#I don’t hate her or ever did though to clarify

[spideyhexx]

i was literally just talking to my sister about rachel. like can josh fight!! she’s everything

she’s really so pretty like I find myself just in awe whenever I see a new picture of her, like just staring for a little

edit: sorry I had a lot of thoughts on the topic in the tags dbdbcbdbdnd but !! we support her here

[jjsmaybank20]

an inch away (from more than just friends)

Alexia Putellas x Fem!Reader

Summary: 4 times you and Alexia almost kissed and the one time you did

Warnings: literally nothing, this is just fluff

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: This took me forever, but I'm actually really proud of it! I kind of hate the ending, but its whatever. I hope you guys like it! This is set during the 2023-2024 season.

navigation  woso masterlist

---

When you first moved to Barcelona to play for their home team, you didn’t know a lick of Spanish outside of the basics. The beautiful yet overwhelming city that you called your new home paired with the obvious language barrier caused you to feel a bit unmoored and alienated, as if you had entered a whole new world.

The team had been nothing but welcoming, each player making a clear effort to befriend and get to know you. Their warmth and easy affection left you reeling a bit, not used to that type of environment, as your old team had been the complete opposite. The person that shocked you the most with her open friendliness was la Reina herself, Alexia Putellas.  

At your first few training sessions, she went out of her way to pair up with you so that she could help with translating the coaches as they yell out instructions in rapid-fire Spanish. The two of you would talk tactics, spot each other in the gym, even assist each other with taping ankles and knees. 

Alexia quickly became your closest friend in Spain, even in your short time with the superteam. 

---

1.

You couldn’t help but smile at the endearingly awkward Barcelona captain in front of you as she enthusiastically describes a new café that she had gone to, stumbling over some of her words as she talks faster than she can mentally translate at times. 

“That sounds really good, Ale,” you smile at her, earning a grin in return. You can see her thinking something over for a minute, and you patiently wait for her to speak as you pack up your bag, ready to go home after training.

Finally she asks, “Would you like to…ah…acompáñame?” 

You take a second to translate, before clarifying, “Go with you?” She nods. “Yeah, for sure! Just text me when you’re free.” You watch as she hesitates again, fidgeting with her bag handle nervously.

“I was thinking… ¿nos vamos ahora?” Your eyes widen, clearly showing your surprise. Alexia refuses to make eye contact with you, but you duck your head down until your eyes finally meet.

“I would love to.” Now it’s Alexia’s turn to show her surprise, but her shock quickly morphs into adorable excitement. Adorable? Where did that come from? You shake the thought away before easily matching Alexia’s wide grin. 

---

The two of you agreed to drive separately and meet at the café. You spent the quick car ride there trying to no avail to tamp down your giddiness. While the two of you had become good friends, not much time had been spent together outside of team events. In fact, you don’t think that you had ever hung out with Alexia one-on-one. That thought brings the joyous smile back to your face.

Once you had parked and walked to the address Alexia had sent you, it wasn’t hard to spot the Barça captain, staring ahead with an intense look on her face. As soon as she spots you, her features instantly relax and light up. 

She stands up and meets you at the front of the café, pulling you into a hug even though she had seen you just minutes earlier. When she pulls back she doesn’t fully let you go, using her arm still around you to guide the two of you into the line to order.

You decide what to order, then you turn to Alexia. “What are you going to get?” 

She points it out on the menu for you just as you get to the front of the line. Alexia gestures for you to go, prompting you to recite your orders to the barista in broken Spanish. “Yo tendré la… Choco-Bombón y un croissant, y ella… tendrá la… Capuchino Especial.” You finish with a pleased smile on your lips.

The barista nods, tapping at the screen in front of her. “Su total es de 7.87 euros.” You nod, fishing out your wallet. Confused, Alexia stops you before you can pay for her drink as well. 

“What are you doing? I pay for mine,” she inquires. You easily wave off her protests, passing the correct amount of money over the counter and accepting the change. She gives you a grateful smile, and the two of you walk towards a table, taking a seat until your order is ready.

---

You talk for hours, enjoying each other’s company and the good food and drink. Finally, you realize just how late it’s gotten. You and Alexia pack up your things and you walk her to her car. Before she gets in, she begins to lean towards you. You turn your head slightly in confusion, causing her lips that were aiming for your cheek to fall dangerously close to the corner of your mouth.

A furious blush appears on your face, and you think you see a matching one on Alexia as she just smiles at you before climbing into her car. 

As you watch her drive away, you can’t help but touch your face in the spot where her soft lips had met your skin. Holy shit.

---

2.

After your coffee date, you and Alexia started to hang out together all the time. That experience kicked your friendship into another gear, and it quickly became extremely common for your teammates to find one of you at the others’ house, and both of you had a key to the other’s home. 

Many times after practice the two of you would go back to your place, order in some food, and watch a movie or play some video games. Well, more like you absolutely demolishing Alexia at FIFA and trying to ignore how fluttery your chest gets when she pouts after losing. 

It was incredibly easy to fall into a pattern with Alexia, the Barcelona captain filling your days with warmth and laughter. You recognized the joy your friendship brought you and tried to show your appreciation for Alexia whenever you can, and clearly the brunette feels the same way. 

Which is why you are so confused when you are met with the sight of Alexia desperately trying to air out your kitchen which has filled with smoke as you enter your house, having left earlier for a meeting. The woman clearly hasn’t noticed that you have arrived home yet, and you can hear her cursing up a storm in Spanish as she desperately waves her arms, trying to somehow push all of the smoke out of your now-open window.

“Are you trying to burn my house down?” You ask, mild amusement mixing with the concern you are feeling. Alexia startles, and you can’t help but laugh out loud as she whips around, eyes as wide as saucers.

“Cariño! When did you… for how long…” Alexia stumbles over her words, but you don’t notice as you try to ignore how her pet name made you feel. You snap out of your daze as she comes towards you, now with a clearly guilty look on her face. “I am sorry. I just wanted to… cook para ti. To thank you for when you cook for me.”

You giggle at the scolded-toddler look that the woman has on her face, but stop quickly as she pouts even harder. You pull her towards you, wrapping your arms around her in a hug that she easily sinks into. “It’s alright, Ale. You don’t have to make it up to me, I love to do things for you.” A sly grin develops on your face. “Plus, not all of us can be master chefs.” The Spanish woman grumbles against your chest, but you can feel a slight smile pressed into your chest.

After a minute, Alexia pulls back and tilts her head up slightly so that she can look you in the eyes, still having a slight frown on her face. As you look down at her, you are suddenly filled with the overwhelming urge to kiss the pout right off of her lips. 

You almost give into the urge right then and there, and you think that with the way Alexia is looking at you she would maybe not be opposed to it, but then you smell yet another burning smell. The moment is broken, and as you scramble into your kitchen, you miss the flash of disappointment in Alexia’s eyes.

“Alexia Putellas! You left the fucking oven on!” 

---

3.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Alexia since the two of you had shared that moment filled with definitely-not-friendly tension. Well, at least you thought so on your side. You weren’t sure if Alexia was reciprocating your vibes, so you had not made a move out of fear of it ruining your practically perfect friendship with the Spaniard.

The two of you continued to hang out constantly, and as your teammates continued to watch you interact with each other, they clearly began to pick up on your crush on your best friend. 

One day at practice, you and Patri (who you had grown close to as well over your time in Barcelona) were walking out to the pitch together when she stopped suddenly and grabbed your arm. You shot her a confused look, making a move to continue walking. She yanked you back before gesturing for you to bend down slightly so she could speak lower.

“When are you going to make a move on her, chica?”

You gave the shorter woman a bewildered look. “Make a move on who?”

Patri smacks you on the back of the head, causing you to wince and glare at your friend. “Alexia, idiota!”

The midfielder watches as a thousand emotions flash across your face before you finally settle on an expression of forced denial. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Where would you even get that idea?” You scoff unconvincingly. “She doesn’t even feel that way for me,” you mutter under your breath, tone switching from dismissive to almost longing. 

“¡Ustedes dos son tan estúpidas! ¿De verdad no has visto cómo te mira?” Patri watches as you translate in your head before fixing her with a confused stare.

“What do you mean?”

The shorter woman grabs your face in her hands. “She looks at you like you are el sol y las estrellas.” She pats your cheek gently before walking away, leaving you to process everything she had just told you.

--- Later that night, you find yourself thinking about Patri’s words as you clean up from dinner. Her words ring in your ears even louder as you walk into your living room and see the Barcelona captain on your couch, searching for a movie for the two of you to watch.

You can’t help but watch her, your eyes filled with admiration. She seemingly feels your gaze, glancing up and smiling softly at you before refocusing on finding a film. 

As you finally settle in and Alexia turns the movie on, you smile to yourself at the warm weight by your side. Suddenly, your arm is lifted up and Alexia quickly cuddles into your body. You drop your arm around her with a laugh, able to see the smug expression on her face. “Are you comfortable?”

The brunette hums cheekily, before leaning up and pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your face heats up, and suddenly Patri’s words are roaring in your head again. A part of you desperately wants to turn Alexia’s head back towards you and kiss her like you have been wanting to for weeks, maybe even months now. 

But a bigger part of you is too scared to do anything, especially if it means ruining your friendship. So you swallow down your feelings and press a loving kiss to the top of Alexia’s head, beating yourself up inside for being such a coward with your feelings. 

---

4.

You feel nerves taking over your body as you sit in the locker room as you get ready to play in the Champions League final. Alexia makes her way over to you, sitting next to you and easily taking your hand.

She doesn’t even need to speak, her presence so easily bringing you a sense of calmness. She smiles at you, and you suddenly recognize that subtle pain in her eyes, the yearning to be in the starting lineup, to be on the field for the full ninety. You lean against her and squeeze her hand.

“You will play. I know it. And when you go in, you will do what you do best and you will win,” You smile at her, conveying as much of your faith in her as you can in the simple expression. She looks at you, seemingly searching your face for something, and the expression on her face makes your stomach flutter with a fully different kind of nerves. 

You aren’t able to ask her what though, as the team is collected to line up in the entrance tunnel. The two of you share one last look before you separate, and you join your teammates as you get ready to walk out and into the biggest game of your career. 

---

As soon as the whistle blows, you collapse onto the pitch in pure happiness. You did it. Your team won the Champions League, beating Lyon for the first time ever. Around you you can hear your teammates celebrating this massive victory.

Suddenly, you feel someone throw themselves against you. You feel the breath get knocked out of you, but you don’t even care as you embrace Alexia in a tight hug. You can feel her quick breath on your neck, and as you feel your shirt get wet you realize that she is crying. 

You move your mouth right next to her ear, holding her even tighter than before. “Estoy muy orgullosa de ti. Has ido más allá de lo que te dije y no podría estar más orgullosa.” 

You hear her huff out a soft giggle. “Tu español ha mejorado mucho.”

You can’t help but laugh as well, but you stop as she pulls back to look you in the eyes with an intense expression. “I scored… for you.” You don’t know how to respond, and you feel happy tears begin to prick at your eyes. Instead of saying anything, you just pull her back into a hug before you are hoisted up by your teammates and led to the line to receive your medals.

---

You catch Alexia before the team fully enters the locker room, pulling her into your arms. The two of you stand in each other's embrace for a while, allowing yourself to feel all of the emotions coursing through your brains. 

After a bit, you pull back slightly. You look down at the Barcelona captain, suddenly realizing just how close your faces are. As your eyes flit across her face, a rush of affection floods your body. As you watch her, you can see how her eyes settle on your lips and yours finally do the same.

You begin to lean in, and just as your lips almost meet, the locker room door slams open and an already drunk Claudia Pina bursts out in search of Alexia. The two of you jump apart, faces almost as red as the color on your jerseys. 

Patri quickly follows her girlfriend, slightly less intoxicated as she assesses the scene in front of her before apologetically pulling the shorter striker back into the locker room. The two of you quickly follow, still blushing hard and both thinking about what almost just happened.

---

+1.

That night as you celebrate, your almost-kiss with Alexia constantly plays in your head. As the celebrations go on, you seem to be filled with a deep sense of clarity and purpose.

Periodically, you and Alexia would meet eyes across the crowded room, and each time you could feel your urge to get her alone grow stronger. After a while, the normally stiff-in-public captain pulled you onto the dance floor with her. 

Your hands find her hips as hers wrap around your neck, and you dance closer to her than you ever have before. At a certain point, you begin to just sway, not even dancing to the music playing, instead moving to the beat of a song that is only playing for the two of you.

As the celebrations finally begin to wind down, Alexia takes your hand and leads you towards the elevator so that you can make your way up to your shared hotel room. You walk down the hall and open the door, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you once you see your bed.

You quickly get ready for bed, and as you settle into your bed, you watch Alexia decompress. That same rush of affection that you got earlier courses through you again, and this time you finally think you are ready to do something about it.

“Ale,” you softly call to get the brunette’s attention. You take a deep breath before saying, “I love you.”

Alexia smiles at you, not fully understanding. “Yo también te quiero.”

You push through your nerves, letting all the confidence from today fill your body. “No, Ale, I… Estoy enamorada de ti.” 

You watch the slightly shorter woman’s face carefully as she walks towards you, unable to read her expression. She sits down next to you on the bed, and you push yourself up on the headboard, fidgeting with your hands anxiously. 

You glance down at your lap before well-manicured fingers gently grab your face. You are forced to look Alexia in the eyes, and she softly smiles at you before finally replying, “Yo también.” You don’t even have time to fully process her response before you are pulled into a kiss.

As soon as your lips meet, it is like everything is set right in the world. All thoughts and feelings except for Alexia and your love for her escape you as you wrap your arms around the other woman and pull her even further into you. 

Quickly you discover that Alexia kisses with the same passion that she displays on the football pitch. You match her energy, and the two of you kiss until you have to pull back for a breath. Your forehead rests on hers, and the rise and fall of your breath are in sync. 

“Te he amado en silencio durante mucho tiempo,” Alexia breathes out.

“Me too. But it doesn’t have to be in silence anymore,” You reply, voice dripping with all of your feelings for her. 

In that moment, you realize that you have never loved someone the way that you love Alexia, and you don’t ever want to love anyone else in the same way. You wanted to be with Alexia every day, and hopefully for the rest of your life. 

---

@awfcloml

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[flixpii]

“Why you here?”

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 10.9k

Synopsis :

It’s been five years since Remmick disappeared—right after he kissed reader for the first time. No goodbye, no explanation. Then one night, out of nowhere, he shows up at their door like he never left.

A/n : Y’all, please bear with me. I don’t know how to write synopses.

This is inspired by Smoke & Annie’s reunion 🫶🏾

Also, reader was an adult when she met remmick. There’s mentions of reader living in her family’s home during the time she was with Remmick, so I need to clarify that she was and still is an adult.

Warning : There is a sex scene, but it isn’t explicit.

————————————————————————

The kettle had just begun to whistle when you heard the knock.

It wasn’t loud. Barely a tap, really—like the wind brushing a loose shutter. But in the quiet hush of your cottage, nestled on the edge of a pine-wrapped clearing miles from town, it sounded louder than thunder. You stared at the door as the kettle screamed on behind you. For a moment, you wondered if you imagined it.

No one visited this late. Not in Winter. Not out here.

You slid the kettle from the stove’s flame and crossed the wooden floor with steady feet and a heart that betrayed you, thudding harder with every step. The lantern light cast long shadows behind you.

Who in their right mind would be so far out of town on a Winter night?

Your mind raced with millions of thoughts as to who could be outside of your door. A part of you said to keep from the door—whoever it was had to be out of their mind, and you wanted nothing to do with it.

But another part of you, the part deep inside, felt as if you already knew who was waiting outside that damned door. That part of you wanted so badly for reality to fall apart and rebuild itself so that he could be here.

You almost didn’t open it.

There was something in the knock—too soft, too patient—that stirred the back of your mind like a wind through old ash. The fire crackled low in the hearth, but it was your blood that warmed too quickly.

But when you did open the door, the cold evening air swept in—sharp and pine-scented. But what caught your mind wasn’t the intensity of the bite of the winter air, or the scent of the pine trees, it was the figure who stood just outside

He hadn’t changed. Not truly. Not in the way humans do. His coat was worn at the shoulders, his boots dusted with soil, his hair longer than it once was, curling slightly at the ends—but it was still him. Pale, proud, and silent as ever, standing beneath your porch light as if no time had passed.

You told yourself it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. He was gone. Long gone. Kissed you beneath the stars and left nothing behind but silence and memory and the aching ghost of his hands at your waist. You buried him with the rest of the dreams you no longer allowed yourself to feel.

The night curled behind him, but he made the darkness look softer. His figure was cut in shadow, lit only by the warm lantern glow behind you. And still—still, somehow—he stole your breath. Not because he was beautiful, though he was, achingly so, in that still, mournful way only he could be. But because it was him.

The him you used to imagine at your doorstep, soaked in guilt and rain, whispering your name.

The him you hated for leaving.

The him you loved anyway.

Your hands didn’t tremble, but they should’ve. You held the door like it might anchor you to this moment—because your heart was already slipping, pitching between fury and longing, sorrow and disbelief. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to cry into his coat. You wanted to ask him if he’d thought of you even once during the silence, if he’d known what it cost you to wake up alone each morning and not hate the sunrise.

He looked at you like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.

And you? You couldn’t even speak.

Because five years ago, you gave your first kiss to a man who didn’t age, didn’t die, and didn’t sttay. And now, standing in the doorway of your little cottage, heart caged in your throat, you were staring at the same man—unchanged, as if time itself bowed to him—while every inch of you trembled with the weight of the years he stole.

“Hey, baby.”

A breath escapes you before words can.

Your heart stops in your chest, and your eyes widen just slightly.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Remmick.”

But it didn’t sound the way you wanted it to. It cracked. Like your heart, that night you realized he wasn’t coming back.

Remmick didn’t answer. Not right away.

And you hated that he still looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Even after five years.

——

It was late when he took your hand and led you past the willow tree at the edge of the field.

The church bells had long stopped ringing. Most folks had gone home. The lanterns in town flickered low, their oil nearly spent, and the air had turned thick with the smell of dew and wildflowers—like the earth had just exhaled after a long, hot day. Crickets hummed somewhere in the tall grass. Your feet were bare. You’d slipped off your shoes hours ago, and now the cool, damp ground kissed your soles as Remmick walked just ahead, his grip gentle but certain.

You knew, somehow, that this would be the last night.

You knew it in the way he looked at you when he stepped onto your porch—like he was memorizing your laugh. You felt it when he lingered a little too long, standing there in the golden hush of your candlelight like a ghost waiting to be invited in. And now, under the blanket of stars, with only moonlight outlining the slope of his cheek and the quiet between you pulsing like a held breath—you knew.

You’d never see him like this again.

He stopped beside the fence. The old one by the churchyard, half-swallowed by ivy and time. You leaned against the post while he turned to face you, his features caught in fractured silver light.

“You don’t belong here,” you said quietly. Not because you wanted him gone. But because it was true.

He gave a slow nod. “I know.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

His jaw clenched slightly. Then softened. “Because you make me forget.”

Your heart ached. Not from hurt. From something deeper. Like he was saying goodbye in a thousand tiny ways before the words even left his lips.

“Remmick…”

He stepped forward. You didn’t move.

“I shouldn’t.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “But I want to.”

The space between you vanished.

His hand came to your cheek, the backs of his fingers cold, but they trembled. You’d never seen him falter before—not like this. Not Remmick, who never flinched when threatened by your father, who swore Remmick was the devil. Who never stepped back when others crossed the dark streets to avoid him. Who always stood like he’d already faced the end and survived it.

Now, he looked like a boy again. A boy on the edge of something vast and fragile.

He leaned in.

You didn’t close your eyes right away. You watched his—the way they darkened, the way they flickered down to your mouth and then back to your eyes like he was asking permission with every breath. Your lips parted, and just before he kissed you, he exhaled your name.

It felt like falling.

The kiss was soft at first. Barely a press. A question in the shape of a touch. And when you kissed him back—when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and you rose on your toes to feel more—it deepened. Became real. Became everything.

His other hand found the small of your back, pulling you gently against him. His lips were cool but slow, reverent, as if he feared you might vanish if he held you too tightly. And you kissed him like you were afraid you’d never be allowed to again.

Because somewhere in the warmth, somewhere in the sweetness—you knew.

This was not a beginning.

This was a memory being made for the ache.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. His breath shuddered against your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And you barely had time to ask why before he was gone.

No footsteps. No goodbye.

Just the wind in the trees, and the taste of him still on your mouth, and the echo of a kiss that felt like a promise he was always meant to break.

——

The memory clung to you like fog.

Even as you stared at him, standing just inside your doorway, your body still remembered the shape of that kiss. The way his lips moved like he was trying not to break something. The way he whispered I’m sorry like he knew he already had.

You wondered if he remembered it the same way.

You wondered if he’d kissed anyone else since then.

Your eyes drifted to his mouth before you could stop them, and your chest ached with something old and unfair. Five years had passed. Seasons had bloomed and withered and bloomed again. And you had learned to live without him—or, at the very least, learned how to quiet the part of yourself that still waited on the porch of your family’s home.

Time passed, and you changed.

Remmick stepped forward, just slightly, enough to graze the threshold of the door.

“I thought about you every night,” he said.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with a hundred things you hadn’t said.

“I told myself I’d forget. That it was just a kiss. That I didn’t feel what I felt.”

“And did you?” you managed to say. “Forget?”

He shook his head. Slow. Tormented. “No.”

You turned away, because his eyes were too much—too open, too full of the man who once held you like you were fragile and holy and forbidden all at once.

“I waited for you,” you said, your eyes not meeting his. “Not forever. But long enough to hate myself for it.”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.” Your eyes flitted back to his face, hard, steam from the kettle curling behind you like breath as it began to scream. “You kissed me like I was something to hold onto. Then you vanished. Not a word. Not a sign. I used to lie in bed and wonder if you’d died. If someone had got you. If I’d made it all up. Because how could anyone love me like that ‘n leave?”

Remmick closed his eyes. Exhaustion flickered across his face like lightning behind clouds.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” he said. “I left because I did.”

The air collapsed between you.

He stepped forward again, hands at his sides, like he could force himself through the threshold with enough pushing.

“Just let me in, darlin’. I promise to make this right—I-I’ll make it right.”

You looked at him. Really looked. He was older in the eyes now. Not physically, but in the weight of what he carried. The edges of him were more worn. Like he’d been running, but never from anything fast enough.

And still, your heart tugged toward him. Because he was Remmick. Because he was your first kiss. Your last kiss. Your undoing.

“No.”

Remmick’s eyebrows furrow slightly, and he lets out a soft sigh—his head shakes slightly as if he knew you’d say that.

“I can’t come in,” he finally said, his voice low, taut with restraint. “You know that.”

You did. Of course you did. You’d read the stories. Heard the whispered rules by the elderly women in your hometown. A vampire could never cross the threshold of a home uninvited. It was one of the last laws Remmick obeyed. Maybe the only one that mattered anymore.

You leaned your shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“I never told you to leave,” you murmured. “But you did anyway.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d expected this—but had hoped it would go differently. “I came back.”

“You left me in the dark.”

“I know.”

His tone sharpened, just barely, like a blade catching the edge of a stone. He stepped closer—still outside—close enough for the porch light to catch the hollow curve beneath his cheekbone, the flicker of something fierce in his eyes.

“I stood at that door for hours that night. I thought about knocking. About running. About throwing myself to the sun if it meant I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Your heart thudded, heavy and slow. But your lips stayed still.

“And now?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Now…” He clenched his fists briefly, then forced them to loosen. “Now I’m asking you to let me in. Not because i want something from you. Not because I think I deserve it. But because I can’t keep standing on the edge of your life hoping you’ll crack the door.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t move. Part of you hated him—truly, wholly, with every piece he’d carved out of you when he vanished. But another part, deeper and crueler, still ached to pull him into your arms and ask if he ever held someone the way he once held you.

Remmick’s jaw tightened again. His voice dipped low—quieter, but not gentler.

“This is gettin’ cruel,” he muttered. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to talk to me again. But either invite me in or shut the door.”

The words hit like ice.

You blinked, slowly.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not truly. You could tell he was tired. Frustrated. Worn thin by guilt and hope and years of imagining this moment and how he would earn it—or fail. But something in you twisted at the audacity of it. That he could give ultimatums now.

“You don’t get to call me cruel,” you said softly. “You don’t get to stand there, after five years of nothing, and act like I owe you warmth.”

“I’m not asking for warmth,” he said. “I’m asking for a chance to explain. To exist in the same room. That’s it.”

You watched him, heart hammering, lips dry.

He took one more step toward the door—and stopped just shy of the threshold. The space between you felt sacred. A breath away. A chasm. His voice dropped again, hoarse this time.

“Please,” he said. “Let me in.”

The word please hung between you like incense.

You swore you could feel it on your skin. Heavy. Sorrowful. Like a prayer whispered too late.

But still, you didn’t speak.

You stared at him. At the man who had once kissed you like you were the last light he’d ever see. At the man who left without a goodbye. You hated how part of you still felt drawn to him—as if your soul remembered something your mind tried so hard to bury. But there he stood, outside your door, and every second you waited felt like a match burning low between your fingers.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

“Christ,” he muttered under it, almost to himself. “You really won’t make this easy, will ya?”

You didn’t flinch. “Did you expect I would?”

He let out a bitter sound—part laugh, part exhale. His eyes searched yours, dark and full of something wild, something breaking.

Then his mouth twisted, his voice low and guttural, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Fuck. Let me in.”

Your name followed, low and wrecked. His tongue curled around it like it hurt to say it. As if you were Christ, and sharing such profanity in the same breath as your name was blasphemous. And it was—the way he said it, like it bled reverence and fury all at once. Like your name tasted like guilt and godhood.

You stared at him, heart a drumbeat in your ears.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you whispered.

He stepped closer—still outside, still bound by the law he’d never dared break—and his voice dropped like a stone into water.

“I don’t need you to trust me. Not yet. I just need you to understand me.”

“I understand you,” you said, and you meant it. “But you’re not the same man I knew.”

Remmick’s lips parted, then closed again. He looked down—at his boots, at the floorboards, at the edge of the world he couldn’t step into.

When he looked back up, there was something raw in his eyes. Not the vampire. Not the centuries he carried like chains. Just the man from that autumn night. The one who kissed you like a confession and vanished before sunrise.

“I know I’m not him,” he said. “And I probably never will be. I just want you to understand why I did what I did.”

You didn’t speak.

The wind shifted behind him. Leaves scattered along the steps. Somewhere in the trees, an owl cried out.

And Remmick… he stood still. As if his entire eternity had come down to this moment. A doorframe. A silence. A woman deciding whether to let a ghost step inside.

You should’ve just said it.

The words hovered at the back of your throat, aching for air. Two syllables. Come in. That was all it would take—a breath, a tremble, a simple gesture of mercy. But they wouldn’t come.

Not because you wanted him to suffer.

But because you were still suffering.

The past pressed itself into the hollows of your ribs. You could still feel the version of yourself he’d left behind—the girl who had stayed up for days listening for footsteps that never came, who flinched every time the wind knocked gently on the windows. Who had kissed him under moonlight and then had to carry the weight of it alone.

She wasn’t gone.

She was you.

And that version of yourself stood now, arms crossed and voice hollow, watching the man who had hollowed her out beg for an opening.

“I used to wait,” you said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, where the trees swayed in the cold. “Every night for weeks. I’d leave the window cracked open even when it rained. I thought maybe you’d come back like the stories said. Pale and sorry. With flowers, or a poem, or somethin’ stupid like that.”

Remmick flinched—barely. But you saw it. Felt the sting of it in the way his jaw shifted, how his hands curled slightly at his sides.

“I came back with nothing,” he said. “Just me. Nothing else made it through.”

A beat. The ache in your chest twisted crueler.

You looked at him again.

He wasn’t the same. He carried too much now. Too many sleepless years. Too many choices with no turning back. The man you kissed that night had disappeared—maybe the moment he stepped away from you. Maybe he’d died in the silence he left behind.

And yet… something of him remained. The way he looked at you now, like you were the only light he remembered. Like he was terrified of what you’d say next.

You shook your head. “You can’t just show up and expect to pick up where you left off.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I don’t expect anything. I just—I just wanted to see you. I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”

That did something to you.

Made something shift.

“You think I’d die before you?” you said, voice softer now. Almost bitter. “No. That’d be too easy.”

He looked at the ground again. His lips parted. But this time, he said nothing. Just stood there. So close. Yet still outside.

Your hand tightened on the doorframe.

You felt powerful and powerless all at once. He couldn’t cross unless you allowed him—and he knew it. But with every heartbeat, you realized this wasn’t just about ancient rules or myths or blood-soaked pacts.

This was about trust.

About whether you could let him near you again and survive it.

Your voice came quiet. Trembling. Unsteady.

“What if I let you in and you leave again?”

Remmick’s eyes met yours.

“I won’t,” he said.

“Promise?”

The word came out like a dare.

And his voice cracked as he answered. “Yes.”

Still—you hesitated.

The silence went on too long.

It curled around your ribs, stretched across the porch, filled every crack in the air like smoke that wouldn’t lift. And he—Remmick—just stood there in it, waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t beg. His shoulders stayed tense, and his eyes, though tired, never left your face.

But you saw it now—in the tight line of his mouth, the slight tremble in his fingers.

He was afraid you wouldn’t.

And somehow, knowing that gave you back a little of your breath.

It was strange. You thought when this moment came—if it ever came—you’d slam the door in his face. Or scream. Or cry. But instead, you just felt tired. Like your heart had been holding its breath for five years and was only now remembering how to exhale.

You stepped back.

Not far. Just enough.

The invitation was wordless at first—a shift in posture, the gentlest yielding of space. But that wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he was.

He still couldn’t move.

Your mouth was dry. Your tongue felt too big in your mouth. But your voice came anyway, low and almost uncertain.

“Come in.”

The wind hushed outside, as if it had been waiting too.

Remmick moved before you could second-guess yourself. One step—and then another—and then he was inside. He passed the threshold like it hurt. Like the warmth of your little home singed him where the cold of the world had frozen in. His shoulders relaxed, just barely. And for a heartbeat, he looked almost human.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, eyes wide, as if he were trying to memorize everything—the low flame in the hearth, the scent of rosemary drying on the windowsill, the chipped mug you’d left on the table.

Then his gaze returned to you.

You didn’t know what he saw. Maybe the same girl from five years ago. Maybe someone new. Maybe both. He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But it was enough, for now, that he was in.

He closed the door gently behind him.

The sound echoed like the end of a chapter.

You stood across from him, arms still crossed, unsure what to do with the ache in your chest or the ghosts in the room. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t ask for your hand. But his eyes—God, his eyes—still looked at you like he was waiting for the moment he could breathe again.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “For letting me.”

You nodded once. “Don’t thank me yet.”

The kettle had gone quiet again.

You turned from him and went to the stove, reaching for it with hands steadier than they should’ve been. The heat kissed your knuckles as you moved the kettle, refilled the mug you’d left half full. You didn’t ask if he wanted tea. You weren’t ready for that.

Behind you, Remmick loitered—that was the only word for it—near the kitchen table. He didn’t sit. He hovered with his fingertips just barely grazing the back of one of the chairs, his shoulders rigid, his body angled like he still wasn’t sure if he belonged.

He didn’t know where to stand. Where to be.

You remembered that about him—even before he left. For all the quiet confidence he wore like armor, there was always something uneasy in him when he stepped too close to warmth. He didn’t know what to do with gentleness. Or with silence that wasn’t threatening.

You stirred honey into the tea. It gave you something to do with your hands. Something to focus on besides the way his presence filled the space like a second heartbeat.

“Are you going to sit?” you asked finally.

He blinked. “Should I?”

You turned, met his eyes. “You’re not just a shadow on the porch anymore.”

After a second, he pulled out the chair and sat—slowly, cautiously, like the wood might protest. His hands rested on the table, pale and long-fingered, one thumb absently rubbing over the knuckle of the other.

You set the mug down across from him. You didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter, arms folded again, the ache in your chest blooming slow.

And then you asked it.

The question that had been pressing against your lips since the moment you opened the door.

“Why you here, Remmick?”

Remmick didn’t answer.

Not right away.

His eyes flicked down to the grain of the table, then back to you. You saw the war inside him—the way his mouth opened and closed, the way he leaned forward like he was going to speak, then pulled back like the words were teeth.

You thought he might lie. Or say something vague. Something that would spare both of you.

But he didn’t.

“I came back for you.”

The room stopped moving.

His voice wasn’t soft, not really. It was low and certain—like a verdict handed down after years in silence. You stared at him, every part of you taut with disbelief and heat. And maybe—maybe—some part of you had longed to hear it. But it wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.

“Why’d it take you so long?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He flinched.

A sharp fang found its way into his bottom lip. You saw it clearly—the slight glint of enamel just before it bit down, hard enough that blood might’ve bloomed if he still bled like you. Then, with enough force to give even the undead a headache, he wrenched his head away from you, eyes turned to the wall like it had something safer to offer than your face.

“I told you,” he snapped. The words came through gritted teeth, sharp, strained—not angry, but barely held together. “I had to leave.”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t look at anything, really, except the knots in the old table where his palms pressed flat, white and firm. He leaned forward, using it to brace himself like the truth was too heavy to hold upright on his own.

And maybe it was.

But that didn’t soften anything in you.

Your feet moved before you realized it. Across the floor. Slow, quiet steps until you were close—close enough to feel the cold that came off his skin, close enough to see the fraying thread of guilt stretching between his shoulders.

“You ain’t utter those words to me,” you said, and the tightness in your voice surprised even you. “You didn’t say nothin’. Just… left.”

He didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the curve of his neck, the tension locked in his jaw. The scent of him rushed forward unbidden—dirt, pine, and that same death-like cold that always made you shiver, even before you knew what he was. It hit you like it always did—grounding, haunting, familiar.

You hated how much it still felt like home.

“You could’ve said something,” you whispered. “Anything.”

“I know,” he said.

But it didn’t sound like surrender. It sounded like a man swallowing a knife just to prove he deserved it.

You were so close now. His body tensed with your nearness, but he still didn’t look at you. As if facing you fully would make this all too real. As if your eyes were the final punishment.

“You kissed me like you were going to stay,” you said, and it came out too soft, too bitter.

His hands curled tighter on the table.

“I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The question landed like a stone.

Remmick let out a breath — quiet, but jagged. For a moment, the silence thickened again. His head still bowed, his fangs still peeking out slightly from where his teeth clenched. Then, finally, he looked at you.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned and looked down at the table, eyes flickering as if weighing whether to say what he hadn’t told anyone—maybe ever. His jaw shifted, but no words came.

You could feel something building in the silence, hot and wrong and old—not just guilt. Not just regret.

He was hiding something. Something big.

“Why’d you leave?” you pressed, your voice harder now, the hurt finally boiling over. “What were you even looking for?”

He still didn’t speak.

So you stepped closer.

Your voice dropped, sharp and low. “You said you came back for me. But that don’t mean much if you left in the first place to chase ghosts.”

That did it.

Remmick stood.

Abrupt. Tense. His chair scraped against the floor, and the sudden movement made the candlelight flicker in the glass. He walked to the other end of the table without looking at you, putting space between your bodies like he needed air—or maybe protection.

His side was to you now. One hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.

You didn’t let him off easy.

“Who did you need to find?” you asked. “What was more important than me?”

His shoulders tensed, his fingers curling tighter.

And then—suddenly, sharply—he turned.

“I had a mission long before I met you,” he snapped. “Don’t act like I was ever whole.”

You froze.

The words struck like thunder. They came from someplace deep—not just his chest, but his soul, what little of it was still tethered to this world.

“I’m not some romantic ghost story,” he said, voice thick with something between fury and despair. “I didn’t crawl out of the dark just to fall in love with a girl and settle down in some goddamn cottage. I’ve been alive for thirteen hundred years. Do you understand that? Thirteen. Hundred. Years.”

You stared at him.

His chest rose and fell—not from breath, not really. From emotion. From centuries unspoken.

“I was cut off,” he said, quieter now. “Spiritually. Whatever gave other people peace—prayer, bloodlines, death rites—it abandoned me. When I died, something severed. My people… they’re gone. And I can’t feel them. I can’t reach them.”

He looked down. His voice broke like something old inside him cracked loose.

“I had to go looking. I thought maybe, just maybe, there was someone—somewhere—who could help me reconnect. A seer, a walker-between-worlds, a blood priest who still remembered what it meant to be part of something older. I had to try.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Because for the first time, you saw it—really saw it—the full shape of his exile. Not from the world. But from his own legacy. His ancestors. His people. His place in the story of everything.

You watched him, chest burning.

And he said, softer now, “I needed to know if I could still belong to anything.”

The silence after was unbearable.

It wasn’t just pain in his voice now. It was loneliness so ancient it smelled of blood and salt and fire.

The room felt colder now.

Not from the night air—the door was shut tight, and the fire still flickered steady in the hearth, but from the quiet. From the way his words seemed to cling to the walls, to the wood grain beneath your bare feet. They filled the space like smoke.

You didn’t move. Not toward him. Not away.

Just stood there, arms limp at your sides, fingers twitching uselessly as if they were supposed to reach for something but didn’t remember how.

He didn’t turn back to look at you.

He stood by the table, spine drawn taut, as if afraid that facing you would undo what little dignity he had left. His hand pressed flat to the table like he needed something solid to keep from breaking.

You’d never seen him like this.

Not even back then—when he kissed you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted just because he wanted it. Back then, he was quiet, yes. Sad, sometimes. But this—this was different. This was something hollow and hurting and ancient.

You swallowed hard. Your voice didn’t come.

All you could hear was the wind outside, the slow pop of a log in the fire, and the quiet thud of your heartbeat behind your ribs.

He was thirteen hundred years old.

And for thirteen hundred years, he had walked in the skin of the forgotten—untethered, unseen, unclaimed by the very people he once bled for. That kind of grief didn’t pass. It settled in the bones. It made a home there.

And you hated him for leaving. You did.

But now, watching the rigid line of his back, hearing the strain in his voice, you realized something.

You weren’t the only thing he’d abandoned.

He’d been running from himself long before he ever touched your mouth with his.

And that was almost worse.

Your throat ached. But you said nothing.

You let the silence stretch—not as punishment, but as a kind of mourning. For what he’d lost. For what you never had a chance to hold. For what neither of you knew how to name.

And he just stood there, in the quiet, like a statue of a man still waiting for the gods to speak.

You took a breath.

Slow. Unsteady.

And then you took a step.

Just one, toward him. Toward the man who now stood by your window like he’d forgotten how to be a person. The man who had finally cracked open the vault of his silence and spilled centuries across your floor. You didn’t know what you were going to do. Touch his arm, maybe. Say his name. Sit beside him and share the weight of what he carried.

But before you could take another step, he spoke again.

“…I shouldn’t’ve said all that.”

His voice was quieter now. Tighter. A sharp turn inward.

You froze mid-step.

He shook his head, one hand dragging roughly through his hair, fingers catching at the strands like he wanted to tear the words back out of the air. “Christ. You didn’t ask for any of that. I shouldn’t’ve—” he broke off, breath catching, jaw tightening again.

“You think I came back noble and bruised with purpose, but I’m not. I’m just—” he laughed once, but it was brittle. Empty. “I’m just tired. Tired of chasing ghosts. Tired of trying to outrun what I am.”

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see his face in profile. His lips parted, his brows drawn in, the gleam of his fang still barely visible where it caught the candlelight. There was something hollow in the way he held himself now—like all the certainty he had just minutes before had collapsed beneath the weight of your silence.

“I shouldn’t’ve come here,” he muttered. “Not like this. Not after what I left you with. I-I didn’t mean to drag you back into my ruins.”

Your chest tightened.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not really. It was shame. Pure and bitter. The kind that turns into a blade when it sits too long. You saw it in the way he curled slightly inward, like he was bracing for rejection before you could even offer it.

He thought he’d said too much. Thought you’d turn away now, disgusted, or maybe worse—pitying.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth yet, and already he was retreating.

It hit you then—a sharp, sudden ache.

He expected to be unloved.

Even now.

You took another slow step forward.

“Remmick,” you said.

And his name in your voice—spoken softly, with nothing but weight and warmth—made his shoulders flinch like a wound had reopened.

He still didn’t turn.

You moved again.

Quieter this time.

No words followed his name—not yet. You didn’t have the right ones. You didn’t know if there were right ones. But your body moved on instinct. On ache. On the pull that had never left you, not even when the pain was freshest.

The floor creaked softly beneath your weight.

He didn’t react. Not to the sound. Not to your footsteps. He stayed still, staring out the window like maybe he could find his ancestors in the dark beyond the trees—like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would hurt less.

You reached out.

Your hand trembled as it hovered for a breath above his arm—just above the worn leather of his coat. You hesitated. Not out of fear. But out of reverence.

Then you touched him.

Just a gentle press of your fingers to his forearm, near the bend of his elbow.

It was like touching stone that had once been warm. Cold, yes—always cold—but there was tension beneath the surface, something alive. Something trying not to fall apart. You felt him flinch, barely. A tightening of the muscle. A breath that never left his lungs.

“I don’t need perfect,” you said, quietly. “I never did.”

His head turned slightly, but still not all the way. His eyes shifted toward you, not quite meeting yours, as if afraid he’d see disappointment in them.

“You think you ruined me,” you whispered, thumb gently brushing the sleeve beneath your palm. “But the truth is, you didn’t break nothin’ that wasn’t already cracked.”

That made him go still.

You stepped closer—so close now, your chest nearly touched his arm. Your voice trembled, but you didn’t pull back.

“You came back to your ruins, you said. Well, you’re lookin’ at one. I ain’t been whole since the night you left. And I hate that. I hate that you still live in me like a ghost I can’t exorcise.”

A pause.

“But I still touched you.”

Remmick finally turned.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a slow, tired movement of a man surrendering to gravity. His face tilted down toward yours, the candlelight catching his cheekbone, the sadness in his mouth, the storm in his eyes.

Your hand stayed on his arm.

He looked at it. Then at you.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

Because your touch was saying everything neither of you could voice just yet—that the wound was still there. That the pain was real. But so was the longing. So was the tether that no silence, no time, no centuries of grief could quite sever.

The silence held—but it shifted.

It thickened into something breathless. Something just barely tethered to the ground. Your hand still rested on his arm, but you weren’t sure when your fingers had curled slightly, holding him now, not just touching. And he wasn’t looking at the floor anymore.

He was looking at you.

Not just your eyes—but your mouth. Your breath. Your face like it was something he’d spent a century dreaming of and wasn’t sure was real even now. His gaze moved slowly, reverently, and your heart kicked in your chest so hard it hurt.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

And then, so gently it barely registered at first, Remmick leaned in.

His head tilted slightly, the space between your bodies trembling as he moved toward you with all the hesitation of a man who’d once had this—and lost it. His brow hovered near yours, and he didn’t touch you anywhere else. Not your cheek. Not your waist. Just that one arm beneath your hand, steady like a bridge between lifetimes.

His breath ghosted over your lips.

He stopped—not even an inch away. And when he looked at you, really looked at you, you saw it.

The question.

Not in words. But in his eyes. In the tremble of his mouth. In the way he waited.

It was everything you hadn’t been able to say since he walked back into your doorway. All of the pain, the longing, the ache you’d buried in your chest and tried to forget—it was in that look.

You didn’t speak.

You just nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

And then he kissed you.

There was no rush. No hunger. No sharp edges. Just a deep, aching softness that carried five years of silence and the heavy press of what might have been. His lips were cool, as they always had been, but they warmed quickly against yours, molding with a kind of reverence that made your throat tighten.

He kissed you like a man who hadn’t touched anything real in centuries.

And you kissed him back like someone who’d waited every night for a knock that never came.

The kiss deepened slowly—his hand finally, finally lifting to your waist, careful like you were made of glass and grief. You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw, and felt the shiver that ran through him at your touch.

It wasn’t just want.

It was remembrance.

And surrender.

And hope.

And the question that pulsed between both of your mouths as you breathed each other in:

Can this still be ours?

When the kiss broke, it was slow, like neither of you wanted to part—just enough to draw breath. His forehead rested lightly against yours. His hand stayed at your waist.

The silence after the kiss wasn’t empty.

It buzzed.

Low and hot, like a wire pulled tight between your bodies. You could feel the echo of his mouth on yours, the cold of his lips warming against you, the tremor in his breath where it touched your cheek. And you knew—without words, without doubt—that he felt it too.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t ask.

But his hand stayed at your waist, and when his forehead slipped gently against yours again, the smallest sigh escaped him—something between relief and admiration.

Then he kissed you again.

Softer this time. Slower. A question with a fuller answer.

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the stillness beneath. No heartbeat. No rise or fall of breath the way a human’s would move. But he felt alive all the same—alive in the way he touched you now, in the way his other hand slipped up along your spine, fingers splaying wide at the middle of your back to draw you closer.

You let him.

You melted into the cold of him like it had never left you. Like it had always been yours to return to.

He pulled you tighter, and his kiss deepened—not urgent, not rushed. Just full. Like a long drink after drought. Like he was afraid of overwhelming you but hungrier than he’d ever admit.

You didn’t realize you were moving until your back touched the edge of the kitchen table.

His body had pressed yours backward, his steps slow, deliberate, until the wood met your spine. You gasped softly into his mouth at the contact—not from pain, but from the thrill of knowing he was still following you. Still wanting you. Still choosing this, after all the years lost.

Remmick’s hand slid down to your hip, firm but careful, like he still feared you might vanish if he held you too hard. His other hand brushed along your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your ear as he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes flicked between yours and your mouth, lips parted, fangs just barely visible now.

“You’re still warm,” he whispered, voice rough with ache.

You swallowed, heart thudding. “You’re still cold.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression—pain, longing, devotion all tangled together.

But then you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down again.

And this time, when your mouths met, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was reclamation.

It was every unfinished second. Every breathless night. Every aching dream you’d forced yourself to forget.

His hands roamed now—not frantic, not wild— just slow, admiring. He touched your waist, your ribs, the dip of your spine as if relearning a place he thought he’d never feel again. You clutched at his coat, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring him to you.

His hips pressed closer, and you felt it—the tension he carried, the restraint he held onto with every ounce of control he had. He could’ve taken more. But he didn’t. He waited.

Letting you decide how far this went.

His breath shuddered against your throat as he kissed along the edge of your jaw, your neck, pausing just above the pulse point, fangs hovering—not touching, not daring.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse, barely more than breath. “Tell me now, an’ I will.”

But you didn’t.

You tilted your head back, eyes closed, hands tightening around his shoulders, and your body answered for you.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

And that silence—that permission—made something shift in him.

He kissed you deeper now, fuller, his hand sliding beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the warmth of your waist like he was trying to map what had changed in five years… and what hadn’t. You weren’t sure when your breathing had quickened, only that it matched his now—uneven, shallow, as if the two of you were speaking in rhythm without words.

His coat rustled softly as your fingers pushed it from his shoulders, and he let it fall, never once breaking the kiss. The chill of his skin bled through his shirt, but you didn’t care. You wanted him closer. You pulled at him. Needed more of him, not just the memory, not just the ache.

His mouth left yours briefly, trailing along your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. He moved slow—as if he were reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That this was now. You felt the press of his lips where your pulse beat hard, and though his fangs hovered, they never broke the skin.

“I missed this,” he whispered into your neck. “I missed you.”

The way he said it—strained and quiet, almost broken—made your fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. You guided his mouth back to yours, and this time the kiss was hungrier. Not rushed, but desperate in a way that only years of loneliness could explain.

Then he reached down.

His hands slid beneath your thighs.

Your breath caught.

And with a strength that made you feel small in the safest way, he lifted you.

You gasped softly into his mouth, hands clinging to his shoulders, and before you could say a word, your back met the cool wood of the kitchen table. His body stood between your legs, eyes hooded, breath shaking, the tension in him almost unbearable.

But he paused again.

Always waiting for you.

His hands pressed to your hips, thumbs brushing small circles there, grounding himself.

“Is this alright?” he asked, voice low, almost lost.

You looked at him and there was no monster before you. No ghost. No predator. Just Remmick. Cold and trembling and human in all the ways that mattered.

And you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He leaned forward again, and when his lips found yours this time, there was no more hesitation.

Only the steady unraveling of everything you’d both buried, finally rising to the surface—breath by breath, touch by touch.

His hands never rushed.

Even now, with your body perched on the edge of the kitchen table and your breath coming in soft, uneven bursts, Remmick touched you like you were still something holy. Like each part of you had to be reacquainted with his palms, his mouth, his memory. His fingers splayed wide along your hips, thumbs grazing bare skin, cool and steady as he stood between your legs.

You drew him closer with your thighs, wrapping around his waist without needing to ask. He came willingly—as if that was where he’d always belonged. His mouth found yours again, slower this time. No longer asking. Simply being.

The kiss was deeper now—mouths open, breath shared, the weight of his body pressing gently between your knees as he leaned in. You tilted your head to meet him, hands sliding beneath his shirt to find the skin of his back. Cold, yes—but firm, strong. Familiar. You mapped each line with your palms like a song you never forgot how to hum.

When he pressed forward, you arched to meet him.

Your bodies fit in a way that felt fated—not perfect, but true. Like two lives made jagged by time and grief finally finding alignment again.

Clothes slipped away slowly, piece by piece, not in a frenzy but with reverence. You felt his hesitation every step of the way—not from doubt, but from awe. As if he still couldn’t believe you were here. That you were letting him stay. Letting him have this.

And yet you were.

Because your fingers trembled as they undid the buttons of his shirt. Each one undone slowly, like he was afraid to rush the moment. Like he needed to memorize every inch of you he uncovered.

You watched him.

The way his eyes drank you in, like you were light after centuries in shadow. The way his lips parted with something like awe when your bare skin was revealed to him. And still, he moved carefully, never all at once. His hands slid up your ribs, along your waist, grounding himself in the warmth he could never possess fully, but still longed for.

And when he leaned down again, pressing kisses to your collarbone, to your sternum, to the top of your stomach, he sighed against your skin like he had finally found his way home.

You arched into him.

Not to provoke, but to be nearer. To give him more.

His hands curled beneath your thighs again, lifting you further onto the table, angling your hips with the slow precision of someone not rushing toward lust but toward remembrance. His forehead pressed to yours again, and his lips hovered over your mouth as your fingers pushed his shirt aside, revealing the cool, unchanging skin beneath.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his hands gathering up your dress so that it hiked up to your waist.

It wasn’t lust that cracked his voice.

It was the weight of everything he was, everything he carried, terrified that this was just one more dream he would wake from.

You nodded. Slow. Sure.

And then his body met yours—fully, completely—a slow, reverent joining. Not fast. Not rough. But steady and aching and real. His lips found your mouth again, and this time there was no space between you.

The table creaked gently beneath the shift of bodies. Your breath mingled with his. His hands moved beneath your thighs and along your waist with worshipful care, every touch a vow. Every press of skin a memory rewritten. His fangs, now elongated and aching, ghosted over your flushed skin.

The rhythm built gradually—not frantic, but inevitable. Like tides returning to shore. His eyes stayed on yours, even as pleasure pulled at his features, even as your hand tangled in his hair and your hips met his with slow, desperate need. You felt the tremble in him. The restraint. The sorrow and relief wrapped around every motion.

It wasn’t about hunger.

It was about returning.

It was about touching someone who was gone for too long, and finding they still lived in the same rhythm as your heart.

You gasped his name once—broken, breathless—and he kissed the sound from your mouth like it was sacred.

And when it ended, you didn’t move right away.

You stayed wrapped in him, arms around his shoulders, his forehead pressed to your temple, both of you breathing the same air like it would keep the world from spinning too fast.

The world was still spinning when you exhaled.

Your body felt heavy and soft all at once, your skin flushed with the afterglow of everything he gave you—and everything you gave him in return. Remmick’s weight rested against you, not crushing but grounding, his chest pressed to yours, his arms still curled tightly around your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You were still joined.

Still breathing him in.

And for a moment, everything felt… quiet.

Then you felt his mouth against your neck.

Not kissing. Not gentle.

Just resting there. Fangs pressing against your skin.

At first, you thought it was comfort. Some strange kind of closeness. But then his grip shifted—tighter. His breath warmed your throat. His jaw twitched.

And then he whispered.

“I’m not leaving without you again.”

The words made your breath catch.

“What…?” you murmured, dazed, unsure what he meant. Your fingers twitched against his shoulders , mind still hazy from the rush of it all.

Then you felt it.

A shift in his mouth.

A pressure.

His fangs, barely-there at first, began to press in.

Slow. Deliberate.

The pain didn’t come immediately. It was the realization first. The sickening clarity. The way your body tensed in warning before your mind could even process the threat.

“No,” you breathed.

You pushed at his chest.

He didn’t move.

“Remmick,” you said louder, urgency breaking through your haze. “No.”

But he growled.

Low. Deep. From somewhere far older than the man you knew. It vibrated through his chest, into your ribs. And his grip tightened.

Your spine arched slightly under the pressure as he pressed closer, mouth still hovering at your neck, fangs teasing the edge of skin. You felt the warm slide of drool—thick, inhuman—spill from his mouth onto the curve of your collarbone.

He wasn’t biting.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But he was on the edge.

You shoved harder against him, eyes wide. “Remmick—!”

You felt the tremor in his body—not weakness, but restraint beginning to fray.

He wasn’t speaking now. Just breathing—shallow, irregular, mouth still pressed to your neck like he could already feel your blood humming beneath the skin.

“Remmick,” you whispered again, this time not just with fear, but with sorrow.

And still, he didn’t move.

His arms locked tighter around your waist, not crushing, but binding. His chest rose and fell against yours, colder than it should be, but shaking like a man on the edge of breaking.

You tried again, pressing harder at his chest. “Let go.”

But his growl deepened.

It wasn’t rage.

It was need.

Low and guttural and mournful—like something ancient had cracked open in him and was spilling out.

His breath dragged heavily along your neck, lips trembling now as his fangs hovered just above your skin. Not plunging in. Just pressing. Threatening. Tasting what could be his.

And then—a whisper.

Hoarse. Barely spoken.

“I can’t lose you again.”

You froze.

He wasn’t talking to you like a lover now. He was talking to you like a man speaking to a god. Or a ghost. Or the last fragment of a life he never got to keep.

His grip trembled, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You’ll die. You’ll leave me. You’ll vanish like the rest. And I-I can’t—”

His words broke apart.

And you realized then: he didn’t just want to taste you.

He wanted to turn you.

His desperation wasn’t about blood.

It was about keeping you. Binding you to him. Forever.

As one of his own.

As something that could never slip away in the passage of time.

His fangs pressed in again, slower this time. As if this act would save him. As if you could be his answer, his redemption, his final tether to something real.

You pushed harder, panic flaring, voice trembling. “Remmick—no. Not like this.”

But he didn’t pull away.

His jaw twitched.

His breath stuttered against your skin.

He was close.

So close.

And still, somewhere in his silence—you felt the war inside him.

Because he didn’t want to hurt you.

He wanted to keep you.

But keeping you meant crossing a line he had vowed never to cross. A line soaked in blood. A line he had watched destroy love before.

You were right there—body against his, heartbeat beneath his lips��and still, he hesitated.

Your heart was pounding loud enough for him to feel it. You knew he could—the way his body stayed pressed to yours, the way his mouth hovered at the pulse in your neck like it called to him. Your blood wasn’t just scent anymore—it was music, and he was being dragged into it note by note.

You felt it.

In his breath.

In the tremble of his lips.

In the restraint that was fracturing.

You were losing him.

Not Remmick the man. The lover. The ghost that came back through your door.

But Remmick the thing beneath.

And still—even through your fear—you knew this wasn’t cruelty.

It was longing. It was need. It was the desperate, cloying ache to keep you forever, wrapped in the only kind of permanence he understood. You weren’t dying—not yet—but you could, and that was unbearable to him.

So you did the only thing you could.

You reached up—slowly, deliberately—and you cupped his face.

Your hand shook.

But your touch was sure.

Your fingers pressed into his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, right where the fang pressed against his lip. “Look at me,” you whispered, voice thick. “Remmick, look at me.”

He stiffened.

Your voice cracked.

“Don’t do this. Please. Not like this.”

And for a moment—for a terrifying, suspended second, nothing happened.

Then, with a sound halfway between a growl and a gasp, Remmick ripped his head back.

A jagged sound tore from his throat—part growl, part cry, as if he hated himself for what he almost did. His chest heaved even though he didn’t need the air. His fangs glinted in the low firelight. His eyes glowed red—sharp and unnatural, too ancient for the face that had once looked at you like you were soft and holy.

But he didn’t run.

He stood there, trembling.

And then… slowly… he stepped forward again.

Not to take. Not to finish what he started.

But to ground himself.

he pressed his forehead to yours.

Your breath hitched, hands gripping the fabrics of your dress that you pushed back down over your knees.

You could still feel the heat where he had nearly sunk into you. Still feel the weight of his body, the tremble in his arms. And yet here he was now—no longer devouring, no longer pressing. Just holding. Just… there.

And for a moment, you were both still.

Two bodies suspended in silence.

Your hand found his jaw again, gently, thumb brushing across the cool skin beneath the gleam of his eye. The red began to fade. Slowly. Dimly. Like the storm had passed, but not far enough to forget.

“I can’t stay,” he whispered.

The words cracked open something in your chest.

They weren’t harsh. They weren’t cold.

They were broken.

He was broken.

You closed your eyes. Tears burned at the edges, rising fast—not just from fear, or heartbreak, but from the awful understanding of what he meant. Why he meant it.

He was still dangerous.

Still not safe.

Not for you. Not for anyone. Especially when he wanted so much to love you the right way—but didn’t always know how to stop himself when the old hunger rose.

Your breath shook as you nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

Remmick pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were glassy now, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. He reached up to wipe one with the back of his hand—his touch featherlight, reverent.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice hoarse.

You gave a tiny shake of your head. “I know.”

And though nothing else passed between you in that moment—not words, not promises—the ache that filled the space said everything.

He couldn’t stay.

But he didn’t want to go.

And you?

You would’ve let him in again, even knowing it would hurt like this.

Because it was Remmick.

Because he’d always been the wound you never wanted to heal.

The silence hadn’t left.

It stayed between you, softer now, but heavier somehow—like dust settling after a storm. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the kitchen walls. The kettle had gone cold.

You moved slowly, almost without thought, fingers trembling slightly as you tugged your dress down further and smoothed the wrinkles at your waist. Your legs still felt unsteady beneath you. You could feel where his hands had held you, where your bodies had fit together like they’d never stopped.

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice.

I can’t stay.

Remmick sat on the edge of a kitchen chair now, elbows on his knees, head bowed as he wiped his mouth and jaw with a clean rag you’d handed him. His shirt lay discarded beside him, crumpled and forgotten, its buttons undone, its sleeves twisted from where you’d pushed them aside in the heat of need.

Now, you lifted it with careful hands.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You moved in front of him, the fabric trembling in your grip. He didn’t stop you when you stepped between his knees. He didn’t protest when you helped him slip his arms back through the sleeves, didn’t flinch as you began to rebutton the front of his shirt one small piece at a time.

Your fingers brushed his chest. Light. Steady.

Button by button.

And all the while, your mind wouldn’t stop echoing the same thing:

I can’t stay.

The words looped behind your ribs, behind your eyes, over the rhythm of your breath. You tried to swallow them down, to focus on the simple motion of fastening each button. But they came back, over and over again, louder in your bones than in the air.

I can’t stay.

He hadn’t said it like a man who wanted to go.

He’d said it like a man damning himself for having to.

Your fingers slowed near the middle of his chest. You lingered on the fourth button. Not because it was hard to fasten—but because your hands didn’t want to finish.

Didn’t want to reach the end of this moment.

Didn’t want to let it become past tense.

He looked up then.

His eyes weren’t glowing anymore. But the red still lingered at the edges, like the ghost of a fire that refused to die. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you.

And still, the words repeated in your head, cruel and unyielding.

I can’t stay.

You finished the last button.

And let your hand rest against his chest, just over where a heart would beat if it could.

You didn’t follow him to the door right away.

You stood in the kitchen, fingers still curled around the front of his shirt. He hadn’t moved since you’d finished dressing him—like he was waiting for the moment to change, for time to bend backward and offer something kinder.

But it didn’t.

So eventually, he stood.

His movements were slow, precise—like he feared if he moved too fast, something inside him might splinter. His coat was draped over the chair. He lifted it in silence, shaking the folds loose, slipping it back over his shoulders like armor.

You followed.

Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last.

Outside, the wind had died down. The moon was low. The trees stood like sentinels, dark and unmoved, watching the threshold where you stood with him one final time.

He opened the door slowly.

The air outside was cold, but not cruel. It whispered through the open frame, brushing against your face like breath. And still, neither of you spoke.

He stepped out onto the porch, boots creaking on the worn wood.

Then he paused.

He turned—just slightly—his profile bathed in moonlight, casting his cheekbone and jaw in pale silver.

And he looked at you.

There was something sharp in his eyes, even now. Not hunger. Not danger.

Just grief.

You saw the way he hesitated—the way his body leaned slightly toward you, the way his mouth parted, and his gaze dropped once, just once, to your lips. You saw the way he almost stepped forward.

But then his shoulders pulled back.

And his eyes closed.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Gods, I want to.”

You didn’t speak. Your breath hitched.

“But if I do…” he opened his eyes again, gaze full of something raw, unnameable, “I won’t leave.”

A pause.

“And I have to.”

Your throat burned.

Your chest ached.

But you nodded.

Slow. Hollow.

Because you understood.

If he kissed you again, it would unmake him.

So instead, he just looked at you—like he was memorizing your face. Like he was taking your breath with him. Like he’d already begun to turn into a ghost again.

Then he stepped back into the night.

The wind pulled at the hem of his coat.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

And you didn’t move.

You stayed in the doorway long after he disappeared into the dark, eyes burning, breath held—listening for the sound of his footsteps in the leaves, already knowing you wouldn’t hear them.

He was gone.

Again.

And this time, he didn’t even take your kiss.

Only your heart.

[babydollslibrary]

SNOW ON THE BEACH — LUKE HUGHES

luke hughes x fem!reader

published: February 8th, 2023

summary: in which shy, introverted y/n meets extroverted frat boy Luke and he takes a liking to her, even though everyone thinks they’re an odd match.

specific lyrics: “it’s like snow on the beach, weird but fuckin’ beautiful.”

notes: i really wanted frat boy Luke in order to really have them contrast each other, but i also didn’t wanna take away the hockey element or split up the UMich boys, so… Hockey House is a frat now.

GIF by 1-800-iluvhockey

the library is packed. i should’ve expected it, with it being so close to finals week and all, but it still disappointed me nonetheless.

this was my favorite place to escape and read when my obnoxious dorm-mate had her friends over. it was quiet and usually pretty empty. so i could usually sit and read for a few hours until i was sure none of Alex’s friends were still there. none of them knew how to use an inside voice, and with our dorm just being one big room, they constantly thought that meant i would want to join in on their conversations. which were mainly gossip about the hockey team. so, coming in and finding every space in the library full, ruined my plans. i don’t want to go back to my dorm and be subjected to them debating which UMich hockey player has the cutest smile, so i guess that leaves me with one option; find a seat.

i let loose a sigh and scan the room for who seems to be the quietest. i hate small talk. i find a table with only one person sat at it, a guy with one airpod in and a textbook laid out in front of him, and decide that’s the one. i walk over, fully planning on just motioning to ask if i can sit, but when i come to a stop in front of the table and he doesn’t even look up, i know i’ll have to speak up. i take a deep breath before i let out the quietest ‘excuse me’ known to man. the boy still doesn’t look up from the textbook, and i don’t blame him, he probably didn’t even hear me.

“excuse me.” i say slightly louder. this time the boy finally looks up, but i’m struck on what to say. suddenly, all the mentally rehearsed words have left my mind. this may be the cutest boy i have ever seen.

“can i help you?” his voice is soft. not judgmental or rude like what i would’ve expected from him after i came over and interrupted his studying just to end up staring at him. i shake myself out of my thoughts and give a light nod.

“do you mind if i sit here?” i motion towards a chair diagonal from his. “everywhere else is full.”

the boy nods.

“oh, yeah, go ahead.” i give him a small and grateful smile before depositing myself in the chair. pulling my book and a few highlighters out from my tote bag before hanging it up on the back of my chair. i open my book to where i left off, setting the bookmark on the table. but before i can start reading, the boy speaks up again.

“sorry to interrupt but, you’re reading that for a class?” he asks. for some reason, i take a look at the front cover of my romance novel before talking.

“oh. no. i’m reading this for fun.” i tell him. my voice is quite, my tone soft.

“oh okay. i guess i just assumed you were here to study since everyone else is.” he lets out a breathy chuckle as he shrugs.

“no.” i shake my head before explaining- “i’m here to get away from my dorm-mate and her friends. they’re too loud for me to focus and they keep trying to get me to weigh in on their debates.”

“what are they debating?” he asks.

“well, when i left it was which Wolverines hockey player has the cutest smile.” i tell him, rolling my eyes.

“and who did you say?” he seems curious, and almost amused.

“no one.” i shrug. “i don’t know what any of them look like.”

he lets out a quiet laugh.

“well you know what one of them looks like now.” he says. my brows form a v and i’m about to ask him to clarify but then it hits me. oh. he’s a hockey player.

“oh.” is my awkward response.

“i’m Luke Hughes.” he smiles at me. well, i have my answer for the next debate now.

“i’m y/n.” i tell him. “nice to meet you.”

“you too.” he finally looks back down at his textbook, and i’m relieved to be free of any more small talk.

the next hour or so passes by silently, and i manage to finish the last 75 pages of my book without any interruptions. i close my book, and put my stuff back in my tote bag, at the same time that an alarm goes off on Luke’s phone. he turns it off and starts packing his stuff up as well. we stand simultaneously, and he sends me a quick amused expression. my steps to the exit are slow, and Luke falls in line with me, slowing his steps to match mine.

“my frat is having a party on Friday, you should come. collect some more data for the next debate.” he smirks, and i rack my brain for a nice way to say that i don’t do parties.

“i’m not really a party person.” i say.

“then what kind of person are you?” he asks. his eyes fall down my body before he looks back up to my face.

“um, the reading type, i guess? i don’t really like doing the whole people thing.” i confess. he nods in understanding.

“well, if you change your mind, come. and if you need to escape your dorm again, i’ll be here tomorrow, same time.” he winks before splitting off, walking the opposite direction as me.

my entire walk to my dorm, i rethink every word we shared, wondering if i sounded stupid. i mean, i would assume not because he didn’t seem put off by me, but who knows, maybe he’s just a good actor. he was really cute though, gosh i hope i didn’t unknowingly embarrass myself.

opening the door to my dorm, i’m disappointed to see that Alex and her friends are still here. they don’t usually hang out this long on a wednesday evening. and i have to hold back an eye roll when i realize that it doesn’t sound they’ve changed their topic of conversation at all since i’ve left. logically, i’m sure it has and they just circled back onto this topic, but i honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it was all they were talking about the past couple hours.

“y/n! you didn’t answer before you left, so please, settle this for us!” one of them, Jess, says as she spots me. “which UMich hockey player has the best smile? i say Ethan Edwards, Alex says Rutger McGroarty, and Becca says Mark Estapa!”

my mind wanders back to the boy i was conversing with not too long ago and before i can think twice, i blurt out- “Luke Hughes.”

“you think so?” Becca asks “i feel like he rarely ever smiles. it’s so hard to get one out of him.”

“really?” i ask. they must be exaggerating, he smiled at me earlier. although, i think he was just being friendly.

“yeah! i have a class with him this semester and i swear he frowned at me when i tried to introduce myself. i mean, he’s still hot, but still.” Becca replies, shrugging.

“oh.” i say. what does that mean? if he wasn’t friendly to her when they met, then why would he smile and be friendly with me?

“oooh y/n is blushing! i think she likes him!” Alex coos.

“i don’t like him.” i turn away, letting my hair fall in front of me to hide my apparently pink cheeks. i set my tote bag on my desk chair and slip my shoes off before taking a seat on my bed.

“i think she does!” Jess joins in on the teasing, and now i’m regretting having left the solitude of the library. “a bit of an odd match, you two.”

i’m not sure whether i should be offended by her statement or not, but for some reason i am. i don’t plan on dating him, but hearing her say we wouldn’t match together makes me feel insulted.

“what is that supposed to mean?” i retort.

“she didn’t mean anything by it.” Alex defends her friend. “she’s just saying, Luke is an extrovert, he likes to party and let loose, he has a lot of friends. and you’re… the opposite. i don’t think i’ve seen you go out once in the entire school year that we’ve shared a room. you keep to yourself. like, we’ve been trying to include you so that you’re not lonely, but you always say you’re going to the library. you and Luke just don’t seem like you’d fit together.”

“i didn’t ask you to include me. i like being alone. people are draining.” i say. i don’t like their pity on me. it’s not like i don’t have friends. i do. we’re just all introverted and our hangouts between classes is enough social interaction for us. we don’t care for going out partying on weekends or anything. if we do want to hang out on the weekend, we’ll usually do a movie night at Casey and Ellie’s apartment. but the way Alex explains it makes my life sound pitiful, and it makes me defensive, so before i can stop myself, i speak again. “and for your information, i’m going to a party on friday.”

the trio gasps, as though this information is scandalous.

“oh my god, are you going the party at Hockey House?” Becca asks. ‘hockey house’, the nickname for the frat house in which most of the UMich hockey players live. the frat is comprised solely of hockey players, so i guess the nickname makes sense. “for Luke?”

“yes, i’m going to the party. but no, not for Luke.” i tell them. why did i say i was going to that party? i hate parties. i even already told Luke so.

**

friday evening has come, and i can’t even back out of going to the party because Alex, Becca, and Jess have decided we should carpool together. so now i’m stuck in this commitment.

when Becca and Jess arrive to pick Alex and i up, i become aware that i’m the only one not wearing a dress or skirt of some kind. instead i’m dressed casual, in jeans and a tank top, paired with an oversized cardigan to keep me protected from the evening breeze. but it’s too late to change now.

arriving to the party is a hassle on its own, with the girls fussing over whether they look good enough to bag a hockey player, and having a hard time finding a parking spot. and when we finally walk into the party, i immediately want to leave. music is blasting from multiple speakers, everyone is holding a stereotypical red solo cup, and the house is packed. i’m quickly forgotten about by the other girls, them walking off to get drinks and stop to have conversations with a few of the hockey guys. i still don’t actually know any of the players names, besides Luke.

i scan the room, but i’m not entirely sure what i’m looking for. or who. all my friends are probably laying in bed right now. before i can even figure out who i’m looking for, i hear my name being called.

“y/n!” i turn my head towards the voice and find a guy from my ‘intro to business’ class coming towards me. i think his name is Dylan, but it seems like everyone just calls him Duke. “never seen you at a party before!”

“yeah, it’s not usually my scene.” i tell him with an awkward smile.

“i figured. you give me more of the ‘reading in my room’ vibes.” he laughs.

“am i that obvious?” i joke. he laughs again and nods.

“you look pretty out of place. let me introduce you to some of my friends.” he takes ahold of my wrist and pulls me towards a group of guys in the kitchen. i’m immediately uncomfortable, they all seem intimidating, and i’m not great around boys. we get closer to the group and Duke begins to introduce me. “guys, this is-”

“y/n! you came!” i look over to see Luke, and i can’t help the smile that breaks out on my face when i see his wide grin. he slings an arm around my shoulders, and Duke’s jaw drops.

“THIS is the y/n you’ve been talking about? the one from the library?” Duke asks. i can feel my face heating up. he’s been talking about me? i hope he’s not saying anything bad about me.

“yup. this is my future girlfriend.” Luke exclaims, and i choke on my own spit.

what?! we barely know anything about each other! all i know is his name is Luke, he has the prettiest smile i’ve ever seen, and he plays hockey. pretty sure all he knows about me is my name and that i have an annoying roommate.

“hm. an odd match.” Duke ponders. there’s that phrase again! but now seeing Luke in his natural habitat, partying and joking with friends, and even just him being so confident, i can’t help but wonder if Duke and the girls are right. Luke and i do seem to contrast each other.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” Luke asks defensively.

“hey, i’m not saying that’s a bad thing!” Duke rebuts. “you guys are just kinda… opposites of each other.”

“opposites attract.” Luke shrugs. i’m kind of confused. does my opinion matter? Luke seems pretty confident that i like him back.

“uh, Luke.” i speak up. he looks down at me where i’m still tucked into his side. “we don’t really know anything about each other.”

“when you know, you know.” he shrugs.

**5 YEARS LATER**

i stare up at my now husband from my seat beside him with watery eyes and a soft smile.

“and i told her, ‘when you know, you know.’” he looks back down at me from his standing position. “and i knew. from the first time we met, i knew this would be the girl i spend the rest of my life with.”

everyone in the reception hall claps as Luke ends his speech. he gives me a soft kiss on the cheek before whispering in my ear.

“you got this, baby.” his hand clasps my shaky one and gives it a quick tight squeeze. i take one big deep breath and stand up, i hate public speaking, but i wrote my speech and i will read it.

“i didn’t know. well, at least not as quick as Luke.” a few people chuckle at that. “but what i do know, is that i went to my first party for him. which spoke volumes for me. and i thought he had the most amazing smile to ever exist.”

i look down at Luke and see the grin spread across his face.

“look, there it is!” i point to him as i look back at the reception hall full of our friends and family and everyone laughs. “i still think it’s the best smile, but i might be biased now. when we started dating, we had people calling us an odd match, i even had a friend compare us to ‘snow on the beach.’ she said we were ‘weird but beautiful.’”

“i used to think it was an insult, but now i look back and realize, our friends were right, we are an odd match.” i look back at Luke and now it’s my turn to smile. he takes ahold of my hand, squeezing it as a few tears roll down my cheeks. i finish my speech while maintaining eye contact with him. “but i like our differences, we balance each other out, and i can’t imagine what my life would be like if i hadn’t liked your confidence so much that night. i’m so grateful that i get to spend the rest of my life calling myself your wife.”

Luke stands, winding his arms around my waist and pulling me in for a sweet, slow kiss. i can hear everyone clapping, and someone lets out a loud “WOOO!”

i can distinctly tell that was Jack, and it makes me interrupt the kiss with a giggle. Luke just takes that chance to pull back and pepper my face in pecks. blood rushes to my face at the thought of our family and friends watching him do this, but he doesn’t care. his confidence is a constant, no room for embarrassment.

yeah, maybe my friend was right; Luke and i are like snow on the beach. at first glance, we’re an unlikely duo, different in a lot of ways, but we make a great couple and our love is beautiful.

[whumpsday]

Next of Kin

@medwhumpmay Day 10

Medwhump May Masterlist

content: pet whump, caretaker new master, neglect, rescue, avian hybrid whumpee

-

Inheriting an exotic bird from an uncle they barely knew would already be a huge pain if that bird wasn’t also six feet tall with a wingspan twice that.

Caretaker pulled up at their uncle’s house. They knew, most likely, they’d been chosen because they were close enough physically to make the drive comfortable for the bird, but not close enough emotionally to have already said no. They had been given no instructions other than what they could find on the internet, and everyone seemed to have wildly varying opinions on the best way to take care of these things.

At the very least, hybrids were capable of speech. Not mimicking like a regular parrot, but actual understanding. So the bird could probably just tell them what it needed.

They unlocked the door with the key their mom had given them. “Hello?”

“Hello?” a voice called back, a timid mirror of their own.

Caretaker walked toward the sound–it wasn’t hard to spot him.

The man before her couldn’t be described any way but beautiful, but not the way you’d call a human beautiful. He was covered in colorful feathers from head to toe, only his face and hands revealing that he also had skin. Reds, yellows, greens, and blues blended together wondrously, and it looked so incredibly out-of-place in a cage in their uncle’s old house.

He shied back, massive wings folded around him almost like a blanket. “Hello?” he repeated. The cage was large, definitely the largest of any kind Caretaker had seen, even big enough for Whumpee to stand up or lay down. Though they doubted Whumpee could unfurl his wings in there. It was decorated with various toys and enrichment, which he was wholly ignoring at the moment.

“Hi. I’m Caretaker. I’m going to be taking care of you from now on, I guess?” They spoke softly, trying not to spook Whumpee further.

“He’s not coming back?” the bird asked.

“No. He died. I’m sorry,” Caretaker said, awkward and stiff. How were they supposed to break the news of an owner’s death to his pet, who knew him a lot better than they ever did? “He was my uncle.”

Whumpee nodded slowly. He didn’t seem overly sad, at least. They weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not. “I can leave the cage?”

“Yeah. You’re coming to my place. Listen–I’ve never met a hybrid before, let alone taken care of one. So you’re gonna have to help me out here. Can you point out anything we need to take with us?” Caretaker asked.

Whumpee pointed to the opposite wall with an uncomfortably human-looking finger. Hanging there was a key rack, only one key remaining on it.

“Oh. Sure,” they said.

What was the worst that could happen? The bird flies away or something? Honestly, Caretaker half-hoped it would happen. Not their problem and not entirely their fault.

They unlocked the cage, and Whumpee waited for them to step away before cautiously exiting. He shook himself out in the center of the living room, stretching his wings to their full length, managing to touch each wall with the tips of his wings. His arms reached up, reveling in the increase in space.

“Comfy?” Caretaker asked, and Whumpee startled, head whipping around like he’d forgotten they were there.

“Yes.” His wings drooped, brushing the floor, and he hunched over a little, so he almost appeared shorter than Caretaker. “I can take whatever I want?”

“Only your things,” they clarified. “Whatever my uncle got for you specifically. I’ll let you know if it’s something you can’t take.”

“Do I have to take everything?” he asked, head tilted.

Ah.

The cage. It was clear he hated it, and frankly, keeping a depressed man in a cage in their home sounded like the least appealing thing in the world. Not only that, but it definitely wouldn’t fit in their car.

“We can leave the cage,” Caretaker said. “Take everything else, though. Even if you don’t think you’ll need it, better to have it just in case.”

Whumpee didn’t smile, but his eyes widened and gleamed in excitement. “No more cage? Or you have a different one? Is it bigger or smaller?”

“No cage. Just don’t mess with my things and we’ll be fine?” they suggested. Maybe viewing this as a sort of roommate situation would be better. A roommate who doesn’t pay rent and just sits around looking pretty. Something like that.

“I’ll be good,” Whumpee promised. “I don’t pick at things. I don’t take things that don’t belong to me. I’m a good bird.” The way he said it was slightly unnatural, like he was reciting something from memory.

Caretaker gave him two thumbs up. “Awesome. I’ll open the trunk and start throwing in anything that looks obviously yours.”

Together they gathered up bags of food, the toys and water bottle from inside the cage, a large dog bed. “Good bird, good bird,” Whumpee murmured to himself. Whenever he gathered something, he simply left it by the front door while Caretaker carried it to the car.

Guess I don’t have to worry about him running away.

“That’s all of my things.” Whumpee carried the key to the cage, though Caretaker had left it back on the key rack. They didn’t bother to take it from him.

“Alright. Ready to go?” Caretaker asked.

Whumpee tilted his head, gazing out the door. “I’m not allowed outside.”

Caretaker sighed. “I’m allowing you outside.”

Just then, a car drove past. Not even a particularly fast car. Whumpee bristled, scurrying back into the house, eyes wide.

Oh, he was scared.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Caretaker approached him like a frightened animal, which they supposed he was. “It’s safe. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. Just gonna walk to the car, and you can have the whole backseat to yourself, and it’s like twenty minutes to my place. When we get there, you can explore your new home. I’ve got a balcony where you can stretch out as much as you want. I even bought some treats you can have.” Though it sounded a little too patronizing now that they’d met him. They reached out a hand. “How’s that sound?”

He didn’t take it. “What is a balcony?”

“It’s like, a little outside platform connected to an apartment. It’s not super big, but there’s no walls, just a railing, so you don’t have to worry about bumping into anything. And you don’t have to worry about anything outside either, ‘cause it’s a floor up and enclosed,” Caretaker explained patiently. “Wanna come see it?”

Whumpee listened to their explanation like a child learning about Santa Claus for the first time. This time, he did take their hand, small, soft feathers fading down the back of his own. “Yes. I would like that.”

-

EDIT: @what-if-i-just-did is adopting and continuing this story! read about fern and quill's new beginning here!

-

Oneshots taglist:

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@reborrowing

@paperprinxe

@what-if-i-just-did

Everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

@whumpy-wyrms

@all-hail-pigeons

@wolfeyedwitch

@starfields08000

@jumpywhumpywriter

@scoundrelwithboba

[sunrizef1]

What Happens in Vegas pt 14

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warnings: Cursing, verbal abuse

Word Count: 1.6k

Authors Note: No Charles content in this one but important nonetheless

Summary: Logan and Y/N talk, y/n finally reveals who’s been texting her

Masterlist

“Have I ever told you about my family?”

Logan doesn’t reply for a moment, annoyance still resting under his deadpan expression. You’re both sat on the floor of his drivers room, backs resting against the wall behind you, coffee from the Williams hospitality sitting in foam cups getting cold as they sit, untouched. Champagne dries on the top of your skin, casting a sticky residue onto your face and the ends of your hair.

Your win was now forgotten, the trophy having been left in your room to be picked up by a random Porsche employee who’d eventually get it back to you. Logan’s DNF was also now forgotten, although it did leave a lasting effect on his mood, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed tightly.

“No, but I know your dad.”

You tilt your head, pulling the inside of your cheek between your teeth as you respond, “Well, you know him now.”

Logan doesn’t respond, not in the mood to play into your vagueness. He’d invited you here to explain. He knew you’d clarify eventually, whether he asked you to or not.

“It’s a complicated story,” you pause, bile rising to your throat at the notion of explaining your childhood and forcing you to swallow it back down, “You don’t have to say anything.”

Logan hums, obviously not planning on speaking much anyway. Both of you stare off toward the floor in front of you, unspoken words hanging in the air around you.

“I was born in France, not sure if you knew that,” you start after a moment, hesitance laced in your words, “Everyone thinks I was born in Texas but my mom would’ve rather died than let that happen.”

“You probably know my mom, Amelie Laurent, French, vogues favorite person and I guess she’s a pretty famous model,” Logan pauses for a second, no doubt not aware of who your mom was, before he nods in recognition of the name.

“When my parents had me, they were still in love, I think,” you furrow your eyebrows as the words leave your mouth, “Um, but after they had me, I guess they got really busy with their jobs and stuff so they sent me to live with my grandparents in Texas for a while.”

“Didn’t really see them much growing up. My dad took me to the paddock a lot though, I got to hang out with everyone at McLaren, which was nice.”

“But he was busy so I usually got stuck with Kimi and then eventually Lewis, when he joined, which is where the uncle Lew thing comes from. Sometimes I felt like McLaren and Mercedes raised me more than my dad did,” the end of your statement comes out in a whisper, this being the first time you’d voiced the idea.

Logan glances over as your face sours, his hand coming out to hand you your, now cold, coffee. You grasp it from him and take a sip, sliding it back down to the ground after.

“When I was 8 my parents had my brother, which I think was the final straw. They got a divorce right after and my dad moved me to England. My brother stayed in France with our mom,” you wince.

“I started karting, my grandma moved to England to take me around to races when my dad couldn’t. Despite my own… objections, I spent my summers at my moms house with her and my brother.”

You pause, stomach turning as you let out a shaky breath, memories flooding back. Logan shows his first emotion of the night, glancing over to check you're not going to die. When he confirms you're, in fact, breathing, he looks back to the floor.

“I don't think she wanted kids. Maybe she did. At one point. But I think, after the divorce, all I did was remind her of my dad, a man she hated more than anything. She made it obvious with the way she treated me, as well. Well actually, the way she treated both me and my brother.”

“She never wanted me in karting, made it clear. Only reminded her of my dad again, made me do ballet in the summers. Thought it was more proper, or whatever. Didn't let us speak English at her house either, we were only allowed French, took Juli forever to learn English correctly, he'd only grown up with her.”

“Juli?” Logan asks, adding his first bit of input since you'd started talking.

“Brother,” you mumble into your knees as you pull them into your chest, resting your tired face against them. Logan nods.

“Um, she yelled a lot, I guess. A lot of stuff about our futures and how we'd always be failures if we went through with racing and football, she didn't like that Julian only wanted to play football, either.”

“Dad didn’t know, I didn’t tell him,” you mumble, “I didn’t think there was that much wrong with it until I left.”

“She just sucked, man,” you groan, eyes shutting tight as your head falls back against the wall, “I hated her so much! Because I was winning, I was getting these championships and getting these trophies and I thought she’d finally accept that I wanted to kart but the only thing she’d tell me was that I’d never get anywhere!”

You take a deep breath, holding back the faint tears in your eyes.

“But yeah, that's the worst of it, really. Completely cut contact at 15. Begged my grandparents to let me spend summers with them. They let me.”

“It just stuck with me for a while, you know? The shit my mom would say. A lot of crap about how I was failing myself with racing or how I would never have a future if I continued down that path. Said a lot of things about how I'd always find a way to lose and that it would never be worth it if I wasn't the best. Everytime I lost a race, she would find a way to use it against me, proof that I shouldn't be racing.”

“I did block her though, couldn’t stand the constant texts when I lost. Probably wasn’t even very easy to find those results, they weren’t exactly mainstream,” you furrow your eyebrows, confusion passing over your face momentarily, “Anyway, three years later, I’m 18. I move out and sign an f3 contract. My dad got super busy with Lewis’s championships and Mercedes. Kimi was actually the first to congratulate me.”

“I haven't spoken to my mom or my brother in, what? 8 years? I've mostly forgotten them by now, paris a thing of the past,” you trail off, the air of Logan’s room suddenly feeling a lot colder.

“All this to say, um-“ you rush out, shaking your head quickly.

You finally look over toward Logan, moving your body to face his, “She texted me, in Australia. Told me that the crash was all she'd ever expected from me, anyway. She's been calling ever since.”

Logan turns his head, concern written on his face.

“I think I'd forgotten about everything she said since it's been so long. But that text kind of brought it all back. It's been stuck in my mind for every single race. That's the reason I’ve been so unfocused lately. I don’t even know how she got my number, she was blocked on my old number and then I just got a new one, I don’t know how she could’ve got it.”

Logan, having dropped his previous spite, quirks his head, “What about yesterday?”

You swallow thickly, “Julian texted me. She kicked him out. He’s staying with a teammate. He’s sixteen, Lo. He’s still a kid.”

You fall back against the wall with a thump, your hands coming up to cover your eyes, “He’s still in France, still training with PSG. He’s asked to talk to me before Monaco.”

“Monaco?”

You nod solemnly, “My least favorite race, too close to my mom. I was so relieved when they took France off the calendar, you know? I’m pretty sure that, until recently, she didn’t know I was even in F1. She’s sworn off any media that isn’t French and I chose to race under dads last name. Makes me think someone told her I was.”

Logan hums, trying to process all the information you’d just told him. Eventually, he pats you heavily on the back, groaning as he stands up. You look up as he reaches a hand down to you, questions laying in your gaze.

Logan pushes his hand further down toward you, “Seems like a good enough reason to go out, celebrate your win. We can talk heavy solutions in the morning. For now, you are a race winner. A race winner who needs to get her mind off her fucked up family.”

You grin at his words, grasping his outstretched hand and letting him pull you up, “You reacted better than Arthur did. Think he was about to throw up with me.”

Logan pauses, his face screwing up with faux betrayal, “You told Arthur before me?”

You roll your eyes, “I was having a panic attack on the floor of the bathroom, talking about it was the only thing to get me out of it.”

Logan smiles softly at your response, slinging an arm over your shoulder as you two walk out of his room, “Let’s go, winner. Who do you think the most famous person you can get to celebrate with you tonight is?”

You take a moment to think about your response, “I think I saw Kendall Jenner, I’m sure I’ll probably see her at some point.”

Logan hums, looking out ahead of both of you, “You know I’ve seen the pictures of you two in Miami last year? You were so far gone.”

You laugh, hitting him in the ribs, “Shut up. We should leave soon, Porsche has probably already started partying without us.”

Logan laughs, patting your shoulder lightly as you both go to leave the Miami paddock.

———————————————

[its-avalon-08]

hello could I please request a Fernando x driver reader long one shot.: maybe where she’s Jules Bianchi or Sennas daughter and the whole trope of she fell first but he fell harder. It seems like he hates her or what ever lots of angst but then lots of fluff in the end please I’m dying for some nando stuff

The One That Got Away (Until She Didn’t) (fa14)

✦ pairing - fernando alonso x female!reader

✦ genre - enemies to lovers, angst, bianchi!daughter!reader, cute, fluff,

The roar of engines filled the paddock, drowning out any attempt at conversation. To Y/N Bianchi, that sound was home. She’d grown up hearing it from the sidelines, watching her father, Jules Bianchi, carve out a name for himself on the track. Now, it was her turn. And she was determined to do more than just live in her father’s shadow.

Y/N had proven herself time and time again in the lower categories, earning her place on the Formula 1 grid not as Jules’ daughter, but as Y/N Bianchi—talented in her own right. But there was one person who didn’t seem to care. One person who, no matter what she did, kept his distance. Cold. Detached. That person was Fernando Alonso.

She felt his eyes on her now as she adjusted her helmet before practice. His gaze was always there—burning holes into her, yet never engaging. It wasn’t admiration or respect. No, it was something darker. Disdain, maybe? Contempt?

Fernando Alonso, two-time world champion, one of the most experienced drivers on the grid, and the man she had admired since she was a child, seemed to hate her.

She wasn’t naive. She knew how the paddock worked. The comparisons to her father were inevitable, and she could deal with that. But Fernando’s icy attitude toward her went beyond mere skepticism. It was as though her very presence was an insult to him, a constant reminder of something she couldn’t quite understand.

“I don’t get him,” Y/N muttered to her race engineer, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling in her chest.

“Hm?” he asked, distracted as he went over the car’s setup for the session.

“Alonso,” she clarified, stealing a glance across the garage. Fernando was deep in conversation with his own team, but for just a second, his eyes flicked toward her, narrowing slightly before he turned away. “He acts like I don’t belong here.”

Her engineer chuckled. “Fernando’s like that with everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

But it was personal. She could feel it in the way he ignored her, never acknowledging her efforts on the track, never offering even a nod of recognition. Every interaction—or lack thereof—felt like a rejection. She’d tried to talk to him once or twice, but each time, he’d brushed her off, offering nothing more than curt one-liners before walking away.

But despite it all, Y/N couldn’t help the way her heart raced when he was near. She hated herself for it. Admiring someone who clearly couldn’t stand her? Pathetic. She’d spent her entire life learning how to shut out doubt, how to ignore the voices that told her she wasn’t enough. But with Fernando, it was different. His silence cut deeper than anyone’s words ever could.

Later that afternoon, the team debrief ended, and Y/N found herself lingering in the paddock, stretching the muscles in her neck after a long day of practice. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over the scene, and most of the other drivers had already left. Except for Fernando.

She saw him leaning against the wall near his motorhome, scrolling through his phone, his face cast in shadows. Something in her snapped. The tension had been building for months now, and she was done pretending she didn’t notice his cold shoulder. She was done feeling like she had to prove herself to him.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N strode over, her boots scuffing the gravel beneath her feet. Fernando looked up as she approached, his expression unreadable, as usual.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone indifferent, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of annoyance.

Y/N crossed her arms, standing just a few feet away from him. “Why do you hate me?”

Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Hate you?” He pushed off the wall, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I don’t hate you.”

“Really? Because that’s sure what it feels like.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she held her ground. “Every time I’m near you, you act like I’m some kind of nuisance. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me unless you’re judging me. So what is it? Do you think I don’t deserve to be here? Or is it because I’m Bianchi’s daughter and that makes me some kind of charity case?”

Fernando’s expression darkened. “Careful, Y/N.”

“No,” she shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you. What’s your problem?”

For a moment, Fernando said nothing. His eyes flicked over her face, and something unfamiliar passed between them—an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Regret? Anger? No, it was something else. But before she could process it, Fernando spoke, his voice colder than she’d ever heard it.

“You think I care about what you do?” he asked, stepping closer. His presence was overwhelming, and she fought the instinct to step back. “You’re not special, Y/N. You’re just another driver, trying to make it. If you think I’m here to validate you, you’re wrong. I don’t owe you anything.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. But instead of backing down, she lifted her chin, defiance burning in her chest. “I never asked for your validation. I just wanted to understand why you go out of your way to make me feel like I don’t belong.”

Fernando’s jaw tightened. For a split second, it seemed like he wanted to say something else, something real, but then he simply turned away, shaking his head.

“Get used to it, Bianchi,” he muttered before walking past her, leaving her standing alone with nothing but the sinking feeling in her chest.

As Y/N watched him walk away, frustration and confusion swirled within her. Whatever was going on between them—whatever tension was brewing beneath the surface—it wasn’t just in her head. But as much as she hated to admit it, Fernando Alonso was an enigma she wasn’t sure she’d ever unravel.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t ready to give up trying.

she tried yet another time.

“Do you have a problem with me?” Y/N stormed into the hospitality suite after another cold interaction.

Fernando didn’t look up from his cup of coffee. His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She stepped closer, her voice cracking slightly. “Every time we’re in the same room, you act like I’m a ghost. Is it because of my father?”

At that, his head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“Why not? That’s what it is, right? You think I’m just trying to ride his coattails?” She was shaking now, all the pent-up emotions spilling out. “I’m not him, Fernando. I never will be. But I’m here because I’m good at this—because I deserve it. I’ve done everything I can to prove myself, to you—”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he cut her off sharply, his voice low but dangerous. “I’m not your judge.”

“Then why do you treat me like I don’t exist? Like I’m nothing?”

There was silence. Fernando’s eyes darkened, the usual stoicism replaced with something… deeper. Anger? Pain?

“You don’t understand,” he finally muttered, standing abruptly and walking towards the door.

Y/N’s heart pounded. “Then help me understand.”

But he left without another word, leaving her standing alone, her heart heavier than ever.

time skip

Weeks passed, and the tension between them only grew. Y/N found herself dominating during races, yet her mind constantly swirling with thoughts of him. Every shared glance felt like a knife to her chest, but she couldn’t stop the feelings that had taken root deep inside.

Then, in one race, disaster struck. Y/N crashed. It wasn’t her fault, a freak incident, but the world spun around her as she crawled out of the wreckage, bruised and shaken. She couldn’t escape the memories of her father’s crash, the fear bubbling up.

She sat in the medical room, waiting for clearance, when Fernando stormed in.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he spat, eyes blazing with an intensity she’d never seen.

Y/N looked up, tears already welling in her eyes. “I didn’t—”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” His voice broke, and that’s when she realized—he wasn’t just angry. He was scared.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, unsure if she was trying to convince herself or him.

“No, you’re not.” His hand came up to grip the back of his neck, the strain clear in his posture. “You’re reckless, Y/N. Just like him.”

The mention of her father felt like a slap. “Don’t you dare—”

“You think I’m pushing you away because I hate you?” He stepped closer, voice shaking. “It’s the opposite. I care too much.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“You… you’re everywhere,” he continued, pacing now. “Every time I see you on the track, I think about how easily things can go wrong. About losing you. And I can’t—” He stopped, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I can’t lose you the way I lost him.”

Y/N’s heart raced, disbelief washing over her. “But… you’ve been so distant. You acted like you didn’t care at all.”

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “That’s because I’m a coward, Y/N. I thought if I kept you at a distance, I wouldn’t have to feel… this.”

She swallowed, her voice barely a whisper. “Feel what?”

Fernando took a deep breath, his hands dropping to his sides in defeat. “I’ve been falling for you since the day you arrived, but I was too damn scared to admit it.”

Y/N blinked, frozen in place. “You… you’re in love with me?”

“I didn’t want to be,” he admitted, his voice soft now, almost broken. “But I am. And every time you’re out there, I’m terrified.”

She stepped closer to him, her heart aching for the man in front of her. “You never had to push me away, Fernando. I’ve been in love with you for months.”

He looked at her, something shifting in his expression—like he’d finally allowed himself to feel everything he’d been holding back. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it seemed like you hated me.”

He laughed, the sound bitter. “I could never hate you, Y/N.”

Without thinking, she closed the distance between them, her hand finding his. “Then don’t push me away anymore. Let me in.”

Fernando hesitated, but then, with a sigh of surrender, he pulled her into his arms, holding her like she might disappear if he let go. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”

She buried her face in his chest, tears of relief spilling down her cheeks. “You’re forgiven.”

time skip

From that day on, everything changed. The tension between them melted into something warmer, something real. Fernando was no longer the distant figure she’d admired from afar; he was hers, fully and completely.

They spent their days sneaking moments together in the paddock, quiet confessions whispered in between practice sessions. He would steal kisses when no one was looking, his usual stern demeanor softening only for her.

“You’re impossible,” she teased one evening as they sat on the balcony of their hotel room, watching the sun dip below the horizon.

“And yet, you love me,” he smirked, pulling her closer.

Y/N smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “I do.”

Fernando’s arm tightened around her, his voice low but full of emotion. “You fell for me, Y/N. But I fell harder, you know?”

She chuckled. “Maybe. But I'm catching up.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the weight of the world no longer pressing on either of them. “I’m never letting you go.”

And for the first time, Y/N believed him.

[lotusloong]

Requests... hmm...

Could I make a request with Monkey King Reborn!Wukong where Fruitte is both Wukong and y/n's wingman? Neither will admit their feelings... so Fruitte is trying to get the pair to admit it in his own honest, innocent way.

Fruitie Petals

Relationship: Monkey King Reborn!Wukong X Female Reader

AN: A very sweet idea I really liked writing! I think Reborn!Wukong needs waaaaayyyyy more love than he gets tbh. Hope you enjoy ♥

Tags: Fluff, Love Confessions

Read it on AO3!

It started with Fruitie bringing him a flower.

The tiny spirit floated over to him, leaf cape fluttering, and placed a single plucked flower over his thigh.

“What is this?” Sun Wukong asked, picking the flower up by its stem. His other claw came up to pinch the pink petals, the softness surprising him. Fruitie smiled and did a tiny flip of glee.

“A flower! A pretty, pretty flower!” Tang Sanzang, who had been deep in meditation, opened a single eye to peek at what the two sitting next to him were up to. Upon seeing his disciple holding the flower, he opened both eyes and smiled.

“What a sweet gesture, Fruitie. You went and found that just to give to my student?” He asked. Fruitie, still smiling, shook his head vigorously. Wukong scowled, trying to fight the smile twitching at his lips.

“It’s not for him to keep. It's for him to give!”

“Give?” Wukong asked, raising an eyebrow. His tail flicked in curiosity where it rested in the grass behind him. Fruitie nodded, giggling to himself as he floated higher into the air. Tang Sanzang held a gentle hand out to Wukong, asking for the flower.

“May I?” Wukong shrugged, handing the flower over with no complaint. Fruitie on the other hand, gasped.

“No! No, not for you!” He cried, zipping closer to Sanzang. The monk held up a placating hand, calming the tiny spirit.

“I just wish to see it, nothing more. I will give it back.” He soothed the other, and Fruitie relaxed somewhat, eyes still darting between the flower, the monk, and Wukong. The Monkey King himself leaned back on one hand in the grass, the other coming up to casually scratch the fur of his throat.

“Who exactly am I giving it to then, if not my Master? Not Bajie, right!?” He laughed at the idea. Fruitie didn’t laugh in response, and Wukong gave him a concerned look. “N-not Bajie…right?”

Fruitie just shook his head ‘no’, looking faintly exasperated.

“Good. I’m not giving him flowers. Ever.” Wukong clarified, knowing it was a lie. If Fruitie asked him to give the pig flowers…he would. Eventually. Not pretty ones though.

“No, it’s for pretty lady! She likes flowers.” Fruitie said, with a confident air. Sanzang looked from the flower to Fruitie, then to Wukong with a glint in his eye. Wukong felt his breath stutter, eyes widening as he felt heat rush to his cheeks.

“W-wh-why don’t you give it to her then? She’ll appreciate it more coming from someone other than me-” his words were cut off by Fruitie flying up close to his face.

“No! You have to give it to her, no one else can!” The spirit cried, stomping his tiny foot on empty air like it was the ground. Wukong scoffed, pushing the tiny creature out of his personal space.

“Why do I have to-”

“I think that's a wonderful idea, Fruitie.” Tang Sanzang spoke, looking at the two of them. Fruitie gave a delighted clap, knowing he had officially won. Wukong may gripe and complain, but with both his Master and Fruitie pushing for him to do this, he would cave rather quickly.

“Wha-Master please. It wouldn’t-she won’t want a flower from me! She’s terrified of me!” Wukong scowled, hating the shameful burn in his gut at the thought of talking to you. Everytime he tried to do anything near you, you always got…weird. Your face would heat up, you could never look him in the eyes, you stuttered over your words. The only time he ever saw you really confident around him was when he or his brothers were injured. Your medicinal training would kick in and you were no-nonsense until everyone was properly cleaned and bandaged after a battle.

You never acted so terrified infront of his Master or Fruitie. Or Bajie and Wujing for that matter.

It was clear you hated him, or at least found him uncomfortable to be around, if you couldn't even maintain eye contact with him but felt comfortable enough around Bajie to scold him for stealing your snacks.

Did you think he would hurt you…?

He had been trying so hard to not show you his more demonic tendencies when you joined their group, he didn’t like the bad taste it left in his mouth at the thought of you being…scared of him.

“I disagree my student. Very strongly. I think giving our dear healer a gift would be the best thing you could do right now.” Tang Sanzang smiled, holding the flower out for Wukong to take back. He huffed and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and trying to turn away from the offered flower. Fruitie flew back up to look him in the eye.

“She’ll like it.” The spirit whispered, giggling and looking like his usual adorable self. Wukong hated that it was so effective on him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing and snatching the flower from his Master’s hand with a gentle touch he would refuse to admit to. Embarrassed and self-conscious, he stood and jumped into the trees to get away from their knowing looks.

Dumb fruit spirit, dumb Master, both with their secretive smiles and…being able to read him as easily as a book! It was dumb, the whole thing. So what if he thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen? It’s not like the competition for that honor was strong. Sure the celestial plane was beautiful, in a very stuffy, organized sort of way that made Wukong want to crawl out of his skin. Sure his home mountain was beautiful, in the way that only something familiar and comforting can be when it’s been your home since your birth.

But you…

Your beauty was something so very real…so tangible. He could reach out and touch you and you wouldn’t break like a fragile maidens from the Heavens would, you wouldn't disappear from his grasp like his home did in his dreams. You were here, you were solid and real and so…kind and gentle to him.

You didn’t look at him and his fellow travellers like they were a freak show to avoid. You laughed at their antics and jokes, you even made a few of your own. You didn’t yell at and curse him when he tried teasing you, you laughed along with him and took it as good fun. You even went out of your way to buy fresh peaches for him whenever you went into town for supplies.

No one had ever really…treated him like that right away, except his monkey subjects. He always had to fight for respect, to be taken seriously by the Heavens, by his traveling partners. Strangers in towns and on the road had always feared him in some way, whispering about how one of his kind couldn’t be interacted with, his lack of heart being dangerous.

Then you and Fruitie had come into his life and now he could feel the solid ‘thum-thump’ of his stone heart in his chest. Sometimes it reminds him of that day, of your crumpled form holding Fruitie close to your chest as you tried to shield him from Yuandi…

Which is why it hurt so much that you couldn't even hold a full conversation with him anymore.

Wukong shakes himself, snapping out of those thoughts. He just needs to give you the stupid flower, you’ll either laugh at him or be disgusted, and he can pretend it never happened afterwards.

He finds you not far off from their current camp spot, kneeling in the dense underbrush and humming a song to yourself. He lands crouched on the tree branch above you, silent as a specter. He simply sits there for a moment, letting himself enjoy the sound of your voice, your smell mixed with the herbs you’re currently gathering and placing in your basket. He doesn’t notice his tail going lax, slowly lowering until the soft tip is dangling right in your face as you work.

“What the-oh! W-Wukong! I didn’t…I didn’t hear you up there…” You stutter, looking up at where he towers over you before darting your eyes back to the forest floor. Already he can see the blush on your cheeks, the way you worry your bottom lip while stuck under his attention. He ignores the sting he feels at your reaction. You don’t like him, that's fine. Who cares? Fruitie apparently.

He jumps down to stand beside you. You get up yourself, dusting off your robes frantically. Did you think he would care? Like he would eat you for not looking presentable in front of him? He rolls his eyes.

“This is for you.” He all but shoves the pink flower into your face, your eyes growing wide with shock and crossing to get a good look at the object. You pull back a little, and a gasp leaves you. Your hands come up to take the flower, which Wukong lets you take before turning away and scowling at the basket of herbs you’ve been gathering like it personally wronged him.

“O-oh…Oh Wukong this is so sweet-! You actually-I didn’t think you felt this way-!” Your voice sounds excited and breathy, and it has his ears perking.

“Feel what way? It’s just a flower.” Immediately he sees this was the wrong thing to say. You all but deflate in front of him, the excited smile he only dreamed of seeing disappearing and being replaced with a self-conscious and nervous expression. You clutch the flower close, looking lost for words.

“R-right. I’m sorry, that was so presumptuous of me, of course you don’t think that-” You step away from him, kneeling back down to your herbs basket and putting the flower on top of the greenery. Wukong stands there for a moment, tail flicking in agitation and confusion before he steps in front of you again.

“What, what did you think I meant?” He asks. You bite your bottom lip again, shuffling your foot against the grass before you as you stand with your basket. You won’t meet his eyes still.

“It’s just a flower language thing-I shouldn’t have assumed you’d know what it meant. You were just giving this to me because you thought I’d find a use for it right? I understand-”

“No.” He interrupts you. You pause, mouth open and staring at him. Wukong feels his own blush rising, and bites the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral. “I gave it to you because it's…pretty.” He feels like the biggest fool in the universe saying such a thing. 

You duck your head, covering your face with your hands and giggling. At first he thinks you're laughing at him, but the pleased smile you're trying to hide makes his insides flutter in a good way. 

“Th-thank you. I do think it's pretty…china roses have the nicest shades of pink.” You pick the bloom back up from your basket, bringing it close to take a sniff. Wukong’s tail gives an interested flick behind him at the sight of your serene expression. What would it be like to kiss you when you look like that…?

“What…what does it mean?”

“Huh?” You look up at him, a dreamy expression on your face.

“You said it means something special. What?” He crossed his arms, looking at the flower you still held in one hand. If he kept staring at your face he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from finally committing to kissing you.

“O-oh, uhm…” You pause and shift from foot to foot, nervous again. “It usually means…b-beauty…” Wukong almost chokes, eyes widening as his tail went stiff behind him.

“And…l-love…?” You whisper it like it’s a question. He actually does choke this time, meeting your eyes and feeling his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. Damn that fruit spirit. Damn his Master. They must have known, they sent him into this trap he was in no way prepared for.

The silence stretches between you both, until finally he can’t take it any longer. He turns away from you, crossing his arms and trying to scowl to hide his nerves.

“...You can run away now.” He mutters. You make a questioning noise behind him. Wukong doesn’t dare turn back to look. “I know you’re scared, so you can run away and we’ll both pretend it didn’t happen.” He’s proud that his voice wavers only slightly when he speaks. At least he is until he hears you place your basket back down and feels your hand on his stiff shoulder, gently guiding him to face you again.

“I-...I am scared, but I don’t want to run away.” You breathe. His gaze locks onto your hands, clasped in front of you and still holding the rose. His own claws clench into fists.

“I won’t hurt you.” He whispers.

“I won’t hurt you either.” Your words take him by surprise, and Wukong looks up to meet your gaze. “I was never scared of you.” 

He can barely register how close you suddenly are to him before the feel of your soft lips are pressed against his. He sees your eyes flutter closed as a soft sound escapes you, your hands gripping his robes for balance as you lean further into the kiss, the flower still clutched between your fingers.

It feels good. It feels right.

A pleased sigh leaves him feeling boneless and giddy as Wukong melts into your touch, his arms wrapping tight around your waist to pull you impossibly closer, a happy curl to his tail keeping it high in the air.

He’ll have to get you more flowers if it means he gets rewarded like this.

[justanotherabbystan]

I want to clarify that this isn’t any criticism of Kaitlyn Dever, she’s a fantastic actress. My concerns are solely about the character of Abby in the TV show. I feel that her character has been misrepresented.

I have so much to express, and I’m not sure where to start. Abby was treated so unfairly; her character was grossly misrepresented in the TV show. Abby is the type of person who acts quietly, so her entire monologue felt unnecessary to me because the true Abby would never say such things. I can’t wrap my mind around her calling Joel handsome, what relevance does that have to the story? Part of me wonders if she said it to challenge our preconceived notions of what a killer looks like, as they can be ordinary and even attractive people. Still, it feels pointless to me.

The way she caressed his face was completely out of character. It’s hard to believe Abby would ever do something like that. What frustrates me the most is that TV show Abby didn’t convey the same deep remorse and confusion after killing Joel that she did in the game. In the game, you could see her internal conflict; she processed the weight of her actions and realised that killing him didn’t bring her the closure she had hoped for. It was clear that she felt confused and disheartened, questioning why this act didn’t make her feel better after all those years of believing it would.

See what I mean? In the game, she was clearly trying to process what she had just done, realising that this did not make her feel any better. Notice her internal conflict? There was none of that in the tv show.

In the show, Abby smiled a few times while interacting with Joel, which I found unsettling because I know that critics will take that opportunity to argue that she took pleasure in killing him, which is far from the truth. Although her smile was likely a mask for her pain, I fear it will be misinterpreted, suggesting she found joy in the act. I’m genuinely disappointed. Abby already faces so much unnecessary hate, and I worry that after episode 2, it will only escalate. When will they finally do justice to her character? Will she ever receive the recognition and respect she deserves?

“You stupid, old man. You don’t get to rush this.” I’m pleased that they kept that specific dialogue in the show true to the game though.

[spacerockfloater]

hi! i noticed you learnt about what ryan condal said regarding blood and cheese. it was…something. i would like to know your thoughts on the matter. though it would be completely understandable if you need sometime to gather them together or if you would rather not at all! thank you and bye!

Hello beloved, thank you so much for asking me! I’d love to share my opinion!

If anyone’s wondering, @rhaenelle is referring to this interview where Ryan Condal essentially says he believes that Blood & Cheese’s brutality and heinousness was exaggerated by the Greens in a propagandistic attempt to convince their subjects that Rhaenyra and Daemon are the worst villains ever born, hence why he toned the event down; to show us what he thinks is the accurate version of Jaehaerys’ murder.

Now, I am aware that Condal had already warned us that HOTD was going to be a feminist retelling of the events of F&B, which practically means that his plan has always been to whitewash the everlasting fuck out of Rhaenyra. So what do I think about this?

Well, for starters, I think that Ryan Condal is an excellent businessman. He knows what kind of tropes are going to make the audience engage with his show. He understands that people need a hero to cheer for and a villain to hate, therefore he removed the moral ambiguity from all of the characters and divided them into two categories: the Blacks, enlightened revolutionaries full of passion, deserving of admiration and correct in everything they do, and the Greens, pious fools with a moral superiority complex who are stack in the ways of the past and commit despicable crimes. The average viewer does not possess the intelligence to comprehend that both parties have their good and bad moments, and that they’re both correct in fighting for what each believes is rightfully theirs. Simultaneously, he benefits from the modern trends that want women in media to take revenge when they are wronged and emerge as triumphant girlbosses, because of course a white upper class woman’s suffering in a western world (or Westeros) society has everything to do with her gender and nothing to do with her personality or decisions (even if this works solely for Rhaenyra, because Alicent seems to be held accountable for every single one of her actions). Finally, it is obvious that Condal is trying to appease disgruntled Daenerys fans, so he has rebuilt Rhaenyra into this tortured martyr that wishes to change the world for the better in an attempt to make her resemble her great granddaughter six times removed.

For all of these reasons, I find it very logical that he is going out of his way to minimise the tragedy the Greens experience. It just doesn’t make Rhaenyra look good and honestly, who wants that? The producers saw how unhappy Danny’s stans were when they made her lose her shit; they’re not going to make the same mistake twice. They don’t want their show to tank like the last season of GOT did, so they’ll do everything in their power to keep the audience happy. And it’s working! What’s the last thing Condal says in this clip? “You kinda start rooting for [Blood and Cheese]!” and boy oh boy, the TB stans sure do! Literally hundreds of memes that rejoiced at Jaehaerys’ death were posted on X this week, with tens of thousands of likes. But when Lucerys died, it was presented as the most foul thing to ever happen in the ASOIAF universe. It is the TB supporters that dictate which child murder is good and which is bad, and that decision usually depends on which child came out Rhaenyra’s womb, not let’s say, the fact that one kid was a toddler that could barely walk, while the other was a teenager that laughed at the disabled person he mutilated himself.

It’s all just marketing

That being said, I want to clarify that I understand why Condal and the HOTD producers do what they do, but being a good entrepreneur does not necessarily make you a literary genius. Now, I’m not gonna explain why stripping Rhaenyra off of every character trait that made her interesting is a bad decision and that in their attempt to remove the blame from her so that they can elevate her as this righteous patron of feminism, they’re accidentally removing all of her agency and turning her simply into a victim, because I have a whole blog dedicated to that. But let’s just say that presenting Rhaenyra as this sexually liberated idol that’s incapable of evil, when in fact she’s an entitled aristocrat who’s completely at the mercy of men around her, from her father to her husbuncle, is the most performative activism move ever pulled in recent TV history, as well as pushing the narrative that Alicent suffers from internalised misogyny because duh, a woman can only be good and a feminist if she supports Rhaenyra, not when she pursues her own interests.

Ultimately, I think we just have to accept that this show is not meant for TG fans. We are not going to find any satisfaction in it. Everything that was unique and admirable about the Greens in the book has vanished. Their family dynamic is fucked up, Alicent’s children hate her, Aegon and Halaena cannot stand one another, Alicent is constantly a victim and never someone that chases her own ambitions, Halaena is very vague, Aemond appears to be more angsty than angry, Aegon is a stupid rapist, Jaehaerys’ death was turned into a mockery, Alicole was weaponised in order to make us shit on Alicent and Criston even more and so on. This show barely caters to us because we’re not making them any money.

The reason that there are more TB than TG stans is because (I’m gonna get so much fucking hate for this) most people who watch TV are fucking morons. I swear, when F&B came out 6 years ago, no one gave a flying fuck about Rhaenyra, because we all understood that everyone involved in the Dance of the Dragons was fucked up in their own way and that the message of this story, just like the general message of ASOIAF, is that nobody deserves to sit on that fucking throne. We were all in agreement about that. But then this fucking show came along and all the oblivious simpletons that swallowed whatever the producers shoved down their throats, grabbed the book and decided that “Woah, this book is obviously a critique on patriarchy and Rhaenyra is obviously the victim of the story”! As if GRRM, the man who said that he doesn’t sit down and think “Oh, I’m going to write a woman now” but instead he believes women to be people just like men, with complex personalities, would ever do that. And they just can’t believe that it is possible for book!Rhaenyra to be an evil racist classist full of entitlement! Surely it must be because the Greens are rewriting history! There’s no way GRRM, the man that created Cersei fucking Lannister, would ever make a female character that’s vicious and crazy just because she feels like it! Y’all need to sit down for a moment. I say this as a radical feminist that supports the 4B movement: you’re projecting your own ideas onto George’s work. Not all the media we consume has to reflect our ideologies, but if you think that it has to, then this book isn’t the anti misogynistic masterpiece you wish it was.

Like, when it comes to F&B, I am firmly anti Targaryen and did not wish for any side to win. I wanted them all wiped out to be honest. But when it comes to HOTD, I’m TG basically out of spite at this point.

All in all, I just think that things are going to go downhill for us from this point on. They’ll just keep glorifying the Blacks until the very end.

[itstheghostofmypast]

20.16

Idol AU Song Mingi x (F)Reader

Summary: At this point, he was third wheeling- no he was being FORCED to be a third-wheel.

Genre: Fluff

Rating: SFW

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.9k

Est.Read Time: 9 min

Networks: @cromernet @k-labels @illusionnet

Banner: @cafekitsune

"Which is why I was all, nah girl, you don't tell me when I can or can not print and-" she paused in between her story to stare at the man in front of her in...shock? No, disgust? No, it was amusing- actually, it was straight up out of the box kind of nonsense he’d sometimes do.

"Then what did she say?" The blonde looked up from his plate as if nothing had happened, blinking at her like she was the clown for stopping her story mid way. To think she had spent hours making this meal for the two of them to enjoy and he would just push the greens aside like that- a grown man?

“You gonna eat those?” she snapped back, pointing at the greens on the corner of his plate with her fork, “They’re cooked you know?”

“Oh…uh…” he stared at the broccoli and then up at her, clearing his throat he shook his head, “The thing is…I don’t…I’m not a big fan of broccoli, though I do eat other vegetables now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, it’s been around 3 years.”

“Mingi, you're 25 years old.”

“I know, I started when I was 22, Yunho said I should start small.”

She took a deep breath and turned in her chair to look at the man who was sitting there frozen with an uncomfortable smile, staring at the rerun of a show on his PC, knowing this was one of those nights again- word of advice never introduce your best friends from different friend groups, and never ever in a million years let them get together.

“You said start small?”

“I don’t wanna be a part of this,” turning to look at the couple sitting at the small table- why the hell were these two having dinner in his room anyway? Mingi wasn’t even living in this dorm.

“You don’t wanna be a part of this but you expect me to cook for you too?” she snapped back, slamming her fork on the table, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the chair, then looking at her boyfriend, “And you, eat your damn vegetables, don’t listen to him, he’s an idiot.”

“I do eat them!!” he countered back, staring at her all doe eyed, “Why are you so upset, your plate doesn’t even have broccoli!”

“That’s because she hates broccoli.” Yunho mumbled, instantly regretting it when he heard Mingi gasp, “He knows this but not me!?” the taller, but dumber, man pouted at his girlfriend, frowning at the face she made, hitting him with the, “Just like how he knew you started eating vegetables are 22.”

“Guys, why are you two even arguing at this point?” Yunho sighed, finally turning around in his gaming chair, his eyebrow twitching at the state of his room. Mingi’s jacket was on Yunho’s unmade bed, her purse was tossed onto the other end of the bed, and the thousand-piece puzzle the couple had been busy with an hour ago lay half unfinished on the floor, not to mention the scattered pieces around it. The man looked at the couple staring off before eying the third plate heaped with food, “You really made food for me?”

“You did shamelessly ask for it.” she mumbled before reaching over and picking up the piece of green vegetable from her boyfriend’s plate, dumping it on Yunho’s.

“You shouldn’t ask her to cook for you if you aren’t gonna eat it.” Mingi turned to glance at his best friend before reaching over and opening Yunho’s unopened can of soda and pouring it in a glass for her, “it’s rude.”

“Yes, my apologies, I’m the rude one in this friend group.”

“Kinda seems like it.” She mumbled poking around her plate, only to stop when she felt a warmer hand on hers, glancing up at his warm, brown eyes, “You don't like broccoli?”

“I'm allergic to it.” Clarifying she leaned closer, pulling his plate closer to her to pick out the broccoli pieces, “Which vegetables do you eat ?” She asked, ignoring Yunho who was now making his bed again.

“Hmmm…potatoes and peas…sometimes carrots.”

“...The three most basic ass- Dude!?” Pulling back she let out an exasperated sigh, earning a snort from her boyfriend who just shrugged, “I'm a man, meat is what I need.”

Her brows touched the roof at that statement, lips pursing into a weird smirk, the words at the tip of her tongue, about to slip off but the third party slammed his hands on the table and pulled the table closer to his bed, the rattling of the cutlery had the two panicking, trying to hold onto the things.

“YUNHO!” The yelled in unison earning a snort from the man.

“What? It's my room? I can do whatever I want.” He stated as a matter of fact picking up Mingi's fork and frowning at his plate that was now heaped with unwanted broccoli- god, these two. Pushing them aside he reached over and took her class that was filled with HIS soda.

“I'm just saying, you should tell me this stuff, not him.” Mingi sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he noticed how she was on her phone now, typing away. He had wanted to spend tonight with her, but Wednesday was bros night, him and Yunho- though for a while she'd been part of this Wednesday routine. It was during one of those boring, mundane Wednesdays he had somehow come to the conclusion that with her nothing was mundane. That's why he had approached Yunho, asking him if it was a good idea, and for some reason, Yunho instantly agreed. Maybe he wanted to get a breather away from Mingi?

Of course, Yunho said yes to this idea- hell she had been begging Yunho for tips on how to have the cute but dumb tall oaf like her back? She'd been pinning on him ever since Yunho had introduced her to him, especially since the first time they met he said the most uncanny thing about her that day, “Nice wallpaper, did you take the picture yourself?”

Yes, she had taken the picture but she liked two things about him; he's so nosy it's kinda funny- and it was nice to be noticed?- and secondly he was observant. Song Mingi was extremely observant, to his physical and emotional surroundings, even though he'd pretend not to notice or acknowledge a lot of things about a lot of people. It was different when it was with her, she could feel it, she could feel how he'd be looking at her more often than she'd like to admit, he'd do things for her that he'd never done for Yunho, like opening a bottle or handing her a tissue before she needed it or even moving off his chair to offer it to her. That was all something she'd seen before in a few of her other useless dates, but there was something different about how he'd look at her, how his features would soften while speaking to her, his choice of words would be more thoughtful and his tone, god, his deep voice would have a subtle tenderness to it, one that had her begging Yunho to set her up with him.

Unknown to her, their mutual friend had been a victim of a similar form of nagging by Mingi, who had been literally harassing the poor man. Waking him up in the middle of the night, calling him to ask the most stupid questions out there,

“What's her favourite colour?”

“Why don't you ask her YOURSELF!?”

“Are you dumb? I can't wake her up at 3AM to ask her that.”

“Song Mingi-”

“Hurry~ I need to order the socks but I'm stuck between cement grey or her favourite colour!”

That’s why Mingi after a few weeks was caught wearing a pair of bright-coloured socks that unknown to the world (other than Yunho) around him, matched the socks of his new girlfriend.

“I'd tell you this stuff if you tell me this stuff!” She whined, placing her phone down and grabbed Yunho's glass, chugging down the remaining cherry soda.

Yunho looked up at her then made a face that a blind man could read, “TF is wrong with you?"

“I do! But I can't just randomly say, ‘Oh hey love, I actually eat quickly because I'm still used to the rush I'd feel while running to Yunho's school just to have lunch with someone and running back to my school!’ it's so random.” He sighed, reaching over to grab a tissue - the last tissue in the box, tissue he clearly saw Yunho reach out for first.

“But that's what I like about you Mingi! You're spontaneous! You're random and-”

“You're annoying.” His mumble cut off the girl who turned to glare at the man before looking at her big dumb dumb show as pouting at his plate, “Ignore him- I like how random you are sometimes, it make me feel like I cross your mind often and I like that….a lot.” Her words ended up becoming a hushed whisper, somewhat embarrassed of expressing herself so blatantly.

“You're always on my mind.” He gave her a small smile, one that made her heart leap before it turned into his usual cocky smirk, “Even on stage when I-”

“HELLO! EXCUSE ME, PLEASE DON'T FORGET I AM STILL HERE!”

“Why are you still here?” She side eyed the third wheeler who was staring at her with his eyes about to burst out of his skull.

“Excuse-”

“She's right, Yunho, we know you like us but you gotta stop third wheeling sometimes.”

The brunette blinked at the two for a moment, letting their words sink in before letting out a loud sigh.

“I can't believe he'd do that!” She exasperated, earning a chuckle from the extremely tall man behind her as the two walked towards his apartment, her voice bouncing in the empty corridor.

“Well, we did take it a bit too far.” Snickering he unlocked the door and opened it wide for her, motioning for her to enter first, only so he could admire the jacket she was wearing, his jacket, one that was big one too many sizes with her arms flailing around ad she continued. “No, no! We were his guests! You just don't throw out a guest! I cooked too!”

He followed her into his room, clutching onto her purse as he shook his head in amusement, “I think it was the soda.” Flopping down next to her on his bed he sighed, turning his head to face her, smiling at how she was already looking at him, “Hey there.”

“I think he's just jealous- or it was the mess- nah he's just jealous.” she declared, swinging an arm over his form, and hooking a leg over his waist, clinging onto him like a koala, “That I get Min-ki all to myself~”

A deep laugh bubbled through him, his chest vibrating with full force causing the bed to shake, earning a giggle from her as he gave a 100% Mingi smile, with his nose crinkling and eyes closing. In return she pressed her lips against his forehead before nuzzling her face into his shoulder, “Next time just be your random self.”

“Next time, just agree with me when I say let's have dinner at my place.”

“But then how will we annoy him, Mingi~”

“I think he'll file a restraining order at this point.”

“Not if we file one first!” she sat up, looking down at him with a smile that had his heart skipping a beat, reaching up to brush her hair out of her eyes to get a clearer view of the person who had become his reason of being.

Taglist: @edenesth @skteezcursed @mlysalt @the-kpop-simp @spooo00oky @bunnyluvr25 @s-h-y-a @ateezwonderland

[muontron]

(Click for better quality)

TTTTRRRRRIPLE THREAT!!! Finally got around to drawing in Charles as well, so head-canons and nationalities are below the cut ^^ it’s really long so brace yourself if you choose to read it!!!!

HENRY. Oh boy. The main guy. The dude. The sometimes brawn n the sometimes brain. The most of the time neither. Best protagonist for having the : “fuck around and find out” mentality.

I was, honestly kinda sick of the fandom white twink Henry (no hate I also depicted him as the fandom white twink) so he took a !! WOKE TURNAROUND !! N became a goth/punk Filipino-American unlabeled queer dude. I feel like he’d play around with labels and pronouns and never really stick with any—same with sexual orientations. (He/him, yeah who cares? She/her? Yes please.)

I feel like they’d be very free flowing with their identity and Henry doesn’t seem like he’d have a strict definition of who he is or who he wants to be. Having ambiguous morals and ideas too, makes sense. He doesn’t really have too much of a defined canon personality, so this fits in well enough.

Henry also has ADHD, potentially OCD in my interpretation. (I would also clarify kleptomania but that is pretty much canon :/)

He struggles with both impulsive and intrusive thoughts. this is projection from my experience with OCD.

Henry also LOVES flavor extremes—sweet, sour, spicy—doesn’t matter as long as it’s as strong as his cologne (/lhj) plus The puffer jacket he wears more or less is the inter-dimensional one-hole to all the shit he randomly can pull out seemingly out of NOWHERE. Henry stands at a handsome 5’9, making him the shortest of the group.

ELLIE!!! ELLIE!!! Everyone cheer for our favorite girl ever PLEASE

I put so much love into her design because I feel like she really deserves it. Unfortunately being one of the few female characters in the series made her subjected to not only a lot of ignorance from the fandom but also a lot of blatant misogyny—but that is an essay for another time. I wanted Ellie’s design to kind of … highlight the balance between her strength and her traditional femininity. (Her makeup for instance.) I didn’t want to make her ENTIRELY tomboyish nor did I want to make her totally feminine—not that either interpretations are wrong, but they’re not personally how I see her. So, I took inspiration from the tech wear aesthetic—a fashion style that has many variations and is generally androgynous. I took inspiration from some sort of wraparound skirt worn with pants for her bottoms, and a simple tank top for her top. This allowed me to play around with her muscles and scarring (I tried to replicate lightning strikes more dramatically kshjsgjsv) anyways sorry for the looooooong ramble about her appearance I’m just so SO happy with how it turned out.

Anywho, Ellie to me is Japanese American, and she’s a transgender woman. I’m not entirely sure if I see her as a sapphic or a lesbian, but she’s definitely more girl-inclined when it comes to romance, imo. I gave her a few moles n freckles because I find it really cute on characters and people. I also like to think her hair is dyed, and her hair is black, so I chose to show her roots in. She has a bit of a tan and a jade bracelet that she wears as well.

As for Ellie’s powers—I really don’t know. I like to think she’s just talented like that or some sort of psychic superhero.

I like to imagine that Ellie’s favorite genre’s in media are psychological/cosmic horror and comedy action. Her watch history on Netflix is absurd because she’d have a movie with the rock as its lead like jumanji on her top ten with like…. The grudge. I don’t know. I also like to imagine that Ellie LOVES world history and that traveling is one of her favorite hobbies. She’s a linguist of sorts and enjoys learning languages and cultures. Her favorite types of foods are salty or sweet, but she prefers more milder flavors and is more picky with her food. Though, she does enjoy the more refined palate and knows her way around wines and Chardonnays. Also her dad is a girl dad I don’t know how else to describe it.

Ellie graduated from a decent college with a degree in economics. She has no idea why she chose this degree and absolutely regrets it.

CHARLES CALVIN!!! CHARLIE!! Don’t lie to me I know you guys were WAITING for this one!!

I know, out of the whole entire fandom, that this guy has the most INCONSISTENT fandom design. None of us know how he looks like. I myself have like . 15. Theyre all correct and I love love love seeing your guys’ charles interpretations. But for me, right now, this guy fits the face of Charles. Inspired off of the current Canadian NASA Artemis astronaut Jeremy Hansen, I feel like Charles really suits his face and energy and such. Of course I changed some stuff around but yeah. Classic oversimplified Air Force military uniform and the whole getup.

I imagine him to have like very light blonde hair . He has a lot of facial and body hair if you zoom in it’s just light and clear ahaksgjsg AND FRECKLES!!!! THE MANS FULL OF IT!!!

Ohhhhhgggghh I love Charles so much. He’s so full of joy. To me I feel like he’s the cis guy who thinks he’s also het but he isn’t. He’s more like, bi, with a female lean. To me, at least—I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think he’d necessarily think about romance often but he wouldn’t MIND being in a relationship either. I feel like maybe he’d casually date (not hookup btw that is different) but nothing would really ever stick. I never really headcanon religions on characters but for some unknown reason he is Christian to me and I have NO idea why. (I know these are headcanons and I don’t have to justify myself but I feel like I do svjsvjsgixhidh)

Uhhhh he’s a biker. He likes extreme sports…. He forgot how to drive a car. Heres screenshots below with my friend because I don’t wanna retype everything

Charles is the tallest of the group at 6’1. His boots do make him slightly taller though

He Is. Such an adrenaline junkie I can’t even emphasize this enough.

Also he’s CANADIAN AMERICAN!! I feel like he grew up in Vancouver for a bit :) moved back n forth between the states n so I believe

Anywho I think that’s it I’ll edit and add more if so thanks goodbye

[foreverisntenough]

‘OURS’

Summary: You were his and he was yours but what would it be like adding one more? Thrust into a whirlwind romance you never could’ve imagined that became your forever love. You continue building a new life across the pond with a very beautiful Scouser. A sequel to the ‘You’re Mine’ fic.

INDEX

Warnings: This series will contain fluff, suggestion, SMUT (unprotected sex,) pregnancy, parenting, mental health struggles, eating disorder, self doubt, body image issues, daddy kink, angst, alcohol consumption - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series! Try not to nitpick with any real pregnant/ baby logistics it’s better if you just read along happily :)

Warning! This chapter focus on mental health struggles and body image issues (depression and ed) It’s a little dark so if that is at all potentially triggering to you please be advised and do not interact.

Chapter 20 - Miss Mama | ‘Ours’

“She’s okay? God, please tell me she’s okay.” Trent asked in a voice that was heart wrenching. Lauren felt her heart shatter listening to him sound so meek and broken.

“Erm… physically so so, emotionally, T, I’ll be honest it’s not good. I know she fucked up but this isn’t good for you two to be apart. I’m worried.” Lauren croaked out. “I’m here with her now but….” She tried to begin to provide some sort of update but Trent cut her off.

“I need her to be okay, Lauren. I can’t have her like this. I need her. She… She’s my whole world. I am nothing without her. I’m so worried. I was the one that caused all of this. I need her to be okay.” He started to cry. Lauren could hear the gasps for air and sniffles through the phone. “I.. God, I l..love her so much.” Trent began to stutter interspersed between his tears. Lauren hadn’t really ever heard him cry but she understood wholeheartedly how upset he must’ve felt because she was feeling pretty much the same way.

“I know…  I know you do, T. I think she needs to come home. She needs you. Seriously, I know you guys have a lot to unpack after what’s happened but being away from you, from Teddy… it’s killing her. She’s… she’s not well.” Lauren didn’t know how to describe or even articulate your current state. You were gaunt, your face didn’t have the glow it did when you were with him or your baby. Lauren had seen this version of you before though unfortunately. She hadn’t seen it in years but she’d never forget it. Since Trent entered your life there had been an incandescence about you. Sure, you had dips, everyone does but he was there now to hold you through it all. She recalled an ability you had that she hated to morph your body to completely display your emotional state. Your mental condition contorting into a physical one. “T…” Lauren whimpered, starting to cry. “This isn’t the first time this has happened, I know she’s told you. You’ve been so good for her, you’ve changed her whole outlook on life, you treat her the way she deserves to be treated. I’m just worried because this isn’t the first time I’ve had to do this.” Lauren took a deep breath. 

“I am made for her. I know that. That is my purpose. I am supposed to take care of her and cherish her and I was mad, I was upset but I don’t want this. I never wanted to be the one to kick off something like this. God, I’m going fucking mad, here. Why did I let her leave like that ... .Wait, wait, hold on, do what, Laur?” Trent paused his momentary rant to get Lauren to clarify. 

“Winnie told me about the first time. I hadn’t met Y/N yet. She just was so sick. She wasn’t taking care of herself. I know you already know about these things, I don’t have to relay it all to you again. Honestly, I can barely talk about it. I don't want to have to do this anymore” Lauren’s body shuddered remembering other time’s that she’s been in this very situation. “I’ve watched her destroy herself. She lets herself wither away. I've seen it again and again and I thought we were done. I thought that you’d be the person that finally brought her some peace and seeing her like this again… it’s breaking me. When I came into the apartment… god” Lauren continued to cry, her heart hurting thinking about her best friend struggling to see what everyone around her saw. You were beautiful, inside and out and not in a cliche way, in a way that was indisputable and breathtakingly refreshing. Trent’s stomach dropped. He actually thought he might’ve blacked out while Lauren continued talking.  “She’s okay, she’s safe and asleep but she just really doesn’t want to lose you, she couldn’t handle it.” You didn’t always have the strength to push past the type of destruction you’d inflict on yourself over the years but there was something that Trent was able to do that gave you hope, gave you moments of truly feeling love and value. Lauren believed in you. You could be strong but losing Trent was not something she wanted you to have to ever endure. That was your person. The one that was created and cut, defined and detailed just for you.

“Get her back to me, Lauren. I need her. I am not losing her. You will not lose her. This is stopping now. Whatever you need, just get her back home to me. I’m going to take care of her, I promise.” Trent said sternly. This was over. Being apart was over. Honestly, Trent wanted to just fly to New York right now but he couldn’t because he had a match. He wanted to say fuck football. Trust, he never said that and meant it but he did right now. He knew you’d be mad if he did it and he knew it would cause a stir so he bestowed all his trust in Lauren to get you to him.

As you laid in your bed, Trent was unavoidable in your dreams. He was everywhere. You cried in your sleep. Missing him. You couldn’t get up when your eyes began to flutter open, god knows how much longer later. Enough for Lauren to have your next 24 hours already planned out for you at the least. Your body was paralyzed by the crushing weight feeling as if you ruined your impending marriage and family over a stupid night out you took too far. The tears kept falling. In retrospect, you’re not sure they had stopped for the past few days. You were amazed you had any left in your tear ducts. You thought about how beautiful Trent was and how, in a nearly impossible way, what you created together, Teddy, your baby, was even more beautiful. You could hear their laughs echoing in your head in the most cynical mockery of what you were missing. You missed them so much.

You were filled with a mix of fear, regret, anxiety, heartache, and anticipation when Lauren got you back to your house. You felt your body go cold as you approached your once incredibly warm front door. Lauren stayed outside calling Jude for her own moral support that she needed. You were in a haze but this was really difficult on her as well. You punched in the front door’s code and heard the lock turn and shift. You grabbed the handle and pushed. The smell of your house hit you like a freight train. You could’ve physically fallen over with the amount of memories that flooded your mind at the scent. You covered your face with your hands for a moment and took a deep breath trying to compose yourself. You dropped your bag and your Rimowa at the door just the way you hated Trent did.  The alarm beep rang through the house alerting that a door had opened. The sound was like catnip. You heard the pitter patter of bare feet running clumsily on the hardwood floors. Around the corner swung the most perfect little girl. Her hair laid flat pulled into a bun with a few ringlet curls escaping. She had a light pink shirt on dragging a bear on the ground behind her with one arm holding its paw in her hand. You started to cry immediately.

“Mama!” Teddy cried. Tears coursing down her cheeks. Her initial excitement of who was at the front door halted by the surprise of how much she missed you. This was so unfair to her. You sat on the floor and pulled her into your embrace engulfing her. You sobbing along with her.

“My baby. I missed you so much. I love you so much.  I’m so sorry mummy was away. I’m so sorry, baby.” You pressed your lips to her hair and shut your eyes tight. She didn't really understand why you'd been away but boy was she happy to see you. You never wanted to let go of this little girl. Teddy continued to weep but she slowed eventually. Your hold of her only seeming to get tighter though as she fell into shorter breaths and sounds of hiccups 

“Miss my mama.” She cooed talking into your shirt. You squeezed her that much tighter. Your hand running over her head before you loosened your hold to be able to look at her. You pressed her nose against hers. “Mama no sad.” She whimpered, being able to see how visibly upset you were. It hadn’t actually been more than 72 hours that all this unfolded but you felt like she managed to grow up somehow. She was so emotionally attuned and intelligent. She nuzzled her face into the nape of your neck comforted by your smell and you by hers. 

“Oh baby, I know, I know you missed mama. I missed you so much. I’m not sad, I’m just so happy to see my little Teddy bear, yeah? Were you good for daddy?” The question just fell out like a habit. You shut your eyes barely able to process saying his name to her. It was then you heard ‘daddy’s’ footsteps coming to stand close but what still felt far away watching you in the foyer. He could tell immediately you’d lost weight in the span of days. The curve of your shoulder looked different, your cheekbones just a little more defined. 

“Dada! Mama home!” Teddy pulled away from you and turned around to Trent to tell him the exciting news. He nodded with a smile at her, not looking at you. You weren’t sure if this would be all that exciting of news to him. Nevertheless, you got yourself up on shaky legs. He came over to you in what felt like slow motion. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. He hated when you cried and you didn’t want to upset him more but you thought you might seeing his gorgeous face again. You had no idea where the two of you stood. He said he was done but you were back home by Lauren's guidance for the sake of your daughter.  She didn’t want to do any of the talking for Trent, she was simply acting as a delivery woman. Trent extended one arm out to you. His big hand grabbing the back of your neck harshly, almost aggressively pulling your sylphlike body into his strong one. He brought his other arm around you slipping low across the small of your back the way he usually did. It was a bone crushing embrace. You felt his chest tremble and then he sniffed in harshly as he began to cry. You made him cry. You shut your eyes, extending the persistence of the horrible feelings you’d had for days. 

“I love you.” You whispered, tucking your face against his neck. Your nose flattened against his soft skin. Teddy stood quietly holding onto your leg not ready to let go. Lauren snuck into the house quietly and grabbed her. “I’m sorry.” you whimpered barely audible. You took a deep breath reveling in the feeling of his warm hold, relief and fear concomitantly falling over you.

“Don’t fucking ever leave us again. Your home, your place in this world is right here in my arms with our little girl. We cannot survive without you here. Do you understand me?” Trent cooed with a stern but shaky voice keeping you tight to his chest. You nodded as your pervasive tears returned. More and more falling the longer he held you. “We love you. God, fuck… I am so in love with you Y/N. Please don’t ever leave me. No matter how much I push, no matter what’s happening, you cannot leave.” He pleaded begging you more than he was instructing you.  

“I don’t want to leave, I don’t want you to not want me anymore. I want to come home, T. You’re the love of my life. You’re the only way I’m able to breathe.” You placed your hand over your heaving chest because your heart began to hurt so badly. 

“You can’t go anywhere else. Not letting you.” He said with a desperate release of air. Your other hand’s nails dug into his cotton t-shirt covering his back. You let him cry, loosening your claw and rubbing circles with your hand on his lower back whilst the other moved off your chest to gently scratch his scalp until he was able to calm down.

“You never cry���” You made the observation giving him a sad smile in between gasping breaths. You wiped the tears under his eyes gently. Guilt and empathy running down your face. 

“You’re worth crying for, baby.” he cupped your cheek. The heartfelt way he said baby to you returning, stilling your racing mind. He looked into your eyes and you felt everything around you disappear. Every worry, every physical thing around you vanishing, only him left. He kissed you and it was like someone restarted your whole nervous system. The cogs in your brain began turning again, the blood in your body began to pump again, your heart began beating again, the color began to rush back into your cheeks. “You owe me a few days of kisses, yeah? Teddy too. She’s desperate, apparently I’m not the same as mama.” He cooed, pulling away momentarily letting you know the work that laid ahead of you before returning his lips to their rightful place on yours.

“Oh no…” you couldn’t help but giggle picturing the conversations they must’ve had. Your lips curling into a toothy smile inadvertently pulling them off his. Listening to the two of them together was precious, you could only imagine what they were saying when they were alone. It made your heart swell seeing those two identical faces together.  “What’d she say?” you asked curious to hear about the exchange. 

“Nah, she had me running, you know? I felt like she knew the game she was playing as well. Dada want this, dada up, dada quiet. Just command after command and then in swept the critiques.” You smiled seeing his eyes light up recalling their days and Teddy’s hold over him.

“No mama does!” She rattled off squirming away as he attempted to do her hair after he placed her on his lap in front of him in a mirror in her room.

“I know she’s the best at it but can you let daddy do it today?” He asked her politely. He pulled her curls back into the best bun he could manage. Brushing it slicked back. She furrowed her brow at the finished product. He looked at her trying to make out why she wasn’t happy. He thought he did a good job.

“Bow! Dada bow, please.” She looked at him back through the mirror like he was dumb pressing her palm onto his thigh. Obviously, he forgot a bow. How did he not know that? He placed it and sighed. He kissed her cheek and plopped her on her own two feet.

“Are we hungry this morning? I am. I’m thinking we have the toastie you like.” Trent cooed looking at her as they walked down the hall inspecting his handiwork on her hair trying to find a flaw that warranted her disgruntled response. Teddy replied with a simple ‘yuck’ keeping her gaze fixed ahead focused on her tiny steps. “What why? What do you want then?” He asked inquisitively with a bit of a smile. It was hard not to laugh at her developing personality. He held her hand but let her navigate the grand staircase in your house roughly by herself. 

“Mama.” She responded to him confidently and calmly knowing not what she wanted to eat but very certain she’d prefer you to be there to make it for her.

“Yeah, well same…” Trent exhaled, inspecting the empty refrigerator he knew you usually filled with all the things you knew he and Teddy liked. It was the little things you did that had disappeared in front of his eyes now missing them tremendously in a day's time.

“I mean… it wasn’t good, baby.” His smile faded as he recalled the last couple days that were filled with some cute moments but more so difficult ones.

“Baby?” You asked, interested if that’s where you stood now. Were you on good terms? One of the last times he said it it really stung.

“Yeah, my baby. Forever but we really need to talk.” He spoke to you softly before taking your hand and guiding you into the cinema. It made you nervous hearing the door shut behind you. The noise reminding you the room had sound proof walls. God, you hoped this wasn’t going to be another loud fight like the one that transpired in your kitchen where you’d need those walls.

“I know we’re talking and it’s serious but…” You took a deep breath and tried to fight back tears. You sat on opposite sides of the couch in the room awkwardly as if you had just met. You looked at him with a pout and puppy dog eyes.  “I’m scared and I really need you. Can you just hold me please?” You whimpered out, quite pathetic. 

“C’mere, pretty girl. This is where you’re supposed to be, yeah?” He smiled softly, loving hearing that you needed him, that he was a comfort to you. You relaxed in his arms, relieved that was the vibe and not you two raising your voices. You laid your head on his shoulder. Trent hugged you tightly and you couldn’t hold back the tears that began to run down your face. You bawled his shirt in your fists.

“T… Who was that in the photos?” You sheepishly asked, unable to keep it inside anymore. You wanted to get what felt like the hard bit out of the way. You were lying to yourself and using him as a scapegoat. This wasn’t the hard part by a long shot. No matter his answer, there was a massive elephant in the room and it was you but you couldn’t shake the photos online of him and that woman. The thought of someone else, another girl spending time alone with him. Her somehow becoming his best friend. Him choosing her over you. 

“Baby…” He drew out the pet name, saddened you’d seen the photos and imagined something completely incorrect. 

“If you did, I’d understand.” You cut him off before he even answered you, excusing an action he didn’t do. He dropped his head back against the couch frustrated this was still where you were at, that things didn’t magically change when you walked back into the house. You believed he could treat you like that and it would be an okay thing, something you might’ve deserved.

“Stop. I didn’t do anything. It was George’s cousin. Baby… we gotta work through this. You need to understand I’m committed to you. This is why I met with her. You need…” He trailed off feeling awkward and terrible for what he was about to say. “ You need help.” He muttered out. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for it all, T, the final, New York.  I never wanted to hurt you.” You apologized earnestly.

“You didn’t hurt me, I mean you did but I’m more concerned about you hurting yourself. I was scared. I know Lauren told Jude not to but baby, we’re all really worried. They both told me about what happened in the apartment in New York…” He sighed hating that you were even having to have this conversation. You exhaled his name, defeated feeling the same. “Nah, I don’t want a defense or excuse. I can’t lose you.” He tried to deter you from the innate need to defend yourself. 

“Before Wembley… I don’t know. I got too drunk and I was alone and I got sad. It was a one off.” You had no ground to stand on, any reasoning would’ve been illogical but you felt the words jumbled rolling off your tongue. 

“It’s not. When Lauren visited, you got so sad, baby. It’s just not, you’ve said it’s happened before. Your dad told me, Winnie’s told me, Lauren’s told me. It might not be happening in front of me but it’s happening. Baby, I get that it…” He tried to keep talking to you but you gave him a face you gave to a lot of people. A facade of interest. A mask being pulled in front of your face, the elastic band snapping behind your head securing it. “Don’t…” he reprimanded you knowing it all too well. “Fine, I can’t understand but I imagine it’s hard to talk about. I’m scared. I’ll be the one to say it, alright? I’m fucking scared, Y/N.” He sheepishly admitted to you. Feeling like he failed by doing so. “We need to go to a doctor. I don’t mean this derogatorily I just think someone could help. I'm out of my depth here. I don’t want anything to happen to you. To my Y/N. To my baby’s mum.” He defeatedly let out. You could feel his heart racing pressed against you. You had so much to say but nothing would come out. You cuddled into him, laying your head on his chest. “I love you so much.” He whispered, breathing you in. Transitioning from sheer desperation to admiration for your body in his hands right now. Jesus Christ, what had happened? In a weird way he began to wonder if he felt like he had used you. “Am I making things worse?” He questioned you terrified of your potentially heartbreaking answer. You shook your head ‘no.’ Why didn’t this stuff go on in front of him? The inability to keep up with a golden boy wasn’t the problem but it was hard to not feel downtrodden. Trent was empathetic, he could hear it in the way you cried in the kitchen before you left.

'You expect me to be this perfect version 24/7 but I’m not. I’m not!” You kept crying. “I’m sorry. Fuck! I’m sorry, I’m trying but I can’t be like you, okay?” You whimpered, feeling defeated and broken.'

You didn’t really blame Trent for being good at well… life. Instead, you felt a crushing amount of guilt and shame for not simply being enough. The inability to measure up not to him but for him. You felt so tender in his arms like if he moved suddenly or too rough you’d break or bruise. He thought about the way he had sex with you, the way he uprooted you to England, the way he got you pregnant. He felt horrible that he inflicted so much on you physically. He just wanted to take care of you but alternatively, you’d never felt less used. The exact scenarios he was recalling flashed through your mind in the most blissfully painful way. You shut your eyes again. You wouldn’t change a thing, a lie, maybe a few things on your end but overall, no. His hands on you felt alleviating and comforting all the time. Even if he was fucking you roughly, even if you were jet lagged flying places to see him, even the grueling process of labor was fine all because he was there. 

“Thank you for caring.” You muttered out embarrassingly honestly, finally finding some words that you felt wholeheartedly would be good to start with. Trent’s heart, if it hadn’t already when he saw you come back into your house, it surely did just completely shatter. He kissed your hair and then over your ear before whispering to you. 

“I will always care about you. More than you could ever understand. I will do anything for you…” he paused and let out a breathy sigh. “Anything.” The warmth of his breath, the drag of his lips moving down your skin sent a shiver running up your spine. 

“T, we shouldn't, it's too soon.” You moaned feeling his lips cascade down the length of your jaw. The mood in the room shifting in slow motion. He didn’t mean to, it just was instinctual. His big hands moving the fabric of your top further and further up, finding more and more of your bare skin. You pushed yourself back into him, rolling your head to the side. Telling him one thing out loud and asking for something completely different silently. 

“It’s fine. We’re fine, baby. We’re gonna be fine.”  He rattled off, not able to think very clearly lost in a very thick haze feeling your body again.

“We can’t do this, T. I have more to say.” You whined, not meaning half the words you said. You definitely wanted to do this but you also did have more to say. He had no control at this point and you hated that it turned you on so much. His desire for you would always trump any sense of reasoning you had. You couldn’t stop him because the sensations running through you were invincible. The physical attraction and the sexual desire between you would always pull you back together. 

“No, no, this is going to be really good. I fucking need you. I missed you so much..” You turned towards him with a desperate look on your face. Your eyes filled with lust. Trent could get hard off the look on your face alone but feeling you again, touching you again was setting him off. He pulled you into a messy make out gripping your face before pushing you backwards onto more of the couch crawling over you. “We need this. You need this.” He whispered, breathing you in and moving his kisses to your neck. You kept him close to you pulling him to you by his face. His hands dropped to your waist. He was right, you needed this, you needed him. His soft warm hands pushed your shirt up to feel more of you. 

“I love you, baby.” You murmured your lips unable to not pull into a smile. He sighed into the crook of your neck hearing you say that. You brought your legs to wrap around him digging your heels into his back. You couldn’t think about anything else but him for the last few days and right now was no different. 

“I love you so much.” He cooed and his voice never sounded more caring and honest. He spoke into your warm skin, kissing them into the most sensitive part of your neck. The whole thing feels more intimate than ever. Love filling the room to the brim. He reached between you and looped the two layers of his boxer and trousers pulling both off. He revealed his tone v line and you let out an embarrassing moan, you taking your own clothes off swiftly. He pulled away from you and looked at your bare body. You felt so naked and vulnerable, he could sense your nerves. He tilted your face towards his holding your cheek. “What are you being shy about? It’s just me, yeah?” He waited for you. You nodded pulling him back into a kiss. You sighed in the kiss dragging your nails up his chest. He repositioned his body over yours and dragged the tip of his leaking cock through your folds. 

“T… please, I need you.” You whined. He smiled happy you were back to your normal comfortable self with him. He slowly eased into your dripping wet pussy. You moaned as Trent treaded carefully moving slowly inside. His face fell into your neck groaning at the feeling of you wrapping around him. He moved slowly but precisely. Your nails dug into his back as he kissed your skin. Each stroke loving and thoughtful. He picked up his pace though lost in the feeling. 

“You feel so good, baby.” He grunted pushing your thigh up further to your side, hitting deeper inside you. The grip of his fingers on you dug into your soft thigh. He found the spot inside you only knew, only for him, only for you, repeatedly 

“Baby, oh my god, T. I missed you. I’m so sorry. I love you.” You were unable to stop your babbles. Tears began to fill your waterline.

“Don’t be. I love you. You’re here with me. Be here with me. Fuck, you feel so good. Let me take care of you” He inhaled a sharp breath. His dimples s sank into cheeks as he gave a sincerely sad and sympathetic smile. “Tell me your mine, baby.” He murmured continuing to thrust into in a way that was so euphoric your tears began to fall. His voice was breathy against your ear feeling the same amount of emotion you were feeling. The weight of his body on top of yours feeling like nothing compared to the weight lifting off you two. Your orgasm approached faster and faster, minute after minute. He bit onto your earlobe and tugged, grabbing your attention. 

“I’m yours, Trent. I’m always gonna be yours.” You whimpered. His mahogany eyes poured back into yours. He felt his heart skip a beat when you pulled him back down into a kiss. He fucked you harder with a harsh grunt juxtaposed by the sweetest kiss to the bridge of your nose. Your hand dragged down from behind his neck down the protruding veins of his arms until you reached the rigid texture of the Patek Phillipe watch he had wrapped on his wrist. The knot in your stomach tightened. It only took a few more mind numbing thrusts before Trent’s head dropped into your neck. Your climax erupting inside of you, your vision going white. His cock throbbed inside of you, beginning to paint your walls. You moaned ‘I love yous’ simultaneously. You felt him pouring into you. Waves upon waves of pleasure coursing through both of you. You hid your face against him. He slowed and you felt your bottom lip quiver against his skin. An uncontrollable sob escaped you. Your emotions bubbled over once more. Trent pulled out as gently as he could. He rolled off of you but was swift pulling you back into him. You clung to him crying. 

“I’m right here.” He whispered, pulling you that much closer to him and yet it wasn’t close enough. You wanted to be completely surrounded by him. “Can you look at me, baby?”  He sounded so worried. You shook your head ‘no.’  “Y/N…” He grabbed your face gently and turned you towards him. “I need to know you’re okay.” He asked softly. More tears escaped.

“I’m okay… just love you so much, T.” You pouted up at him and you felt his tense hold relax. “I love you.” He pressed a wet kiss to your cheek the way you always pretended to hate but secretly loved. You wiped his wet spit off of you and giggled. Trent felt relief wash over him when he heard his favorite sound in the world. 

“Oh wow… so mummy and daddy are… fine.” Lauren laughed carrying Teddy past the cinema minutes okay from upstairs into the kitchen. She was currently FaceTiming Jude biding her time while watching Teddy for you and Trent to ‘talk.’ “I think they’re fine. I mean they’re fucking so it’s either a really good thing or a really bad thing.” She laughed. Hoping for the first option. “Should we make you some lunchtime, hmm?” She cooed to the little girl in her arms while Teddy eagerly nodded trying to grab hold of her phone curious about Jude on the other end. 

“You’re good with kids, Laur.” Jude spoke through her phone with a cheeky smile seeing her so attentive and kind to Teddy. 

“I think I’m just good with Teddy. She's chill so it doesn’t really count. I know this is how it works but she’s the perfect blend of them. All the best things I like rolled into the cutest, squishiest, baby girl in the whole world!” Lauren sang in a soft voice, pinching at Teddy’s tummy. Her squeal shrieking through the phone, Jude blinking his eyes a few times, taken aback by her response to Lauren.

“All done mama!” Teddy yelled as you met them in the kitchen, flush. You pressed a kiss to Teddy's hair on your way to get the water you needed desperately before attending to her. She had finished eating the lunch Lauren kindly had made for her.  

“Good girl.” You cooed with a smile. Lauren sat with a smug look on her face as she waited for the inevitable late entrance of Trent, who, when he did stride in, looked absolutely fucking elated.

“Dada miss mama,” Teddy told you as she saw Trent enter. It was an over simplified way saying Trent had really missed you. He sadly and softly smiled at you hearing her. Your heart broke a little that she’d been able to piece it together, that she could sense Trent’s sad mood. 

“Mummy loves you so much.” He’d reassure her feeling completely unsure of what was going on in your relationship.The few nights you were away Trent would tuck Teddy in as she cried.  Teddy would fall asleep only comforted by Trent babbling on little stories and tidbits about you, how perfect you were, how much you likely missed her. They’d watch videos of you and he’d melt.  “Want to see something baby? Want to see the day I met mummy?” He laughed remembering a specific video he had on his phone, he wanted to watch. Teddy nodded tiredly, adjusting to the new routine activity. He was a little embarrassed he even had it but it made him remember a really good time despite things being so bad right now. You likely didn’t even know this video existed. He kept it in a locked folder on his phone primarily where all your nudes and let’s say spicer videos lived. He smiled seeing you like that. Vulnerable, needy for him and in love. You looked gorgeous. He dragged his thumb over the screen. He just wanted to feel your soft skin again as he carefully picked the video of you out of the roll making sure not to pick the wrong one before he showed Teddy. It was a video Marcel had sent around in a snapchat which seemed mundane at the time. He remembered Jude teasing him about it the following day as you laid on his chest, experiencing a new warm feeling of comfort. The video was strangely endearing, like you could see your connection in real time. Energy and force pushing you together. The earth letting out a sigh of relief finally getting two people that were meant to be connected.

“Mama pwety.” Teddy looked up at him cuddling a plush bear with big sleepy eyes as they looked at the thumbnail before he pressed play. He nodded at her.  “Yeah, you have the most beautiful mummy in the world.” He confirmed to your daughter with a sigh before he hit play. Hearing your coquettish laugh in the video cozying up to him in a club years ago just about sent him into cardiac arrest. It hurt. God, did it hurt. 

“Oh, I missed you both lots.” You cooed, kissing her. She smiled, little dimples indenting in her cheeks. A very visual confirmation she was Trent’s little girl. You’ve said it before but you were comedically jealous of the genetics Teddy was inheriting from him. 

“More plebs!” Teddy screamed, grabbing for you. “Mama, miss!” She giggled loving that you were back and really loving your kisses, kicking her feet in her chair. She greedily hummed. “Lub my mummy.” She squealed excitedly. You wanted to cry but you didn’t want to stop kissing her to so you held off. 

“Mummy gives the best kisses, huh?” Trent cooed, bending over in front of Teddy to plant a kiss on your cheek with a hum. 

“You’d know…” Lauren quipped cheekily eliciting a proud  augh from Trent and a raised eyebrow from you. 

When Teddy eventually got sleepy you brought her upstairs for sleep. You went to her nursery and you pouted seeing that Trent had nestled one of your softest jumpers in her crib, the smell of you still lingering. There was a little framed photo of your family moved from its original place propped closer for her to see. You started crying so hard you had to sit down. You couldn’t believe you put your child through this, you couldn’t believe you put Trent through this. Trent came upstairs and you met him in your bedroom after you had calmed yourself down on your own. He held you in bed in a close cuddle. 

“I can’t remember ever going to bed without saying goodnight before. I hated this so much, baby.” You whispered into the dark room as he caressed your warm skin under a tiny camisole you had on. 

“We’re never doing this again. I’m sorry I got so upset.” He cooed behind the shell of your ear pressing his lips against you. You both stayed awake in a warm cuddle. You didn’t know what time it was but it as the color of sky outside fell into that warm navy color, you’d guess around 4 am though. 

“Do you still want to marry me?” You asked after a few hours of not talking, just happy to be back in his arms and good graces. Neither of you wanted to fall asleep but not out of worry, but out of comfort. You didn’t want to lose the cognizance of his presence, what he felt like, what he smelt like. 

“Not a single second went by where I ever questioned that, okay?” He hummed. You smiled through a pout. You’d hope that was true. He meant it though. He didn’t waver in his commitment to you. He told Tyler he had no plans of leaving you. Through all of this it didn’t even pop in his head you would call off the marriage. Maybe he was angry and didn’t like how things currently were but not have you, not marry you? Never. You turned around in his arms and pressed a kiss to his lips. He kissed you back and shut his eyes, getting tired, not being able to keep them open anymore. You let him rest but you stayed awake inspecting his features. You brought your hand up to his face and tracing his perfectly plump lips. You brushed your thumb over his high cheekbones. You started to fall asleep then dropping your face in his neck, tucked carefully under his chin, wrapping your arms around his waist, legs tangled together. You kissed his warm skin drowsily, letting him know how much you loved him even while he slept. He woke up first the next day. He did the same as you did last night inspecting your features. The morning sun seeped through your blinds. The golden light casting over you. You looked radiant and luminescent but your soul, your heart, he could feel it. It was more striking than your beauty. He kissed your forehead before pulling you that much tighter to him. 

Trent had his last game of the season. It was a little surreal mostly because you realized that when the next season began you would be married, the surname on the jersey you were in, would be your own. Lauren and Marcel accompanied you along with Teddy. You wished Marcel would shut up so you could live in your moment of bliss imagining being his brother’s wife and admire Trent in peace. The way sweat dripped over his adams apple, his jersey sticking a little to his abs, his cheekbones highlighted by the floodlights. He looked unreal. Lauren went inside and Marcel looked at you curiously. You could feel his eyes but you ignored him until he spoke.

“Going to tell me how things have been?” He looked at you completely ignoring the game now. You rolled your eyes but he was persistent. 

“Yeah, all fine” You said dismissively, keeping your eyes on Trent whilst tucking a loose curl behind Teddy’s ear. He rolled his eyes now at you.

“Y/N… you know you have to let us in, let him in, let me in. I don’t get why you didn't tell me to begin with?” He spoke, sounding heartfelt, keeping his gaze fixed on you. 

“When was I supposed...” You sighed stopping yourself from starting to defend yourself but you could see his brow raise in annoyance. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to scare anyone.” You exhaled feeling a lot of guilt wash over you. He was one of your best friends and you had been extremely selfish not considering how he must’ve felt and dense assuming he wouldn’t want to know.

“Well, you did a really bad job.” He laughed and it made you smile. You felt relieved he was at least being normal again with you.  

“Marce… “ You sheepishly got out. “I’m so sorry” you apologized earnestly, leaning your head on his shoulder. He rested his head on top of yours.

“We love you. Just want mummy healthy, right Ted?” He cooed picking up Teddy from you from under her arms. Her eyes lit up. 

‘Lub mama, Celly!” She giggled, reaching to hug him wrapping herself around his neck. You pulled her Liverpool jersey down for her covering her back. You smiling at her voice. She loved him so much. To be fair, Marcel just had good vibes and since having Teddy you felt like kids had a great gauge of people. There was something that was so endearing about her relationship with him. She trusted him and was comforted by him, it made you feel incredibly relaxed knowing she’d always have her uncles and your sister. 

“I’m so glad you’re mine.” Trent whispered, kissing your head. You held Teddy and smiled for the annual end of season family photo you so loved. Trent was staring at you though not the cameras. You had gone down onto the pitch for one final lap after the match. It was lovely as always. Sweet and a bit emotional. 

“Always yours.” You cooed, turning to kiss him. Teddy quick to want the same amount of attention you were giving each other. She pulled at your shirt with a cute grunt. “Yes, yes and you are ours, Teddy girl.” You kissed her with an eccentric ‘Mwah!’ her giggle following.

When you finally were driving home, you were tired, Teddy already fast asleep, and Trent absolutely exhausted. Needless to say it was a quiet ride. You looked at Trent as the colored lights lining the motorway leaked into the car. You smiled admiring his beauty. His focus on the road but yours on his jawline strikingly sharp. 

“What are you staring at me for?” He laughed, calling you out, flashing his eyes your way quickly. You giggled sliding your hand over onto his face brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“You’re so pretty. Do you know that?” You cooed admiring his annoying perfect skin, despite his annoyingly minimal effort.

“Yeah, obviously.” He replied with a straight face before he couldn’t hold in the cheeky childish smile he was trying to keep down. His perfect grin made your heart hurt. He was so pretty but you rolled your eyes at his pompousness. “Don’t pull a bird like you looking anything but leng.” He turned his adorable look to you.

“Yeah? How did you even manage to bag me?” You teased with a giggle. His smile staying put hearing the sound but he rolled his eyes at your joke. He tapped at his cheek with his free hand, keeping the other draped over the steering wheel. You raised your eyebrows at his gesture.

“Go on…” He instructed you. You laughed again and pressed a kiss where his fingers had been tapping. “Thank youuu.” He sang.

“Ridiculous.” You reached over again to him and squeezed his thigh. 

“Erm… Ow? I just played 97 minutes. Keep your hands to yourself.” He quipped. You squeezed his thigh again just because. You knew he liked the attention. He loves when you give it to him and he can just annoy you in return. 

“You love my hands on you. So full of it, you know.” You giggled with one more squeeze than attempted to remove your hand but he was quick to place his over top of it to keep it on him. 

“I do. I really love your hands on me.” He cooed in a voice that made you feel like you had a juvenile crush on him. You were flustered by the flirtatious comment. He could feel your arm tense a little so instead of keeping your hand on his thigh, he picked it up and brought it up to his lips to kiss the back of it.

“T… do you want to take me on a date this week?” You asked him bluntly, turning the direction of the conversation. You liked him flirting with you right now and you wanted more. You thought it’d be nice to have a night out just you two. Probably a good thing considering what had transpired.

“Yeah? Want me to?” He smiled big again squeezing your hand. You nodded in an adorably naive way.  “Yeah, beautiful, I’ll take you out.” He cooed turning towards you again. His mind beginning to comb through ideas of where he wanted to take you. You leaned over once more unprovoked to give him another kiss on the cheek before you tucked back in your seat shutting your eyes and resting your head onto the window. “Alright, sleepy girls, we’re home.” Trent’s voice waking you up from a daze you didn’t know you had fallen into. You turned to him with a tired pout as if to ask ‘can you please carry me inside?’ He laughed getting out of the car. He came around and opened your door but then he stepped away and opened the back seat. “I’m gonna carry our literal baby but if you want to wait I’ll come back and get you.” He mocked you. You obviously weren’t going to wait outside so you begrudgingly got out of the car yourself. Trent picked up Teddy gently making sure she didn’t wake. He held her tight to him. You shut the door of the car for him and followed them, proceeding to slip your arms around his waist and resting your forehead against his back. He shook his head as he got both his sleepy girls to bed. 

The next day you were getting ready to go to Dianne’s house up in your bedroom's wardrobe. You were doing your best to get back into your routine. Lauren was still there, leaving soon, but you had promised Dianne you’d go see her with Teddy. She heard rumblings about the situation, naturally. Trent had confided in her early on in your relationship when you first let it slip you had struggled with your health to him. He’d never really thought about something like that affecting someone he knew. He had girl friends and girlfriends but he never had a sister he had to share a bathroom with growing up. He didn’t know girls were skipping meals and doing diets or maybe the more extreme things you had been doing that you shared with him. She of course was empathetic to him and did her best to be a sounding board and not intrude but as a mum, as a person who knew you and loved you, she was concerned. So you promised you’d go. 

“Hey… have you seen my Van Clef?” you asked vaguely to Trent. “Like our one?” You clarified more as you were trying to put final touches on your outfit.  He puffed out some air realizing that he was going to have to confront his mistake head on. He hated himself. He had been trying to avoid it but of course you were looking for it, you wore it almost everyday.

“Baby…” he called you, watching nervously. You hummed acknowledging him as you dug through your wardrobe thinking maybe you had misplaced it. “It’s not here.” He told you sheepishly. You gave him a side eye confused but when he didn’t speak you turned your whole body to him. 

“What do you mean? I don’t understand.” At first, maybe you thought this was some sweet ploy of his. He came to you and slipped his hands around your waist. When he dropped his forehead against yours you felt the energy shift in the room. This wasn’t some goofy thing he was serious about something. 

“I had to bring it in to get repaired.” He got his words out so slow you clung to each one in anticipation. Your brow furrowed. He exhaled, dropping his shoulders. He wished he could lie but he knew it'd be wrong to. He was asking you to be honest with him; it would be incredibly hypocritical. “I found it when you were gone and I don’t know I just snapped and then it snapped.” He shut his eyes. You let out a measly ‘oh’ you felt the things he did when it happened. That necklace was your relationship and he had destroyed it. You were definitely in the wrong but it made you feel so sad you were actively trying not to cry or react. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t know what happened it just felt like such a punch in the gut finding it. I though that you didn’t want it or you left it, left me… it hurt. I’m sorry. Fuck.” He babbled incredibly quickly. You usually were fine with his accented words but your eyes narrowed trying to focus your spinning mind on what he was saying. His accent would come in thick sometimes and disappear other days. Relaxing with his friends at home, their words could feel like another language. Nervous doing press, he was more conscious of what he was saying, letting it slip away. 

“It’s fine… I guess.” You gave him a soft smile wishing you didn’t say the last bit. “I understand.” You kissed the tip of his nose and pulled yourself out of his hold. The room went ice cold. Trent’s mind was just filled with his inner voice screaming ‘fuck.’ It was hard not to notice the mood change after that. He hated it. “T, I didn’t leave it on purpose…” you told him right before you left, kissing his cheek, holding Teddy and heading to your car. You were so swift; he didn't even have the opportunity to respond.

“Laur... what am I meant to do here? Things aren’t just going to snap back.” Trent sighed, squinting, picking up his hand to shield his eyes to better make out Lauren’s face. They were sitting in your back garden as the English summer sun beat down on them. They stayed at home while you popped to Dianne’s. Despite your upset about your necklace it did make you happy that your best friend and your fiance “I don’t know, sometimes I just feel like a kid. I feel like I’m making stupid mistakes.” Trent was thinking about breaking the necklace. You’d probably be just as upset if he had managed to break your engagement ring but in a way this had stung more. The necklace was a decision he made before, a decision he made off of instinct, under your nose, completely infatuated by you. It was such an indication of how he felt about you from the very beginning and it was gone. A part of you was happy you didn’t have any visual of it all.

“You’re not but I know the feeling. If you didn’t pick up I was going to call your mum the other day. I was in a moment of introspection on the flight over and I almost laughed. Your mum? Oh hiya erm… can you help… embarrassing.” Lauren rattled off what felt like a million different thoughts. She shook her head but noticed Trent faint smirk on his face not pulling into a full smile but drifting into a tight line. 

“Maybe we should’ve.” He reflected. Maybe Dianne would’ve been more of a help than him. “Like she’s fine most of the time right? I make her happy? I try so hard and yet some days I can feel it like nothing could ever change it all.” He spoke looking and sounded defeated. 

“It’s not you T… She loves you so much. You make her happy, she’ll be okay, but she is the only one that can change it. You’re there for her and that’s the most important. She needs you and Teddy.” Lauren kept her eyes locked on his, making sure he knew she was being serious. She meant what she was saying. He couldn’t fix things but he was essential. Trent responded only with a soft ‘yeah.’ He thought to himself though that what you really needed was for him to repair your necklace and your relationship.

•

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter 🤍

Next part - Chapter 21 xx

[runraerun]

AO3 • Harringrove & HellCheer • Rating: T • Beta: @dame-zoom-a-lot • Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, Homophobic language, Implied Child Abuse, Neil Hargrove.• Tags: The Fruity Four but it’s Steve, Billy, Chrissy and Eddie. Fuck gender norms. Chrissy and Billy blonde bombshell solidarity, Billy Hargrove Centric, Platonic Steddie, Platonic CaliCheer, but Eddie is so bisexual in this it’s crazy. Lots of fluff but lots of angst. Feminization. SFW.

*Written for @harringrovekinktober 2024!🎃 I spun: Feminization at Steve’s house!✨ (even though this turned into Flufftober. I’m so sorry.)

Summary:

“Do my eyes?” Billy mutters around his cigarette, “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“With make-up.” Chrissy clarifies easily.

And with that, Billy nearly sucks back the cigarette dangling between his lips. He coughs, and coughs, and then coughs some more. Has to fucking lean forward to catch his breath, feeling a lot like he did when he first tried that stolen cigarette from his dad at the tender age of twelve. He uses the back of his hand to wipe away the stray tears that had eked their way out during his fit. “No. Absolutely not. No fucking way.”

Eddie perks up, “Ooh. The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.”

“What the fuck’d you just call me?” Billy croaks, his voice still a little ragged from his coughing.

Or, Chrissy convinces Billy to let her put makeup on him. 💋

“Has anyone ever told you that you have really pretty eyes, Billy?” Chrissy asks from across the fire pit. She’s tucked up under Eddie’s arm, their fingers threaded together over her shoulder.

Billy snorts, “not recently, no.”

He and Steve aren’t nearly as tangled up as the pair across from them are, even though technically they’ve been together longer than Chrissy and Eddie have—which automatically makes them the superior couple, obviously. But… he and Steve don’t really do the whole PDA thing, even when they’re in ‘safe’ company. A lifetime of having to hide will do that. It’s a tough habit to break.

But he and Steve are sitting side by side, their knees pressed against the other’s, and Billy’s got an arm slung behind Steve, resting along the back of the wicker loveseat they’re squashed onto. Steve’s even got a hand high up on Billy’s thigh, fingers clamping down every so often. Under the security of their shared blanket, of course. And that’s enough for Billy. More than he ever thought he’d get to have, if he’s being honest.

Eddie shoots Steve with a look of disbelief, like he’d caught him red handed at something truly reprehensible. “For shame, Stevie. For shame! You’re a bad boyfriend!”

“What? I—well, listen, I think Billy’s eyes great! I just—” Steve flounders before he turns to look at Billy, red in the cheeks. “I’m sure I’ve said something about your eyes before. Haven’t I?”

“Maybe. I don’t remember.” Billy shrugs, a little embarrassed. In truth, Billy remembers every compliment that Steve’s ever paid him. His chest, his ass, his arms—but never his eyes. Not that it’s a sore point for him or anything, it was just one of the things Steve hasn’t remarked on.

“Shit, does that make me a bad boyfriend?” Steve lets his head fall back against the meat of Billy’s arm and groans. “I’m sorry. Your eyes are great. Really! They work great too. Remember that time you spotted a quarter across the parking lot? Incredible.”

Billy feels his ears heat up. With a roll of his eyes, he growls at Steve, “don’t hurt yourself, Harrington.”

“I’m being serious!” Steve laughs, voice going high with guilt, and it gets everyone else chuckling too.

“Well, I think they’re a really beautiful shade of blue. And your lashes are so dark. Do you tint them?” Chrissy asks, eye’s focused solely on him.

Billy ducks his head, sort of hating this sort of scrutiny. He’s fine with being the center of attention if he’s playing basketball or balancing on top of a keg, but sitting here like this? It’s… weird. Too intimate. Billy clears his throat, “look, I’m flattered, Chrissy, really, but your boy is literally right fucking next to you.”

“It’s okay, she’s right; you do have really pretty eyes.” Munson winks as he takes another drag from his joint.

“Jesus…” Billy shakes his head and follows suit, though he’s just smoking a cigarette. Such is the fate of being the designated-sober-guy for the night.

“So you don’t tint your lashes?” Chrissy asks again.

“I don’t even fucking know what that means.” He mutters around his cigarette.

But Chrissy seems immune to the very clear ‘fuck off’ signals he’s putting out. She continues, “Well, do you dye your hair?”

“No.” He answers quickly, a reflex.

“Billy.” Steve says in a drawn out type of way and a tilt of his head. He levels Billy with a look. The little shit…

“I don’t!” Billy huffs, defensive as he readjusts himself in his seat.

But Munson smells blood in the water, clearly. “Ooh. Tell us what you know, Stevie boy.”

Only then does Steve have the decency to look apologetic, wincing, “I really shouldn’t.”

“Yeah because there’s nothing to tell.” Billy widens his eyes with each passing word in an attempt at conveying his unspoken threat. Steve’s getting dangerously close to being on the receiving end of a purple-nurple.

Eddie begins to chant, “Tell us! Tell us! Tell u—” before Chrissy reached a hand over and pinches his lips shut.

“Shush.” She tuts.

“Go on, ba–Billy. Who cares?” Steve raises his shoulders, trying to appear innocent. He pulls his knee back only to knock it back against Billy’s, urging him on.

Billy growls out a frustrated sigh. But at this point it was inevitable. And it was true–who the fuck cares? It’s just the four of them. And they have a symbiotic, assured mutual destruction sort of relationship going on between them. Steve trusted them enough to tell them about Billy, so Billy supposes he can tell them about something as stupid as his hair care secrets. “Fine! Jesus... I put a little bit of lemon juice in my hair when it’s sunny. It bleaches it a bit over time. Happy, you pack of vultures?”

“Ecstatic.” Eddie mumbles out from behind Chrissy’s hold on his lips.

“Sorry.” Steve mutters, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He’s smiling and on the verge of another fit of giggles for Christ's sake.

“Well it looks great. It makes your eyes pop.” Chrissy leans forward, hands on her knees, as if to get a better look at him in the firelight. Billy feels like a damn bug under a magnifying glass.

“And popping eyes are… good?” Billy cocks a brow. Doesn’t sound good. Sounds weird—like something you’d say about Munson, not him.

“Totally!” She says in that high, sweet voice of hers. Then she gasps, like she’s just remembered something important, “you should let me do your eyes!”

His brows pinch as he takes another pull from his cigarette. “Do my eyes?” Billy exhales a thick cloud of white smoke, “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Do them up, like with make-up.” She clarifies easily.

And with that, Billy nearly sucks back the cigarette dangling between his lips. He coughs, and coughs, and then coughs some more. Has to fucking lean forward to catch his breath, feeling a lot like he did when he first tried that stolen cigarette from his dad at the tender age of twelve. He uses the back of his hand to wipe away the stray tears that had eked their way out during his fit. “No. Absolutely not. No fucking way.”

Eddie perks up, “Ooh. The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.”

“What the hell’d you just call me?” Billy croaks, his voice still a little ragged from his coughing.

Chrissy continues, ignoring her boyfriend, “You’d look great! I do Eddie’s make up all the time! I’m going to beauty school, y’know. It’s good practice for me.”

In a way Billy isn’t surprised. Eddie is a freak, after all, and the more time he spends with Chrissy the more he’s starting to realize she’s more or less the same.

“Thanks, but hell no. I’m not… like that.” Billy shakes his head, hoping someone would just change the goddamn conversation already.

“It’s just make-up, dude. It’s not a big deal.” Eddie says casually as he stretches his legs out in front of him, a boot propped up on the edge of the firepit. Apparently not caring if the bottom of it melts.

“You really let her paint your face up, Munson?” Billy asks, still trying to wrap his head around what he’s hearing. Because guys didn’t… do that. Queer or not, you didn’t—unless you were… and Billy wasn’t like that! The wires in his head are crossed, he knows that much, but they’re not totally fried, unless Munson’s apparently were.

“Like the London whore!” Eddie bellows out in a truly terrible British accent. “It’s all very Rocky Horror Picture Show when she’s done with me.”

“Jesus Christ… here I thought me and Steve were the queers.” Billy chuckles dryly.

“Hey!” Steve protests, though Billy’s not sure what about. They are queers. Card carrying, cock-sucking pillow-biters, the pair of ‘em. As fucking insane as that still sounds to admit to himself openly…

“It’s fun!” Chrissy exclaims, voice high, defensive.

“Harmless fun!” Eddie reiterates, voice similarly high.

But there’s no fucking way–

“I don’t like shit getting in my eyes.” Billy grunts out stubbornly.

“Now, that is true. He had to use eye-drops for a few days after he scratched his cornea,” Steve tries to tell his story, but he’s already giggling so damn much that he’s barely fucking intelligible. “I had to sit on his chest and hold his eye open while I put the drops in every single time. I felt like I was wrestling a crocodile.”

“Or maybe he just liked you sitting on him.” Eddie eyebrows jump up and down suggestively which only gets Steve laughing harder, nodding along like he was in on the joke. Christ these two are unbearable when they get together…

“Your lips then.” Chrissy cuts the two knuckleheads off, speaking directly to Billy.

Chrissy’s sweet, but there’s no fucking way Billy’s letting her do that to him. Just the idea of it is… well, not only is it totally bonkers, but it wouldn’t even look good. He’s not… feminine. No part of Billy Hargrove could ever even pass a dainty or whatever. He’s bulky, all hard edges and calluses and scars. He knows he’s hot, sure, but Billy’s not beautiful, even if Steve occasionally whispers it when they’re fucking. But Billy’s not stupid. He knows it’s just something you say. It’s not real. Steve doesn’t actually mean it. “I don’t…”

“You should do it.” Steve says, all smiles. His pupils are blown, eyes gone a little glassy with the high. “Why not?”

Billy narrows his eyes at his boyfriend. “You just want me to look stupid.”

Steve frowns, mouth hanging open in his apparent bewilderment, “Wha-? Why the hell would I want that?”

With a jerky, defensive shrug, Billy answers, “because you get weird when you’re high.”

“Sure, maybe—but I don’t get mean. That’s your thing.” Steve pokes a finger to Billy’s chest.

“I’m just gonna go get my makeup bag!” Chrissy chirps, already up on her feet.

“No–Chrissy, I’m not…” Billy tries to call her back, but she ignores him, disappearing into the bright Harrington house behind them.

“Don’t bother trying to stop her, Hargrove. She’s tiny but she always seems to get her way. It’s like her super power.” Eddie passes on his advice, but Billy just rolls his eyes and grumbles something about not rolling over like a bitch.

When Chrissy comes back, it’s with a fucking suitcase, not a bag. She heaves it up onto one of the glass side tables that creaks and groans under the weight. The boys all watch in fascination as she snaps open the clasp and it unfolds its sides, then unfolds again. It was like a fucking magic trick; the case just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

“There.” She says, hands on her hips, seemingly satisfied. “Okay, Steve, move your tush.”

“Chrissy, I’m not–wait, what are you doing?” Billy’s attention goes from Chrissy to his retreating boyfriend, who’s sliding out from under their shared blanket to stand.

“Moving my tush,” answers Steve, “duh.”

“I was thinking of red at first, but now that I’m looking at you up close, it would overwhelm you. Especially since you won’t let me do your eyes,” Chrissy explains as she plops down where Steve had been, sitting on top of their blanket, effectively sealing Billy in, “so maybe pink.” She holds up several tubes of lipstick to his mouth, humming as she goes.

The corners of his mouth pull down as his brows come together, “Pink?”

Eddie shifts to stand, slapping his thighs as he rises. “Okay, I’m stealing your man, Hargrove.” He threads an arm through Steve’s, “Stevie and I are gonna go see which one of us can hold our breath the longest under the water.”

“For the record, I’m just going to make sure he doesn’t drown.” Steve clarifies as Eddie pulls him towards the pool.

“Come find us when you’re done!” Eddie says in a sing-song voice.

Chrissy just waves a hand over her shoulder in response, more a motion to ‘go away’ as opposed to a farewell wave.

“Those two idiots are going to get themselves killed.” Billy murmurs, stone still as Chrissy holds up yet another tube of lipstick, checking the little color sticker stuck on the bottom.

She giggles, “nah, not when we have Hawkins finest lifeguard here to keep us safe.”

Billy scoffs, gets ready to argue about distractions and inebriated states when pop! Chrissy uncaps a tube of lipstick and the words die in his throat.

“Okay, hold still.” She says, and everything in Billy runs cold. He feels like his heart stops beating in his chest. His lungs solidify. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t see it coming.

But the expected waxy touch doesn’t reach his lips.

“Billy?” Chrissy asks, in her distinct high, soft voice. It’s strangely soothing. Sort of reminds him of–... Well, another pretty blonde lady who helped him put lipstick on. But that feels like a lifetime ago, back before Billy knew to be ashamed of this sort of thing. Back when he was just playing dress up while the house was empty besides just the two of them. “Billy, if you really don’t want to, I won’t make you. You know that, right?”

And there it is; his out.

The thing he wanted and would have taken a few seconds ago, without hesitation. But… if he’s being honest, he sort of hates that she’s gone ahead and offered it up to him like this. Because now Billy has to make the active choice in this whole humiliating ordeal. How much easier would it have been if she would have just forced him? If it remained out of his hands?

But Chrissy isn’t like that. She isn’t actually pushy. No, she’s… Helpful. Like she could see something in Billy, maybe. The same thing his mom saw. Something Neil had spotted at some point too. Maybe that’s why his dad hates him so much.

Chrissy doesn’t hate him though. Even though he was an asshole in high school, and pretty much everyone hated or was afraid of him back then. But now that they’re out of high school, and Billy’s out out, at least to the handful of people here tonight, he’s surrounded by people that don’t hate him, even though they have every right to. It’s still sort of surreal.

And now Chrissy’s sitting here in front of him on her folded legs, with seemingly endless patience—like she’s got all the time in the world for Billy to work through his impossibly complicated shit. Like how actual friends treat each other, maybe. Billy doesn’t really know. The only real friend he’s ever had turned into his boyfriend, so his frame of reference for this sort of shit is probably fucked up beyond recognition.

But maybe they are friends. And you could trust friends, in theory. He could trust Chrissy, in theory.

“No, it’s okay.” Billy swallows, feels his adam's apple bob in his throat, “I don’t care.” He lies as he flicks what little remained of his cigarette into the crackling fire pit beside them.

She beams, looking like pure sunshine even in this dim, flickering firelight. And fuck, she really is too good for Munson; way out of his fucking league. Just like how Steve is way out of Billy’s. But hey, some people just had shitty taste in men, what’re you gonna do?

“Okay. Well, then pull your lips tight over your teeth–oh, not that tight. Just enough that they’re not–yeah, that’s perfect.” Chrissy instructs him gently, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make him feel the sharp, hot feeling of shame at any point. Then Billy feels the distantly familiar smooth feeling of lipstick over his mouth. He’s already itching for another smoke, but that may just be his nerves acting out.

“Oh yeah, pink is definitely your color. Eddie looks completely washed out in this shade, but you have those nice warm undertones.” She says, pulling the lipstick along his bottom lip now, taking her time around the edges. It feels like she’s going over his lip line, but he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t risk moving his mouth and throwing Chrissy off. She seems to be completely in her zone. “Dollface looks perfect on you.”

“Doll face?” He frowns. Coming out of his mouth it almost sounds like a slur.

“The shade. It’s called Dollface.” She explains as she pulls back a little, and Billy tries very hard not to immediately wipe all of her hard work off on the sleeve of his shirt. “Can I put blush on you too? I have the perfect shade that would match it.”

“I don’t–... I don’t want to look like a clown or anything.” He mutters, hyper conscious of how different his lips feel when he speaks now.

“It’ll be subtle, I promise. Like mine.” She motions towards her own face and Billy has to squint to see what the fuck she’s talking about. But there is a slight peachy tone to the apples of her cheeks, now that he’s looking for it. “I wouldn’t want to cover any of your freckles up, after all. They’re so cute.”

Jesus… He’s never had this many compliments paid to him so fucking quickly, and all on things that no one ever fucking mentioned. Sure, he gets lots of remarks on his ass and his chest, but those were things he worked tirelessly on, spent hours doing squats and pumping iron. But his eyelashes? His freckles? The blue of his eyes? Those weren’t things he earned. They were just… him. Base model, nothing special, piece of shit with anger issues, Billy Hargrove.

But he nods nonetheless. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She repeats with a smile. She leans back towards her magic make-up bag and fishes out a plastic compact that opens up like a clamshell, along with a big fluffy brush. She swishes it around the pigment for a second before tapping off the excess in a colorful cloud. Billy watches her with an enraptured sort of fascination. She grabs a napkin, and a few other sticks of something before she settles back around in front of him again.

“The trick is to suck in your cheeks, like a little fishy.” She says before she demonstrates it.

And even though it feels stupid and embarrassing, he does the ‘little fishy face’ right along with her.

She hums her approval as she swipes the soft bristles against his cheeks. They catch a little on his stubble. He hopes it doesn’t wreck her brush.

“Perfect,” she coos, soft as a dove. Chrissy snaps the clamshell of pink blush shut and puts it aside before she picks up some of her dark pencils. “Now, I know you said you didn’t want anything in your eyes, but I thought maybe we could try just a water line? You don’t need to, but I promise it won’t go anywhere near your actual eyeball, just your lower lash line. It would really pull the whole look together.”

Billy frowns. Hasn’t he given enough?

Sensing his hesitation, Chrissy continues to plead her case, “it might just tickle, a teeny tiny bit. And if you don’t like it, I’ll stop right away. Deal?”

He hesitates, running his tongue along his teeth as he mulls it over. “It won’t touch my eye at all?”

“Nope. I’ll hug the outside of your lid, I promise. You just gotta stay super still for me, okay? And it washes right off. One lap around the pool and it’ll probably be all gone once you get out.”

Oh, right. Billy had forgotten about how he was going to get this gunk off. He had work tomorrow, and he couldn’t exactly show up at the pool looking like… well. Whatever he looked like now. Billy wasn’t exactly sure. It made his insides squirm.

“Fine. As long as it’s quick.” Billy huffs, readjusting his legs so that they didn’t fall asleep on him.

“Quick as a bunny!” She uncaps the pencil and leans forward.

Her hands are back on his face–only this time she’s pulling down at the skin where his eye bags usually form if he doesn't get enough sleep. Billy expects it to hurt, or maybe to burn a little, but she’s right; it just tickles. He flinches when the cool tip of the pencil initially hits the sensitive skin of his lower lid, but Chrissy remains as patient as a saint, and just waits for him to stop blinking before she tries again. And this time Billy knows what to expect, so Chrissy’s able to do a full swipe, left to right, focusing a little on the outer edge, before she moves onto the next eye and does the same.

“Now,” She murmurs as she retrieves the napkin, “kiss this.”

He screws his face up, “what?”

“To get the excess off. And it makes the lipstick last longer.” She waves the bit of tissue in his face. “Trust me, I’m almost an expert.”

Billy sincerely has his doubts, but he kisses the tissue, blotting his lipstick. It still feels like a lot is left on his mouth, but it doesn’t feel as… heavy. Sort of feels nice, actually. And when he pulls the napkin away it’s marked the perfect imprint of his pink kiss. If he didn’t just finish making it himself he wouldn’t have thought his lips were even capable…

“Do you want gloss?” Chrissy asks, pulling him from his fog.

“Won’t that ruin the—“ Billy points towards his mouth, “this layer?”

She shakes her head, sending her blonde ponytail into motion behind her, “No, it sort of just seals it. And bonus, it tastes like bubblegum.”

Steve likes bubblegum.

“Alright.” He says quickly, with a jerky sort of shrug. He’s already made it this far, he might as well see it through all the way. And it’s not like he’s going to do this again or anything… may as well go full hog.

So she pulls out a wand coated in the clear looking gel and does a final swipe over the top of his lips with it. It feels sort of sticky. And now that it’s sitting under his nose, he really can smell the bubblegum.

“Done!” Chrissy exclaims as she pulls her hands away. She holds them up and away from Billy, as if to reassure him that she’s finished with her torture. “Smile for me so I know I didn’t get anything on your teeth.”

And there’s no way he can give Chrissy anything remotely genuine at the moment, so Billy simply bares his teeth for her to inspect.

“No lipstick on your teeth. And I think I did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself.” Chrissy says, admiring her handiwork.

“Yeah?” Billy clears his throat, not knowing where to look. Eddie and Steve are still busy splashing and shoving each other in the pool, so at least he doesn’t need to worry about them. “I don’t look too stupid?”

She smacks his arm with the back of her hand, “You don’t look stupid at all, silly. You look great!” She then starts tidying up her makeup, putting everything back in its proper place. Billy watches her with the same fascination as he did while she was taking it out.

“Your mom teach you this shit?” Billy asks.

She frowns, just a little. “Some of it.”

He nods. His leg bounces. Resists the urge to rub at his eyes. The hard shells of Chrissy’s makeup containers clack together as she rearranges them.

“My mom used to—“ Billy mumbles, quiet enough that he very much doubts Chrissy had even heard him, but when he looks up, she’s stopped putting her things away, and her eyes are on him. Waiting for him to go on.

He clears his throat, doesn’t even know why he’s confessing this to her, but a strange compulsion seems to have taken over him. He feels the words right at the tip of his tongue before he can think to bury them back down, back to somewhere deep within himself. “My mom used to do this for me sometimes. When I was really little.”

It’s something that should be embarrassing. Something to laugh at, like the punchline of a joke. But Chrissy doesn’t laugh. She smiles gently. “Those sound like happy memories.”

Billy frowns—he’d never thought of them as happy, per se. More embarrassing than anything else. Something he can’t look in the eye. Billy ducks his head, feels his eyes sting. He should stop, he knows. Just shut the hell up. Because why the hell is he getting himself worked up over a dumb childhood memory in front of some chick he barely knows? It’s stupid.

And yet, the idea of not saying more seems even more unbearable than eating his words.

“I’d ask her to, when she was in the mirror getting ready or whatever.” Billy explains, daring to meet her eye before retreating to somewhere off in the distance. “This was before I knew it was, y’know… not something boys did. My dad made sure I knew it though, after he caught us. I didn’t ask after that.”

The truth of it is, maybe those memories could have been happy if they didn’t exist exclusively under the shadow of Neil. He can’t picture his mom’s smiling face without also picturing Neil’s disgusted one. Can’t remember how it felt having the make up on his face when the bruises lasted so much longer. He can’t hear the soft words his mom had whispered to him over the roar of the awful names Neil called him afterwards—the ones he never stopped calling him. It’s no wonder Billy’s so goddamn fucked in the head.

Then, there’s a hand slipping overtop of his, small and soft, squeezing against his rough, calloused ones. “I’m sorry.”

Billy feels a rush of emotions, but he’s not entirely sure which direction they’re flowing. Hot or cold.

Part of him wants to stand up and scream at Chrissy that he doesn’t need her fucking pity—that Billy Hargrove doesn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him, that sympathy is for the weak—and Billy isn’t weak.

Some shit Neil would do.

But in the moment, Billy can’t find the strength to do any of it. He just sits there and squeezes her hand back. So maybe he is weak after all.

“My parents were tough on me too,” Chrissy explains, keeping her voice low. “I sort of always felt like a disappointment to them.”

”You?” Billy scoffs, his voice frustratingly shakey, “you’re like, perfect.”

“Yeah, well, some parents are dummies. They get all upset when their kid turns out differently than how they expected.” Chrissy says with a tilt of her head. And Billy knows she isn’t just talking about her own mom and dad. “Dumb, right?”

Billy nods as he sniffs back any congestion that dared try and accumulate in his nose, along with the tears he doesn’t let fall. He blinks a few times, letting the air take them. “Yeah, real fuckin’ dumb.”

Chrissy smiles, and it’s like she’s beaming. Too fucking good for Munson, Billy thinks again as she stands, bringing him along with her by way of their clasped hands. “You ready to show the boys?”

A new wave of uncertainty hits Billy straight in the gut, but he keeps pace with her. ”You sure I don’t look stupid?”

“I’m positive. You should trust me, Billy. I’m like, really smart.” Chrissy insists, a playful giggle on the edge of her words.

Billy scoffs in response, but he doesn’t bother arguing. She is smart. Smarter than the rest of them combined, most likely.

When they approach the pool, Steve and Eddie are so preoccupied with staying underwater they don’t even notice Chrissy and him. Which suits Billy just fine; he doesn’t want to draw any more attention to his painted face than it was already inevitably going to get. They just slip into the shallow end and wait for the other two to come up for air. Or drown.

It’s Eddie that breaks the surface first in a flurry of splashing and gasping breaths. He’d probably catch his breath faster if he stopped cursing for a second, but Eddie’s got one of those mouths that never fucking stops.

Steve is the second to rise out of the water. While Eddie looks like a drowned fucking rat, Steve looks like he’s materialized out of a copy of Sports Illustrated as usual. His hair’s slicked back, but he gives it a good shake and briefly runs his fingers through the strands, somehow making it look just as good as always. God’s fucking favourite, that one.

Billy’s gotta look away because sometimes it’s even too much for him to take in.

“You cheated.” Eddie accuses Steve.

“Yeah, I cheated by not smoking a pack a day for the past four years like you have.” Steve snorts as he backstrokes to the shallow end, followed by Eddie’s doggy paddle.

“So he admits to cheating. I want that on record.” Eddie calls over to Chrissy and Billy, who’ve propped themselves up on the stone steps leading into the pool, patiently (or, impatiently if Billy’s being honest) waiting.

Steve flips around when his feet can touch, and immediately locks eyes on Billy. And then he just. Stares.

God, Billy really wishes he weren’t sober for this. That was sort of an oversight on his part. Hell, he hadn’t even grabbed a cigarette on his way over so he’s got nothing to do with his hands besides letting them hang by his side, his elbows propping him up behind him.

“Holy shit…” Steve mutters, coming towards him like he’s locked in some kind of weird tractor beam.

“Looking good, Hargrove.” Munson says as he crowds Chrissy, who doesn’t seem put off by the attention. In fact, she sort of lights up under it. So weird. “I almost couldn’t tell you two sexy blondes apart.” He winks.

Billy rolls his eyes, grimacing at the remark. He makes a mental note to give Munson a Charlie horse the next time he’s within arms reach. But when his eyes return to Steve’s, he’s… like, struck stupid or something.

“You kill off one too many of your brain cells under the water, pretty boy?” Billy quirks a brow, trying to give what he hopes is a sharp grin, even from behind his pink lips. “You and I both know you can’t afford to lose anym—“

Then Steve’s kissing him.

Actually kissing him.

In front of people.

…They’ve never done that before. Not ever. Not that they’d ever talked about it, but they didn’t need to. Because Steve and Billy didn’t do PDA. It just isn’t in the cards for them. And yet—

Steve seems to hear Billy’s internal struggle and pulls away, taking some of Billy’s bubblegum lip gloss with him, looking a little sheepish as he licks his lips. “Sorry. I couldn’t really control myself there for a second.”

“You’re hanging around with Eddie too much.” Chrissy laughs, and is rewarded by a playful bite to the cheek from Munson, as if to prove her point of his impulsivity.

“You just look so… good.” Steve admits, and Billy’s stomach doesn’t do an entire flip inside of him. It doesn’t. He’s fine. “You look beau—”

“Don’t.” Billy cuts in. He’s already exposed enough, he doesn’t need Steve to wax poetically about his fucking beauty in front of an audience. Even if it is just Chrissy and Eddie.

“But you do!” Steve insists, smiling, going all syrupy on him. Must still be feeling the effect of that joint from earlier.

”I swear to god, Harrington, I will drown you.” Billy gets his hands on Steve’s biceps and keeps him at bay. Steve pouts and whines.

Yep, definitely still high.

“Good luck, he can stay under for like four whole minutes.” Eddie mutters, still sulking about his defeat. Steve throws him a long suffering roll of his eyes.

“C’mon, let’s see if you can win back your dignity with a game of chicken.” Chrissy all but shoves Eddie off. He’s like a fucking leech. Though Steve isn’t too far off at the moment.

“You know I’ll never say no to having your legs wrapped around my head, sweetheart.” Eddie swoons and even Steve has the decency to balk at the audacity.

“Alright, you take shoulders.” Billy sighs as he pushes off the hard steps. He’s a way sturdier bottom than Steve could ever hope to be.

When Steve doesn’t answer, Billy claps his hands on either side of the column of Steve’s neck, hoping the hit’ll knock a little sense into Steve’s oxygen deprived brain. “Hey, you with me, amigo?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Steve finally sputters out, still unable to break eye contact, “Always, baby.”

Billy ignores the way it makes every inch of him feel warm, and fucking. Cherished. God damn. Harrington really is going to be the death of him.

By the time their game of water chicken has wrapped, Billy’s been thoroughly soaked so there’s not much makeup left on his face, save for a slight pink residue on the lines of his lips. It’s for the best, he thinks. It didn’t look right on him anyway…

But when Chrissy’s hugging him goodbye, she not-so-subtly slips Dollface into his pocket and pulls away with a cheeky, knowing sort of grin. He almost cracks a smile before Eddie is glomming onto him, insisting he also is in dire need of a goodbye hug.

Billy shoves him off before he gets too comfortable, and Eddie folds with a manic, downright deranged laugh that somehow, against all odds, seems to be growing on Billy. Will wonders never fucking cease?

Later that night, before going to sleep next to Steve, he puts the tube of lipstick into the top drawer in Steve’s bathroom. Knows it’ll be safe there, like every other god forsaken thing Billy’s given him—including his busted up, worn down, hardened heart—Steve always keeps whatever Billy gives him safe.

[littlemissmentallyunstable]

title: crazy little thing called love

pairing: grayson hawthorne x (first person) reader

synopsis: you are avery’s little sister and you carry around a deadly secret. if anyone finds out you’re in love with jameson, things will get messy

warnings: love is a bit confusing…

a/n: thanks for reading 🤍🤍

tag list: @tornqdowarnings @whatsamongus @wish-i-were-heather @inmyheaddd @never-enough-novels @stqrsbythepocketful @lxvebelle @xoxo-vee @emelia07 @f4iry-bell

I was sat on the grass under a tree. It was a pleasant summers days, the sun was shining and it wasn’t too hot. I leant my back against a tree, a book situated happily in my hands. And although everything was perfect… it didn’t feel perfect. I couldn’t focus on a single word on that paper because my eyes were too busy glued to another scene. Unfortunately for me, not a scene of fiction. My sister stood laughing in her boyfriend’s arms. Jameson Hawthorne. Ever since I’d laid eyes on him I’d fallen hard and since I’d gotten to know him the falling hadn’t stopped. But he chose her. It’s not like I was surprised or anything. Avery was Avery. She was stunningly gorgeous, naturally intelligent far beyond her years and was strong, independent. Who wouldn’t want that?

And even though I loved my sister to pieces, I couldn’t want Jameson any less. No matter how hard I tried to forget, to stop, to feel for someone else, it never happened. I mean I supposed it made sense, me and Avery with the same type. We were sisters after all but… but why did it have to be him? It’s not even like I could escape. I’m stuck watching their happily ever after plays out waiting an eternity for my turn.

“What are you watching?”

My heart skipped a beat, “do you alway sneak up on people like that?”

I turned around and met a pair of sharp silvery grey eyes only inches from my own.

“Depends,” Grayson murmured, sitting beside me now, “what are you watching?”

He repeated the question I was avoiding answering and looked at me expectantly. I hated it.

“Nothing,” I shrugged in response, focusing back on the book I was supposed to be reading.

“You seem awfully concentrated,” he said.

Clearly he didn’t take my ‘I’m pretending to read so I don’t have to talk to you’ gesture. So I looked up and stared at him blankly.

“You seem awfully fixated on my concentration,” I replied, mocking his tone slightly in an attempt for him to just drop the subject.

“Them?” he asked.

As soon as the single word left his lips I knew exactly who he was talking about and I wished I didn’t. Grayson Hawthorne knew what he was doing but I wasn’t going to let him do it. My eyes flickered to my sister and Jameson once again, a familiar pain in the left side of my chest returns.

“What about them?” I said, nonchalantly.

“You’re watching them,” he clarified, getting to the point after seeing my unwillingness to talk.

“No I’m not-“ I began to say.

“Me too,” Grayson interrupted me.

I was far too stunned to reply. That was not at all what I was expecting. I was suddenly caught off guard. The confession was somewhat an attempt of gaining my trust and my willing to be in the conversation. It worked. Damn you Grayson.

“You are?” I blurted out, my brain not acting quick enough to filter the words.

He nodded, his eyes still pinned to Jameson and Avery. The way he looked at her reminded me of the way I looked at Jameson. Doe-eyed and dopey, like I’d had a little too much to drink. He had that same smile on his lips, the one you have when you’re in love and you’re just staring at your person because they’re them. Never had a seen Grayson look so… relaxed.

So I took the opportunity to ask the burning question, “do you love my sister?”

He took a moment before replying. I don’t know whether he was trying to figure out what to reply or how to reply or either. His face didn’t give away a single thought so when I attempted to read his body language the story was uneventful.

“I think I do,” he replied, after a while.

“You think?” I said. I’d always thought as love as something you knew. You were sure that you were in love and that person was your person. There was no decision or question about it, it was like a second instinct that you loved them.

“My experience of love hasn’t exactly been something that lead by example so I don’t know…” he trailed off, looking back into the distance. He hesitated slightly before continuing, “but she makes me feel right when all I know is wrong.”

I stayed silent but my mind was racing. Grayson likes Avery, but Avery likes Jameson and I like Jameson but Jameson likes Avery. It was a vicious circle and I wanted to break free, but I was still trying to work out how. I was like a hamster on a wheel, running and going nowhere.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked him, suddenly curious. Why choose to offload this information onto me? Why here? Why now? What game is he trying to play with me?

“You asked,” he shrugged simply.

“Just because I asked didn’t mean you had to answer,” I replied, staring at him quizzically, silently telling him I’m not as stupid as I may seem.

“I trust you,” Grayson said quietly, meeting my eyes for a brief moment before wandering astray. Why did he trust me? Just because I’m Avery’s sister doesn’t mean my intentions are honourable. Just because I don’t get into trouble doesn’t mean I won’t. Just because I seem naive doesn’t mean I am.

“You shouldn’t,” I scoffed. I wasn’t lying, some days I didn’t even trust myself.

“Do you love my brother?” he asked suddenly, the topic of conversation swerving, nearly causing me whiplash.

My heart pounded loudly in my chest, thumping through my eardrums. He kept throwing curveballs into the mix I never would have predicted. He was trying to make me nervous, I concluded at the time. I didn’t know what to tell him. I wasn’t even sure if I knew the answer.

“It’s… complicated,” I finally said.

“I don’t think it is,” he replied.

“How would you know?” I furrowed my brows.

“I just would,” he said, his tone annoyingly calm and civil.

“Would you now?” I gritted through my teeth, staring back down at the seemingly empty pages on my novel.

So he asked how I felt and then claimed that he knew better? How could he know my feelings better than I did? Why did he even ask if he knew so much? Of course, leave it to a man to assume he understands everything.

“You seem offended,” Grayson noted.

“How very perceptive of you,” I spat, sarcasm latching onto my tongue. My voice was so bitter and sharp, that it could cut through the thick tension coating the air between us.

“What did I do wrong?” he asked me.

“You can’t just claim to understand me, we’ve barely met,” I said, staring at him with fire in my eyes.

“I’m just saying I know what you’re going through, you like Jameson-“

“I don’t know what I feel about Jameson,” I snapped, interrupting him, “and even if I did, that doesn’t mean you know how the hell I feel.”

“People like us tend to want what we can’t have,” he said, sounding so gentle as if I were a fragile piece of glass about to shatter.

“People like us?” I asked, my jaw dropped and eyes wide, “you don’t know me Grayson Hawthorne.”

“I think I know you better than you think,” he murmured, his words so confusing it took me a moment to designee them.

“Well I think you’re mistaken,” I said bluntly and viciously.

I harshly closed my book, the bang of the cover hitting the pages bouncing in the empty air. I stood up and turned my back on him beginning to walk away. I’d truly had enough of a conversation that I never wanted to have in the first place.

“Don’t leave,” I heard Grayson say, a rustling behind me telling me he too had stood up.

I turned around, my eyes narrowed and my jaw tense. He walked closer towards me, something in his eyes pleading me to listen, to try again. I ignored it.

“You utter a word of this conversation to anyone and you’re dead to me Grayson,” I snarled, with intense eye contact, “goodbye.”

I spun in my heal and walked away. Fast. And I didn’t look back at him.

***

I often dreamt of a Hawthorne at night but when I awoke in the middle of the night Jameson wasn’t the main character of my scenario in my head… it was his insufferable blonde brother. But somehow I was still feeling the way I usually did after dreaming about Jameson, butterflies in my stomach and a warmth in my chest. Did I like Grayson Hawthorne?

Shit.

a/n: TIG masterlist

[voxofthevoid]

JJK teasers for December! As usual, they're 200–300 words from the unedited versions of this month's updates. Work descriptions can be found in the Dec schedule post right above this.

Chapter 1/1 of lipstick chemtrails

She taps that open mouth, once. “You won’t terribly mind if I borrow this, will you?”

Yuuji’s reaction is all in the hips; they fuck the air, the motion rippling through his entire body. Satoru laughs, delighted, and Yuuji groans, the noise too low and lewd to be just embarrassment, and he doesn’t answer, of course, but why would he need to? This story only ends the one way.

Satoru raises a leg, hooking it over his shoulder. At this angle, it leaves the underside of her skirt at eye level with him. His eyes lose all airs of respect, snapping to her cunt and growing molten, a heat that Satoru’s body echoes with a telltale pulse.

She wonders if he can see her panties growing wet.

Satoru digs her heel into his back, tugging him closer, and Yuuji topples into her with a wounded noise, his arms rising to grip her legs. Frantic fingers dig into the meat of her thigh, pushing it closer to his neck, and his other hand finds the same bruise he left the other day, the ache of it sweeter for the way it’s surely an accident.

Yuuji’s breathing like he’s run a marathon, eyes still fixed on her cunt like it might reach out and bite him.

“You look so scared,” Satoru says, laughing again, and it’s mean—she knows it, feels it—but it’s only right when she wants to eat this boy alive. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Sensei will be very gentle.”

She yanks his mouth to her cunt.

Chapter 4/7 of for granted, in vain, i took everything i ever cared about

“I’m done,” Yuuji announces, voice still eerily quiet. His fingers brush Satoru’s cheeks, flirting with skin and fabric as they check whether the bindings are too tight.

It’s gentle, every touch.

“You shouldn’t waste this opportunity, you know.”

Yuuji’s fingers still. “Sensei?”

“All that anger you’re holding back,” Satoru clarifies. “Take it out on me. This is the only time you’ll be able to, without consequences.”

Yuuji’s touch withdraws entirely, but his warmth remains—so close that Satoru can taste it.

“Is that the kind of person you think I am, Gojou-sensei?”

There’s genuine hurt in Yuuji’s voice, but it’s still so quiet; that makes it worse, somehow.

Satoru lets out a shuddering breath, a twinge of shame in his chest. “No. Might do you some good though.”

The bed dips beside him as Yuuji sits down. “If you want to make me feel better, stop being an ass.”

“I did warn you.”

“And I’m still here,” Yuuji says plainly. “And honestly, sensei, my grandpa was meaner than you.”

Satoru laughs, the sound surprised out of him. “Really? He’s starting to sound like a scary man.”

“Not even a little.” Yuuji must lean closer—or maybe it’s Satoru, helplessly soaking in that warmth—because there’s a line of solid heat against his bare arm, with patches of coolness from the water. “It was mostly out of care. He didn’t want me to lose out on life. But I think he also just couldn’t stand any of it—being there, being alone. And he hated me seeing him like that, but maybe he thought I’d get tired of it too, and if he pushed me away first, it wouldn’t hurt the way it would if I left first. As if I was ever going to.”

Chapter 2/2 of you were made in the image of god (i was not)

“I thought about Sukuna,” he confesses. “His soul and mine—we’d have done that, sensei. If he’d stayed in me, if you hadn’t killed me, we’d have rotted together, and what came out of the slime—I don’t think you could’ve loved that. I keep wondering, though, if you’d have tried.”

Gojou knew before Yuuji did what hosting Sukuna would do to him, and he was going to keep Yuuji alive anyway. Did he really know what he was doing?

He couldn’t have. Gojou wasn’t all-knowing. Shibuya proved that, and Shinjuku was worse. But he’s the smartest man Yuuji’s known, and he’d have only become more devastating, right? Maybe he’d have seen it, what Yuuji would become. Maybe he’d have put him down like a dog. That could’ve been love too.

But if Sukuna had said yes, Gojou wouldn’t have been around for that. Nobody else would have made a difference.

It doesn’t matter now. And Yuuji doesn’t regret the choice he offered.

He has a feeling Gojou would even have approved of it—that perversion of his dream.

He gently drags Gojou up, till that face is hovering over his. It’s not very romantic. The head is limp, lolling bonelessly from the neck. The way the hair falls forward makes it look softer and younger, like he’s only Yuuji’s age.

Yuuji kisses him, arching his head up, and when he settles back down, Gojou settles with him—face to face, mouth to mouth, limb to limb.

He pictures the rot. The dead and the living. Worms and maggot. Black slime, crawling with filthy life.

It’d start inside Yuuji, wouldn’t it? This entire time, Gojou has refused to decay, but Yuuji’s soul has been festering for months.

He’d be the killing kiss, the hungry rot.

Gojou can be the devoured one.

Chapter 7/9 of everything burned, as promised

The perks of being able to warp is that his unwitting victims never get the opportunity to escape. Sometimes, said victims are his enemies; most often, they’re hapless allies he’s inflicting himself upon. 

Yuuji doesn’t fall into either category, but he’s certainty Satoru’s victim.

And, after space resolves into solidity around them, Yuuji doesn’t get to react beyond a startled gasp before Megumi and Nobara turn to face them, wearing matching expressions of exasperation.

Those turn into a blend of curiosity and suspicion when they set eyes on Yuuji.

“You’re late,” Nobara snaps, and her voice loses barely any edge when she asks, “And who’s this? Another student from Kyoto?”

Yuuji makes a strangled noise. His fingers are crushingly tight around Satoru’s wrist.

“Reasonable assumption,” Satoru says cheerfully. “But no! Yuuji’s my boyfriend.”

Pindrop silence.

Yuuji seems to have stopped breathing.

Megumi very slowly takes out his phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“Good luck with that,” Satoru tells him. “Now, Yuuji will be taking my place today! The three of you should be able to handle a couple of grade-one curses easy.”

Yuuji’s grip starts to bruise bone. “Satoru.”

Satoru kisses him.

“Hey!” Nobara yells.

Megumi’s silence is even louder.

Yuuji jumps, his hand falling away from Satoru, who takes advantage of it to put some distance between them.

He avoids looking at Yuuji’s face. It’s hard with the Six Eyes being what they are, but Satoru manages.

“Take care of him for me,” Satoru tells them, making fleeting and one-sided eye contact with Megumi and Nobara both. “See ya!”

Chapter 4/24 of (this is also part of the story) how the story changes

“Yuuji,” Satoru rasps, and it feels so strange to be able to speak, his throat and tongue both throbbing and numb.

“Satoru,” Yuuji says gently, “tell me what you want.”

“Your—” It’s not anything like embarrassment that cuts him off, just the indescribable strangeness of talking with that tongue under his own, and then he can’t not look, mouth and throat drying out at the sight of that wet pink flesh stretching out from the leering belly mouth to bully Satoru’s mouth. He’s still staring at it when he says, “Your cock. I want your cock.”

“Good boy.” Approval, syrupy-sweet but scorching, somehow. Yuuji’s fist unravels, letting go of Satoru’s hair to ruffle it playfully. “Then take it.”

The tongue withdraws, but not without licking a wet stripe along Satoru’s open mouth. He gasps with it, mouth a spit-soaked mess inside and out. The taste is still that eerie blend of sweetness and iron—rot but not.

The lips of the mouth close firmly, teeth and tongue all vanishing. Cursed energy flares, and Satoru can only stare as the lips pale and fade, merging seamlessly into that violent scar that started all this.

“You look so disappointed,” Yuuji says, clearly amused. Satoru tries to school his expression, but too little too late; Yuuji pats his cheek like he’s a puppy. “Don’t pout, Satoru. You’ll get distracted if that thing’s there. And you don’t want that, right?”

“I’m not—”

“You will,” Yuuji cuts in, graceless and merciless. “You already are. I thought you wanted my cock?”

Chapter 5/5 of your resistance, prophetic self-destruction

“What are you sorry for?”

Yuuji almost laughs. Where isn’t he sorry for?

“Everything,” he says, the syllables catching on his throat. “Shibuya—I killed so many people. And Kugisaki—I was there, and I couldn’t—I didn’t do a damn thing to save her. Fushiguro too—it’s my fault, sensei. I’m the reason Sukuna took him.”

Yuuji’s mouth feels raw in the aftermath, everything hot and numb.

Gojou is quiet for long enough that the silence becomes splintered, digging into every inch of Yuuji.

“A cursed spirit killed Nobara,” Gojou says. There’s no inflection in his words; his eyes are chips of ice. “And Sukuna killed those people in Shibuya. Sukuna hurt you and used you to hurt Megumi. He’ll pay for it, I can promise you that. But first, how many times will we have this conversation, Yuuji?”

They have, haven’t they? After the detention center, after Junpei.

Each time, Yuuji thought he understood it, accepted it.

Yuuji was a fool.

“You don’t understand,” he says, lips still numb, eyes fixed on the follow of Gojou’s throat. “The binding vow—the one Sukuna brought me back to life for. I remember now. I was…such an idiot. Fushiguro isn’t here because I am.”

A pair of knuckles brush the underside of his jaw, gently tilting his face up and into Gojou’s gaze.

“We dragged you into this world, Megumi and I,” Gojou tells him, every word dangerously soft. “And then left you to learn its horrors on your own.”

It’s not exactly self-recrimination that colors Gojou’s voice; Yuuji would know. He can’t tell what else it is either, but it makes him bristle. “That was my choice.”

A smile like a knife’s edge splits Gojou’s mouth. “Oh, I remember the choices I gave you. Choose your hell, wasn’t it? Do you regret it, this hell?”