but, here.” You handed him the gift, a nervous tick in your movements.

Dean took the box from your hands, his calloused fingers brushing yours. He turned it over, examining it with curiosity before shooting you a questioning look.

“Open it,” you scolded playfully, a giggle slipping out as he raised the box to his ear and gave it a testing shake. He smirked at your reaction but obeyed, tearing into the wrapping paper. He set the crumpled remains aside carefully, revealing a plain box underneath. Sliding off the lid, he pulled out a cassette tape.

It was labelled in your handwriting: ‘Dean Winchester’s Playlist.’

“I compiled all your favourite songs onto one tape… you know, for the longer drives. I figured it might come in handy,” you said, shrugging nonchalantly, though your insides churning with anxiety.

Dean’s smile was soft, almost reverent, as he looked at you, then back at the tape, cradling it like it was something precious. You always found new ways to surprise him. “I love it.”

“Wait,” he said suddenly, as a thought came to mind from a few days ago. “Is this why you ‘borrowed’ my box of tapes to reorganise them?” he asked, making air quotes with his fingers.

You grinned. “Guilty.”

Dean chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made your heart flutter. “I thought it was strange when you returned them, and they didn’t look any different.”

You bit your lip, the memory of sneaking around to plan this flashing through your mind. It had been no easy feat keeping it a secret, especially when you were together so often. And then this morning, when you kept up the facade not acknowledging his birthday, all in a ploy to get things ready.

You were thankful for Sam helping you place the notes whilst you got the room ready.

“Unorthodox methods had to be taken,” you said with a teasing glint in your eye.

“And here I thought you forgot,” Dean murmured, shaking his head. A pang of guilt crossed his face, knowing now how much effort you’d put into this.

“Forget your birthday?” you teased, though your tone was soft. “Not a chance.”

Dean’s smile softened as he took a step closer to you, setting the tape back on the table. “You didn’t have to go through all this, you know.”

“I wanted to,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, everything else faded. His green eyes shone in the glow of the fairy lights, filled with an emotion so raw it made your breath hitch.

“You’re something else,” he said, his voice thick with feeling as he reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His hand lingered, cupping your cheek as his thumb gently traced your skin.

And when his lips met yours, it was soft, almost tentative, as if he was savouring the moment. But as you responded, his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

The kiss deepened, a slow-burning fire igniting between you. Every ounce of tension from the day melted away, replaced by the warmth of his touch and the passion that simmered just beneath the surface.

You were lost in the moment, captivated by the way he held you, kissed you, made you feel as though you were the only thing that mattered. His free hand found your waist, anchoring you to him as he poured every unsaid word into the kiss.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, you managed a soft laugh. “I have one more surprise,” you mumbled, though it was hard to form a coherent thought when he was looking at you like that.

Dean’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing against your jaw and trailing to your neck. “And what’s that?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and husky.

You giggled, placing your hands on his chest to gently push him back just enough to speak. “You’re going to have to let me go first.”

He groaned dramatically but stepped back, his hands lingering on your waist. “This better be good,” he teased, a playful grin on his face.

“Oh, I’m positive you’ll think so.” You grinned over your shoulder as you pulled out a small box you had hidden behind the bedside table. Dean raised a surprised brow, only now just realising now how cunning you actually were. 

You opened the box and dumped the contents onto the bed. Dean walked over and stood behind you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders as he examined what you had. Various bottles of scented oils and lotions spilled across the mattress, and he frowned in confusion.

“What’s all this?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

You turned to look at him, your grin widening as you leaned back slightly against his chest. “It’s for you,” you said simply.

“For me?” His brows furrowed further, though there was a hint of amusement and wonder in his eyes.

“It’s the next part of your surprise,” you murmured, your voice soft and teasing as your hands glided up his chest and over his broad shoulders. Your fingertips pressed into his muscles gently but with purpose, kneading just enough for him to feel the hint of your intentions.

Dean’s eyebrows lifted, his lips curving into that familiar boyish grin that always made your heart flutter. “A massage?” he asked, his tone tinged with playful curiosity but unmistakable enthusiasm.

“Mmhm,” you confirmed, stepping back with a bright smile. You moved toward the bedside, gathering a neatly folded stack of towels he hadn’t even noticed sitting off to the side.

Dean watched you with growing intrigue, his eyes flickering between the towels in your hands and the way you were now spreading them out across the middle of the bed.

“Just making sure the sheets don’t get ruined,” you replied with a sly grin at his questioning look. “These oils might smell good, but I don’t think they’re exactly laundry friendly.”

Dean chuckled, shaking his head with amused disbelief. “You’ve really thought this through, huh?”

“Damn right I have,” you shot back, your grin widening as you pointed toward him with playful authority. “Now, Winchester, off with the layers.”

Dean’s grin turned roguish, a familiar spark of mischief lighting up his green eyes. Slowly, he shrugged off his flannel, letting it fall to the floor before pulling his T-shirt over his head. His broad, toned chest came into view, the scars scattered across his skin telling stories of battles fought and survived. You bit your lip, letting your gaze linger a second longer than you intended.

Dean noticed—of course, he did. His smirk deepened, and the heat in his gaze was unmistakable as he kicked off his boots and slid his jeans down, leaving him standing there in nothing but his boxers.

“Face down,” you instructed, your voice steady despite the flutter of anticipation in your chest.

Dean tilted his head, giving you one last cheeky grin before doing as you asked. His strong, bowed legs carried him toward the bed with an easy saunter, and you couldn’t help but watch the way his muscles flexed and shifted with every step.

He stretched out on the bed with a low, satisfied groan, his back muscles contracting briefly before settling into the soft towels beneath him.

“Man,” he muttered, his voice muffled slightly by the pillow. “This is already shaping up to be the best birthday ever.”

A smile tugged at your lips as you grabbed one of the bottles of oil laying on the other side of the bed. With a quiet squeeze, you poured a generous amount into your palm, rubbing your hands together to warm the liquid. The rich, earthy scent of sandalwood mixed with the comforting sweetness of vanilla, filling the air between you.

Carefully straddling his hips, you started at his shoulders, your hands gliding over his skin in slow, deliberate movements. The tension in his muscles was evident immediately, knots hardened from years of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders—both literally and figuratively.

“Damn, Baby,” you murmured, pressing your thumbs into a particularly tight spot between his shoulder blades. “How are you even walking around like this?”

He groaned at your touch, his head turning slightly to the side. “Years of practice. That, and the occasional beer.”

You chuckled softly, your movements becoming more purposeful as you kneaded the stubborn tension from his shoulders. “Not tonight,” you whispered. “Tonight, you’re going to relax.”

Your hands moved with intention, gliding down the curve of his spine, pausing to work out each knot and tight band of muscle. The scars beneath your fingertips were rough reminders of everything he had endured, but you treated them with reverence, your touch gentle yet firm.

Dean let out a deep, contented sigh, his body visibly relaxing under your hands. “Where the hell did you learn to do this?” he asked, his voice heavy with gratitude.

“Spent some time watching videos,” you admitted with a grin. “Figured I’d need to bring my A-game if I wanted to impress you.”

“You’ve got nothing to prove, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and full of affection.

Your hands moved to his arms next, massaging the strong muscles there before returning to his shoulders for another pass. The sound of his deep breathing filled the room, a clear sign that he was letting himself fully unwind.

As you leaned down, your lips brushed against the shell of his ear. “I love you,” you whispered, your voice rich with warmth and sincerity, the emotion swelling in your chest as your hands continued their devoted exploration of the man beneath your fingertips.

Dean turned his head slightly, his eyes still closed, but the slow, genuine smile that spread across his lips told you he’d heard you loud and clear. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way you said them, with a love so deep it felt like it wrapped around him, soothing the cracks he’d hidden from the world.

Although he was a man of very little words when it came to it, more of a shower than a teller, you knew he felt the same.

The tension seemed to melt away beneath your touch, replaced with the softness of surrender. You lingered at his shoulders, sweeping the area one last time, before sitting upright with a satisfied smile.

Dean’s eyes blinked open at the absence of your hands, his brow furrowing slightly before he rose onto his elbows with a deep groan, rolling his shoulders as if testing how light they now felt.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice a little rough. “Didn’t think I could feel this loose.”

He turned to look at you over his shoulder, his green eyes narrowing with curiosity at the sly smile playing on your lips.

“On your back,” you instructed, your voice soft but laced with an unspoken promise that made the air between you hum with anticipation.

Dean’s brows lifted slightly, his lips twitching into a grin as he rolled onto his back, letting you slip off him to make space. His movements were deliberate but eager, his gaze never leaving yours. His eyes were hooded, glinting with both wonder and heat as he watched you, waiting for your next move.

You trapped your bottom lip behind your teeth, your gaze smouldering as you reached for the belt of your robe. Slowly, you untied it, letting the fabric part and glide down your body to pool in a crumpled heap at your feet.

Dean’s breath hitched audibly, his chest rising sharply as his eyes roamed over you, drinking in the sight. You were clad in nothing but a satin night-dress that skimmed every curve, the soft fabric clinging in all the right places and leaving little to the imagination.

“Sweetheart,” Dean rasped, his voice thick with admiration and desire, “you’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

You stepped closer, your bare feet silent against the floor as you leaned over him, your hands finding their way back to his chest. “Not tonight, Winchester,” you murmured, your lips curving into a teasing smile as you pressed your palms to the solid planes of his body.

“Tonight, I’m going to take care of you.”

Dean’s heart thudded in anticipation, licking his lips as you once again climbed aboard, this time settling snuggly against his crotch. 

He moaned his approval as he realised you’d forgone underwear, the warmth of your slick heat seeped through onto his hardening cock. 

“Fuck.” He cursed at the sight of you. His hands instinctively running along the flesh of your thighs.

“Look at you, all tense again.” You tutted disapprovingly, your lips twitching into a sly smirk. You leaned over to the side of you again, making sure to grind your hips into him as you did. 

His responding moan sent a bolt of heat straight to your core, his hands tightening on your thighs just enough to leave a dull, thrilling ache. The unspoken tension crackled in the air, thick and heady. You shifted slightly, settling back into your previous position, pouring another generous amount of oil into your palm.

You never broke eye contact as you rubbed your hands together, warming the oil between them. The heat wasn’t just from the friction—it radiated between you, an unspoken promise that left your breaths shallow and synchronised.

Then, slowly, you pressed your palms to his chest, letting them glide over the firm, taut muscle beneath. The oil slicked his skin, making your movements smooth and deliberate as you traced the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

Dean let out a deep, gravelly moan, the sound vibrating through your hands and sending shivers down your spine. His head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before they reopened, hazy and half-lidded. He stayed still, patient for once; his hands resting on your thighs, his grip firm but reverent as though grounding himself in the moment.

Your touch shifted between soft and purposeful, your fingers digging into the knots buried deep beneath his skin, ones he didn’t even realise he had in those places. When you reached more tender spots, your pressure softened, your hands moving with care.

All the while, Dean’s gaze was locked on you, flickering between your concentrated expression and the curves of your body. His eyes were dark with desire, but there was something more profound there—adoration, reverence. He was utterly captivated, wholly yours in every possible sense.

To him, you weren’t just beautiful; you were his safe haven, his sanctuary. Every touch of your hands, every gentle motion across his skin, reminded him of how much he was loved, how much he belonged to you.

His chest rose and fell beneath your palms, the rhythm steady but deep, a testament to how completely relaxed he was under your care. For a man who’d spent his life fighting, carrying the weight of the world, and never allowing himself to fully let go, this moment was a rarity.

His heart felt impossibly full, warmth flooding through him in waves. Watching you, feeling you, he was entirely at your mercy. And there was no other place he’d rather be.

His body was sinking again, your, almost professional, hands lulling him into a state of pure blissful relaxation. He’d almost forgot about the feel of your bare pussy, separated by only a thin piece of fabric, against him until you shifted back on your hunches. 

“Hmm.” You frown in though, your expression almost serious. “I think there’s still a part of you that’s not quite as relaxed as I’d have liked.” You punctuate with a role your hips.

Dean groans and drops his head back, his hands quickly finding your hips, feeling rather than guiding the grind of your pussy against his stiff cock. 

“Dammit.” He huffs, both amused and incredibly turned on. “You really are try’na kill me.” 

“I told you.” You smile as you slide off of him again, only to remove his boxers, which he’s happy oblige as you glide them down and off of his legs, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor. You climb back onto the bed, but this time settle between his spread thighs. “I’m going to take care of you.” 

With that you tenderly kiss along his inner thigh, suckling gently at his hip bone before repeating the action the other side. Dean gasps and gawks at you, his hips twitching upwards every time you get near to his aching length. 

Just as he’s about to beg you for more, he feels your lips seal around his leaking tip. He all but cries out. The slow torture of watching you touch his body with so much care and tenderness, all the while feeling the wetness between your legs soak through the front of his boxers, because of that. He’s about ready to burst. 

However, you take your time to suck and lick at the reddened tip, welcoming the salty tang of pre-cum on your tongue with an appreciative moan. Dean fists the sheets beneath him as you work him over with your mouth this time. The sensation is too much and not enough all at once, but again, before he can whine - because that’s what you have resorted him to - you engulf him into your mouth. 

It’s warm and wet and “oh so fucking good”, Dean thinks. You build a steady rhythm, taking him as far as you can go whilst your hand, which was still slick with oil, caresses his balls. 

Dean was a moaning babbling mess, his skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat, his chest heaving, back arching slightly as he fucked up into your mouth. You welcomed it with encouraging moans of your own, sucking him harder, deeper until he was shouting out his climax and spilling down your throat. 

You swallowed everything he gave you, softening your movements as you gently sucked him clean. He hissed at the sensitivity when you finally pulled away, his body going slack and weightless against the mattress. If his heart wasn’t beating so wildly, he was sure he could easily pass out. 

“Relaxed?” you murmured softly, settling against his side. Your hand moved in gentle, soothing strokes over the heated, flushed skin of his chest as he lay there, catching his breath and slowly returning from the blissful haze you’d pulled him into.

Dean let out a shaky chuckle, his chest still heaving slightly. “Holy shit,” he finally managed, turning his head to look at you. His green eyes shone with a mix of awe and disbelief, like he couldn’t quite process how someone could make him feel like that.

You smiled bashfully, your heart swelling with pride at his reaction. “Good?” you teased lightly, though your voice was warm and tender.

“Incredible,” he corrected, his tone reverent. “That was just… wow. I don’t even have words right now.” He let out another breathless laugh, and you couldn’t help but join him, the sound of your shared laughter filling the room with a lightness that made your chest ache.

When the laughter faded, you found yourselves locked in a quiet moment, your gazes tangling. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable; it was charged with the raw connection you both shared. Dean’s face was still painted with the glow of his post-orgasmic bliss, his features relaxed and open in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

Even as a dull ache thrummed between your own legs, you ignored it, content in the knowledge that tonight wasn’t about you. Tonight was for him.

One of his hands reached up to cup your cheek, his calloused thumb brushing tenderly over your flushed skin. The gesture was so intimate, so full of unspoken love, that it sent a shiver down your spine.

His gaze softened further, the warmth in his eyes making your chest tighten. “How the hell did I get so lucky?” he whispered, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of his sincerity.

You didn’t have a chance to respond before he leaned up slowly, his hand guiding you down to meet him. His lips pressed against yours in a kiss that was achingly slow and sensual, the kind of kiss that spoke volumes without needing words.

His lips moved against yours with deliberate tenderness, savouring every second of the connection. The kiss wasn’t rushed or demanding—it was deep, filled with raw emotion, gratitude, and an overwhelming love that poured from him into you.

You sighed softly against his mouth, your fingers threading through his hair as you melted into him, feeling like the entire world had narrowed down to just this moment, just him. However, things quickly began to heat up again.

The kiss grew more needy, more desperate. A new surge of wetness coated your thighs as Dean trailed his lips from your mouth, jaw and to your ear, nibbling on the sensitive lobe until you were a whimpering mess. 

He grabbed your thigh and lifted it to rest against his hip, pulling you flush against him as he did. You gasped in both surprise and pleasure at the feeling of his hardening length pressing against you. 

“Already?” You breathlessly asked, your tone laced with awe and giddiness. Dean hummed in acknowledgement against your neck as his lips sucked and nipped at your most sensitive spots. 

You tugged harshly at his hair as a hand slipped between your bodies, long, thick and callused digits pressing against your swollen clit. You cried out desperately as he began a slow circling motion, tiny shocks of pleasure jolting through your body with each sweep of his fingers. 

Just as you were building, that coil inside you winding tight, his fingers suddenly retracted and you were pushed onto your back. Dean hovered above you, his eyes dark and hooded as he gazed down at you. 

“You know. I have one criticism to make about tonight.” Dean confessed and leaned down to peck your lips once, then your jaw, your neck, your collar bone. You frowned, confused but curious. 

“And what’s that?” You asked a little breathless at his ministrations, and he pulled his head back up to look at you again, a devilish twinkle in his eye. 

“My favourite flavour of pie.” He said almost nonchalant, before he slowly returned to kissing down your body, keeping his eyes on yours as he pulled down the top of your night dress, exposing your tit to him. 

Your mouth opened in a silent moan as he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud and sucked, hard. You arched into his mouth, shivering at the pleasurable pulse travelling down between your legs. 

After lavishing both breasts with his talented mouth, he released you with a soft pop and looked at you again, gradually slipping down your body until his broad shoulders were forcing your legs to part to accommodate him. He slowly slid the hem of your dress up your waist, exposing your soaked pussy to him with a deep hunger in his eyes.

“You’ve always known my favourite is cherry.” He winked, licking his lips before diving in for a taste.

AN: This was so much fun to right. I wish Dean could have really been shown this much love on his birthday. 😭 As always let me know what you think and thank you for reading ❤️

Dean Winchester Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @lyarr24 , @nancymcl

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

Would it possible if you can write a Lost boys(poly if your comfy with it) with a Carrie!Reader (2013 ver) who like, is bullied severely at school, crappy parents and discovers they have telekinesis. they run into the lost boys on the boardwalk, hangs out with them and stuff? But they don’t tell them the bullying or anything about their home life because reasons(make some up if you want lol) or their powers until they run into their bullies in a empty part of the beach and they terrorize them and they snap? And the boys watch and fall in love and kick their feet and twirl their hair? David wants them to turn now even more (falling in love aside) because ✨Power✨ Dwayne wants them because ✨Safety✨ Paul wants them to turn because ✨Sexy✨ and Marko because ✨Crazy✨. Basically their dream girl who is as soft as silk but a lil fucked up?🥺🥺🥺

Also how’s your day been? How you living? You drink water today?

Hi! Yes, this would absolutely be possible! First off, I have to say, I am so sorry for the incredibly long wait. I was busy with work (multiple jobs and only 7 days a week aren't an easy thing to combine with free time), and I prioritised finishing Changes. But now that Changes is finished and all the chapters are written, I finally have time for this request because I've read this several times now and I just think it is so much fun! Anyway, I hope you'll forgive me for not writing this sooner and that you like what I've written! Have a nice day/night/holidays!💜

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

The alley was silent. Three bodies laid on the ground, blood splattered everywhere from the ground to the walls on both sides. One body, a female no older than twenty, came without a head. Or at least, it used to have a head, but what was left of it was barely recognisable as such. There were two male bodies, one twisted and turned as if it were moulded in clay, the other drained as if all liquid inside the body spontaneously decided to evaporate.

Needless to say, it was a mess.

I stood between those three bodies, not knowing what to do. In all honesty, I was still not entirely sure about what happened. One second, they began to call me names - again, like they always did - and the second I felt my anger flare up and poof - there they were gone. Dead. I shook my head as I stared at the blood, unable to keep a single tear from falling down my face.

I blinked, a small frown on my forehead. I was terrified. Not of what scene laid before me, but because of what had happened. I had done this, and I didn't know how. I had killed them, somehow.

"That's quite a mess."

I jumped, turning around. My heart was beating in my throat as I saw David, Marko, Paul, and Dwayne standing behind me. I frowned slightly. It was the closed off side of the alley, so if they'd walked past me, I would have noticed it, right?

"We flew," was Dwaynes answer to my questioning look. I nodded, remembering how they'd told me what they were a while ago.

I had known the boys for quite some time now, running into them once while they were in the videostore. Marko had just grabbed the tape I wanted, talking - well, there's no other way to put it - shit about it. When I had asked for the tape, he had refused to give it to me, instead opting to give me a better alternative. He had been right. Where I had initially wanted to see a B movie called Zombies from Mars, he had given me Return of the Living Dead. It was awesome. The next night, I searched for them on the boardwalk to thank him for the suggestion, and they invited me to hang out with them. Ever since I did so, every night, whenever I could. I told them everything, I was closer to them than anyone else I knew. Well, everything - i couldn't help but chew the inside of my cheek. I had never told them about being bullied. It felt silly when I hung out with them. It was silly when I could deal with it. It was calling names, being pushed into the showers, locked inside rooms, and losing my lunch sometimes - it could have been worse. Some other kids in school were bullied worse, and they didn't complain, so why would I?

"What happened here?" Paul asked as he looked at the bodies.

"I don't know," I said quietly, my voice weaker than I'd liked, "I got angry and then they were just like that."

"They bothered you?" Marko gave me a pointed look, and I knew that I had no choice but to be truthful now.

"They bullied me."

"Bullied? Why did you never say anything?"

"I don't know," I shrugged, not looking at Marko, "it felt silly, and I could handle it."

"Yeah, that much is obvious," David answered, a sly grin on his face. "Has this ever happened before?"

I shook my head. "It scares me. I just killed three people and didn't even notice it."

"Just a regular night for us, am I right?" Paul chuckled, earning himself some glares. "Sure, it's a shock that it happened, but honestly, Babe," he grinned, "it is kind of hot."

"I killed someone, Paul."

"So? We do too."

"And you're certain you've never done anything like this before?" Marko asked, and once again, I shook my head.

"If you can do this without practice..."

"Practice? This was an accident, I don't even know how it happened or -"

I stopped when I felt myself panic, and slowly but surely, I saw the droplets of blood rising from the ground, floating in the air. I stared at it with wide eyes. "Am I doing this?"

"Yeah," Dwayne appeared behind me, taking my hand in his. "Calm down, alright? You're fine, and you're going to stay fine."

"I don't understand..."

"You're telekinetic," Marko grinned, "you could burn this whole town to the ground if you wanted without lifting a single finger."

"I- I don't think I want that?"

"But you could!"

I couldn't help but smile a watery smile at that. "Why are you four not freaked out?"

"Vampire." Was all David said as he looked at me. "Which you could still become, the offers still up."

"I don't know..."

"As a vampire it would be easier to control your powers."

"And we'd be able to keep you safer if they get out of control."

I sighed, looking between David and Dwayne, not knowing what to do.

"But what if I loose control and hurt you? Any of you?"

"You won't," Marko answered, "besides, I never shied away from a bit of pain."

I blushed, shaking my head. "You're incorrigible."

"You know it," he grinned. "You should go home, well clean this up for you."

"I- i can't really go back home, my parents, they are eh-"

"I meant the cave."

"What?" I frowned, looking at Marko and then at Paul and the others.

"You'll live with us," Paul said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You're one of us," David said, his voice holding more kindness than I'd heard before, "so come with us."

I smiled softly, nodding as I let David and Dwayne lead me away from the crime scene. Paul and Marko stayed behind, cleaning up the bodies and the blood, neither of them minding the sight of it.

"Pretty damn cool, this power of theirs," Marko grinned, as he swept some brain matter off the wall.

"Definitely. Makes you wonder what else they could do with this gift," he chuckled with a smirk, causing Marko to roll his eyes.

[maiyz]

TOWNIE | bachira x reader

bar 03: cafe confirmation smth

masterlist

the cafe smells like something burnt and coffee, the suns rays shining through the window and hitting the entire shop in stripes. you pick the booth with the least amount of crumbs and sit with ur hands in your lap. trying to not look at the door too much. (you fail, checking almost every 10 seconds)

you came 20 minutes early not by accident, you wanted to have extra time before rin showed up, just in case

your phone is on the tanle, flipped face down. not that it helps you from not checking it.

read 1:03 pm

nothing since then

you pull out ur laptop, writing about lyric ideas, questions for the coordinator, a few notes about the lighting even though you know no one else in the band cates, not like you do.

you glance at the door again.

nothing.

you keep thinking maybe hes just late. maybe hes walking, maybe his phone died, maybe hes still coming, maybe he just forgot.

or maybe he saw your name and didnt care, which is why you were left on read.

you sink lower in your seat.

its been eleven minutes since 2:30

you open your phone.

the bell ovee the cafe door rings about 7 minutes after you texted chigiri, bachira walking inside.

his guitar strap slung lazily over his shoulder. his eyes find you before the bell stop ringing.

“wasupp!!!☺️” bachira says.

you sit up straighter. “chigiri sent you?”

“yep,” he says, sliding into the booth across from you. “he said something about rin, so. im ur second choice.”

he grins, you dont

you look down at the google doc in front of you. you have a spare laptop in ur bag, its your siblings, you brought it just incase rin forgot it.

bachiras eyes drifts over all the posters taped to the cafe walls, local bands, open mic nights. one of them has your bands name at the bottom.

the guy from the counter waves you over, clipboard in hand. “yn, right?”

you nod and stand, leaving your stuff behind.

as you talk, you can feel bachiras presence behind you.

he doesnt interrupt but he leans closer to you.

you answer the coordinators questions the way you practiced, doors at seven thirty. soundcheck at three pm. well bring our own di boxes. no, we dont need the house keyboard. yes, well be done by nine. he scribbles something down and gives you a half smile.

“anyone else from your group coming by later today?”

“just me.”

you sign the sheet and hand it back.

when you sit down again, bachira doesnt ask why you look so wistful.

you stare down at your lap for 2 minutes until you pack up all your stuff wordlessly.

wraps!

im soooryyyyyy ive been only motivated at night so theres been more typis then usual

do you care… yes ok…

i want more anon hate

wistful

perfect word EVER new fav

yayyyyyy cafe,,, booo rinnnnn

tosay i went to cvs and 7/11 w my sisy and brothers and my step mom picked us up at cvs and started yelling cus my step brother didnt buy her pads

i was so scared she would check my 7/11 bag and see the make up and nail polish me and sissy took

also i took burts bees cus 1. 15$ for FOUR? i just wanted cookies and cream and my cookies and cream i bought is melted, i forgot it in the washing machine. 2. i dont have a two

there wws no workers too

taglist

@chewiebee @risagichi @lobotomyajax @bladeswifesthings @inojinieeee @soph1sticatedly @lorenzoless @ilovealligators11 @adoresia @wrldstrr @const3llatio @heartsforfeitan

sorry if ur not tagged

[em1989ts]

𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒏

ghostface! steve harrington x reader x ghostface! eddie munson

word count: 2.7k

main masterlist.

summary: after a long night of slasher tapes you'd picked up from family video, you get a couple eery phone calls, leading to a frightening break in from two masked figures.

warnings: strong language, knife, suggestive content, honestly i might just make a part two of this where it's just smut cause i totally set it up

author's note: i'm so back in my steve harrington era so here's the fic i've been wanting to write for like two years now

~

It was a windy Saturday night in the middle of October, 1986. You heard your house creak with every chilly gust that hit its walls. It was getting colder and colder in Hawkins. 

You were laying on your side on the couch, wearing an old pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a loose fitting t-shirt, with a throw blanket covering you from your shoulders to the tips of your toes. The light from the television set illuminated your face as you stared intently at the screen, rewatching Friday the 13th for the hundredth time. A stack of tapes you’d picked up today from Family Video adorned the coffee table in front of you as you reached the end of your horror marathon. 

It had been a few days since your parents had left for their business trip, leaving you as their free-of-charge housesitter. As they were heading out the door, they had given you a firm set of rules: 

Lock the doors and don’t leave the house at night. 

You didn’t exactly have the most exciting nightlife so that rule was easy to agree to. Lazy horror marathons were your favorite activity this time of year. You had already carved two jack o’lanterns and placed them on your front steps, one displaying a toothy grin whilst the other grimaced with a fangy frown. You had toasted the pumpkin seeds as a snack but those were gone halfway through A Nightmare on Elm Street which you had seen previously in the night. 

As you lay sideways on the cushion of the couch, your eyes drooped with exhaustion. You unraveled yourself from the blanket and sat up to turn your head to read the analog clock on your wall which let you know it was now one thirty in the morning. A dark blur quickly entered your vision as you looked out the window behind the television. The streetlights lit the quiet neighborhood as leaves blew down the road, nothing else in sight. Although you could’ve sworn you’d seen a coyote or something.

Deciding to call it a night, you stand up to shut the television off but you didn’t see the remote anywhere. Sticking your hand between the cushions, you felt around for the plastic device yet it wasn’t there. You picked up the bundled blanket and shook it around which caused the remote to fall to the floor and under the couch. Tipping your head back in annoyance, you signed and crouched down, getting on your knees and sticking your arm under the couch to fish for the remote. After a few seconds, your hand felt the warm remote and pulled your arm back and as you were still on your knees, you leaned against the couch and pressed the power button on the remote. As the screen faded to black, you stood back up, placed the remote down on the coffee table, folded the blanket neatly and placed it on the couch.

The living room was dark except for the warm lighting that peaked through from the connecting kitchen. You walked across the cold tiled floor with your warm wool socks to make yourself a cup of tea before heading up to bed. Placing a small kettle of water onto the stove, you turned around to reach for the cupboard handle as a sharp ringing gave you a fright. 

You jumped and turned around quickly, although you already knew the noise had come from the yellow telephone hanging from the wall. 

Who could be calling at this hour? 

You picked up the phone and immediately put it back down to stop the ringing. Whoever it was could wait until the morning. Maybe it was just Nancy asking about an assignment due this week, surely she could ask you in homeroom on Monday. 

Turning back around, you went over to the cupboard and pulled two bags of chamomile tea from a box then went over to the cabinet that held glassware as you grabbed a mug you made freshman year in art class. You picked it out specifically for its orange and red glaze, matching the autumn foliage. 

The mug in your hands almost went crashing to the floor as another ring from the telephone reverberated through the kitchen. You tightened your grip after the initial scare and placed the mug gently on the countertop as you went over to pick up the phone. 

Two calls in a row, this must be urgent. 

You weren’t exactly thrilled to have to converse with someone at this time of night but if this was an emergency then you’d have felt awful for ignoring it. You picked up the phone and leaned against the wall.

“Hello?” you asked into the speaker by your chin.

“Hello, sweetheart,” a low voice snickered into your ear. 

You furrowed your brows in confusion. What kind of joke was this? 

“Why are you calling so late?” You were too tired to be playing any games.

“Why are you answering so late?” The voice worried you. It didn’t even sound real, yet the lack of a serious tone made you feel like this phone call could have waited till morning. 

You could hear the kettle of boiling water start to whistle as you started to lose your patience. 

“Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you want but I really don’t care,” you said into the phone, hanging it up back onto the wall as you turned to the kettle to take it off the stove to pour it into your mug. 

As you ripped the tea packets open to begin steeping your chamomile, the phone rang once more. In your mind, the ringing almost sounded more aggressive than the last two times it rang. 

You dropped your tea bags into the mug as you stomped your way to the phone as you ripped it off the wall and held it by the side of your face.

“What the fuck do you-” you started angrily into the phone before you were abruptly cut off. 

“I’ll tell you exactly what we want, sweetheart. Once we get you.” 

“What?” You said into the receiver. Your shoulders slumped with fear as your heart rate quickened. That was not the response that you were expecting. 

You looked towards your front door. You had remembered to lock it right? No, of course you remembered. You double-checked it. Triple-checked it. 

Then why was it cracked open? 

And who was that figure visible through the fogged glass? 

“You might want to run,” The voice suggested. 

Abandoning your tea, you dropped the phone, letting it hit the wall and swing by its curly cord. 

You didn’t know where to run, you were frozen. How could they be calling you from your front door? Who was this person and what were they after? Were they going to hurt you?

As you quickly tried to come up with any plan for evacuation, you heard a creak coming from the door. You looked over to see the figure reach out a gloved hand and grasp the edge of the door, slowly opening it until it was wide enough for them to step in. 

You now saw them in full. A tall, black-cloaked figure wearing a white mask with drooping eyes and a long, open mouth stepped in and stood staring at you. Not making any advances, but not looking friendly either. 

That mask.

Shielding the identity of the intruder, the horrified ghastly expression perfectly reflected the way you felt as your heart sank into your stomach.

Your flight instinct finally kicked in as you skidded down the hallway trying to get away. Since the invader was blocking you from exiting through the front door, you could try to run out the back door, or possibly a window if you had no other choice. 

As you quickly turned the corner at the end of the hallway that led to your dining room which had a door to the back porch, the tall figure suddenly appeared in front of you as you crashed into their chest. The wool socks on your feet caused you to lose your balance and crash land onto the wooden floor in front of them. Your head ached as it smacked against the hard planks. As you regained vision and remembered your situation, you dizzily lifted yourself up enough to lean on your elbows as you looked up at the figure who was now standing menacingly above you. The hallway was dark except for the small nightlight which illuminated the horrific expression displayed on the mask which mocked your lower position.

Before you could scramble away towards the other end of the hallway, the harsh force of a boot stomping down on your hair caused a yelp to escape your lips. Your scalp was on fire from the pain as you looked up with teary eyes to see a duplicate of the masked figure. 

A glint of silver caught your eye as a blade was slowly brought into your line of sight. It made your heart sink further. A blade that was spotless and clean, which meant they either took great enough care to properly clean up after themselves or it had never been used, meaning it was just for show. 

The scuffed leather boot was lifted from your hair which released the sharp tension on your scalp, yet your head still throbbed with pain. Your vision was blurry and your heart continued to beat rapidly and unevenly, causing you to worry whether you could stay conscious to fight for your life. 

The figure with both hands free lifted you up off the ground, grabbing you by your upper arms, and standing you up on your feet. The neck of your tee shirt slipped off your shoulder as you tussled, revealing the skinny strap of your bralette across your shoulder. They turned your body forcefully to have you face their companion as they pressed their chest against you, pinning your left arm behind your back whilst wrapping a bicep around your neck tight enough to keep you in place. 

A gasp left your lips as their muscles closed you in. Your right hand was free which you used to try and pry their arm away from your throat enough to allow you to inhale without a struggle. The mask in front of you stared down at you, inching closer, almost mocking your pathetic position. When the arm would budge, you brought your hand out to rip that smug mask off, you couldn’t take that look any longer. A rough, gloved hand wrapped around your wrist to stop you from revealing their face but it was too late. Your fingers wrapped around the long chin and as their reflexes snatched your hand away, the mask went along with it. 

Steve. Fucking. Harrington. 

Was this a fucking joke? 

His brown eyes gazed into yours with a dark look yet he wore a smile that would forever taunt you. He leaned in closer till his face was inches from yours. 

“Gotcha.”

Your eyebrows scrunched in utter confusion before your expression turned to one of annoyance and anger. You couldn’t believe this. You tried thrashing around in the arms of the unknown accomplice before you remembered your legs were free and started kicking. His face turned impatient as he pulled his hood off, the unknown figure moved their bicep from around your neck and let your arm free from behind your back, only to hold both of your arms to your sides and wrap their own around you. 

You were seething, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Harrington? Do you seriously think this is funny?” 

“Oh definitely, but don’t give me all the credit,” he chuckled as he looked over your head and winked to whoever was holding you in place, giving the okay to unmask. 

An arm left from its place around your torso as it was lifted to remove the ghost mask, revealing Eddie Munson, who placed his grinning face on your shoulder. 

You were disgusted. Why did they even think it was okay to do this, even as a joke? You could have gotten seriously hurt, the cops could have gotten involved. If your parents found out they did this you’d never be allowed to be left home alone overnight ever again, even though you followed their rules perfectly. It was now two in the morning and you were two tired to deal with their antics any longer. 

You knew Steve and Eddie had been getting closer recently, courtesy of Dustin trying to get his two older male friends to bond, which clearly might now have been a good idea. They were both whispering with each other over the counter yesterday when you went to Family Video for your movie night. You had been friends with the both of them individually for a while now but you’d never thought they would pull this shit on you. 

You sighed and tilted your head back, pursing your lips in annoyance as you tried to pick the right words to gently parent them from the angry scoldings in your mind. 

“Okay, you got me,” you said in the most unamused tone you could muster, “Guys, this really isn’t funny. I don’t know what made you think it was okay to do this to me but you can both go home now.” 

You tried to escape Eddie’s hold but he only held on tighter, before nuzzling his face into your neck. Sure, Eddie was very comfortable around his friends, but this was new. 

“We can’t go now, sweetheart. The fun was just getting started,” he mumbled into your neck. 

“What?” you said quietly, confused at what he meant. 

Steve quickly brought the knife up to your face, causing you to flinch and lean your neck further into Eddie, prompting him to lightly bite. 

He traced the silver, curved blade across the silky skin along your chin as he peered down at you with a look that made you shrink. 

“We came here to scare you,” he said darkly, “hoping to get a little more than a laugh.” 

You looked up at him, cautiously aware of your slight movements as to not knick yourself with the edge of the blade. You’d never have thought either Steve or Eddie would think of you like that, yet you couldn’t say you’d never thought of them. 

Eddie removed his face from your neck as he matched Steve’s persuasive look. 

“Come on, sweetheart, you feeling something other than fear? Maybe a heartbeat somewhere else?” He joked with a dark laugh, his hands going lower as you scoffed. 

There was no way you were considering this. Breaking into your home, the frightening phone calls, the knife, the slasher costumes. It was just too ridiculous. 

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t intrigued, weren’t enjoying the attention. The knife on your face with just enough pressure, daring to draw blood, was a thrill you weren’t used to but you weren’t opposed to it either.

Biting your lip as you consulted with your pride, the boys watched you with anticipation and a growing need. 

You lightly laughed at yourself, entertaining the idea, as you gave them a look and nodded. Eddie smirked widely, placing his mask back on before he threw you over his shoulder, Steve following suit. 

They made their way back into the living room before Eddie roughly tossed your body down onto the couch. As you landed, you looked up at the two masked men who stood tall, staring down at you which was quite intimidating but you definitely weren’t as mad as you were five minutes ago. 

In fact, you were looking forward to continuing your slasher marathon, even if it was a little different than what you had in mind. 

~

author's note: i'm finishing this up right before i go to sleep so it's not editing so please ignore any grammar/spelling mistakes lol i tried to get this out as soon as possible, thank you for reading!! hope you enjoyed!! comments/notes/reblogs are soooo appreciated

[yuta-nakamots]

The Number One Girl Stays A Little Longer - L.Jeno (Teaser)

Pairing - Baseball!Jeno x Team Manager!Female Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, University!AU

Warning(s) - unofficial relationship (a situationship, if you will)

Summary - Jeno is the golden boy of the baseball team, all eyes on him, except his are always on you. What starts as quiet support behind the scenes turns into something neither of you dares name, until time runs out and choices have to be made. Love blooms in between the dugouts, the late nights, and the quiet goodbyes.

Teaser Word Count - 0.8k

Estimated Release Date - July 13, 2025

Author’s Note - Perhaps I cried while writing this…Perhaps I did not. It’s like a curse that I only write angst for Jeno

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films (send an ask or leave a comment to be added!)

Part of my NCT J-Line: Roses Are Rosie Collection.

Now playing: Number One Girl - Rosé, Stay A Little Longer - Rosé

The stadium roars around you, a wall of sound vibrating through the bleachers, through the dugout bench beneath you. The lights overhead cast the field in a sterile tint, harsh and brilliant, as if the whole stadium were holding its breath from behind a microscope. You glance at the scoreboard. 

Bottom of the ninth inning. Tied score. Two outs. Bases loaded. 

None other than Jeno Lee steps into the box. The number 23 is stitched in bold blue across the back of his white jersey. He’s been one of the team’s star players since his rookie season, the kind of athlete that headlines articles and carries expectations on his shoulders like it weighs nothing at all. 

For years, he’s been the golden boy of the university’s baseball program. Eyes were always on him. All eyes, except his. Because his? They were always on you.

You were never supposed to be here, not really. You only applied for the team manager position in your second year of university because a friend dared you to after you both attended a game. You’d barely understood baseball then, only that it made your heart thump a little harder when the camera zoomed in on your school’s players. 

By some event of fate, you had gotten the position. You learned fast, quickly grasping the importance of the position to the team. How to log pitch counts and rotate equipment. How to wrap a wrist so it holds just right. How to read silence and soreness. You stayed late when no one else did and showed up early, even when the skies threatened rain. 

That’s how he noticed you. Not with flash or drama, but in the quiet, consistent way only someone like Jeno paid attention to. You earned your place on this team. Earned his trust. You memorized the way Jeno likes to tape his hand. Two strips over the knuckle, one across his palm. Somewhere between his second pulled muscle and third-year slump, you became the person he went to when his shoulder ached, when the pressure became a little too much, when he didn’t want to be Jeno Lee, the headliner, the star athlete, just Jeno, the boy who never forgets to thank you after every water bottle you delivered to him. 

Now, he adjusts his helmet and rests his bat on his shoulder. His stance is relaxed, deceptively so, the kind of ease that comes only from years of repetition and weight behind every swing. 

You’ve seen this look before. He wears it before every game-winning hit, those calm eyes, loose fingers, and a breath held just behind his teeth. 

You don’t call his name. You don’t even shift forward on the bench, but he finds you anyway. He glances over his shoulder, quick but precise, enough to land squarely on you. For a moment, just a beat between heartbeats, it’s like the noise fades and you’re back in the gym, wrapping his wrist, your fingers moving carefully across his warm skin. 

The pitch comes in fast. Crack. The ball soars. 

The crowd doesn't wait. They erupt before the ball even clears the fence. You shoot to your feet in the dugout, clipboard forgotten, heart in your throat. 

Jeno doesn’t watch the ball. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he runs. 

The stadium is chaotic as the runners cross home plate, followed by Jeno. Players storm the field, coaches throw their arms into the air, and someone dumps a cooler of Gatorade that soaks multiple people. 

And Jeno? He doesn’t run to his teammates and join their group celebration. Helmet off, chest heaving, he jogs toward the dugout, toward you. His eyes find yours and never leave them, not once. You nod in acknowledgement, and that was all he needed. 

Cameras are flashing, fans screaming his name, teammates waiting to throw him into the air, but he stops in front of you first. He’s close enough that you can see the sweat beading at his temple, the dirt smudging his cheek. Neither of you says a word. His fingers brush the back of your hand, brief but electric, before pulling you into a tight hug. A thank you, a promise, a beginning. 

The locker room buzzes later, the clatter of cleats, music thumping from someone’s portable speaker, the team still high off the win. You’re folding towels at the back of the room when someone shouts over the noise, teasing, “Hey Jeno, was that your good luck charm I saw you running to after the homer?”

He doesn’t look up from unlacing his shoes. “Yeah,” he says casually, but his voice carries over the room. “She always was.” He doesn’t say your name because he doesn’t need to. Everyone already knows. 

[wadewnstonwilson]

quiet times;

summary: Logan often goes on walks to clear his head, while Wade secretly prepares for his return, leaving humorous, heartfelt notes around the apartment. Wade’s chaotic personality draws Logan out of his solitude, and Logan’s calm demeanor gives Wade a safe space to unwind.

word count: 1k.

Logan and Wade weren’t the type of people who made sense together—not on paper, not in theory, and definitely not in the kind of world where people paired off neatly into couples with picket fences and matching dishware. They were jagged, broken pieces, barely held together by sheer stubbornness and a touch of gallows humor. If their lives had been puzzles, they wouldn’t have had matching edges. And yet, when they came together, somehow it just… worked.

Logan was all gruff stability. He didn’t say much—never had—but his presence was grounding in a way that cut through the noise in Wade’s head. When Wade’s mind spiraled, spinning up into a chaotic whirlwind of hyperactive thoughts and relentless energy, Logan had a way of pulling him back down to earth without even trying. Sometimes, it was the way he looked at Wade—calm, steady, and utterly unfazed by his antics. Other times, it was his voice, that low rumble that could somehow be both a growl and a reassurance.

“Easy, Wade,” his words a quiet tether as Wade ranted or rambled or paced the room for the fifth time in an hour. And somehow, it worked. Wade would slow down, his shoulders relaxing as he let himself lean into the stability Logan offered. He didn’t like admitting it—hell, he’d rather die than admit it—but he needed Logan more than he cared to acknowledge.

Wade, on the other hand, was chaos personified. He was loud and brash, throwing himself into every moment like he had something to prove. He dragged Logan into his world of ridiculous antics and inappropriate jokes, poking at his brooding exterior until he got the reaction he wanted. He had a knack for breaking through Logan’s walls, his humor chipping away at the darkness Logan carried like a second skin.

“Hey, Claws,” Wade said, leaning over the back of the couch with a grin that promised trouble. “When are you gonna quit brooding and join the land of the living? You’re like if Eeyore fucked a lumberjack and made a baby that didn’t understand how to smile.”

Logan would grunt, shooting him a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re in love with me,” Wade would shoot back without missing a beat, winking at him before flopping onto the couch. Logan never denied it, and Wade always took that as a victory.

They both had their coping mechanisms, their ways of handling the shit they’d been through. Logan, when the weight of his past got too heavy, would disappear for hours, going on long walks to clear his head. Wade, of course, couldn’t let him do that without giving him hell first.

“Where you off to, Logie Bear?” He'd call after Logan as he grabbed his jacket. “Gonna go write sad poetry about your feelings? Maybe find a secluded cliff to brood on like the world’s most depressing Disney prince?”

But the second Logan was out the door, Wade would start prepping for his return. He wasn’t the sentimental type—or so he told himself—but he had a habit of making sure the place was ready for Logan when he got back. He’d order Logan’s favorite food, grumbling about how much he hated the smell of it. He’d set out a bottle of whiskey with two glasses, because he knew Logan wouldn’t drink alone. And sometimes, he’d leave little notes for him to find, scrawled in his messy handwriting and taped to random objects around the apartment.

One night, after a particularly rough mission, Logan came back to find a note taped to the door. In Wade’s handwriting, it read: “Miss you, stabby hubby. Don’t get eaten by bears, but if you do, make sure you take one down with you. Gotta keep the Wolverine rep alive.” There was a crude drawing of Wade punching a bear in the face at the bottom, complete with exaggerated muscles and a speech bubble that read, “Take that, Smokey!”

Logan shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him as he pulled the note off the door and tucked it into his pocket. He wouldn’t admit it—hell, he’d rather stab himself with his own claws—but he kept every single one of those notes. They were ridiculous, sure, but they were also… Wade’s. And that made them worth more than anything else he owned.

Inside, he found another note taped to the bottle of whiskey on the counter. This one read: “Cheers to my favorite emo lumberjack. Try not to brood too hard tonight. You’re only allowed two grunts and one sigh. Any more than that, and I’m coming over to kick your ass.”

He poured himself a glass, smirking as he muttered, “You’re a pain in my ass, Wade.”

Right on cue, the door burst open, and Wade strolled in like he owned the place. “Miss me, claws?” he said, grabbing the glass Logan had just poured for him and downing it in one go. “Damn, that’s good. You’ve got taste, I’ll give you that.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” Wade shot back, flopping onto the couch with all the grace of a drunk octopus. He sprawled out, his legs thrown over the armrest as he glanced back at Logan with a smirk. “Come on, babe. Sit your broody ass down and tell me all about your sad-boy walk. Did you find enlightenment? Meet a wise old turtle who taught you the meaning of life?”

Logan sighed, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he joined Wade on the couch. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot,” Wade said, sticking his tongue out at him before grabbing the whiskey bottle and pouring himself another glass.

They sat there, side by side, the silence between them easy and comfortable. Wade didn’t push him to talk, and Logan didn’t try to fix him. They just… existed together, two broken pieces that somehow fit.

At one point, Wade reached into his pocket and pulled out another note, tossing it into Logan’s lap. “Here. For your collection.”

Logan unfolded it, his eyes scanning the messy handwriting: “Love ya, asshole. Don’t go getting all soft on me.”

He looked up at Wade, his expression softening despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

Wade grinned, leaning back with his arms stretched out across the couch. “Yeah, but you love it.”

Logan didn’t respond, but the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth was all the confirmation Wade needed.

[nightmare-writes]

Succubus Soulmate pt.2

Wanda x Succubus!Reader

Hello everyone! Long time no see. I apologize for the unintended hiatus, life got in the way of me writing on here. I found this sitting in my drafts and I felt like some of you might have wanted to read it. I can’t guarantee that I will write another part of this soon, but if enough people want to see it I can write a part 3. Anyway! I hope you enjoy.

Warnings: masturbation (Wanda) it’s mostly very fluffy and domestic otherwise.

Summary: Your first few days on earth!

You stared at Wanda as she sat huddled up against her wall for a moment or so. You’d never been in this kind of position. You’re used to having some sleeze bag summon you, use you for two minutes, and then go straight back to the underworld while said sleeze bag knocks out in his post nut bliss. With this being your usual, you had no clue what you should do in this situation.

Eventually you fell asleep curled up on the couch with Wanda sitting awkwardly right next to you.

The more Wanda sat there, the more she started to think over logistics. What was she meant to do when she goes into work tomorrow? She couldn’t call out sick so she would have to leave you alone for a few hours. She couldn’t trust that you wouldn’t try to do anything silly while she was away, so she got to ‘succubus proofing’ her apartment.

She didn’t have any baby locks for cabinets so she assumed duct tape would have to do for now. She duct taped all of her cabinets shut, along with the fridge doors, the oven, the microwave, and anything she thought you could get into. She duct taped the cabinet in her bathroom with all her cleaning supplies in it and then went around to every window to duct tape the locks so you couldn’t access them. It felt like she had just gotten a new, untrained, puppy that she needed to ensure wouldn’t accidentally kill itself by drinking bleach thinking it was milk. It took her a few hours but she felt like she had successfully ‘succubus proofed’ her home. She rewarded herself by going to her bed and passing out for the night.

It felt like the moment Wanda closed her eyes, she had to open them back up. Her blaring alarm clock gave her no reprieve as it woke her up. She shut it off before getting ready for work as she usually did.

When she got out to the living room, she saw you were still curled up and resting. She felt a bit guilty as she gently shook you awake, but she needed to talk with you before she went off to work.

You groaned as the movement of your body got you out of your dreamland and forced you back into reality. Rubbing your sleepy eyes, you looked up to Wanda and mumbled “Mornin” almost too quiet for her to hear. She had to admit that you did look cute all sleepy, but she couldn’t be distracted from the task at hand.

“Look, I have to go to work so I’m gonna lay down a few ground rules for when I’m gone.” She says firmly while crouching down to be at eye level with you. “You’re not allowed to leave apartment unless it is burning down or someone broke in.” She starts and you interrupt by saying “If it was burning down I’d stay right where I am, I finally wouldn’t be freezing to death. Do you like living in an ice block?” which garners you an eye roll from the red head. “Second rule, don’t touch any of my things unless it is this remote or-“ she says while looking around for something for you to eat. She spots the cheerios she had set out and decided that that would be a sufficient food source for you before she could go grocery shopping. She scampers over to grab the box from the kitchen along with a water bottle before returning to your side and placing the box and bottle on the coffee table. “- this cereal and this water, got it?” She added. “What if I don’t like the way it tastes?” You ask while poking at the box.

“Well it’s just for now, I’ll be back with more food for you. What do you even eat?”

“Souls of the damned” you say with a straight face before laughing at the disgusted and slightly horrified expression on Wanda’s face. “I usually just eat meat, but now that I’m stuck as this flesh sack I guess I’d eat whatever humans would.”

“Okay, noted.” She says while looking around to see if she needed to say anything else. “You can watch whatever you want on the tv, I have a few streaming apps if you wanna look through those too.” She says and you look at her like she was speaking a whole other language. “What the fuck is a tv.” You deadpan and Wanda thinks you’re joking again until she realizes that you’re serious. “What did you think the remote was for?” She asks and you simply say “A vibrator”

Wanda couldn’t help but laugh while saying “Why in the world would I give you just the remote to a vibrator?” You shrug as Wanda sits down next to you and explains the wonders of the television to you. When she turns it on, you were absolutely terrified at first. You yelped and hid behind her while she giggled at your antics. “It’s not going to kill you, here let me show you how it works.” She says softly while gently coaxing you out of hiding. She didn’t want to put on anything scary since she didn’t want you to think it was real, so she went to her disney+ account and put on some kids show that her coworkers kids absolutely loved. “You can watch this while I’m gone, okay?” She says while gesturing to the colorful dogs that were dancing on the screen. The moment your eyes hit the screen, you were entranced by what you were seeing. You didn’t look away from it as you nodded.

Wanda gave you a small pat on the head before setting the box of cheerios next to you so you’d actually remember that they were there. She moved her hands in front of your eyes when you didn’t turn to look at her and you immediately swatted her hand away so you could continue to watch. She just giggled to herself before saying “Have fun, I’ll be back soon.” and heading off to the office.

You quickly learned that your first favorite thing on earth was a show called Bluey. You’re second favorite thing were the delicious crunchy circles that Wanda gave you. You had devoured the entire box of cereal after about 10 or so episodes of bluey and you wanted more. You figured out how to pause the funny dogs on the television so you could go find more crunchy circles.

Your quest begins in the place where Wanda brought the box from in the first place, the kitchen. You were greeted by a collection of places where the sugary treat could be, but when you tried to open up one of the cabinets it was stopped by something. You let out a low growl at the offending silver strip before your short nails grew into fierce claws that tore through it. The first cabinet you opened was filled with random white disks. You grabbed one and tried taking a bite to see if it was tasty like your crunchy circles, but it didn’t break in between your teeth so you gave up on it.

You spent a few more minutes tearing through all the tape in the kitchen and looking for snacks. You eventually stumble upon a heavy bag that was easy to rip open. It was filled to the brim with tiny white crystals that looked edible, so you gave it a lick. You were instantly hooked. It tasted so yummy, kind of like the crunchy circles but this time it was just the sweet tasting part.

You returned back to the couch so you could keep watching the silly dogs while licking your delicious new treat.

———————————————————

Wanda was thankfully able to get off of work early and was able to convince her supervisor to let her work from home for a few days by giving some excuse about having to take care of some relatives child while they were in the hospital for a bit.

She returns home to see you, still sitting on the couch watching the show she put on earlier, but now you were eating something that was definitely not cheerios. “Hey, what are you- are you eating my sugar?!” She exclaims while taking the half eaten bag away from you. You whine and try to take it back from her but she hold it up above her so you couldn’t reach. “How did you even get this?” She questions while shutting the tv off. “I wanted more of this but there wasn’t any in the tiny compartments in the food room so I found that and ate it.” You say while picking up the box of cereal and holding it up. Wanda’s gaze moves over to the kitchen to see all the ripped up duct tape. She sighs and says “I’ll get you more cheerios, okay? No eating just sugar, it’s bad for you.” before giving you a reprimanding bop on your head. She almost changes her mind when she sees the adorable pout on your face, but she stays strong. You give in with a small nod while mumbling “No more… I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’ll do better next time.” She says softly while sitting down next to you and hesitantly rubbing your back. You let out a soft purring sound before leaning against Wanda’s side. “More bluey.” you say while pointing to the television. She just chuckles to herself while switching the show back on. “We have to work on your manners, a please would be appreciated.” She says half jokingly.

————————————————————

After you went to sleep, Wanda went about making preparations for the next day. She went back and decided to hide the sugar bag somewhere else in the kitchen. She also put back another layer of duct tape just in case you got any ideas of stealing again.

She went on a late night trip to the supermarket to get a few boxes of cheerios for you and some general groceries since she was running low on practically everything. While she was browsing, she noticed a cute pair of pink mittens and got an idea to stop you from tearing through the duct tape again.

When she got home, she put the groceries away before making her way to her bedroom to make a few modifications to your new mittens. With a bit of ribbon and a lock for each hand, she successfully made a way to keep your hands locked in place. Was it a little evil? Maybe, but you did break a rule that she explicitly said… and the thought of you needing her to do everything for you was too tempting to pass up. She imagined your cute pout as you looked up at her and begged for her to hand feed you your cereal, or having to help you drink your water, or having to beg her to touch you since you couldn’t touch yourself…

Her mind began to wander towards the delicious sounds you would make. Would you whimper and whine while not using your words or would you be begging for more the entire time? Would you be quiet or loud just for her? These questions were burning her mind and sending a certain undeniable heat to her core. As she laid on her bed, her hand slowly crept down her stomach and into the waistband of her panties. She was soaked just from her little fantasy of you. She was desperate to feel your soft, supple skin under her fingers. She wants to squeeze and mark every inch of her body for herself. Her fingers make feather light touches around her clit before slowly speeding up. She was doing it just the way she liked it, but it didn’t feel right.

It didn’t feel right cause you weren’t the one touching her.

While she wanted to keep going, she knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere. She pulled her hand out and inspected her fingers that were dripping in her arousal. Her thoughts immediately went to you sucking her fingers clean before she shoves them down your throat so you’d gag on them.

“Get yourself together, Wanda” she muttered quietly to herself while rubbing her face. To stop herself from getting too carried away, Wanda forced herself into the bathroom to take a cold shower and then straight to bed.

——

“You want me to wear what?” You questioned while pointing towards the offending objects in Wanda’s grasp. “I told you not to touch anything and you did it anyway. So until I can trust you enough with your own hands, you’ll be wearing these.” She says while showing you the pretty pink mittens she made for you. You knew she was getting a kick out of this. A part of her wanted to humiliate you and that was clear from the way she was trying not to smile or the way her hands were slightly shaking. The tell tale sign though was the distinct scent of arousal wafting off of her. You knew she had no clue that your sense of smell was leagues above her own, but what she didn’t know didn’t matter. What did matter is that Wanda was starting to express her sexual interests, while indirectly, with you. You felt some weird sense of pride that she was maybe more of a pervert than you thought.

You sighed and held your hands out for her. “Alright, get ‘em on me.” You acquiesce and almost instantly Wanda gets your hands into fists so she could fasten the mitts. When they were both padlocked, you couldn’t stretch your fingers out so it was impossible for you to rip them. “Happy?” You say while waving your imprisoned fists up towards her. “Very” Wanda states before getting the next episode of Bluey on for you. “I’m going to be in the other room doing some work, you stay here and watch your show. I’ll come back in an hour for lunch.” She explains while going to the kitchen and returning with a bowl of cheerios for you. She sets the bowl on the couch next to you before giving you a small pat to the head. “No trouble while I’m working.” She reminds you before going off to work in her room.

——

You could tell that the redhead was distancing herself from you. Whenever she could, she would work in another room than you. She would come check up on you occasionally to make sure you had food and that you were drinking water since “Humans need to drink water to survive.” While it was odd, you did enjoy being doted on even if it was for a few moments. You could tell Wanda was enjoying herself too, but she was too nervous to fully let herself go.

After the fifth time of noticing Wanda checking on you from her bedrooms doorway, you decided to put matters into your own hands. You fiddled with the remote to turn it off before tip toeing over to Wanda’s room. You give it a soft knock and ask “Can I come in? I’m bored.”

You could sense the hesitation from the other side of the door. Wanda was anxious to have a real conversation with you. It was safe to keep your conversation to a bare minimum. The sokovian couldn’t imagine the things she’d admit if she spoke to you for longer than five minutes. However, she had to rip the bandaid off. She couldn’t just leave you to waste away in front of her tv all day. “You may.” Wanda pipes up and you fumble with the door handle until it opens up. “Stupid cloth hands.” You whisper while glaring down at the pristinely pink fabric that was still tightly locked around your hands. “You can sit on the bed if you’d like.” You barely heard Wanda when she said it. You didn’t want to tease her about her nerves since it was easy to tell it might’ve made things worse. You sat down on the edge of the bed closest to her, bouncing a bit on the springy surface. Wanda didn’t look away from her laptop and continued to type away at it as she sat next to you. You scooted closer to her until your cheek rested against her shoulder. You looked over her laptop screen to see a collection of tabs open while Wanda’s cursor was frantically switching between all of them. Her logic was that if she could overstimulate her eyes then she wouldn’t have to think about how close you were to her.

“What are you doing?” You ask while nodding towards the chaos unfolding on the screen in front of you.

“Working.”

“Working?”

“Mhm, this is what humans do for money.”

“What’re you doing to the screen?”

“Important technological stuff. You wouldn’t get it.”

“It doesn’t look that hard, you’re just looking at different pictures.” You point out while putting one of your mitts to the screen.

She sighs when she realizes she’s been caught before closing her laptop. “You got me, you’re more clever than I thought.” Wanda praises you before giving your hair a quick ruffle. You lean into the touch before Wanda could pull her hand away which leads to her giving you a few soft pets. “Now why did you come in here? I thought you’d want to sit and watch your show.” She asks while slowly moving her hand away from you. You whine quietly as she does and Wanda has to resist the urge to play with your hair. “I told you I was bored. I wanna do something.” You reiterated while turning your gaze up towards Wanda’s face. She sits there for a moment thinking about what she could do with you since she was also rather bored. “Why don’t we watch a different show together? I’ll make you a new snack to try.” She suggests and you eagerly nod your head at her idea.

��—

“Here, try this. It’s called popcorn.” Wanda says while sitting next to you with a bowl filled to the brim with a new treat for you. You examine this ‘popcorn’ and after giving it a few sniffs you decide that it was good enough to eat. You try to pick up a few pieces but your mitted fisted could barely do anything. Wanda noticed your struggle and giggles to herself. You could tell that she wanted you to ask for help since she was too nervous to offer it herself. “Can you help me eat this?” You ask the redhead and you immediately notice a spark of an idea in those bright green eyes of hers. “You have to ask me nicely if you want help.” She says smugly while watching your face to see if she might’ve stepped over the line. You groan but give into her. “Can you help me eat this popcorn… please?” You ask again and she happily takes a few pieces in her hand and up towards your mouth for you to start snacking. Your face lights up as you’re hit with a completely new taste. “More! Please- I want more popcorn.” You blurt out before opening up your mouth slightly as Wanda feeds you some more popcorn.

——

Wanda soon put on one of her favorite shows, Malcom in the middle, for the two of you to watch as she continued to feed you. You could feel Wanda’s tension start to ease as more episodes went by. She hasn’t had anyone to watch shows with in forever. It’s always been something she did with her family, but since she moved countries that was near impossible now. It felt blissfully domestic, which was something that Wanda didn’t know she wanted until now.

After some time, you fell asleep curled up next to Wanda as the show continued on in the background. Wanda wasn’t paying any attention to it though, her sole focus was on you.

I hope you all enjoyed! Leave a comment if you want to see this story continue.

[peppymintdreams]

Sakuverse Daycare: Thanksgiving Celebration

Hello my children this is peppy (pre break) I just want to say happy thanksgiving to all whom celebrate the holiday I’m extremely grateful for all of you, with the love and support you give to me for simply writing I wish you all a happy holiday and I will see you all soon

-Mama Peppy

The daycare room was buzzing with excitement, filled with crayon-colored turkeys and paper leaves taped to the walls. A big "Happy Thanksgiving!" banner hung lopsided over the snack table, where the smell of mashed potatoes, stuffing, and pumpkin pie made little noses twitch in anticipation.

In the middle of it all, a kid-sized table stood ready, with brightly colored plates and plastic forks. Each chair had a wobbly nametag written in messy crayon. At the head of the table sat Xanthus, who somehow always ended up in charge, even though he never asked to be.

Elias was already squirming in his seat, his legs swinging wildly under the table. His eyes kept darting to the cookies on the counter. He had a plan. A very sneaky, not-at-all-obvious plan to get one before everyone else.

“Do we have to do the thankful thing?” Elias groaned loudly, flopping forward onto the table like a very dramatic starfish. “Can’t we just eat already?”

Across the table, Isaac adjusted his tiny glasses with a sigh that was far too grown-up for a four-year-old. “Yes, we have to. It’s a tradition, Elias.” He said tradition like it was the most important word in the whole wide world.

“But it’s so boring,” Elias whined, flopping his arms for extra effect.

Andrew, sitting perfectly still beside Isaac, crossed his arms. “You can sit still for two minutes, Elias. You’re not gonna die.”

“I might!” Elias shot back, sitting up and clutching his chest. “Two whole minutes! That’s like…forever!”

Luca, at the far end of the table, giggled softly into his stuffed bunny’s ear. He liked watching Elias be silly. It made the room feel a little brighter.

The teacher clapped her hands. “Alright, kiddos! Let’s go around and share what we’re thankful for before we eat.” She gave Elias a pointed look. “Then we can have cookies.”

Elias perked up instantly. “Cookies?” His eyes sparkled with renewed energy. “Okay! I’ll go first!”

He didn’t even think for long. “I’m thankful for… recess! And cookies! And not having to take naps anymore!” He grinned, clearly proud of himself.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Very important stuff.”

Elias stuck his tongue out. “It is!”

Isaac went next. He sat up straight, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I’m thankful for books. And for my mom. She reads with me every night.” His voice got quieter when he mentioned his mom, and he glanced at Andrew, who nodded like he understood.

Andrew’s turn came, and he didn’t need any time to think. “I’m thankful for quiet. And… organizing things.” He paused, sneaking a look at Isaac. “And friends who help me with puzzles.”

Elias leaned over to Luca, whispering loudly, “He means Isaac.”

Luca giggled again, squeezing his bunny tighter.

When it was Luca’s turn, he looked down at his bunny, then up at everyone else. His cheeks turned pink. “I’m thankful for… Bunny. And… everyone being nice.” His voice was soft, but everyone heard him.

Elias reached over and patted Luca’s arm. “We’re thankful for you, Luca. Especially when you share your snacks.”

Luca smiled shyly, his heart feeling warm like his favorite blanket.

Finally, it was Xanthus’ turn. The table got quiet as everyone waited. Xanthus didn’t speak right away. He sat with his hands folded, staring at the ceiling like he was thinking about something way bigger than Thanksgiving.

“I’m thankful for… stars,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but everyone listened. “Because they stay up there, even when you can’t see them.”

Everyone was quiet again, even Elias, who looked like he was actually thinking for once.

Then Elias broke the silence. “Stars are cool,” he said, tilting his head. “But cookies are cooler.”

Everyone burst into giggles, and the serious moment disappeared like bubbles popping.

The feast began, and little hands grabbed for mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. Elias stacked his plate as high as he could, sneaking a cookie when he thought no one was looking. Isaac carefully scooped small amounts of everything, making sure none of his food touched. Andrew cut his turkey into perfect, tiny squares, like a little grown-up.

Luca took small bites, occasionally offering his bunny a pretend piece of pie.

Halfway through the meal, Elias leaned over to Xanthus. “Hey. Do you really think stars are better than cookies?”

Xanthus didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Elias gasped like Xanthus had said something completely outrageous. “No way! Cookies are way better. You can’t eat stars!”

Andrew smirked. “You have no taste, Elias.”

“I have great taste!” Elias said, stuffing a cookie in his mouth for proof. “See? Delicious!”

Luca giggled so hard he almost dropped his bunny. Isaac shook his head, a tiny smile on his face.

As the teacher brought out pumpkin pie, Elias reached for the biggest slice before anyone else could. “Thanksgiving is the best,” he declared, crumbs already on his face.

Isaac looked around the table, Andrew sitting quietly, Luca hugging Bunny, and Xanthus watching the group with that faraway look.

“Yeah,” Isaac said softly. “It really is.”

Xanthus looked up at the ceiling, thinking about stars and cookies and friends, he thought, Maybe it’s not just the stars that stay. Maybe it’s friends too.

[kotonoba]

TWAY (Jushiro/F!Reader) Ch. 1

Pilot chapter, I changed the title from Inside Look to The World Around You. It's a modern AU, an immediate follow-up with the epilogue from ISYT.

I forgot to post yesterday, I was exhausted after class, sorry.

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Heavy panting, trembling legs as footsteps sounded behind you, warm streaks of tears mixed with salty sweat and a sweet taste of rain as you ran away from a pursuer. You hid behind a wall in an alleyway, your chest moving up and down frantically as you struggled to catch your breath. A light touch from your bruised digits unto your neck where heat and pain radiated off of a sizable hand-sized grip mark. 

You glanced up at the looming dark clouds as the rain continued to pelt down on your vision, a soft breeze brushing some rain into your eyes. You flinched and pulled away quickly from the contact, rubbing your eyes clear of the water. You retracted your stance of looking upwards as you covered your ears reflectively and saw a streak of lightning snap into view. But you counted the seconds before you heard the crack of lightning: 8 seconds. 

You pulled your hands away from your ears as the grumbling of the strike faded into obscurity. Your eyes were drawn to something shiny on your ring finger: an engagement ring. You smiled at the fond memories that flooded your senses. You recalled the memory of going ring shopping, seeing if the meaning behind the gems meant well for you and your fiance. You remembered the writing etched in the ring – “in sickness and health.” It was pretty cheesy; everyone used it, but it made you smile. 

You took note of the bruises and skin breakdown on your fingertips, recalling the act of scratching at a wooden door until it pried away at your skin and muscles until it gave away for your escape from an odorous, pitch-black room. Fear resonated through your legs. 

Fear immobilized you as the flash of lightning was blocked by a looming shadow; fear froze you, but you. You had a job to finish. Bravely, against the body’s will, you turned to face the shadow: a man with darkened pupils, & a sinister smile splattered with watery blood running down his skin from the rain. The man had short, spikey, jet-black hair. 

“Night, night,” the man spoke, raising the knife. His voice was high-pitched, prepuberty-like. A voice slipped out your mouth as you mouthed his name before the knife plunged & you were met with darkness. 

You took a sharp breath in before opening your eyes, greeted by bright skies – cloudy but bright – sirens sounding around you with the area taped off with yellow caution tapes. You were on one knee, holding onto a sword stabbed into the ground, and your left hand on a severed victim’s hand, “my condolences.” You whispered gently before getting up slowly with the support of your sword. 

Your partner leaned in with hope in his eyes that he would be promoted if this case went well, “so? Did you find the killer?” 

You smiled confidently at him, “Let’s go catch ourselves a killer,” as your partner happily celebrated, hurrying to the vehicle. You saw a man in a black outfit and a white haori; long white hair graced his presence as he watched you work. 

Your eyes furrowed a bit, and as you were about to head over, you felt a tug from your partner, who returned to rush you. " Where are you going, y/n? The killer isn’t gonna catch himself,” you laughed, turning to follow him to the police vehicle. With one last turn towards the wooded area, the figure was gone. 

You reasoned it was a lack of sleep and asked your partner to drive back to the police station to identify the suspect first. But the figure didn’t leave your thoughts on the drive back.

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This will probably be posted at most bi-weekly. At least once a month because I need to finish Daybreak. TMLS (The Mundane Life of a Shinigami) will be posted every now & then for people who just wants to read, it's in no relationship to any ongoing writing, just short stories with inspirations.

The stories in TWAY is, by no means, related to any true crimes/unsolved mystery. Just ideas I have, they could be from my nightmares, for all you know.

Aries' AO3

[alwaysmoncheri]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐑𝐒

pairings ❧ steve harrington x reader

summary ❧ will byers goes missing in the small town of hawkins, indiana

warnings ❧ female!reader, cheesy & sappy steve, shit writing

word count ❧ 1.9k

additional notes ❧ the first chapter of my first story — it’s not great | thank you for reading ´･ᴗ･`

“No, absolutely not! No!" I giggle, snatching the unfinished mixtape from Steve's hand. "You can't add that!"

Steve and I are leaning up against his bed, shoulders, and knees touching, as we assemble a mixtape of our favorite songs from '83.

"Why not? It's perfect!" Steve reaches for the mixtape, but before he can take it, I swiftly pull my hand above my head, out of his reach.

"Because it's creepy, Harrington! It's basically a song about stalking!" I reply as Steve leans closer to me in an attempt to grab the mixtape again.

"Is it a little strange? Sure, but it's also romantic. When I heard it for the first time, it reminded me of you." Steve argues.

My cheeks heat up and I'm suddenly unaware of how close we've gotten. I notice Steve looking down at me, our noses almost touching. As we maintain eye contact, I can't resist glancing at his soft lips. I mentally scold myself, he's your best friend, damn it.

Get yourself together.

Unable to hold back an awkward cough, I turn my gaze away from Steve, sighing, and reluctantly hand the tape back to him. Steve smirks at me triumphantly and adds "Every Breath You Take" to our mixtape.

"See, I knew you'd come around eventually, Henderson. It's hard to resist such persuasive charm as this." Steve flashes me one of his famous "King Steve" smiles, and I can't help but shake my head and give into my urge to laugh.

Steve and I spend all night making our '83 mixtape, enjoying each other's company, laughing and teasing as we go.

In the midst of our playful banter I glance up at the clock on Steve's wall, I realize that I'm late for my meet-up with my brother Dustin. I was supposed to be meeting him at the Wheeler's so that after the boys' campaign ended we could ride our bikes home together.

"Oh shit," I whisper double checking the time on Steve's watch by grabbing his wrist. "Shit, shit, shit!" I say louder this time.

I quickly stand up, snatching my jacket and shoes, which were scattered around Steve's room. Steve abandons the rest of the mixtape, hot on my heels as I swiftly exit his room and hurry down the stairs towards the front door.

"(Y/n), it's late, why not just stay the night?" Steve suggests as we both rush down the stairs.

"I wish I could Steve, but I have to meet up with Dustin," I say softly before I arrive at the front door.

I whirl around one last time to face Steve, my body close to his, as I wrap my arms around him and we exchange a brief hug. I savor our warm embrace, wishing I could stay but knowing my obligations to my brother, I let Steve go.

"We'll finish the mixtape another time, I promise," I say before opening the door. As I finally step out the front door, I turn back with a smirk to bid Steve a final farewell. "I'll see you around, Harrington! Don't miss me too much!"

"In your dreams, Henderson!" Steve returns my smirk with a certain fondness in his eyes, before turning and shutting the door behind him, leaving me to face the dreary bike ride ahead.

I take a deep breath, mount my bike, and set off in the dark cover of the night to the Wheeler's.

When I'm nearing the house, my mind inevitably wanders to Steve. We've been best friends since he found me sitting alone in the first grade, but something changed as we grew older. He became "King Steve" and friends with Tommy H. and Carol. Total assholes. Despite that, we're still best friends, but things aren't the same. Especially now that he's dating Nancy Wheeler, who I consider one of my closest friends. Even though I try to be happy for them, this pang of jealousy stirs in my chest when I think of them happily in love. But I'm nothing more than Steve's best friend, so I swallow my feelings and accept the reality that they're together.

When I approach the driveway, I dismount my bike and spot Dustin and his friends bickering. As I draw closer, I start to make out what they're saying.

"She's got a stick up her butt." I hear my brother say plainly as he munches on what looks to be the last slice of pizza.

"Yeah, it's because she's been dating that douchebag, Steve Harrington," Lucas says picking up his bike and getting ready to ride home.

"Hey!" I say defensively as I finally reach the boys, "Steve's my friend, you know!"

"Hold on, where were you?" Lucas questions with a quizzical look on his face.

"She was at Steve's" Dustin answers plainly before returning to his conversation with Mike.

"Oooh, Steve" Lucas teases adding a suggestive tone to his voice. "You love Steve," Drawing out the "o" in love and then making kissing sounds for added effect, clearly amused by his own antics.

I narrow my eyes at Lucas, but I can't help the smile that sneaks its way on my face. My lips curling in a pleased grin.

"Piss off Sinclair," I roll my eyes with a grin still firmly plastered across my face, "Like you even know what you're talking about." Denying Lucas's ridiculous accusation, letting my faux annoyance show.

"Whatever you say, (Y/n)" Lucas responds, his skepticism radiating from his tone and the look on his face as we both mount our bikes.

"Yup," Dustin says to Mike as he climbs on his own bike, "She's turning into a real jerk."

"She's always been a real jerk," Mike adds, not bothering to hide his disapproving tone as the rest of us flick our bike lights on.

"Nuh-uh, she used to be cool," Dustin argues as we start our way down Mike's driveway, "Like that time she dressed up with (Y/n) as an elf for our Elder Tree campaign."

"Four years ago!" Mike shouts at us from across the dimly lit driveway.

"Just saying!" My brother shouts back in response, having the last word, just as we reach the end of Mike's driveway.

"Later," Lucas says to Mike before catching up to Dustin and me making our way home.

As we're riding home under the stars, I close my eyes for just a second, enjoying the cold breeze flowing past me. It's such a refreshing feeling, with the wind in my hair and my bike zipping along the dark and empty street. In this moment, the world seems to slow down, a pang of nostalgia creeping to the surface as I'm reminded of a simpler time in my life when I was Dustin's age. Those carefree days with Steve by my side seemed so distant now, now that things have changed between us. Tonight, being with Steve in his room had been the closest thing to returning to the way our friendship was in the past. It was nice to relive those memories, even for a moment, to remember what we once had.

"Goodnight, ladies," Lucas teases with a sly smirk and his attention now firmly focused on me. With a wink, he adds, "If you get tired of Harrington, you know I'm always available." With a roll of my eyes at his antics, I suppress the grin threatening to escape onto my lips.

"Kiss your mom 'night for me," Dustin teases back as Lucas departs from our group to his house. Dustin then turns to Will and I, "Race back to my place?" He asks, "Winner gets a comic." I raise my eyebrows, questioning my little brother's statement.

"Any comic?" Will asks with wide eyes displaying his disbelief.

"Yeah!" Dustin says confidently.

"Let's do this, little bro." I say with a mischievous smile.

I lock eyes with Will and give a confident nod, both of us thinking the same thing. We take off, pedaling as fast as our legs will let us in attempt to get a lead on Dustin.

"Hey, Hey!" Dustin calls after us, "I didn't say go!" Dustin tries to catch us, not succeeding in the slightest, "Get back here!!" Will and I burst into laughter as we race ahead of Dustin, exchanging a quick high five. "I'm gonna kill you!"

"I'll take your X-Men 134!" Will shouts back as he speeds up and quickly getting ahead of me. I giggle at my brother and his friend as we approach my house.

"Bye, Will!" I call out watching him pass my house and cruise down the road.

"See you later, (Y/n)!" Will replies before I make the turn into my driveway, and head inside.

As I walk through the door, I notice my mother and our cat Mews curled up on the couch together, with a soft smile I place a blanket over top of the two. When I go to give my mother a good night kiss on the forehead Dustin obnoxiously opens the front door.

"Son of a bitch," Dustin says clearly frustrated from his loss, I jerk my head over to where he stands by the door.

"Shh!" I whisper-yell placing my finger to my lips, nodding to our mothering sleeping soundly on the couch.

"Oh, sorry," Dustin softly murmurs, making a grand display of tip-toeing across the floor to his bedroom. I roll my eyes at him, but follow closely behind. Before we split off to our separate rooms I turn back around to face Dustin, and notice he already turned too.

"How was Steve's?" Dustin asks awkwardly averting his gaze to the floor.

"Good," I whisper with a soft smile, my hand resting on the doorknob to my room, "Really good."

"Good night sis," Dustin says before opening his bedroom door and stepping inside, "I, uh, hope everything works out between you two,"

“Good night, Dustin,” I say softly, stepping into my own room, closing the door behind me, “Me too.”

I shrug off my jacket and carefully place it on my chair, then I kick off my shoes. With a little sigh, I cross over to my bed and plop myself down. I take a moment to reflect on todays events, my mind wandering as I let out a content breath. I reach over to my dresser and grab my Walkman, placing the headphones over my ears. I turn on, “Time After Time,” and slowly drift off in a comfortable sleep as the song fills my ears.

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