#just trying to come up with something new or fun for you ;))

[honeybeemelon]

nothing ft. jason todd

“𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐈 𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐈’𝐌 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐘𝐎𝐔’𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄?”

two pairs of shoes sat slumped against the walls of your new apartment - black worn out leather boots dwarfed your own shoes, which sat quaint next to his. if jason bought anything, it'd always be for two - like now, how he came bearing snacks and mugs; well the matching mugs were really dick's idea. the scent of home wafted around your living room, making itself familiar with every unfamiliar crevice to kiss them with dust.

the tv illuminated the near-empty room, save for your figure laying sloth across the sofa trying to figure out what movie to watch. he shuffled towards the kitchen quietly, before coming around to collapse beside you. your home was painted in different shades of you and jason, from the sofa you had picked out to the kitchenware he had chosen, and it was all so painstakingly you.

“hey.” he murmured soft, shifting closer to you, hand gently nudging your head down to rest on his shoulder. “what're we watching?” eyes flitting towards the bright screen.

“trying to figure that out myself, actually,” your lips pursing as you compared the movies available to you. maybe you could watch the notebook again, last time the two of you watched it you caught a single tear falling from jason's eyes.

“why don't you just pick that one?” he asked, nodding his head towards some random hallmark movie.

“because this our first movie in our new place - it should be special.” you contended, a slight pout of frustration making its way onto your face.

“mhm.” he agreed absentmindedly, going along with whatever you were saying. jason wasn't too concerned about the movie you'd end up watching tonight, not because he didn't care but because to him anything with you was special.

“you're not worried about this at all?” you questioned, you didn't expect him to be as concerned as you were, to be honest, jason was the more level-headed out of the two of you anyways.

“i dunno, i just think this is pretty special.” domestic was more the word for it - there was something special to him about doing menial acts of labour at home with you, whether it was carrying moving boxes, doing dishes or just sitting around like you were right now - to him, there was nothing like doing nothing with you.

“you're so sappy, jay.” you teased, raising a fingertip to probe at his cheek which he retaliated by tugging your hand to kiss the palm of your hand.

“right, i'm the sappy one. weren't you just picking out a 'special' movie?” he derided, causing you to huff in amusement.

“i'm sentimental - there's a difference; and don't think i didn't see those matching mugs.” you retorted, bringing his arm back to wrap around you.

“yeah, yeah, whatever - they were dick's idea.” he attempted to justify - he couldn't help the small smile that crept onto his face, like this was everything he'd ever needed.

“what?” you quizzed, spying the look of content on his face.

“nothing.” he murmured, tugging you closer.

“𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔.”

sorry for no fic yesterday i had to go to war ( a dinner) but i hope u like this YAYYAA i love domesticity so much yayyayaay this is really short though </3 also the tim fic i started is literally rotting in my drafts send help

totally unrelated but i love mugs so much i think theyre so fun

THATS ALL BYE HOPE U ENJOYED IT 😛😛🩷

[zaynezone]

high for this

synopsis: letting off some steam warnings: explicit sexual content, some light violence (they spar but it's fun), oral sex (fem!receiving), some improper evol use, penetrative sex, pairing: Sylus x fem!reader wc: 2.7k an: this is a bit filthier than anything I've written, I hope you guys enjoy!

You slam the door behind you, the echo sharp in the quiet halls of the base. The sound ricochets through the house, bouncing off walls lined with weapon racks and dimly glowing panels. Frustration simmers in your chest like a live wire. Your fingers twitch with it. Every muscle in your body is tight.

You hadn’t planned to come to the N109 zone today, your mind had just short-circuited after your last meeting, and your body took the reins. Now you’re here, boots heavy against the tile, your jacket damp with the humidity of the city air, and a headache forming behind your eyes.

You kick the heel of your boot against the bench by the wall, peel your jacket off with rough, impatient movements. Sylus is probably asleep, it is the middle of the day, but part of you hopes he isn’t. Part of you wants to pick a fight.

“Something on your mind, sweetie?”

You stiffen. His voice is low, amused, and annoyingly alert. Of course he’s awake. You look up, halfway through dropping your jacket, and all coherent thought fizzles into static.

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, bare skin gleaming faintly under the hallway’s overhead light. His black wife beater clings to his chest, the fabric stretched taut across solid muscle and a sheen of sweat. His shorts hang low on his hips, loose enough to be comfortable, short enough to be distracting. There’s a line of sweat along his forehead, like he’s just finished a round in the ring. His knuckles are already wrapped in red and black.

Boxing outfit. The thought is instant and unfair. Of all the things to wear when you're already angry.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asks, smirking.

Your jaw tightens.

You let out a sharp sigh, dragging your fingers through your hair as your irritation flares back to life. “Everyone I work with is stupid! Seriously, you’d think the association would have the brains to hire more than three competent people, but no. No! It’s just me, drowning in logistics and trying to get rookies to stop shooting themselves in the foot while some idiot in ops tells me that I’m wrong-”

You don’t realize how much time passes until your throat is dry from ranting. You’re still pacing near the entryway, jacket forgotten on the bench, your hands slicing through the air with each new complaint. Sylus watches it all from where he leans, expression unreadable but eyes sharp, following your every movement like a cat tracking prey.

Eventually, he steps forward, calm and unrushed. He reaches for one of your clenched fists and takes it gently in his hand. His palm is rough and warm.

“How about you work out your anger in a different way?” he murmurs, threading his fingers through yours. There’s no pressure, just invitation. And something softer, quieter, in the way he says it.

You hesitate, breathing hard, your pulse still thrumming. “Sylus, I’m really not in the moo-”

He cuts you off with a laugh, low and throaty. “Not that,” he says, shaking his head. “There are workout clothes for you in the third drawer in the bedroom. Get changed.”

Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your lips, not demanding, not teasing, just soft. Centering. Like pressing reset on your overloaded system. You close your eyes for a beat. And when you open them, you nod.

You’ve learned not to question how Sylus always has clothes for you. For every occasion. That fit perfectly. Suspiciously perfectly. You’re almost sure he took your measurements in your sleep, but you’ve never caught him at it. You probably never will.

When you return to the home gym, dressed in a matching black and crimson workout set, you find him already inside the ring, stretching his arms out, rotating his shoulders. His hair’s damp at the edges, sticking slightly to his temples. He’s got that look on his face, that one that makes your knees a little weak. Half predator, half something else. Something almost sweet.

You take two steps toward the treadmill, fully intending to just sweat out your frustration the old-fashioned way.

And then you feel it, a snap around your wrist. Cool and pulsing. A tendril of red and black mist curls around your arm and tugs gently but firmly, drawing you to face him.

He’s leaning on the ropes now, one brow raised, his expression daring. “Really?” he drawls. “I’m standing right here, and you were gonna go for the treadmill?”

His hand wraps flex in a slow curl, beckoning. “Come on.”

“I am not in the mood to spar,” you grumble, but your feet are already moving toward the ring.

He laughs. “It’ll help your attitude.” He smirks. “Don’t make me drag you over here. I’ll enjoy it too much.”

You roll your eyes, slipping into the ring, making sure to bend at the waist as you duck between the ropes. The way his gaze darkens tells you exactly how appreciated the angle is.

He’s already reaching for his roll of wraps, motioning you forward. You offer your hands, and he starts winding the fabric around your knuckles, snug but not tight. His fingers are careful, practiced. You watch the way his brows furrow slightly as he works, all concentration and quiet intimacy.

“I don’t really need this, you know,” you tease, your voice softer now. “I won’t be hitting you too hard.”

He huffs a laugh, tying off one hand. “I wouldn’t want one of the Association’s only competent hunters out of commission because of a dislocated thumb.”

He ties off the second wrap and smooths his thumb over the back of your hand. Then, with gentle fingers, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear before stepping back.

“We’ll go until one of us taps out.”

You arch a brow. “You planning on tapping out?”

He flashes teeth in a grin that’s all challenge. “Not a chance.”

He’s barely got his hands up when you’re lunging at him. Your fists fly fast, fueled by your earlier frustration, but Sylus deflects every strike like he’s barely trying. His forearms block your jabs, his body fluid as he steps around your movements, not even throwing a hit back yet.

“Come on,” you grit out, ducking under his arm and aiming a quick hook toward his ribs. “Stop babying me.”

He catches your wrist mid-punch, fingers tightening just enough to still your motion without hurting you. “I’m not,” he says with a grin, stepping in so close you feel his breath on your face. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

You rip your hand free and backpedal, glaring. “I’ll knock that smirk off your face.”

This time, he lets you land a punch, soft, on his chest. He staggers back dramatically, hand over his heart. “Oh no,” he deadpans. “My delicate constitution.”

You dart forward before he can reset, landing a clean jab to his shoulder. He grunts, grin slipping into something sharper. “Okay,” he mutters, adjusting his stance. “You want real? Let’s do real.”

He moves then, fast. You barely block the first punch and the next grazes your shoulder, sending a thrum of adrenaline through your chest. It’s not hard enough to bruise, but it’s enough to warn you: he’s done holding back.

You trade blows now, faster and sharper. The air between you cracks with each hit, each dodge. You duck, roll, sweep your leg low, and he jumps just in time. Your back slams against the ropes as he presses forward, trying to pin you, but you twist, wrenching his arm and sending him stumbling sideways.

You chase him down, catching him with a knee to the side that makes him laugh out loud.

“There she is,” he pants, eyes glittering, sweat beginning to bead at his brow. “I was wondering where the hell you went.”

“You asked for it,” you say, breathless, heat rising in your face. “Don’t act surprised.”

He comes at you again, faster this time. You don’t block in time and his palm presses against your ribs, shoving you back. You stagger, but then twist and strike back, catching his side again. He grunts, but grins, and you can’t help the way your own lips curl at the challenge.

Somehow, the fight turns into something rhythmic, less about anger now, more about matching each other. The thuds of your feet and fists fill the gym, underscored by ragged breaths and occasional laughter. You’re both panting now, sweat slick on your skin. His wife beater sticks to his chest, your own top damp along your spine.

Then he rushes you, and you anticipate it this time. You let him get close, then slam your elbow into his chest and twist, taking him down with you. The mat thuds beneath both your bodies.

You land on top of him.

He looks up at you, breathless, his silver hair damp and messy now, strands stuck to his forehead. His chest rises and falls against yours. Neither of you moves.

“You win,” he says finally, voice hoarse, eyes dark.

You raise a brow. “Really?”

His hands slide up your back, slow, deliberate. “Only because I like the view from down here.”

“Interesting. I thought you liked being on top.” You grin, and his eyes burn brighter with a challenge. In one quick motion, he rolls, pinning you underneath him. You’re too spent to fight it, not that you really want to in the first place.

“This doesn’t mean you win.” You let your hands wander along his muscles, fingers sliding into the hairs at the base of his neck.

He leans in, breath hot against your ear as he murmurs “Have I told you how…delicious you look in this outfit?”

“You’re welcome to take a bite.” You smile, eyes meeting his playfully.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His lips crash into yours in a searing kiss, stealing the breath straight from your lungs. His hands are all over you, urgent and greedy, as they trace every curve, every line of your body with the reverence of someone trying to memorize you. Sweat clings to his skin as he presses down, the heat of him heavy, grounding, intoxicating. He barely holds himself up, arms trembling as your fingers twist in his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

He breaks away, panting, his mouth slick and red, his eyes burning. “Hands above your head,” he growls, voice low and wrecked with desire.

You obey without hesitation, raising your arms above you and planting your hands against the mat. He grins, slow and dangerous, and with a flick of his wrist, red and black mist snakes up from the ground, coiling around your wrists and locking you in place. You flex against the binds and they tighten, alive with energy. The feeling sends a bolt of anticipation through your gut.

“Good,” he murmurs, dragging a single finger down the center of your chest, over your stomach, stopping just above your waistband. “Now, let’s see if this gym is actually soundproof or if I overpaid.”

He moves lower, his lips brushing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach as his hands grip your hips with bruising force. You shudder beneath him, your muscles taut with expectation. He sinks lower, mouthing at your inner thigh, his breath hot, teasing.

“Sylus…” your voice is a whimper, hips twitching up toward him.

He chuckles darkly. “Patience, sweetie.”

His fingers hook into your shorts, dragging them down achingly slow, his knuckles skimming your thighs as he exposes you. You lift your hips, heart thudding. He tosses the shorts aside and just looks at you for a beat, eyes raking over every inch of exposed skin like he’s starving.

Then he leans in.

You feel the heat of his breath on your center just before his mouth makes contact. He presses a soft kiss to your clit, then flicks his tongue lightly, once, then twice, and your hips jerk in response.

“Sylus, please,” you beg, breath caught in your throat.

He smirks against you. “God, you sound so good like this.”

Then he devours you.

His mouth is relentless, tongue working in tight, controlled circles, then flattening out to lick long, broad strokes through your folds. When he sucks your clit between his lips, you cry out, hips bucking uncontrollably. Two fingers slide into you without warning, thick and curling upward, and you nearly sob.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growls into you, voice muffled by your flesh. “So fucking perfect.”

He doesn’t let up, his fingers thrust deep, curling with precision, while his tongue keeps working your clit until your entire body is shaking. You moan, pulling against the restraints, desperate to touch him, to drag him up and crash your mouth into his again, but his evol holds firm.

“Sylus,” you cry out, voice high and wrecked. “I’m close, so fucking close-”

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

You shatter. Your orgasm hits like a wave, rolling through your body, pulling a long, broken moan from your throat. Your thighs clamp around his head, your muscles trembling as your cunt clenches around his fingers, slick and throbbing. He doesn’t stop, licking you through it, milking every last tremor until you’re gasping, lightheaded, twitching beneath him.

When he finally pulls away, his lips glisten. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and grins down at you like he just won a fight.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so goddamn beautiful like this.”

You smile up at him, dazed and flushed. “I want to feel you…inside me,” you breathe.

He chuckles, low and dark. “As you wish.”

He doesn’t bother taking off his shorts, just pushes them low enough to free himself. His cock is already hard and leaking, flushed with need. He strokes himself once, then positions at your entrance, holding your hips steady.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open around him. You moan, head tipping back, the fullness nearly too much, too good. When he bottoms out, he groans, deep and guttural, his head dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck…you feel incredible.”

You roll your hips, needy for more, and he snarls, gripping your waist tighter.

“Impatient, are we?” he teases, though his own composure is fraying.

“I want to feel you cum inside me,” you whisper, voice husky, daring.

That shatters whatever restraint he has left.

He starts to move, thrusting hard and deep, fucking into you with abandon. The mat beneath you shudders, the ropes creaking with each slam of his hips. He’s relentless, fast, rough, needy, like he can’t get deep enough, can’t get close enough. You meet him thrust for thrust, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Sylus-” you cry out, “I’m gonna cum again-”

“Do it,” he growls, panting. “Let me feel you.”

You fall apart with a cry, nails digging into your palms as your second orgasm crashes through you. Your body locks, pulsing around him. He snarls your name and fucks you through it until he’s spilling inside you with a guttural groan, his cock twitching, filling you with warmth.

He collapses against you, skin slick, chest heaving. His arms cage you in, trembling slightly as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach.

You lean your head back against the mat, utterly spent.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “That was…”

“Incredible,” you finish for him, still catching your breath.

He grins against your skin, then lifts his head to look at you, eyes still heavy with lust, but softer now.

“Do you feel better now?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you add with a weak laugh, “Also? We are definitely sparring more often.”

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Only tonight 1/5

Summary : Lando Norris expected another loud Monaco party after the Grand Prix, what he didn’t expect was her. Charles Leclerc’s little sister, Eléa, dancing like the night was hers to burn. Radiating a freedom he’d never seen before, she wasn’t the quiet girl from the paddock he was used to.

But as the music pulsed and the drinks flowed, something in her laugh didn’t quite ring right. And when she whispered it was her birthday… everything changed. Now Lando make his personal mission to make her birthday unforgivable.

Genre : fluff, consumption of alchool

Pairing : Lando Norris x Leclerc sister (original female character)

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

The music throbbed like a heartbeat through the club in Monaco, pulsing under Lando Norris’s skin as lights flickered in chaotic, electric patterns. Post-Grand Prix parties were always loud, messy, and over-the-top, nothing new. But what was new, very new, was her being there.

Lando did a double take when he first saw her: Eléa Leclerc, Charles’s little sister. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Or at least, not like this.

She was laughing too loudly, perched on high heels and holding a drink that was probably stronger than she realized. A pink dress clung to her like second skin as she twirled in the middle of the dance floor with a guy Lando didn’t recognize.

He blinked.

Was this really the same Eléa who barely spoke above a whisper? The girl who’d barely met his eyes whenever they crossed paths in the paddock? The one who once flinched when he made a joke too loud in the Ferrari motorhome?

She looked…free. Drunk, definitely, but also happy. And Lando had no idea how to feel about it.

At first, he stayed on the edge, just watching. He had seen Charles and Arthur earlier in the night, but they’d disappeared, maybe gone for a drink or talking to someone. Whatever it was, Eléa was alone now. And some guys were starting to notice.

Lando shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening as one of them leaned in a little too close, his hand brushing Eléa’s lower back. She giggled and tried to keep dancing, spilling some of her drink as she twirled again, not noticing, or maybe not caring, how the guy’s eyes didn’t move from her body.

That was enough.

Lando moved without thinking.

“Hey,” he said, sliding between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. He placed a gentle hand on Eléa’s shoulder and smiled casually at the guy. “She’s with me.”

The guy frowned but backed off when he saw Lando’s face, recognition flickered. Formula 1 fame did have its uses.

Eléa blinked up at Lando, swaying. “Lan?” she said, and her smile widened like a sunrise. “Lan-doooo!” she sang, poking his chest. “You’re here too! Come dance with me!”

She grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the center of the floor. Lando almost stumbled, caught off guard by her sudden enthusiasm.

“Eléa...hey, wait, wait,wait.” he said, trying to get her attention. “You’re… really drunk.”

She beamed. “Nooo, I’m just a little dizzy. Spinning’s fun. You’re spinning too,” she added, poking his nose.

He laughed despite himself. God, she was adorable. This bubbly, drunk version of her was like someone had taken the quiet Eléa he barely knew and remplace her for a new version of herself.

But she was also vulnerable. And she didn’t see the way people were watching her.

“I think we should get you home,” he said gently.

She pouted, and it was honestly a little unfair how cute she looked when she did it. “I don’t wanna go home. I wanna dance. You never talk to me, and now you’re here, and I like this version of you. You’re nice.”

Lando’s throat tightened. “I’ve always been nice,” he murmured.

“You’ve always been scared,” she teased, then giggled. “Scared my big brother would punch you if you looked at me too long.”

He winced because she wasn’t exactly wrong.

But she was still tugging him into the crowd, still smiling, still trusting him in a way that made his heart ache a little. So he gave in, for a moment. He let her dance, staying close, keeping her steady, always watching the people around them like a hawk.

She laughed too hard when he did a goofy move, almost fell twice but caught herself on his shoulder, and once leaned in close to say something, but forgot what it was halfway through and just rested her head on his chest for a second too long.

He was in trouble.

Finally, when her balance started to really falter and her eyes were getting sleepy, he leaned down and said, “Okay, that’s enough for tonight, superstar. Time to get you out of here.”

This time, she didn’t protest. Just smiled and whispered, “You smell nice.”

He smiled softly and guided her toward the exit, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders.

The taxi pulled into the glowing streets of Monaco, quiet jazz playing softly through the speakers as the driver navigated the winding roads. Lando sat on the left, Eléa curled up beside him in the backseat, her head resting lightly against the window.

He leaned forward toward the driver, speaking low but firm. “Could you take her home, please? Somewhere near the port. You lives with Charles right ? Near the port ?"

“Address?” the driver asked.

Lando turned to Eléa. “Hey… What’s your address? Can you tell him where to go?”

She looked up at him, eyes slightly glazed but full of warmth, then turned to the window, pressing her palm against the glass.

“That bakery,” she said dreamily, pointing as they passed a sleepy storefront. “Maman used to take me there on Wednesdays. They had the best tarte aux fraises in the whole world.”

Lando blinked. “Okay… but that’s not your address.”

“I love that corner,” she added, as if he hadn’t spoken. “One time I fell off my scooter right there, cried for twenty minutes. Charles carried me home piggyback.”

Lando smiled faintly despite himself. “That sounds like him.”

The car rolled on. She pointed again. “Oh! That bookstore! I used to hide there to skip piano lessons. I’d pretend to browse but really I was just hiding.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were a little rebel, huh?”

She grinned, eyes shining. “Tiny rebel. Shy but deadly.”

Lando tried again. “Seriously, Eléa, what’s your building? The name? A number?”

But she just waved her hand, distracted by a glowing bar ahead, its art deco sign lit up in golden lights that spilled across the street like honey. “Oooh! That place looks so fun. Stop the car! Stop, stop!”

“Eléa, wait...” he started, but it was too late. She tapped the window, then reached for the door handle, almost slipping on her heels as she tumbled out onto the curb.

“Merciii, monsieur!” she called over her shoulder, blowing a kiss to the taxi driver before twirling in place.

Lando groaned and paid the fare quickly, muttering an apology as he slid out of the car and chased after her.

She was already halfway to the entrance of the bar.

“You can’t just run off like that,” he said, catching her arm gently. “You're drunk, and I don't even know if this place will let you in.”

“It’s beautiful!” she spun to face him, eyes wide as she looked up at the glowing sign.

Lando looked at the bar. It did look like a lovie set, brass railings, velvet drapes, a jazz quartet playing on a low stage. Inside, people were dressed classier than your average Monaco crowd, sipping cocktails from old-fashioned glasses. It was… surprisingly charming.

“This is a bad idea,” Lando said as she dragged him through the door.

But she was already at a table near the stage, plopping into the velvet seat and waving to the waitress. “Can I get… hmm… everything! One of everything on the cocktail menu!”

Lando slid into the seat across from her, wide-eyed. “Okay, no. Cancel that. Just water. Five glasses of water, please.”

The waitress gave him an amused look but nodded. “Coming right up.”

Eléa was practically bouncing. “Lando, Lando, look! The lights are twinkling! And the piano, oh, that’s such a nice sound, right? It makes me want to learn piano again.”

He smiled. “You’re… really enthusiastic about everything, aren’t you?”

Eléa was twirling her hair when she said, almost offhandedly, “I like happy places.”

He nodded, watching her carefully. “Yeah?”

She smiled, big and genuine. “Mmhmm. And today’s a happy day. You know why?”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

She sipped her water, grinning behind the glass. “Because it’s my birthday.”

The words hit the air like glass shattering.

Lando blinked. “Wait. What?”

She set the glass down and giggled, swaying a little. “It’s my birthday! I’m twenty-two. Isn’t that wild?”

“You’re serious?” His voice was quiet now.

“Completely.” She twirled in her seat, arms spread again. “Happy birthday to meee!”

He stared at her, heart slowly sinking. “You’re out here. Alone. On your birthday?”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “Well… not anymore. You’re here now.”

He didn’t smile back. “Eléa… why aren't you celebrating it with your friends? ”

She looked away, suddenly fascinated by the candle on the table. “Everyone’s busy. It’s the Monaco GP. Charles had a podium today. Big deal. Big celebrations. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything,” he said immediately.

She shrugged. “I didn’t even think anyone would remember.”

Lando felt like something had lodged in his throat.

“You don’t have friends here?” he asked gently.

She gave a sad little laugh. “All my friends were in London. I studied there. I moved back here recently but… it’s like starting over. Except worse. Because I’m the sister of Charles Leclerc. You know how that goes.”

He did.

“People only saw Charles,” she went on. “Or Arthur. Never me. I was the background character in their story. Always the tagalong. Even when I tried to make friends, they just wanted to get close to my brothers.”

Lando couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had never thought about what her life must be like from the inside. From the outside, it looked perfect: Monaco, the Leclerc name, beautiful and sweet.

But tonight, she looked anything but perfect. She looked real. And heartbreakingly lonely.

“Why not spend the night with your family, then?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer at first. Just stirred the melting ice in her glass, watching the swirl of liquid.

Lando’s chest ached.

“Charles is celebrating with Ferrari. Arthur and Lorenzo are probably with him. It’s the same every year. I don’t even blame them. It’s not their fault the race is always this weekend. But it still sucks.”

Her voice cracked, and she tried to smile through it, but it crumpled at the edges.

“I just wanted to feel special. Even just a little. Even just tonight.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then Lando reached across the table and took her hand, gently, slowly.

“You are special,” he said. “You deserve more than this.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but focused.

“Then why does it feel like I’m always the one left behind?”

He didn’t have an answer.

So instead, he squeezed her hand tighter.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But not tonight. Tonight, you’re not alone. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Taglist: @bunnisplayground, @vampgege, @sashisuslover, @gold66loveblog, @carlando4, @il0vereadingstuff, @lilith-123321, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @h-rtsnana, @anonomano, @guacala, @charlotteking27, @ninass-world, @scarletwidow3000, @taetae-armyyyyy, @mynameisangeloflife, @tsuniio, @sophxxkiss, @teti-menchon0604, @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @skzvibes-blog, @beathreat, @ohwhoisyou-rubyjane, @nightrose-18, @f1fantasys, @tylerstacobell, @sarx164, @lalalalaland92, @avocadomuncher15, @cherryhazee @nicooolsstuff, @strawberrylov-er, @delightfulfoxconnoisseur, @mxneyjoee, @anunstablefangirl @easy4, @nataliambc @rebecca-9 @lyfewma @lizaberry152348

[sturnioz]

‘SURPRISE’ — CHRIS STURNIOLO

pairing. fratboy!chris x shy!reader. genre. smut, frat au.

word count. 2.6k

❝i... i've been practicing something for you.❞

content warning. explicit content, porn with plot, slight mentions of insecurities and anxiety, awkward sex, unprotected sex, riding, creampies.

authors note. i dont usually do small fics like this for my aus, but i thought this would be fun for a small bday special. this is for my fratboy!chris and shy!reader au which, if you're new, you may need to read other prompts just to understand their dynamic.

You’ve always been the type of person who always goes way overboard for someone's birthday, wanting to find the perfect gift(s) to show your love, appreciation and gratitude toward the person who is celebrating their special day.

In the past, you've splurged on expensive gifts that left your bank account in shambles. You've made personal gifts from scratch, leaving your hands and fingers littered in paper cuts that are way too small to have that much of a painful effect. You've wandered through countless stores, pacing aisles from sunrise to sunset to find the perfect gift.

But this specific gift? the one you’re planning for Chris?

Yeah… this one is different. maybe extreme, even. the kind of gift that has your face burning up just thinking about it.

It started as a passing thought. Then, you overthink it, repeating his words in your head over and over again from the last time he brought this specific thing up to you. and that's when you started doing research—way too much of it, by the way.

Video after video, article after article, you were consuming so much information that you even had to pause what you were watching just to collect yourself and have a breather, reaching for a glass of water with trembling hands as anxiety swam through your veins.

And when you brought it up to Bee and Kitty?

Big mistake.

... Okay, maybe not that much of a mistake considering they were supportive and giving you suggestions like you asking for guidance on how to ride Chris wasn't a big deal. You must've spent half of the conversation hiding your face behind your palms, too embarrassed to even look at them.

Nonetheless, you took it all in, drilled their words into your brain, and you arrived back home to practice on your pillow. Your thighs burned from strain, your hips ached and you embarrassingly came once—maybe twice—while doing so, and it made you rethink the entire birthday surprise while sitting in the bath with a deep frown on your lips.

But you can't back out now. You can't be a quitter on this—not when you've already come this far.

So, you're going through with it the best you can... hopefully.

On the big day, you take your time getting ready, needing every second to hype yourself up. you slip into your prettiest dress to help make you feel just a little more confident, even though your heart is rattling in your chest like crazy.

You drive to the rented house early with Kitty, Bee and Nate, your fingers wrapping tightly around the steering wheel to calm the shakiness from your nerves. and when you get there, you realise most of the frat brothers have arrived already.

They're tossing balloons across the floor, stringing up strobe lights, and setting up the speakers for the music while shouting over each other.

The coolers are already halfway full with ice and fresh drinks too, so you busy yourself by helping hang up banners instead, trying your best not to check the door every five seconds... you fail, by the way. you spot Matt's car rolling up the driveway just before he turns in.

You don't even get the chance to greet the trio when they walk into the house, the people immediately swarming them, popping confetti cannons and shoving shots into their hands while screaming 'happy birthday!' at the top of their lungs.

Nick beams happily. Matt pushes through everyone to get to Kitty, wrapping his arms around her tightly and kissing her like he hasn't seen her in the last twenty-four hours. and Chris? Chris is scowling, swatting Nate's hands away and threatening him as the latter tries to shove the goofy party hat on top of his head.

You wait for a moment for the chaos to settle, and you take your time in giving matt and nick their little gift bags you made before you even dare to step in Chris' direction. and when you do, you swallow thickly when you see him already—and not surprisingly—surrounded by his regulars.

Taking a deep breath, you make your way over, giving yourself an internal pep talk with each step. Once you're close enough, you reach out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt before tugging lightly at his arm to get his attention.

"Chris?" you say his name, voice barely above a whisper. "can... can i talk to you for a second?"

He furrows his brows, looking at you. "What? Right now?" he gestures toward the group with a flick of his head. "M'busy here, kid."

"Just for a minute?" you press, hoping that he'll give in so you don't look like a fool. "Please? I um... I left your gift upstairs.."

"Upstairs?" he stares at you, clearly not believing a word that has just slipped past your lips. "The fuck kinda gift you've got hidin' upstairs?"

"It's... private."

Chris stares at you again, unmoving, his gaze flat and sceptical. you shift under the weight of it, your fingers nervously curling and uncurling at your sides. Finally, Chris lets out a sharp and exasperated huff, nodding his head as he agrees to follow you.

You quickly turn around and start walking ahead of him, weaving through the crowd, doing everything you can to stay calm even as your stomach churns with each ascend up the staircase. You don't look back, but you can feel him close behind you, following your steps.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you pause at the hallway, the lump heavy in your throat as you take a quick glance at him over your shoulder, pointing at one of the many guest rooms available.

"It's in here..."

Chris raises an eyebrow but says nothing, he just exhales sharply and pushes past you to open the door to the guest room. You follow close behind, shutting the door quietly, the click of the latch feeling loud in the silence that settles between you both.

He stands in the middle of the room, arms folded and unimpressed. "Well? Where's it at, kid?"

You hesitate, your pulse racing and hands fidgeting at your sides. Then, you take a few steps toward him, your hands pressing against his firm chest, grabbing the fabric of his shirt to hold it. Chris doesn't move, he doesn't pull away either, but he watches you with his eyes narrowed.

You give a soft, uncertain push at that, urging him toward the bed until the backs of his legs bump the mattress. He drops down, legs spread, leaning back on his palms as he tilts his head up to look at you.

"Y'serious?" he asks. "Dragged me away from m’business to hookup?"

You open your mouth, then close it again, face heating up with embarrassment. You're ready to bolt straight out of this room.

Chris runs his tongue across his inner cheek, his voice dipping low. "If you wanted to fuck me, bun. jus' lead with that next time."

"It's not just that, I—" you choke on your words, swallow thickly again, hands trembling as you move them down to reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. "I... I've been practicing something for you."

"Practicin'?" he repeats, barely lifting his arms to help you take off his shirt, and you toss it to the side gently. "Practicing what? undressin' me or somethin'?"

"No," you pout a little at his mocking tone, your hands moving lower to his belt. you fumble with the buckle once—twice, fuck—and Chris sighs sharply, annoyed but still letting you try.

"Then what?" he pressed, tilting his head to the side and watching you. You finally manage to undo the belt, pulling the denim down his hips and he lifts them lazily to help, letting his jeans fall in a heap around his ankles.

Your voice is barely audible as you speak, the usual shyness seeping back into your tone. "To... ride you."

Chris blinks at you, silent—almost stunned—for a brief moment. Then the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a smirk, letting out a soft, disbelieving scoff as he drags his hand through his hair with a slow shake of his head.

You sort of knew he'd react like that, especially because he's made comments before: how awkward and clumsy you are moving above him, how you always get cramps and aches, how it's better if he does the work because watching you try to ride him like 'watching a baby deer try to walk on ice.'

The words still sting, even now.

But still... you want to try. to prove him wrong and show him that you can do it... and maybe even impress him a little.

Chris leans back some more on his palms, his eyes dark and unreadable. And then, finally, he gives a small shrug, tipping his chin up. "A'ight. Show me what you've been practicin', bun."

You take a deep breath as you prepare yourself, reaching for his boxers, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his abdomen as you tug the fabric down, gazing at his cock that's already half-hard and leaking with precum.

You're surprised to see him like this already, but that still doesn't calm the butterflies in your tummy as you pull your panties down your legs, stepping out of them and neatly placing the fabric to the side before you move forward, carefully perching yourself on top of his lap.

You feel the heat of his body beneath yours, your heart pounding against your ribs as his cock brushes against your folds, twitching and hardening to full mass. You don't dare to look at him, not when he's staring right into your soul as you take him in your hand, stroking him softly like you've seen in the countless video tutorials you had consumed as you line him up with your entrance.

You sink down bit by bit, trying to stifle a whimper as you adjust to his size that stretches you out, hearing him inhale sharply, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. It’s a lot to take in already—which is the norm—but you refuse to give in to discomfort this quickly as you begin to roll your hips, experimenting with different motions as you try to find a rhythm that works for you. 

The sensation of Chris’ cock searing you open is intense, bordering on painful at times with awkward angles, but there’s an underlying feeling that makes you want to keep going. Your still inexperienced attempts cause you to wobble slightly as you try to bounce, your breasts moving beneath your dress which catches Chris’ attention, gaze dipping down to follow their movements. 

You struggle to maintain a steady pace, often making minor mistakes which you hope Chris isn’t noticing, beads of sweat glistening across your forehead as your arms hesitantly wrap around his shoulders for balance.

Yet, once holding him, you’re able to find a rhythm. 

Your hips begin to move with slight confidence, rolling and grinding against Chris in a way that seems to secretly please him based on the low growls that vibrate in his chest, his lips parting as his breathing grows subtly heavier. His hands lift from the bed to slide around your hips, moving south to grip your ass, squeezing the plump flesh as he wets his bottom lip.

“Am I… am I doing okay?” you ask quietly, your voice breathy from exertion. You search Chris’ expression for any hint of approval or enjoyment, desperate for anything from him, wanting to know if you’re meeting his expectations as your inner walls flutter around his cock, gliding up and down steadily. 

Chris doesn’t answer right away, he just stares, unreadable as always. Then, he hums—a low sound followed by the subtlest nod. It’s barely even there, but it’s something. You feel really happy, good, encouraged, and you lean back slightly to change the angle again, gasping softly at the new wave of pleasure that trickles down your spine as his cock grazes the sensitive spot inside of you. 

You add twists of your hips and shallow rolls to mix things up, and the changes now seem to affect Chris outwardly as his grip tightens on you, quiet moans escaping his lips. You can feel your own arousal building, a tingling pressure coiling low in your tummy as you begin to hump him erratically, ignoring the burning sensation in your thighs as you mewl and whimper uncontrollably.

Now, Chris seems stuck frozen in bliss—mouth ajar with harsh pants and dazed eyes as he watches your greedy pussy ride him, slick glistening around your puffy folds, dripping onto his balls. 

His mind reels from the sudden sensations overwhelming him, every nerve ending in his body is on fire with each glide of your pussy that slides up and down on his throbbing cock, his eyebrows pulled together like he’s confused at the feeling.

“F-fuck…” he rasps, his voice hoarse and strained. “Shiiit—what the fuck…”

Whether he means to or not, his head falls back, his eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open wider to suck in deep breaths, and feeling his body tense beneath yours, you immediately realise he’s close too. 

You wish you could feel a sense of pride right now, having worked so hard to get to this point, but you’re too cock drunk to even take time in basking in your success, slumping weakly against his chest despite your hips still moving, clinging to him embarrassingly tight as you cry out in his ears. 

Chris lets out a loud, guttural moan, his hips jerking up involuntarily as he buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside your pussy with thick ropes of cum, his cock twitching and pulsing with each spurt as he empties himself inside of you. Your pussy clamps down on him, your nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks on his skin as you wail, cumming around him in an instant. 

It takes you longer than necessary to regain yourself, and you make the first move by slowly sliding off him, wincing as your muscles protest the movement and pussy ache as he slips out. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you collapse onto your side, the room spinning slightly as you try to catch your breath, forcing yourself to glance at Chris.

Chris just sits there, chest rising and falling steadily, cock laying limp against his thigh. His brows remained furrowed—surprisingly, not in annoyance. More like confusion or contemplation. 

But you don’t like how quiet it is, though. It’s almost too quiet.

You open your mouth to speak, to apologise for god knows what, but Chris cuts in. “Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t…?”

Chris turns his head just enough to look at you. Is… does he look impressed? “Wasn’t bad.”

You’re stunned into silence as you wait for the follow up—some sarcastic dig to make you feel all embarrassed—but it never comes. You can’t help the quiet flutter in your chest as a tired smile threatens to spill across your lips, finally proud of yourself. You actually did it... you really did it.

Chris stretches out, exhaling through his nose as he reaches for the ground to grab his discarded boxers, “Guess all that practice wasn’t of waste of time, kid… good job.”

Your stomach flips with something closed to exhilaration at the praise. You can’t remember the last time he said anything even close to ‘good job’ to you—you truly don’t think he ever has. 

“You can do that shit more often f’me now.”

The flutter in your stomach crashes hard, deflating all at once as your shoulders slump in defeat. Well that’s… not an exhilarated feeling.

divider credits. @issysh3ll

©STURNIOZ est 2025 𐔌 . all rights reserved.

[despairots]

can I request amphoreus men with a reader who always calls them by their name suddenly uses a pet name?

━━━━━━ THE SWEETEST BITE.

𓏵 phainon x male!reader , mydei x male!reader , anaxa x male!reader ♱ fluff , crack

⟡ ݁₊ . ˎˊ˗ calling them normally by name can be easy, but pet names are better. u guys lowkey might hate me for this, but i kinda burnt myself out for waiting too much, so writing your request may take longer, sorry!!😢

♱ phainon!

“phainon, what do you want for dinner?”

“you’re so reckless, phainon.”

“phainon, are you wired properly?”

you’ve always called him that ever since the both of you started dating. he doesn’t have a problem with it, never had, he never even noticed that you’ve only called him by his first name. so the first time you’ve used a pet name, he blinked before answering what question you had. he didn’t realize until 10 minutes later when you used it again.

“can you wash the dishes later, love?”

when you turned around, you saw the way imaginary ears and dog tail wagging behind. phainon had a stupid look, a rosie hue on his cheeks, “love?” you stared at him confused, you used it once already, like maybe 10 minutes ago, why’s he noticing it now?

you nodded slowly, phainon’s face brightening and pulling you into a deep embrace, rubbing his cheek on top of your head. he loved hearing that come out of your mouth, it was like a new part of your relationship was just unlocked. it may not be a big deal, but to him, it was.

“what’s the big deal? i said it 10 minutes ago.”

phainon just hummed, still nuzzling himself against your head, “i wasn’t listening.” with an irk mark, you pulled at his hair.

“phainon!”

♱ mydei!

“mydei… mydei… mydei—“

“do you think i’m annoying, mydei?”

“mydei, give me a kiss!”

he doesn’t really mind that you just call him by his name, it’s not hurting anyone. you’re not obligated to call him anything endearing, as long as he knows that you love him is really enough for him. the first time you used it while asking him to do something, he smiled softly and called you one back, seeing your giggles lit up his entire day.

“can you pick up the cake for cas, love?”

mydei just walked up to you, placing a quick kiss onto your lips, “i will, sweetheart.” you giggled with rosie cheeks, mydei smiling to himself as you resumed back to cutting fruits. the sun beamed down into your features, capturing the things he loves about you before being interrupted with a fruit being flicked at his forehead.

he caught it obviously, throwing it into his mouth with an eyebrow raised, “what was that for?” sliding the fruits into a bowl, you went on your tippy toes to place a kiss onto his lips, seeing the how he chased after yours, “nothing.” and with that you left alone in the kitchen, heading upstairs to get something for castorice’s birthday.

he could get used to you calling him that, it slides off your tongue perfectly.

“mydei, go get it now!”

♱ anaxa!

“anaxa—no, i won’t call you anaxagoras.”

“i’m your loving partner, anaxa.”

“anaxa’s my sweet, loving… annoying boyfriend.”

anaxa just raises an eyebrow, he used to constantly correct you on saying his full name just to piss you off but hearing you call him something completely different from ‘anaxa’ or ‘anaxagoras.’ it’s not confusing to him, he just thinks you’re trying to get away from calling him ‘anaxagoras.’

“you need to take a break, sweetheart.”

you turned him around in his chair, pinning him down to it with your hands on the arm rests. anaxa just sighs, registering the name but barely reacting before one of his hands went up and squished your cheek with two fingers, “i’ll be fine.” you slapped his hand away, anaxa taking this chance to focus on these papers until you rolled his chair all the way back.

he used barely never entertain your antics, but this was fun to see, treating him like a fragile old man who isn’t retired yet. with a roll of his eyes, he tugged you close to him, holding onto your waist with gentleness, “if you insist so much, i’ll take a break.” you smiled, kissing his forehead and leaving his arms.

once you left, he rolled his chair back to his desk, hearing you call out to him, “anaxa!”

“it’s anaxagoras, dear.”

“shut up, i’m not calling you that.”

[aleskie]

With The Rain | Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Jack Hughes was never supposed to be yours forever. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. This is the story of the boy who drifted away and found his way back—over city lines, through missed calls, and into every quiet corner of your life. Until you both realized maybe the timing had been right all along. Maybe some people are meant to come back. Maybe some people are meant to stay.

Warnings: None :) Author's Note: Coup de foudre -> "Bolt of Lightning" or "Thunderbolt." It can also mean love at first sight.

KINDERGARTEN 5 Years Old

The first time you saw Jack Hughes, it was raining. The kind of Sunday morning where the winds blew harsher than normal and the clouds hung so heavy and dark you couldn’t tell if it was morning or night. The streetlights stayed on longer than usual, casting pale pools of light on the wet pavement as the winds rustled through the trees outside your house.

You’d taken note of their moving truck, peeking from the corner of your curtains as your parents crossed the driveway to greet the new neighbors. They seemed like a normal family—a mother, a father, and their three kids. The two older boys chased each other around the front lawn, their sneakers splashing through the damp grass and rain puddles, while their dad carried the youngest in his arms. They laughed a lot as their breaths came out in clouds in the cool Toronto air. They seemed fun. Nice, even.

“Are you spying on the new neighbors?” 

Your brother’s voice made you jump. He’d appeared behind you like he always did—quietly, like some kind of magician. Leaning closer to the window, he narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look.

He was older than you—already in elementary—which meant he was cool. All the older kids were cool. They could go out without their parents, ride the school bus, and trade toys and snacks at recess. Their homework was hard too—some of it even had letters in the equations, which made no sense to you. Your brother complained about it constantly, which only made him seem cooler. Like he was closer to being an adult and had real, life altering problems.

“‘M not spying,” you said, pouting as you shuffled away from the window. You flopped onto the couch and crossed your arms. “Just…curious.”

Your brother shot you a look. Quizzical. Amused. But he didn’t push. Instead, he sat next to you, pulled out his console, and the little beeps of his game filled the room.

“Mom and Dad are probably gonna set up a playdate with the new kids,” he said after a while, his tone maddeningly casual, like he knew something you didn’t. A tiny smirk tugged at his lips. “Bet they’re already thinking about setting you up with one of ’em.”

You made a face. “That’s weird. Boys are weird.”

“I’m a boy.”

“I know.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it, and he didn’t press you for more. But when you glanced out the window again, you caught sight of one of the older boys—the younger one, with messy dirty blond hair sticking up from the wind and running around. He stood still while his family rushed around him, probably getting the new house ready—the older brother helping carry some of the lighter boxes. 

Thunder and lightning strike, and he tilts his head towards the sky as if he were listening to some message hidden in the sounds of the wind.

That was Jack Hughes. And you didn’t know it yet, but he was going to ruin your life.

A few days later, just like your brother said, your mom set up a playdate for you and the boys.

“They’re good kids,” she said as she gently tugged a brush through your hair, smoothing it down even though you insisted it didn’t matter. “They seem good for you. And it’ll be nice to know people when the school year starts, yeah?”

You just nodded. It would be nice to have some new friends before school started, even if the idea of a “playdate” felt babyish. You were almost in elementary. That wasn’t a baby at all.

When the doorbell rang, you were sitting criss-crossed on the couch next to your dad, pretending to be busy with your toys. 

“Coming!” Your mom cheerfully calls out as she hurries to answer. Your dad helps you up, fixing your clothes and brushing invisible lint off your shorts.

The Hughes family came in all at once, flooding the doorway with noise and activity. Their mom—Ellen, you remembered your parents telling you—had their youngest balanced on her hip, his eyes wide and little hands clutching her shirt. Their dad—Jim, they said—carried a tray of pastries your mom immediately fussed over. 

“Come in, come in!” your mom said, ushering them inside.

The two older boys followed behind, hair messy from their hoods and a little damp from the drizzle. They glanced around curiously, carefully, like they didn’t know what else to do but try and memorize the layout of the house. The youngest looked at you first, grinning like you’d been friends your entire lives. 

But it was the middle child who caught your attention, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes flickering towards you for just a second before quickly darting away. His hair dripped at the ends, his eyes bright and curious, wearing that same look he had the other day in the rain. The one that looked like his mind was filled with thoughts no one else could understand.

“Why don’t you kids head to the den?” your mom suggested, already leading the adults toward the kitchen.

The youngest boy brightened immediately. “Come!” he said, his voice high and eager as he grabbed both his brothers by the wrists and tugged them along. His enthusiasm was almost enough to make you laugh.

You chuckled anyway, trailing after them, your steps slower and more hesitant. For a moment, you just watched the three boys—one practically bouncing with energy, the other moving only because he was being pulled along, and the middle one grinning and trying to keep up. This might have been the happiest you’d seen him—though, admittedly, you haven’t seen much of him.

You soon followed, feeling a strange little flutter in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

The three were already happily chatting in the den when you made your way in. You didn’t really know what they were talking about—just caught scattered words about goals and sticks and some kind of gear they wanted. Hockey, maybe. Or soccer. Something loud and fast.

“Um,” you began, feet shifting nervously against the carpet, “Hi.” You managed a quiet smile, hoping it didn’t look as awkward as it felt.

The youngest boy was the first to notice you. His entire face lit up, cute cheeks spreading wide as he waved enthusiastically. “Hi!” he said, his voice bright and unfiltered. He was small, with messy blonde hair and light eyes that seemed to sparkle when he grinned.

The eldest chuckled at his little brother’s enthusiasm. “Hey,” he greeted, offering you an easy smile. “That was Luke. And I’m Quinn.” He was the tallest of the three, with brown hair that fell into his eyes. He jerked his chin toward the boy sitting next to him. “That’s Jack.”

Jack—the middle child you’d been so fixated on since you first saw him in the rain. There was finally a name to the face. But now he was smiling at you, and it was warm in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Hi!” Jack said, hopping up and walking over to where you stood. He held out a hand like you were grown-ups meeting for the first time. “Nice to meet you!”

You smiled back, slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm despite the dampness at his cuffs. “Hi! I’m Y/N!”

“Y/N…” he repeated, his brows furrowing slightly like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue. After a second, his face brightened. “That’s a pretty name!” he declared, as if he’d made an important decision.

Your cheeks flushed. No one had ever called your name pretty before.

“Y/N,” he said again, this time with a grin, before patting the empty spot next to him on the couch. “Did you know Quinn is seven?”

Your eyes widened as you sat down beside him. “Seven?” you echoed. That was almost as old as your older brother.

Quinn just shrugged and went back to playing with Luke. He was pretending to be unfazed, but there was a faint, proud smirk tugging at his lips.

Jack leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, like he was about to share a secret only you were allowed to hear. “He’s in elementary,” he whispered, nodding toward Quinn.

“Woah…” you breathed, your eyes widening. Elementary school kids always felt like creatures from another planet—older, cooler, doing things you couldn’t even imagine yet.

“My older brother is in elementary too,” you offered back in the same hushed, important tone. “He’s ten.”

Jack’s eyes went huge. “Ten?!” he exclaimed, sitting up straighter. “He has two numbers…woah.”

You nodded seriously, as if you were both discussing something very scientific. “Yeah. He takes the school bus. And mom says because he’s in the smart class, his homework has letters in it.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open a little, like you’d just told him your brother had been to the moon. “Letters? Like, real ones?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed solemnly. “Like…X and Y.”

“Woah,” Jack said again, clearly impressed. He looked like he might ask more about your brother, but Quinn groaned from the other end of the couch, rolling his eyes.

“You guys are acting like being in elementary is, like, super amazing,” Quinn muttered, though his cheeks were pink.

“It is amazing!” Jack shot back, grinning. “You get recess and real desks and everything.”

Luke—still perched on the rug, fiddling with a toy hockey stick—nodded eagerly. “I wanna go to elementary too!”

Jack just laughed, turning back to you like the other two didn’t matter anymore. “When I’m in elementary, I’m gonna play hockey every day after school,” he said confidently.

“Hockey?” you echoed, tilting your head.

Jack’s grin widened, his eyes bright with excitement. “Y/N, do you like hockey?”

You tilted your head, thinking very seriously about his question. “I don’t know.” You shrugged, lips tugging to the side. “I don’t think so.”

“What!” Jack practically shot upright, staring at you like you’d just said you didn’t like birthdays. “But it’s literally the best sport in the world! How could you not like it? You’re from Toronto! Born and Raised! With the Maple Leafs and everything!”

“Are they the blue team?” you asked cautiously.

“They’re one of ’em!” Jack said, still sounding completely scandalized. “Look, Y/N, hockey is the best sport in the world. It’s fast and it’s fun and when you’re older you can get hit—”

“They hit people?” you interrupted, eyes widening.

Jack waved off your shock like it wasn’t important. “Y/N, I promise to make sure hockey is a sport you’ll never forget,” he said determinedly, his voice lowering like he was about to make the most important declaration of his life. Then he lifted his pinky finger, holding it out to you. “Swear it with me.”

You frowned. “You’re the one promising. Why should I have to swear too?”

“Because now this means we’ll be friends forever.” His grin widened, warm and bright and just a little mischievous. “Swear it!”

For a second, you hesitated—because forever was a big word. But then, slowly, you lifted your own pinky and linked it with his.

“It’s a promise!” you said, beaming despite yourself.

Jack grinned back, squeezing your pinky like that sealed it. “Forever,” he repeated, like he meant it.

“I’m so glad we’re in the same class!” Jack said one Saturday, his voice bright with the kind of excitement only kids could have.

The two of you were sprawled out on your front lawn, sitting underneath the big tree on a makeshift picnic mat you’d fashioned from a blanket you’d dragged out of your room. The late summer sun dappled through the leaves above, casting speckled shadows over Jack’s face as he sat cross-legged, fiddling with a small pile of leaves he’d collected.

True to his promise, Jack had made sure to come see you every single day. It helped that you’d ended up in the same class when school started, but he acted like it was fate. He even asked your teacher if he could sit next to you—she’d said no, probably already knowing the two of you wouldn’t get anything done, but the fact that he tried had made your chest feel warm in a way you didn’t quite understand yet.

“You’re my best friend,” Jack said suddenly, his tone more serious than you’d ever heard it. He didn’t look at you right away, just kept weaving the leaves together in his lap like the words had been sitting in him for a while, waiting to come out.

You blinked at him, surprised. “Why me? We haven’t even known each other that long, you know?”

It wasn’t that you disagreed—you felt the same way, though you didn’t understand it. Best friendship seemed like something that took years, not weeks. How could someone just… decide?

Jack finally looked up, his grin spreading easily, like the answer was obvious. “Because you’re cool!”

You snorted. “Me?”

“Yeah!” Jack nodded firmly. “I mean, yeah, you’re kinda quiet…and you’re weirdly competitive about grades…and you don’t even really care about hockey…” He tilted his head, squinting like he was cataloging everything in his mind. “But you still play street hockey with us. And you help me with the hard words in class. And you always listen to me. And you always agree to play goalie for me even though you say you hate it and—”

“Okay, okay! I get it!” you laughed, cutting him off before his list got too long. Your cheeks felt warm, but you smiled anyway. “You’re my best friend too, Jack.”

“Obviously!” Jack grinned, puffing up a little like he’d been expecting you to say that. “But you can’t be best friends with anyone else now, okay? This is a special thing. Just for us.”

“I promise,” you said, the word slipping out easily, like you meant it more than anything.

“Good.” Jack’s grin softened into something almost shy for just a second before he cleared his throat and held up his latest creation—a leaf chain, uneven and clumsy, but carefully made. “Here. It’s a crown. Because you’re my best friend, you get to be my queen too.”

You laughed as he gently placed it on your head, the leaves tickling your hair. “Queen Y/N,” you declared, trying to sound grand. “Will you teach me how to make it?” you asked, fingers brushing the leaf crown perched delicately on your head.

“Of course!” Jack said immediately, sitting up straighter with an eager grin. Then his face grew serious, almost comically so. “But you can’t give it to anyone else but me and our families, okay? Promise me! And definitely not Quinn!”

“Why not Quinn?” you tilted your head, confused.

Jack shook his head firmly, his dark blonde hair flopping into his eyes. “He’s too old and you don’t have anything in common and…you know…”

There was something in his voice then—something you didn’t understand, something you didn’t have the words for yet. But you nodded anyway because it seemed important to him.

“I promise I won’t give it to anyone else but you and our families—minus Quinn!” you said, matching his seriousness with your own.

Jack’s face lit up, his grin returning full force.

“It was for you anyway,” you added, smiling softly. “Because we’re best friends, and I’m the queen, I’m going to make you my king!”

“Yeah!” Jack shouted, practically bouncing where he sat as he pumped a fist in the air. “We can play rulers after! We’ll take care of a kingdom together!”

You laughed, watching his excitement with a warmth you didn’t quite understand yet. But you smiled anyway, because right then, sitting under the tree with leaf crowns and promises, it felt like you really could rule the world together. 

Because, as you’d come to realize, being best friends with someone wasn’t about how long you’d known them. It was a feeling—a quiet, certain thing that settled in your chest, warm and unshakable and filled with hope.

And Jack Hughes made you feel everything the world had to give.

The end of the school year was marked with a sports day, held on the big grassy field behind the school. A cool breeze rustled through the colorful flags strung up around the area, making them flutter like little bursts of confetti. Parents and guardians sat along the edges on picnic blankets, iced coffees in hand, surrounded by neatly packed snacks and extra clothes for the kids who were bound to get messy.

Teachers wore wide sun hats and matching school T-shirts, clipboards tucked under their arms as they guided clusters of excited five- and six-year-olds from station to station. There was a bubble-blowing corner where kids squealed every time their bubbles popped, and a quieter reading-and-coloring station for those who wanted a break from running around.

But you and Jack weren’t anywhere near the quiet stations.

Instead, you paired up for the three-legged race, and Jack’s competitiveness was through the roof. He’d been coming over to your house almost every afternoon for “practice sessions,” which usually started with him insisting you figure out a “race strategy” and ended with the two of you abandoning the idea altogether to play with sidewalk chalk or make leaf crowns instead.

Still, Jack was serious about winning. He tied the rope around both your legs with extreme focus, double-checking the knot like it might decide your fate.

You didn’t really understand why he cared so much about winning—it was just a school sports day—but you chalked it up to him being a natural athlete. Athletes were competitive about these kinds of things, right?

“Okay,” Jack said now, his brows furrowed in concentration as he tested the rope’s tightness. “If we move at the exact same time, we’ll be faster than everyone else. Just copy me, okay?”

You nodded, biting back a smile at how serious he looked.

Jack Hughes always took things seriously when it mattered to him. And apparently, winning a three-legged race with you mattered a lot.

Behind the starting line, as the countdown began, you linked your arm with Jack’s, the two of you pressed close together.

And then the whistle blew.

One foot after the other, you moved in perfect sync, nearly fast enough to be running outright. The world blurred around you—cheering parents, colorful flags fluttering, the sound of kids laughing—but all you focused on was the finish line and Jack’s determined face beside you.

You were neck and neck with another pair, and you felt a fierce spark of determination bubble up inside you.

“Let’s pick up some speed!” Jack grinned, excitement bright in his voice. “We’re gonna win this, Y/N!”

You clutched each other tighter, so close it felt like you were melting into one another, your steps pounding in time as you rushed forward. One step, then another, then another—

And then you stumbled across the finish line where a teacher blew the whistle again and called out, “Second place!”

“We did it, Jack!” you beamed as a teacher crouched down to untie the rope from your legs. “We got second place! Isn’t that so cool?”

You were bouncing with excitement, already planning to tell your mom about it later, but when Jack lifted his head, your smile faltered.

There were tears in his eyes, clinging stubbornly to his lashes, threatening to spill at any moment.

“Jack?” you said softly, concerned. “What’s wrong? We did so well.”

But Jack shook his head, his lip trembling. “We were supposed to win, Y/N!” he burst out, his voice cracking as he stomped away from the crowd. “We were supposed to win and we didn’t!”

You frowned, furrowing your brows as you hurried after him. You didn’t like being spoken to like that, especially not by Jack. “It was just a game,” you muttered, a little defensive. “It’s not like we actually win anything.”

Jack whipped around to face you, his cheeks red and his fists clenched. “But we do!” he cried, his voice wobbling. “Miss Blossom said we were supposed to get a reward for winning, and now we don’t!”

You blinked at him, confused. 

Jack’s lip quivered harder as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, smudging the tears that finally slipped free. “I was gonna ask to be classmates with you again if we won,” he admitted, voice small now, almost breaking. “I thought…if we won, she’d say yes.”

“Who would?” you asked gently, stepping closer.

Jack sniffled, his gaze dropping to the grass. “Anyone,” he whispered. “I was gonna ask if we could be in the same class again next year. But we lost…and now we won’t be classmates ever again.”

The way he said it—like it was the end of the world—made something squeeze in your chest.

You didn’t even think about it—you just wrapped your arms around him, holding him tightly as he stood there sniffling. Jack stiffened for a second, surprised, before sinking into the hug, his fists unclenching at his sides.

“You don’t know that,” you said gently as you pulled back, keeping your hands on his shoulders. “And if we aren’t classmates, so what?”

Jack’s brows furrowed, his voice cracking again. “So, everything! We won’t be best friends anymore…”

You shook your head firmly, meeting his teary eyes with all the seriousness you could muster. “But we will!”

He blinked, confused.

“If we aren’t classmates,” you continued, “Then we can still go home together—we’re neighbors, remember? And we can still play on the weekends, and after school too. And we’ll see each other at recess and we’ll still do our homework together. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Jack hesitated, his lip still trembling. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” you said with a determined nod.

For a moment, he just stared at you like he was testing whether you meant it. Then, slowly, a small smile crept across his face, soft and shy, the kind of smile he only gave you.

“Okay,” he whispered, his shoulders finally relaxing.

You grinned back, relieved, and without thinking, you held out your pinky. Jack’s smile grew, and he linked his pinky with yours, giving it a firm squeeze.

Because best friends weren’t held together by proximity. They were held together by choice.

And you and Jack Hughes had already chosen each other.

ELEMENTARY 4th Grade

“I cursed us,” Jack pouted as he read over the classroom assignments on his mom’s phone. You were curled up on the floor of his room, halfway through a bag of chips, when Ellen had called out that the class list had just been posted—something Jack fixated on every year since the first time you weren’t in the same class.

Because after that magical kindergarten year together, you and Jack had never ended up as classmates again.

“It’s my fault we’re not classmates,” he insisted, flopping dramatically onto the carpet beside you, “I jinxed us.”

“Jinxes and curses don’t exist, Jack.”

“You say that because you’re not the one who jinxed us.”

“We were five!” You laughed, reaching over to pat his head like a particularly sulky puppy. “And it’s not like you physically made the class lists. So don’t worry about it. What’s one more year without being classmates, right? We’ve already survived five.”

“Ughhhhhh…..” he groaned, stretching the sound into a whine, “But I like being near you.” He looked up at you, bottom lip jutting out slightly. “You make life fun.”

You snorted, nudging his knee with yours. “We’ll be, like, twenty feet away. We’ll still have recess and lunch together, and we can walk each other to class.”

You smiled, as if that settled it. “See? We’ll still have tons of time.”

“I mean, I guess...” he muttered, eyes wandering back to the phone screen. The pout lingered, but his eyes were brighter now, hope tugging at the edges of his frown. “And since we both have clubs, we can even go home together…”

“Exactly. Everything will be fine, Jack. We’re still best friends.”

“Just a few feet away?”

“Better.” You pointed toward the class list, where the homeroom section labels sat one after another. “I’m right next door.”

It was no secret to anyone that you and Jack were very different people.

While he’d grown into someone witty and charismatic, the kind of person who could light up a room just by walking into it, you’d stayed more reserved. Not shy—definitely not—but quieter in ways that didn’t ask to be noticed. Jack made friends with everyone, effortlessly weaving his way through every clique and social group. You preferred to keep your circle small and familiar.

Those differences showed in the clubs you each joined, too.

Jack, of course, ended up on the school’s hockey team. That was always a given. His love for the sport had been unwavering for as long as you could remember. You, on the other hand, somehow found yourself on the school paper—and, to most people’s surprise, drama club. You still weren’t entirely sure what made you sign up for either. If you were being honest, they were just the ones that still had open slots during sign-ups. But they’d turned out to be fun, in a way that caught you off guard.

Club activities usually meant your afternoons ended a little later than most. The school bus did a second trip for those with late dismissals, and you and Jack almost always took it together. Some days, he’d pick you up from your classroom. Other days, you’d show up at the rink. The routine didn’t really matter. What mattered was that neither of you left school without the other.

Just like you’d promised.

Drama club let out early today—your teacher had a last-minute doctor’s appointment—which left you with time to spare and a giddy sort of excitement bubbling in your chest. You slung your bag over your shoulder, smile already forming. If you timed it right, you could make it to the rink just as Jack’s practice wrapped up.

You expected to wait when you got there, maybe even crack open that book you’d been meaning to finish for weeks.

But instead, you found Jack already sitting in the stands.

His gear was half-haphazardly shoved into his duffel bag, sticks and pads peeking out from the open zipper. He was hunched over, elbows resting on his knees, hair damp and sticking slightly to his forehead. He was breathing heavier than you’d ever seen him—shoulders rising and falling in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

This wasn’t normal.

“Jack?” you call out, hurrying toward him. “Jack, what happened?”

He looks up quickly, startled, like he didn’t expect anyone—let alone you—to be there. And that’s when you see it. A dark red splotch blooming across his cheekbone, angry and raw-looking. Definitely something that would bruise later.

“Wha—” You sit beside him, leaning in instinctively. Your hand reaches up, thumb brushing carefully over the mark. He winces and you pull back right away—but he catches your hand before it can fall away, lacing his fingers through yours.

“One of the bigger kids got rough with me,” he says with a crooked smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. But you can see right through it. It bothers him, even if he’s trying to act like it doesn’t. “Coach gave him a talking-to, though, so…it’s fine. Yeah? It’s…fine.”

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him—really look. At the bruise forming on his face, the way his shoulders are still tense, the way he’s hunched in on himself in a way that feels foreign. He looks hurt. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper—something you don’t know how to reach.

You don’t know much about hockey—never quite got it, no matter how many times he tried to explain off-sides or line changes. You don’t know how to fix this. But you want so badly to make it better. To bring him back.

So before you can think about it too long, you lean in and press a featherlight kiss to his bruised cheek.

“Y/N—wha—?” His voice jumps a pitch as his eyes widen. “What…what was that for?”

You sit back just a little, cheeks warm. “I didn’t know how else to make you feel better…” you admit softly. “It’s what my mom always does when I get hurt, so…I thought maybe it would work here, too.”

You meet his gaze—your own wide for a completely different reason. “Did it?”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then he takes a breath—deep and steady—before a slow grin tugs at his lips. A real one this time.

And then he laughs, light and bright in that familiar Jack way that makes your chest loosen just a little.

“It did,” he says finally. “You always know how to make me feel better.” He squeezes your hand gently. “Thanks.”

You hum in response, your fingers still tangled in his.

“Are you allowed to go home now?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Coach said I could skip cooldowns today.”

You stand up together. He swings his bag over his shoulder, and you fall into step beside him.

“Shall we?”

You smile. “Let’s go home.”

The truth was…you’d been hiding a very big secret from your best friend for a few days now.

Jack knew something was off—you could tell by the way he looked at you when you went quiet in the middle of conversations, the way he lingered a little longer at your side during lunch. But he never pushed. He just gave you that signature Jack Hughes grin and told you to “cheer up” and that “everything will be alright.”

He was optimistic like that.

But you knew better than anyone that this wasn’t something you could just cheer up from. No, this was life-changing. Life-ruining.

“Okay, you’ve been quiet for dayyysss,” Jack whines beside you, “What’s going on?”

The two of you are sitting on the steps of his front porch, the sun dipping low in the sky, bathing everything in a warm golden haze. He’s talking about anything and everything—old inside jokes, what flavor popsicle tastes like soap, how he’s sure you’ll both end up in the same club again next year. 

Or at least, he talks. You sit there, chewing on your lip, trying to find the right words.

“Noth—”

“I know it’s not nothing,” he interrupts, frowning now. He shifts to face you, placing both hands firmly on your shoulders. “Come on. If you tell me what’s wrong, we can fix it.”

You shake your head, voice trembling. “I don’t think this is something we can fix…”

“So we’ll deal with it together anyway!” he says, undeterred. His smile is so earnest, so sure—and for a moment, you almost believe him. Almost.

But then the tears start to fall.

One slips down your cheek before you can stop it. Then another. You sniff and try to turn your head away, but he’s already reaching out.

“Hey, wait—” Jack fumbles, clumsily trying to wipe your tears with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

“Because—because we can’t be friends anymore!” you sob, voice cracking as the dam fully breaks. “We can’t—”

“What?” he blurts out, stunned. “Who told you that?!”

“I heard my parents talking a few nights ago,” you sniffle, rubbing your eyes. “They said…they said we were going away.”

“Wha—what do you mean you’re going away?”

“I mean…” You hiccup, chest tightening. “I mean we’re selling the house. We’re moving. Somewhere far. I don’t know where yet. Just…not here.”

Your voice is small now, fragile like glass.

And for the first time since you’ve known him, Jack doesn’t say anything.

He just stares at you, eyes wide and full of something you couldn’t place. Shock, maybe. Sadness. Fear.

Then, without a single word, he pulls you into him—arms wrapped tightly around you, firm and grounding like he was reminding you that, at least right now, you were exactly where you were meant to be. With him. 

You collapse yourself into his chest and let yourself fall apart, burying your face into the soft fabric just above his heart, crying harder than you’d cried before—the kind that shook your body and left your throat raw and hoarse and your chest aching.

Jack held you through it all, softly crying but still holding you together—holding you both together.

He didn’t say much—just hushed whispers of “I’m here,” and “It’s okay,” and “I’ve got you.” But he held you like he meant every word. Like holding you was the only thing that made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.

And when your sobs finally started to slow and your fists loosened from his hoodie, he pressed his cheek gently to the top of your head, voice barely above a whisper.

“We’re always going to be best friends,” he said, “It doesn’t matter where you go. That fact doesn’t change.”

The day you left was gray. No storms, no rain—just a heavy, overcast sky caught somewhere between holding back and letting go. Like it didn’t know whether it wanted to cry or not. Like it was trying to stay strong for you. Like Jack was. It was the type of sky to make everything feel heavier than it already was.

You sat in the backseat of your family’s car, window rolled down, arms stretched out toward Jack one last time. He stood at the curb with his family, hair still messy from sleep, hands clenched tightly at his sides, eyes blinking too fast to stop the tears from falling. 

“Jack, you can’t forget me, alright?” you shouted, voice cracking just a little as you waved.

“I won’t!” he called back, forcing a smile that trembled at the corners and didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then the car lurched forward. Your dad had started the engine.

Jack ran after it—after you. A few desperate, stumbling steps before he stopped in the middle of the road, breath ragged, chest heaving.

He didn’t chase far. Maybe because he knew he couldn’t catch up. Maybe because he knew there wasn’t anything he could do to make you stay.

He just stood there and watched as the car grew smaller and smaller until it turned the corner and disappeared completely from view.

He didn’t move.

The tears came freely now—hot, silent, relentless. But he didn’t bother to wipe them away. He just stood there, staring at the empty road, then across to your old house—the place where it all began.

Where you met.

Where you played tag on summer afternoons and built snow forts in the winter. Where you sat on the front steps and talked for hours about everything and nothing. Where you made promises in whispers and laughter and pinky swears.

Where, somewhere along the way, Jack realized that while his brothers were his best friends…you were the best of them all.

But now you were gone.

And all he could do was keep staring at the memories you left behind.

Hoping—no, wishing—that maybe if he stood there long enough, if he waited just a little more…You’d come back.

MIDDLE SCHOOL 8th Grade

Somehow…you realize you’ve managed to build a life outside of Jack Hughes.

You’re on the yearbook committee and on school paper, and you’re a presenter for the school radio. It’s a lot, sure, but it keeps you busy—and maybe that’s the point. Maybe keeping busy was the only way you could quiet the ache in your heart.

The first year was hard. Miserable, even.

Because how do you learn to exist without someone who’s been a part of you for as long as you can remember?

You remember crying to your parents late at night, asking why you had to leave—why it had to be you, why it had to be 400 miles away in Michigan. You think there were some phone calls with Jack too, short ones filled with awkward silences and nervous laughter. But eventually, those dwindled amidst new schedules and friends and interests. You’re not even sure when the last one happened, or what you talked about. Only that it ended.

But somewhere along the sleepless nights and silent tears, you pulled yourself back together.

You studied harder. You joined clubs that you actually enjoyed. You worked—really worked—to prove to yourself that you could do more than just survive the loss of that friendship.

You were still reserved, still selective with who you let in, but you found out that public speaking came easier than you thought. You weren’t part of the popular crowd or any of the main cliques. You weren’t the type of person to have a group chat with everyone in school. But you knew how to make friends where it counted. You knew how to present yourself. You had a voice and, to your surprise, people started listening to it.

At some point, you realized that maybe Jack wasn’t someone who was meant to stay in your life for a long period of time. And for the most part, you learned to be okay with that.

Until one day, you come home from school and freeze in your doorway.

Because there they are.

The Hughes family. All of them. Sitting in your living room like no time has passed at all, like you hadn’t spent the last few years trying to erase the hollow part of your chest where Jack used to live.

They’re laughing with your parents—your brother is notably absent and probably with friends—catching up like nothing has changed, like everything’s fine.

And there he is.

Jack.

Sitting with his brothers, talking animatedly about some game or whatever else.

His voice is deeper now, but his laugh is the same—easy and warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

He’s taller. His hair’s longer, a little messier. His features sharper.

He looks…Pretty.

Not in the way you remember. Not in the “mud on his face and skinned knees” kind of way. Not in the “that’s my best friend” kind of way.

But pretty in a way that makes your breath catch.

Pretty in the way the most popular boys at school are—confident, put-together, magnetic.

Pretty in the way you’ve never really seen him before.

Pretty in the way that makes you think, Oh.

And suddenly, you don’t feel like you’ve moved on anymore.

You just feel like a girl who hasn’t quite figured out what to do when the past walks back in and makes your heart remember everything it worked so hard to forget.

“Y/N, look who’s here!” your mom calls out brightly, gesturing toward the all-too-familiar family seated in your living room. “They just moved in next door again—can you believe it? Isn’t that great? It’ll be just like old times!” She beams, like the universe has just aligned itself.

But nothing can bring back the old times.

Not really.

You don’t say that, of course. You just offer a polite smile and wave, bowing your head slightly in greeting. Your voice stays light when you say hello, but your hands twist in the hem of your skirt. You murmur something about having schoolwork to finish and excuse yourself as casually as you can.

“Jack, why don’t you go with her?” your mom suggests far too cheerfully.

You blink. 

Too stunned to form words, too distracted watching everyone else’s reactions.

Your dad, Ellen, and Jim all look hopeful, like this is some touching reunion scene in a movie. Like maybe, if the two of you are alone together, the years will melt away and you’ll be back to the kids you used to be—inseparable and smiling.

But three years is a long time.

And Jack doesn’t look entirely sure either. He glances at his brothers, who are clearly trying to hide their smirks, and there’s something tight and unreadable in his jaw. You wonder if he’s nervous too. If he remembers everything the way you do.

“He can if he wants to,” you say quietly, finally meeting his gaze.

It’s the first time you’ve properly looked at him since he came back.

The boy in front of you isn’t quite the one you remember—he’s grown into himself, taller, more sure. But his eyes are still Jack’s. Familiar and unreadable all at once.

“I’ll go,” he says after a second, standing up and brushing invisible dust off his jeans. “Lead the way.”

You nod.

Then turn around, heading upstairs to your room, acutely aware of the knowing looks being exchanged behind you—shared glances between parents and siblings, nudging smiles and hopeful eyes.

But you don’t look back. You just climb the stairs, Jack’s footsteps echoing behind yours.

“Huh,” he says when you let him in—eyes flicking around the room like he’s trying to memorize every corner. It’s the same look he had when you first met him all those years ago, cautious but curious, like he was memorizing every last detail. 

“It looks different,” he says after a moment, “Good different.”

“New house, new me, I guess.” You shrug lightly, offering a small smile as you drop your bag by the desk. “Sit wherever you want, I’ll just fix up a few things.” You start unpacking a few pens and notebooks from your bag, lining them up neatly for later.

He nods and makes a beeline for the bed, flopping down with zero hesitation.

You snort.

“What?” he says, mock-offended. But you can hear the smirk in his voice even before you glance over your shoulder.

“Some things never change,” you say with a quiet laugh, turning to face him. “You still aim for the bed every time someone says ‘sit wherever.’”

“It’s the comfiest place in the room,” he replies with a lazy grin, arms folded behind his head like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Well, most well-mannered guests pick the chair or the rug, y’know?”

“I am well-mannered.” He lifts his hands to make air quotes. “Being well-mannered doesn’t mean being uncomfortable.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well where am I gonna sit now, hm?”

His grin grows like he was waiting for that.

He shifts over, scooting toward the wall to make space, then pats the spot beside him with exaggerated politeness.

“You can sit over here,” he says, all faux-gentleman charm, “Right next to me.”

You stare at him for a second, then laugh under your breath.

Figures.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it—just something soft and playful. Then you make your way to the bed, settling into the spot beside him and stretching your legs out until your ankles bump.

For a while, neither of you says anything. It’s not awkward, not exactly—more like a quiet, tentative return to something once familiar. You sit in the silence together, letting it fill the space between you, like dust settling into place.

Every so often, Jack nudges your ankle with his, and you respond in kind. It turns into a series of light jabs and playful hits, escalating into half-hearted wrestling and muffled laughter. Your giggles bounce off the walls and dissolve some of the weight in the room.

He always knew how to break down your walls, always had that way of making you feel like things were simple, even when they weren’t.

But then the laughter fades, and the room stills again.

“So,” he says, voice softer now, more careful. “Why’d you stop calling?”

You pause, blink. His tone isn’t accusing, not really—but there’s something raw in it, like he’s not sure he wants to know the answer in case it hurts.

“What do you mean I stopped calling?” you ask, eyebrows raised. “I think you mean you stopped picking up.”

He looks away, jaw tightening slightly. “So, what—you just moved on?” he mutters, almost like it offends him. “Because most friends would still try. A happy birthday. A random message. I would've been fine with a Merry Christmas or something. But you…” He trails off. Doesn’t finish. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

You shift, folding your legs under you so you’re facing him squarely now.

“So what did you want me to do, Jack?” you ask, quietly but firmly. “Did you want me to sit around being miserable that my best friend never answered any of my calls anymore?”

His lips part like he wants to reply, but no words come out.

You don’t say anything either—not yet. You just sit there, breathing in the tension that had been waiting, simmering, under all that laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he says under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear it. His voice is soft—barely more than a whisper—but it lands heavy, and when you look at him, his eyes are already on you, guilt written across his face, brows drawn together.

“Talking on the phone just… wasn’t the same,” he continues, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on your blanket. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I made all that talk about still being best friends, even with you in Michigan and me in Toronto—but when you weren’t actually there…”

He bites the inside of his cheek and trails off, the sentence unfinished but understood.

You don’t speak right away. Instead, you listen—to him, to the space between you, to the soft pitter-patter of rain beginning to tap against your window like it, too, had something to say.

Finally, you take a breath.

“I’m sorry for not trying harder,” you say, voice just as quiet. “It was easier to just… let go than to keep hoping something would change. I guess we both gave up in our own ways.”

You offer him a small, forgiving smile. “I think that makes us even.”

He chuckles, that familiar crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he extends his hand toward you.

“Fresh start?”

You glance down at his open palm, then back up at his face—older now, but still the same boy who once swore you’d be best friends forever—and take it.

“Brand new,” you say.

And then, like the universe was holding its breath this whole time, lightning cracks outside your window, followed immediately by a low, rolling thunder. You both gasp at the same time—instinctive, startled—and without thinking, you fling yourselves toward each other, colliding in a half-panicked embrace.

His arms wrap around you fast, warm and grounding. Yours around him, just as tight.

The kind of hug that feels like home—even in the middle of a storm.

For a while, neither of you move. The thunder fades into the distance, the rain steady but soft now, like a lullaby instead of a warning. His heartbeat thuds gently against yours, and you let yourself breathe a little easier, tucked into the quiet comfort of his arms.

Then, Jack shifts slightly—just enough to rest his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs, voice muffled, like the words were meant for him more than you.

You feel your chest tighten, but not in a painful way. More like the kind of tight that comes with something familiar finding its way back to you.

You don’t say anything at first. You just smile.

“So are you,” you chuckle, resting your cheek lightly against his hair.

And in that moment, with the rain tapping gently outside and the weight of the years quietly falling away, it almost feels like you were never separated at all.

“So, you guys just moved to another country for hockey?” you ask, brows furrowed. “Like—why move to the States when Canada is literally the land of hockey?”

It’s a bright, sunny day, and the two of you are sitting out front of the Hughes’ new place, sprawled out on the curb. Jack’s hunched over a piece of blue chalk, drawing suns and stars and something vaguely resembling a dinosaur in the middle of the driveway.

“Because Quinn’s in the NTDP,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You squint at him. “I’m gonna need you to unpack that for me.” You cross your arms. “Use words, Jacky, not letters.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “God, you’ve spent years being friends with me and you still know nothing about hockey.”

“I know plenty,” you shoot back. “I know Sidney Crosby. And I know the Maple Leafs have broken your heart for years.”

Jack snorts, nearly smudging his dinosaur. “Okay, fair.” 

He sits up, chalk dust smudged on his fingers. “It’s the National Team Development Program. It’s, like, the junior national team for the States. They’re based here in Michigan. That’s why we moved. Quinn made the team.”

You hum in response, letting it sink in. “That’s…kinda cool.”

“Just kinda?” he smirks.

“Okay, okay—really cool.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a great player.” Jack’s grin turns a little softer, full of pride for his older brother. “Do you remember what position he plays?”

“Defense, right?”

“Yeah!” he says, visibly pleased. “And me?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think hard. “The other one?”

His mouth drops open in mock offense. “Wow. You’ve clearly spent too much time away from me. I’m gonna have to re-teach hockey to you.”

“Oh nooooo,” you say in a flat monotone, “I get to spend more time with you? The horror!”

You both burst into laughter again, Jack nearly doubling over as he clutches his stomach.

“Come look,” he says through lingering giggles, “My masterpiece is complete.”

You get up from the curb and walk over, catching a full glimpse of his chalk drawing for the first time.

Colorful scribbles fill the driveway—doodles of stars, hearts, and an absolutely terrible stick-figure dog—but at the center, outlined in bold, shaky block letters, are your names: Jack & Y/N

You beam. Your name next to his. His name next to yours. Right where they were meant to be.

“I think it belongs in a museum,” you say, pretending to analyze it like fine art. “I’ll even help them dig it out. I bet the Louvre would love this.”

He laughs, the sunlight catching in his hair and casting a golden hue around him.

You both stand there a moment longer, letting the quiet admiration settle between you.

Then Jack glances at you. “Hey…do you think we’ll finally be classmates when I start school next week?”

You grin. “If we win a three-legged race, maybe we will.”

His cheeks flush a familiar pink. “We were five!”

“And yet the trauma lives on,” you tease, “You’re still obsessed with being my classmate.”

“I’m never gonna live this down, am I?” He groans dramatically. 

“Never.” You giggle, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

He groans again, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was five and loyal.”

“Still are,” you add softly, almost quietly—just loud enough for it to be lost in the sounds of the wind.

You glance down at the chalk drawing, the colors already softening under the heat of the sun. His name next to yours. Yours next to his.

“Some things really don’t change,” you say quietly.

He looks at you then, a little softer. “Maybe some things aren’t supposed to.”

And for the first time in a long while, you believe it.

Because best friends aren’t held together by distance or time. They’re held together by choice.

And you’re both still choosing each other.

Just like he’d hoped and wished and prayed for every year since elementary, the two of you were finally classmates. He wasn’t seated beside you, unfortunately, but he was right behind you, which was close enough in his opinion. Close enough to pass notes, nudge your chair with his foot, and whisper sarcastic commentary under his breath during boring lectures.

Still, he pouted a little when he realized you wouldn’t be going home together anymore. Your afternoons were packed with your usual rotation of club commitments, and the school didn’t have a hockey program, so he ended up joining a team outside of school.

“We’ll still end at similar times,” you told him one afternoon, in an attempt to console him. “So we can still hang out for a few hours before dinner.”

That seemed to placate him. For now.

Despite your separate after-school schedules, Jack settled in fast. Too fast, if you were honest. He made friends easily, his personality loud and easygoing, his smile disarming. And he charmed the girls in your grade just as effortlessly—something you noticed more and more when you suddenly had more people wanting to be your friend. Even some of the popular girls, who were always kind to you but never made much effort to get to know you, suddenly wanted to walk with you between classes or sit with you at lunch.

It wasn’t surprising. Jack had always been pretty. But now he was older, and somehow even prettier—his confidence translating well to hallways and classrooms and everywhere in between.

You were happy for him. 

Really.

But still…There was this strange feeling twisting quietly in your aching chest.

Because now that everyone else was seeing what you’d always seen in him, you couldn’t help but wonder: aside from growing up together, what separated you from them anymore?

Feelings like that had been quietly building for weeks—restless, confusing, and hard to name. Feelings that only built up when he smiled at you like you were still the only person in the room, or when his hand would linger just a second too long after passing you a pen.

Feelings that only grew when the nights got quieter and your thoughts got louder.

“Y/N…” Someone says late at night, voice hushed as they lightly shake you awake. “Y/N, wake up.”

You groan, swatting off the hand, not in the mood to deal with anything this late at night.

“Y/N, c’mon, this is important.”

They shake you harder this time, jolting you fully awake. You sit up abruptly, rubbing your eyes as you squint at the glow of your lamp—one you’re almost certain you turned off before bed.

“Good!” the familiar voice says, breathless with relief. “You’re up. This is great.”

“Jack?” you croak out, still half-asleep. “Wha—why are you in my room? How did you even get in?”

“I climbed through your window,” he says casually, like it’s the most reasonable answer in the world. “You really need to start locking that thing, by the way. Who knows what kind of creep could get in?”

You stare at him, unamused. Flat.

“You realize you’re the creep in this situation, right?”

“Okay, rude,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “We’re best friends.”

You raise a brow.

“And also,” he adds, holding up his phone, “You weren’t answering my calls. This is urgent business.”

“This couldn’t have waited ‘til there was sun?” you groan, grabbing your own phone to check the time—3:07 a.m.—and the flood of notifications from him. “It’s literally three in the morning, Jack.”

“Nope. Absolutely not,” he says, already making his way around your bed. “Scoot. This is serious.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you make space for him—like he’s asking the biggest favor in the world, even though both of you know it’s not unusual for him to end up here. It never has been.

He chuckles and flops down beside you, sitting cross-legged as he turns to face you, eyes bright despite the hour.

“Okay,” he begins, drawing a deep breath. “So…there’s this girl.”

Oh. Okay. Great.

“I really like her,” he says, the kind of smile spreading across his face that makes your stomach twist, “And I think I wanna ask her out.” His voice is warm and sure, cheeks flushing pink at the thought. “What do you think?”

You think your heart is breaking. Quietly. Silently. Right here beside him.

It was strange to think that there was another girl he was going to treat the way he treated you—maybe even better. A different kind of softness. A different kind of attention. You hated it. More than you’d ever hated anything before.

“I think you should go for it,” you say, voice low but steady. You run your fingers through his hair, letting yourself have that one small comfort. He leans into your touch like he always does, and there’s something achingly satisfying about that.

“If you really like her, then take a shot at it.”

“You think so?” he beams. “How do I do it? Should it be big? What do you think I should do?”

“That depends,” you say, shrugging as casually as you can manage, trying to fish. “Who is it?”

“It’s Clara,” he says, and this time, his smile is different—softer, warmer, quieter. It lands like a rock in your stomach.

“Ahhh…” you say, nodding like it all makes sense. Clara from Drama Club. Pretty, charismatic, bubbly. The kind of girl who lit up a room just by walking in. The kind of girl who was everything you weren’t.

“Just keep it simple, I think,” you say.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You force a smile. “Just approach her after class or something. Ask her on a date. No big gestures. Just...be sincere. Really mean it.”

“Okay…okay…” He nods, clearly thinking it over. “You’re the best. Really.”

“I try,” you say, the laugh that leaves you a little too dry.

He hesitates for a second, eyes flicking back to yours. “Do you…have you…?” He gestures vaguely, as if trying to conjure the right words from the air. “You seem to know a lot about these kinds of things.”

You shrug. “I just figured I wouldn’t want to be asked out in a huge, public way, is all.”

“I’ve never dated, though.” You smile faintly. “You’ve got me beat on that front.”

“Never?” His brows raise, interest piqued. “What about…liking someone? Like…in that way?”

“I don’t know.” You think about it—really try—but you can’t land on anyone specific. Not from the past. Not even from now. “I’m not sure, actually.”

He stares at you then, really stares, his eyes turning a deep shade of seagreen under the yellow lamp glow. The soft shadows play across his cheekbones, and something in his gaze makes your breath catch.

“Well…Actually…” you start, barely above a whisper.

His body stills, and he leans in closer, like your words might run from him if he doesn’t catch them fast enough.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Maybe I was close.”

“Close?”

You nod slowly, eyes dropping to the space between you. 

“I don’t think I got the chance to.”

HIGH SCHOOL Junior Year

Jack and Clara dated for three months. Which, in middle school time, was basically three years.

“She wasn’t really it for me anyway,” he told you the day she ended things, trying to sound nonchalant. “There was just…something missing.”

Then came Jane when you were both fourteen. They lasted five months—his longest relationship so far.

“She was so familiar—kinda like you are, I guess. It felt so right. I swear,” he said over the phone the night he ended it, voice tired. “Until it wasn’t.”

At fifteen, there was Beatrice. Over in two months.

“Okay, she’s insane,” he said, pacing the room as you sat on his bed, holding an ice pack to your cheek. “I can’t believe she slapped you.”

“I can.” You shrugged. “You ditched her.”

“It was your birthday!” he snapped, turning to you. “I told her she could come to the party with me instead!”

You sighed. “The point is, Jacky, that you canceled a date for another girl.”

“But you’re not just ‘another girl.’”

You rolled your eyes. “Well…slapping me was a bit much.”

You both laughed, but the sting in your cheek—and somewhere deeper—lingered.

“Did you not tell her I had a boyfriend?”

He scoffs at the mention of Walker—your boyfriend of seven months. Your first ever. He was tall and kind and on the yearbook committee with you.

“You can barely call him a boyfriend.”

You roll your eyes.

“I already told you he was leaving for his grandmother’s place on my birthday. What was he supposed to do?”

“Well, Cole, Trevor, and I were supposed to leave for camp that day too—but we still went.”

You smile faintly at the mention of your new friends. Jack had gotten into the USNTDP this year and wasted no time making more friends on the team—friends who, by extension, became yours too. Suddenly, your world was louder and rowdier, filled with two more chaotic boys crashing into your space like they’d always belonged there.

“And I appreciate it,” you say, placing the ice pack down beside you. “Really. But those are two different situations, Jack. You and the guys had more control over when you left. Walker didn’t.”

He says nothing, just stares at you. You’re not sure if it’s irritation or disappointment behind his eyes—maybe both.

You shift. “Relationships aren’t always about who shows up to stuff like that anyway.”

“It kind of always is,” he mutters.

“What do you mean by that?” You stand up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Because I don’t recall you making it to every one of your girlfriends’ events either.”

“That’s different and you know it.”

“How, Jack?” You inhale slowly, trying to calm yourself before your words twist too sharp. “Make me understand.”

“Because it’s you.”

The room goes still. Air thick with something heavy and unsaid.

“I would never miss out on you,” he says finally, voice lower now—softer, but strained. “I don’t think I could.”

His brows draw together like he’s just now realizing the weight of what he’s saying. Or maybe that he’s always known.

“I—It’s not just about your birthday, okay? It’s about the way he talks to you. When he says shit about your articles in the paper—”

“He’s a writer too, Jack. He’s allowed to have opinions.”

“Or when he says you sound weird on the radio—”

“Who even sounds good on an ancient school intercom?”

“And when he talks crap about the photos you take for the yearbook, or when he basically calls you stupid for nearly failing AP History—” He throws his hands up. “You got a perfect score on the exam anyways! So why the hell does he think he can say that shit about you?”

His voice cracks a little at the end. Not out of anger, but something else—something that feels a lot like heartbreak on your behalf. You’re not even sure he realizes it. But you do.

And suddenly, it’s harder to breathe.

“I know I’m not the best boyfriend—I’m pretty shit at the whole relationship thing, honestly. But I don’t pretend that I’m not.”

A moment passes. The room settles into a soft kind of quiet.

“You’re not bad at relationships,” you say gently, like you mean it. “You’re just young. We’re just young.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but the look you give him stops him.

“We’re young and stupid and we’re gonna make mistakes, and we’re gonna let things slide even when we shouldn’t.” You sigh and drop back down onto the bed, patting the spot beside you. “Come on, sit.”

He does, sinking down next to you, shoulders brushing.

“Not every relationship in high school lasts,” you say honestly, the words slipping out like they’ve been sitting on your chest for weeks. “Walker and I are one of those. We’re gonna break up, and things are gonna be awkward at the yearbook office for a while. But we’ll be fine. We’re off to university soon and we’re probably never gonna see each other again.”

You glance over and see the stunned look on his face.

“What?” you chuckle. “I was never gonna marry him.”

That makes him scoff, rolling his eyes as he lets out a breathy laugh.

“You better not. Or I’m gonna object at your wedding.”

There’s something else in his voice when he says it. Something quiet and buried and almost too tender to name. But you don’t push. You let it sit between you.

“The man of honor objecting?” You grin. “That’s a new one. People might talk.”

“Exactly.” He turns to face you more fully now. “So you need to find the right person. The one. So you’ll be happy…and I’ll be happy that I won’t have to worry about you.”

His words land heavier than you expect.

You don’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch, soft and warm. You don’t know if he realizes it, but what he’s asking for doesn’t sound like something a friend says.

And maybe that’s the problem.

You’re quiet for a moment, your eyes fixed on the space between you—the small stretch of mattress that feels impossibly wide all of a sudden.

“You always say that,” you murmur, almost like you’re talking to yourself.

Jack tilts his head slightly. “Say what?”

“That you don’t want to worry about me. That I should only do the things that make me happy, be with people who’ll make me happy.” You pause, the words fragile on your tongue. “But Jack…I’m already here.”

You offer a small, tired smile—bittersweet and quiet.

“I’m leading clubs I care about. I’m applying to schools I’m excited about, not just the ones that look good on paper. I’ve got a good family, friends who love me. And…” You pause, taking a quick breath. “And you’re right here.”

Your voice drops into something even softer. “What more could I ask for?”

His body stills beneath your head like he’s holding his breath. Like the moment might break if he moves.

When you look up at him, your eyes meet—and everything shifts.

The space between you buzzes with something electric. The silence isn’t empty; it’s thick with unsaid things, with glances that linger too long and feelings that have no name yet. His eyes, a deep ocean-blue in the golden cast of your bedroom lamp, flicker down to your lips, just for a second.

Your heart skips a beat.

Your breath catches.

There’s a moment—brief and infinite—where it feels like the entire universe narrows to this: the curve of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist without even realizing it.

Then he moves. Slowly. Deliberately.

He lifts a hand and cups your face with both palms, warm and careful like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop.

And he kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Testing. Almost unsure. But then it deepens—slow and certain and real in a way that makes your stomach turn inside out.

It’s the kind of kiss you don’t forget.

The kind that redefines everything that came before it. The kind that says, this was always going to happen.

And for one suspended moment, you kiss him back.

Because you want to. Because part of you always has.

But you have a boyfriend. And Jack is your best friend.

You pull away slowly, your lips still tingling, your pulse thrumming in your ears. The moment catches up to you all at once, crashing over you like a wave, leaving you breathless and unsteady.

Your eyes are wide. So are his.

You stand up quickly, too quickly. “Um...I should head home. For dinner.”

He stays frozen on the bed, blinking like he’s only now waking up.

“Yeah… yeah. I get it.”

A beat of silence stretches between you again.

You shift awkwardly, keys already in your hand. “See you around?” Your voice is quiet, trying not to crack.

He gives you a small smile—soft and more unsure than you’d ever seen him.

“Always.”

SENIOR YEAR | UNIVERSITY

You break up with Walker the next time you see him. It’s quiet and short. You think he knew it was coming. Maybe he’d known for a while.

But you and Jack are back to normal the very next day. Like it never happened.

No one mentions the kiss.

Not even in passing.

It’s as if the moment folded itself into a corner of the universe and disappeared—tucked away, unspoken, but not forgotten.

Life moves on.

Jack competes at the world championships, and you’re cheering from the couch back home, eyes glued to the screen like your life depends on it—even though the only thing you really know about hockey is that the puck is small and Jack is fast.

You win an award for your article about the commodification of climate change, and Jack’s posting about it like he’s the one who wrote it. He retweets it, posts it on his Instagram story, tells his teammates until they all know your name.

He’s never subtle.

You start hanging out with Trevor and Cole more, and they all end up tagging along to your club meet-ups. Somewhere along the way, your friend groups merge into one loud, chaotic mess that does everything together—movie nights, lake trips, late-night food runs, parties that end with everyone crashing on someone’s basement floor.

It’s good.

For a while, it’s really good.

But senior year has a way of rearranging things.

There are deadlines and decisions, commitments that pull people in different directions.

Everyone’s thinking about the future—what comes next, where they’ll end up, who they’ll still talk to.

Jack, Cole, and Trevor are all eligible for the next draft, so they throw themselves into it completely—grueling workouts, endless hours on the ice, polishing every answer for team interviews, all to catch the eye of the right scout, the right GM. Every part of them wound tight with the urgency of ambition.

Meanwhile, you and your friends dive headfirst into your own chaos. SAT prep, AP classes, college apps, portfolios, interviews—you’re chasing deadlines the way they chase goals. Your calendar is a war zone, your desk a battlefield of highlighters and coffee cups and practice tests.

And somehow, without either of you really noticing, three months pass.

No texts. No calls. No random memes at 2 a.m. No sneaking around at dawn. No Jack.

The realization hits late one night, right as you’re brushing your hair and moving to close the window. That’s when you hear it: the soft, familiar rustling of sneakers on the trellis outside.

You freeze. And then you smile.

Jack slips into your room like he’s done it a thousand times—which, of course, he has. He’s careful on the dresser, dodging the clutter like it’s muscle memory. He barely makes a sound.

“Hey, stranger,” he grins, voice low and teasing. His hair’s longer, you notice, falling just slightly into his eyes. “You’ve been gone a while, y’know?”

You raise a brow. “I could say the same about you, Mr. Projected Number One Overall Draft Pick.”

You pause. Then quietly, honestly: “I missed you too.”

He pulls you into a hug—easy, like no time has passed—and you let yourself fall into it. His arms are warm and strong, and they wrap around you like a place you’ve been homesick for.

You exhale into his shoulder.

It feels like breathing again.

He runs his fingers through your hair, carefully feeling out the tangles. “Let me help you out here.”

You don’t protest. He sits you down in front of your mirror like it’s something he’s always done, and you laugh as he methodically works the brush through your hair, each stroke deliberate and gentle, like he’s afraid to hurt you. Like he’s making up for lost time.

“Stop laughing,” he pouts, narrowing his eyes in the mirror. “You’re gonna make more.”

You chuckle out an apology, still smiling, and try to sit still, your shoulders relaxing under his touch.

It’s familiar. Comforting. The kind of closeness you didn’t realize you missed until it came back.

“There ya go.” He sets the brush down with a small flourish. “All pretty again.”

You scoff. “I’m always pretty.”

He laughs, a real one this time, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Yeah, you are.” His voice is quieter now—gentler, raw in a way that makes your chest tighten. Like he means every word but doesn’t quite know if he’s allowed to say it.

There’s a beat of silence, weighty and unspoken.

“Well,” you say, carefully shifting the moment, “What brings you here tonight?”

You slide under the covers, trying to ignore the pull in your chest—the ache of distance, the tension of things left unsaid.

“I missed you, obviously.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it clearly is. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”

You smile softly and make space for him beside you like it’s second nature. He slips under the blanket and into your orbit.

“We’ve been so busy.”

“I knowwww,” he whines dramatically, drawing out the word as he nestles in closer. “But I swear it’ll be worth it. When I make it, I’m gonna be calling you first.”

He shifts and lays his head on your chest, his arm wrapping loosely around your waist. You can feel him exhale against your side, like your heartbeat is something he needs to hear to feel grounded.

“And then I’m calling you every day after that.”

You laugh quietly, your fingers moving through his hair without thinking. “Well, I’ll have class, so every day might be a little…”

“Every. Fucking. Day.” His voice is stubborn, but his eyes are closed now, and he says it like a promise.

You hum. “You could text me too, you know.”

“I don’t wanna forget what your voice sounds like,” he murmurs.

It’s soft—so soft you almost miss it. Like it wasn’t meant for you to hear.

But you do.

Because when it comes to him, you always do.

“You won’t,” you say sincerely, voice low but certain. “Because I’ll pick up. Every time.”

“No you won’t,” he says, eyes still closed, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

You laugh quietly. “Okay, maybe not every time. But I’ll always call you back.”

“And if I’m too busy to answer?”

“Then I’ll send you voice messages,” you reply, gently threading your fingers through his hair again. “So you’ll never forget.”

You feel him smile against your side, the quiet rumble of his shoulders as he chuckles sending a warm, familiar flutter through your chest.

“I won’t forget you,” he says softly, a little more serious this time. “I literally can’t.”

You take a deep breath. “Me too.”

He shifts, sitting up beside you so you’re face-to-face in the soft glow of your bedside lamp. His expression is open—unguarded in a way that makes your heart ache.

“You’re always going to be my best friend,” he says, eyes locked with yours. “No matter where we are or what we’re doing, that spot always belongs to you.”

You nod, your throat tight, and lift your pinky toward him.

“Forever, right?”

He chuckles, the sound fond and filled with memory, and without hesitation, links his pinky with yours—just like the first time.

“Forever.”

[DIVIDER]

Jack is the only one in your room when you open your acceptance letters, opening each one with you and holding your hand as you read them aloud. He beams even wider than you do at every “Congratulations,” like it’s his future too.

He’s there when you shop for your dorm—armed with a list he got from Quinn and, in his words, his “strong arms to do all the heavy lifting.”

“It’s like bonus weight training,” he grins, flexing dramatically in the shampoo aisle. 

You laugh the entire trip.

At graduation, you take all the pictures together—even the cheesy ones by the little photo booth setup your school arranged with the big numbers and school logo. Caps crooked, gowns wrinkled, grins too big.

When the draft happens, you watch from your living room as he gets selected first overall. You cheer so loudly, your neighbor actually checks in to see if you’re okay.

He calls you first, like he promised—breathless, thrilled, still in his suit.

“Oh my god,” he says, excitement seeping through his voice. “This is really happening.”

He helps you move into your dorm. Carries your mini-fridge like it’s nothing, then arranges your books in rainbow order just to make you laugh.

“You’re gonna crush it here,” he tells you, sitting on your twin bed with his hands in his lap, not quite ready to leave.

You spend the summer before that by the lake—just the two of you, dangling your legs off the dock, skipping stones until the sky fades pink. He brings you your favorite ice cream from the next town over. You bring him sandwiches from your dad’s deli. It’s quiet, peaceful. One of those places that feels like it’s holding something sacred.

You go hiking, play old video games, get slushies at midnight, crash small-town parties, and lie on the roof of your garage naming stars you’ll forget the names of by morning.

It feels endless. But of course it’s not.

When move-in day finally comes, you hug him goodbye on the curb, your bag half-zipped and your eyes a little misty.

“Don’t forget to call me,” you say.

“Every day,” he reminds you.

And he does.

Until the first time he doesn’t.

A week passes. Then two. You get busy, he gets busier. The silence stretches between you.

Then, one night, your phone rings.

“Hey,” he says. You can hear the crowd behind him, the echo of an arena.

“It’s my first game tomorrow.”

Your heart skips and you hum in response.

He laughs, nervous and excited and a little breathless.

“I just wanted to hear your voice before I went out there.”

Because no matter what, you’re still the voice he wants to hear in moments like this.

And that was the last time you heard from him.

Not because anything bad happened. But because life got loud.

The season kicked off. Interviews, flights, training, games.

You started university. Exams, deadlines, projects, clubs.

You kept meaning to text. He probably did too.

But days slipped into weeks, and weeks into months.

His name still popped up sometimes—on sports channels, in highlight reels, in conversations with friends and family who asked, "Didn’t you used to be close?"

You’d smile. Nod. Say, “Yeah. We were.”

But you never unfollowed him. Never deleted the voicemails.

Never stopped watching his games when you could.

Never stopped hearing him in your head when things got hard, cheering you on like always.

It’s strange how people can feel so near and so far all at once.

Like ghosts that live in your favorite memories.

Because how do you forget a stranger you know everything about?

PRESENT DAY

You graduated from university with a double degree in journalism and communications, with a lead spot on the campus news and radio station and a stellar internship at the local news station on your resume.

You stayed out of Michigan after college and landed a gig as a radio host for one of the local stations.

Then a promotion to TV came soon after—lifestyle pieces, soft features, the occasional on-location report with your signature charm.

Life was good. Simple.

You had a cozy little apartment a walk away from the city’s heart. You had friends to drink wine with on Friday nights and brunch with on Sundays. You went on dates—some decent, most forgettable.

You built a rhythm. A routine.

And slowly…you forgot what it felt like to miss Jack Hughes.

No more catching up on Devils games. No more refreshing his stats after every win. No more looking him up on Instagram—not that he ever posted. No more wondering if he’d come home for the summer, or if you'd run into each other somehow.

You let it all go, piece by piece.

Until the ache dulled and the silence settled in like an old friend.

And then—New Jersey.

A bigger network. A better gig. A massive step forward.

How do you refuse that?

How do you say no when your boss says “We think you’re ready for the next market” with that glimmer of pride in her eyes?

You don’t.

So you pack up your life and your books and your favorite mugs, say goodbye to the safe little world you built, and move to the city where your ghost lives.

Your heels are a little wet from the rain outside the bar your new coworkers have dragged you into.

“We’re gonna show you around the fun parts of Jersey tonight,” they said, leaving little room for you to say no. 

So you say yes.

They take you to this little bar downtown—not too packed, just the right kind of busy. The lights are low, the drinks are cheap, and the music is loud enough to make you shout a little when you talk.

You dance.

You sing along to throwbacks and remixes, drinks sloshing slightly in your hand as your other arm waves up in the air.

You laugh over office gossip, swap stories about your hometowns, and dissect relationships past, present, and the nearly-but-not-quite.

You’re mid-sip of your cocktail, halfway through a ridiculous story about an intern mistaking a client for someone’s dad, when your eyes drift toward the bar.

And then you see him.

Him.

Jack.

In the flesh.

He’s perched on a high stool, flanked by a few other guys—his teammates, probably—beer in hand, head tilted back in a laugh that sends a jolt down your spine.

Same grin.

Same face you used to see more often than your own reflection.

For a second, you can’t move.

Because suddenly you’re eighteen again, staring at your phone wondering why he stopped calling.

Because you’re thirteen again, waiting by your window for his knock.

Because you’re ten and waiting for him to send any sign that you two were still friends.

Because maybe, just maybe, you never really stopped waiting.

Someone next to him leans in and says something. Jack turns his head—

And spots you.

He freezes.

Beer paused halfway to his mouth.

His eyes widen, blinking once, twice—like he’s trying to make sure it’s real.

Then the disbelief softens.

His face settles into a soft smile.

That same smile he always gave you—the one meant only for you.

Your breath catches.

He stands. Excuses himself from the table. Starts weaving through the crowd like it’s instinct. Like his body still remembers how to get to you.

Panic surges.

You turn back to your coworkers, mumble something about feeling tired, about an early shoot tomorrow.

They don’t question it.

You gather your things and slip out as quickly as you can, heart pounding.

You hear your name—faint, familiar—floating behind you, barely cutting through the thrum of bass.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t look back.

Because you don’t know if you’ll cry.

Or run to him.

And you’re not sure which one would hurt more.

Outside, the rain keeps pouring, and all you can do is hope your ride’s close enough that you won’t have to see him again—won’t have to talk to him, or hear his voice, or feel everything you’ve worked so hard to bury come rushing back.

But of course, with your luck, that doesn’t happen.

Because he catches up with you.

“Why were you running away?” he asks, a little out of breath, hair damp and shirt sticking slightly to his back from the heat of the bar.

“Maybe I was avoiding someone,” you snap, arms crossed tightly across your chest, voice clipped.

If there’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes, he hides it well. Too well.

“C’mon, don’t be like this.” He gives you a soft, coaxing smile. The kind he used to use on you when you were ten and mad at him for cheating at Monopoly. “We haven’t seen each other in so long.”

“And whose fault is that?” The words come out sharper than you meant—but not untrue. Not undeserved.

Your voice cracks, your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears fall. Not now. Not in front of him.

“You said you’d call. Every day. Remember that?” Your voice shakes despite your best efforts. “So I waited. I waited every fucking day.”

You take a deep breath, trying to keep the storm at bay. “And nothing.”

“I can explain—”

“No,” you cut him off, louder than intended. The music inside masks it, but out here, the words still echo. “I get it. We were both busy. You had your dream to chase and I had mine. But I called. I texted. I tried. And you gave me nothing. Not even a goodbye.”

You shake your head, lips trembling.

“Do you know how stupid I felt? Leaving voicemails to a number that didn’t exist anymore?”

There’s a pause.

His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but you beat him to it.

“Do you know how I found out? That your number changed?” You laugh, bitter. “Cole told me. Trevor confirmed it. Said you had to switch because fans kept blowing it up.”

You let the silence sit there for a second. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

“At least they still checked in,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “And they were busy too.”

He flinches. Just barely. But you see it.

You look him in the eye—for the first time in years.

And you see the same boy who used to braid your hair and sneak into your room and promise you forever.

But you don’t feel like that girl anymore. Not with everything he left behind.

“You can’t talk yourself out of this, Jack.”

You breathe in, steadying yourself.

“I’m done.”

A beat passes. And under the dim lighting of the bar’s entrance, with the low thrum of bass and laughter bleeding through the door, you finally feel grown up. Like you’d just said something you should have admitted years ago.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, “I was stupid. And I hurt you.”

He reaches out, tentative, his hand brushing your shoulder. It’s hesitant and cautious—like he’s expecting you to pull away—but not totally unwelcome.

“Nothing I say can undo what I did,” he continues, eyes locked on yours. “But please…please let me back in.”

His voice cracks just a little. And his eyes—soft, wide, real—are sincere in a way that makes your chest ache.

Because it’s real. 

And it’s too late.

“Let me make this right,” he says again. “Please.”

You glance away, staring at the wet pavement, at the puddles scattering reflections of headlights and passing cars.

“How are you possibly gonna fix this?” You ask it quietly, like you already know the answer. You swallow, blinking fast. “How am I supposed to trust you again?”

“I don’t know.” He says it without hesitation. “But let me try.”

You shake your head, not out of anger—just…worn down. You gently move his hand off your shoulder and lean against the cool wall behind you, arms crossed.

The night feels still for a moment. Like the world’s waiting on your answer.

“I don’t know if we’re ever going to be okay again, Jacky.” 

It’s the nickname that makes him flinch this time. Like it hits somewhere deeper.

You let a tear fall and wipe it away before he can notice. But he notices. He always did.

“Maybe we won’t,” he says softly, leaning beside you against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes still on you like you’re a map he’s trying to memorize. “But I want to make it happen.”

And for the first time in years, you don’t feel like strangers.

Just two people with a lot of history and even more unspoken words.

Lightning strikes and thunder claps overhead, and you reach for him instinctively—fingers closing around his wrist before you even realize it.

Because even after all these years, even after the silence, your body still remembers how to reach for him.

You look at him again. Really look at him.

He’s grown up now. His blonde hair has deepened to brown, longer and messier than before. His frame is broader, his shoulders wider—he’s stronger, sharper, somehow steadier. But his eyes… they’re still the same.

Still the color of the lake in summer when the sun hits it just right.

Still the color of the sky on a clear, happy day.

You wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about you—that you’ve changed too. That you’ve grown up too.

Because you have.

You’re not the same people you were all those years ago.

A moment passes, thick with rain and memory.

“We aren’t best friends anymore,” you say quietly, loosening your grip.

You let go.

“No. We’re not.” His voice is steady. Eyes never leave yours. “But we could start again.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. Dry. Tired.

“Another start?”

“Brand new.”

He reaches out his hand, palm open to you.

“Hi, I’m Jack,” he says with a small smile. One that’s warm and familiar and dangerous in the way it makes you want to forgive him. “I play hockey.”

You pause. Then, gently, you place your hand in his.

“I’m Y/N,” you reply, matching his tone. “I’m on the news.”

You shake his hand like strangers meeting for the first time.

Because that’s what you are now.

Not best friends.

Not yet anything else.

Just two people—maybe at the start of something

He texts you first. It’s the next night, right after you get off the air.

Unknown NumberI still have ur number btw I was just a self absorbed asshole

​​You laugh out loud in the dressing room, still half in your blazer, makeup barely wiped off.

Y/NLoving the self awareness :) 

Jack Least i could do :p soooo…

You see the typing bubble. Then it disappears.

Then it comes back again. Then disappears. He’s nervous. Good.

JackWanna grab dinner?

Y/N It’s 11 p.m. ://

JackAnd I know ur on the late news and just finished I know this place I’ll pick u up if u want

You hesitate. A beat. But your grumbling stomach and unspoken curiosity answer for you.

Y/N It better be good

You send him the address.

He replies with a 👍.

You wait.

Thirty minutes later, headlights flash at the station gates. A G-Wagon rolls up to the curb, window lowering smoothly.

Jack leans over from the driver’s seat, flashing you a grin.

“Jump in!”

You eye the car, then him.

“You drive a G-Wagon now?” you tease, tugging your coat tighter around you as you step closer.

He shrugs. “Perks of getting beat up for a living.”

You shake your head, chuckling softly despite yourself, and climb in.

The seat’s warm. The car smells like cologne and something citrusy. Familiar.

You glance at him. He’s already pulling away from the curb, music playing low.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways, “You still into 2 a.m. escapades with questionable choices?”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “How could I not be?”

“Good,” he grins, eyes on the road. “That’s kinda my bread and butter in these parts.”

Your laugh—sharp, familiar, a little disbelieving—fills the car, and he can’t help the proud smile that spreads across his face. Like he’s been waiting to hear that sound again for years.

You roll your eyes at the look on his face, choosing to ignore the stupidly satisfied grin he’s trying to hide. Instead, you lean your head back against the seat and glance out at the quiet streets of New Jersey lit up by streetlights and neon signs.

Maybe it’s a bad idea. Maybe it’s dangerous to start this again.

But you don’t say anything.

You just settle into the seat and let the night take you wherever it’s going.

“This is amazing,” you say around a mouthful of pancakes, barely managing to swallow before diving in for another bite.

He grins across the booth, his own plate half-touched, more focused on watching your reaction than finishing his food. “Told you. They have the best pancakes in Jersey.”

The place is tiny—just a handful of booths, a buzzing neon sign in the window, and a jukebox playing low oldies in the corner. The kind of spot you’d only find if someone brought you there.

Which he did.

And of course he knows the waitress by name.

“You’ve clearly been here a few too many times,” you tease.

He shrugs, unconcerned. “It’s tradition now. Win or lose, I end up here. Sometimes with the guys, sometimes alone.”

He pauses, watching you eat.

“Been weird doing it alone lately.”

You glance up at that, chewing slower. There’s weight in his voice—soft, unsure, almost careful.

But he doesn’t press the moment. Just keeps sipping his coffee like he didn’t just say something that made your heart twist a little.

You look around the diner, then back at him.

“Don’t you have a game tomorrow?”

His brows furrow, eyes softening into something you don’t quite recognize—something heavy and unspoken—as a quiet stretches between you, thick enough to sit in.

“I’m out for the season,” he finally says, voice low. “Shoulder’s fucked.”

He tries to chuckle, but it comes out hollow—more of a deflection than amusement. Like saying it out loud makes it real, and he still isn’t used to that.

Your fork pauses mid-air.

“I’m sorry,” you say gently, unsure what else to offer. You know what hockey means to him—how it's always been the dream. How it’s the thing he’s worked for his entire life. And now it’s just...paused. Maybe broken.

“I just finished the surgery,” he says, staring down into his coffee like it holds answers. “In recovery now though. PT and all that. So...all good, I guess.”

You frown, setting your fork down. “It’s not all good and you know it.”

He looks up.

“Don’t pretend it’s fine when I can see it’s not. You’re allowed to be upset,” you say, voice firmer now, emotion bleeding through. “You love that game. Let yourself feel shitty about it.”

His lips twitch into a small, lopsided smile, tired but genuine. “It’s part of the job,” he shrugs, “Shit happens.”

“And you’re still allowed to be mad about the shit happening,” you counter, eyebrows raised as you point at him with a piece of syrup-soaked pancake like a weapon. “You don’t always have to wear the ‘cool guy’ mask. It’s exhausting.”

He smiles again—softer this time—and leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Maybe. But hey…more time to win you over. Be friends again.”

You don’t miss the way he glances at you when he says it. The unspoken hope laced beneath it.

You could press the issue—pry at the way he changes the subject—but you let it slide, just this once.

“Well,” you say, lifting your fork again, “Keep taking me to all the good spots and I might consider letting you back into my inner circle.”

His grin returns, that familiar spark lighting in his eyes. “Good. I’ll even pay.”

“You better,” you reply, around a mouthful of pancake. “You make, like, ten times more than I do.”

He laughs—real and boyish, shoulders finally loosening a bit as the sound rings out into the quiet diner. And something between you settles into comfort.

Maybe not the past.

But maybe something new.

The next night, he takes you to this food truck that sells, in his words, the best salads in the area. You side-eye him the entire time, but one bite in and you’re reluctantly impressed.

After that, it’s a sports bar tucked in the corner of a strip mall—grungy, loud, and somehow always showing the perfect game. They serve nachos stacked so high you need strategy to eat them.

Then comes the tiny pizza joint. A hole-in-the-wall tucked in an alleyway where the pepperoni slice is greasy perfection and the vending machine hasn’t worked since the ‘90s. You both agree that’s part of the charm.

As the weeks pass, you build a routine. A rhythm. A quiet pattern of almosts and maybes. Every place becomes “yours”—an unspoken rotation you both fall into.

But Monday nights are for the diner. Always.

It’s late, the windows fogged from the warmth inside and the chill outside, rain tapping gently against the glass like a lullaby.

“I think I’m gonna take you somewhere after this tonight,” you say casually, fork in hand, a syrup-soaked pancake disappearing into your mouth.

Jack raises an eyebrow, lips quirking. “Oh? We’re at special place level now?”

You smirk, swallowing your bite. “Consider it a childhood friend fastpass.”

He chuckles, resting his chin on his hand as he watches you across the table. “I’d let you drive my car, but...can you even drive still?”

You glare. “God, you fail your driver’s test one time and he never lets you forget it.”

“Just once?” he laughs. “Y/N, you cried at the DMV all three times and made me swear to never bring it up again.”

“Yes and you’re breaking the oath.” You point at him with your fork. “Dishonor on you. Dishonor on your cow.”

He’s still laughing as you toss some bills on the table and shrug into your coat.

You leave the diner full, warm, and just the right amount of nostalgic. The rain’s cleared up, and the air is crisp as you both walk side by side through the quiet streets. You take him to the park, the one tucked away and almost forgotten, hidden behind old trees and winding paths.

“I come here before work sometimes,” you say, settling onto the bench with a soft sigh. “I found it on my first day here. Just… wandering around, trying to get my bearings.”

Your eyes drift toward the small pond, where the moonlight stretches across the water like spilled silver. “I come here when I need to cool down before going on air. Clear my head. The pond reminded me of the lake.”

You don’t have to say which lake. You know he knows.

Jack stands beside you for a beat longer, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Then, quietly, he sinks down next to you on the bench, mirroring your stillness.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, letting the wind rustle through the trees, letting the quiet fill in the gaps that words never quite could.

He breaks it first, voice low. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

You don’t answer with words. Just glance over and nudge his shoulder with your own, a small smile pulling at your lips.

Some moments don’t need more than that.

You and Jack fall into place as naturally as fall turns into winter.

It’s seamless, really—the way you slip back into each other’s lives, but older now. Softer. Wiser. You still argue, still tease, but there’s something gentler beneath it now. Something unspoken that neither of you is quite ready to say out loud.

One snowy evening, you’re curled up on the couch of his and Luke’s apartment, wrapped in a blanket you suspect he bought just because it looked “your vibe.” He walks in from the kitchen, two mismatched mugs in hand, steam curling upward from the cocoa like warm breath on a cold day.

“Extra marshmallows,” he says, offering you the pink mug. “Because I know you judge me if I forget.”

You take it, fingers brushing his as you do. “Finally learning. Proud of you.”

He settles beside you, leg pressing gently against yours as he sips from his own cup. “It only took a decade and a second chance.”

You hum, blowing on your cocoa before taking a sip. “You’re lucky I’m generous with second chances.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, turning to face you more fully. “I’m walking on thin ice every time I forget your snack preferences.”

“You forgot my chips last week,” you say pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

“I was testing you. Making sure you still loved me.”

You shoot him a look, though your cheeks flush warmer than your cocoa. “Loved?”

He grins, shameless. “Past tense, obviously. You’ve moved on. Found better cocoa elsewhere.”

“Mm. Maybe. But their marshmallow game? Weak.”

“Tragic,” he deadpans, then softens. “Guess I’ll have to keep making it for you.”

A beat passes, heavy with something neither of you wants to break.

“You’re different now,” you say quietly.

“So are you.” His voice drops, gaze lingering on your face. “But I like this version. She’s confident. Louder. Funny. Still gives me hell, though.”

“You say that like you didn’t deserve it.”

“I did,” he admits, eyes never leaving yours. “But I’d take all of it again if it meant I got to sit here with you now.”

You hold his gaze, heart fluttering against your ribs like it’s trying to tell you something.

“I don’t remember you being this smooth,” you murmur.

“I don’t remember you being this beautiful,” he replies, no smirk this time—just quiet, unfiltered honesty.

The silence that stretches between you is no longer awkward, but charged. Fragile. Like if either of you moves too fast, the moment might shatter.

“Flatterer,” you say softly, after a beat.

“I mean it,” he replies, steady and sincere. “All of it.”

“Jack—”

“My first season was hell,” he cuts in, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink. “It was a shitty season and people were calling me a bust.”

You remember. Too well. You’d defended him on Twitter using a burner account more times than you’d like to admit—starting arguments in the replies, downvoting hateful threads. You didn’t even care if he knew. You just needed him to know someone still believed in him.

“I don’t know why I stopped calling,” he says, leaning his head back against the couch, gaze fixed on the ceiling like it holds all the answers. “Why I stopped trying. Maybe it was pride. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe I just didn’t wanna let you down.”

“You have never let me down,” you say immediately, your voice firmer than you expect.

He lifts a brow, giving you a look.

“You only let me down when you stopped being my friend.” You place your own mug down beside his. “But everything else? You could never. I will always be proud of you.” You pause, smiling gently. “You made it, Jack. You’re living your dream.”

“The game is a dream,” he says, smiling faintly, though his eyes drift to something far away—somewhere you can’t quite follow. “Everything else is…”

You reach for his hand, slowly, letting your fingers brush against his before lacing them together. His hand is warm, solid, familiar. Like home.

He doesn’t hesitate. He tightens his hold on yours like he’s been waiting for permission.

“The pressure’s horrible,” he admits. “Still is.”

You draw slow, soothing circles on the back of his hand with your thumb. “I can imagine.”

“I’m supposed to be a leader on the team—”

“And you are,” you interrupt gently. “You were named alternate for a reason.”

“But what good is a leader who can’t even be there?” he says, barely above a whisper. His eyes flick to yours, and you see it then—the fear behind the frustration. The weight he’s been carrying on his own.

You squeeze his hand. “Still a good one,” you whisper. “Because leadership isn’t just about games played, Jack. It’s about how you carry yourself. How you show up. And you always show up.”

He looks at you like he’s seeing something he forgot existed. Something he thought he’d lost.

“Even now?” He asks. “When I’m like this?”

You lean in just a little, forehead nearly touching his. “Especially now. When you show everyone exactly how to handle a setback: By rising above it and making things right.”

And for a moment, everything else fades—the team, the pressure, the years lost between you. All that’s left is this: two people who once meant the world to each other, quietly finding their way back.

When summer comes, you take a short leave from work to go back home.

Jack picks you up from the airport, sunglasses perched on his nose and a stupid grin on his face as he loads your suitcase into the trunk.

He drives you to your childhood home, casually chatting about how weird it feels to be back—and then casually follows you inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Jacky-boy!” your dad booms, slapping him on the back like no time has passed.

Your mom pulls him into a hug, her voice soft with fondness. “We’ve missed seeing you around, sweetheart.”

Your brother offers him a nod—cool, collected—but from the corner of your eye, you catch him slipping your dad a folded fifty. You don’t want to know what that was for.

Jack helps carry your luggage up the stairs like it’s still 2014, settling into your room with you while you unpack. The conversation flows like it always does, light teasing and small confessions tucked into the in-between moments.

Later, you head over to his place to say hi to his family.

Ellen wraps you in a hug the second she opens the door. “You need to come around more often. You know you’re always welcome, even when Jack’s not here!”

Jim gives you a firm squeeze on the shoulder. “We’ve missed this, Y/N.”

Quinn pulls you into a side hug. “You know, Vancouver’s beautiful. You should come out sometime. See how we do things up there.”

You don’t see the warning glare Jack shoots him.

Luke hugs you like he’s thirteen again and says, “Jack and I decided our apartment is yours now too. So you can’t leave.”

You laugh—but your chest tugs a little at how sincere he sounds.

Meanwhile, behind you, Ellen casually accepts a folded fifty from Jim and Luke like it’s part of some silent, ongoing bet.

You pretend not to notice.

“So, they all totally have some sort of weird bet going on, right?”

You swing gently back and forth, your sneakers dragging lines in the dirt beneath you.

“Totally,” Jack says, rocking slightly beside you. “I think it’s our moms versus everyone else.”

You laugh, the sound echoing into the quiet summer night.

“Definitely.”

The playground’s old metal chains creak as the wind brushes past, and for a while, neither of you says anything. The kind of silence that’s easy, familiar. Comfortable.

“I used to think I was gonna have to live the rest of my life just watching you on a screen.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the quiet like a thread pulled gently loose. Low. Careful. Like he’s afraid saying it out loud might ruin everything.

Your swing slows. You glance over at him.

“Weird, right?” he continues, eyes on the horizon. “I was the one who didn’t call. But even then, I kept hoping.”

You press your lips together, fighting the ache rising in your chest.

“I kept thinking maybe—if I wished hard enough—the universe would take pity on me. That you’d just show up. And we’d be okay again.”

The silence between you shifts—heavier now, but not unbearable. Charged. Fragile in a way that makes you afraid to move too fast or speak too loud.

You turn toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

In his eyes—steady, soft, and unguarded—you see everything he can’t quite say. And he doesn’t have to.

“Well… I did,” you murmur.

“You did.”

A drizzle begins, thin and cold, but neither of you moves. Like leaving would shatter whatever spell the moment has cast over you.

“I don’t know how I lived the past few years without you,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t alone or even lonely, but it always felt like something was missing.”

He smiles—gentle, a little sad. “It was you.”

You rise from the swing and step closer, slowly, like gravity is pulling you toward him.

“Say it,” you whisper. “Whatever it is you’re holding back. Just say it.”

He stands, facing you now, his eyes searching yours.

“You already know,” he says, voice low and strained. “I just—It feels too early. And too late. All at the same time.”

“So what?” you counter, your voice steadier than you feel. “So what if timing’s never been on our side?”

You take another step. Your breath mingles with his.

“So what if we’re not meant to last forever?” you say, softer now. “We’re here. That’s enough for me.”

“Y/N—”

“At least we tried,” you finish. “And we can try again. Over and over. Until we get it right.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it for years. “If I hurt you again…I couldn’t forgive myself.”

“Then I’ll forgive you,” you say simply. Your eyes don’t leave his. “This is me letting you in, Jack. So let me in too.”

Lightning flashes somewhere behind you, and thunder rumbles across the sky.

And then—

He kisses you.

His lips are warm against yours, a little hesitant at first—like he’s checking to make sure this is real. That you’re real. That the version of you who kissed him back exists outside of the memory he’s replayed a hundred times in his head.

But then your hand slides to the side of his face, and he smiles against your mouth like something in him’s finally relaxing.

You deepen the kiss just slightly, slow and unhurried, like there’s no rush. Like this doesn’t have to mean everything all at once. It just has to be honest.

When you finally part, you’re both grinning, breaths still mingling in the soft hush of the rain.

You smile, lips brushing his. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckles, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “I didn’t know if I still had a place in your life,” he says softly.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look at him. His hair damp from the rain, his eyes clear and steady like he’s finally stopped running from something.

“You never had to earn that.”

His gaze softens again, and this time, he leans in just to press a kiss to your cheek. Like he wants to make up for every second he missed. Every word he didn’t say.

The rain picks up a little, and you finally laugh, pulling the hood of your jacket over your head.

“Okay…Okay…We’re getting soaked.”

“Wanna make a run for it?” he asks, glancing toward the car.

You nod, still beaming.

You both take off down the path, rain falling harder now, laughter echoing through the empty park. The same laughter you both heard as kids, as teenagers.

But this time, everything feels new.

And this time, neither of you is running away.

Because love isn’t about time. Or distance. Or the past.

It’s about choice. 

And you’ve chosen each other.

You’ve chosen the future.

EPILOGUE

You’re at the station, sitting in front of the well-lit mirror in the makeup room, blending concealer beneath your eyes with practiced fingers. The studio is buzzing around you—camera crews prepping, producers barking final rundowns, the low hum of monitors and countdown clocks ticking toward airtime.

Tonight’s your first week as prime time anchor. You still haven’t fully wrapped your head around it.

Your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a familiar name.

You don’t hesitate.

“This is my regularly scheduled pre-game call,” Jack says, his voice warm and teasing, like he’s smiling with every word. “How’s my girl?”

You smile instantly, the kind that tugs at your cheeks and softens your whole face. “Your girl is currently preparing to deliver devastating news about the state of the world,” you reply, sweeping highlighter across your cheekbones.

He chuckles—low and amused. “Ouch.”

“That’s what you’ll be saying later when you get slammed into the boards,” you tease, dabbing at your lips with your go-to shade of red.

You hear him exhale a laugh, and you can picture it perfectly: the tilt of his head, that small shake he does when you catch him off guard. “What can I say? They target good players.”

You pause, your smile growing softer. “Well, tell them not to overdo it—because the good player in question still has to help me plan a wedding.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he laughs—a deep, joyful sound that fills your chest with something warm and bright and steady. “Yes, ma’am.”

You lean back in your chair, eyes meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look composed, professional, poised for the camera.

But inside, you feel lit up. Peaceful. Sure.

Because here you are—doing what you love, building a life that feels more like home than anything ever has. And he’s right there beside you. Exactly where he’s meant to be. 

Not as someone you used to know, but as someone who showed up. Who stayed.

Because, in the end, you chose each other.

And this time?

You’re not just holding on.

You’re holding each other steady—for all the days to come.

[bonzirella]

baby trouble !! (part 3) ft. oliver aiku and karasu tabito 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 part 1! part 2!

Summary: Congrats, you've just given birth! As you proudly hold up your baby, something seems off... the little thing looks just like her father!! And let's say... you're not the most rational about it. wc: 463 for oliver, 334 for karasu

Includes: fluff+crack, gender-neutral reader, reader does give birth but i fully support that mpreg exists in this universe, reader is not implied to be married with either chara, the children are both biologically female (she/her pronouns) because i stand bllk being girl dads, usage of the word "stupid", reader is lowkey sassy towards both charas but they reciprocate it so ig it's fine, no intense details of the actual birth. oliver being a menace,

a/n: p3!! req by @acideathr. kinda hate how short karasu's is, but i had the most fun writing it lol. lmk if you want any other charas

art creds go to dagoat yusuke nomura divider creds go to @hyuneskkami

oliver aiku

The room was quiet and warm. The soft buzz of a machine provided a serene ambience, and you looked glowing. Your baby cooed softly nearby while the doctors did their final checkups, and for a brief moment, you felt calm. Content, because the worst was over, and now you had your sweet baby girl in this room. Oliver had gone out to grab you some food, since you were absolutely famished. 

One of the nurses smiled as she gently passed your daughter back into your arms. “She’s completely healthy, ma’am.” You smiled back, “Thank you.” The staff filed out, one by one. You were alone with your newborn now. You promised Oliver that the two of you would look at your baby together, but you couldn’t resist the temptation! You looked down at her, swaddled tightly in fuzzy blankets. A little squishy. A little warm. Kind of weird-looking, in that universal newborn way… but still cute. The first thing you noticed was her hair. Thick and dark, just like her father’s. You smiled softly and kissed her head. Then she yawned. Her lips curled into a tiny, smug little grin—just like his. Your smile began to falter. Then she opened her eyes. 

Your soul left your body. 

Heterochromia. One green, one purple.. but they’re switched compared to Oliver’s. It’s like the universe was apologizing to you in some sick, twisted way. Even her eyelashes had the same dramatic curl as his do. He blinked up at you, and you swear you could already see her getting everyone to swoon over her. 

This wasn’t a child. This was Oliver Aiku in a blanket. 

You were still reeling from the defeat your genes faced when the door opened with a casual click, and in strolled the man himself, holding your favorite takeout like this was a post-game celebration. “Miss me?” he asked with a smirk, setting the food on the bedside table like some hot otome butler. You didn’t respond. 

Instead, you turned the baby toward him like you were revealing a cursed relic and hissed, “Nine months in my womb, making me suffer… and she comes out looking just like her stupid father?!” 

Oliver paused. Blinked. Came closer to get a better look. She stared at him. Stuck her tongue out. He stared back. Stuck out his tongue. Then, his face split into the most violating grin you’d ever seen. He even patted her little head like she’d scored a goal. 

“Aw babe. Don’t worry,” he said, voice smug and cocky, “maybe the next one can look like you… if we start trying again right now—” You launched a pillow at him, baby in one hand. It hit him square in the face. He was kicked out of the room for “disturbing the mother.”

karasu tabito

The baby was finally here. 

After a few hours of labor, a few quiet tears from Karasu, and a minor breakdown from one new nurse, you were finally holding your child. Warm, tiny, soft, and totally yours. The doctors filed out to give the two of you a moment. The room settled into a soft hum as you looked up at him with teary eyes and whispered, “Tabi.. look at our little girl..” 

Karasu cleared his throat like he wasn’t seconds from crying again. “She’s gonna be beautiful,” he murmured, “just like you.” You smiled and slowly pulled back the blanket to reveal her face, both of you breathless with anticipation. And then… her eyes opened. 

Initial impression: cute. Ten fingers, ten toes. A little squishy. The usual. But then, your brain connected the dots. Black hair, slanted eyebrows, that exact smug little mouth curve he makes when he’s being annoying on purpose. The final nail in the coffin was that stupid little beauty mark under her eye. The exact same one. You froze. Your smile faded. And you turned to him slowly, like he’d just committed a federal crime and whispered, “Nine months… Nine months in my womb, making me suffer… and she comes out looking just like… just like her stupid father.” Cue the dramatics. The gasp soundtrack playing in the background. The tense music rising. You sounded betrayed, looking at him like the genetic tyrant he is. 

Karasu blinked. Then, his mouth curled into a full-blown smirk. Just like the one your daughter was wearing right now. “Hey– don’t look at me like that,” he cooed, completely unbothered, “your womb had one job, and it chose perfection.” Then, somehow more smugly, “And technically, if you look at the gene dominance ratios, this is a completely logical outcome. You just got outplayed by biology, baby” 

He winked. You glared. He slept on the hospital bench that night. Final review: One star. Would not recommend pregnancy. Came out looking just like her father.

part 4 part 5

© 2025 bonzirella . . . . . . . . interested? read more here!!

[naga16]

If Danny uses ectoplasm... Then what if-

Art can make people feel. Art is soulful, something that has can transcend time and space despite being nonliving. It's full of emotions. Full of meanings behind every brush strokes and dots, shapes, and lines. It can speak without mouth and reach within anyone to claw out and shake their perspective to a new angle. It's has no language, only feelings.

When Danny painted the portal, when he painted his grave. He thought of the pain he felt. He remembered how his molecules got all rearrange. He remembered that it's the catalyst of a life he never even dreamed of. He remembered the life after the incident that starts of as a every kids dream, a dream come true. It's exciting and amazing at first, like flying a kite and trying to run faster to make it higher, then it's like being a tightrope walker. His responsibilities stacked up, the pressure keeps on rising, the stake gets more serious and they have too much too much to do in so little time. But he handled it like a champ. There's a moment where he enjoyed the thrill of the double life and the allure of seducing danger. Then, the line became a noose all of a sudden, where things will end for good and the only way to no longer endanger anyone is to subtract the danger magnet.

So, because of the ectoplasm, the emotions Danny felt every strokes was kept on the wall. That's why, when someone looks at it, they see something else.

Maybe a closet where you wish to die on just so you can escape the fight. Sure it's narrow and cold but it's safe. At the same time, it's a cage that you let yourself be trapped in.

Maybe an alley where your parents died. Cause it's your catalyst, the event that makes you who you are right now. The last memory of your loved ones where you saw just how devoted they are to you. A proof of their love even though you did nothing to gain it outside of being their child.

It could even be a literal tightrope. The height is quite exciting and then your flying, soaring even. You were happy, so happy. But then the actions of your parents took down the first domino that just, keeps on going and then suddenly. It's no longer fun time.

Art is subjective. It speaks to our soul. Don't blame the artist if your soul is selective deaf, Bats.

Dp x Dc Prompt- Perfect Pair Part 2

A continuation of this lovely person's reblog @naga16

Eventually their fun days for painting together would have to come to a halt. It wasn't the money it was never about the money, Damian could buy a thousand rooms if he could keep painting with Danny but the owner was running out of space and he needed to prioritize. It wouldn't be fair to other artists if Damian and Danny took up most of the rooms.

This was their 5th go around and it wasn't looking great. First of all this seems like the first time that Damian would actually have to talk to Danny and he wasn't exactly sure what to say. Damian, heir to Batman and the future for greater good was simply defeated at the thought of talking to his friend.

What exactly is he supposed to do about this now? They weren't going to be able to get another room together and as much as Damien would like he can't just ask Danny to join him in finding another place. No no that was far too forward.

The art gallery had rules in place that they could easily apply but being in a different building means that the rules didn't exactly exist. Not that Damian didn't trust his partner, he definitely did, but he couldn't be too careful of course. Him and his civilian friend and possible crush.

Well he was pissing in the lobby of what to do he was cut off by his thoughts. Danny stood in front of him with a sad expression that Damian hadn't seen before. He walked over to Danny but words failed to come out, Danny seemed to have a similar issue but he pulled out his sketchbook and opened it to show Damian something.

A beautiful sketch of a building that Damian actually remembered seeing, it was in downtown Gotham for sale if his memory serves correctly. Danny was proposing they go there? Easily done Damian would just buy the building if that's where Danny wanted to continues.

In reality Danny was actually proposing that they could see if they could rent a room in the building once it was on the market so they could just have their own art studio. He wasn't expecting Damian to tell him that he bought the whole building.

[Masterpost] [Part 1]

[nanamisbbygirl]

⚛︎ academic misconduct ⚛︎

chapter 1. game on

pairing; nerd! gojo satoru x nerd! reader

genre: college au, drama/ romance, academic rivals

summary: everyone on campus knew gojo satoru was smart, just as they knew you were his biggest competition. so, with a summer internship looming over your heads, the tension has never been higher. but, how far will each of you go to get that spot?

cw: nothing

a/n: a new series begins! i can't stress enough how grateful i am for @junuru for helping me out with this-- everyone go check out her page and comment thank you ivy on this post ily twinnnn

masterlist > next

Gojo Satoru was just as annoying as he was smart— which was something that you realized very early on in your academic career.

You had heard a handful of rumors about him— he had carried his whole team at the annual mathlete games, or that he’d made a teacher cry for not knowing the answer to his question. Yet, his unrivaled brain and scholarly merit alone was enough to intrigue you. So, upon hearing that you were in the same major, you knew there ought to be an overlap in your schedules. It was no surprise, then, that he was in almost every single one of your classes. 

The mutual loathing only grew as the semester progressed.

It came to a point where your peers could see this, the ferocity of your rivalry seemed to create a complete shift in the atmosphere, especially with the internship dangling over your heads. By midterms, everyone figured that it would either be you or Gojo in that spot, making the rest of them cowardly back away from it like wounded dogs. The fight was between you and him. Even your peers from other courses would say the same thing— any time you and Gojo were in the same class, things were bound to become heated. 

That meant you’d be fighting tooth and nail for the highest grade—every bonus mark, every top spot. Even if the competition went unsaid, you could sense the rivalry forming. It was a feeling that was brewing from the very beginning, ever since you stepped foot on campus. You wanted to win, to stop at nothing to see him come in second— to show your peers Gojo Satoru was not untouchable. You had something to prove, but so did he. 

Amongst all your intense classes, there was one that mattered more than any of the others: Dr. Mishiwaka’s class. Of course, everyone in your program knew what that getting that spot meant— it was something more than just bragging rights. The top student graciously gained an automatic acceptance into his extremely prestigious summer internship program. His course only ran once per year, and by the end, he’d save that position for one lucky student. Although, luck hardly had anything to do with it. 

So, like any eager student, the second the exam dates were released, you circled Mishikawa’s with a big, bold, red sharpie—letting it mark your calendar like a doomsday countdown. It was the most important exam—giving you the chance at an opportunity that could quite literally define your whole future. 

Unfortunately for you, with that cocky white hair boy in your class, your odds became infinitely slimmer—the way he’d raise his hand to answer every question, or how he’d stay every day after lecture to talk to the professor, buttering him up to the idea of him being in that lab. You’d try to talk to Mishikawa too, but as soon as Gojo was done, the professor would rush off, claiming he had another class to attend to. 

Had Gojo not been there, that internship would have been yours weeks ago— hell, you would’ve already had a lab coat with your name embroidered into it. Now, you were working twice as hard— which felt humanly impossible. There was no opportunity to take breaks, or to have fun. Every aspect of your life was dedicated to academics, specifically the workload for Mishikawa’s class. All you had to do was beat Gojo, outperform the natural genius—surely, you’d be crowned the top student. That was a big deal—something that you couldn’t let slip through your fingers, let alone fall into his hands. 

Getting that mark, though, was easier said than done, because—as you’d already established—Satoru was not easy competition. Your marks always seemed to balance out; you’d score a few points higher on bellringers, but he had you beat in terms of participation bonuses, always stealing your chance to speak. During labs, he’d flaunt the fact he was able to finish his calculations much quicker than you, as if it was simple, basic math— as if calculus was simple, basic math. You were always neck and neck, fighting over percentages, constantly trying to outdo one another when it came to academics. You’d gloat when outdoing him on a paper, and he’d mock you when your lab notes conveniently—and mysteriously— went askew. 

He was your biggest threat, and you were his. 

You’d bicker constantly, picking fights and pushing each other to your limits. It was a match made in hell—two brains clashing over beakers and microscopes. The competition had been like throwing oil over a fire, creating a flame that couldn’t be put out easily—only to stop burning when one of you had claimed your victory over the other. 

Despite all the tension and turmoil, you found yourself getting along on rare occasions.

There were times where you’d laugh together in the library, helping each other with flash cards and co-using study rooms. Hell, Gojo would always turn to you to be his partner during labs—something about how you were the only person who could keep up with him. Even if you were rivals, he didn’t trust the rest of your “stupid” classmates with the experiments. You were both cut from the same cloth in that regard.

Yet, there was still one degree of separation between you. 

Maybe it was because everything seemed to come naturally to him. He was born into a good family, one that owned and operated one of the best technological and research facilities in Japan. He was basically bred to be a genius—his parents might’ve even created him in a test tube. He was guaranteed a placement as soon as he graduated. He'd probably end up running the company someday, too. 

That was why you needed to beat him. He had everything in comparison to you—you had to bust your ass to get top marks, unlike him. It made you envious that he was given every single opportunity and he still couldn’t let you have this one thing. Sure, your marks could speak for themselves, but, one mistake, one wrong equation on that exam and your entire life would be over. Every fiber of your being hated him for this, for—what felt like—him robbing you of a golden opportunity, one that only came once in a lifetime. You hoped Gojo could figure that out for himself, but that hope was useless. 

He was always a little too self centered for his own good. His confidence was clear to everyone in your program and to the faculty as a whole. Clever and cunning; cute and charming– that’s how people described him, and they couldn’t have been more spot on.

Gojo would parade around campus, head held high, not shy about the fact that he was smarter than the average college student. It didn’t help that he also knew he was devilishly handsome and used this to his advantage, acting as if he was God’s gift to the university—everyone else a mere peasant, basking in the glory that was Gojo Satoru. Every step he took was with confidence, some of it was earned, while some was created by his own ego. 

He was always surrounded by girls—practically swarmed by them as he continuously egged them on. They’d gush over his pretty blue eyes—something you’d never admit, but was simply a term coined by those fascinated by their unique colour. They’d giggle mindlessly, asking him to tutor them, or to go out with them. Judging by his schedule, he didn’t have time to, but whether or not he took them to bed was beyond you.

You never really stayed long enough to listen to him flirt back. 

Yet, what you didn’t hear was the way he spoke about said girls to his roommate. 

“Please, they’re all bimbos—I don’t waste my time with girls like that,” he’d complain, rolling his eyes andgagging slightly. “They’re so easy too—only good for one night stands, and where’s the fun in that?” 

A challenge is what he needed, someone to push him beyond his limits—to make him work tooth and nail. You always came to mind when he thought about difficult things. 

He had underestimated you once before, and he couldn’t let it happen again. 

Gojo could remember the moment you walked into that fateful lecture hall.

The fall air was crisp, leaves crunching under his step. He shrugged off his light coat as he settled in his seat.

Anxious students kept their eyes on the door, waiting for the professor to walk in. He, on the other hand, was already bored deeming this class as one of his easier ones, paying no mind to the previously sent out syllabus and panicked chatter in the room. 

Gojo tapped his finger against the desk in front of him, mindlessly trying to practice patience. There was a buzz in the air that was quickly settled as soon as Mishikawa took a stand at the podium. 

That’s when you walked in, frazzled. Judging by the look in your eye, you had trouble finding the room. That was probably the case.

Every set of eyes, including his own, snapped from their focus to inspect you entering the room. He observed the fact that, despite being in a hectic rush, you were still well put together.

He figured a girl like you—one so effortlessly good looking—wouldn’t last long in the program. Surely you would crumble under the pressure and switch to something easier. 

He expected to at least get a good laugh out of his boring first lecture when Mishikawa cold called you. Gojo was sure that you were going to turn into a blubbering mess—getting a kick out of seeing the whimsy in your eye snuffed out. 

“You—” Mishikawa singled you out as a punishment for walking in late and disrupting the beginning of his introduction. “Can you tell me why, specifically, hydrogen gas doesn’t just spontaneously form water in the air? Considering we have oxygen all around us?”

Only, you answered his inquiry to a tee. Stating: 

“Because in order for that to happen, activation energy would be required.”

Impressive, he thought, leaning forward in his seat, watching you from across the lecture hall, seeing if you’d be able to complete the rest of the answer. For a brief second, he thought that maybe—just maybe— this class wouldn’t be so boring after all. 

“Not to mention hydrogen is extremely rare in Earth’s atmosphere,” you continued, much to everyone’s surprise. “Most of it exists in an already bound state.”

You take a deep breath, eyes shifting across the room, faces blurring until catching a glimpse of white hair from the corner of your eye. You double take, checking that you weren’t seeing things.

“Explosive reactions only occur if triggered by high heat like a flame or a spark—which was the cause for the Hindenburg disaster, right?” 

“That’s correct,” Dr. Mishikawa hummed, satisfied. “Take a seat.”

You made your way down the steps, taking a seat in the row in front of him, a small smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. 

He leaned forward, allowing himself to rest his face just inches away from your ear. His amused expression was hard to ignore—eyebrows raised, eyes glimmering, smile lines twitching. Sliding his tongue over his lips before he spoke, he commented: 

“You forgot compression,” his hushed tone rattled in your brain, causing you to tilt your head, peering at him ever so slightly. Gojo only continued: “For factors that trigger reactions—under the right amount of pressure or shock the gas molecules collide.” 

“I know what autoignition is,” you quip, a displeased frown plaguing your face. 

“Mhm. Right. Just that…you forgot to mention it.” Maybe he wasn’t trying to sound stuck up when he spoke, maybe he was. He was trying to start a conversation nonetheless—someone finally peaked his interest. Yet, he managed to come across as condescending.

How typical of him. 

“I guess you’re right.” You were icy, your tone sterile, focusing back on the front of the lecture hall. Gojo sat back, huffing—kissing goodbye to his chances of getting on your good side.  

At that moment, he knew you and him were going to be in hot water and the game of cat-and-mouse had officially started. He would find every opportunity to piss you off, to show you he was still superior— to truly live up to the definition of rivalry. 

“You messed up the equation,” he said, catching you by surprise. 

Mishikawa’s exam was closing in, your stress was growing by the day— you had limited time to cram, hence why you had picked this private room to study in. It was the perfect spot to be studying. Alone. 

As you turned your head back to the whiteboard overflowing with math work, he stepped in, standing with two drinks, one in each hand. He smirked slightly, his glasses sliding down his nose slightly. He promoted one of his hands, signalling the drink: “A peace offering.” 

“Go to hell,” you snap. “I’m trying to focus.”

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, sauntering over toward where you sat. “Well studying with the wrong formula won’t do you any good.”

Gojo set down the drinks, sliding you your usual order. He proceeds to take the whiteboard marker from your hand into his, the palm of his hand brushing your fingers while simultaneously wiping away the majority of your work with his sleeve. 

His eyes narrowed in, his tongue pressing on the inside of his cheek and his nose flared slightly as if he was deep in thought. He began to draw against the white surface, gliding the marker against it like a figure skater on ice. You watched with intent, thinking he was actually going to correct you. 

Only, you should’ve known better. It was Gojo Satoru, afterall, he was equal parts fool as he was a genius. 

“Looks about right to me, now,” he declared as he stepped back, making you realize that he’d erased your work for nothing. All that remained on the whiteboard was a very childish, very primitive, and oddly detailed drawing of a penis. 

You scowl in disgust. “Are you five years old or something?” 

Gojo only let out a characteristic laugh, the base of his glasses fogging up ever so slightly at the sight of your growing frustration. 

“You shouldn’t frown so much, you’ll get wrinkles,” he pointed to your face, his index finger being swatted away. 

“And you shouldn’t be such a jerk, some of us are actually trying to do well on our exams.” 

“Oh and I’m not trying?” He raised an eyebrow, teasingly. 

You rolled your eyes again, “No, you’re not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me.” 

He chuckled again, taking a seat in the space across from you, not bothering to wipe away the lewd drawing taking up a prime spot on your whiteboard. 

“I came to check in on you, actually.”

You can’t help the way your face coiled in, as if you’d tasted something sour. Jutting your lips out, you give him an unassumed glance. 

“Oh, how sweet of you,” you remark, sarcastically. 

“I know, I’m so considerate," he paused briefly for a moment. 

You excited him, more than any other student did—he knew he had to give it his all. He was going to get that scholarship, and make sure you never forgot it. As evil as it sounded, he was going to crush you.

It went beyond friendly competition– he needed to win. 

Gojo proceeded:

“I was just thinking about the fact you have your stats exam right before Mishikawa’s,” he elaborates. “Just wondering how you’re holding up.” 

You narrowed your eyes, as if to question whether or not it was worth telling him. 

“Not well,” you admit, finally. “Stats is my worst subject thus far—long story short the TA is an ass. I’m trying to focus most of my energy on studying for that.” 

Something was brewing in his brain and it was subconsciously pulling at his lips, causing much of his energy to be put into not letting his smirk show. You could see this, though, as if a little, imaginary lightbulb had appeared over his head. 

“It’s not like I really need to be stressed about Mishikawa's exam— I know I’ll do well. It’ll mostly be review though, I think I know the content pretty well at this point—” 

Truth be told, Gojo had stopped listening.

Not that he didn’t care, but because he was too concentrated by the movements of your face—your eyes jolted around, catching different points of his own face; your jaw was tense, despite your lips moving so freely; your hands waved around, as if they were providing supporting claims to your rambles.

Your words blended together once they met his ear, and he only regained his focus when he heard you exclaim: 

“I’m still gonna get the top mark, as long as I have the night before to review– I’ll beat you to a pulp.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” he states, rising up, towering over you while lowering his gaze to look straight into your eye.

You could feel your pupils widen, your heart racing at the thought of the look on his face when you beat him. Your victory would be oh-so sweet. To see his shocked expression as you stepped into Mishikawa’s lab. Everything would be too perfect. 

Unbeknownst to you, he was thinking the same. Thinking about squashing you as if you were an ant.

Slowly, the gears turned in his head, devising every miniscule detail in his plan to derail you from your goals. Studying your flustered features, it seemed like a god-send. For a minute he praised himself for being such a genius. 

“Game on.”

taglist: @spacefae-x @chewiebee @alienated-god @artbligh @inixox0 @karvokr @siennayaps @luvleixo @undermegumisbed @nerdjoswife @kitassecretgf @raendarkfaerie @br3aunna @mxtcha-lvr @suki91 @kpopwh0r3 @the0ishere @theleo28 @saltypuffin1040 @ehcilhc @alnoorim (open)

[seikaverse]

"Bold of You to Try"

a/n: Request from anon! You know that moment when you’re just minding your business with your boyfriend, enjoying your date… and some stranger thinks it’s a great idea to flirt with you while he’s sitting right there? Yeah. Scaramouche lets them talk — just long enough to watch them dig their own hole — before shutting it down.

pairing: scaramouche x you

genre: fluff

The café was warm with the smell of roasted beans and fresh pastries, soft chatter blending into the hiss of steaming milk. You and Scaramouche had your favorite spot — a cozy corner booth with enough privacy for your knees to bump under the table.

He was stirring his drink with unnecessary precision, and you were grinning at him like an idiot.

"What?" he asked without looking up, suspicious.

"You’ve got foam on your lip," you said, leaning over the table slightly.

He narrowed his eyes, clearly skeptical, but didn’t move when you reached forward with a napkin to wipe it away. "You’re lying."

"I’m not," you said, smiling in that I’m definitely lying way.

He huffed, leaning back. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet…"

You tapped his cup with your straw. "…you still bring me to your favorite café."

He muttered something under his breath that suspiciously sounded like soft spot and took another sip of his coffee. The moment was comfortable — warm in that way only he could make it — until a shadow fell over your table.

"Hey," a bright voice said.

You looked up. Denim jacket, messy hair, a confident smile that thought it could win over anyone.

"Hi?" you replied, uncertainty slipping into your voice.

He didn’t even glance at Scara. "Sorry to bother you, but I noticed you from over there." He jerked his thumb toward a table across the room. "You’ve got a really gorgeous smile. Thought I’d come say hello."

"Uh… thanks," you said politely.

You didn’t have to look to know Scara was watching. You could *feel* it — that slow, simmering tension like static just behind you. He was perfectly still, save for his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the side of his cup.

"So," the guy continued, "do you come here often?"

"Sometimes," you answered cautiously.

"That’s cool. I’m new around here. Maybe you could recommend me a few places? Or…" His grin widened. "…we could check them out together sometime."

You inhaled to answer — mostly to politely shut him down — but Scara’s quiet presence loomed heavier. His gaze was locked on the stranger, head tilted just slightly in that deceptively lazy way.

"I’m sure you’re busy," the guy went on, "but it’s always nice meeting someone friendly in a new place. You seem fun."

And that’s when Scaramouche finally spoke.

"Just wondering," he said mildly, "how long you were planning to keep flirting with my girlfriend before you realized I’m sitting right here?"

The man froze. "…Oh. Uh—"

"Because I’ve been here the whole time," Scara continued, voice calm but laced with an edge, "holding her hand, listening to you run through your little script like you’re at an audition."

You glanced down. Sure enough, Scara had your hand in his — fingers linked, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles, warm and solid.

"Look, man—" the guy started.

"You’ve got guts," Scara said, smirking faintly. "And the survival instincts of a traffic cone. You should probably work on that."

Silence.

The guy gave a tight, awkward chuckle. "Alright, fine. I’ll leave you to it."

"That’s the smartest thing you’ve said yet," Scara murmured.

When the man finally walked off, Scaramouche’s eyes stayed on him for just a beat longer before turning back to you.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

You smiled, shaking your head. "You really let him go on for a while before stepping in."

"Of course," he said simply. "Why waste good entertainment?"

You laughed, bumping his knee under the table. "Possessive much?"

"Only for you," he murmured — and his hand didn’t let go of yours for the rest of the date.

[shysuccubusstuff]

No Running Now pt. 1

Summary: Acting all bratty does have consequences, even for someone as cute as yourself, sadly.

Content: Brat tamer! Caleb + Teasing! Reader; Size difference + Face fucking + Throatpie + Mean! Dom + (Praise kink + Degrading kink); Non proof-reader

Note: I was planning on joining AO3 for the first time ever but it turns out it has a waitlist... I had no idea :(( I was getting so excited already, like planning a new username and everything... I will continue with the requests little by little! Something I find interesting about my requests is the fact that despite I write mainly NSFW stuff, most of my requests are actually SFW! Not complaining, I just found it so interesting! ₍^ >ヮ<^₎ .ᐟ.ᐟ I come here with a recommendation for a new manhwa: "How About Cosmic Horror?" It's a new manhwa so it has like 9 chapters if I'm not mistaken but I enjoyed it, the plot is so interesting and it gave me a few ideas for future works!! Can you all tell that I love a certain trope? I hope so! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

You had chosen to spend the whole day pestering Caleb, how, you may ask.

Of course it was by running your hands around his croch, your hands ghosting that area as if it was completely natural, constantly giving him excuses about how he had stained himself with something, your warm hand pressing on that area and rubbing against it as if he truly had a stain there. Other times, you said that you had dropped something close to him, using his leg to help get yourself off the ground even when he had kindly offered to get it for you, according to you, this was merely because you didn't want to disturb him while he worked on reviewing some papers, but of course Caleb had noticed the way you kept gliding your hands around his cock, with him biting his lips as he cursed inside his brain. Oh, you were so gonna get it as soon as the two of you were alone...

Unluckily for you, the day finally reached the end, allowing the two of you to finally return home, your mind already running in circles trying to come up with what excuses could you create just to avoid whatever Caleb had in mind. Not like you had much time before Caleb grabbed you by your wrist, not losing any time before guiding you towards your bedroom, closing the door behind him and giving you a wicked smile as you heard the click of the door closing. "I'm so glad you had your fun, pips, surely you must have been laughing soooo much each time you noticed my pants getting so tight each time you circled your pretty hands around there, right baby?" You swallowed hard, trying to think of the best excuse ever created just to get away with your little prank. "Oh, come on Caleb, I... I already told you, there were just a lot of crumbles that kind of looked like stains, plus, my hands seem to be made of butter today, you know? Things... Things kept falling off my hands, yeah? I just... Just didn't want you to bother, you were soooo busy today!" You hadn't noticed before, but by the time you had finished blabbering some poor excuses, your back was completely pressed against the wall, Caleb's taller frame making you play with your hands as you tried to avoid his gaze.

"Oh... That sounds so difficult, pips, how about I help you getting a better grip with your hands? Promise you won't ever go around dropping your stuff." Caleb's eyes were now darker than unusual, his slightly cold hands making you shiver as you got ready for whatever was going inside his mind.

Before long, you were already completely cornered against the wall, Caleb's cock bullying your throat each time he forced his whole lenght inside your mouth, both of his hands holding your head while one of them was set on the back of your head, hips moving rapidly while he avoided hitting your head against the hard wall. "You... Just had to keep on teasing me, uh?... Had to keep running your hands around my cock, you just loved seeing my... Fuck... My face turning red each time my dick started to get hard... Guess you just needed me to fuck some sense into your pretty brain, right? Need someone bigger and older to teach you how to behave in public... Right, pretty baby?" Caleb got away for a second, his whole length leaving your mouth, with only the tip of his cock caressing your swollen lips, making them all shiny due to the mixture of precum and saliva. "How about I teach you some manners? What are you supposed to say now?" You tried to get your gaze to focus, vision still a bit foggy due to the tears that had formed in your eyes. "Ple...Please give me your... your dick." Caleb smiled warmly, his left hand petting your hair with extreme love before shoving his whole cock inside your mouth, his tip bruising against the back of your throat as he used his hands to keep your head in place, both of his hands still caressing your hair as if you were the most fragile thing in the world.

"So good baby... I'm so close, make sure to open wide so you can get every last drop... Wouldn't want you to have milk my cock again with your pretty mouth, right?... Ugh... Just like that, you're doing so good for me-- Here comes, open wide baby~" Your throat was suddenly filled with heavy, slightly salted ropes of cum, the sudden release making you almost gag as you tried your best to drink every single drop of Caleb's release, his cock slowly leaving your mouth while releasing more of it on your tongue. "Open wide, pips, show me how good you did for me~..." And you did just as he asked, opening your mouth and showing your empty mouth, his chest being filled with a strange mixture of proudness and something quite more twisted.

Surely you had learnt your lesson with this, right?

[violetrainbow412-blog]

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✧˖°.

Photographs and birthdays ☼

You need a photographer for your little brother’s party and Peter is the one

You are here (no way home timeline) ►☼

Peter has lost a lot, but it seems fate decides to give him a second chance

Changes ►☼

Things are not going so well lately and he has to choose… Spiderman or you?

Spider…woman? (no way home timeline) ☼

You meet a familiar face in another universe, but it’s not exactly what you expected

Sickness ☼

Only you taking care of Peter

Pink geraniums ☼

When a strange man arrives from the future, you have to ask for help from a cute speedster who easily steals your attention (reader with chlorokinesis)

Dear professor ☼

Your boy teaches at the institute and you can’t help but pay him a visit

A little bit of jam ☼

You buy donuts for the team and it all ends in chaos

Bob Reynolds NSFW headcanons ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Where Soft Things Grow 🌱

When Bob's therapist asks him to find an activity that will help him gain some control, he's forced to turn to you. That's just the first step in a series of events he never thought would happen.

Let them see ☼

You and Bob are forced to attend an event hosted by Valentina, where more is revealed than you would have liked.

The way you hold me ☼

The heater's failing and you're freezing from the rain, so Bob offers to lend you a blanket. Apparently, he keeps you warmer than the fabric.

Shadows Beneath the Light ►☼ (Sorcerer!reader) (part 1)

Valentina contacts you to conduct a complete team assessment regarding the mystical arts. But when Bob's turn comes, it turns out he needs more of your help.

Where Darkness Cradles the Light ►☼(Sorcerer!reader) (part 2)

You land a full-time job at the Watchtower, and over time, you and Bob grow closer. But the shadows of your past soon resurface—and now it’s Bob who must help you find your way back to the light.

Wrapped around you (hurt/comfort)

Bob has a secret lover in the city, and that night he feels the need to sleep in her arms.

No one else +18! (part 2 of wrapped around you)

Bob agrees to join you at a bar with your friends, but a stranger’s gesture unsettles him more than he expected. Later that night, in the quiet of your apartment, he finally lets himself be vulnerable—and loved.

Espionage ☼ (same reader as above)

A quiet morning on the Watchtower turns into psychic people-watching when Jean, Yelena, and Ava decide to “check in” on their teammates. It’s all fun and teasing, until Jean sees something she wasn’t meant to: Bob, deeply in love, living a secret life no one expected.

Off the Record ☼

After the fallout with the Void and with tensions rising around the New Avengers, all you're really trying to do is hold on to the people who still matter. Joaquín, your best friend, writes from a distance. Bob—unstable but honest—has started to stay close. And before everything breaks for good, you decide it’s time they meet, even if you’re not all on the same side. Even if some wouldn’t approve.

I: Golden

Bob loves you, but he'd never dare say it. Unfortunately, all these repressed feelings fuel Sentry, who decides to do something once and for all.

II: Obsidian ►

Bob loves you, but he’s trapped by his own fears and silence. Void, the shadow of his pain, confronts you with the burden he carries—leaving you scared and unsure of what comes next.

III: Cobalt ► (+18!)

Bob loves you, but fear keeps him silent. Void's rage haunts your nights, while Sentry's presence stirs painful truths. Between rejection, longing, and a moment of raw intimacy, you both try to navigate a love shaped by trauma, identity, and everything that threatens to tear you apart.

Fool (for you)

After a reckless stunt during a mission, Johnny comes home bruised and smiling. You're tired of patching him up, tired of worrying—but loving him means caring even when you're mad.

Blastwave

Loving a genius comes with sparks—sometimes literal.

How do they react when you kiss their cheek?

How do they react if you push them away after a fight?

Dry humping +18 mdni

When they have a nightmare

Conversations

Rainy days

Jelousy

Getting to know each other

Kinky +18 mdni

[texassmashmyass]

One More Drink | Designated Driver!Clark Kent Headcannons

Note: I’ve been talking abt this with @banesbottombitch and couldn’t wait to write about Clark being the perfect DD 🖤

Friday night: It starts at a friend’s house party. You’re already tipsy, shoes off, curled into Clark’s side, sipping on the strong drink you made to cope with the long week you’ve had. Clark’s been nursing the same drink all evening, only taking polite sips now and then, telling you he doesn’t drink often.

When the party starts winding down, Clark gently suggests it’s time to go home. But you’re having none of it. You feel good- great, actually, and nothing, not even Clark Kent, is going to stop your fun. Tugging at his sleeve, you slur a threat into his ear that if he doesn’t take you to the bar, you’ll just have to go by yourself. Clark sighs, still holding you close. “Alright. Just one more drink.”

Your excitement at seeing him give in leaves your head buzzing. He guides you to his car, double-checks your seatbelt twice, and drives you to the bar.

The second you step inside, you come alive. It’s like you’ve been revived- you order a giant fishbowl drink immediately. Clark just shakes his head, a fond smile on his face as he watches you wander off, befriending everyone in sight.

You introduce everyone to your boyfriend Clark, bragging about how amazing he is while Clark’s cheeks burn pink under the praise. He scratches the back of his neck, shy but secretly loving every word.

When you nearly knock over your glass trying to spin on your barstool, Clark’s hand shoots out with uncanny speed to catch it before it spills. You giggle, poking his chest and slurring something about his super reflexes. Clark tries not to laugh too hard.

He keeps an eye on you as your new friends order a round of shots. Clark politely declines his, but you snatch it up for yourself.

By now, you’re far too gone to stay upright for long. Clark gently coaxes you into a booth in the corner, sitting on the outside so you can lean against the wall or against his broad chest instead of falling onto the sticky bar floor.

You demand more shots, so Clark obliges- only, they’re just water. You can’t tell the difference, and toss them back with dramatic flair, bragging about how you could outdrink anyone. Clark hums in agreement, brushing your hair from your face when you slump against him.

When last call comes around, Clark helps you into your coat, carries your purse, and wraps his arm around your shoulders to steady you. You giggle into his chest the whole walk to the car, tripping over your own feet.

When you stumble too much, Clark simply picks you up and carries you on his back to his car. You laugh the whole way, whispering dirty nothings into his ear. He’s just glad you can’t see how red his face gets.

Back at your place, you suddenly decide you’re not tired. You pout when he tries to tuck you into bed, so he sighs and settles you on the couch instead, wrapping a blanket snugly around your shoulders.

You watch him sleepily from the couch, half-lidded eyes following him as he moves around the kitchen. He makes you a grilled cheese: greasy, full of carbs, and perfect for a drunk girl trying to stave off tomorrow’s hangover.

He sits next to you while you eat, brushing crumbs from your lips and listening to your rambling about how perfect he is. He just smiles, kisses your forehead, and reminds you to drink more water.

When you finally drift off, head in his lap, he runs his fingers through your hair and whispers soft promises that he’ll take care of you tomorrow morning, hangover or not, and how much he loves you.

[imtired-likerllytired]

I dislike the take that Dick was an asshole before and it’s only rewrites that have made him a good/kind man.

Because he was always a good and kind man, current Dick Grayson has had some authors that seem to find him more interesting as a Mary Sue paragon of moral virtue and yeah? If you compare ANYONE to that it’s dull.

Now this is where it gets tricky for me because I think that’s Dick Grayson should and has kinda always? Been portrayed as a Mary Sue paragon of moral virtue to those OUTSIDE of his circle

Like characters like the titans, Barbara, Bruce they know that Dick can be selfish, is super controlled and calculating until you push on that ONE button and suddenly all he wants to do is throw hands. They know that he’s a collection of issues and poor coping mechanisms that’s goals in life consistent of the unwinable battle of ending crime and the even more unwinable battle of gaining Bruce Wayne’s approval while also being eternally terrified of turning into the man.

They know that he’s is human and flawed

And so should we! The reader! I need to see those character flaws, that guilt, those issues. The fact that he will help you but if he doesn’t like you it’s not gonna be a fun sort of help. He’s gonna make you miserable about the fact you ever needed him. He has the capacity for being both kindness and nicety but he can choose to say “fuck you, I don’t like you so I’m gonna be an ass about this”

And like idk he’s whiny sometimes and his quips and puns can come off as poor taste and he sometimes IS too rigid in the standard he holds heroes too (I don’t think this applies to non vigilante/ hero types but that’s a discussion for another day) I think he is argumentative and Independent and HE will get up in your face about it.

That’s what makes him interesting, that’s why he needs characters around him to ground him. But recently (not the watters run but certain other runs I won’t mention) it feels like they’ve turned him into this perfectly funny, charming loveable guy who just gee whiz if only he was brighter thank gosh he has his friends! Around him!!!

What I’m saying is that they substituted his natural prickliness and caustic qualities and replaced them with general incompetence which is boring

Like okay

Take Dick and Barbara’s relationship (both platonic and romantic) BEFORE this weird shift. They were equals in skill and then they were there to try (and fail… miserably but that’s not the point) to pull each other back and ground each other. They know each other so so so well and they implicitly understand that the other can go to far or leap without looking when it concerns non vigilante matters.

Babs has on multiple occasions called out the fact that Dick dates controlling people to seek out affirmation, care and validation and that he receives that from sex which is unhealthy bc he shouldn’t be using sex as a substitute for genuine care and he knows that (which also a whole nother rant and tangent about sex and how it’s discussed in relation to Dick Grayson)

And Dick has on multiple occasions pulled Barbara out of her own head and her own paranoia (is it paranoia if they’re really out to get you?) He’s the one who tells her, hey listen no you’re going too far about this. Stop spiraling.

Now? It feels like Babs is just generally concerned for Dicks wellbeing when he does something reckless or dangerous (again don’t particularly feel this way about watters) it almost feels like they’re entire relationship is quipping back and forth, dick messing up and babs being like oh lol isn’t that silly and then him being in danger and her being really worried about him until! Oops! It’s a fake out

And

Him and Kori???

The whole two broken people who built stable ground and refound family together? Thing? They had going? For decades? Gone! Hell in the new 52 Kori and Dick don’t work out bc he has issues that’s just flat out the reason.

Like THEIR WHOLE SHTICK WAS we can be whole together but sure

And now??? That deep loving complex relationship born out of mutual struggle and affection… oop- teenage fling

Like when you get rid of flaws and leave a character perfect? It cheapens the depths of their relationships?

Dick and Bruce????? Bruce’s not at all normal reactions to Dick both with two face and with joker and how that absolutely fucked Dick up beyond repair??? How he went from a laughing, hypercompetent little menace to fully and truly being broken down not by the trauma but by the lack of support afterwards? The fact that whenever he made a mistake he was left alone. THAT WAS the issue in their relationship

The whole “oh Dick threw a fit bc Azrael was Batman but he didn’t even want to be Batman isn’t that silly” thing is objectively hilarious but the POINT IS Dick needed freedom hence Nightwing right. But also Dick now believes even implicitly that if he has no use to Bruce he will be left alone. If he is not a competent hero he will be thrown away

That’s the fucked up part of their relationship, Bruce’s inability to communicate fucked him up major okay that’s just canon?

And now?? It’s all?? One big happy family which would be fine except how does one contextualize???? Anything that happened beforehand? Why does Dick who needs people around him and struggles alone? Why did he Strike out if he left willingly? Why did avoid Gotham? Why was he so upset about Azrael? Why? Why ? Why?

It cheapens the moment

[aliceintvland]

In Circles Somewhere Else -- ch 6

18+ NSFW; smut, fingering, degradation if you squint, DIRTY TALK GALORE, a little angst. asshole!robby in flashback hehe sorry but we stan our damaged, imperfect king

Your conversation with Shen's ectopic patient went as expected. A lot of tears from her and her husband, shaky words from you, and Robby lingering outside the door to make sure you're okay.

He poked his head under the guise of introducing himself during shift change, but you know the man well enough to know what he was doing.

When you step out, he's all but waiting for you, looking at you with those big brown eyes you fell in love with so many years ago.

"Break room?" he asks, and you tilt your head at him, a soft smile on your lips.

"I'm fine," you insist.

"Come on," he lowers himself to meet your eye line. "Just for a minute."

"Fine," you nod.

It's not even for you. The trauma, pain and grief you still carry are fairly well managed thanks to extensive therapy. You dove into graduate school, focusing on helping others as opposed to wallowing in the pain. You and Robby are similar in that regard.

He walks with you, pace steady as he opens the door for you, pointing to the couch.

"Coffee?"

"We've been here an hour, you madman," you chuckle, and he shrugs as he pours himself another cup. Robby sits down next to you, hand on your knee for a brief moment before pulling back. "I'm okay, you know."

"I know that," he nods. "You always are. But as the only other person who went through that with you, I wanted to check in."

As you look at his sad face, you can't help but remember the loneliness you felt toward the end of your relationship. He retreated in his pain--from Adamson, the trauma of COVID, and losing the baby.

It's difficult not to make a snide remark. Oh, now you're checking in?

But you nod appreciatively, cupping his cheek and rubbing your thumb along his beard. Softer than you remember it.

"And you? I'm sure you treat that sort of stuff all the time," you say, pulling your hand back when a sadness crept back into his eyes.

"Oh you know me, I bury that shit down."

"Yeah," you nod, twisting your lips. "That's your specialty."

"But I'm in therapy," he confesses. Your gaze meets his, shocked by this revelation. The very suggestion used to always start a fight.

"I'm proud of you, Michael."

"Thanks," he says. The vulnerability hangs in the hair for a moment, and Robby shifts uncomfortably. "How's Oliver doing?"

"Good," you smile. "He's getting discharged tomorrow."

"So why don't you stay again tonight?" Robby asks, perhaps too eagerly.

If you were smart, you'd say no. You'd ask your sister's husband to meet you halfway with your house keys, or call your landlord for a spare. But instead you nod, shivering when he reaches for your hand, clasping it between both of his.

"I'm proud of you," he says, and the words catch you off guard. Nodding, you flash the faintest smile as he stands. "I'll see you later, yeah?"

There's a hint of question in his voice, as if he's afraid you're going to disappear again.

"Yeah," you nod, watching as he leaves.

It's hard not to wonder if his therapy could turn him back into the man you fell in love with. Or at least allow him to be better. It was all you had wanted from him initially.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUGUST 2022

"That new Italian place downtown?"

"I'm not that hungry."

"Well what about the modern art museum?" you ask, on your fourth suggestion of the past 20 minutes, desperately trying to convince Robby to spend his day off doing something fun.

You sit next to him on the couch, legs thrown over his lap, rubbing his hair as he reads intently.

"If that's what you really want," he finally caves, looking up from his book with zero emotion. When you scoff, he tosses it aside. "Jesus, what's with the attitude?"

"If I want?" you ask, swinging your legs off of him and sitting up straight. "How about YOU want to spend time with your fiancée?"

"We're spending time together right now, aren't we?"

"Not really," you sigh. "You're reading and I'm on my phone. Not exactly romantic."

You want him to snap out of it. To stand up, declare he'll try, and bring you somewhere to ease your mind. To ask about YOUR pain, rather than focusing on his.

Instead, he distracts, leaning in toward you and cupping your face. His kiss is hungry, desperate to pull you in. You let him push his tongue in your mouth, licking along your soft palette as his hand moves down to gently grab your jaw.

"How's this for romantic?" he asks, although his rough touch is anything but.

Still, you allow yourself to melt, squirming onto his lap to straddle him as he tugs down your flimsy shorts. This dance has become routine-you try to talk, he thinks he can fuck you so hard you forget. You're fully aware of it, but can't seem to break the cycle.

"For someone in a grumpy mood you sure are fucking soaked," he nips at your ear, fingers sliding beneath your underwear. "I guess you just can't resist me, huh?"

"Please," you whisper. It's the only truthful thing you can say. "Need you in me."

"Need what in you, baby?" he taunts you a bit, circling your clit and grinning at the way you turn into putty in his hands. "Use your words for me. I know you can do it."

"Your fingers," you sputter out, grinding against his wrist as his fingers dance around your hole. He pushes in slowly, starting with just one but adding another. "Yes, thank you."

"Such good manners," he teases, curling his digits against your walls. His mouth is on your neck, nipping and sucking before pulling your lips to his in a filthy kiss. "You think you can take another baby? I think you're tense. Need to be stretched out a little extra today."

You hum, so lost in the way he's making you feel that his disinterest no longer bothers you. Because right now, you're the center of his universe.

He adds another finger, grinning against your mouth at the way you let out a squeak. Your hips are bucking, and you can feel his cock throbbing under your thigh.

"Feels good, honey?" he asks, chuckling darkly at the incoherent babble you let out in response. His thumb toys with your clit, sending you over the edge, pulsing around his fingers. "You're gonna give me one more, yeah?"

"Please," you mewl, allowing him to push your panties to the side and line up. You sink down onto him, in awe of the way his eyes squeeze shut and mouth falls open, head tilting to rest on the back of the couch. You kiss his neck, whining against the skin.

"So good for me," his grip on your hips doesn't falter, guiding you as you bounce on his cock. "You're my good little girl, huh? This is all we need, baby. Right here. You and me."

You can't even process the disappointment of his words, your head so full of euphoria as he bucks up into your sensitive cunt. With one swift motion, he flips you over so you're on your back, his hand resting atop your head to push the hair out of your face.

His thrusts are unforgiving, sloppy even. The goal is to make you forget why you're upset. And for a moment, it works. All you care about is his cock and his mouth and the way he's making you feel physically.

"You're close," he says, and for a second you hate that he knows your body so well. The way you're pulsing around him, the hazy look in your eyes, bead of sweat dripping down your temple. "Open."

You obey, allowing him to spit in your mouth, swallowing greedily. He grunts, muttering how good you are for him, burying his head in your shoulder.

Your second orgasm washes over you more powerfully, and you can't tell if the tears forming in your eyes are from the overwhelming pleasure or the feeling your relationship is over.

Robby is oblivious to your anguish, rutting his hips and growling your name as he releases inside of you, hot cum filling you up. He collapses on you, kissing your neck gingerly.

"I love you a lot," is all he says, and you repeat the sentiment. It's true. You love him-that's why he's hurting you.

He pulls out of you, slowly pulling your underwear up and kissing up your body until he meets your mouth in a tender kiss. You savor the post-coital glow for a moment, heavy breathing and loving touches.

Robby pulls his boxers back up, sitting back up and pulling you into his lap. You lean against his chest, warm and firm.

"I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention to you," he says finally, and you furrow your brows. He's making you feel crazy: like your discontent was only about him reading a book this afternoon. "I hope that made up for it."

"It was great, but it didn't," you say bluntly, readjusting to face him. He looks surprised by your words, calculating what to say next. "You keep trying to distract me with sex, Michael. And one of these days it's not going to work anymore."

"I don't know what you want from me," he says, tension evident in his face. For a brilliant man, he can be really fucking dense sometimes. "I work all fucking week in a thankless job. Sorry if I don't want to goddamn galavant around town with you on my day off."

"I'm not as high maintenance as you try to make me out to be," you argue. "All I'm asking for is effort. You're a shell of yourself lately, and it's fucking draining."

He stands, shaking his head and entering the kitchen, digging through the fridge. You follow him, watching with judgement as he cracks a beer, taking a sip.

"Oh great," you chide, well aware that you're escalating things. But grinning and bearing it wasn't feasible anymore. "Always a good sign when you can't talk to your fucking fiancée without a goddamn beer."

"It's my day off," he justifies, placing the bottle on the counter with a force that makes you jump a little. He twitches at your response. "Jesus Christ, you and the dramatics."

"I hate you sometimes," you say, only half-truth to the word. You love him more than anything. Which is why it's so easy to hate him. "I love you so fucking much, and all you do is hurt me. It's like I'm an afterthought. Or worse, a box you have to check. I'm done with it, Michael. We're supposed to be a team."

You watch as he processes your words, jaw twitching. He's clearly holding back, biting his tongue as he wrestles with whether or not to try to join your verbal jousting match.

"However much you hate me," he takes another sip. "I guarantee you I hate myself a lot fucking more."

The instinct to hold him creeps in, your love for the broken man in front of you overpowering everything. You step toward him with the care of someone approaching an injured animal, wrapping your arms around his waist. You're surprised when he melts against your touch, placing a delicate kiss on the crown of your head.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles into your hair, rubbing your back. "I know things have been rough. I'll work on it."

"You know, I've found therapy to be really helpful."

"Oh, here we go," he replies indignantly, pulling back from your touch. You hate the way he's immediately writing you off, defenses back up. "Enough. I said no."

"Is it too much to ask for you to put in the effort?" you carry on, anger rushing back over you like a vicious wave. "Seriously, you swallow all of this shit down and think you're fine but I can tell you that you're fucking NOT. And it's dragging me, and everyone else in your life down."

"You're too focused on me," he shakes his head, trying to keep his cool. "You spend all day worrying about me. If I ate enough, if I'm sleeping enough, if maybe I'm sad, what time I come home. It's driving me nuts. I feel like I'm in a fucking lab."

"Do you think I do that for fun?" you ask, tears threatening to spill. "That it's some hobby of mine? No. I do it because I love you, asshole. And I think you need help."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"It's not shameful, you know. There are so many men in therapy."

"So go fucking find one!" he snaps, fully yelling at this point. "Jesus Christ. Maybe they'll let you nag them into submission."

You freeze, tears brimming your eyes as he leans forward, taking a deep breath, running his hands over his face.

"I don't even know you anymore," you say the phrase that's nothing new to him. He rolls his eyes, throwing his head back with a groan. "Who is this man standing in front of me? Because he's sure as hell not the guy I fell in love with."

You can tell the words hurt him, a twinge of guilt zapping your chest. But he just nods, looking down at the floor.

"I will go to the fucking art museum if that's what you want."

"Well now it's not," you respond, arms crossed like a petulant child. But you can't bring yourself to care, having spent months dealing with this darkness. "What I want is to be with someone who's excited about me."

"I don't have it in me to be excited about much of anything these days," he admits, reaching across the counter for your hand. You give it to him, hesitantly at first before squeezing it in yours. "I'm sorry. Hey, look at me. I'm really sorry."

"If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't care," you whisper, allowing him to wipe your tears with his thumb. Robby nods.

"I'll work on my shit," he says. "I'll do it for you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PRESENT DAY

"That was the shift from hell," Mohan flops down next to you on the break room couch, letting her hair down. You hum, not able to fully appreciate the chaotic scenes doctors deal with every day.

"I could use a drink," Mateo quips, and Princess nods vigorously. "Who's down for park beers?"

"Say less," Santos enters the room, Robby trailing behind her. She stops when she sees almost everyone already in the room. "Did I miss a meeting or something?"

"Yeah we decided to vote you off the island," Langdon sits on the other side of you, his comment only half in jest. Santos scrunches her nose, and you make a mental note to ask Robby about that tension later.

"What the hell is park beers?" you ask, nodding when Princess explains the tradition.

"Why don't we go to a bar instead?" Samira suggests, and you second the motion.

"I'm goin' home," Dana snorts. "But you kids have fun."

"Flanagan's?" Jesse suggests, and you all agree.

You meet Robby's gaze from across the room, raising your eyebrows. He shrugs, rubbing his hand over the side of his face, trying to mask his exhaustion.

If you're being honest with yourself, a buffer might be nice. The thought of going home with Robby, the eve before a day off, is making you anxious.

Not because you're uncomfortable around him. No, he's the person in the world you're most comfortable with--even now.

It's because you're worried you'll do something you'll regret. Whether it's a tender kiss or him fucking you into the mattress, you can feel your defenses going down. The familiar feeling creeping in. The one that hurt you so badly the first time around.

So when you're all settled on the patio of a bar not even 20 minutes later, you're relieved. Robby gets up to get another round, and Collins excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

"Somebody time them," Princess jokes, met with a gentle elbow from Langdon, his piercing eyes turning to you.

"What does that mean?" you ask Samira lowly, sipping your beer. You had heard rumors, from a friend who knew a night shift nurse. But nothing solid.

"Oh," she bristles a bit, looking to Langdon for back up. "I don't know, actually."

"Wait are they fucking again?" Santos jumps in, and there's a collective tension at the table. "You think here? Robby doesn't have that in him."

Ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach, you suppress a chuckle, fighting every urge to tell her that he does in fact, have it in him. That she's talking about the same man who once fingered you to tears in a bathroom stall at an Eagles concert. Or who shoved his cock down your throat in a dressing room after you dragged him bikini shopping.

But you keep quiet, so many questions suddenly.

When you and Robby were together, you knew about Collins from his work stories. You had even met on multiple occasions, always getting along. Since you had arrived at PTMC, she'd been a bit more distant--you figured it was the day-to-day stress of the job.

"It was obviously after you guys broke up," McKay offers, leaning in close so the rest of the table can't hear. Samira also leans in.

You want to ask how soon after. And if she made him happy. If he treated her better than he treated you at the end. But you just nod, inhaling sharply.

"And Collins was the only somewhat serious one. The others were just flings. Rebounds, probably," Samira says.

"Others?"

"I know there was a bartender," Cassie offers. "And a nurse from Presby. Might have been more, but I don't think so."

As if on cue, Collins returns, and for some reason you find yourself examining her face for any signs they were onto something. Samira catches you, shaking her head.

"What did I miss?" the doctor asks gleefully.

"Where are our drinks?" Mateo asks with a cheeky grin.

"Robby's still at the bar," Heather shrugs. "Guess it's social hour."

"I'll be right back," you say with a fake smile, heading toward the restroom, beyond the point of caring how obvious you are.

You see Robby at the bar, laughing with the bartender, a beautiful woman slightly older than you. The base part of your brain instantly wonders if she's the one Cassie was referring to.

You hate the way you still feel possessive over him, despite being the one who left.

"Hi, handsome" you walk over, the two beers you had on an empty stomach clearly catching up to you. You place a hand on his back, rubbing large circles as he watches you curiously. "Need a hand?"

"You alright?" he asks skeptically, a smirk on his face at your sudden affection.

"Fine, why wouldn't I be?"

"I'm not sure," he answers slowly, almost as if he's trying to solve a riddle. Robby looks down at you, back at the woman behind the bar, wearing a name tag that says Stephanie, putting the pieces together.

He can't help but let out an amused chuckle, shaking his head.

"I'll take 8 of the same please and then you can close out," he says to Stephanie, handing her his credit card. "No rush. I'll be right back."

Grabbing your wrist, he pulls you aside into the dimly lit corner of the bar, still fighting a grin. Classic rock crackles through the speaker above.

"You're jealous," he says it matter-of-factly, smirking at your indignant scoff. "Oh, please. I know you, remember? The whole handsome bullshit is you being jealous."

"I do think you're handsome," you defend, jaw clenching. "You know that."

"Jea-ah-el-lous," he repeats, as if it's a game. Robby chuckles, watching the way your furrowed brow softens.

"I don't want to be," you admit, voice barely above a whisper, cloaked in shame.

"Did someone say something to you?" he asks, glancing out toward the patio where your co-workers sit. "About Stephanie?"

"So it is her?" you ask, trying to ignore the way your breath catches. She's beautiful, with tanned skin and perky boobs, lips big but natural looking. She's a little older -- probably has more wild stories and less night terrors.

"We went out a few times, yeah," he shifts.

"How fun for you," you know your tone probably betrays your true feelings, but you're too confused to care. "She looks nice."

You try not to picture his tongue down her throat, fingers deep in her on the couch you once shared. Robby clocks you glancing over at her again.

"I don't mean to keep bringing it up, but you're the one who left me. What did you want me to do? Be alone for the rest of my life? Wallow in your absence?"

There's more vitriol behind his words than you expected, causing you to physically cringe.

"Obviously not," you concede. "I just...I don't know. Never mind."

"I don't know what you want from me," he confesses, softening a bit. And to be honest, you're not quite sure either.

"Are you still seeing her?" your voice is nearly pathetic.

"No."

Your line of questioning should've ended there. But your brain feels disconnected from your mouth as you cross your arms, continuing down the path.

"Are you still seeing Heather?"

His spine straightens at the question, nostrils flaring a bit as he looks at you, shaking his head.

"No," he's steadfast in his answer. "I'm not."

"Oh," you say, not sure how else to fill the air. "It always seemed to me like you two got along. So I wasn't sure."

"I want you to know that she wasn't even on my radar until after you left," he says, both hands landing on your arms, as if to reiterate. You nod, choosing to believe him. "But no. We didn't work out either."

"Why not?"

You can't believe you're having this conversation, the one you had hoped to never have, in a dive bar less than 30 feet from not one but two of Robby's exes.

"In case you didn't realize, I'm kind of hard to love."

You feel your heart sink, sitting heavy in your chest as your instincts take over, arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him into a hug. Robby tenses at first before melting into your touch, resting his head in the crook of your neck.

"Michael, loving you was the easy part," you whisper, pulling back to look into his eyes.

The way he looks at you, eyes darting from your eyes to your lips, nearly makes you melt. He's so close that you can feel his breath on your face, the familiar scent of beer and nicotine gum.

You could kiss him, you think. You could kiss him and the years of pain and heartbreak and grief could wash away. You could be happy again.

But something stops you.

"I didn't deserve you," he whispers, and you shake your head, cupping his cheek, no longer caring who sees. "I'm sorry. I really am. I tried."

"I know you did," you nod, not even sure how true it is.

Is this where you want to hash this out? 3 years of silence and 4 years of love, culminating in a hushed conversation beneath shitty dive bar lights?

He must see it in your eyes. The way they keep darting toward your friends, acutely aware of Samira and Langdon looking over at you.

"Can we go ho-" he stops himself, rubbing his beard. "Back to mine?"

You nod, hating the way you're still so in sync. As if on cue, Samira walks over, approaching you under the guise of looking for the bathroom.

"Same spot as the other 20 times you've been here," Robby grits his teeth a bit. It's clear he doesn't like being the center of speculation. You elbow him a bit, throwing your arm around your friend.

"Fine, I admit," she shrugs. "I wanted to come see if you guys were coming back. So sue me."

"I think we might go," you confess, sucking in through your teeth and waiting for a protest that never comes. She just nods, glancing back and forth between the two of you. "Michael, go give everyone the drinks you promised."

He takes the hint, but not without a grumble, leaving you and Samira. Cassie walks over as if she was summoned, leaning in.

"What's happening?"

"Nothing," you say honestly. It IS nothing. Just two adults about to have an overdue conversation. "I think we're both just tired."

"Well sure," she shrugs, clearly not believing you. "But also..."

"Also what?" you ask, genuinely not understanding.

"Well anyone with eyes can tell you two are still in love with each other," Samira speaks for her. You feel the heat creeping over your cheeks, swallowing hard. "Like, sickeningly."

"I don't know if I'd say that," you try to counter it, but her admission makes your throat burn. "We have a lot of shit to work through."

"He'll be inside of you by the end of the night," McKay says bluntly, laughing at your shocked reaction. "What? I'm serious."

Samira looks at the redhead, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes before turning back to you with a serious look.

"He changed a lot when you left," she says. "And I know he changed before too. But it got worse. And now you're back, and he feels weirdly lighter?"

"He didn't even want me here until like two days ago," you remind her.

"Not true," McKay jumps in. "The day you arrived, I heard him telling Abbott that seeing you was like remembering how to breathe."

You freeze.

"He said that?" you question softly. They both nod.

"But he's an emotionally stunted asshole who only knows how to shut you out," McKay's bluntness is refreshing. "Sorry, it's true. But none of that means he doesn't love you still."

You glance over onto the patio, where Robby appears to be saying his goodbyes to everyone, laughing with Langdon and Princess.

He catches your eye, giving you a tug of his ear. Like you used to do at parties neither wanted to attend. It was your secret code-let's get the fuck out of here. You return the gesture.

Robby walks over, back straightening as he puts his sunglasses on, a friendly grin on his face as he addresses you. "Are you good to go?"

"See you guys Monday?" you turn to your friends, waving and blowing dramatic kisses as they say goodbyes.

You can hear them whispering as you head toward the door, and you feel Stephanie's eyes on you both. But none of that seems to matter right now. The way Robby is looking at you is all you can focus on.

[a-d-nox]

pac/pap: summer harvest - what's neglected, ready for harvest, and dead in your garden?

take what resonates leave what doesn't - nothing is 100% for you because these aren't personalized so please no angry comments or dms about what i am saying not being a good fit for you or that you "don't claim" just keep scrolling if that is the case. be kind, self reflect, and have fun.

last pac/pap: what sparks are flying for you this month?

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pile 1

there is a pause that's becoming uncomfortable - a desire to move, but not knowing how... the harvest is stillness. it's time to get moving again. you've waited long enough - now you can reclaim the garden for something new. something you sidelined is waiting for your attention - now is the time.

hesitation, delay, and self-doubt. you have something valuable to bring forward - you're second-guessing it or maybe lack the structure to support it fully. the harvest is there - you're unsure how to "package" or present it. your value is real, even if you don't have it all figured out yet. start by starting. focus. don't let imposter syndrome rob you of your moment.

you might feel like nothing exciting is happening, or like you're tired of trying. the truth is, a subtle shift/opportunity is being offered - you're just not seeing it clearly yet. let go of what you thought the harvest would look like.

pile 2

what's ripening is a deeper knowing of what you want to commit to. something or someone you had on the backburner is becoming impossible to ignore. a relationship, passion project, and/or inner desire is becoming undeniable. choose intentionally and what you feed will flourish.

you've hit a vision block - you know there's potential, but you're afraid to expand or unsure what direction to take next. you're being invited to break out of your comfort zone and reimagine how you show up and/or share your work. the fear of the unknown may be keeping you small when it's time to go big or go home.

the real reason the basket's empty is because something had to be completely cleared out to make space. expect a sudden insight, release, and/or an ending that feels intense in the moment but frees you radically. let what falls apart, fall apart. let the collapse create clarity for you.

pile 3

you're ready to face something you've been avoiding - whether it's a conversation, a truth about yourself, and/or a pattern that no longer fits. this garden grew while you weren't looking - now you're ready to tend to it. no more pretending you're not capable. owning your story and choices makes you powerful.

you've been carrying too much, especially when it comes to proving your worth. being "productive" doesn't mean being burdened. you've been overgiving, undercharging, and trying to do it all - this is an opportunity to simplify and restructure your energy output. delegate, drop, and reprioritize - you are enough as-is.

the basket may have been empty - but what's filling it now is real, earned, and sustainable. that may mean healing your body, building your finances, or finding a rhythm that works for you. you're stepping into a quiet, grounded power. what you nurture will flourish.