#what if i did this but instead of the houses of the dead it was the battle of osgiliath? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hxlxnaaa · 3 days ago

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𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬

you spent your whole life loving him, and he never said a word. a retelling of your story—of the way he made you feel without meaning to, of all the things you held in, waiting for something that was never coming. and now it’s too late to ask what any of it meant.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: tied to iris by the goo goo dolls, first part of a 2 part series, non-mc reader, ever so slight canon divergence to make the story work, MC x Zayne mentions, fic spans over the course of a few years, childhood friends to something almost, angst, hurt/no comfort, character death (it’s caleb exploding), unresolved tension, mentions of grief, not all that beta read we die like caleb

★ 𝐰𝐜: 17k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: this literally took me ages. life was throwing hurdle after hurdle at me while i was trying to write this and finally its done. im tossing this out there into the tumblr algorithm abyss and praying it does well because this literally took me almost 2 months. this is going to be a 2 parter (if it’s well received) so if you want your happy ending come back soon!! i hope!! enjoy!!

. . . .

And I’d give up forever to touch you,

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

. . . .

It started as something simple—childish, really.

He’d tug on your pigtails and jab you with pencils, and you’d shriek that he had cooties.

You lived next door, your bedroom window facing his. At night, he’d flash a flashlight through the glass just to annoy you, grinning and sticking his tongue out as you yanked the curtains shut.

But the moment anyone besides him picked on you at the playground, he was there in a heartbeat—stick in hand, chest puffed out, baring his teeth (even if a few were missing). He was the toughest kid on the block, and he always had your back.

Perfect, adorable, insufferable little Caleb.

He lived with this girl—and you quite liked her. She’d play dolls with you, dress up, and mix muddy potions in the backyard. She sat next to Caleb in class and always whined at him to knock it off when he threw things at the back of your head.

She always had the biggest crush on this older boy who lived in the neighborhood. He’d sculpt little animals out of snow, even in the dead of summer, and she’d squeal with giddy delight, cheeks flushed pink as she sprawled out on your bedroom floor. She’d grab your dolls and make them kiss, pretending it was the two of them.

Yet, even though you knew she liked someone else, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that twisted in your stomach whenever Caleb trailed after her like a lost puppy. When he’d groan about having to be your husband when playing house instead of hers. When he’d puff out his chest and play the hero on the playground—but not for you.

It felt like someone had taken your favorite toy and started playing with it right in front of you.

Perfect, adorable, angelic little MC.

It wasn’t until you got a little older that you could name the feeling.

You felt it behind all the tight lipped smiles you wore when they showed off their matching apple shaped hair clips, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Jealousy was a green eyed thing that settled in your chest like rot, quiet at first, but patient. It made its home there, digging in deep—something you’d carry for years without even realizing.

You did what you could to hold yourself together through the mess of puberty, piecing yourself around every scrap of attention Caleb bothered to throw your way. You wore orange ribbons in your hair because it was his favorite color. Purple, on days when you were desperate—just to match his eyes.

There was some kind of bitter peace in knowing MC didn’t feel the same. She brushed Caleb off like he was nothing more than an annoying older brother, and it stung less knowing he was in the same boat as you; chasing someone who wasn’t chasing him back.

She was blind to the way Caleb looked at her. Oblivious to the obvious change in his voice when he said her name, to the way he followed her around like a lost cause. She soaked up his attention without even realizing it—like some sort of Caleb absorbing sponge.

And God, you hated her for that. Hated how easily she sucked up what you’d spend your nights awake and aching for. You would’ve killed to be in her place—just once. To be the one he looked at like that. But she didn’t even want it. Didn’t even care. She tossed his affection aside like it was nothing.

Still, she was your best friend. That didn’t change. You smiled when you were supposed to. Stayed loyal. Bit your tongue until it bled. Reminded yourself she didn’t want him—that you stood a chance.

. . . .

MC and Caleb were usually late to school, trailing behind like always—yet Caleb was on time, catching up to you on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” He caught your shoulder, flashing you that grin with his signature sparkling eyes.

Damn, that smile. Even back when he was just a gap toothed kid, it could’ve lit up the whole sky. Caleb was like that—like the sun. All warmth and gravity, the center of everything.

Well, of your everything.

And those eyes—that shade of violet you thought was your favorite color never failed to always pull you in like a magnet. There was something about them, soft and deep, like the galaxy at twilight.

They were the first thing you noticed, the part of him you found yourself staring at when you thought no one was watching.

Every time his eyes met yours, it felt like that purple shimmer was reaching out—tangling itself into your heart with a vice-like grip, something you couldn’t explain but couldn’t let go of either.

In their depths, you felt drawn back again and again, hearing the silent language only an iris can speak.

The sudden attention from him startled you. “Hi.”

Caleb dropped his hand from your shoulder and nodded toward the road ahead. “Mind if I walk with you?” His voice was friendly—like it hadn’t been years since you’d felt this close. Now that you were teenagers, young adults in high school, Caleb would toss you a smile in the halls—maybe make small talk when MC was around.

But you hadn’t always needed her in the middle. The two of you also used to be best friends.

Back then, he’d invite you over after school, dragging you to his room to show off his toy plane collection. He’d flip through his worn out books with greasy fingers, rattling off facts and flight names. You’d listen to him talk for hours about how one day he was going to be a pilot—how he’d fly faster than sound, higher than anyone.

Now, if you were lucky, on some quiet nights you’d catch a glimpse of him through the window—sitting at his desk with tousled and wild hair, dressed in worn pajamas and knees pulled up under his chin as he buried himself in homework.

Sometimes, when your movement caught his eye, he’d look up and give you that familiar, slow smile.

He’d wiggle his fingers in a shy wave, almost like a secret between the two of you. You’d respond with the smallest lift of one finger, careful not to break the quiet spell.

In those moments, you’d see him—not just the boy with the model planes lining the bookshelf behind him, but the Caleb who used to really see.. well… you.

The Caleb walking next to you felt familiar—like some old song you hadn’t heard in a while—but also strangely distant, like the boy you knew had somehow grown into someone else. Yet you weren’t sure you really recognized him.

He talked without pausing—about his classes, his friends, about how MC was sick and how frustrated he was that his Gran wouldn’t let him stay home to help her.

As you passed the the corner store, he nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Remember when we used to grab candy there after school?” he asked.

You didn’t even have to look. “Yeah. You’d always pick the weirdest flavors.”

“Weird?” he gasped like you’d slapped him. “Psh, no. More like daring. I had range.”

“You bought clam flavored gum.”

“And? I was young and full of hope.”

“You made me try it.”

He stretched and smiled, “You’re welcome.”

“It tasted like rubber bands.”

Caleb clicked his tongue. “Yeah, that’s what excitement tastes like. Unlike your go to strawberry laces. How bold of you—were the vanilla wafers out of stock?”

“At least my candy didn’t double as a chemical weapon.”

“It built character,” he said. “Your taste buds needed the challenge.”

You rolled your eyes. “You once spent seven dollars on something called ‘Mango Chili Sour Slime.’”

“And I’d do it again—for the experience.”

“You ate half of it, turned green, and declared yourself legally dead.”

He held up a finger. “Temporarily dead. I came back stronger.”

“You threw up behind the bus stop.”

“And rose like a phoenix.”

“You cried.”

“Phoenixes have emotions!”

You snorted, trying not to smile. “A phoenix who can’t handle spicy gelatin, and claims cilantro tastes like soap.”

“Because it does!” He said with genuine offense, pausing on the sidewalk with arms crossed.

“You survived chili goo, but a leaf ruins your day?”

“It’s not just a leaf. It kills your taste buds.”

“Right… Right… Or I propose again, maybe you’re just weird?”

“Maybe,” Caleb shrugged, “And yet, somehow, still the most well adjusted person you know.”

There was a beat of silence, broken only by your footsteps continuing again on the sidewalk. Caleb looked over at the store again, the paint on the awning cracked and curling.

“Crazy how small it looks now,” he said.

“Yeah,” you replied, “Or maybe we just got taller—wiser.”

“Speak for yourself, I peaked at thirteen.”

“You peaked the moment you bought clam gum.”

“But here you are, still walking next to me. Interesting.”

Rolling your eyes, you sighed. “It’s like a field study in poor life choices.”

“And you’re the control group?”

“I’m the exit strategy.”

He laughed again.

As you reached the school gates, he turned to you. “Hey, we’ve got a basketball game this weekend.”

He kicked at the ground, a little awkwardly, then added, “You should come, if you’re free.”

Your heart swelled—like an old dog finding love again after years. You nodded a little too quickly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah—yeah, I’ll be there.”

“You better be.”

Before you could say anything, he reached out and tugged gently at one of your pigtails—and for the first time in what felt like ages, you recognized the boy in front of you.

Caleb twirled one of the orange ribbons between his fingers. “I like your hair like this. The orange is pretty.”

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there pinching yourself.

That night, lying in the dark of your room, a sudden flash caught your eye—a beam of light slicing through the window. You sat up, heart quickening as the light blinked again. Drawn to the window, you crept over and peeked out.

There was Caleb, grinning like a kid, flashlight in hand, his laughter bright in the quiet night.

You pushed open your window.

“What are you doing?” you called out, voice curious.

He shrugged, flashing a cheeky grin as he opened his own window across the way, pretending to look innocent.

“I got this new flashlight,” he flipped the flashlight in his hand, “just testing if it works.”

Caleb aimed the beam at you again, winking.

And as you slid back under the covers, you found yourself wondering what had come over him.

Did that walk stir up memories—the way it had for you—awakening some old nostalgia buried within? Or maybe, you thought, he realized in some small way that he missed you.

. . . .

You tied those orange ribbons into your hair, dancing around your room to your favorite songs, giddy and light like your body couldn’t hold all the excitement. You spent hours picking out the perfect outfit—cute but casual enough that maybe he’d think you just woke up looking that way.

You practically floated out the door, humming under your breath as you made your way to school. The night sky was cloudless, a deep stretch of dark velvet scattered with stars. The winter air bit at your cheeks, crisp and cold enough to sting, but you barely felt it.

No—your heart was beating too fast and too warm, like it was carrying a fire inside you. One that spreads to your fingertips, your chest, your smile; every breath you took came out in clouds, but you didn’t shiver.

Not when the world felt this full. Not when something—hope, maybe? Was lighting you up like a firefly from the inside out.

When you got to school, the buzz of the gymnasium hit you with bright lights, sneakers squeaking on the court as people filed in, and laughter echoing in tight circles of friends.

You lingered near the entrance for a second too long, suddenly unsure of where to go or what to do with your hands. Everyone seemed to have someone.

And for a brief, unexpected moment—you kind of wished MC was with you.

She had gone on a date with her boyfriend, so she wasn’t going to be able to make it. Something Caleb had thrown a fit about, but you silently rejoiced.

Aw… Bummer! You had thought to yourself, bubbling and beaming with glee.

You made your way toward the bleachers, weaving through the crowd until you found a spot tucked away in the back corner. It was quiet, just far enough from everyone else, but close enough to see the court.

Any lingering nerves disappeared the second you spotted him. That familiar mess of brown hair stuck out even from the bleachers, and your eyes locked on him like they always did. He was on the court already, bouncing the ball lazily between his hands, talking with his teammates.

He glanced up at the bleachers, eyes scanning the rows.

And then he found you.

His face lit up with a grin, and he gave you that signature wave—fingers wiggling in their own little dance.

A quiet smile tugged at your lips, your cheeks growing warm.

You lifted a single finger in a returned wave, your own half of the silent, almost secret handshake the two of you had created—just yours, and just his.

Suddenly, you didn’t feel so alone in that crowd.

The buzzer sounded, and the game began. Caleb turned back to the court, falling into step with his teammates.

You settled deeper into your seat, hands clasped in your lap, eyes fixed on him.

Once or twice, you thought he glanced your way.

You told yourself that even though he was the star of the team—the school’s perfect, adored heartthrob—he had asked you to come tonight.

He had invited you.

He had thought of you.

But when the game ended and your team won, you lingered by the front of the school—hoping to catch him.

To say hello.

To tell him congratulations.

Maybe even walk home together.

You waited. And waited.

And waited some more.

But he never appeared.

Maybe he left with his team, caught up in the noise and celebration.

Maybe he slipped out the back, avoiding the crowd.

As you walked home alone, the cold air wrapped around you like a cruel reminder—you were still on the outside.

And the joy you’d carried all day began to fade, replaced by the familiar hurt of being forgotten.

When you got home, you stopped at your front doorstep, eyes catching the warm glow of light spilling from his living room window.

There he was—laughing with MC on the couch.

Your eyes began to burn. Did it even matter to him that you showed up? Or was your invitation nothing more than a convenient excuse—a way to make sure someone was there? Someone to fill the bleachers when she couldn’t.

You weren’t the reason he wanted you there—you were a placeholder.

The anger bubbled up, but underneath it was something much harsher—the sting of being invisible when all you wanted was to be seen.

As you closed your front door behind you, the silence in your house felt louder than the cheers at the game.

You lay awake, sleep slipping through your fingers as a heavy sadness pressed down on you—desperate to break free in tears, yet leaving you empty and unable to cry.

Hours dragged on as you lay there, staring at the ceiling, desperate for a way to make him see you. You had thought for years, since you knew what love was about changing everything—dyeing your hair, changing the way you talked, the way you walked—anything to be different, to be enough for him, what he wanted.

But if Caleb was Adam, she was Eve—the first, the original, the one he always went back to.

The one you could never replace.

A flicker of light broke through the dark, casting a small glow on your wall.

You didn’t move at first.

You sat there, full of rage and sorrow, still bitter from the feeling of being forgotten. You told yourself not to move.

But your body betrayed you.

Like something ancient pulled at your limbs, you found yourself crawling to the window. Not with hope, but with habit. As if your soul had already answered before your heart could protest.

Some might say you were possessed. And maybe you were.

Not by ghosts, but by something lonelier.

Possessed by love so one sided it hollowed you out. By that hunger to be seen.

There he was—sitting across the way, still in the soft spill of moonlight, and all you could see were his eyes.

Those eyes.

Violet and reflecting the pale glow of the night like glass. They shimmered under the dark sky, catching the light like polished amethysts—so bright it almost hurt to look. Almost beautiful enough to believe.

You didn’t move. Just stared.

No wave. No smile. Not this time—you waited for him to speak first, to do something.

Finally, he opened his window.

You followed. Opened yours. Let the silence stretch thin.

“Sorry for not saying hi after the game,” Caleb said, voice low. “I kind of had to run off afterwards.”

Run off to her, you thought.

Sorry? That was it? That was all he had to give?

You swallowed the lump in your throat. Bit down the words clawing their way up. Your mouth felt dry, your hands curled into fists on the sill.

“Right,” you said, quietly. “You were busy.”

He looked at you then, brows drawn like he was trying to read something on your face.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

You nodded once, not trusting yourself to say more.

Because the truth was, he didn’t have to go.

He chose to.

But yet, he hadn’t promised you anything. Not a meeting, not a moment after. Not even a goodbye. But still—you waited. You had hoped. So was it cruel of you to expect something? Anything? Or were you just naive?

He lingered at the window, fingers fiddling with the flashlight, eyes flickering with something that almost looked like regret.

“I didn’t mean to blow you off,” he tried to add. He sucked at trying to defend himself.

He let out a breath, eyes dropping for a second before meeting yours again. You stayed quiet, your heart twisting, but your face stayed still.

“I feel bad,” Caleb muttered. “I was thinking of hitting the mall tomorrow. Just to hang out. You should come with.”

He tried to smile, softly and casually, like this wasn’t a scrap of attention handed out too late.

“Walk around, get pretzels or something. Check out that record store you like?”

Your throat tightened.

Part of you wanted to shut the window. Part of you wanted to scream at him. But mostly;

You just wanted Caleb to look at you the way he looked at her.

You nodded.

Because even if it was a leftover moment, it was something. And with him, something always felt like more than nothing.

. . . .

You didn’t bother with the ribbons. Not today.

As you stepped outside, you braced yourself—half expecting to see MC by his side, like always. Maybe she’d decided to come last minute.

But there he was, alone—standing at the end of your walkway, hands in his pockets, watching your front door.

His eyes met yours instantly.

“No ribbons today?” You hated that he noticed.

You forced a shrug, eyes anywhere but his.

“I forgot them,” you lied.

The walk was quiet, tense in that way where every step felt louder than it should.

“You look tired,” Caleb nudged your shoulder lightly. “Sorry for keeping you up late.”

“S’okay. I don’t sleep much anyway.”

He didn’t say anything right away, before stopping suddenly. “Oh—wait. I have something for you.”

You turned just in time to see him dig into his coat pocket.

“Strawberry laces,” he said, holding them out to you with a sheepish grin.

You hated the way your heart jumped at the sight of them. You wanted to stay mad.

But why did he have to remember? Why did he have to think about you?

“The vanilla wafers were out of stock,” he added.

You took them, fingers tracing the wrapper as you turned them over slowly. Then you looked up at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips.

“How bold.”

As you went to tear open the bag, Caleb snatched it back, holding it just out of reach with that smug, teasing grin you both loved and hated.

“Nuh-uh,” he wagged a finger in your face. “No candy unless you stop being mad at me.”

You pouted. “That’s not how that works. Gifts aren’t conditional.”

“This one is,” Without missing a beat, he stuffed the bag behind his back dramatically.

“I could just stay mad and take them anyway.”

“You could try,” he teased, backing up a step. “But I’ve got longer legs. And I’m fast.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was that warmth bubbling under your skin now.

Stupid boy. Stupid eyes. Stupid candy.

You were still mad.

But it was getting harder to remember why.

“I’m sorry for leaving you high and dry after the game,” he seemed more sincere now.

“I invited you, and you were so sweet to take the time to come watch me play...” He trailed off, giving you that miserable, kicked puppy look—eyes wide, all violet and tragic.

Those damn eyes. You could never say no to them.

“Could you ever forgive me?”

You huffed. “Yeah. Fine, whatever. I forgive you.”

Stepping up to him, standing just inches away, you held your hand out.

“Now give me my candy.”

He raised a brow, smirking. “Nope. Say it better.”

You groaned, but your smile betrayed you.

“I forgive you, Caleb.”

That was enough for him. He grinned, tossed an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.

“Atta girl.”

He finally handed the candy back, but not before sneakily grabbing a few pieces for himself.

You smacked his hand, eyes narrowing. “Seriously? You make fun of my candy and then steal it?”

He popped one into his mouth, completely unfazed.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, hugging the bag protectively.

The air between you lightened, the tension dissolving with every shared glance and playful nudge.

He pointed out weird cracks in the sidewalk, made dumb jokes, and told you stories about kids on his basketball team. You teased, called him dramatic, and laughed harder than you meant to.

The mall was fun too. You bounced from store to store, trying on ridiculous hats and oversized sunglasses—laughing over belts with giant, rhinestone buckles neither of you would ever actually wear.

He dragged you into the model shop, eyes lighting up as he pointed out the different planes and jets with boyish excitement. “I’m gonna fly this one someday,” he said, tapping the glass with a proud little grin. You just smiled and nodded, because he'd said that about a dozen different models already.

Then it was your turn—you led him to the record store, your favorite little corner of the mall. You flipped through crates of vinyls, pulling out your favorites while he hovered behind you, pretending to scoff at some of your picks.

“Seriously? This?” he teased, holding up an album.

“You notoriously have zero taste,” you shot back, snatching it from him.

But when you looked away, you caught him out of the corner of your eye, phone in hand, quietly adding the artist to one of his playlists.

The two of you wandered through the mall, half finished pretzels in hand, when you suddenly stopped short in front of a jewelry store window.

Something in the display tugged at you—a necklace, delicate and simple, but impossibly beautiful.

Caleb kept walking a few steps before realizing you were no longer beside him.

He turned, eyebrows raised. “You see somethin?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stood there, eyes locked on the amethyst pendant that sat at the center of the display.

It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The gem shimmered in the light, a swirl of purples—some soft as lilac, others rich like wine.

It was his color.

The exact shade that lived in his irises.

“It’s so pretty…” you breathed, voice distant.

He stepped beside you, peering into the glass. “The necklace?”

But your gaze had already shifted—up, to him. To the very thing the gem reminded you of.

You were still staring, caught somewhere between memory and longing.

And when your eyes met his, glittering under the same fluorescent light, it was like looking at the stone again.

You tore your gaze away, pretending you hadn’t just compared a piece of jewelry to the boy beside you like you were twelve again and hopeless.

You took a bite of your pretzel, more for something to do than anything else, chewing to fill the silence, to distract from the way your hands were suddenly too aware of themselves.

Caleb stayed behind for a beat longer, still staring at the necklace—or maybe just thinking. So you started walking, hoping he’d follow and say nothing.

But, of course, he did.

“Hey,” he called, catching up and poking your cheek. “It was my turn to look at it.”

You smacked his hand away, trying to keep your face neutral. “You were taking too long.”

“What? I’m allowed to admire pretty things too.” He ruffled your hair.

You didn’t dare ask if he meant the necklace.

You didn’t dare hope he meant you.

“Wait!” Caleb came to an abrupt halt after walking aimlessly—and you turned to see him with this goofy, unexpected grin.

“Let’s go in here.”

“The craft store?” you asked, surprised. “Since when do you craft?”

He shook his head. “Just come on.”

Before you could say another word, he reached out and grabbed your hand and pulled you inside.

Your breath hitched, a rush of excitement blooming all the way down to your toes.

Oh my god, he just grabbed my hand.

Suddenly, the whole mall seemed brighter, the noise fading into the background as you let yourself be swept along, fingers tangled with his.

Caleb pulled you through the store like he had some grand plan, weaving through displays with a determination you didn’t expect.

“What are you even looking for—” you stumbled a little, trying to keep up, nearly tripping over your own feet.

He didn’t stop right away, only paused for a quick second to scan the store before spotting whatever it was he’d been hunting down.

“Found it,” he said with a proud grin, tugging you in that direction.

You blinked as he led you straight into the sewing section.

“The sewing aisle?” you looked around, confused. “Wait, do you sew now or something?”

He didn’t answer, just walked you—gently this time—over to the wall lined with ribbons.

Rows and rows of them. Every color. Every texture.

And it hit you a second too late.

You didn’t even have time to hide the way your stomach flipped.

He remembered.

Caleb finally let go of your hand as he stepped closer to the wall of ribbons, fingers flipping through the endless options.

He grabbed a spool of sheer blue ribbon, held it up to your cheek, then immediately shook his head.

Next was a deep red. He furrowed his brow. “Nah—too dramatic.”

One by one, he held up different colors and textures next to your face—some he barely considered before tossing them back, others had him tilting his head, really thinking about it.

You stood still, watching him, caught somewhere between embarrassment and giddiness.

When he finally picked up a spool of soft orange lace, he paused. Held it up. Looked at you.

A slow smile crept onto his lips.

“This one,” he said softly. “It’s perfect.”

Your throat tightened.

It was the color you wore for him. The one he’d noticed, the one he remembered.

And here he was—choosing it for you. Like it was obvious. Like it had always been yours.

“Shouldn’t you get one too?” you teased, reaching up to tug playfully at a piece of his hair. “I think you’ve got enough to work with.”

Caleb grinned. “You’re absolutely right.”

He turned back to the wall of ribbons, eyes scanning for barely a second before his hand reached out with surprising certainty.

He pulled down a spool of velvet ribbon—the exact color of your eyes.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t even look at you right away. Just held the ribbon between his fingers, studying it.

“Gotta match, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Because while he stood there so casually holding a piece of you in his hand, you were still trying to remember how to breathe.

You stood behind Caleb at one of the food court tables, hunched forward with delicate focus as you tied the soft velvet ribbons into his hair.

It wasn’t easy—he didn’t have much to work with—but you managed two tiny pigtails that sprouted from the top of his head like a toddler’s, crooked and ridiculous in the best way.

You giggled, standing back to admire your handiwork.

And instead of swatting them out or calling it dumb, Caleb pulled out his phone, flipped the camera, and grinned at his reflection like he’d just discovered a new level of charm.

“Oh yeah, I look good.”

He struck a pose, tilting his head with exaggerated sass.

You burst out laughing. “Yeah? You feel pretty?”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Feel pretty?” his eyes twinkled as he turned back towards you. “No, I know I’m pretty.”

He pulled out the chair beside him with a dramatic flourish and patted the seat. “Your turn. Take a seat.”

You eyed him suspiciously but sat anyway. He circled behind you like he was preparing for serious work, cracking open the spool of ribbon with a little too much enthusiasm and gently petting the top of your head.

“Welcome to Caleb’s salon,” he said, voice smooth and over the top. “You’re in good hands.”

You craned your neck to look up at him upside down, squinting. “I don’t trust that.”

“You should.” He guided your head back into place with both hands.

You stared ahead, heart fluttering against your ribs while he stood behind you, threading his fingers through strands of your hair.

You couldn’t see his face now, but you could feel his focus, the care in his hands as he worked.

He gathered your hair into two little pigtails near the top of your head—mirroring his own—and tied the orange lace into uneven bows.

When he stepped back and handed you your phone to look, you flipped the camera and smiled.

They were a little lopsided, not even close to perfect.

But they were perfect to you.

“Feel pretty?” he asked this time.

You nodded, turning your head side to side to get a better look. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you for a moment—his lips parting slightly like he was trying to choose his words.

“Beautiful,” he said finally.

You laughed, brushing it off like it was a joke. “You mean your work?”

But Caleb didn’t laugh back.

By the time you made it to the exit, the winter sun had already set, casting moonlight across the sidewalk as you stepped outside.

Caleb walked beside you, swinging the bag of leftover pretzel between his fingers. You walked a little slower than usual, not wanting the day to end. Not wanting this to end.

He glanced over at you, and his eyes dropped to the bows in your hair. One corner of his mouth lifted.

"You gonna leave those in?" he asked.

You shrugged. “Maybe. Why? Embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Pfft. Please.” He lightly tugged on one of them, “I think you make 'em look cooler than I do.”

You smiled at the ground, heart full.

He let out a small breath and looked forward. “Thanks for coming with me today,” he said. “It was fun.”

Caleb scratched the back of his neck, eyes on the sidewalk, and said it like he wasn’t sure how you’d take it.

“Y’know… I missed hanging out with you.”

Your heart jumped, caught completely off guard—but you reeled it in fast, kept your face light.

You puffed your chest out playfully, trying to keep your tone casual. “Yeah, I’m pretty unforgettable, aren’t I?”

He chuckled, but his eyes stayed on you a little longer than before.

You turned your gaze forward again, not trusting yourself to hold it.

You wanted it to mean something more. So badly—but wanting things just kept ruining you.

When you got back to your house, the world had gone still—quiet in that way only winter dares to be, like even the earth was holding its breath. The night had settled softly, and the only sound was the faint crunch of your shoes on frostbitten pavement.

Snow had just started to fall slowly in the background, like it didn’t want to be noticed.

You reached the end of your driveway and turned to him.

“Wait,” you said, fingers already pulling your phone from your pocket. “I wanna take a picture of my art.”

He rolled his eyes playfully but didn’t protest, stepping back just enough so you could frame the shot. When he faced you, his face softened into something else entirely.

It wasn’t a pose. It wasn’t for the camera.

It was for you.

Something warm lived in that smile. Something almost shy—hesitant, even.

Snowflakes clung to his lashes, caught in the messy strands of hair poking out from the bows you tied. And the ribbons—your ribbons—fluttered gently in the breeze.

But it was his eyes that undid you.

Dark and shining under the porch light, like amethysts half swallowed by shadow. The snow reflected in them, tiny constellations in his iris. He looked like a boy carved from a dream—fleeting and too beautiful to keep.

You stared a second too long, then snapped the photo. Saved it to your favorites. Not just because it was a good picture.

But because it felt like capturing a version of him you didn’t want to lose.

Caleb held out his hand. “Give it here.”

You clutched your phone to your chest. “No way, you’re gonna delete it.”

“I’m not,” he stepped in closer. “Come on. Pass it to me.”

After a pause—just long enough for your heart to panic a little—you gave in, placing the phone in his waiting palm.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached up with his free hand and gently squished your cheeks, molding your face into a pout.

You furrowed your brows in confusion, just as the camera shutter snapped.

He laughed, letting go of your face, and the cold rushed back in where his touch had been. You pressed your palms to your cheeks, not to rub away the sting, but to cool the warmth under your skin.

“You needed a picture too,” he looked down at your phone.

There was something delicate in the way he said it. Like he wanted to remember you—just as you were, here in the snow, with his ribbons still in your hair.

“Cute,” he murmured, thumb tapping the screen.

Your eyes widened. “Hey—don’t delete the one I took of you!”

You lunged for the phone— and using his evol, he held it high over your head whilst laughing.

“I’m not! I’m just making sure I look better in mine.”

You both stood there, caught in that silly moment—your hand reaching for your phone, his laughter tangled with yours in the stillness of the night. The snow swirled around you both in slow, glittering arcs—clinging to your sleeves, the world around you muted.

He finally lowered the phone, now holding it out to you with a little smile. “Okay, okay—you can have it back. I promise I didn’t delete your masterpiece.”

You took it, brushing his fingers as you did, and neither of you said anything about the way the touch lingered just a second too long.

His eyes caught what little light the porch gave, violet glinting beneath snowflakes like something out of a story you weren’t sure would end happily.

Then he nodded toward your door. “It’s freezing. You should head in before you turn into a popsicle.”

You opened your mouth to argue—to say you weren’t cold, not really.

“Go,” he said, his voice gentler this time. “I’ll see you soon.”

When you stepped inside, your cheeks stung from the sudden change in temperature, and your fingers itched as the numbness slowly faded.

You didn’t bother taking off your coat right away.

You just stood there, in the dark entryway, phone still clutched in your hand, heart still somewhere outside on the sidewalk where Caleb had smiled at you like that. Where his hands had touched your face. Where his voice had gone soft and said, “I’ll see you soon.”

You made your way to your room in a daze, the snow still glittering in your hair, shoes leaving melted prints down the hallway.

Once inside, you dropped your coat to the floor and collapsed onto your bed, phone in hand. The ribbons in your hair shifted beneath your head on the pillow, one falling loose—but you didn’t fix it.

Instead, you unlocked your phone. Opened the camera roll. Scrolled to the photos from just minutes ago.

There he was—eyes sparkling with snowflakes caught in his lashes. He looked like a painting.

You swiped to the next one. The picture he took of you.

You hated how airy you looked. How hopeful. Like your heart had written itself all over your face before your brain could stop it.

And still, you couldn’t stop staring.

Outside your window, the snow kept falling.

And as you watched it blur the world into softness, all you could think about was the warmth of his hands on your skin, the color of his eyes under the porch light, and the sound of his voice wrapped around the word soon.

You told yourself not to hope.

Your phone buzzed in your hand—a text from Caleb.

‘let me know when you get warm’

A second passed.

‘actually wait’

‘don’t, you’ll use it as an excuse to talk to me again :D’

Another pause.

‘kidding. you can text me whenever. even if you're still cold’

‘especially if you’re still cold’

Your thumbs hovered over the screen, not sure what to say back. But you were smiling—so wide it hurt, like your face hadn’t been asked to feel this much in ages.

And then you noticed it—nestled just above his texts, timestamped from just a bit prior.

A message. From you.

Your heart stuttered.

The photo he took of you—sent to his chat, not yours.

While you were too busy worrying he’d delete his own, he’d been sending himself yours.

He hadn’t said anything about it.

Compared to the frigid cold outside, your body felt like it had finally thawed from the inside out. Warmth hummed beneath your skin, buzzing in your fingertips and curling in your heart. Hell, if you looked in the mirror, you were sure you’d be glowing.

You didn’t just have Caleb back in your life, talking again—he wanted to keep you too.

You fell asleep with the ribbons in your hair. Everything was perfect.

. . . .

You’re the closest to Heaven, that I’ll ever be,

And I don’t wanna go home right now

. . . .

You didn’t usually sleep over at MC’s place—she liked your house better. Said it felt like a break from Caleb. You never really got that—a break from him? You couldn’t imagine ever wanting one.

But this time, she invited you. And while you didn’t want to be that friend, the kind who only says yes for someone else entirely… you agreed—heart already skipping at the fact that Caleb would be there.

When you arrived, you hadn’t even unpacked your bag yet before Caleb was sauntering into the room—arms behind his head, socks mismatched.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite ribbon girl,” He shot you a lazy smile, “guess the gang’s all here.”

The three of you fell into an easy rhythm, or at least, it seemed easy. MC was her usual loud, bright self, bouncing from snack to snack, laughing at her own jokes. Caleb matched her beat for beat, as he always did. And you—you laughed when you were supposed to, nodded when it fit, and tried to keep up with the tempo of the third wheel.

It was late and the screen was playing a movie none of you were really watching. MC lay sprawled out on the couch, her voice drowsy and soft.

“My neck’s killing me,” she whined. “Caleb. Do something.”

Caleb made a face. “What do I look like to you, a massage therapist?”

“A lazy one,” she shot back.

He moved anyway, climbed down behind her and began rubbing her shoulders in slow, practiced circles. Like this was routine, like it was something they did.

You stared at the screen, but the image blurred.

His fingers moved slowly and gently. She made some soft noise, teasing him when he hit a knot, and he rolled his eyes in that way he always did when he was trying not to smile.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself.

Caleb down at you from the couch, and tossed a piece of popcorn at you.

“You good?” he asked.

You forced a smile. “Fine.”

The moment passed.

Then her phone lit up.

zaynie <3 calling…

You saw it before she did. The way her whole face changed when she picked it up. Like he had dialed into some part of her that no one else could reach.

“Heyyy,” she said, rolling over and away from Caleb. “Missed you.”

And just like that, she stood up and left. Took the call upstairs like the rest of the room didn’t matter anymore.

Caleb was quiet. Still sitting there, his hands empty now. He stood, dusted nothing off his pants, and dropped onto the floor next to you with a sigh.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered.

You didn’t answer right away. You were still watching the stairs, watching the shadow of MC’s voice floating down, sugary and sweet.

“Maybe she just really likes him,” you said.

“He doesn’t even like her… not really.” Caleb turned to you, annoyed. “Zayne likes school. That’s it. He graduates in the spring, and he’s not gonna have time for her anymore when he goes off to university in the fall.”

“Then maybe she needs to figure that out for herself.”

He scoffed. “She’ll just get hurt.”

“Maybe,” you said. Then, quieter: “Or maybe you need to stop waiting around for her to realize something she doesn’t want to.”

He looked at you—a long, puzzled stare.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You forced a little laugh, picking at your sleeve. You worried you had struck a nerve. “Nothing. Just... maybe it’s time you looked somewhere else.”

You meant it.

He shook his head. “I’m not wired like that. I don’t just switch things off.”

“Doesn’t have to be switching off. Just... shifting focus. Trying something new.”

He let out a breath, something between a scoff and a laugh—the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah? Like what?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t—because what were you supposed to say? Me?

So instead, you looked at him. The TV light hit his face in just the right way—highlighting those ridiculous eyes, the ones you’d loved since before you even knew what love was. They flickered with frustration, with sadness, with something so close to tenderness you could almost taste it.

But it wasn’t for you. It never was.

He leaned back against the couch with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling like maybe the answers were written up there.

You stayed silent beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Mile to mile.

He didn’t look over again, but rested his head on your shoulder.

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe too deep. Because if you did—if you shifted even slightly—you were terrified he’d lift his head. That he’d remember where he was, who he was leaning on.

And maybe it was pathetic.

Yeah, it probably was.

But you’d take the weight of him over nothing at all. You’d carry it gladly.The movie played on, long forgotten, just sound and flickering light. He was quiet, lost in a place you would never be invited to.

And yet… he reached for you anyway. Not just because you were there, because when his world tilted and spun, you were steady. You were warmth without demand, softness without question.

He wanted you—just not like you wanted him. Not with the fire you carried in your chest for him. Not with the hunger that hollowed you out every time he looked past you.

He wanted your quiet, your presence.

Your shoulder to lean on when hers wasn’t there.

And maybe that was love, in some twisted, diluted form. Maybe he did love you—in the way people love familiarity. In the way someone might miss the smell of home but never stay long enough to unpack.

Your shoulder ached, but your heart ached more.

You wanted to cry. Not sob—not loudly, just let tears slip out slow and unnoticed. Because there was something deeply cruel in being almost chosen.

Looking at the screen, at the blur of colors you couldn’t name, you thought maybe this was all you’d ever be. A detour before he remembered where his heart belonged.

And you swore if he reached for your hand, you would’ve taken it. You would’ve broken your own heart just to hold his a second longer.

But he didn’t, he just breathed softly against your skin.

And you sat there, the rot inside of you blooming too wide for your chest.

You said nothing.

Because what was there left to say, when even silence hurt?

You took what he gave you—gratefully, almost desperately—because it was more than the nothing you’d known for so long.

You reminded yourself that he said he missed you, that you meant something to him. Maybe not everything. Maybe not like you dreamed. But something. And wasn’t that supposed to be enough?

You told yourself it had to be. That being wanted in any way was better than not being wanted at all. Even if it was only in the moments she wasn’t around, when his eyes softened and his guard slipped.

Sometimes, when he reached for you, you felt you could pretend that this was enough. That crumbs could taste like a feast if you were hungry enough.

And you were starving.

It wasn’t as if he were cruel. He was never dismissive, never cold. If anything, he was thoughtful in ways that made it all harder. He remembered things—small, stupid things you wished he’d forget.

Your favorite candy, the songs you loved when you were ten, the way you tied your shoes backwards as a kid. Sometimes you caught him glancing at you like he still knew who you were beneath all the years.

Sometimes you wished he didn’t.

Sometimes you wished he’d snap at you, ignore you, give you something mean to hold onto—some reason to turn the yearning into anger. You wished he’d be heartless, just once, so you could hate him.

But how could you hate someone you loved like this? How could you hate a boy who wore ribbons that matched your eyes—tied in soft little bows to the belt loops of his jeans like he didn’t even realize what he was doing to you? He wasn’t trying to hurt you, and that’s what made it worse.

. . . .

Winter slipped away slowly, dripping from the trees and sidewalks like it didn’t want to leave. The snow thawed, and everything came alive again. Buds peeked from branches, the world turned pretty and green, the sky starting to hold more blue than grey.

But no matter how much the world shifted, you didn’t feel any different.

You thought you would—yet spring only brought more confusion.

Because Caleb never pulled away. He still sat next to you in class when he could. Still gave you that stupid, heart melting smile in the hallway. Still texted you late at night about nothing and everything. Still tied your ribbons to his belt loop, still brought you candy.

And you were left wondering what any of it meant.

Because as much as he gave you moments and fragments—he still looked at her like the sun rose behind her shoulders.

You were caught in the in-between. The maybe. The almost.

And it was worse than being ignored.

You were friends. Sure, that part you understood. But was that all? Was that all he saw when he looked at you?

Because if it was, why did it hurt like this?

You were friends with MC too. And she never looked at you the way Caleb did. Never leaned into your side, never reached for your hand out of nowhere, never lingered in your doorway just to say one more stupid thing before leaving. You and MC had never shared that kind of closeness that you and Caleb had.

And it wasn’t just some guy thing either. You knew Zayne. You watched how he acted with her, the way he smiled and touched her arm, shared his stupid sunglasses and inside jokes. It was obvious what he wanted. It was easy to read. Caleb? Caleb was something else entirely.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because he never said anything. Never clarified. Never told you what you were or weren’t to him. He just kept giving you pieces.

What were you supposed to do with that?

You wanted to scream. To shake him and demand answers. You weren’t some placeholder. You weren’t his emotional crutch for when MC wasn’t around. But if you said anything, anything, you were scared it would all disappear.

You thought winter was heavy—but spring? Spring was unbearable. Because the world was blooming and he was still not yours.

You had started to reach your limit.

You could only be so compassionate. You only had so much empathy—only so much hope to give before it all began to die inside you. Before you felt stupid for still believing in anything at all.

Slowly, the pieces of yourself began to slip. Slipped through the cracks, down into some place that felt like fury and heartbreak mixed together. You were unraveling, losing your marbles one by one.

Frustrated was too gentle a word.

Prom season, junior year. The first one you were allowed to go to. But what was the point? To squeeze into a too loud dress and pretend you weren’t invisible in a crowded gym full of glitter and heartbreak? To stand alone while MC and Zayne twirled under cheap lights, and Caleb glared at the back of their heads from across the room?

Because that’s exactly what he had done when he found out Zayne asked her.

You didn’t mean to overhear their fight through your window, but the whole neighborhood practically did.

“Seriously?” Caleb barked. “You’re going to prom with him?”

MC sounded stunned. “Caleb, I don’t understand why that’s a problem.”

“I just—I thought you hated dances.”

“I do,” she snapped, “but Zayne asked me and I thought it might be fun! What’s with the attitude?”

There was silence. He didn’t answer her. You could picture it—his jaw clenched, that angry crease in his brow. The way he’d look at her like she had just betrayed him, without even knowing how or why.

MC’s voice was quieter after that.

“Caleb… what’s this really about?”

But still, he said nothing.

And it killed you. Because even she didn’t know.

She didn’t know he was in love with her. She didn’t know the way he watched her, the way he spiraled over her. She didn’t understand why he acted like this—and maybe that was the worst part. Because she didn’t even mean to hurt him.

She never did.

Honestly, you didn’t think he’d go at all—because who was Caleb without MC?

Sure, he was still the heartthrob. Captain of the basketball team. The boy teachers fawned over, who made old ladies smile at the grocery store and got away with murder just by flashing that grin. On the outside, he was untouchable.

But you knew better.

Without her, he felt lost—like a kite with no string, flailing in the wind and pretending it was flying. He never said it out loud, but you’d seen it. In how his confidence cracked when he didn’t have her around.

So why the hell would he show up to prom alone?

Why go to some overhyped high school dance when the girl he loved more than anything was showing up on the arm of someone else?

You knew him. Knew how deeply he attached his identity to her, even when he didn’t realize it himself.

So you were surprised, to say the least, when he asked you.

Well—told you.

Some boy from your History class caught you between periods—he was the type who always spoke up when called on, always cracked jokes in group work. You’d talked before, mostly in passing, always lended him your pencils. You knew he played basketball, knew he sat at the end of the bench near Caleb, but that was about it.

He stopped you by your locker, holding out one of the many pencils he’d borrowed.

“Hey, thanks for this,” he said casually. “Also—been meaning to ask—are you going to prom?”

The way he said it was confident. Like he already knew the answer, like you’d be crazy to say no. It wasn’t pushy, just matter of fact—you weren’t sure you were really being given a choice here.

Before you could get a word out, Caleb materialized beside you.

Arm around your shoulder. No warning, no “hey.” Just suddenly there. Like he always was, when you least expected him but needed him most.

His voice was deceptively sweet. “I didn’t know you two talked.”

“We don’t really,” the boy didn’t miss a beat. “ But I was asking her to prom.”

You didn’t even have time to react.

Caleb’s grip on your shoulder didn’t change, but his posture shifted. Slightly in front of you now. Calm and casual, but there was more now under the surface.

With the way Caleb stood beside you, it pulled you back to those days on the playground, when he was a kid with teeth bared, standing guard with a stick clenched tight in his hands—ready to fight one of the boys that had stolen your chalk.

But now it was just his arm around your shoulder, yet the fierce protectiveness hadn’t dulled. His posture, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed—it was the same guard dog instinct. You could feel it in your bones, a warning that no one else could cross this line. That was Caleb’s claim, before he even spoke a word.

“Oh,” Caleb said, smiling like it wasn’t the start of a storm. “Sorry, dude. She’s going with me.”

That made your eyes snap to him.

The boy blinked, confused. “Oh. Really?”

Caleb turned to you then, eyes locking onto yours like a silent challenge—expectation, tension, a little heat.

“Isn’t that right?” he asked.

You stared at him, unsure if you were angry or flustered or just completely lost. Your mouth opened and closed. You knew you should say something, should correct him, should remind him he never even asked.

But with his violet eyes shimmering like fire trapped in glass—you nodded.

“Right.”

The boy backed off, giving Caleb a tight lipped smile before walking away.

You stood still, Caleb’s arm still a brand. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

“Since when am I going with you?” you asked, voice low.

Now he turned, that easy confidence wavering just slightly when he caught your expression.

“I figured you wouldn’t want to go alone.”

“I didn’t say I was even going,” you glared.

“Didn’t say no, either.”

You stood there wondering what the hell just happened.

Because he hadn’t asked. He’d claimed.

You stared at him as he walked off down the hall, waving back at you like it was nothing.

He was only asking because MC was going with Zayne. Because he didn’t want to be the one left out. Because he needed someone—anyone—to keep him from feeling like second place.

Exhaling, you deflated right there in the middle of the hallway.

Damn it. Now you had to get a dress.

. . . .

And all I can taste is this moment,

And all I can breathe is your life

. . . .

There was a kind of silence that felt eerie—like the world was holding its breath. A soft spring rain dusted the streets in a dull mist, the sky grey and sad. Not a single car passed by your window. It felt like an omen, if you let yourself think about it long enough.

You had woken up early, just like every other girl probably did on prom day—but unlike them, your chest was tight. Something was wrong. You didn’t know what exactly, but your body did. That gnawing dread wouldn’t leave you, even as you tried to force yourself through the motions.

Every breath felt wrong. Every moment alone in your room only made the silence louder. You curled your hair with shaking hands. Did your makeup with a pit in your stomach. Got dressed like you were preparing for a funeral instead of a dance.

MC was going with a different group of friends. She’d invited you to come along—kindly, of course—but you’d said no. Didn’t want to intrude.

You knew you’d feel like an outsider.

But maybe that’s what made the air feel so tense.

That’s what you told yourself.

You looked pretty. The dress shimmered against the gloom outside, your hair tied up and curled with Caleb’s—no, your purple ribbons. The long gloves you bought felt a little ridiculous, but you wore them anyway. Told yourself they made you look regal.

But no matter how hard you tried, that sinking feeling wouldn’t leave.

Caleb arrived with a knock at your door, and he smiled when he saw you. You didn’t expect really much of a reaction from him, you knew you weren’t the one he had wanted to go with tonight.

You weren’t sure you wanted to go with him either—at least, not this version of Caleb. You wanted the version of Caleb you had grown up romanticizing.

And he wanted MC.

You’d told him the colors of your dress—purple and orange, like a sunset—but you didn’t send a picture, no matter how many times he asked.

He had nagged you about it all week. But you wanted it to be a surprise. Maybe some small, stupid part of you thought that he’d see you and pause. Say something that would make all of this feel worth it.

You wished you’d never tried to make it special at all.

He looked you over. “You look good,” he said, “Didn’t think you’d pick something like this.”

You let out a pathetic laugh at his poor compliment, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “Yeah. Me either.”

It wasn’t the reaction you wanted.

But then again, he hadn’t been the boy you wanted in a long time. You were learning that the hard way.

You pitied both of you, and it crushed you. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not the way you imagined it. There was no excitement, just this haunting, hollow feeling—no limousine, no friends laughing around you, no magical night.

The look in his eyes while he put on your corsage—whatever it was—was something you couldn’t reach. Maybe regret, maybe guilt, maybe just tiredness. You couldn’t blame him. You’d rather be anywhere else, away from this tangled mess between you, away from the silence that screamed louder than any words.

Your friendship was strangling you, twisting tighter with every forced smile and every awkward moment. It was supposed to be something safe—a warm blanket you both could wrap yourselves in when the world got cold.

But instead, it was a ball of tangled yarn, knotted with all the broken pieces neither of you knew how to unravel. And you were suffocating, drowning in what it had become. You wanted to pull it apart, tear it open and let it all fall apart rather than keep pretending it could be smoothed out, but you were too scared of what the emptiness would feel like without it.

The night was fading into a blur, each moment slipping past like smoke. Your mind was a mess of static, every word Caleb muttered to break the silence during the photos, during the drive to school, just washed over you and disappeared. You felt detached, like you were watching yourself from outside your body.

You wished—if only you could pretend hard enough—that this was all a dream. That when you finally opened your eyes, none of it had happened. Caleb never asked you. You could go back to living with the kind of sadness that at least made sense, the kind you were used to.

Or maybe, you’d wake up and Caleb would be yours. It would be prom morning, but everything would feel right. Everything would line up with the way you’d dreamed it, planned it, wished for it to be. But you knew, deep down, that waking up to that kind of hope was just as painful as facing this empty reality.

The gym was a chaotic mix of noise and shadows, too loud to think while the flashing lights stabbed at your eyes. The air was thick with sweat and perfume, bodies packed too close in dresses that hung awkwardly and suits that were too tight. Caleb was pulled away almost instantly, swallowed up by a group of his friends laughing loudly, already slipping into a world you didn’t belong in.

He looked back at you—searching for maybe a sign that you were okay, or that this wasn’t as lonely for you as it felt.

You forced a small smile. “It’s okay,” you told him, but the words felt small, a fragile shield against the gnawing hurt growing inside as he was tugged away toward the table where they all sat, already leaving you behind.

Finding your way to a quiet corner, you pictured the gym as it was that night you had gone to Caleb’s basketball game. Felt that feeling of hope, the first time in what felt like forever he had made a conscious effort to make you feel seen.

But then he chose her. Without a word, without a glance back. You were left standing by the cold gates, swallowed by the dark and silence, waiting for someone who never came. That night, months ago, should have been the first warning—a cruel prophecy of all that was to come.

A little ways off, where the music pulsed and bodies moved in rhythm, you saw MC spinning like a princess in her dress. She was everything you thought she’d be—like a light bright enough to awaken the dim room, shining and dazzling everyone around her. Her laughter bubbled up, surrounded by friends who hung on every smile. She looked like she belonged there, like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Your hands twisted together, trembling, tears gathering but refusing to fall.

You looked beautiful.

You had your dress, your hair done, your makeup just right.

You were here with Caleb.

No—you were there in a corner.

Alone.

You sank to the floor, not even flinching when the grime clung to the hem of your dress—the one you told yourself would make you feel beautiful. It didn’t matter now. You felt dirty anyway. Used up. Stupid for thinking this night would be anything but a reminder of everything you didn’t have.

You hugged your knees to your chest, blinking through the tears that refused to stop. The music kept playing, song after song bleeding together, slow ones turning fast and back again. You watched couples sway under the lights like it was the easiest thing in the world to be loved. And you just sat there, still as stone.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there before a voice pulled you out of your mind.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, you lifted your head from your knees, not expecting anyone to notice you curled up in the shadows. But there he was—Zayne, crouched in front of you, concern written all over his face.

You straightened quickly, wiping at the tears on your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Oh—yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” You let out a laugh that sounded maybe a little too fake.

Zayne didn’t look convinced. His eyes flicked around the room before landing back on you. “Where’s Caleb? I thought you two came together.”

“I don’t know. He disappeared with his friends as soon as we got here. I haven’t really seen him since.”

He sighed and quietly sat beside you without another word.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said, curling in on yourself again. “You should probably be with MC.”

“And you should probably be with Caleb,” he replied, resting his head back against the wall. “Looks like both our dates are having more fun without us.”

You followed his gaze. MC was still out on the dance floor, spinning in circles with her friends.

He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t have to. You’d grown up around Zayne just like you had with Caleb. You knew him—knew this wasn’t his scene. He was here for her. Just like you were here for someone who didn’t really want you.

You tried to make conversation, anything to distract yourself from where you were—and where you weren’t.

“So,” you said, voice still scratchy, “you excited to graduate?”

He glanced over, giving a soft shrug. “Yeah, a bit.”

“That’s cool…That’s cool…” You sometimes forgot how quiet Zayne was, in contrast to the girl he was with.

“I’m just hoping I don’t trip when I walk across the stage.”

It made you smile, and for a second, things didn’t feel quite as lonely. You were still sitting in a corner, still dressed up with no one looking for you, but at least you weren’t invisible anymore.

“I thought this night would feel different,” you admitted quietly, eyes on the chaos of the dance floor. “I thought it’d feel special.”

Zayne didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he understood.

“I like your dress,” he said.

It was simple. Just a compliment. A nice, polite thing to say.

But it hit you harder than you expected—because it was the least someone had given you all night.

Before you could stop it, the tears started to fall again.

Zayne’s eyes widened a little, clearly startled. “Oh—I didn’t mean to—”

You shook your head, holding up a shaky hand. “No, no, it’s not you. I’m okay, I promise.”

You weren’t. But it was easier than admitting how desperately you had needed to feel seen.

And seen you were—when a pointed, loud “Ahem” broke the quiet between you and Zayne.

Caleb stood a few feet away, arms crossed, and jaw tight.

Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “Look who remembered he had a date,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You almost laughed—almost. But your stomach turned instead.

You quickly wiped at your face, forcing yourself to stand. “Hey,” your voice was thin. “You, uh... you disappeared.”

“I’ll let you two talk,” Zayne said, finally pushing himself to his feet and brushing off his pants. He looked at you and gave the faintest nod, not quite a smile, yet still was the most comforting gesture you had received that night—before he walked off with hands in his pockets.

You turned back to Caleb, hands twisting in the fabric of your skirt.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb said, not looking at you.

You didn’t know what to say. Your cheeks were damp, your eyes sore, your makeup probably ruined. You didn’t really want him to see you like this anyway.

“S’okay,” you mumbled. But it wasn’t. And a part of you wished he’d never found you at all. At least then you could stay in that corner with Zayne, pretending you didn’t care.

“There’s a slow song next,” he said, clearing his throat. “Do you want to dance?”

You hesitated, then nodded. His hand reached for yours and you let him take it. Let him lead you to the floor.

The music was soft. The lights spun gently overhead. Around you, couples swayed like they were in love.

Caleb’s hand found your waist. His other stayed in yours. It was the way you were supposed to dance. Normal, fine.

But it felt like he was holding you just far enough away. Like if he pulled you closer, he’d feel everything—your hurt, your want, your love he didn’t return.

And you were scared if you got any nearer, you’d fall right into him. Disappear into someone, a soul that didn't want to catch you.

You blinked slowly. Let your gaze drop to his chest, the fabric of his button up creased a little too much from where he probably yanked it off a hanger last minute. You had tried so hard—made everything perfect. And for what?

“Caleb,” He looked at you then, startled, like he wasn’t expecting you to speak.

You opened your mouth to say more, but nothing came. There wasn’t anything left. Nothing he hadn’t already ignored.

So instead, you said the only thing that didn’t feel like begging.

“Thanks for dancing with me.”

He nodded. Smiled a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You wondered if he even wanted to be holding your hand.

The song was almost over.

And you wished it had never started.

He watched over your shoulder, eyes fixed on something. You tried to ignore it, but then he spoke.

“Why were you sitting with Zayne earlier?”

That was it?

Of all the things he could’ve said… that?

Not Are you okay?

Not I’m sorry I left you alone all night.

Not You look beautiful.

Just that.

You were flabbergasted. “Seriously?”

Caleb finally met your eyes, face unreadable. “I just didn’t expect to see you with him. That’s all.”

You gave a disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t expect it? I was alone, Caleb—for most of the night.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked vaguely uncomfortable, shifting his weight like he couldn’t decide whether to defend himself or stay silent.

Typical.

You tried to let it go. Tried to smooth down the fire rising from your toes and through your throat—to be reasonable, level headed and calm. The kind of girl who doesn’t make a scene. But then, something in you cracked.

You turned your head, following his line of sight. Zayne and MC were dancing.

They looked good, and comfortable. Happy. MC glowed under the gym lights, and Zayne had that rare, soft look on his face.

And there Caleb was, still staring.

“Is that what this is about?” your voice rose just a bit, not enough to turn heads, but enough to sting. “You’re upset because I was sitting with someone who actually noticed I was upset? Someone who, I don’t know, maybe cared?”

Caleb’s brow furrowed. “It’s not like that. I just—Zayne’s always been—”

“Don’t. Don’t turn this into something it’s not. You abandoned me tonight. Not him.”

“I can’t lose you.”

You froze.

He looked right at you, eyes desperate. “I can’t lose you to him too.”

Too.

That word.

You didn’t even fully understand it—what it implied, what he meant—but it scraped something inside of you anyway.

“I’m not a fucking consolation prize, Caleb,” you snapped, voice breaking on the edges of anger. “You don’t get to ignore me all night and then get jealous. You don’t get to watch me fall apart and only speak up when your ego is bruised.”

His face paled, but you didn’t care.

Because all the things you’d been holding back—the pain, the loneliness, the crushing sense of disappointment—were flooding to the surface now, unrelenting.

“You don’t get to lose me,” your voice wobbled, “because you never even had me.”

The music blurred in your ears. Your pulse roared.

You broke free from his grasp, practically running out of the gym.

You ran, and you ran.

You ran until you didn’t even know where you were going—you just needed to get away. Away from the music, the lights, the people, him.

You kicked off your heels halfway down the street, too tired to care that your feet were raw, bleeding from the blisters. Your dress dragged behind you, snagging on twigs and the sidewalk and god knows what else. You didn’t care.

You didn’t care about anything anymore.

Then you tripped.

You hit the ground with a loud slap—palms scraping open, knees stinging. You just stayed there, frozen. The kind of still that comes after your body gives up. After your heart already did.

And then it started to rain.

Like, really rain.

Cold, heavy and merciless—soaking through your hair, your dress and your skin in seconds. It was quiet, but not peaceful—like the world had decided to shut up just to let you hear how alone you were.

You crawled forward a bit before curling up like a little kid. Arms wrapped around your legs, head tucked down, shaking all over.

Your body started to rock, and then you were crying. The kind of crying that sounds like gasping. Like begging—like something being ripped out of you. You couldn't even tell where your tears ended and the rain began.

You looked down at your dress, torn and muddy, and it made you cry harder. You tried so hard to look pretty for him. You practiced walking in heels, curling your hair, doing your makeup—just to be his date. Just to be chosen. Just to feel like you were enough.

But you weren’t.

Not for him.

You never were.

You cried like a kid. Like someone who’d just realized love doesn’t mean safety. That sometimes people don’t show up. That sometimes, you’re not enough for them to stay.

And sitting there, soaked and shaking, with your mascara smeared down your cheeks and your hands burning from the fall—you didn’t feel like a teenager anymore. You felt five. You felt like a little girl, crying on the sidewalk because Caleb had taken one of your toys. Except this time, it was your heart. Your life.

You curled up tighter, but it didn’t help. You were soaked straight through. Your teeth started to chatter, but you didn’t even try to stop them. You just sat there shaking.

You whispered to no one, “It’s cold.”

Your voice cracked. You said it again.

“It’s cold.”

It was all you could think. All you could feel. Cold, and alone. And small. So small. And you hated that the world just kept going. That the rain didn’t pause for your heartbreak. That the streetlights still flickered above you like everything was fine.

Eventually, your body couldn’t take it anymore. Your knees hurt from how long you'd been sitting, and your hands were stiff and raw. So you got up, dragging yourself to your feet, soaked dress clinging to your legs like it didn’t want to let go either.

You walked home.

Barefoot, your shoes long gone. The sidewalk was rough and uneven, cold and sharp. You felt every step, but also… you didn’t. Your brain had turned off somewhere between the gym and the street. You didn’t look at anything, didn’t check your phone, didn’t cry anymore. You were empty now—wrung out.

By the time you reached your front door, your fingers were too cold to get the key in right. You fumbled and dropped it and just stared at it for a second on the welcome mat, wondering how this had become your life.

You went straight to the bathroom, peeling the wet fabric off your skin piece by piece. Your zipper got stuck and you cried out in frustration—because it was just one more thing.

You looked in the mirror and wished you hadn’t.

Your makeup was a disaster. Your eyes were red and puffy. Your hair hung in damp, tangled clumps. You looked like a ghost. Like a little girl who’d been left behind. And maybe that’s what you were.

You didn’t even shower. You just wiped your skin down with a towel, like that would make it all go away. You stepped out of your dress and left it crumpled on the bathroom floor, too tired to care.

Crawling into bed, still damp, the cold clung to you under the blankets. You curled onto your side and squeezed your eyes shut.

And in the quiet of your room, you whispered one more time:

“It’s cold.”

Not just your body.

Everything.

Your eyelids were heavy, sore from all the crying, and they started to fall shut on their own—suddenly everything felt far away. Like you were still watching yourself from outside your own body.

You could still feel the cold.

It echoed inside you—like a scream that never stopped ringing.

Your breath hitched once, maybe twice, and then your body gave out.

It was a loud, cracking thunder that yanked you out of sleep like a slap. You shot up, heart pounding, breath caught in your throat. For a moment, everything felt heavy and blurry, like your body hadn’t caught up to your mind. Like you were underwater, or dreaming.

You sat there, dazed, blinking at the darkness until another flash of lightning lit up your room as you flinched. The room looked unfamiliar under the pale blue white glow. Like it didn’t belong to you, none of this did.

Still half asleep, half sick from everything, you shuffled to your window, hands weak as you reached for the curtains. You just wanted to shut it all out—the storm, the world, the ache in your chest. You were so cold, and so tired, and—

Then you saw him.

Caleb.

Out there in the rain.

You froze. Blinked. Rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand.

He didn’t move.

Just stood there under your window, soaked through like you had been earlier that night—hair dripping, arms limp at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore. His eyes were lifted, searching, and even though the rain blurred everything, you knew he was looking at you.

For a second, you were convinced you were still dreaming. That maybe you hadn’t actually woken up. That maybe your mind had conjured this out of sheer exhaustion and heartbreak. It felt too surreal, too cruel and too stupid.

Because what else could it be? Why else would he be there now?

For a second, you just stared.

Part of you was too tired to even feel anything.

But then the confusion came. The disbelief. Then the anger—creeping hot up your spine.

What did he want?

What did he think this was?

You just stood there, silently, trembling in your oversized t-shirt, mascara still smudged from earlier. You were cold. So cold.

And he was just out there.

Looking like the boy you wished had loved you right.

He looked so small out there. And you felt so small in here.

Caleb would’ve been stupid not to know exactly how you felt. You were sure of that. Maybe he never said it out loud, never admitted it—even to himself—but he knew. He saw the way your eyes lingered on him, the way your smile faltered whenever he looked away, the way your whole body tensed and softened in his presence. He knew.

And you sometimes wondered if he used that—your feelings—as a kind of quiet leverage. Not because he wanted to hurt you, not because he was cruel or calculating. No, Caleb wasn’t like that. But he had his own battles, his own demons clawing at him, and you were there. You were safe, always willing, always there. You didn’t fight it. You just let yourself get wrapped up in whatever he offered.

You loved him. Painfully so.

And Caleb knew it.

He didn’t need words. He never needed words. You think maybe that was his silent power over you, and maybe his curse.

The rain tapped harder against the windowpane as you slowly closed the curtains, shutting out the cold, the storm, and the figure waiting outside. You shut it all away—his gaze, your heart, the space between you that kept growing wider.

You wanted to close him out, too. But you knew that no curtain could block the way he’d already found inside you.

. . . .

And sooner or later, it's over

I just don't wanna miss you tonight

. . . .

Just as fast as it had seemed like maybe—maybe Caleb loved you back the way you loved him, he vanished. Not physically. He still walked the halls. Still laughed in class. But it was like you’d been scrubbed from his memory. Like you were a bad dream he didn’t want to admit he ever had.

Or maybe you were the ghost. Hovering and haunting, left behind in the wreckage of something that never even got a proper name.

And that was the worst part—there wasn’t even a clean break. No screaming match. No final fight. Just silence. Just Caleb looking through you like you were steam on a mirror, like all he had to do was blink and you’d be gone.

Though he tried to talk to you a few times, after that night—you still shut him out. Slammed the door of communication closed. You wanted him to feel the gut-punch. Wanted him to beg. To grovel like he always did for her.

You wanted him to feel it—wanted him to hurt.

You thought he might fight for you. Thought maybe if you made him miss you enough, he’d come crawling back the way he always did with MC.

You thought if you were good—if you were patient and quiet and hurt in silence—he’d realize what he lost.

Silly girl, you were never her.

You’d never be her.

But still, you watched him. And sometimes—when he thought you weren’t looking—you caught it. The way his face would twitch. The way his eyes almost darted to yours like they used to. The ghost of a habit he was trying to unlearn.

You told yourself that meant something. That it was proof he cared. But glances aren’t apologies. And flinches aren’t love.

You were grieving someone who wasn’t even gone— and that’s the cruelest kind of mourning, isn’t it? Not absence, but a presence that ignores you.

He was right there. He just didn’t really see you anymore.

It’s like being underwater while the world goes on above you. Like screaming with your mouth full of blood and saltwater and no one ever hearing. You were still there—heart still beating, love still burning—but he’d already moved on like none of it ever mattered. Like you never mattered.

And the worst part?

You still loved him.

Like a song stuck in your teeth.

Like a scab you keep picking.

And he just keeps walking.

In love, you spoke in lifelines. He spoke in escape routes. You kept translating, bending, breaking to understand him.

You kept setting fires in your chest, and he kept warming his hands and leaving.

Zayne graduated, and just like Caleb said he would, he was gone by summer. And with that, everything Caleb had warned about came true.

He left MC.

She was wrecked—crying in the bathrooms, drifting through the halls like she’d lost a limb. And a part of you felt for her. You did. You knew the sting of being left behind, of watching someone you loved choose something (someone) else over you.

But your heartbreak had been different. And unlike MC, you didn’t have Caleb to help sweep up the damage.

If Caleb hadn’t been obsessed before, now he was relentless. He was at her side constantly—waiting at her locker, following her laugh like a tether, orbiting her like he couldn’t breathe unless she let him. He bent to her every need. Carried her books, fetched her favorite coffee, dropped everything the second she called. It was like watching a soldier answer roll call—there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t belong to her.

The rest of senior year passed like that.

You had your own future planned—acceptance into Hunter’s Academy, something you should’ve been proud of. But even that was overshadowed. MC, despite being a year younger, had louder dreams. Dreams people paid attention to. She was going to be a hunter too, and somehow her ambition shined brighter. Everyone saw it. Everyone talked about it. You were just the…one who got in first. Something like that.

And so, you started to fade.

Life became something to get through. With time, a faultline cracked open beneath your feet. A quiet divide between you and everyone else.

And instead of trying to cross it, you stood still. Because at least on your side, the silence didn’t lie to you.

. . . .

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

. . . .

You graduated—walked the stage, took the diploma, and smiled for the picture—ut inside, there was nothing. No flicker of pride. No sigh of relief.

People clapped, your name was called, and you existed. That was the most you could say.

It felt like the past two years had sucked all of the life out of you. Silly teenage girl and silly teenage love, yet you still carried that grief with you through the summer and to the Hunters Academy.

It wasn’t excitement that got you there—it was inertia. You had nowhere else to go. Nothing else waiting for you.

You existed on autopilot: wake up, train, eat, study, sleep.

Repeat.

You passed exams. Earned marks. Beat out half your class by sheer willpower alone. And still, no one really saw you. You were just… there.

No one ever really saw you. Not when you were a kid, not in the chaos of high school. You existed quietly, in the background—present, but never quite acknowledged. Like wallpaper in a room full of louder voices.

And the one person you wanted to see you—the only one whose opinion ever really mattered—never truly did. Caleb.

He went on to the Aerospace Academy, chasing his dreams with the same certainty he didn’t chase you. And you were happy for him, because you’re the kind of person who still loves people who hurt you. You clapped for him through a screen, watching from the sidelines like you always had.

He’d like your posts sometimes. You’d like his. That was the extent of it. No messages. No check ins. Just the algorithm throwing two ghosts at each other every now and then, reminding you he still existed.

As if you could forget.

You became mutuals in each other’s lives. Background characters. Polite nods in the hallway of adulthood.

And somehow that hurt more than anything else.

Because you didn’t forget.

You remembered every version of him—every moment that made your heart hurt when you looked at him too long.

It was like everything the two of you shared had dissolved into nothing. Like your whole childhood had been a figment of your imagination. Like you were the only one who felt it all for real.

You were close to graduating from the Hunters Academy when something shifted in you. Maybe it was just a crack in the numbness.

Either way, you found yourself driving back home—the place you’d been avoiding for quite a while.

Past the corner store where you'd once bought candy with spare change. Past your old high school, its windows still filled with the same kind of teenage loneliness. Past the playground, empty now, except for the memories of who you used to be.

You kept circling. Not really sure what you were looking for—maybe a feeling, maybe some closure. Proof that it didn’t all happen in your head.

Because you had left this town, but it never really left you. Its grip was firm—the streets still knew your name, the air still smelled like the version of you that never got to grow up right.

It was like your soul had gotten stuck here, trapped in the cracks of the pavement and the dust on old windowpanes. A ghost, pacing the same streets, waiting to pass on—but never really knowing how.

As you pulled up to the curb outside your childhood home, the past was already wrapping its hands around your throat.

And there he was.

Sitting on his front steps like nothing had changed. His eyes widened slightly when he saw your car, recognition hitting him.

His lips twitched into the beginning of a smile, and he lifted his hand in a wave—that wave.

You stepped out of the car, forcing a small, polite smile back, because what else were you supposed to do? Hug him? Cry? Pretend like it hadn’t been too long you last saw him—unless you counted the glimpses of him in photos online, standing inside a life that didn’t include you anymore.

You didn’t even make it to your porch before his voice stopped you.

“Hey there,” he called, shielding his eyes from the low evening sun, squinting at you like he needed to really see if it was actually you. “What brings you back to this little old town?”

“Visiting,” you looked at him for a beat too long, then glanced down and fidgeted with the keys in your hand. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He tilted his head a little, pretending to think, “Visiting,” he echoed.

Caleb shifted over on the steps, patting the spot beside him—like there wasn’t years of silence and heartbreak hanging in the air between you. Just a simple gesture, an invitation.

You stood there, frozen for a second.

Your brain screamed no, told you this wasn’t smart—you weren’t even sure coming home had been good for your sanity. And now this? Caleb, inches away? Alone?

But your body moved before your heart could catch up.

Because your soul still recognized him. It remembered the way his eyes used to light up when he looked at you. It remembered the warmth of his shoulder against yours, the cadence of his voice when he whispered your name. He had Pavloved you. Conditioned you, without meaning to, into obedience.

You hated that he still had that power.

And you sat down. Because even if it destroyed you, some part of you still wanted to know if there was anything left to ruin.

“How’s the Hunters Academy treatin’ you?” Caleb asked, his voice so familiar it made your head swirl. That voice had once been your comfort—had once been home.

He looked… different. Not unrecognizable, but not quite the same either. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like someone who’d lived a little more.

You rubbed at the fabric of your jeans. “It’s okay. I graduate in a few weeks.”

Caleb let out a low whistle. “Didn’t realize that much time had gone by. You must be excited.”

“Yeah,” it was the easiest thing to say.

“Do you see MC a lot?”

There it was. Her name. You didn’t even get one full conversation before she slipped in.

You looked down at your hands, at the little ridges on your knuckles, anything but him. “Sometimes.”

She was also a student at the Academy now, following right behind you—always a step behind and yet somehow miles ahead.

“You’re graduating soon too,” you tried to steer the conversation, to redirect it anywhere else. “Right?”

Caleb nodded slowly, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Feels weird. Like I blinked and suddenly I’m here.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Because for you, time hadn’t passed in a blink—it had dragged. Time that felt like a decade, marked not by milestones, but by every time you managed to get out of bed. Every time you saw him tagged in another photo with her. Every time you reminded yourself not to care, and still did.

“Do you like it? Flying?”

He paused, eyes shifting away like he needed to look far enough away to answer it honestly. “It makes sense to me. Being in the air, it’s quiet up there.”

You nodded, “Quiet sounds nice.”

He looked over at you then. And maybe it was just your imagination, but for a second, it was like he could see it. All of it. The hurt. The years. Maybe even the version of you that used to look at him like he hung the stars.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

You snorted, tired. “Life’ll do that.”

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I didn’t either,” you admitted.

Caleb stared out at the horizon, the sky bruised in orange and purple—the setting sun dipping low behind the rooftops and trees. You followed his gaze. It reminded you of that night—of your dress, and the light it caught as you moved. It reminded you of him, too—of the boy he was, the boy you loved, and the one who never reached back.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he, for a while. Just that quiet between you, full of things too old to still hurt this much.

Then, softly:

“I hoped you would.”

You swallowed. “You don’t mean that.”

He shifted a little, elbows on his knees. “I do.”

You finally glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you. Just his hands, like they might say something for him.

“I checked in. Here and there.”

You frowned.

“Your posts. Stuff you’d share.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t know if I should say anything.”

You waited. He didn’t say more.

“I didn’t hate you,” You stared at the sky again, the purple deepening, the orange slipping.

“I thought you did.” his words stung. “Would’ve made it easier.”

You knew the feeling.

Silence passed—just the soft sound of crickets in the grass, and the rustle of wind in the trees being exchanged between the two of you.

Caleb stood, stretching like he’d been holding something in. “I should probably get dinner going for Gran and MC. They’ll be home soon.”

You nodded and watched the sky shift fully into purple, the sun finally disappearing like it had somewhere more important to be. You stood, dusted off your jeans like you could shake off everything else too.

“Hey,” he said before you could leave, voice quieter now. “I’ve got something for you. Come grab it before you leave town.”

You looked at him then—into his eyes, not just at them. And for a moment, you felt so small. Like nothing had changed. Like you were still that girl who wanted him to choose her. Who thought he might.

So you didn’t say anything else.

You told him goodnight. Waved.

And left.

You never grabbed whatever he had for you.

You were scared.

. . . .

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am

. . . .

You saw it on the news.

Another explosion caused by a Metaflux fluctuation.

At first, it barely registered. Just background noise in the chaos of everything else. A feeling of sympathy for the strangers caught in it—until they weren’t strangers anymore.

Until you saw the pictures.

That yard. That house. The one next door.

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like your body hollowed out.

You remember laughing on those steps. Smiling in that yard. That same yard now torn apart on the screen in front of you.

MC had posted something about her and Caleb, visiting Josephine.

You froze. Maybe for a second, maybe for an hour—you couldn’t tell.

Then you moved.

Rushed to your phone, his contact already there like it had been waiting for you. You hit "call." Let it ring. No answer. Hung up. Called again.

Again.

Nothing.

You sent messages. Poured every panicked, shaking thought into them.

Please call me.

Are you okay?

Please.

I just want to know you're okay.

Caleb please.

There was no reply.

Not that night. Not the next.

Three days passed. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Every time your phone buzzed, your chest seized.

When it finally lit up, it wasn’t him.

MC.

Her voice cracked, but she was alive. You were grateful for that.

But then she said it.

"Caleb’s gone."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Your mouth moved but no sound came out.

You holed yourself up in your room like you were curling into your own grave. Days passed. Maybe weeks. Time lost all meaning. It dragged and collapsed in on itself like your chest every time you remembered.

You didn’t go to work. Didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. You stopped checking your phone, stopped opening the blinds. Stopped being.

Your bed became a coffin. You laid there, eyes open, blinking slow, letting all of it crush you inch by inch. You didn’t cry at first—couldn’t. It was worse than crying. Your grief was too big for tears. It swallowed you whole.

Then MC texted.

Said she’d been in Caleb’s room. Said she found something with your name on it. Said she’d leave it on your doorstep.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Just stared at the screen until it dimmed, then set it face down and turned away.

You left the box there.

For hours. For days. Then you imagined someone stealing it—ripping it open, tearing through whatever he’d left you.

And the fear of losing it—losing one more thing—dug its claws into your chest and pulled you out of bed.

You dragged your body to the door like it weighed a thousand pounds.

There it was.

Small. Plain. Wrapped neatly with that goddamn ribbon.

You hadn’t seen it in years.

That lopsided bow he always tried to fix three times before giving up and grinning like an idiot.

In your color.

Your knees nearly gave out. Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you were going to be sick right there in the doorway. You almost left it. Almost let the wind or a stranger take it from you. Almost walked back to bed and pretended it had never been there at all.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, clutching it too tight like it might vanish if you let go.

You brought it inside and set it on the floor by the door.

And then you stared at it.

For hours.

For another day.

For as long as it took to work up the strength to open the last thing he’d ever give you.

You finally undid the ribbon one morning, when curiosity and desperation to know what it was finally overcame you. Peeling back paper revealed a black box, with gold lettering of the name of a familiar company you couldn’t help but forget to recall.

Inside it sat a loose leaf paper.

“I’m sorry,”

It read.

“I miss my best friend.”

That was it.

Two lines.

You stared at them for a long time. Like maybe you’d read them wrong.

But they didn’t change.

You gripped the paper until it tore.

Beneath it was the necklace.

That necklace. The one you’d stopped in front of that shop window years ago to admire. He’d remembered. He’d bought it. Wrapped it up. Written you a note.

Called you his best friend.

It shattered something in you.

The tears came fast—ugly and unstoppable. Not neat or quiet, but sobs that raked your throat raw.

You weren’t angry at the gift.

You were angry at him.

Angry that he never told you the truth when he was still alive. That he let you spend your whole life clinging to this hope, this maybe, this someday. That he made you feel like there was something there—every glance, every moment, every brush of his hand that lingered just long enough to make you wonder. All of it.

He didn’t have to love you back. But he should’ve said something.

Instead, he left you with two lines and a necklace.

You screamed. You screamed so hard it hurt your ribs, begged the empty room for answers, for a rewrite, for one more chance—just one—to say everything you’d never gotten to.

But he was gone, and now there wasn’t even the comfort of pretending. No half-smiles across the room, no soft memories to cradle yourself in, no flicker of hope to nurse late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.

You clutched the necklace and the note to your chest like they were the last things in the world. You curled around them like they could still protect you, like if you held them close enough maybe you’d wake up and he’d still be alive.

You tried to believe it was him you were holding—not a box, not paper, not metal—but him.

But it wasn’t, it would never be.

You sobbed until your throat gave out, until your tears soaked your clothes and the floor beneath you. You screamed his name into the quiet, begged for him like a child, like someone praying for a miracle that wasn’t coming.

But Caleb was gone.

And he never saw you the way you saw him.

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annabelle--cane · 6 hours ago

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low key think jonny was planning for adelard dekker to be a web avatar in his first appearance because a) he uses the web table to bind the not-them and b) the statement giver keeps describing their interactions like this:

At this, the old man’s eyes lit up with excitement, and I took an involuntary step back. If he noticed, he didn’t show it, walking past me into the house and ordering me to get any photos that hadn’t changed. I don’t know if it was the certainty in his voice or my own feeling of helplessness, but it didn’t even occur to me not to do what he said. [...] He told me to follow him, and I did. [...] The man who called himself Adelard Dekker climbed in and picked up the back of it, commanding me to take the other end. I did, and together we carried it into my house. It was heavy and barely fit through the front door, but any objections I might have had were silenced by one look from Dekker. [...] Then he instructed me to go to my bedroom, and not to leave until he told me it was safe. I did protest at that, and I asked him how my locking myself upstairs would help save Carl. There was no sympathy in his voice when he told me my cousin was dead, that nothing would bring him back, and that my best chance to not join him was to stay in the bedroom until everything was over. He did not seem inclined to tell me what he meant by “everything”. So I did what he said.

which sounds a lot like how other people describe encounters with web avatars, like it wouldn't even occur to them to not do as they are told. however, without any later follow-up on dekker's potential webdencies (web tendencies), this instead reads like the statement giver lawrence moore is simply a huge sub.

#tma #marina marvels at life

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v1rtualv4mp · 2 days ago

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𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𓂃۶ৎ

Yandere ghost x GN reader

Cw: Paranormal activity, haunted house, obsession, death, blood, yandere behavior, abusive relationships (not with the ghost), gender-neutral reader has a boyfriend, probably inaccurate representation of spiritualism

A/N: Kinda ass. Just a fantasy I had

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You were just so happy when you finally managed to afford a house!

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The owner was desesperate to get rid of it, nobody wanted that house. It was confusing

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The place was nice, clean, cheap— and as someone who only earned minimum wage, you were willing to accept anything just to get out of your parent's roof

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The first week was calm, having time for yourself for once felt refreshing. The absence of neighbors created a quiet and peaceful environment

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Though, you had this nagging feeling that someone was watching you... It must be paranoia

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! By the second week, your belongings began to disappear and reappear on odd places

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You didn't remember placing that brush underneath the bed.. And why was your phone in the bathtub?

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Am I going mad?

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! By the third week, that house began to make you sick, as if it was sucking the energy out of you

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You weren't stupid, of course not, you came to realize what was going on when doors and windows closed and opened on their own, objects fell down to the floor, lights turned on and off—

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! When you began to feel a presence; someone whispering your name in the dead of night

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You began to spend as much time as possible in your job, working extra hours, anything just to get away from that house

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Sometimes exhaustion would knock you out, accidentally spending the night at the workplace until security eventually sent you back home

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Coworkers noticed the personality shift— you were moodier, jumpy, and the dark circles underneath your eyes told words that refused to leave your mouth

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You weren't doing well, and it was painfully obvious

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Eventually, your boss gave you some days off

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Unexpectedly to them, you begged to continue working, but your pleas weren't heard

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You spent the next days locked in your bedroom, mind too hyper aware to rest

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Like a rabbit in a hole, waiting for the wolf to go away

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You stopped eating, stopped showering, and would only get out to quickly use the bathroom

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! And suddenly, it all stopped.

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The strange phenomenons ceased, and that place finally felt like a normal house

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Little by little, you also went back to normal, eating properly and taking care of yourself

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! One night, however, as you were brushing your teeth, your head lowered to dry your mouth and lifted back up to look at the mirror

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You weren't alone.

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Someone, a person in the reflection, stared back through the crack of the door

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You didn't even have time to notice any feature of theirs, your head snapped to the direction of the stranger

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! But nobody was there

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Instead of sprinting out the house, you locked yourself in the bedroom once again, and hid underneath the blankets

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Shutting your eyes, trying to keep your breath as silent as possible— like a child trying to sleep after watching an horror movie

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The bedroom got cold

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Words couldn't even describe how beyond terrified you were when the bed dipped

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You began to tremble, tears slowly sliding down your face

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Your body paralyzed when a cold presence pressed itself behind you, feeling the weight of a hand gently caressing your arm

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You tried to keep as still as possible, too scared to move

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Your body eventually betrayed you, falling asleep next to whatever was with you that night

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The next morning, you jumped from the bed, remembering last night's events. No one was there.

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You did something you never thought you would do: calling your boyfriend

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Things had been tense between you and him for some months now

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! He wasn't the nicest person. But when all your friends moved away, you clinged to the only one that was left— him

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Of course he was surprised once your name showed up on the buzzing screen, and when he placed the phone to his ear, all he heard was sobs

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You broke down, crying so hard words could barely get out

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! He tried to calm you down, saying he would visit you after his shift

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You waited, trying to make yourself as small as possible in a corner, only getting up when there was knocking on the front door

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The man was crushed into a hug, your arms shaking from holding too hard

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! He asked you what had happened, and, convinced he wouldn't believe you, you just said something about missing him

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You two ended up watching a movie while cuddling on the couch

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The whole room became cold out of nowhere

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Turns out, people in the 21st century aren't easily fooled

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Who in their right minds would want to live in a house with a violent background?

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Even if the blood is cleaned down to every drop, even if all people present in the event were buried, even if time makes people forget what happened— it doesn't erase what happened. The pain just poisons the area, negative energy spreads around like radiation, the past haunts

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Perhaps that was why the owner didn't tell you about the house's story

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Every other resident felt uneasy in there, and would dip the moment anything slightly weird happened

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ With no friends nor family, It had always been alone, except that was never a problem— It's own presence was enough

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Killed inside that house, It never rested, stuck in a torturous purgatory for decades

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Nobody remembered It. It's grave never had any visitors, never received a single rose

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Perhaps that was It's personal hell— that dammed house

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Each day seemed slower than the other, time dragged out impossibly longer

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It watched people walk across the street, feeling It's spirit darken with rage

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ The house would get affected, too. Whenever It felt ugly emotions, plants would die; food would rot; animals would run away...

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It felt as if It was cursed to forever stare at that decaying wallpaper, reviving again again days of a life long gone

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It would give anything just to feel the heat of the Sun against It's skin again; to walk on two feet, touch the ground; to get under the shower after a hot summer day; to know the end of the books It never finished

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It would give anything just to feel alive again.

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Loneliness reached unreal levels, losing It's only company, being only a poor excuse of the essence of what was once flesh

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ When you moved in, It began to hate you, too

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ How dare you live so carelessly? How dare you take your own heartbeat for granted?

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It was like feasting infront of the starved

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It watched you, every single day, all the time

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Day after day, you would walk across the floor that was once stained with It's blood

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It saw you as nothing more than just another intruder

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Even if sometimes It saw Itself on you

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ You were lonely, and so was It, but you both were lonely together

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It messed with you, constantly moving objects, making things fall— it was humorous, the confused look on your face

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Whenever it slammed door or turned off the lights, it was all playing, entertainment

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Your presence turned into an object of comfort and familiarity

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It remembered your routine, how you liked your food done, your favorite movie genre— it was almost domestic

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It specifically liked to watch you sleep, you were so vulnerable... completely unaware that It could hurt you at any time

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ But of course It wouldn't hurt you, never. Your innocence was something It wanted to shield

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ One night, tentatively, It slowly reached out, cold fingers leaving a feather-light touch across your cheek

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ And for the first time ever since the breath was forcefully ripped from It's lungs— It felt warmth

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ You made It feel alive.

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ You can imagine how sad It was when you began distancing yourself more and more

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Why don't you want to be with It anymore? Are you going to leave as well? Did It do anything wrong?

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Of course it noticed how you didn't shine like before, how the life was drained from your once bright face

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ So It just stopped with the shenanigans, It's intentions were never malicious, after all. And like that, you were back again, little by little

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It's sweet human..

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ However, the efforts to get closer went too far when It decided to show Itself

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It never saw you this scared before, and that broke It's heart

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It had to fix this. So It gingerly, timidly, crawled in bed with you

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Words couldn't describe how your body felt, a saccharine-like sensation that made It's essence overflow with a comfort It never experienced before, soaking in the heat radiating off your body

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ And when you fell asleep in It's arms.. Everything began to make sense

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Suddenly, every second of that hell was worth it

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ Perhaps It died that night so that It could meet you, so that It could protect you from this cruel, dangerous world

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ In that same night, It swore It would never let anything take you away, never let anything turn your soft skin violet, never let tears stain your pretty eyes, never let anyone or anything savor that warmth It loved so much ever again

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ It dozed off for a moment, fantasizing about meeting you in the afterlife, with no barriers keeping the two worlds apart

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Somehow, a fight broke out

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Your boyfriend got angry after biting into a rotten apple that you gave him, claiming that you were trying to poison him

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Which was odd, because you had bought that apple just yesterday...

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! What was an argument about the fruit, suddenly turned into an argument about everything else, everything that bothered both you and him

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! When your voice raised a bit too much for his liking, he made a terrible mistake

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! He slapped you.

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The sound echoed, bouncing from the walls

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You barely had time to react, the lights violently flickered nonstop until the lamp broke, shattering into a million pieces that fell to the ground

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You pulled out the flashlight of your phone, pointing it to your boyfriend

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You gasped as strands of his hair raised to the air, as if there was no gravity

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! In a matter of seconds, those strands turned into a whole chunk. An invisible force began to drag him by the hair as if his body weighted nothing

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! He fell to the ground, getting dragged to the basement

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! You yelled his name, quickly following until the door shut closed before you had the chance to enter

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! His blood-curdling screams could be heard across the whole street, the noises seemed to make the whole ground vibrate

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! At one point he called out your name. Your body gave out, you fell to your knees, clutching your ears while crying. Unable to do anything as your boyfriend was left alone with that being

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! It didn't take long until the screams stopped

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Tears wouldn't stop flowing down your eyes, the door was no longer closed

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Staring at the darkness before you, you pushed all your fear aside and entered, going down the stairs that lead to the basement

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Your hands trembled around the phone, legs shaking with every step

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! When you finally reached the ground, it took effort to raise the light. Too horrified to face whatever was in there

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! The sight before you made your breath stop

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Your boyfriend laid in a pool of blood, as still as a statue

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Dead.

( ˶°ㅁ°) !! Bold crimson letters formed words on the wall

"You're mine"

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ ♡ ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

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writing-mlm · 9 hours ago

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OMG OMG OMG I NEED something for loki like male x loki but I dont really know what plot like I'd be genuinely happy with anything if you write it ! Go crazy with it if you want whatever tickles your brain

Our time together wasn’t enough (So I changed the story)

Summary: Loki’s gone, leaving an ache in your heart and your home that you don’t think will go away no matter how much time passes. Pairing: Loki x Demi-god!Male!reader Word count: 6.6k Tags/Warnings: hurt/comfort, canon divergence, subtle references to suicidal thoughts, Tony Stark lives, Natasha is still dead sorry, kissing, mentions of being naked but nothing is explicit. A/n: if the poll hadn’t gone comfort this fic would’ve ended so differently and let me know if I missed any tags i’m very tired right now

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to just keep on going. To live your life as if what happened was normal, just a fact of life. Because it wasn’t. Not for people like Loki. Not for gods, gods don’t die. And certainly not before their demi-god husbands.

You don’t know how the others did it, how people lost their loved ones and just… continued. They smiled, they laughed— sometimes they even found themselves able to love someone again. But you don’t want someone, you want him. You want Loki Laufeyson back. You’d loved him for centuries, literal centuries. You’d married him before you were even a hundred because you were so sure you’d spend the rest of your days at his side, with him.

Never in a million years did you think you’d have to wake up in a cold bed. That you’d be making breakfast, lunch, and dinner for just one person. That the house he had built for you was too big for just you. That the personal touches of green and gold were a stab in your heart every time you saw it. That every item that he wanted but you vetoed hung over your head because you should’ve just said yes. You’d have more of his things that way, more items that he wanted, more of Loki.

“Oh, brother,” Thor sighs, dropping his hammer in the doorway as you kneel on the floor, clutching a ripped blanket. The blanket Loki had gotten you for your first anniversary. You’re sobbing, your voice echoing in the bedroom as your hands shake. “It’s a simple tear, fret not.” He drops down next to you, placing a hand on your back.

You shake your head, holding the fabric closer to your body. “He’s—“ Your voice catches in your throat and you cover your mouth, staring at the hand-stitched blanket. Golden memories woven into the fabric of your favorite color. “It’s not fixable, brother.”

You and Thor had long since considered each other family; you don’t think he’s ever called you by your true name. It’s always some form of a nickname or simply his brother. He thought the In-law title was rude because you were much more than that, much more than Loki’s lover.

“Maybe not,” He nods, slowly licking his lips. “Perhaps instead of fixing, we can patch. Do you have any scrap fabric, perhaps?” He stands, looking around your bedroom. It’s neat, just how Loki always kept his room. His items were untouched from the last time he was there. But his cologne is lower than before.

“There’s—“ You clear your throat. “In his study, he has a bin. It’s… it has fabric from the palace.” Thor smiles and nods, leaving the room.

When he returns you’re no longer sobbing, just barely sniffling as you stare at the blanket. Your fingers glide over the embroidery, watching as each thread creates illusions of memories. He sees Loki standing there, his voice barely audible as he calls you what he’d done for centuries; “My dear lover,” before your fingers reach the ripped fabric. The area with the rip no longer had that magic, that fact bringing more tears to your eyes. It was like you were losing another part of him with the rip.

“Might I ask, however did that happen?” You look at him, almost ashamed of your answer.

“I was cleaning and I got upset because… because there wasn’t a lot to clean. There weren’t any of his items to pick up and scold him for leaving out, no hair he left in the brush, or blankets he left scattered on the bed. I grabbed it and it snagged on the bed— it made me furious and I… I yanked it,” You choke, hiding your face like a scared child. “I thought it would’ve slipped out but there’s a split in the wood that I forgot about.”

“Ah,” Thor nods. “Do you remember what mother used to tell us when we messed up our clothes?” The bed shifts as he sits down, gently taking the blanket from your hands. You let him while staring at the wall to your right.

Thinking for a moment, you smile. “Lady mother would tell us that mistakes happen and there’s nothing that a little love and time can’t fix.”

Thor suddenly barks a laugh. “Loki always said magic helped,” Laughing with him, you look at him and see that his nose is red and there are tears in his eyes, too. “He would be yelling at me right now,” He whispers as he’s opening up the sewing kit.

You nod, trailing your eyes down to the blanket. “He’d call you a heavy-handed oaf who shouldn’t be near a needle,”

Thor lets out a belly laugh. “He wouldn’t have let me get this far into your room!” You could remember the times he’d yell at Thor for even stepping half a foot into your shared room. He didn’t want any of Thor’s… Thor-ness to infect his space. “I miss his tricks.” He breathes, his hands shaking as he cuts the fabric down to size.

“He would spend nights coming up with tricks for you,” You softly admit, watching as Thor shuddered, his lips pursed to keep himself sane. “I watched him, sometimes. He’d sit at his desk and write down ideas by candlelight, he has an entire novel of ideas.”

The two of you sit in that silence, the memories of Loki drifting between the two of you as he mends the blanket. He pricks his fingers and even snaps the thread a couple of times but he does it. Once he’s done, he holds the blanket up, showing off his sewing skills.

Gently, you take it, running your fingers over the new fabric. “Thank you, brother,” You softly smile.

He places his hand on your shoulder, smiling down at you. “Any time, brother.” Pulling you into a tight embrace to hide his emotions, Thor sniffs while you hug him as tightly as you can. The both of you are trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

—

“I’m not going to a ridiculous party, Stark.” You sneer at the man on your doorstep, a manila invitation hanging limply between his index and middle finger.

“It’s a charity gala for victims of Thanos,” He corrects, placing the invitation on the table you kept near the door. You eye it and then him. “I thought you’d like to say something positive about Reindeer Games.”

There weren't many people who liked Loki, truth be told. Lady Mother was gone, so the list was even shorter. Most people appreciated his sacrifice, but some people still held onto their hatred for the Manhattan attack those years ago. It wasn’t like there were vigils for his death the same way they had for Natasha. No one cried for him at the public funeral for the heroes lost because of Thanos. No one but you and Thor.

“Why?” You hiss, your hand clenched around the doorknob. “So people can remind me that they only see him as a monster for actions he had no control over? So I can be reminded that my husband is dead? You got to come back, Stark. He didn’t. Take your invitation and give it to someone else, I will most certainly not be in attendance.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t even flinch at your words. He just takes off his shades, tucking them into his pocket and rakes his hand through his hair. “Look, I figured you’d say that but Point Break wants you to go. He specifically told me to give you an invitation. He wants you there for the speeches.” Gnawing on your bottom lip, you slowly inhale. “It’s up to you. I don’t care one way or the other,”

“Get off my property.” The door slams shut as you turn away from him, retreating into the darker areas of the house.

Tony Stark had never been a friend of yours, you had no allegiance to him. You’d never worked with him, and you never liked him. He was a cocky, arrogant asshole with far too few redeeming qualities for you to enjoy. He called you a hypocrite when you told him just that, pointing out Loki’s flaws as if they were his to know about. As if he could ever understand Loki’s hurt and his actions. It took Thor and Steve to get you off of Tony that day.

As you’re rushing through the hallway, you stop as the framed pictures on the wall. Ebony and ivory frames holding paintings and photographs of you, Loki, and your loved ones. Paintings from your wedding, portraits for different milestones, pictures from when Thor found the two of you on Earth and decided to celebrate. Loki was smiling in most of the intimate ones, the ones with just the two of you.

He looked at you so tenderly in the pictures, his love was so easy to capture. So tangible it was hard to believe that people didn’t love him even a fraction of the way you did.

Slowly, your eyes drag back to the invitation. It’s still sat on the table, along with Loki’s house keys, a lamp, mail you’d yet to care about, and a little alligator figurine you’d picked up some years ago.

Your footsteps echo as you march to the table, snatching the invitation and opening it. A hologram pops up, Tony Stark formally inviting you with a little screen that says RSVP YES/NO. Without giving it much more thought, you press yes and write down the date and location of the gala before going into your study.

—

You were at your most confident wearing thin, light fabrics. Letting them drape over your figure. It moved like water when you walked, and it hid your weapons well. It was traditional in Asgard for someone of your status. You were never one for wearing leather, it was sticky in all the wrong places and a pain to put on.

So when it came to picking an outfit for the gala, you already knew what you were going to wear.

You tied the pants at your hips, staring at yourself in the mirror. The baggy pants are partially covered by the flowing silk top you draped over yourself. It clung in certain areas while hanging loosely in others.

Thor was waiting for you in the living room, dressed in some of his own Asgardian clothes, along with a green sash tied at his belt up his back to represent Loki. You didn't want to keep him waiting, Odin forbids that he gets nervous, so you left your room and collected him before getting in the limo Tony had sent.

You refrain from commenting on the fact that you could’ve flown or simply teleported but, the limo ride seemed important to Thor.

The charity hall was at some place called the Manhattan Center. It was decently sized, a middle ballroom area with three levels above it filled with tables. There were a lot of people, you assumed as much considering the topic and the host; it doesn’t mean you liked it any more.

Stark himself was somewhere in the crowd while you checked the seating chart, finding your name. You were on the first floor of the tables, in the middle. Sat between Thor and Wilson. You don’t know who that is, the only other familiar name was Banners but he was across from you.

People whisper about you as you walk by; you can hear them, feel their gazes. You don’t care about them, you don’t pay them or their words any attention as you settle into your seat. You’re the only one there, staring out at the stage as a band performs while your fingers drum on the table.

Just a speech, you’d promised Thor, a speech was all you were going to do. You weren’t going to mingle, you weren’t going to talk to anyone if you could help. And you absolutely could.

“Brother!” Okay, maybe you can’t.

Turning to smile at Thor, you see him rushing over with two flutes of a dark liquid. “Yes, brother,” You call back, not missing the way some heads turn at the mention of Thor having yet another brother.

Once he’s close enough, he shoves the flute in your direction. “The bar serves us Asgaridan Ale!” Taking the glass, you eye him while taking a sip. It does taste like the ale from back home.

“Pray tell,” Your lips curl into a grin as you set the flute down. “How did they get Asgardian Ale?”

He grins at the memory. “Lady Valkyrie!” You distantly remember her, you’d met her once. During Loki’s formal funeral. She didn’t say much to you and you didn’t say much to her. Thor settles next to you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Why are you here alone, brother?”

“I am here for two reasons, you and the speech. And you’re doing perfectly fine. I’d like to settle with myself before it’s time to give my speech.”

You can tell he doesn’t entirely like the idea of leaving you alone, but he knows you won’t budge and nods. Thor stands up, squeezing your shoulder before he walks back to the main floor.

Your eyes turn back to the stage as you sip the ale, bittersweet memories rising as it goes down your throat. This was the same ale you’d requested for your wedding. You remembered how you filled yours and Loki’s goblets before you locked arms and drank from the other's goblet. You wonder if you have any left in the basement; you’d long since forgotten about it, so you’re hopeful.

Every so often, one of the people at the table would sit and introduce themselves; you met Barton, Wilson, and, probably most importantly, Wanda. She mentioned how she lost her lover, Vision. You connected with her, agreeing to exchange contacts in case either of you needed someone who understood your pains.

By the time the speeches came along, you weren’t any better than at the start. Although probably more than a little tipsy.

“It took two years for Loki to smile at me,” You start, placing your hands on the podium. “I’d passed up becoming a warrior to become a mage and due to my family history with the Allfather, I was allowed to work with Lady Mother Frigga. He didn’t trust me around his mother; he doesn’t trust most people at first. I had to earn his trust, I stumbled and I was probably the worst student Lady Mother had but my determination was something Loki spoke with. He offered his mind to me, made it seem like he was burdened by it but I knew what it was. I was worming my way into his heart. We married ten years later. I wanted a small ceremony but he wanted all of Asgard to know. It was a big affair, truthfully. No one expected Loki to get married before Thor. The wedding lasted two weeks, and it was amazing.”

You take a moment, pursing your lips. “I’d never known him as Loki, the God of Mischief and Deception. The trickster god, as many of you know him. You know about the Manhattan attack, but you fail to recognize the truth. Thanos had controlled him, forced him to push his worries and fears to the surface, creating the villain he was those two days. None of you truly got to see the real Loki. The Loki that teased his brother for falling for his most simple tricks, the Loki that saved Asgard from Ragnarok, the Loki that had been burned by his father, the Loki that cherished his loved ones with all his heart, trying his best to keep them safe.” Thor wraps a hand around your shoulder, gently rubbing it as you start to shake. Your eyes burn and you shake your head, trying to find your words.

“He’d joke that our love made him soft, that he lost his edge but I’d never seen Loki stronger than when we were together. To be loved so wholly by him, to be able to say he bore himself so naked and so true that I cannot fathom a world where he is a monster, some villain— I can’t— I can’t—“ Your body shakes as the grief washes over you again. “That night, I felt it. The air had shifted, the house lights had flickered— my heart stopped. I could’ve died then, I thought I was going to, that I should’ve. Because there was no way, no way that my Loki, the Loki who once spent five hours helping animals in the forest run from a fire, the Loki that would read to the children and sneak food out from the palace was gone. Like that. Without a care in the world by a man who’s taken… everything from me. From so many of us,” Unable to contain yourself, you walk off the stage and out into an alleyway where you collapse.

Your knees hit the pavement as you heave, trying to get air into your lungs. You don’t know why you thought this would’ve been easy, why you thought it was a good idea to tell a bunch of strangers who already have their minds set on who he was, would ever be a good idea.

“That was a good speech,” Looking up, you see Wilson standing next to you, staring at the wall ahead. “I mean, I never met the guy but the way you talk about him— he seemed cool,”

“He was,” You nod, wiping your face. After a beat, you stand up. “I’m sorry, I need to go.” He seems a bit confused but nods, taking a step away as you walk into a shadow, leaving nothing as proof that you’d been there.

—

Whenever you couldn’t sleep Loki would run his fingers up your side, he’d grip the flesh of your hip and pull you closer as he made illusions of the night sky on the ceiling. He’d rest his head between the crook of your neck, whispering stories he’d made up until you fell asleep.

Tossing and turning in your bed, you sit up. Upset that there’s no illusion, angry that no one is holding you, furious that you’d never hear those stories again. Hot tears are pooling in your eyes as the clock in the hallway ticks, a chime lets you know it’s two on the dot.

You fluctuate between being sad and being angry. You’re angry you’d let him convince you not to go with him; sad that even though you wanted so desperately to join him, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t. He’d be upset with you, he’d never forgive you for going someplace you weren’t supposed to be just yet. Angry that you’re alone now. Angry that when you dream, you dream of your life with him. Picturing things you can never do now.

You don’t know how long it’s been since he died. Days, weeks, months— maybe a year now. And each day you try to count your blessings, to keep yourself grounded. To convince yourself that this isn’t the hell you’d heard of.

But you always thought about things you’d give up to be with him. Your powers, your most prized possessions, your most cherished foods, you.

Wiping your face, you drift over to his dresser and grab his cologne. It’s Asgardian, long-lasting but he’d gotten twelve bottles just in case he ever ran out or broke one. So, you’re not shy about using it; you do so almost daily. Spraying it on his pillow and his side of the bed, you set the bottle down and wait for it to dry. For his smell to linger in the air.

Dragging your hands up your arms, you slowly approach the bed, crawling into his space and holding his pillow tight to your chest.

Whenever Loki couldn’t sleep, you’d finger-comb his hair. You’d give him small braids, brushing strands from his face. You’d make sure your body was warm, just in case he was too cold. You’d recount your day, or just explain a random movie to him. He’d fall asleep in less than five minutes whenever you did that and you’d just watch him.

Staring at the satin pillowcase, you see the star string lights illuminated back on it. If you close your eyes and pretend hard enough, it’s him. It smells like him, it feels like his pajamas. If you don’t think about how it’s too short, too soft, too narrow to be Loki; you can pretend.

You don’t know if you want a dreamless night. It’s the only time you get to see him anymore, to make new memories. But the heartache it leaves when you wake up is so painful it’s almost too much some days.

You’ve created an elaborate story about the two of you in your dreams. You’re in some place called the TVA, it’s this confusing place that he hates at first but he warms up. People like him, he makes real, genuine connections and he’s the hero he’s always wanted to be. And you’re at his side.

It’s not always the TVA dream; sometimes it’s the two of you with the family you’d always wanted. Three children, just like both of your family units. Two girls and a boy; the boy was the youngest, he always was whenever you spoke about it. Loki would get the kids to wake you up with breakfast in bed; you’d go shopping for Loki’s birthday with them. You’d teach them to harness and understand their powers; together.

Inhaling, you force yourself to sleep in the cold room.

—

Two weeks had passed since the charity thing, Wilson had stopped by five times and Thor came every day. Wilson was fun, he’d make you watch absurd Midgardian shows and videos, and he even fixed the weird noise your fridge was making. Thor, truthfully, was a painful reminder every time he graced your door.

You love him, but sometimes he can be overbearing. Like he was waiting for you to break down again, help you pick up the pieces because that’s just who he is. You cannot imagine faulting him for wanting to help you in the only way he knows how. So, when Wilson invited you out to a museum, you agreed. It was a change of pace and you figured, and you could use the fresh air. Well, as fresh as Manhattan air could get.

The Museum of Natural History. From the movie you’d watched the previous week, Night at the Museum. It was quite funny, you must admit.

So far, it was great. You liked the dinosaurs, the Midgardian history, and now the Planetarium. In a dark room, you sat next to Sam as the screens on the wall displayed a glowing Blue Whale, swimming across. A narrator was talking but you weren’t listening. Something in the air felt different. It felt familiar in a way that made you want to rush up and leave, to search so desperately for it. But you remained seated.

The children around you enjoyed the visuals, Sam would say he preferred his tech to naturals and you’d roll your eyes. There was probably some joke in there that you missed but the show was over soon enough. People cleared out as the lights came on and Sam stood but you remained seated, staring at the wall ahead of you.

“Are you okay?” He asked, standing at your side.

“Yes,” You smiled up at him. “I just… I need a moment, if that’s alright with you?” He hums, glancing around before walking away.

You’re left alone in the room and slowly stand. The voices outside drown out as you grab your bag, the temperature in the room dropping.

“My dear lover,”

Your body stiffens as tears well in your eyes. Your chest caves in as you turn around and you see him, you see Loki standing in front of one of the screens. He’s smiling at you, that warm smile he gets whenever you’re apart for too long. His hair is wavy, no longer that straight slicked style you told him you dreaded. He’s wearing a green outfit you’d never seen before but by the gods, he’s there.

Your body crashes into him, you hadn’t even realized you were running at him until your arms wrapped around him and he laughed, quickly holding you with a similar tightness. “I take it you missed me?” He whispered, stroking your cheek as you openly sobbed.

“Don’t leave me,” You begged. “Please, if this is fake, if this is some illusion— please, don’t leave me.” For a second, his breath hitches as if that’s not the response he’d expected in the slightest. His arms tighten around you and he kisses the top of your head.

“I’m real. I’m as real as the sun in the sky, my love. And I’m not going anywhere, not ever again. I promise you.” Gently, he settles the two of you back on the large seats and pulls away, looking between your eyes. You shudder, reaching up to touch his face, to commit everything to your memory again. You feel his skin, you feel the way his face moves as he smiles, the way his hair is curled on the ends. You see the way he smiles, the way his eyes gleam as he looks at you, the way his nose scrunches with his smile and you know. You just know it’s him. It’s Loki. Even if something is different.

“How? How are you—“ You’re breathless despite being seated. You don’t know if you even care to know how. Reasons are lost on your mind, you don’t care if it was some magical stone or just some fluke in the afterworld that brought him back to you. Not when you have time again with Loki, time that you’re not sure how long it will last.

Gently, he rests his forehead against your own and you choke— you’d nearly forgotten his touch. “I’ll explain later,” He promises and you nod. “Oh, I’ve missed you dearly,” He whispers as though it were a secret he kept close to his heart.

You smile, brushing away some of your tears. “Can we go home?” He nods and you stand before remembering Sam was waiting for you. “Just a moment more, please.” It’s like his hand is glue, you can’t let go and you drag him with you. He lets you, staring at the back of your head as you swiftly exit the room.

Outside of the room is loud, people talking and children’s loud laughter, and a baby crying. Sam stands on the wall to your left, his nose buried in his phone but he looks up at the sound of your footsteps. Once he does, he drops his phone, his jaw slacking at the sight in front of him. “I apologize,” Smiling, you look at Loki. “But I must go,” Your eyes turn back to Sam, who hasn’t looked away from Loki since he saw him.

“By all means,” He nods, picking his phone up. “It’s… nice to meet you,”

“Likewise,” Loki gives him a tentative nod before he snaps his fingers and the two of you are in the comfort of your home.

“Prove you are my Loki,” You immediately say, stepping away. “I-I want to trust you but…” Your face scrunches. Something about this Loki is different, he’s so similar and yet, it’s like he’s lived a million lives, changed himself from the ground up while keeping his core values the same.

“I understand,” He nods, his hand sliding over his hair as he sits. Loki takes a moment, trying to bring up enough memories to prove that it’s him. “You love grapes but you know that your mother loves them more, so whenever they’re on your plate and she’s around, you pretend you detest them so she can eat more. There’s a scar from one of our rouge potions going along your spine, you think it looks like a random blob but I’m still assured that it’s a kitten— which it is, by the way.” Sitting across from him, you find yourself more and more assured that it’s him.

“You think you’ve kept it a secret, but I am well aware that you hate the horns.”

“I—“ You stutter for a second while he smirks. “The horns aren’t your best but I don’t hate them.”

“It’s okay, darling, I know your true feelings for them.”

“They have their purpose!”

“Darling,” He blinks.

“I’m just saying,”

Loki laughs, shaking his head as he rises to his feet. You watch him, carefully as if he’d disappear again. In slow strides, he walks over to you, planting either hand on the armrests next to you. “So, are you convinced now?”

“I am,”

“Good,” He nods. “Because, I want to kiss my husband after being away for far too long.”

“And you shall,” Leaning up, he quickly grabs you by the waist, lifting you up as you kiss. Now on your feet, you loop your arms around his neck while he dips you down. It feels like when you married him, it’s a similar passion, a similar dizzy feeling and not just due to being dipped so low.

When he pulls away, it’s only for a moment before he crashes his lips into yours again. You don’t mind in the slightest, and push him down to the sofa. Without breaking the kiss, you sit on top of him, exploring his skin with your hands. It’s not intentionally sexual, but you’re still proving to yourself that this is real. That he’s beneath you, that the heartbeat underneath your fingertips is truly Loki’s and not someone wearing his skin.

He holds you so tenderly, so close, that it feels impossible. You’re sure you’re going to weld together at some point.

“Brother—!” The door flies off its hinges as Thor bursts inside. You pull away, startled while Loki groans from underneath you. “Brother, step away from the impostor.” He holds a hand out to you but you stand, holding your hand up.

“Thor, this is Loki, I swear it.”

“No.” He asserts. “I watched him perish, truly. It wasn’t like the previous times,”

Loki stands, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I did die, brother,” He carefully says. “I did, I felt it. I felt when you hugged me as I died, all of it. But then, then I was taken to this place. They called it the TVA—“ Looking at him, you inhale. The place from your dreams.

“Morbius. Sylvie?” He turns to you, shocked.

“Yes, how do you know their names?”

“I dreamt of you there so often,”

“Then he is your mind playing tricks on us. Your magic conjuring up Loki!” Thor insists.

Loki groans, turning to his brother with a glare. “I am real, you oaf! I managed to leave the TVA, it took many millennia, I time slipped, and I died more times than I care to count, and I had to learn to make clones of myself to even leave my station, but I did it!”

“Brother, I believe him,” Thor's resolve is slipping, his eyes are holding less anger and his grip on his weapon is faltering. “This is our Loki, truly. And without any tricks of the mind or otherwise.” The floor dents as his axe hits it and you watch as he scoops Loki up, sobbing into his neck. Despite his best efforts, Loki cannot hide his own emotions. He tries to look annoyed, but you see the tears, see the way his hands wrap around his brother's back and squeeze him.

“How did you know?” You ask.

Thor sniffs, setting Loki down on his feet. “I got a text from Captain America, saying Loki and you teleported out of a museum. I rushed here,” He explains, smiling at his brother.

“Well, thank you,” Loki clears his throat before fixing his clothes. “But I’d very much appreciate it if I could catch up with my husband first. You can come over tomorrow.”

“Nonsense! We can catch up together!”

“Thor,” You sigh.

“He’s still like this?” Loki turns to you, exasperated. “Fine, you can stay for an hour. After that, you’ll return back to your home, am I understood?”

Grabbing his hand, you kiss Loki’s knuckles. “Darling, he lost you too. Give him some grace,” He scowls for a second before conceding.

“Fine, but he's not spending the night.”

—

“Goodnight, Thor,” You call, watching as he goes into the guest bedroom.

“Goodnight, brothers!” He calls back while Loki drags you into the room.

You laugh, falling on top of him on your bed. He’s not as amused as you, but his mood is far from soured. It’s been a night of trying to hint to Thor that Loki wants nothing more than quality time with you, but he either doesn’t care or doesn’t get the hint. “You’ve always been easy on him,” Loki mutters against your lips. “He’s grown, he’s had his number of sexual encounters. There’s no need to shy away from the topic that I want to do what married people do without my brother being in the next room.”

“I’m not being easy on him, I simply understand what he’s feeling. Give him until the morning,” You reply before kissing him softly. “Can I hold you tonight?” He sighs because Thor isn’t leaving tonight but nods, settling a little further down on the bed so you can wrap your arms around him.

Softly, he exhales as your arms wrap around him, pulling his back into your chest. His hand wraps around yours, stroking your wrist in gentle motions as your eyes well with tears yet again. A part of you is convinced this is fake, that if you dare to sleep that you’ll wake up alone again. It scares you— it terrifies you.

“My love,” His voice carries across the room like it used to.

“Yes?”

“Rest now,” His head turns back to you, nothing but care swimming in his eyes. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,”

“How can I be sure?” Your voice wavers as he turns to fully face you, frowning at the sight of tears in your eyes again. “I can’t go through this heartache again, Loki.”

“You won’t. You’ll wake up and I’ll be here, making you breakfast—“

“No,” You quickly interject. “Please, don’t leave the bed before I wake. Please,”

He leans forward, kissing the tip of your nose. “Anything you desire,” To placate him, you rest your head on the pillow and close your eyes. Loki turns back, his eyes fluttering closed. You listen to his breathing, waiting for it to even out before opening your eyes.

As he’s pulled into his slumber, you watch. Propped up on your arm, you scan his face, take in the way he’s breathing, the way he seems to lean into your touch after accidentally shifting away. Just making sure that he stays. You don’t know how long you'll stay like that but by the time he starts stirring, you can feel the sun peaking through the curtain and curse yourself.

Dropping your head back down to the pillow, you close your eyes again. Loki turns, wrapping his arms around you while holding back a yawn. Bringing a hand up to your face, he gently strokes your cheek— God, you’d missed him doing that. “I know you’re awake, darling.” Cracking your eye open, you see him watching you, a little worried for you. “I take it you’ve been awake this entire time?”

“I had to be certain,” You carefully admit.

“Hnn,” He hums. “Would it make you more comfortable if we dreamt together, darling?” It’s something you’d normally do when either of you were away from the other. Like when Loki joined Thor on missions or one of you attended to royal business.

“Yes,” He nods, closing his eyes again to bring himself back to sleep. You mimic him, matching his breathing until you eventually fall asleep in his arms.

—

Now, you’re more than aware you’d described Loki as a perfect man— God. But, truthfully, you’d be an absurd liar if you acted as though he was. Loki was deeply flawed, incredibly insecure, and downright scornful if he so wished.

Odin forbid you love that part of him, too.

You’re damn near twirling your hair and kicking your feet as he paces in front of you, complaining about Thor leaving at lunch with talks of coming over the next day with the remaining Avengers.

“But—“ He stops, flicking his head towards you. “I’ve changed. I’ve grown, I’ve had growth during my time at the TVA, and… I suppose—“

“Don’t say it,” You warn, sitting up in your seat. Now was far from the proper time for the new Loki to rear his gorgeous head with his lovely hair.

“It wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” He finishes.

You groan, tossing yourself back. “And what happened to our quality time? You’ve clearly gotten a new look and I haven’t been able to appreciate it!” He sighs, placing his hands on his hips. Settling on his sofa chair, Loki purses his lips, clearly deep in thought.

“I do see that issue, yes.” Rubbing his face, Loki checks his watch. “I suppose we can pretend to be sick.”

You deadpan, crossing your arms. “Asgardians rarely get sick on Asgard, let alone on Midgard. Thor would insist on nursing us back to health. And quite honestly, I do not want Anthony Stark in our house. His wife and his child are pleasant enough, but he is a pain in my arse. And please, do not get me started on the doctor— I swore if I saw him again, I’d burn that stupid cape of his.”

Slowly, he licks his lips, smirking over at you. “You’re riveting when you’re upset, do continue,” He’s in front of you in an instant, sitting on your lap with his fingers messing with the buttons of your shirt.

“Allow them in this house and I’ll certainly be unpleasant.” You whisper, working your hands to his belt.

He hums, tilting his head while getting closer. “You’re not convincing me to not let them,” The tease isn’t lost on you and you grin, quirking your eyebrow at him.

“If they come, I guess they’ll have a view of us, then.” Shrugging, he grabs your neck and pulls you into a kiss. Your hands make quick work at undoing his belt while he rips your shirt, not bothering to undo the buttons or even use his magic. Pieces of wooden buttons dance across the floor before the metal buckle hits the panels, and the sound of your messy kiss is like a soft melody against your ears.

“Get it off,” You grumble, grasping the fabric of his shirt. He grins into the kiss, basking in the need in your words and how your hand shakes with anticipation.

His teeth capture your bottom lip, tugging it until you hiss, gripping the back of his head. “Patience, darling,”

“You know better than most that I have very little,” Snapping your fingers, a soft glow of magic washes over the two of you, leaving you in the nice and he snickers, shaking his head. Lowering him down to the couch, you wrap his legs around your waist and kiss his wrist, dragging your lips from it to his mouth.

“You’re torturous,” He grins. You smile back at him, reaching down until your hand finds—

“Brothers! Why is the door locked? You have guests!”

“I’m going to curse your brother with a plague.”

“Please do,”

#x male reader #x reader #loki x male reader #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x you #loki odinson x reader #loki laufeyson x male reader #loki odinson x male reader

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coquelicoq · 14 days ago

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i've watched 6 episodes of story of minglan and i am sooo lost besties. i don't know who any of these people are except minglan. zhu yilong is here???? but i don't understand who he is. the son of somebody. where's that guy with the three names who minglan beat at arrow toss? is he around? i can't tell because 1) i don't remember any of his names (if he only had one name i could remember but three of them cancel each other out) and 2) they changed his face and also everyone else's face. who's that kid who looks like mu qing nirvana in fire. (is that actually mu qing's actor? i feel like they're never showing him long enough and full in the face enough for me to figure it out.) has anybody made a story of minglan character reference, preferably without spoilers? i feel like there aren't even that many characters, i just need a foothold.

#i was also so confused when the guy minglan beat at arrow toss (for convenience i will call him gu-gongzi because i'm pretty sure #his surname is gu? but not 100% sure. but close enough for government work)#was presumed dead and then the next episode started with a funeral at which minglan's brother who was besties with gu-gongzi #was paying homage and i assumed it was a funeral for gu-gongzi. so when gu-gongzi showed up i was like okay funeral cancelled!#but they just kept going???? and then it turned out it was a funeral for his maternal grandfather #when did he die? and why were they having his funeral at the sheng house instead of at their own house???#and were they ever gonna have a funeral for gu-gongzi??#tsoml #story of minglan #my posts #at this point what i have figured out is all about the sheng family and it goes like this:#da'jie: legitimate daughter. married off in first episode. to maybe the bai family? (gu-gongzi's maternal family)#er'ge: ummm i think he's the scholar who's friends with gu-gongzi. not sure who his mother is #san'ge: i think the kid who was losing to gu-gongzi at arrow toss? also not sure whose kid he is #si'jie: daughter of the living concubine. thinks she's hot shit. rulan maybe? but i think her dad also called her mo'er #wu'jie: legitimate daughter. spoiled. always making minglan do stuff for her #(possibly molan and rulan are different people but if so i don't know which is si'jie and which is wu'jie)#and then the sixth child is minglan who i think is also the youngest. her mom (now deceased) was a concubine #one of the sons is legitimate and the other is the living concubine's i think but don't quote me on that #also zumu is the legal wife of minglan's dad's dad but minglan's dad's birth mom was a concubine #but then there are all these other families they're interacting with and i don't know who any of those people are #and there are so many of them. and other than zhu yilong and mu qing's lookalike i can't tell them apart

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yourdailyjormy · 8 months ago

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once again all my creative work has been Commission Stuff I Can't Share, so here's an old piece from 2022 because i happen to like it

#lord of the rings #faramir #boromir #old art #day 2 #giving myself credit because i DID do art today i just can't post it #anyway i didn't realise how old this is but i wasn't on tumblr in 2022 so #SHARE IN MY STEWARDBRO FEELINGS DAMN YOU #i should do more art with both of them #like. obviously because i love them as characters and love their dynamic #but also because i enjoy trying to pin down the designs #to get that sense of “these are brothers and look similar But Also Not”#similar enough to warrant both “jumpscared by boromir's ghost in ithilien” AND “everyone can see that faramir looks more númenorean”#for which i think my main point of reference is “same general features but slightly different coloration and details”#like. boromir can grow a beard and faramir can't. faramir's hair is blue-black and smooth; boromir's is wavy and brown-black.#that kind of thing.#anyway tbh i might redo a piece like this at some point i think i can do it better #GOD ACTUALLY #what if i did this but instead of the houses of the dead it was the battle of osgiliath?#so it's TWO cases of “i have watched my beloved brother float bloody and probably-dead in a river”#and also something that boromir actually saw #hmmmm. much to consider.

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asahiminato · 1 year ago

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Me when I think my dad is cool and admirable

#the previous earl lost the game lol #like i think if ciel's dad came back from the dead instead of ciel prime that ciel would have the same im the earl reaction #i don't have a reading of this narrative at all that he's trying to be his dad or wants sebastian to be his dad bc number one i think...#...vincent only looks like sebastian bc that's yana's art style and number two it also gets on my nerves the really fandom-y brain to...#...assign found family into actual nuclear family roles. when ciel's whole house now is made up of relationships that are really only...#...defined by how much they all love each other. it's the opposite of what his life was like before where he was stuck in like. an older...#...brother does this and marries this and the watchdog does this and rich people are expected to be like this and a family is a nuclear...#...kind of family unit and that's honestly what caused madam red and ciel and ciel prime a lot of their problems pre fire #now instead the people in ciel's house care about their roles as maid and gardener and chef etc only insofar as playing that role is a...#...way to have freedom for them and it's a way to do things for ciel only bc they love him. not that vincent and rachel completely sucked...#...and didn't love their kids but it was the opposite of ciel's situation now and uh i don't think he wants it back or to recreate it #i think he sees his parents and the midfords as sheep just like of the rest of the rich people he complains about #it's a category 10 albert moriarty situation #he was raised in it so he understands just how destructive these expectations are madam red had the exact problems with the expectation...#...she should get married and have kids when i don't think she particularly wanted that to the point she had to convince herself she did...#...even though it felt unnatural to her and i think that's why she was so attached to the idea of vincent but anyway comphet madam red...#...different post i have already made somewhere probably #it's the same deal for ciel i think he thinks the way the rich people govern their lives is stupid and sebastian has both spoiled him and...#...made him feel like he's above all that and honestly that mindset genuinely informs a lot of this arc and the sheep motif #kuroshitsuji #my kuro posts #ciel

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theorphicangel · 4 months ago

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sukuna doesn't get anxious. not at all.

but when you haven't come home in hours, long after your friend's dinner was supposed to end that's when he gets a little antsy.

you'd left him to his own devices, a quick kiss on the cheek and you were out of the door in that pretty little dress. you said you'd be back by 11pm the latest.

sukuna stares at the kitchen clock on the wall. it reads 12:44.

but he doesn't get anxiety over you. you were probably chatting away to your friends and getting carried away like you always do with your yapping. but maybe he should have made you share your location with him the other day.

another thirty minutes pass and there's no sign of your return.

he's beginning to get restless. sukuna's already wiped down the counter three times, sorted out the cushions on the couch, watched an episode of whatever on netflix (but he wasn't paying attention to a single word that was said)

instead he keeps looking at his phone, waiting for it to ring - good news or bad news coming his way soon.

his stomach drops at the thought of you in trouble with no one around you to help. what if you did need his help? what if--

his thoughts are interrupted at the sound of the key entering the front door. you enter, soaked top to bottom, evidence that you clearly ignored the weather app before you left.

'where have you been?' his tone is impatient and snappy.

'jeez lemme get through the door first.' you stumble, soaked and uncomfortable as the door shuts behind you with a quiet slam.

'it's late.'

'and you're still up.'

'don't change the subject.'

'I lost track of time, we went back to a friend's house and my phone died.'

'and this friend doesn't have charging cables?'

'I was too deep into the conversation to know it died until I was about to leave.'

sukuna sits in silence, mulling over your words. you don't hear him correctly but if you could guess the words that left his mouth it was the curse of 'you damn women.'

'did you miss me?' you walk over to him and attempt to trap him in a hug. he pulls you off him, disgust at how cold and wet you are.

'go shower, I'll wait for you in bed.'

your face lights up, ready to make fun of him before his palm opens up to you.

'phone.'

you pass over your dead phone for him to charge.

'and i'm making you share your location with me.'

#this is early relationship vibe #you don't really understand how much he worries about you #because he doesn't show it #maybe later on #jujutsu kaisen x reader #angel writes #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader fluff #sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu sukuna #sukuna jjk

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plethorawrites · 2 months ago

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(A/N— because the secret relationship trope is one of my all time favorites—)

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Dick and Tim weren't expecting much when they visited—broke into— Jason's apartment. Honestly, despite never being there (because frankly they thought he'd open fire for their trespassing) they had very low expectations for his living style.

After all, Jason was used to the bare minimum. Pretty much all of his past safe houses were almost empty, sans a place to sleep, research, and hide things.

When they got there, picking the window lock on the 5th floor of a nearly empty apartment building in a much shadier area of town, they were expecting the same thing they had always seen—take out containers, traps, a messy bed laying on the floor without a frame. Probably some rat traps and maybe a few threatening signs, telling them to get out.

Instead, they found a fully furnished apartment that smelled of... cinnamon? Vanilla? What was that smell? They weren't sure, but it was sweet.

The couch had matching cushions, the tv was on a stand instead of sitting on the ground, the kitchen actually had a basket of fruit on the counter instead of a trashcan filled with old Chinese food.

"This is ...weird," Tim muttered, swiping his hand over the countertop, expecting dust but finding it clean and smelling of lemon cleaning product. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

Dick nodded. "According to the most recent address we have," he replied, glancing around at the art on the wall and the blankets strewn over the couch. "I sure as hell hope it is. Otherwise we just broke into someone's apartment."

That would definitely be bad. Especially if Bruce found out.

Thankfully it was only a few seconds later that Jason walked out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes as he yawned. Which, to their relief proved that they had the correct address.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his hair still messy from sleep, his voice still gravely as he asked, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Uh...we needed your help," Tim answered, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "Did you just wake up?"

It certainly looked like it. After all, he was still in his sweatpants, no shirt in sight. It was after eleven am, though. They had assumed he would be up by now.

Jason heaved a sigh, crossing their path to start a pot of coffee. "And it couldn't have been a text message? Or a phone call?"

"Not really," Dick replied, watching his brother look through a drawer of coffee pods.

Since when did Jason drink anything other than straight black instant coffee that was probably three days old and freezing cold?

Tim, despite the mild befuddled expression, went on to elaborate about their visit. "Look we know you have the day off, but there's new information on the case with Penguin and Bruce said—"

"Jay?"

Tim stopped as he was interrupted, his eyebrows cinching as he turned his head to the voice of the sound.

You.

Your eyes were as wide, if not wider than theirs when you walked in, wearing far less than acceptable clothing in the form of a bra and shorts that were a smidge too tight.

"Who the hell..." Dick was already muttering, like a deer in headlights.

It took Jason all of two seconds to grab his favorite jacket, putting it over your shoulders to keep them from seeing any more of your skin than he found acceptable.

Even as you pulled it tightly to cover your attire, the jacket, which swallowed most of you, still hit your thighs. Their eyes cast down at your bare legs as you tugged his jacket lower awkwardly.

"Hey!" Jason snapped both figuratively and literally, his voice loud and his fingers waving in their faces. "Eyes up here."

"huh? Wh- sorry," Dick murmured, still confused as he motioned to you. "We weren't expecting uh... anyone else to be here..."

"Yeah, that makes four of us, I'm sure," you mumbled quietly, glancing over your shoulder at Jason who towered over you. "I'm just gonna...go get dressed."

He nodded, his hands still on your shoulders as he stood behind you. "Good idea."

Slowly backing away as his hands left your shoulders you waved weakly. "It was...nice meeting you," you remarked with an awkward nose scrunch, pointing over your shoulder. "I'll uh... I'll be in the bedroom."

As you left, the door shutting quickly and loudly, Dick and Tim could both see the look in their brother's eyes which simultaneously told them not to ask and to never ever say a word about you walking out in your pajamas like that.

"I guess we know where the throw pillows came from," Tim noted.

#headcanon #x reader #plethorawrites #dc comics #batboys #jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd x you #jason todd imagines #jason todd i love you #jason todd x fem!reader

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mcmansionhell · 1 year ago

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namesake mcmansion

Howdy folks! Today's McMansion is very special because a) we're returning to Maryland after a long time and b) because the street this McMansion is on is the same as my name. (It was not named after me.) Hence, it is my personal McMansion, which I guess is somewhat like when people used to by the name rights to stars even though it was pretty much a scam. (Shout out btw to my patron Andros who submitted this house to be roasted live on the McMansion Hell Patreon Livestream)

As far as namesake McMansions go, this one is pretty good in the sense that it is high up there on the ol' McMansion scale. Built in 2011, this psuedo-Georgian bad boy boasts 6 bedrooms and 9.5 baths, all totaling around 12,000 square feet. It'll run you 2.5 million which, safe to say, is exponentially larger than its namesake's net worth.

Now, 2011 was an anonymous year for home design, lingering in the dead period between the 2008 black hole and 2013 when the market started to actually, finally, steadily recover. As a result a lot of houses from this time basically look like 2000s McMansions but slightly less outrageous in order to quell recession-era shame.

I'm going to be so serious here and say that the crown molding in this room is a crime against architecture, a crime against what humankind is able to accomplish with mass produced millwork, and also a general affront to common sense. I hate it so much that the more I look at it the more angry I become and that's really not healthy for me so, moving on.

Actually, aside from the fake 2010s distressed polyester rug the rest of this room is literally, basically Windows 98 themed.

I feel like the era of massive, hefty sets of coordinated furniture are over. However, we're the one's actually missing out by not wanting this stuff because we will never see furniture made with real wood instead of various shades of MDF or particleboard ever again.

This is a top 10 on the scale of "least logical kitchen I've ever seen." It's as though the designers engineered this kitchen so that whoever's cooking has to take the most steps humanly possible.

Do you ever see a window configuration so obviously made up by window companies in the 1980s that you almost have to hand it to them? You're literally letting all that warmth from the fire just disappear. But whatever I guess it's fine since we basically just LARP fire now.

Feminism win because women's spaces are prioritized in a shared area or feminism loss because this is basically the bathroom vanity version of women be shopping? (It's the latter.)

I couldn't get to all of this house because there were literally over a hundred photos in the listing but there are so many spaces in here that are basically just half-empty voids, and if not that then actually, literally unfinished. It's giving recession. Anyway, now for the best part:

Not only is this the NBA Backrooms but it's also just a nonsensical basketball court. Tile floors? No lines? Just free balling in the void?

Oh, well I bet the rear exterior is totally normal.

Not to be all sincere about it but much like yours truly who has waited until the literal last second to post this McMansion, this house really is the epitome of hubris all around. Except the house's hubris is specific to this moment in time, a time when gas was like $2/gallon. It's climate hubris. It's a testimony to just how much energy the top 1% of income earners make compared to the rest of us. I have a single window unit. This house has four air conditioning condensers. That's before we get to the monoculture, pesticide-dependent lawn or the three car garage or the asphalt driveway or the roof that'll cost almost as much as the house to replace. We really did think it would all be endless. Oops.

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar! Student loans just started back up!

#architecture #design #mcmansion #mcmansions #ugly houses #interior design #mcmansion hell #bad architecture #2010s #maryland

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crows-of-buckets · 8 months ago

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I think romancing Lucanis as a crow is specifically fun bc like.

Imagine you're one of the other talons. Some whelp fucks up a mission to get rid of the antaam, and yet for some reason Viago doesn't kill them (you know he has a soft spot for that crow, his little protege, but you don't mention it. They're out of the way, that's all that matters right now). You go on with your life.

The First Talon dies. You and the other talons gather to watch one of her grandchildren take her place (you never did think Illario would end up in her shoes. He somehow managed to prove you wrong). Suddenly this Crow who fucked up that one job busts in with Lucanis "demon of Vyrantium" dellamorte with them. The two of them take down Illario (they work together so smoothly, like they've done it all their lives. Lucanis threatens to kill Illario over hurting them. You hear Teia cheering them on. You're too busy killing venatori to think about it). Afterwards, the previous first talon whom you thought was DEAD walks in, and names Lucanis first talon. Instead of making his own decision on what to do with his cousin, Lucanis asks the de riva crow what he needs to do?? And listens to what they have to say??

Okay weird. It's whatever, maybe they have good advice (you doubt it. They REALLY fucked up that job). You later find out that Lucanis took a job for them, and you explain his weird behavior away with that. You move on with your life.

Fast forward a few months, Lucanis Dellamorte has killed a god. So has Rook de Riva, the little shit who fucked up the job??? They also possibly killed/tricked/convinced ANOTHER god?

At some gathering of the talons you make a joke about someone needing to assassinate them before their ego gets too big. Suddenly you have not one, but THREE talons threatening to take you out. Viago and Teia you can kind of understand, but Lucanis??? This is where you find out that APPARENTLY Lucanis and rook are a thing. You just threatened the first talon's partner TO HIS FACE.

This random little asshole from house de Riva has THREE different talons wrapped around their finger. Do you know how jarring that has to be for the other talons??? It's so funny to me idk. Rook de Riva and their murder of talons

#dragon age #dav spoilers #rook de riva #rookanis #lucanis dellamorte #rook #teia cantori #viago de riva #crow rambles #obsessed with their little dynamic its sooo fun #i am not immune to them sorry #oc: ena de riva

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stiltonbasket · 3 months ago

Note

Shen Yuan should transmigrate as Qiu Haitang! He *could* break himself and SJ out of the horrible Qiu household, but Qiu Haitang showing up “early” only to kidnap SQQ’s littlest disciple would also be funny.

"Why are you here?" Shen Qingqiu asks flatly, as he leaves the bamboo house with Ming Fan in tow.

"I heard that you took on a new disciple," says the woman before him.

Qiu Haitang does not meet his eyes. She has not looked him in the eye for the better part of twenty years—not since that first murder on the road, when she came to bring him a basket of food and found Shen Qingqiu and Wu Yanzi with blood still dripping from their hands—but even so, her avoidance of him has never grown easier to bear.

"I did," Shen Qingqiu replies. "What of it?"

"I told you not to," Qiu Haitang says, her hands curling into fists. "That—Li Haoran was to be the last. You promised me."

"Ning Yingying wanted a shidi."

"I don't give a damn what Ning Yingying wanted," she says sharply. "You swore you would never take in another boy."

Silence.

"If I go into the house," Qiu Haitang continues, her voice deceptively calm, "tell me, Shen Jiu—what will I find?"

At this, Ming Fan steps forward and stretches out his hands in supplication. "Shiniang—"

"Be silent," she snaps. "Your shifu is a lost cause, and that can't be helped; but if Disciple Ming cannot learn from his mistakes, then you don't need to speak in front of me. Did you even think of coming to fetch me when you saw that he had picked up another little shidi to bully?"

With that, Qiu Haitang snorts and sweeps past him into the bamboo house, where Luo Binghe is still kneeling in the middle of the front room with tea trickling down his tearstained cheeks.

"There, don't cry," Shen Qingqiu hears her whisper. "You didn't do anything wrong. Can you look up so that jiejie can dry your face?"

"Shizun—shizun told me to kneel," the little wretch in the house replies, half-sobbing. "It's this lowly one's fault. I offended him, so of course this disciple should stay here and reflect."

"You didn't offend anyone," Qiu Haitang says gently. "He has a terrible temper, and he never learned how to control it. It's not your fault."

"But—!"

Qiu Haitang hushes Luo Binghe again, after which Shen Qingqiu hears nothing further: for at that moment, his wife seemed to have recalled the existence of the bamboo house's privacy wards—but later that evening, she returns to house with a sheaf of papers and flings them down on Shen Qingqiu's desk.

"Sign these," she tells him.

Shen Qingqiu glances at the first page in bemusement. "What are they?"

"Dissolution papers for Luo Binghe's discipleship. What else?" Qiu Haitang's lip curls. "From now on, I'll be his Shizun instead."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Did Yue Qingyuan give you these? He approved when I asked for that little beast, you know."

"He must have thought you'd wait at least a week before doing something to the child," Haitang says coldly. "I told him that he could either give Binghe to me or send him to Bai Zhan; and he was determined to save face for you, so he chose me."

And then, when Shen Qingqiu does not reply:

"Sign them, Shen Jiu. You don't want to know what I'll do to you otherwise."

At this, Shen Qingqiu picks up a brush and signs his name at the bottom of the dissolution form: for the last time he and Qiu Haitang fought in earnest, she fed him a cursed tonic that had him babbling in tongues before a hundred-odd dignitaries at Huan Hua.

"Thank you," she bites out: and with that, she turns on her heel and blows out of the bamboo house like a gust of chill wind.

Not for the first time, Shen Qingqiu finds himself wishing that he had left Qiu Haitang behind at the Qiu estate when he fled with Wu Yanzi. But her father and brother were dead, and she believed that she was betrothed to him; and when he saw her great brown eyes staring at him through the flames of her home, some power beyond Shen Qingqiu's own had prevented him from turning his back on her.

She was not meant to accept when I offered to take responsibility for her, he thinks dully, watching through the open window as his wife strides towards the women's compound on the other side of the mountain. She hated me then, and she hates me now—so what was it all for?

Shen Qingqiu has pondered upon that question night and day since he and Qiu Haitang first bowed to one another, not long after his instatement as Qing Jing's head disciple; and he is no nearer to the answer by the morning he is widowed, nearly a decade later.

What point was there in saving her? he wonders, as a grown Luo Binghe weeps in the streets of Hua Yue with Qiu Haitang's still body cradled to his breast. Would it not have been better for her to die after the first betrayal, rather than live to be betrayed twice?

"Why are you all just standing there?" he hears Ming Fan roar. "That's our Shiniang! What are you afraid of? At most, that white-eyed wolf she raised will just beat us all to death!"

"Leave it."

Ming Fan stares at Shen Qingqiu in dismay, his eyes so swollen with tears that he scarcely seems able to see through them. "What is Shizun saying? What do you mean, leave her? She's our only Shiniang—she's your wife!"

Shen Qingqiu gazes at the cooling corpse in Luo Binghe's arms for a little while longer; and then, at length, he turns away.

"Your Shiniang's end was of her own making, Ming Fan," Shen Qingqiu says, already starting towards the group of screeching cultivators trapped behind the wards at the other end of the street.

"Shen-furen has made her bed. Let her lie in it."

#svsss #the scum villain's self-saving system #luo binghe #shen yuan #shen qingqiu #shen jiu #bingqiu #bingyuan #uhhhhhhhh yeah this came out of nowhere haha #enjoy!!#my fic #prompt fill #qiu haitang shen yuan au

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catiuskaa · 4 months ago

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𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬.

syn. the nights were mainly made to worship all that we loved during the day —in chan’s case, there’s nothing else, as he crawls back to you, always.

wc. 3.8k

cw. minsung mentioned, chan is a simp, they are whipped for each other, someone has daddy kink (and it’s both of them), teasing, explicit content, oral (f.rec), a healthy dose of marking, protected piv sex (love to see it), soft soft aftercare, fluff + smut convo honestly, and i think that’s all, folks!

req! by annonie right here. i see ur vision pookie, and i hope i did it justice! i fear i maybe did more smut than aftercare…? idk… sorry i took so long too</3. hope you like!

[☆★🤎★☆]

Honey, I’m home.

It’s such a common statement. A way of not only announcing the fact that one’s finally back from the hardships they had to endure during the day, there it be copious amounts of work, bullshit from dumb colleagues who wouldn’t know common sense from a toaster even if it burned their house down, how Jisung managed to forget his lyrics yet again, and his phone is dead, so he has to call his “husband” —his words, not mine— and make Minho bring him his charger to the studio…

Overall, in broad, general sense, the statement is used to express the feeling of welcomeness that being not just back in one’s house, but home, always brings. Not only that, but it too serves as a way of expressing it to whoever waits within those walls of comfort.

And, for the first time in a long while, it so happens that Chan was already home when you arrived.

But there was none of that when you closed the door behind you, took your shoes off by the entrance and headed to his room, knocking on the already open wooden surface.

Chan turns his head first, moving the desk chair on its axis to face you propperly.

“You’re back,” he smiles.

His eyes don’t leave your figure, not as you lean on the doorframe, not as you let out a soft chuckle and finally get close to him.

For some people, love is felt most clearly through touch—the warmth of a hand on the back, a lingering brush of fingers, a head resting on a shoulder. Being touchy isn’t about neediness, but about closeness, about wordless ways of saying “I’m here” and “you matter.” It’s how comfort is given and connection is deepened, in gestures that feel small but speak loudly. Whether it’s an absentminded thumb tracing a palm or a full-body hug after a long day, physical affection becomes the language that says everything else doesn’t have to be said.

That’s how Chan knows something’s up. Because, instead of throwing yourself to his bed face first, ready to tell him about the day you had —common when your day was specially bad—, you make it a point to stand between his parted legs, your hands traveling to his neck, threading in his hair.

You’re biting your lip. He’s one second from cheekily offering to bite it for you, when you finally speak.

“I was scrolling down Twitter in the bus,” you say softly, your voice smooth. His hands travel to the back of your thighs as you keep on speaking, a sheepish smile on your face. “Someone… someone posted something I think it’s funny.”

He blinks. He’s a bit lost now, but you chuckle, seeing it in his eyes.

“It was a reply to a post a stay made,” you giggle, blushing. “About your solo act in tour.”

“What did it say?” He smiles, giggling with you.

There’s a light pause, and in your eyes you’re pretty sure it’s obvious the ginger hesitation from stating what the post said out loud, but then, staring at his eyes, you just let it out.

“I hope someone can give him head to thank him for this amazing performance.”

Chan dies.

It’s the way you say it—soft, almost teasing, like you know exactly what you do to him. Your voice brushes against his ear, low and playful, and something in him just short-circuits. His hands, already resting on your waist, tighten instinctively, fingertips digging in just enough to make you shift closer. Suddenly his pulse is everywhere—thudding in his chest, his throat, and lower. His breath hitches, and he drops his head a little, trying to compose himself, but it’s no use.

Get fucked, ‘honey, i’m home.’

“I liked it. Reposted it, too.” You confess with a soft chuckle. “And then I thought, you know.” You swallow dry, blushing , which almost kills him again. “I can. Matter of fact, I have.”

He hums in response, and tugs you closer, making you sit on his lap.

“Okay,” he chuckles, sinking his head in the crook of your neck, into your hair, and you move your arms around his neck, giggling too. “That’s a way of getting me off my computer.”

“Good,” you tease softly, next to his ear. “It’s late anyways.”

“It’s going to be so much late when I’m done with you,” he confesses in a low voice, not bothering to think if that’s correct grammar or not.

Instead, he presses a soft kiss on your cheek, then your jaw, until he moves back, one of his hands moving from your ass to cup your cheek.

It starts with a single kiss. A soft peck, quick and familiar. Then another. And another. Each one lingers a little longer, his lips pressing into yours like he’s testing the edge of restraint —whether yours or his, he doesn’t really know, merely wsiting to see who breaks first. Secretly, he knows he will.

His hands pull you closer until the chair that holds the both of you groans from the combined weight. When he finally pulls back, just a breath apart, he’s already smiling—low and crooked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“I missed you today,” he says, voice rougher than it usually is. Then he’s kissing you again, deeper now, slow and intense, like he’s trying to make up for every second you were apart. His mouth moves with purpose, stealing your breath, and when his fingers slide up your spine, you arch into him without even thinking.

You move from him, peppering kisses all over his face. It’s coaxing, or at least you attempt it that way, until you notice him smirking.

“Don’t tease me,” you whine, pouting.

“Why, princess?” He smiles, faking innocence, letting out one of those squeaky laughs of his. “Something wrong?”

You groan dramatically, hiding your face in his neck as he laughs and holds your body closer.

“You’re a meanie,” you mumble against his skin.

“And you’re blushing.”

You huff. “Meanie.”

His hands stroke your thighs slowly, up and down. “You’d like me even more if I was meaner,” he grins teasingly. “Wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

Moving away from his neck, you pout again.

“I’ll leave,” you squint your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Chan tongues his cheek. He wonders if he can tease you a bit more, which he knows he probably can, but there’s only so much he can resist you. So he licks his lips, smiling at you.

“Really, princess? You’d leave daddy alone, even after what you’ve told me?”

You can’t stop smiling, not as he looks at you like you hung the stars, as your stomach flutters and as your cheeks burn. You try to play it cool, but your laugh comes out a little too breathless, and he definitely notices. The way he touches you doesn’t help either—his hands cheekily going anywhere they want, fingers brushing your arm, his hand resting low on your back like it’s always belonged there. You’re giddy, lightheaded, way too aware of how close he is, how good he smells, how your body is already leaning into his without asking permission. Not to him, exactly —that’s saved for a different night—, but to you, your own brain closing the door behind and leaving you all alone.

“Finally,” you kiss him cheekily. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The kisses start playful. You’re still giggling when he kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, and you feel yourself melt against him, warm and dizzy from how good it all feels.

Yes. Home. Finally. Sitting in his lap feels too easy, too natural—like you were meant to be there. And then, without thinking, your hips shift—just a small roll. Unintentional, but nevertheless, the second it happens, you both freeze. His breath catches against your skin. Your cheeks flare hot, the air between you thickening.

Chris lets out a somewhat breathless chuckle next to your ear, threatening to send shivers down your spine. He bites your cheek, teeth not sinking in, but rather like a way of teasing you back. Judging by how your breathing stops and hitched, he stands corrected.

He smirks. The look he gives you threatens to rip your clothes off one by one, undoing you almost entirely. That slow, knowing smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, equal parts smug and hungry.

“Oh,” he says, low and teasing, like he just discovered something dangerous. His hands slide over your hips, firmer now. “You sure you missed me just a little?”

Your face goes warm immediately, and you bite back a smile, ducking your head just a little. Of course he noticed. Of course he’s smirking like that. You nod, sheepish but honest, and he chuckles softly—the sound low and familiar, the kind that always makes your heart do a flip.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, already slipping his hands lower, settling them on your hips like he’s done it a thousand times before. He moves you slowly, guiding your body against his with that quiet confidence he only ever shows when it’s just the two of you.

The grind is subtle, teasing, but the heat it stirs is immediate. You let out a shaky breath, forehead brushing his as your fingers curl into the back of his neck.

“Missed you more than a little,” you whisper, and he grins—cheeky, warm, already leaning in for another kiss that promises he missed you just as much.

“Daddy missed you too, princess.”

His lips find yours again, deeper this time, and the way he shifts beneath you makes your breath hitch. The chair creaks softly under the weight of both your bodies, his hands steady at your hips, but it’s not enough—not anymore.

He kisses you once more, slower, like he’s making a decision, then pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice rough with warmth, and in one fluid motion, he stands, lifting you with him like it’s second nature.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, arms around his shoulders as he carries you the few steps to the bed. The room blurs around you, all focus narrowing to the way his hands hold you, the way your bodies stay close, connected. When he lowers you to the mattress, it’s careful—reverent almost—but there’s a promise in his touch, in the way he leans over you again like he can’t stand being even a breath apart.

The mattress dips under his weight as he follows you down, never quite breaking the kiss, just shifting it—slower, deeper, until it’s all heat and breath and the soft rustle of the bedsheets. Chris’ hands roam, familiar, but still making you shiver.

He kisses you again, deeply, tasting you like a candy he’s been craving to have before he starts trailing those kisses lower. Down your neck, over your collarbone, taking his time, savoring every inch of skin. His hands glide down your sides, smooth and steady, until he reaches the hem of your shirt and helps ease it off with a sudden softness that somehow he always carries and still it makes your breath catch.

He glances up at you as he shifts lower, and there’s something in his eyes—affection wrapped in heat, like he wants to give, not just take.

He watches you the entire time, eyes dark with focus, with want. “God, I love when you look at me like that,” he murmurs, voice rough.

Your hips shift slightly under his hands, your fingers mindlessly scratching his hair, as they lock around his neck.

“Like what?”

“Like I could ruin you,” he says simply, before kissing your collarbone, “and you’d let me.”

His mouth never fully leaves your skin—kisses trailing down your stomach, each one slower than the last, until he reaches the waistband of your jeans. He looks up at you with that teasing glint in his eyes, the kind that makes your pulse trip. “Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, and then he leans in.

You feel the scrape of his teeth first—light, playful—just before his lips close around the zipper. He tugs it down slowly, deliberately. The sound of it lowering fills the quiet between your breaths, each inch building the anticipation curling low in your belly. When the zipper’s undone, his hands take over, easing both the denim and your panties down your hips with a touch so gentle it borders on worshipful. And then he’s leaning in again, kissing the newly exposed skin with a smile against your thigh, like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

When he settles between your thighs, he doesn’t rush. His hands stroke your hips, your thighs, grounding you as his mouth finally finds you. The first touch of his tongue is slow and warm, and the sound you make earns a satisfied hum from him. He keeps going like that—unhurried, attentive—learning every reaction, every twitch of your hips, every moan and every gasp.

It’s not just about pleasure to him. It’s about you.

And when your fingers slide into his hair and your back arches off the bed, he only holds you firmer, as if to say, I’ve got you. I’m not stopping until you fall apart for me.

You shiver and tremble beneath him, letting out heavier moans and whines. He hums, the sound traveling through you, threatening to make you come already.

Your fingers tug his hair, and he smiles against your thigh. “Seems you’re already letting me ruin you,” he bites your thigh, cheeky. “Like when daddy ruins you, princess?”

You gasp at the bite, a shiver running down your spine. His words send a thrill through you, and you can feel yourself growing more excited by the minute. You feel your cheeks flush as you imagine what he's promising.

"Yes, daddy," you whisper, your voice already a little breathless. "Please ruin me, make me yours."

He chuckles, the sound low and husky. "You're such a good girl for me, aren't you?" he murmurs, his lips tracing a path up your thigh, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake. "And you know that I always take good care of my princess, don't you?"

His fingers slide along your inner thigh, his voice dipping.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, hand still in his hair. “If you stop now, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Your fingers curl and your nails scratch his back without thinking, and he lets out a soft gasp, his shoulders going slack as he leans into your touch.

“Anything for you, princess,” he whispers, licking his lips, almost drunk on the taste of you, his gaze already completely under your spell. “I’ll give you whatever you want, but please, keep touching me like that.”

He moves up and kisses you, relishing on the moans he swallows that spill from your lips as his hands move to take place where his mouth has just been, his fingers moving, slipping inside with wet ease.

“Oh, princess. You’re close already?” He watches you nod, moaning almost breathlessly, and slows down. He chuckles softly at the sound of your whine, unable to resist the adorable look on your face. "You're so cute when you're needy."

Nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls back just enough to reach toward the nightstand, eyes still on you, lips parted like he doesn’t want to be away for long. He grabs the foil packet and flashes you a look —half teasing, half focused—before tearing it open with his teeth. It’s effortless, practiced, but the sight alone makes your stomach flip.

His smile fades into something softer as he finishes rolling the condom on, hands steady but reverent, like he’s handling something precious. Then he’s back over you, fitting between your legs with ease, his skin warm against yours, his mouth returning to your neck, your collarbone, every place that makes your breath catch. The pace slows for a moment—like he wants to savor it, like rushing would be a waste. His forehead presses to yours, noses brushing, and he whispers your name like it’s a secret, grounding you both in the quiet, electric space between heartbeats.

When he finally presses into you, it’s slow—measured, but deep. You gasp, legs tightening around his waist, and he groans low in his throat, the sound rough and honest. His hands slide under your back, pulling you impossibly close, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. The rhythm builds naturally, guided by every stuttered breath, low whine, and whispered name, until it’s just you and him.

He builds a steady pace, slowly losing it’s rythm as pleasure takes the lead.

“You sound so… so good… so, so… f-fuck…” he moans against your skin, his body holding you so tight, his movements getting just a bit more desperate and rough as he attempts to hold back, trying to last just a little longer.

“S-so close… I’m so… so c-close…” You moan, desperate, your body shaking and trembling, on the very edge of a release.

His hand finds yours, interlinking your fingers. He whines lowly as you come, his heart pounding and body shaking. He can’t hold back any longer, his body completely overwhelmed by the feeling. He moans your name, every second feeling more intense as you continue to move against him. Holding onto you tightly, he comes not too long after you, almost letting his body fall over yours, unwilling to let you go.

He clings to you, feeling completely raw and vulnerable, his body trembling with the aftermath of such intensity. The world goes black and white, and for the smallest moment, time seems to almost stop between the sounds of your breaths in sync, the trembling of your body, the heat your body lets out… It’s all so intense, in his mind almost impossible to explain or describe.

The two of you stay like that, for a few moments, breathing in sync, holding onto each other as the aftershocks take over. You feel him pull away, and you can feel the loss of him, but in the blink of an eye, he’s right there, condom discarded, but he’s still right there, as he helps you get under the bedsheets. Holding your face in his hands, he kisses you, softly, gently.

He stays close, arms wrapped around you like he needs to keep you there, grounded against him. His fingers trace lazy patterns along your back, and his voice is quieter now, softer.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing your hair away from your face.

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. You?”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Never better.” He shifts slightly, reaching for the blanket at the edge of the bed, draping it over both of you. “How’s that? Warm enough?”

You hum, already melting into the calm of him, nuzzling into his neck. “Mmhm.”

You’re curled up against his chest, legs tangled with his, your breath soft and steady as your fingers absentmindedly trace circles on his arm. He’s quiet—so quiet you glance up to check on him. But he’s already watching you.

That look in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s intense, unguarded. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and falling all over again.

“What?” you whisper with a smile, almost sheepish under the weight of his gaze.

He shakes his head a little, smiling like a fool, like the feeling in his chest is too big for words.

“Nothing. Just… you.”

You giggle.

“That’s not an answer, mister.”

He laughs under his breath, then kisses your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Want me to run you a bath?” He offers softly.

You lay your hand over his, stroking the back of it as he cups your face. “Only if you join,” you wink.

His answer is immediate. “Done.”

He shifts to sit up, but not before giving you one more kiss—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I’ll be right back. Stay cozy.”

You hear the soft creak of the faucet turning on, the gentle rush of water echoing faintly from the bathroom. He moves around quietly, opening drawers, setting things down, and humming under his breath as he prepared this little ritual he’s done a hundred times for you.

When he returns to the bedroom, he’s shirtless, damp towel in one hand, and smiling like he just lit every candle in the world just for you. “It’s ready,” he says, voice warm. “Perfect temperature. Bubbles and all.”

You sit up, letting the blanket slip off your shoulders, and he immediately steps forward to wrap it back around you, his hands brushing down your arms with affection. “Want help getting there?”

You nod, and he lifts you easily, bridal style, because of course he does, earning giggles from you. He carries you into the softly lit bathroom, where the tub is already steaming, the scent of lavender and something faintly sweet in the air.

“There we go,” he smiles, helping you in. The water ripples as he steps in behind you, warm and careful, settling in with a low sigh. His arms come around you almost automatically—slow, steady—and you melt back into him with a sleepy grin.

His chest is pressed to your back, his legs on either side of yours, and his chin rests on your shoulder. He exhales deeply, his breath brushing your skin.

The warmth of the water surrounds you, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his skin against yours, the way his fingertips draw slow patterns along your arms beneath the surface. Every now and then, he presses a kiss to your shoulder or cheek, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world just to love you like this.

Your fingers stay twined with his. You don’t talk much—there’s no need. It’s one of those rare, quiet silences that says everything. He leans his head against yours and lets out a little hum, content.

Eventually, the water cools just slightly, and he shifts, his lips brushing your ear. “Come on,” he whispers, soft and coaxing. “Let’s get you dry before you fall asleep on me in here.”

You let him help you up, both of you dripping and a little giggly as he wraps a towel around you and one around himself. He dries you off gently, his hands sweet and familiar, pausing to kiss your shoulder, the curve of your neck, your forehead.

You step out of the bath, feeling the steam cling to your skin, and glance at him with a sheepish smile. “I just need to pee real quick,” you say, before slipping away toward the toilet.

Bathtub empty, both of you dry and spent, he pulls the blankets down and helps you crawl to bed first, then slides in behind you, pulling you into his chest like it’s instinct. His arms wrap around you again—just like in the tub—and this time, the sheets are warm, the room is quiet, and your skin is still damp in that post-bath glow.

He kisses the back of your shoulder once more before whispering, “You okay?”

You nod, sleepy and safe. “Mhm. You?”

His reply is immediate, low and sincere.

“Never been better.”

Home has never felt so warm.

[☆★🤎★☆]

~kats, who has listened to hozier’s cover of “do i wanna know?” an unhealthy amount of times.

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @lyramundana @cheeksung @staytinyluva

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differenteagletragedy · 4 months ago

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The one where Simon Riley gets a roommate and the roommate is you and eventually you fall in love etc.

There's a bar in Simon's neighborhood where he goes sometimes when things get a little too loud in his head. A few nights a week or so, when he's home, he finds himself there, sitting at a corner stool at the bar and nursing a whiskey. He doesn't like being around people, not really, but he likes this better than he likes being alone with his thoughts.

That's why he started going anyway, a long time ago. Now, he mostly goes for you.

A pretty little bartender with a past -- one you haven't told him about, but he can smell it on you. It's in the way your eyes dart to the door every time it opens, and in the way the tension builds in your body when some drunk gets a little too loud. He'd noticed how gorgeous you were the first day, but now the pull is in the mystery.

Where did you come from? What happened to you? And why do you smile at him like he's not the most dangerous man you'd ever met?

He doesn't understand it, but you're always kind to him. You always greet him warmly, pour his favorite whiskey with a heavy hand without him asking. Sometimes, when he comes in on a slow night, you'll lean over the bar to talk to him about nothing until someone pulls you away. You laugh at his jokes.

You're too pretty for him, the scarred, hulking monster of a man that he is. And you're entirely too sweet. You deserve someone better, younger, more stable, more whole. You deserve more than whatever it is that you'd gotten before, and a hell of a lot better than him.

But one night when he comes in and sees you looking quietly frantic, eyes red-rimmed and anxious as you flit about the bar, that knowledge goes out the window.

"What's wrong?" he asks quietly, studying the slight shake of your hand as you pour his drink.

"Nothing," you answer automatically.

"Bullshit."

You sigh, and after a little more prodding, you tell him: the owners of the bar are selling the building to developers, who are going to tear the place down, so soon, you'll be out of a job. But worse, you rent the small little attic apartment over the bar, so you'll be out of a home as well.

Simon can see it in your eyes, knowing the look all too well: you feel hopeless.

"I've got a room," he says.

And it's a stupid thing to say, because he has no business offering you something like that. He doesn't know you, not really, and you don't know him, and the room isn't a guest room so much as it is an empty space in his house that he's never had any reason to fill.

What can he really offer you? Not just with the room, but at all? Whatever it is, he knows it would never be enough.

But you give him the tiniest of smiles, and he sees something flicker in your eyes, and it doesn't matter how ridiculous the idea is. If you want it, it's yours. If he has it, you can take it, and he'll give it gladly.

"Really?" you ask. "I don't have a lot of money or anything."

"Don't need it."

"I haven't had a chance to look for a new job yet, but I'm gonna start tonight," you assure him. "So hopefully I can find something right away and --"

"Don't worry about it, love," he interrupts. "Not offering because I need the money. Room is yours if you want it."

He speaks gruffly, as he always does, and he hopes that you won't ask too many questions, because truthfully, he won't be able to answer them, not in any way that makes sense. He doesn't want to lie to you, but how could he say that the thought of you in his space was enough to stir something in him that he’d long thought dead?

Thankfully, you don’t ask. Instead, you lean across the bar and wrap your arms around his neck. It’s an awkward hug, but it means something, and before you pull away he’s already making a mental note of everything he’ll need for the spare room.

Your room.

“I can’t thank you enough, Simon, really,” you tell him, smiling a little easier now. “I’ll get another job soon anyway, ok? And I can clean and cook and --"

"Start by getting me another whiskey, yeah?"

Your smile turns a bit sheepish, but you nod and turn to get the bottle, and he takes a breath.

This is a bad idea. There's no way it isn't. It's going to go poorly, one way or another, he's going to be too much or not enough, and one day you'll leave and his house will feel even emptier than it already does.

But Simon is no stranger to bad ideas. And this one, at least, should prove to be a little bit of fun along the way.

PART TWO

#simon riley #call of duty simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod ghost #call of duty ghost #ghost x you #ghost x reader #i slipped and started another simon series no one help me

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florestalio · 6 months ago

Text

HIDE-N-SEEK — l.hs

recently, your town has been getting terrorized by a serial killer, going by the name of 'ghostface'. of course you were scared to be his victim. imagine the sheer terror on your face — and the utter delight on his — when your fear turns out to not have been caused by your paranoia.

GENRE— ghostface au, stalker au

WARNINGS— dubcon, then noncon, and then dubcon again (you'll see what I'm talking about), both reader and heeseung are kinda fucked up, mentions of killing, mentions of stalking, knife play, fear play, reader has tits, reader's pussy gets called 'her' a few times?, fingering, cum eating, slight spit play, spit kink (?), name-calling (baby, slut, bitch, etc.), unprotected sex (don't), blood, blood play, bulge kink, clit pinching, missionary, mating press, kind of an open ending (?), NOT PROOFREAD, let me know if I missed any!

WORDCOUNT— 8.2k

NOTE— among the italicized text, if you see normal text, it basically indicates the opposite. as in, if the entire block of text wasn't italicized, then the normal text would have been in italics instead... if that helps

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

NO ONE WAS SAFE.

No matter where you resided, if Ghostface chose you as his victim, consider yourself to be dead.

No amount of protection, whether it be in the form of weapons or guards, locked doors or high security neighbourhoods — no one was safe from him.

You may ask, who exactly was ‘Ghostface’? Why, he is a renowned serial killer, one who wears a pitch black coat and a creepy mask, paired with white rubber gloves. The last thing his victims see before dying is the creepy ghostface mask smiling down at them — as said by a ghostface victim, who had miraculously survived the attack, only to die hours later in the same hospital at which he was interviewed. Reports say that the victim had been stabbed a total of twenty times, the word ‘Ghostface' carved onto his forehead. Apparently, he didn't appreciate the fact that someone survived him — even if it was only for a few hours.

Which was why everyone was scared to go out, even during the day. Till this date, no one had ever seen his actual face, his entire existence a mystery to everyone except him. He was truly an enigma, the source of both amazement and horror for all.

People were scared to even interact with each other, in case said person turned out to be Ghostface. What if they did something to piss the other person off, resulting in their death — perhaps in just a few hours from the aforementioned incident?

For an introvert like you, avoiding people came easy to you, it being your second nature. You weren't too worried about offending Ghostface, even by mistake. But no one was ever truly safe, not from the hands of a psycho serial killer, were they?

You would often find yourself peeking behind your shoulder at random times of the day, checking if someone was looking at you, or worse, following you. Perhaps it was simply due to your paranoia, combined with the increasing cases of deaths in the hands of Ghostface. Either way, your guard was always up.

You used to stay at the dorms on campus before, even when the deaths had started occurring on a daily basis. It was only after Regina — a girl who you never really liked because of her bitchy attitude — was found one morning by her roommate, completely mauled in her own dorm, lying in a pool of her own blood — did you finally feel terrified enough to move out of them, moving into a house in a slightly secluded region of the town, just around ten blocks away from campus. It wasn't a complete guarantee of your security, but it was better than nothing.

From some of the recent reports, apparently the victims of Ghostface were — stalked by him a few days prior to him killing them. Photos of the victims taken without their knowledge during the week before their death were found with their body. The police declared them to be taken by Ghostface, a fact that left you even more shaken than before.

You didn't have to be afraid of him. You were more than sure that you never did anything to piss anyone off, at least not knowingly. Surely no one could be holding a grudge against you, right? Especially not Ghostface?

Right?

IT WAS A NORMAL FRIDAY NIGHT — or as normal as it could be with the threat of becoming Ghostface’s next victim hanging heavily in the air.

Friday nights used to be the time when you danced, sang, got drunk, and hooked up, all night long at the frat parties that were held religiously every Friday. Now? Now people were afraid to look in other people's direction, in fear of provoking Ghostface.

It was truly remarkable, the way he had everyone in his chokehold. Rumors surrounding him specifically were mostly to blame for this.

See, according to many, Ghostface apparently likes to… toy with his victims before killing them. Exactly how does he toy with them?

According to the rumours, he gives them a phone call, taunting them. His voice is always distorted by a voice modulator, adding to the air of mystery surrounding him.

People were already downright terrified of him, but some people who apparently thought themselves to be hilarious, often mimicked Ghostface's antics — or what the rumours about him said — and called people up randomly, with a voice modulator. They would take advantage of the fact that no one actually knew what it sounded like, terrifying people to the core.

While some did it for pranking purposes, others did it for more malicious intentions, taking advantage of people's fears. It started getting worse and worse, the fakers, that is — until the government finally declared it to be a crime to mimic Ghostface, announcing a long time in jail for anyone who attempted it.

This put a stop to the mimicking, but it only made people grow more antsy. People were always silently waiting till their turn arrived to be Ghostface’s new victim, a fact that thrilled no one, but sent a chill down their spines, everytime they even thought of it.

Tonight was especially dark. The moon was behind the clouds, the eerie darkness causing you to feel more terrified than normal. It wasn't that dark, but with Ghostface out in the open…

You decided to focus on washing the rest of dirty dishes instead, trying to get your mind off the serial killer. You had procrastinated long enough, the dishes starting to pile up. What better way to distract yourself?

You turned on the television, listening to an anime while washing the dishes. Silence scared you, — which was ironic, since you were an introvert with terrible social anxiety — the need to have some kind of sound, in the tiny and isolated house of yours, other than the sound of washing dishes, was extremely high. The only available option on the television was anime, and… well, the news. But no one wants to listen to the news during these times — all the news channels simply showed Ghostface's new victims and their mutilated bodies that lay in a pool of their own blood.

You were done with washing the dishes, putting all the plates away neatly — when suddenly, your phone rang. You peeked at the screen, your lips turning into a frown — it was an unknown number.

You wiped your hands on your pants, picking up the call, putting the phone to your ear. “Hello…? May I know who this is?”

The phone remained silent for an entire minute. Just as you were about to speak again, a somewhat distorted voice came from the other side of the call. “What's your name?”

You frowned. Why was this person asking for your name, when he was the one that called you in the first place? What a fucking weirdo.

You spoke again. “I don't wish to sound rude, but — shouldn't I be the one asking that? I mean, you were the one that called me, you know — not the other way around.”

You heard a chuckle from the other side of the phone. It creeped you out, the sound more menacing than amused. He spoke again, his voice still sounding distorted. “Aren’t you adorable?”

You were starting to feel creeped out now. Your hand was gripping the last plate in your hand tightly, not even noticing how much pressure you were using on it. You spoke in a slightly higher voice, your tone pitchy with a detectable hint of panic. “Listen Mr. Stranger — I don't know who you are, nor am I particularly curious. But you aren't fucking funny, so if you don't have anything of importance to say, I'm hanging up.”

Silence. Again. This guy was really testing your patience.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice lower… still distorted. “I would watch my tone if I were you, sweetheart. It's no way to talk to a… stranger, is it?”

You gulped. He sounded so… ominous, his tone nothing short of menacing. With your anxiety spiking, you spoke again, your voice mostly level except for the slightest tremor to it. “What do you want…?”

The guy on the other side of the call let out a hum. “To know your name, of course. You still haven't told me.”

You let out a shaky breath, your grip on the plate tightening. “But why? What is the importance of my name to you?”

He let out a chuckle, his next words making your blood run cold. “So I can know who I'm looking at.”

You almost dropped the phone, all the colour from your face draining. You managed to speak up in a shaky voice. “C-Cut the act. You're not funny — the government declared jail for the pretenders, yet you're impersonating him–?”

You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “But darling, I'm not an impersonator, am I?” His voice grew lower, an underlying threat evident in it. “You don't believe me to be one either.”

Tears stung your eyes, the hand that was clutching the plate starting to shake. You slowly put down the dish, your eyes darting frantically around your living room that was connected to the open kitchen, looking around to spot any potential threat — said ‘threat’ being… Ghostface. Even if you knew that it was pointless. If Ghostface wanted to kill you, he would succeed in doing so — no matter what obstacles he faces. “L-Look Mr. Ghostface — I barely even go out! Even when I do, I mostly keep to myself, I don't even interact with anyone. I'm sure I haven't done anything to piss anyone off — let alone you, even unintentionally! So why…”

Your voice took on a tone of desperate resignation at the end, the subtle acceptance of your fate evident in it. Ghostface cooed at your tone, his own voice sounding like that of an excited child. “Aren't you cute? Don't worry, you didn't piss me off, just — intrigued me. You're always so alone, all by yourself… I just had to find out everything about you, didn't I? You are such a mystery, one I took utter delight in unraveling. It's only fair that I get a prize for my hard work, right ___?”

With each word he spoke, his voice could be heard louder and louder, coming from somewhere around the house. Right as he finished the sentence, the side door of your house, leading to the garden outside, slammed open. Ghostface stood in the doorway, a knife in one hand, a burner phone in the other. He spoke, his voice distorted from the voice modulator.

“Right, ___?”

You let out a loud scream, the tears finally breaking free, as you turned on your heel, getting out of the open kitchen, towards the stairs. You knew from all those horror movies that running into your bedroom would be the worst possible move, but you really had no choice. You could hear him behind you, laughing as he gave chase. “Running off so quickly, darling? Won't you at least give me a greeting, welcome me into your house? That's bad manners, you know. Or did mama not teach you any?”

His voice sounded like two people, speaking at once, one of a real person, the other a distorted voice like those in old radios. It unnerved you, since his voice modulator was probably glitching due to him running. You ran into your bedroom, locking it quickly — just in time for him to bang on the door loudly.

He yelled loudly, his voice bordering on that of manic excitement. “Open the door ___! You know that the bedroom is never a smart move. Or are you a dumb baby that doesn't know the basics of survival?”

His taunting was causing your already scattered thought process even harder to get together, your hands shaking. You looked for a hiding place before he inevitably broke down the door.

Under the bed? A good idea, but he would probably think of the same. But what other hiding places could there possibly… the closet.

You quickly ran to the closet, throwing open its door. You pushed some of your clothes apart, going far inside, before pulling the clothes in front of you to make it seem as inconspicuous as possible. You sat at the back, your legs pulled up to your chest, your breathing shallow. You realised what a terrible hiding place it was, but it will have to do.

The banging grew more frantic, before he finally managed to kick down the door. You could hear his voice from inside the closet, causing you to still your breathing, to avoid getting caught. His voice was more of a menacing growl, no longer disoriented — maybe his voice modulator ran out of batteries? “Having fun princess? You're so fucking naive if you think hiding here will save you.”

He paced about the room slowly. “Where could you be hiding, hm? I hope it's not–” He dropped to his knees, peeking under the bed. “–under the bed? No, of course not. That would have been too easy. You're naive, but not that much, huh?”

But then he let out a snicker, one that almost caused you to start crying again. You could hear his footsteps again. “Or are you?”

Before you could comprehend the meaning of his words, the closet door was thrown open, his hand grabbing your wrist in a vice-like grip, pulling you out, tearing a scream out of you. “Turns out you are a dumb little bunny after all.”

He tackled your struggling figure to the ground, pinning your legs with his knees on either side of you. He used one of his hands to pin your wrists above your head, his other hand raising the knife, pushing it under your jaw, just a hair-breath shy of cutting into your throat. His voice sounded like a growl, an octave deeper. “Don't you fucking dare move — unless you would like me to slit your pretty little throat open. Trust me, I would take great pleasure in doing so.”

Your movements stilled, your breath coming out in short huffs. Tears were streaming down your face freely, your entire body covered in goosebumps. You stared up at him — at his mask, rather. He tilted his head to the side. “Did you have fun playing hide and seek? I hope you did, because I cannot guarantee that you will be having much fun now — it's my turn to have fun now, afterall.”

His words sent a chill down your spine. You were starting to accept your fate. Any moment now, he would slice the knife across your throat, slitting it in one clean swipe. He would laugh while watching the blood flowing freely from the wound, watching as the life leaves your eyes. It was all just a game for him, after all.

But he seemed to have different plans. He trailed his knife down, under the edge of your shirt. He slipped it inside, the cool metal making contact with your skin, the temperature difference sending a jolt through you. He traced the pointed end on your stomach, before doing something that shocked you — and gave you a hint of his true intentions.

He turned the knife sideways, sharp side facing up, before digging it into your shirt, slicing through it. The knife tore through the fabric like paper, before he threw the ruined fabric in some random corner of the room. You gasped at the cold air, squirming slightly. He pressed the knife above your stomach warningly. “Sit still darling. Or else I won't hesitate to cut up your useless body.”

Tears stung your eyes again at his words. But you stilled, too eager to survive. Your eyes suddenly widened as you saw him slip the knife under the middle part of your bra, before slicing it open. You gasped as he threw the discarded fabric away, the cool air hitting your boobs, your nipples instantly hardening. You were suddenly acutely aware of the precarious position you were in, unable to stop the heat creeping up your neck, as you noticed his intense gaze on your tits.

He gave you a warning look from behind his mask, his knife coming back against your throat. “One wrong move, and your throat will get sliced open.” He let go of your wrists — watching as you kept them in the same place. He smirked under the mask at your pliancy, his gloved hand coming to pinch your hardened nipples.

You let out a tiny shriek of surprise at the feeling of his rubber clad fingers groping you, unable to resist a whimper as he squeezed your mounds. He was merciless in the way he groped you, squeezing and pinching, completely unaffected by your whimpers and gasps — it was exhilarating.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to hold back a whine, as he twisted your nipple in between his fingers. You desperately tried to ignore the heat that was pooling down in your lower stomach, your heart racing.

He pinched your nipple again, squeezing your left tit roughly. He felt you shudder underneath him, the usual thrill that came with threatening his victims, running through his veins.

Yet, there was something else — an almost imperceptible hitch in your breathing, a flicker of… heat in your eyes, despite the situation you were in. Curious, he slightly moved his knife away from your throat, but not enough to make you feel any less threatened. “What's this…?”

You looked into the eyes of his mask, gulping audibly. He pinched your nipple again, tearing out a whine from you. His eyes narrowed at your reaction. He wasn't dumb — he knew when someone was turned on. But… in this situation? With a knife to your throat? Your life in his hands? It made no sense. Still — his body responded, his pants tightening.

He slowly dragged the knife down, in between your breasts, pausing at your stomach. He looked up at your face, searching for any sign of fear, or even defiance — nothing.

Instead, he saw your lips parted slightly, your breath hitching — he swore he saw your pupils dilate. He let out a shaky breath, his voice laced in disbelief. “You…”

His grip tightened noticeably, curiosity and annoyance warring in his expression. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" The realization sent a jolt of dark excitement through him. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Sick bitch.”

You let out a whimper, shaking your head frantically, in denial of the whole situation. Still, your thighs rubbed together involuntarily, trying to quell the ache between them.

An almost menacing chuckle escaped him as he registered your movement. His free hand moved to pin your thighs down, trapping them between his own once again. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, feeling his control slip. "You're really getting off on this?”

You let out a whine, squirming slightly. He stared down at you, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never been this close to losing control before. But the way you were reacting, the way you were looking at him — it was driving him insane.

"I should cut you," he growled, the knife trembling against your stomach. Your eyes fluttered slightly at the threat, a slow exhale leaving you. You couldn't understand your own body. Why, the fuck, were you reacting the way you were?

He blinked rapidly, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. The knife lowered incrementally. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice was incredulous, though tinged with reluctant awe. "Getting turned on by someone threatening you?”

Your eyes stung with tears at his words, your body reacting in the completely opposite manner — your thighs clenched, an almost pitiful whimper leaving you.

He watched your body language, the tears welling up in your eyes — a strange mix of emotions hit him. He dropped the knife to his side, as one of his gloved hands slid up to grip your jaw firmly. "You're fucked up." He whispered, anger and desire clashing in his voice.

You gulped, only just realising that your hands were free. Yet you made no attempt to move them.

His grip tightened on your jaw, leaning in until his face was almost touching yours — his mask, rather. His breath was ragged, mingling with yours. "Is this what you wanted?" he snarled, though the bite was gone from his voice, replaced by confusion, mixed with arousal. "To get me all worked up?”

You whimpered at the pressure on your jaw, your nails digging into your palm, as you clenched your fists. You were so, so painfully aroused.

A rough sound caught in his throat as he stared down at you, fighting an internal battle. He originally just wanted to play with you a little, make you feel worthless — like trash that he could easily dispose of. Disposing you was exactly what he had planned to do, although now that plan was no longer going to be put into action — at least for the time being.

He threw the knife away, causing it to clatter to the floor. His other hand moved to your hip, digging into the flesh there. "You little…”

You winced at his grip, your nose scrunching up in pain. You stared up at him, tears still evident in your waterline.

That was his last straw. He took off his mask, allowing you a brief glimpse of his face. His last semblance of control shattered, as he cut himself off, his mouth crashing against yours in a bruising kiss. His tongue forced its way in, tangling with yours demandingly. He kissed you like he was trying to punish you, to make you pay for the effect you were having on him.

Your eyes widened in shock, as you gasped loudly into the kiss. You tried to kiss him back, to match his pace — all in vain. His lips were punishing, intending to make it hurt for you. Unfortunately all it did was make you crave for more.

He finally broke the kiss, panting heavily as he rested his forehead against yours. His heart was racing, his mind reeling. "What the fuck is going on…?" he muttered, his voice shaking with a combination of anger and awe. "You're supposed to be scared, not turned on."

You gulped. Your senses were starting to blur, all of them zeroing in on his touch and his voice. It was painstakingly weird how you were reacting — how he was reacting to you. But damn, you enjoyed it — so fucking much.

He pulled back slightly, searching your eyes with a fierce intensity. "Say something, fuck. Explain this." His hands remained gripping you, betraying his conflicted desire and frustration. "I'm trying to terrify you and instead..." He trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief.

When you didn't immediately respond, he growled low in his throat. His hands tightened around you, his body pressed flush against yours. "Fucking talk, you little bitch. Tell me why the fuck you're so turned on right now."

Your breath hitched, your mind going blank. He was insulting you, his voice carrying disgust — you fucking loved it.

A dark smirk crossed his face at your breath hitching, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "Look at that — all worked up, can't form words…" He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear. "Does it make your pussy throb when I threaten you?"

Your eyes widened at the sudden crude language and the bluntness in his voice, your skin pricking, panties practically sticking to your cunt. He was right — your pussy did indeed throb when he threatened you.

Suddenly, you realised that you recognised him. He was Heeseung, one of the most popular guys at your college.

You remembered having interacted with him just once, when he bumped into you back in your first year. He was your senior, who immediately apologised to you after that, helping you pick up your books. He walked with you for a while after that, forcefully engaging you in small talk. He didn't seem to mind your short answers or your eagerness to get rid of him at all, continuing to talk — until a friend of his called him to go to class, causing him to reluctantly stop his rambling, waving you bye and leaving.

You remembered finding out all about him that very day during recess, overhearing his name from the table next to yours in the cafeteria. It was a group of girls, who seemed to be gossiping in what they thought were hushed voices… only, they weren't. You could hear every word.

They were specifically talking about Heeseung, about how hot he was, how smart he was — both book smart and street smart. You remembered mentally rolling your eyes at their fawning, before a certain piece of information had caught your interest.

They mentioned him to be a prude, never showing interest in going into relationships or even casual hook ups. Apparently, he had never gone on a date with anyone, politely turning down everyone who asked. It seemed rather odd of him, since he seemed like the dream package.

This incident had occurred a year before the killings first started. Nevertheless, Heeseung was never the kind of guy who seemed to be capable of something as shockingly gruesome as this. The thought made you sick to your stomach, a nasty feeling under your skin.

You snapped back into the present time, looking up at him, truly looking at him. He barely looked anything like the Heeseung you met during freshman year. His smirk grew wider at the sudden realization on your face, his hand moving to gently squeeze your throat. He was going to have to have a talk with you about college later on. Right now, he had more important things to focus on. For instance, how aroused you were from your life being threatened. "Yeah, that's it. Your little heart races and your pussy gets so fucking wet when I scare you." He leaned back to look at you, his eyes gleaming with a sinister light.

He watched your throat bob as you swallowed, his hand still gently squeezing. "You're a fucking mess, you know that?" Heeseung leaned in again, his lips just a hair's breadth from yours. "A little slut who gets off on being threatened.” His words were a whisper against your lips, his breath hot against your skin. "And you know what the worst part is? I think I might actually like it." He pulled back, his gaze boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart race.

You stared up at him, your breathing slightly shallow, begging him with your eyes to touch you. Heeseung let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." His hand slid from your throat, trailing down your chest teasingly. "Here I am, supposedly threatening you, but we both know it's me who should be terrified.”

Your back arched into his touch, a small whine leaving you. He chuckled darkly at your reaction, his fingers brushing over the swell of your breasts. "Look at that — arching into my touch like a fucking bitch in heat." His hand continued down, tracing the curves of her body possessively.

You whined at his words, your back arching even more. You let out whimpers, shaky exhales leaving you. His eyes flashed with wicked amusement at the sound. "Oh, listen to those whimpers. Pathetic." He pinched your nipple abruptly, twisting just to the point of pain. "You're so fucking desperate for it, aren't you?”

You let out a loud gasp of pain, your body jolting — yet your body begged for more, a whimper eliciting from you the very next second. A smug grin spread across his face as he watched you whimper. "Five seconds ago I was trying to scare you, now look at you fucking trembling for my touch." He bent down, his lips grazing against your neck, as he nipped at your skin. "What does that make you?”

You gulped. His teeth dragged over your pulse point, marking your skin. "It makes you a needy little slut, doesn't it?" His hand finally reached your thigh, gripping it possessively. "A slut who can't get enough of my touch, no matter how much she pretends to be afraid.”

You whined, begging for more. "Mmm… that whine is fucking music to my ears." He abruptly lifted your leg, wrapping it around his waist as he pressed his hard cock against you. "Don't you see what you do to me? All of that bullshit where you pretended to be scared…”

You let out a shaky moan, pressing back against him. Heeseung silenced you with a brutal kiss, biting your lip to keep you quiet as he rubbed himself against you through your clothes. "You think I'm scary?" He growled, his hands roaming over your body possessively.

You let out sharp gasps, your voice coming out shaky. “A b-bit–?”

He bit your bottom lip harder, pulling back with your lip caught between his teeth. "Shut. Up." His voice was rough, commanding. "You don't get to smart-mouth me while you're practically dripping." He let your lip go with a sharp tug, making you whimper.

You bit your lip to muffle any further noises. His eyes darkened dangerously as he noticed your silence, one hand capturing both wrists above your head once again, while the other trailed down to your center. "Not going to lie, but princess? The way you just submitted to me like that?" He pressed against you meaningfully. "Fucking hot.”

You whimpered at his touch, your hips bucking up, pressing into his hand. He pushed his hand inside your shorts, his fingers finding her soaked panties, rubbing against your clit through the fabric. "So fucking wet. And you know what?" He rubbed faster, his thumb pressing against your clit. "I fucking love it." He released your wrists to grab your face, forcing you to look at him.

You let out a loud whimper at his sudden grip. His fingers continued their torturous rhythm, watching your expression carefully. "You're supposed to be terrified, remember?" He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Shouldn't you be trying to push me away instead of grinding against my fingers like a good little slut?”

You bit your lip, staring into his eyes, trying to prevent yourself from moaning out loud. His free hand gripped your hip tightly, pulling you flush against him, as he continued his movements. "You're a fucking liar." He growled, his fingers moving faster. "Admit it. You're not afraid of me. You're so fucking turned on.”

You let out a choked moan, grinding back onto his fingers. He grinned sadistically, his fingers finally moving your panties aside to slip inside you. "Mmm, look at that." He curled his fingers, hitting your g-spot perfectly.

You let out a loud gasp, your back arching. You could see stars at the back of your eyes, that's how good it felt. He thrust his fingers deeper, his thumb rubbing your clit in circles. "You're so fucking tight. And wet." He leaned down to bite your neck, hard, sucking a bruise on your skin. "I bet my dick would fit perfectly in this pretty little cunt.”

You clenched around his fingers at his words, the thought of it making you crave even more. His fingers continued their relentless pace, feeling you clench around him. "You haven't answered me." His voice was low and dangerous. "Is that silence because you're afraid? Or because the thought of me fucking you is making you even wetter?”

You gulped, choosing to stay silent. He nuzzled against your neck, his breath hot against your skin, as he spoke. "Let me make it easier for you. Answer this." He thrust his fingers deeper. "Am I scaring you? Or turning you on even more than before?”

You let out a moan at the feeling of his fingers hitting deeper. His fingers curled harder, hitting your g-spot perfectly. "Ah, fuck, that's it." He pulled his fingers out, using the wetness to rub against your clit before shoving them back inside. "You're turned on. Impossibly so.”

He pulled his fingers out again, this time using his thumb to rub your clit in tight circles. "You're so fucking turned on, you can't even answer properly." He pressed two fingers back inside you, curling them to hit her g-spot again.

You let out a loud moan. He chuckled darkly as he felt your moan vibrate through your body. "That's it, princess. Don't hold back." He pumped his fingers harder, the wet squelching noises filling the room. "Your pussy is practically begging to be fucked.”

He added a third finger, stretching your cunt further. "Fuck, look at her." He pulled his fingers out, rubbing your clit with all three before shoving them back inside. "Your cute little cunt is starving for my dick.”

Heeseung increased his pace, fucking you with his fingers mercilessly. "Come all over my fingers," He growled in her ear. "Show me how badly you want it." He bit down harder on your neck, hitting your g-spot perfectly as he curled his fingers.

You let out a loud mewl, your eyes rolling back into your head. You clenched around his fingers, the band in your stomach starting to coil impossibly tight. The squelching noises from where his fingers slid in and out of you at a fast pace, did absolutely nothing, but cause an embarrassed flush to creep all over your face and neck.

He pressed down on your clit with his thumb, rubbing on it sloppily. Your abundant slick helped him do just that, the pace of his fingers growing harsher, mirroring his buddying frustration. A low growl bubbled in his throat, as he forced his fingers to go in deeper, trying to practically force an orgasm out of you. Needless to say, he succeeded soon enough, your back arching with a loud cry, your pussy clamping down on his fingers, your release practically gushing around them.

“That's it…” He coaxed, his fingers still pumping in and out of you, drawing out your release. “Look so pretty like this, all pliant for me.”

Your head was empty, completely devoid of all thoughts, your legs shaking slightly from the overstimulation. He let out a snicker at your state, bringing his hand up, in front of his face. He locked eyes with you, spreading his fingers, letting you see the strings of arousal clinging to them.

Upon seeing your flushed face, a smirk creeped up on his. Maintaining eye contact with you, he leisurely started licking his fingers clean. He dragged his tongue from the bottom of his finger to the top, collecting your cum on it, his saliva replacing it on your fingers.

Your eyes fluttered slightly, mouth parting. Heeseung took that as his que to grab your jaw and hold it open — with the same hand that he had stuffed inside you just moments ago — pushing his thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue. Holding your mouth open, he gathered a wad of spit with his tongue, before leaning down and spitting right into your open mouth. He watched with hooded eyes, as your own rolled back into your head, his spit dripping down to the back of your throat.

You could feel a tingling in your pussy again, empty, aching to be stuffed. Maybe with something more than just his fingers. He noticed the slight change in your body language almost immediately, of course he did — but who was he to deny you, when you were being so good for him?

Heeseung gave you a stern look. “Behave. Be a good girl, and keep still for me, hm?”

You could only gulp in response, as he released your jaw. You watched, as he shook off the black coat — or costume, whatever it was supposed to be. You kept still, your wrists still above your head, your fists clenching tightly, mimicking your thighs. Your eyes raked over his bare torso, your gaze trailing down — eventually resting on his extremely obvious hard on in his boxers. A large patch was already forming on its front from his precum, his cock straining hard against the fabric, begging to be released.

He smirked at your gaze. Teasingly, he ran his palm over his bulge, feeling it twitch under his hand. “Like what you see baby?”

You gulped, your eyes snapping up to his own. Your breath sped slightly, wanting to do something risky. Your life was still very much in danger, but you were willing to take the risk for now.

You slowly sat up, your face now extremely close to his. He raised a brow, an unimpressed gleam in his eyes. Yet, there was a curiosity in them — wanting to know your next move.

Although your next move didn't really impress him. Quite the opposite.

You raised your hand, slowly inching it closer to his boner. His eyes narrowed at your audacity. In a flash, he reached to his side, and picked up the discarded knife, holding it to your throat. He glared down at you, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. “Lay. Back. Down. Unless you want me to slit your throat, cut the rest of your body up, and use your blood as lube to fuck your corpse?”

Your eyes widened at his words, your hand freezing mid air, before quickly falling back to your side. Upon receiving another pointed glare from him, you laid back down, mindful of the knife that was back in his hands. You wanted him — no, needed him to fuck you — you, not your future possibly no-longer-breathing corpse.

Upon ensuring that you weren't up to anymore tricks, he once again put the knife away — out of your reach, but not out of his. Heeseung shrugged off his boxers, his cock immediately slapping against his stomach. It left a trail of precum, which he gathered on his fingers, before wrapping that same hand around his dick. He started to slowly pump it, using his own precum to slick it up.

Noticing your almost pitifully needy expression, he let out an amused scoff, before holding out his hand under her mouth. “Spit.” He ordered in a gruff voice.

Your eyes widened slightly at his command, before you hesitantly obeyed. Gathering a wad of saliva in your mouth, you spit it into his hand, watching with hooded eyes, as he used it to jerk himself off faster.

Once he was done, he spread your thighs again, letting out a confused grunt at how much more force he needed to use as compared to last time. He glared up at you. “You and I both know you want this, princess. So stop trying to deny me what I hunted you for. Or else…”

You bit your lip to suppress a whimper. Were you sick for getting even wetter at his words? Definitely. Should you tell him to stop and possibly escape whatever he was going to do? Obviously. Will you do it? Absolutely not.

In fact, an absolutely brilliant idea struck your magnificent brain. You decided to not obey him. Him, the renowned serial killer, Ghostface. Were you basically signing your own death certificate? Well… no harm in finding out, right?

You tried to close your legs shut, something which immediately earned you a nasty glare from him. His jaw clenched tightly, as he forcefully shoved your legs apart again. His hand reached for the knife, your eyes widening at the sight. “Seems like someone hasn't learnt their lesson yet…”

You tried to beg him to not hurt you, but the words died in your throat when he pressed the knife to it. A creepy smile adorned his face, as he caressed your face in a gentle manner, a sharp contrast to the knife to your throat. “Let me spell it out for you–” Right as he said those words, he grabbed your wrists tightly, holding you under him firmly, the knife lifting from your throat. You got confused for a second, before a scream tore out of you.

He was carving something on your stomach.

He shallowly carved his initials onto your stomach, laughing as you screamed. “Squirming will only make it hurt more~” He almost sang, his tone causing you to sob.

He was finally done, watching the blood flow out of the wound, almost moaning at the sight. “Fuck baby, do you even realise how hot you look right now?”

You hated it, every single bit of it. You didn't want him to fuck you anymore, hell, you felt ashamed of yourself for ever wanting it. You felt disgusted beyond words by yourself, for having him carve his initials on your stomach to make you realise the kind of guy you were dealing with. He wasn't some hot fictional guy from the books you read, he was an actual serial killer — someone who could quite literally kill you as and when he pleased.

Heeseung seemed to sense your inner monologue. He snickered. “Suddenly regretting everything baby? That's cute… it's as if you believe you had a choice in this in the first place. Cute.”

You wanted to scream, cry, sob — all at the same time. How did you even manage to get yourself into this mess?

You didn't have much time to ponder, as he suddenly sliced his knife through your panties, finally ripping them off you. He shrugged off his own boxers, rubbing the tip of his cock along the arousal coating your puffy folds. A shiver ran down your spine, causing you to bite down on your lip. You hated it, you didn't want it — but your body couldn't deny how good it felt.

Heeseung wasn't any less affected than you. He let out a groan, his eyes shutting briefly. “See how good that feels baby? You think you don't want it, but your body says something different. See how your pussy keeps dripping all over my cock?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears welling up in them — tears from exactly what, you didn't know. Was it embarrassment? Pain? Pleasure? Neither did you know, nor were you keen on finding out.

With his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, he slowly pushed himself in, groaning from how easily he slid in, thanks to your slick. He let out a rough noise from the back of his throat. “Look at how your cunt is sucking me in like a slut. You sure you don't want this, baby?”

His knife had returned to your throat, his other hand gripping your hip. You could only bite your lip to muffle a whimper, your tears having broken free. He felt — good. You just wished this happened under different circumstances. When he wasn't cutting you up or threatening your life as Ghostface, maybe.

He bottomed out, burying himself to the hilt. He let out a groan, his eyes falling to your stomach. They widened, noticing something other than his initials he had just carved on it. There was a bulge on your stomach. “Holy shit…”

As if in a trance, he pressed down on it with his hand that wasn't holding the knife, watching as you involuntarily arched your back. He let out a laugh in disbelief. “Would you look at that? Had no idea you were this sexy, princess.”

He didn't wait to see your reaction, pulling out slowly, before slamming back inside. He watched your body jerk at the force, the bulge disappearing and reappearing. It was so, so hot.

He put the knife away, just out of reach of you. He gripped your hips with both hands, once again pulling almost completely out, watching as the bulge disappeared, before slamming back in, watching it reappear. He effectively tore a moan out of you this time, watching in amusement as you quickly slammed a hand onto your mouth, your eyes looking mortified. It was as if you were still trying to convince yourself that you didn't want this.

You were so cute. So. Fucking. Cute.

He pulled out again, pushing back in with much more force than before, setting a fast pace. He watched with a perverse amusement, as you let out a choked scream, flailing your arms above your head aimlessly, as if looking for something to grab on to. He fastened his pace, grunts leaving his throat with every thrust.

Your screaming was gradually turning into moans, the undeniable pleasure coursing through you making your head spin. It didn't help how the room was filled with wet slapping sounds from where the two of you kept connecting, the sting from the cut on your stomach barely there anymore. You felt hot, an insatiable thirst in your pussy, being quenched by his unforgiving pace.

His thrusts never once faltered, the bruising grip that he had on your hips was starting to hurt — just a bit. He let out a small groan, his eyes once again falling on your stomach, the bulge disappearing and reappearing in it at a comically fast pace. “Hah — look s’fucking cute like t-this — just lying there like a pliant little whore — taking my cock — fuck–”

He was cut off by your pussy clenching around him, his groan cutting through the constant wet slapping from where you both kept connecting. Encouraged by your reaction, he sped up, reaching an almost animalistic pace.

Your head was starting to go blank from his pace, the way he continued to pound into your sobbing cunt had you seeing stars. His name left your mouth in a breathy moan, causing his eyes to pop out, him almost spilling his load inside you right then and there.

Without stopping his unforgiving pace, he grabbed your jaw in one hand, his nails digging into your cheeks. “Say it again — c'mon baby, moan my name again — let me hear you, fuck–”

He was cut off by you whimpering, the unmistakable sound of his name leaving your mouth for the second time. With a growl, he gripped both of your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders. The new position allowed him to reach deeper, hitting your spot with every thrust. It had you seeing stars, uncontrollable moans and his name falling from your lips like a mantra.

He reached one of his hands down to rush harsh circles on your hardened bundle of nerves, trying to force an orgasm out of you. “C'mon baby, cum for me — squeeze my cock harder, fucking cum for me–”

The band in your stomach tightened to an impossible level, ready to snap. He pinched your clit, hard, continuing to rub dizzying circles around it. He delivered a harsh slap to it, causing you to finally topple over the edge.

Your ears were filled with a loud ringing noise, vision going white. You clenched around his length, gripping it in a vice like grip. Your cum flowed around his length, coating it completely. He groaned, as he kept pumping in and out of you, a white ring forming at the base of his cock. The sight had him pistoning out of you at a ridiculously fast pace, before burying himself to the hilt inside you. Warm, thick ropes of cum erupted from his tip, painting your insides white. He slowly grinded his hips, still inside you, ensuring that none of it fell out.

He stayed like that for a moment, before pulling out his softening length with a hiss. He fucked his cum back inside with his fingers, enjoying the way your body racked with shudders, little whines escaping you from the sensitivity.

He slowly sat up, admiring your spread out body. He brushed his hand through your hair, rubbing the sweat off your forehead. “You know,” He started, looking down at you with an unsettling smile. “I never fucked anyone I was going to kill before. Never felt attracted enough to them. But you–” He hesitated for a second, before speaking again. “I used to have a crush on you back in college. Remember when I bumped into you once? It was on purpose. I needed an excuse to talk to you. It really hurt me when I realised that you weren't interested in doing so, you know? You were the reason I never went out with anyone, either.”

You gulped, staring back at him. He had an unreadable expression on his face. “I started this — this killing streak, to get your attention. But then I started enjoying it too much — fantasizing what you would look like, all cut up and bleeding prettily for me, begging for me to let you live. It got me so fucking hard, you know? Jerked myself off to that thought so many nights. Until tonight — I knew I had to get you — kill you. Play with you a little first. Didn't think it would escalate to this though.”

He grinned, his eyes holding a kind of craziness that sent a chill down your spine. “Maybe I won't kill you…” He murmured, his hand caressing your cheek. “I’ll just… keep you. My pretty little toy, mine to use and play with, as and how I feel like. Isn't that right, princess?”

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