#where is the line between understanding someone and making excuses for them?

[dykethang]

experiencing the adult horrors of deeply understanding grey areas and it wasn't my fault but it wasn't entirely her fault either and i don't want to reconcile that at 1 am

[bueckersworld]

hey could you do a angst one shot of how paige and reader are kinda toxic but they always get into arguments but they had a particular one that causes them to break up maybe even if reader or paige cheats anyways then at the end they always go back to eachother no matter how toxic if is

ALWAYS COMING BACK

SYNOPSIS: you and paige have a toxic, all-consuming relationship that finally breaks after she cheats on you. despite the pain, she shows up at your door, angry and desperate, and the two of you crash back into each other like always. no matter how much it hurts, you both keep coming back

WARNING(S): smut - mdni, angst, strap referred to as paige’s dick, mentions of infidelity/cheating, toxicity, profanity.

WORD COUNT: 2.9k. info. masterlist. taglist.

────୨ৎ────

you and paige have always had this thing—this unspoken understanding that things between you are never easy, but they’re always fiery, always intense. you fight like hell one moment, and the next, you’re clinging to each other as if you can’t breathe without the other. it’s the kind of relationship where every argument feels like the last, but it’s never really over. not with paige. not with you.

but tonight, something shifts. tonight, everything cracks.

it started small, like it always does—just an offhand comment about something insignificant, something that usually wouldn’t matter. but with paige, everything becomes something. it always escalates, and you can’t ever just let things slide.

“you’re being ridiculous,” paige snaps, her eyes flashing with irritation. she stands in the middle of your living room, arms crossed defensively over her chest. “i can’t believe you’re making this into a big deal.”

you’ve heard those words a thousand times before, and they never lose their sting. she’s good at deflecting, good at making you feel like the crazy one, like you’re blowing things out of proportion. but you’re not. not this time.

“i’m not being ridiculous, paige. you fucking cheated on me!” the words come out sharper than you mean, but you’re done pretending it’s not the elephant in the room.

paige flinches, but only for a second. then, the walls go up. “i told you it was a mistake. i told you it didn’t mean anything.”

the words cut deeper than you expected. it’s the same line, the same excuse, the same empty apology. you want to scream, want to throw something, but you hold back, the anger bubbling under your skin.

“doesn’t mean anything?” you take a step toward her, your voice tight with rage. “how does that not mean anything? you kissed someone else. you slept with someone else.”

“it didn’t happen like that,” she argues, stepping back, her voice rising now. “it was a mistake, okay? i fucked up. but i’m trying to fix it, aren’t i?”

“fix it?” the irony hits you like a punch to the gut. “you don’t get to fix this. you don’t get to fuck up and then act like i’m the one being unreasonable.”

“i’m not saying that,” paige fires back, voice full of frustration. “you’re just—”

“i’m just what?” you snap, stepping into her space. “i’m just the one who got hurt, right? i’m the one who gets to be the bad guy. well, fuck that.”

paige’s face twists with annoyance, but this time, there’s something else in her eyes—something you recognize as guilt, fleeting as it is. it’s not enough to make you back down, but for a moment, you wonder if she’s actually feeling something real.

but the moment fades too quickly. the walls go back up.

“you always do this,” she mutters, voice low. “you always turn everything around on me. it’s exhausting, you know?”

your heart pounds in your chest, and the air between you two thickens with the weight of everything you haven’t said. everything that’s been building up for months. this isn’t just about the cheating. this isn’t just one argument. it’s the years of lies, of misunderstandings, of moments where neither of you ever really listened to the other.

“you’re right,” you say, the bitterness in your voice more cutting than you expect. “maybe i am exhausting. maybe that’s why i’m so fucking tired of this.”

paige glares at you for a moment, her jaw clenched, and then she says the words that shatter it all.

“i think we should break up,” she says flatly, like she’s not even phased by it. like it’s just another thing to get over with.

the words hang in the air, heavy and final. it feels like the earth has shifted beneath you, the ground cracking, splitting apart. you’re frozen, staring at her, not sure if you’re more angry or hurt. maybe both.

you can’t think straight. you want to scream, to beg her to take it back, to fix everything that’s falling apart. but instead, all you can do is nod, your chest tight with an emotion you can’t name.

“yeah,” you whisper, the words tasting like acid. “maybe that’s for the best.”

paige doesn’t hesitate. she turns her back on you, her footsteps heavy as she walks toward the door. it’s like she’s already done with it. done with you. it makes the ache in your chest grow.

you don’t watch her leave, though you hear the door slam behind her. you stand there for a long time, the silence so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts.

—

the days pass, and you try to move on. it’s not as easy as you thought it would be. paige is everywhere—on your phone, in your mind, in the places you used to go together. every moment feels heavy, and no matter how many times you tell yourself it’s over, it never really feels like it is. not with her.

you think you’re getting used to the emptiness when it happens. the doorbell rings, sharp and unexpected, and for a moment, you think you’re imagining things. but then you hear it again.

you get up slowly, your heart racing as you walk toward the door. and when you open it, you see her standing there. paige. her face flushed with anger, eyes wild with something you can’t quite read.

“paige—” you start, but before you can say another word, she’s already on you.

her hands grab your shoulders, pushing you back into the apartment, the door slamming shut behind her with a force that shakes the walls. she doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there, chest heaving, her breath coming in uneven bursts. it’s clear she’s fuming, but there’s something else in her eyes too—something desperate.

“i can’t fucking do this anymore,” she spits, the words almost a growl. “i fucked up, okay? i know i fucked up. but i’m not letting you go. i’m not letting this die.”

you open your mouth to argue, to say something—anything��but the words die in your throat as paige moves toward you, her hands crashing into your hair, pulling you to her. her lips come down on yours, rough and demanding, a kiss that feels like she’s trying to burn the memory of everything that happened into your skin.

it’s not gentle. it’s not kind. it’s raw. it’s the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, dizzy, like you’re both drowning in each other’s mistakes. her body presses against yours, forcing you back into the wall, and for a moment, you can’t think. you can’t feel anything except her.

when she pulls away, she’s staring at you, her chest still rising and falling with the force of her emotions. “i don’t care what you say,” she mutters, her voice hoarse. “i’m not fucking walking away from this.”

you pull her in again, crashing your lips to hers, your arms wrapping desperately around her neck like you’re scared she’ll vanish if you let go.

she groans into your mouth, gripping your thighs with ease as she lifts you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist. her body presses against yours like it’s the only place it belongs. she stumbles back, lips never leaving yours, navigating toward the bedroom like muscle memory. you kick the door shut behind you with your foot, giggling into the kiss.

paige smirks against your lips, her eyes shining with that dangerous glint, the one that always made you weak. she lowers you onto the bed gently but with purpose, her hands already sneaking under your shirt, warm palms exploring your skin like she’s relearning every inch of you.

she kisses down your neck, making you shiver.

“paige…” you whisper, barely audible.

her mouth curls into a smirk against your throat.

she glances up at you with that look, the one that turns your stomach to ash and desire. “bottom drawer?” she mumbles.

you blink, confused for a second.

“the strap, baby. that’s where it is, right?” she says, her voice low, teasing, as she leans over you, her arm brushing across your stomach as she reaches into the nightstand. her fingers wrap around the base like they belong there.

“take your shorts off for me,” she murmurs, sliding her sweatpants down and stepping out of them. she adjusts the harness with quick, practiced fingers, tightening it around her hips.

you swallow, your breath hitching as you push your shorts and underwear down, discarding them onto the floor next to hers.

she looks at you—spread out, chest rising fast, eyes wide with a mix of innocence and aching need.

“god, you’re so fucking pretty, baby,” she mutters, her gaze dragging over your bare skin like it’s art.

her hands slide up your thighs, warm and firm, settling between them. she groans when she feels how wet you are.

“you’re soaked,” she smirks. “knew you’d miss me.”

she rubs your clit slowly at first, watching the way your lips part with a soft sound of pleasure.

“think you can take it, or you need my fingers first?” she whispers, lowering herself to kiss your cheek, her voice gentler now.

“i can take it,” you breathe, nodding, your lashes fluttering.

“yeah?” she teases, positioning herself between your thighs. her hands hook under your legs, holding them up by the backs of your thighs as she slowly starts to push in. you both watch as the strap disappears inside of you.

you tense slightly, gasping at the stretch, and she gives you a second, leaning over to kiss your temple.

then she starts to move—slow at first, letting your body adjust, but it doesn’t take long before she’s picking up the rhythm. her grip on your thighs tightens, and you know she’s marking you up, but you don’t care.

“fuck, paige…” you moan, your hands clutching her shoulders for support, for grounding.

her pace deepens, becomes rougher, more desperate, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the room.

“feels good, huh?” she pants, eyes never leaving yours.

you nod quickly, a breathy moan slipping from your lips.

“missed this fuckin’ pussy,” she growls, slamming into you harder, her hand sneaking between your bodies again to rub fast, tight circles on your clit.

your back arches.

“fuck—paige!” you whimper, nails dragging across her back, leaving red trails in your wake.

she groans at the sting, spurred on.

“yeah, take it, baby,” she growls, pace unrelenting. “take that fuckin’ dick. you’ve been craving it, huh?”

you can’t even speak—only breathless whines, your body tightening.

“m’gonna come—” you gasp.

“do it. come for me. make a mess,” she murmurs against your ear, her lips brushing your jaw. “you’re mine, baby. say it.”

“m’yours, paige,” you cry out, voice breaking. “fuck—i’mm coming—”

your whole body tenses, your hands tangled in her hair as waves crash over you, shuddering beneath her. she watches your face the entire time, breathless, entranced.

“yeah…” she whispers, slowing her hips just enough. “that’s it. my fuckin’ girl.”

you collapse back onto the bed, legs still trembling as she finally pulls out and eases herself beside you. the room is thick with heat, with emotion, with everything left unsaid between you.

paige doesn’t say anything at first. she just wraps her arm around your waist, pulling you into her chest like nothing else in the world exists. her hand brushes sweat-slick strands of hair away from your face, her lips pressing to your forehead, then your cheek, then your shoulder.

“you okay?” she murmurs, softer than before. vulnerable.

you nod, snuggling into her warmth. your body still hums from her touch, but it’s the way she’s holding you now—like you’re something fragile and precious—that makes your eyes sting.

she reaches for the blanket at the foot of the bed and drapes it over both of you. her fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, grounding you again.

after a few minutes, she pulls away just far enough to grab a towel from the drawer, cleaning you up gently, like she’s apologizing without words. you stay still, heart thudding as she tucks the towel away, then climbs back into bed and holds you again.

you breathe her in—sweat, lavender detergent, something familiar and dangerous.

neither of you says what this means. neither of you talks about tomorrow. you just lie there, tangled in sheets and silence, her thumb brushing over your hip bone, your heartbeat slowly calming under the weight of her hand on your chest.

you’ll always come back to her.

and she’ll always come back to you.

no matter how toxic.

no matter how broken.

© bueckersworld

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold

[jupiterpilgrim]

Drown With Me

Pt.2: Interpolation

Ningning x Minji x Male Reader

word count: 7K

part 1 | part 3

A/n: Pt.2 and pt.3 were supposed to be a single chapter, but it was split in two because of the block limit.

I wish I could be everything you wanted.

—

Oh, here we are again. But this time we're going back in time. We journeyed into the past because some things must be witnessed. And I say 'witnessed,' not 'understood.' For understanding confines the subtleties of human connections to a singular perspective, and that restricts the strange language of the heart.

We're at a bar now, where a lot of stories start. This is one of those:

The lights are dim and amber, casting warm shadows over the polished countertops and the scratched wooden floor. It’s a quiet Tuesday night, a lull between the weekend rush and midweek regulars. You’ve been working here long enough to know the rhythm of it—the predictable ebb and flow of people looking for drinks to drown whatever piece of life was gnawing at them. But then, just as you’re stacking a row of freshly washed glasses, the door swings open, and in walks her again.

She hesitates in the doorway, framed by the cool, blue glow of the streetlights outside. The first thing that grabs you, as it did last night, are her eyes—huge, almond-shaped, and impossibly feline. The kind of eyes that make you forget what you were supposed to be doing. They dart nervously around the room before finally landing on you, and for a moment, she freezes.

“You again,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. You lean casually against the bar, arms crossed, trying not to seem too eager.

She’s wearing a cropped, black leather jacket that clings to her slender frame, sharp and a little out of place against the pale softness of her features. Beneath it, a white tank top hints at the curve of her collarbone and the toned lines of her stomach. Her high-waisted jeans, faded and torn at the knees, hug her slim legs like they were stitched onto her body. The scuffed Doc Martens on her feet somehow make her look even more striking—an accidental runway model lost in a world of beer stains and neon signs.

Her broad shoulders, almost too strong for her petite height, square up as if she's trying to summon some hidden reserve of confidence. But it’s her shyness, that hint of hesitation in every movement, that makes her feel like a puzzle you want to solve. She brushes a lock of jet-black hair behind her ear, her eyes darting away from yours as though the floor might swallow her whole if she stares for too long.

You tilt your head toward the bar, beckoning her closer. “Second night in a row, huh? You sure you’re not stalking me?”

Her lips part in a soft laugh, so quiet you almost miss it. “Hardly. My friend dragged me here yesterday. Tonight… I just needed some air.”

Her voice is as soft as her laugh, tinged with a slight huskiness that adds depth to her otherwise delicate demeanor. She approaches the bar slowly, her movements careful, like someone who’s always aware of the space she takes up.

“Well,” you say, pulling a coaster from under the counter and setting it down in front of her, “welcome back to the quietest bar in town. What can I get you?”

She perches on the stool, her knees pressed close together, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket. “Um…just a Coke, actually.”

“Coke?”

She nods, her eyes flicking up to meet yours, only to dart away again. “I don’t drink much.”

“Second night in a row at a bar and no drinks? You’re full of surprises.” You grab a glass and pour the soda, sliding it toward her. “Not that I’m complaining. Makes my job easier.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear again, a nervous habit, you realize, but it only adds to the quiet allure of her presence. “You work here often?”

“Most nights.” You lean against the bar again, giving her your best casual smile. “And you? What’s your excuse for gracing us with your presence twice in a row?”

“I’m…” She hesitates, then shrugs. “I guess I just liked the vibe. It’s not like other places.”

“It’s not like most places because most places actually get customers,” you joke, gesturing to the mostly empty room. “But hey, if the vibe brought you back, I’m not going to argue.”

She smiles, faint but genuine. “It’s nice. Quiet. Less… intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” You raise an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

She fidgets with the straw in her glass, swirling the Coke absently. “Bars aren’t really my thing. Too loud, too crowded. I usually avoid them.” She glances up at you, almost shyly. “This one feels… different.”

You don’t miss the slight blush that creeps up her neck as she speaks, and something about it tugs at you. “Different’s good,” you say softly. “I like different.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The faint hum of the jukebox in the corner fills the silence, playing some slow, melancholic track that perfectly matches the mood. You watch as she takes a small sip of her drink, her lashes casting long shadows over her cheeks.

“So,” you finally ask, breaking the quiet, “what’s your name? Or should I just keep calling you ‘Coke Girl’?”

Her lips twitch into a smile again, a little more confident this time. “Ning Yìzhuo. And you?”

“Coke Boy,” you deadpan, earning a small laugh from her. “Kidding. It’s—”

The door swings open again, cutting you off as a group of rowdy patrons stumbles in, disrupting the peaceful bubble you’d been sharing. Ningning’s shoulders tense immediately, her fingers tightening around her glass. You can tell she’s debating whether to stay or bolt.

You lean closer, your voice low. “Don’t worry. They’re harmless. Plus, I’ve got your back.”

She looks at you, her eyes searching your face for something—reassurance, maybe. And whatever she finds there seems to calm her, if only a little. She nods, taking another sip of her Coke.

You don’t know why, but you can already tell she’s going to stay with you longer than just tonight. Something about her feels significant, like a spark of lightning caught in a jar. Quiet, shy, and utterly captivating.

—

The weeks bleed into one another, and before you know it, Ning is a fixture at the bar. Not officially, of course. She doesn’t work here, doesn’t drink much, and always leaves by midnight like Cinderella with a self-imposed curfew. But she’s here. Three nights a week, like clockwork, perching on her usual stool and ordering her usual Coke, sometimes daring to live dangerously with a Sprite.

At first, you thought she came because it was quiet, because she needed a place to escape whatever stresses her life held. But it’s become increasingly clear that the bar’s charm isn’t the only thing pulling her back. It’s you. And you’re not mad about it.

Tonight, she’s dressed like she always is—effortlessly cool in her slightly oversized sweater, rolled-up jeans, and her beat-up Doc Martens. Her leather jacket is slung over the back of the stool, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like ink. She’s got her sketchbook with her tonight, the same one she’s been carrying for weeks. You’ve seen glimpses of the drawings—sketches of people, abstract swirls, the occasional cat—but she guards it like it contains state secrets, never letting you get a proper look.

“What are you working on this time?” you ask, leaning on the counter with the practiced nonchalance of a bartender-slash-business-student who definitely isn’t secretly invested in whatever she’s drawing.

She glances up from her page, cat-like eyes sparkling under the warm glow of the bar’s lights. “Nothing special. Just doodling.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you point out, reaching for a clean glass to wipe down. “And then you showed me that sketch of that old guy in the corner, and it looked like something out of a museum. You can admit it, Ning—you’re talented.”

She ducks her head, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “It’s not that good.”

“Sure,” you deadpan, “and I’m not the best bartender in this city.”

She laughs—a soft, melodic sound that you’ve started to look forward to more than you’d like to admit. “You’re not even the best bartender in this bar.”

You feign offense, clutching your chest. “Ouch. And here I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” she says, smiling up at you. “Which is why I’m honest with you.”

“Brutally honest,” you correct, smirking. “Fine. Tell me this: do all fine arts students have this much sass, or are you just special?”

“Special,” she says, sticking her tongue out. “And for the record, it’s not fine arts. It’s animation and visual effects. Totally different.”

You nod sagely, as if you know the first thing about animation or visual effects. “Ah, of course. Animation. You’re going to make the next Toy Story, right?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. “Something like that. What about you, Mr. Future CEO? Made any spreadsheets cry lately?”

“Every day,” you reply solemnly. “It’s part of the curriculum in business administration. They don’t let you graduate until you’ve traumatized at least three Excel files.”

Her laugh comes easily, her shoulders relaxing as she sips her Coke. She looks comfortable here now, like this place—and you—have become a safe haven for her.

It’s nice.

She’s nice.

“You know,” you say, setting the glass down and leaning closer, “when you first started coming here, I thought you were just using the bar as a library with worse lighting.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now I think you’re here because you can’t resist my charm.”

She snorts into her drink, nearly choking. “Your charm? Please.”

“Hey, admit it. I make this place bearable for you.”

She tilts her head, pretending to consider. “You do make pretty good jokes.”

“High praise from the queen of sarcasm.”

Her smile softens slightly, the teasing edge in her voice fading. “I just like talking to you. You make things… lighter. Easier to deal with.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s rare for her to let her guard down like this, and you feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to keep it safe, to make sure she never regrets being vulnerable.

“Well,” you say, keeping your tone light, “as long as you keep coming back, I’ll keep telling terrible jokes. Deal?”

“Deal,” she says, holding out her hand like you’re signing a legally binding contract.

You shake her hand, her skin warm and soft against yours. There’s a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—where the noise of the bar fades away, and it’s just the two of you. Friends. Companions in this odd little corner of the world.

“By the way,” you add, breaking the moment, “if you ever need a businessperson in one of your animations, I know a guy.”

“Let me guess,” she says, smirking. “He’s incredibly charming and makes terrible jokes?”

“Exactly.”

She laughs again, and for the rest of the night, the bar feels a little brighter.

—

Ning sits cross-legged on her bed, a pencil tucked behind her ear and her sketchbook balanced on her knees. The room is bathed in soft, golden light from the desk lamp Minji insisted on buying, claiming it was better for productivity. Across the room, Minji herself sits at her desk, perfectly upright, fingers flying across the keyboard of her sleek laptop. She looks like a Vogue spread come to life, even in her oversized knit sweater and black leggings, her shiny, straight hair falling effortlessly over her shoulder.

Minji’s skin practically glows, the kind of flawless complexion that makes you wonder if she’s secretly Photoshopped in real life. Her glasses—a stylish, rectangular pair with gold rims—rest perfectly on the bridge of her pointy nose, framing dark, intelligent eyes that seem to miss nothing. Her lips, soft and plump, are painted a subtle pink, just enough to look effortlessly put together. She’s everything Ning isn’t: confident, composed, intimidatingly perfect.

Ning chews on her pencil, staring at her friend’s back. “Hey, Minji?”

“Hm?” Minji doesn’t look up from her screen. She’s probably working on some group project for her international business course. Even in her downtime, Minji is an efficiency machine.

“How do you, like…” Ning hesitates, fiddling with the corner of her sketchbook. “How do you get guys to notice you?”

That gets Minji’s attention. She swivels her chair around, fixing Ning with a look that’s equal parts amused and curious. “What kind of question is that?”

“You know what I mean,” Ning mumbles, heat rising to her cheeks. “You always have a line of guys chasing after you. It’s like… you just exist, and they’re obsessed with you.”

Minji raises an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “It’s not like I’m trying to get their attention.”

“That’s exactly my point!” Ning groans, flopping backward onto her bed. “You don’t even try, and they’re all over you. Meanwhile, I could walk into a room naked, and no one would notice.”

“First of all, don’t do that,” Minji says dryly, folding her arms. “Second, you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not,” Ning mutters, staring at the ceiling. “You’re like this goddess of elegance or whatever, and I’m just… me. How do you make people like you?”

Minji sighs, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose in that annoyingly perfect way she does. “It’s not about making people like you, Ning. You just have to be yourself.”

Ning sits up, frowning. “That’s so easy for you to say. You’re perfect. People like you without you even trying.”

“I’m not perfect,” Minji says, though the way she says it makes it clear she knows she’s pretty close.

Ning snorts. “Please. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re the only person I know who actually looks good in those glasses. And don’t get me started on your ‘I just woke up like this’ hair.”

Minji chuckles softly, a sound that somehow feels condescending and comforting at the same time. “Okay, fine. Maybe I have some good qualities. But seriously, Ning, if you want people to notice you, just… put yourself out there.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not shy,” Ning mutters, pulling her knees to her chest.

Minji leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Shy people are fine, but if you never let anyone see who you really are, how are they supposed to notice you?”

“What if who I really am is… shy?” Ning asks, her voice small.

“Then be the best version of shy,” Minji says simply. “Confidence doesn’t mean being loud or outgoing. It just means being comfortable with who you are. People are drawn to that.”

Ning stares at her, skeptical. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Minji admits, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “But if you don’t at least try, nothing’s going to change. And trust me, you don’t need to change who you are. You just need to stop hiding it.”

Ning chews on her lip, mulling that over. Minji makes it sound logical, like a formula to be solved. But Ning isn’t sure she can simply flip a switch and become “the best version” of herself.

“And if it doesn’t work?” she asks.

Minji shrugs, her lips curling into a faint smile. “Then it’s their loss.”

Ning laughs despite herself, the tension in her chest loosening just a bit. “You’re annoyingly good at this, you know that?”

Minji smirks, turning back to her laptop. “I know. Now stop overthinking and start being fabulous. You’ve got this, Ning.”

Ning watches her friend for a moment longer, a mixture of admiration and frustration swirling in her chest. If Minji says she can do it, maybe she can. But it still feels like an impossible climb.

“Hey, Minji?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Minji doesn’t turn around, but her voice is warm. “Anytime.”

—

The door to the bar swings open, and in walks Ning with a determined look in her cat-like eyes. She’s wearing a fitted white crop top that shows just a hint of her toned stomach, a plaid mini skirt, and her signature scuffed Doc Martens. Her hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, and there’s a hint of pink gloss on her lips. Tonight, she’s decided, is the night.

No more shy, stammering Ning. Tonight, she’s confident, bold, maybe even flirty. She’s spent the past three days psyching herself up for this moment, replaying Minji’s advice in her head like a mantra. Put yourself out there. Be the best version of yourself. You’ve got this.

The bar is warm and dimly lit as always, the low hum of conversation filling the air. She spots you cleaning a table, laughing at something one of the regulars said, your easy charm on full display. You see Ning and wave to her with a smile. Her heart skips a beat, but she steels herself. You’ve got this, she repeats silently, striding toward the bar.

Or at least, she tries to.

What she doesn’t see, in her single-minded determination, is the bright yellow Wet Floor sign in the middle of the room. Her Doc Martens hit the slick patch of tiles, and suddenly, her confident stride turns into a cartoonish flail.

“Shit—!”

She feels herself going down, her arms pinwheeling as gravity takes over. But just before she hits the ground, a pair of strong hands catch her, one gripping her waist and the other cradling her back.

“You okay?” Your voice is close—too close—and when she blinks up at you, she realizes her face is just inches from yours.

Her heart is pounding, and not just from the near-death experience. Your eyes, warm and concerned, lock onto hers, and she can feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “I—yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” Her voice comes out quieter than she’d like, all the confidence she’d mustered evaporating on the spot.

You grin, helping her stand upright but keeping a hand on her arm to steady her. “That was a close one. You almost went full slapstick there.”

“Yeah, well, I like to keep things entertaining,” she mumbles, avoiding your gaze. Her ankle twinges as she shifts her weight, and she winces.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask, noticing the way she’s favoring one foot.

“It’s just my ankle,” she admits. “I think I twisted it a little.”

“Let’s get you off your feet,” you say, guiding her to a booth in the corner. “Come on, sit down.”

“I’m fine, really,” she protests, but you’re already pulling out a chair for her.

Once she’s seated, you crouch down in front of her, gently taking her foot in your hands. “Let me check it out. I can’t have my best customer suing the bar.”

She snorts softly, despite herself. “It’s my fault for not seeing the sign.”

“Well, next time, try looking where you’re going,” you tease, flashing her a grin that makes her heart skip again.

You slide off her boot carefully, your fingers brushing against her ankle. She tries not to shiver at the touch, but it’s impossible. Your hands are warm and firm, and when you start to massage the sore spot, she has to bite her lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

“You’re really good at this,” she says, her voice coming out a little breathier than she intended.

“Comes with practice,” you reply, focused on her foot. “My ex used to come home from work with sore feet all the time, so I’d give her massages. Got pretty good at it after a while.”

Ning’s ears perk up at the mention of your ex. “Oh?” she says, trying to sound casual. “What happened there?”

“She was… complicated,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “Kind of jealous. Possessive. A little manic, honestly.” You pause, then chuckle, shaking your head. “I guess I have a type. Crazy girls seem to find me.”

She swallows hard, caught off guard. “Is that why you’re single now?”

“Pretty much,” you admit, still massaging her ankle. “Taking a break from relationships for a while. Thought I’d give myself some peace and quiet, you know?”

Ning’s heart sinks, though she forces a smile. “Makes sense. Less drama.”

“Exactly,” you say, glancing up at her with a grin. “And besides, who needs a girlfriend when I’ve got customers like you to keep me company?”

She laughs softly, but it feels hollow in her chest. She watches as you go back to massaging her foot, completely unaware of the tiny heartbreak you’ve just caused. But she doesn’t say anything.

Because Minji’s words echo in her head: Be the best version of yourself. And tonight, the best version of herself is just a good friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

—

The dorm bathroom is small, humid, and filled with the faint scent of citrus-scented body wash. The door is open, so the fragrance invades the whole bedroom. The overhead light flickers faintly, casting a soft glow over the scene. Minji stands by the sink in nothing but a pale lavender bra and matching underwear, her skin luminous under the harsh fluorescent light. She’s methodically applying lotion to her arms, her long, straight hair pushed over one shoulder to avoid smearing it. Every movement she makes is precise, deliberate, like everything else about her.

Ning is by the closet, half-dressed, rifling through her limited wardrobe with a furrowed brow. She’s wearing an oversized graphic tee that hangs off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her collarbone and the straps of her bralette. Her plaid pajama shorts are crumpled, a stark contrast to Minji’s immaculate appearance.

“Can I ask you something?” Minji’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the room, soft but with that unmistakable edge of curiosity.

Ning freezes, her fingers lingering on the hem of a black skirt she’s debating on. “Uh, sure. What’s up?”

Minji finishes with her arms and moves on to her legs, bending one knee and propping her foot up on the closed toilet lid. Her movements are unhurried, as if the question isn’t a big deal. “Where do you go every week? At night, I mean.”

She glances over her shoulder, her face warming under Minji’s unreadable gaze. “Nowhere. Just… out.”

“Nowhere?” Minji’s lips curve in a faint smile as she straightens up, tilting her head slightly. Her sharp, dark eyes scan Ning, taking in the flush on her cheeks, the way her fingers fidget with the fabric of her skirt. “That doesn’t sound like nowhere.”

“I mean it’s not anywhere in particular,” Ning mumbles, turning back to the closet. She grabs a random top to busy her hands, hoping Minji will let it go.

But Minji doesn’t let things go. “Ning,” she says, her voice calm but insistent. “You’ve been going out at least twice a week for the past month. You get dressed up, come back late, and you never say where you’ve been. It’s weird, because it's not something you used to do.”

Ning turns around, clutching the top against her chest like a shield. “It’s not weird.”

Minji quirks an eyebrow, her lips twitching as if she’s holding back a laugh. “You don’t think so? Because to me, it looks like you’re sneaking off to see someone.”

“I’m not!” Ning’s voice rises slightly in protest, her face turning a deeper shade of pink. She tosses the top onto the bed and grabs her sketchbook from the desk. “Look, I take this with me, okay? How could I be seeing a boy if I’m bringing this?”

Minji’s eyes drop to the sketchbook, then lift back to Ning’s face, skeptical but intrigued. “I don’t know. Art students have strange habits. Maybe you’re sketching him while you’re there.”

Ning groans, plopping onto the bed and flipping the sketchbook open to a random page. “It’s not like that. There’s a bar I go to. It’s… quiet, and it helps with creativity.”

“Creativity,” Minji repeats, crossing her arms as she leans against the sink. Her hair falls perfectly over one shoulder, her glasses catching the light just enough to make her look like a chic librarian. “That’s your story?”

“Yes!” Ning huffs, holding up the sketchbook like it’s evidence in a trial. “See? Just sketches. No boys, no dates, nothing like that.”

Minji steps closer, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies Ning’s face. “So you’re telling me you sit at a bar all night, alone, with your sketchbook? That’s it?”

“Well…” Ning hesitates, her fingers gripping the edges of the book. “There’s this bartender I talk to sometimes. But he’s just a friend.”

“A friend.” Minji’s voice is flat, but there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes. “What’s his name?”

“Does it matter?” Ning mutters, ducking her head.

“Probably not,” Minji replies, her tone maddeningly casual. “But now everything is even more suspicious.”

Ning sighs, flipping the sketchbook closed. “Oh, whatever! He’s the bartender. We talk. That’s it.”

“And you’re just friends?”

“Yes.” Ning’s voice is firm, but her cheeks betray her with their telltale blush.

Minji watches her for a moment longer, then does something that catches Ning completely off guard. She smiles. Not her usual poised, mysterious smile, but something softer.

“Can I go too?”

Ning blinks, sure she’s misheard. “What?”

“To the bar,” Minji says, stepping closer until she’s standing right in front of Ning. “If it’s so great for creativity, I want to see it.”

“You want to go to the bar?” Ning asks, her voice incredulous. “The one I go to?”

“Why not?” Minji shrugs, grabbing her towel and tossing it into the laundry basket. “It’s not a date, right? If you’re just hanging out with a friend, I don’t see why I can’t come along.”

Ning stares at her, unsure whether to laugh or panic. “Are you serious?”

Minji leans down slightly, her glasses sliding down her nose as she meets Ning’s wide-eyed gaze. “Dead serious.”

“But…” Ning struggles to find a reason, any reason, why this is a terrible idea. “What about your coursework? You’re always busy.”

Minji straightens up, brushing her hair over her shoulder with practiced ease. “I can spare a night. Besides,” she adds, smirking, “I want to meet this ‘just a friend’ of yours.”

Minji’s calm confidence is both reassuring and terrifying. She knows Minji means well, but she also knows her friend. Minji doesn’t just show up. She observes.

Still, it’s hard to say no when Minji looks at her like that, her dark eyes steady and full of quiet determination.

“Okay,” Ning says finally. “You can come.”

Minji smiles, a triumphant glint in her eye. “Great. I’ll get ready.”

As Minji walks away, Ning flops back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. This was supposed to be simple. Just her, the bar, and a chance to take things slow with you.

Now?

She has no idea what’s about to happen.

—

The bar’s hum is steady but quiet tonight, soft music playing from the jukebox, mingling with the low murmur of scattered conversations. You’re behind the counter, wiping down glasses and vaguely thinking about the economics lecture you skipped today when the door swings open.

You look up instinctively, and there she is—Ning. Except she’s not alone.

Ning walks in first, a bundle of energy in her casual but cool outfit: a cropped black sweater that shows just a hint of her toned stomach, paired with loose cargo pants that sit snug on her hips, and her ever-present Doc Martens. She looks great—like she always does—but it’s the girl walking in behind her that makes your breath catch.

Minji.

She’s dressed simply—an elegant cream blouse tucked into high-waisted, dark-wash jeans that make her legs look impossibly long. Her black hair falls in a sleek curtain down her back, and she’s wearing the kind of gold-rimmed glasses that make other people look like try-hards but somehow make her look even more stunning. There’s something about her presence—poised but approachable, with a quiet confidence that fills the room—that makes it hard to look away.

“Hey!” Ning’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts as she practically bounces over to the counter. She gestures enthusiastically toward her companion. “This is my best friend, Minji. You’ll love her.”

You recover quickly, setting the glass down and offering a smile. “Hey, Minji. Nice to meet you.”

Minji steps forward, her smile polite but warm. “Nice to meet you too. Ning comes here every week, I got curious and realized I needed to see it myself.”

You nod, trying not to seem too obvious as you take her in. “Well, welcome. Hope it lives up to the hype.”

Ning slides onto her usual stool, pulling out her sketchbook like it’s just another normal night. “He’s being modest. It’s the coolest place ever. And the bartender’s alright, I guess.”

You smirk at her teasing but find yourself glancing back at Minji. “What can I get you two?”

“The usual for me,” Ning says, flipping through the pages of her sketchbook.

“And for you?” you ask Minji.

She tilts her head slightly, considering. “Something light. I don’t drink much—health reasons.”

“Got it.” You start preparing the drinks, glancing at her again. “If you don’t mind me asking, health reasons?”

Ning's Coke is ready in moments, she takes a sip absentmindedly as she looks at her sketchbook.

“I have a heart condition,” she says casually, like she’s used to explaining it. “Nothing too serious, but I can’t really handle strong drinks.”

“Fair enough,” you say, sliding the glass across the counter toward her. “This should be light enough.”

She takes a sip, her lips curving into a small smile. “Perfect. Thanks.”

Ning, who’s been scribbling something in her sketchbook, looks up suddenly. “Minji has been really nosy lately, she wouldn't leave me alone until I brought her here, she's never done this before.”

“Oh yeah?” you say, raising an eyebrow at Minji. “Was she really that mysterious about it?”

Minji laughs softly, setting her drink down. “You have no idea. She’d leave without saying much, come back late, and when I’d ask where she was, she’d just shrug and say ‘out.’” She glances at Ning, her tone amused. “It was suspicious.”

Ning groans dramatically. “It wasn’t suspicious! I just didn’t feel like explaining.”

“Well, I’m glad you brought her along tonight,” you say, smiling at Minji. “It’s nice to meet one of Ning’s friends.”

“Best friend,” Ning corrects, nudging Minji with her elbow. “We’ve known each other forever.”

Minji chuckles. “She’s exaggerating. It’s only been a few years. But yeah, we’ve been through a lot together.”

You lean against the counter, genuinely curious. “How’d you two meet?”

“Orientation,” Minji says, glancing at Ning.

“At first I thought she was snobbish for being so serious."

“And I thought you looked like a troublemaker,” Minji counters, her eyes sparkling with humor.

You can’t help but laugh at their banter. “So, Minji, what are you studying?”

“International business,” she says, adjusting her glasses slightly. “What about you?”

“Business administration,” you reply, and her face lights up with interest.

“Oh, really? That’s great. What year are you in?”

“Third,” you say. “It’s not as glamorous as international business, but it keeps me busy.”

“It’s not glamorous,” Minji says with a small smile. “But it’s practical. And honestly, that’s more important.”

You nod, impressed by her straightforwardness. “So what made you choose international business?”

She takes another sip of her drink, her expression thoughtful. “I guess I like the idea of understanding how things work on a global scale. It’s a challenge, but I enjoy it.”

Ning, who’s been quiet for a moment, suddenly speaks up. “She’s being humble. She’s the smartest person I know. She even helps me figure out my art projects sometimes.”

Minji shrugs, clearly a little embarrassed. “I just give her feedback. She’s the real talent.”

You glance at Ning, your curiosity piqued. “What kind of feedback?”

“She helps me refine ideas,” Ning says, twirling her pencil. “Like, if I’m stuck on a concept, she’ll point out things I didn’t think of. It’s annoying how good she is at it.”

Minji rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of affection in her expression. “It’s not that hard. I just have an outside perspective.”

“Well, it sounds like you two make a good team,” you say, genuinely impressed by their dynamic.

Minji smiles, her gaze lingering on you for a second longer than you expect. “We do. But I think I understand why Ning likes coming here now. It’s… nice.”

“Yeah,” Ning chimes in, her voice a little softer. “It is.”

The three of you fall into an easy rhythm after that, talking and laughing like old friends. But every now and then, you catch yourself glancing at Minji, wondering what it is about her that feels so… magnetic.

—

The bar has never been livelier for you, not because of an influx of customers but because Ning and Minji have made it their unofficial hangout spot. At first, it was a bit surreal—Ning showing up with her best friend in tow, bright-eyed and eager to introduce her to her favorite bartender. But over the next few weeks, it becomes routine.

Monday Night

Ning and Minji arrive together, as they always do. Ning’s dressed in her usual casual style—cropped sweatshirt, ripped jeans, and her trusty Doc Martens—while Minji looks effortlessly polished in a tailored blazer over a white camisole and straight-leg pants.

“Usual?” you ask Ning, already reaching for the soda gun.

“Of course,” she says, hopping onto her usual stool.

“And for you?” you ask Minji.

“I’ll take the same thing as last time,” she says, her smile easy. “That drink was great.”

You get to work, sliding the Coke over to Ning and preparing Minji’s light cocktail. “So, how’s the week been treating you two?”

“Terrible,” Ning groans dramatically, opening her sketchbook. “I’m behind on like, three projects.”

Minji snorts, glancing at Ning over the rim of her glass. “That’s because you spent the entire weekend rewatching Spirited Away instead of working.”

“It was research!” Ning protests, flipping through her sketches. “It’s a masterpiece!”

You chuckle, leaning on the bar. “She’s got a point. Spirited Away is definitely worth rewatching.”

Minji raises an eyebrow. “I don’t disagree. But maybe she could balance her research with her deadlines.”

The two of you share a laugh, and Ning pouts.

“You’re both nerds,” she mutters, earning a grin from you.

“Guilty as charged,” you say, raising a random glass in a mock toast.

Wednesday Night

Tonight, Minji’s in a soft blue sweater that matches her dark-rimmed glasses, her hair swept back in a loose braid. Ning looks a little tired, probably from pulling an all-nighter.

“You look like death,” Minji observes bluntly as they sit down.

“Gee, thanks,” Ning says, dropping onto the stool and slumping over the counter.

“You okay?” you ask, sliding her a Coke without waiting for her order.

“Just tired,” Ning mumbles, sipping her drink.

Minji tilts her head at you. “So, did you finish that econ paper you mentioned last time?”

You perk up, surprised she remembered. “Yeah, just barely. Turns out writing about financial markets at two in the morning isn’t fun.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Minji says, her lips curving into a small smile. “But I bet you still nailed it.”

Ning watches the exchange, feeling a pang of something she can’t quite name. She clears her throat. “Hey, can we talk about something not boring?”

“Sure,” you say, turning to her. “What’s on your mind?”

“Aliens,” Ning declares, grinning. “Do you think they exist?”

Minji sighs. “Oh god, not this again.”

You laugh, genuinely amused. “Honestly? I hope so. Would make the universe a lot more interesting.”

Ning beams, satisfied, while Minji shakes her head. “This is why she likes coming here,” Minji says dryly. “You encourage her nonsense.”

“Hey,” you protest, “it’s not nonsense. It’s curiosity.”

Minji chuckles, and Ning feels a little less out of place.

Friday Night

The bar is slightly busier, but the two of them still manage to snag their usual seats. Minji looks radiant in a sleek black blouse and gold hoop earrings, her makeup subtle but flawless. Ning, in her oversized hoodie and her Doc Martens looks comfortable but feels distinctly underdressed next to her friend.

“You look nice tonight,” you say to Minji as you hand her drink over.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice calm and self-assured. “Ning practically dragged me out of the dorm, so I figured I’d make an effort.”

“You’re welcome,” Ning says with mock pride.

“So,” Minji says, turning to you, “tell me more about your business classes. Do you focus on entrepreneurship or management?”

“A little of both,” you reply, leaning on the counter. “Right now, we’re working on case studies about startups.”

“Oh, I love those,” Minji says, her eyes lighting up. “Which case studies are you doing?”

As you dive into the topic, Ning finds herself zoning out. The conversation is engaging—Minji is clearly knowledgeable, and you seem genuinely interested in what she has to say—but it’s not her world. She fiddles with her straw, feeling invisible as the two of you talk animatedly about market trends and business strategies.

Eventually, she clears her throat. “Hey, do you think they’d let me draw on the walls here?”

Both of you turn to her, surprised.

“I mean, this place could use some art,” she says, grinning.

“Go for it,” you say, laughing. “Just don’t tell my boss I approved it.”

Minji chuckles softly, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly creative,” Ning corrects, feeling a little more grounded again.

Sunday Night

The bar is nearly empty, the quiet hum of the jukebox filling the space. Ning is doodling absently in her sketchbook, while Minji sips her drink and chats with you.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Minji asks, her tone light but genuinely curious.

“Work, mostly,” you admit. “But when I have time, I like hiking. Clears my head.”

“I didn’t peg you as the outdoorsy type,” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice.

You shrug. “Gotta balance all the business talk with something peaceful.”

Ning glances up from her sketchbook, watching the two of you. There’s something about the way Minji leans slightly forward when she talks to you, the way her smile lingers a little longer.

“Do you hike?” you ask Minji.

“Sometimes,” she says. “But only when Ning drags me along.”

“Hey, I make hiking fun,” Ning protests, jumping back into the conversation.

“You complain the whole time,” Minji points out, smirking.

“Because you always pick the hardest trails!”

You laugh, the sound warm and genuine. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Next time, you’re coming with us,” Minji says.

Ning blinks, caught off guard by the suggestion. She glances between you and Minji, unsure how to feel about the way this strange triangle is starting to form.

As the night winds down, the three of you settle into a comfortable rhythm, but Ning can’t shake the feeling that something is shifting—slowly, subtly, but undeniably.

—

The three of you have fallen into a strange, unspoken routine—meeting up not just at the bar but beyond it, like some evolving trio of mismatched energy. It feels natural, at least on the surface, even if Ning occasionally finds herself analyzing every interaction, dissecting every glance and laugh.

Tonight, you’re at the movies, sitting in a darkened theater. Ning insisted on watching the latest animated film, claiming it was "research" for her art, though the truth is she just really loves animated movies. You and Minji went along with it, no complaints. Ning sits between you and Minji, a giant bucket of popcorn balanced precariously on her lap.

Halfway through the movie, she notices how Minji leans slightly toward you, sharing whispered comments about the plot. Ning can’t quite hear what you’re saying, but the low rumble of your laugh makes her feel strangely uncomfortable.

“Pass the popcorn,” you murmur, your hand brushing Ning’s as you reach for the bucket.

She stiffens slightly, then relaxes. “Here. Don’t eat all the good pieces.”

“You’re weirdly protective of popcorn,” you tease, taking a handful.

“Popcorn hierarchy is a real thing,” she replies, smirking. But her voice sounds hollow to her own ears.

Minji chuckles, leaning closer. “She’s serious about it. She once bit my hand when I took the last caramel piece.”

“I did not bite you!” Ning protests, her cheeks flushing.

Minji glances at you, her smile lingering. “She absolutely did.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I believe it.”

The sound of your laugh sends a pang through Ning’s chest. She knows it’s stupid, knows she’s overthinking. But the way you and Minji interact—effortless, like equals—feels different.

Later That Week

The three of you are at a college basketball game, seated in the bleachers. It was your idea this time, a way to do something “normal and fun” after a week of classes. Ning, determined to feel confident, showed up in a cropped tank top and tight jeans, her makeup more pronounced than usual.

But as the game goes on, she notices the subtle ways you treat her. When she trips on the bleachers, you catch her arm, laughing softly. “Careful, kid. Don’t want you breaking something.”

“Kid?” she echoes, raising an eyebrow. “I’m literally an adult.”

“Barely,” you tease, ruffling her hair in a way that makes her want to scream.

Meanwhile, when Minji leans over to ask you something, your tone shifts. It’s subtle, but Ning catches it. You’re attentive, leaning slightly closer, your voice quieter. When Minji laughs at something you say, it’s like the whole world fades out for a second, leaving just the two of you.

Ning fiddles with her phone, pretending not to notice.

At one point, Minji turns to her. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been really quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Ning says quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… not a huge basketball fan.”

Minji studies her for a moment but doesn’t press. She turns back to you, asking something about the game. Ning doesn’t bother listening.

The Bar, One Week Later

It’s a typical slow night, the kind you’ve come to expect when it’s not the weekend. You’re behind the counter, wiping down glasses and occasionally glancing at the door out of habit. When it swings open, you look up, expecting to see Ning and Minji together as usual.

But it’s just Minji.

She steps inside, her presence as poised as ever. She’s wearing a fitted black turtleneck and a sleek gray coat, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears. There’s a calm confidence in the way she walks, like she owns the space without even trying.

“Hey,” you say, smiling as she approaches the bar. “Where’s Ning?”

“She’s sick,” Minji replies, sliding onto one of the stools. “It’s just me tonight.”

There's a hint of excitement in her voice, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. The absence of Ning—her usual energy, her playful remarks—feels strange. But Minji’s presence is undeniable, grounding.

“Just you,” you repeat, setting a glass on the counter. “Alright. What can I get you?”

Minji smiles, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “Surprise me.”

part 3

[joeldarling]

The View Between Villages (Part I) - Oldman!Joel x F!reader

Summary: Based on a request I lost, you are immune and Oldman!Joel saves you.

Warnings: Glasses!Joel mentioned, no reader description at all, no smut on this part but there'll be on the next one, a bit of angst and slowburn, stubborn!reader x caring!Joel, Abby doesn't exist here. Mentions of violence but nothing graphic. Joel just want to fix things and make reader happy.

Word count: 3.6k

A/N: Anon, I lost your request and I know that wasn't what you asked but I promise I will make something else, I just wanted to say I got REALLY inspired and it turned out something totally different, your idea was amazing and IT WILL BE SOLID ON MY NEXT WRITING! English it’s not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any typos. I enjoyed so much this one and the next part will be out in two days with the smut! I just felt like writing some angst background was necessary. You can find more oldman!Joel in my masterlist as well. Feedbacks are utterly appreciated and my requests are always open. 💌

When you arrived in Jackson on a hurried, blood-covered night, carried by a stranger and utterly terrified, you never imagined the community could feel so familiar, so much like home, as if the end of the world wasn't a primary concern. Here, people arrived from all corners, given the chance to reinvent themselves.

And you did the same, leaving your old life behind and deciding that your new beginning wouldn't depend on anyone's help. You were born to be alone, and you were—and always would be—a lone wolf. That no longer bothered you as it did when you were younger and less experienced, almost a burden to those who carried you like unwanted baggage. You had sworn to yourself that you'd never count on anyone again, a vow made the moment an exorbitant number of clickers had chased your last group, decimating all of them except for you, for a peculiar reason.

You were immune—and of course, you had climbed the highest tree you could find and hidden for two entire nights, unsure if you would survive.

You'd always known you were different. As a child, you were left almost dead by a group of revolutionaries after being bitten, but two weeks later, you were still alive, hungry and alone. The wound seemed to heal at a snail's pace, but it didn't kill you. That seemed like a secret to keep, especially with radical scientists looking for a cure. And when one of them finally captured you, you thought it was the end of the line, thinking that maybe what you deserved after tricking death so many times.

Joel Miller was a skeptical man, but few knew the violence that had led him to be so gentle.

Tommy and him had been investigating the same group that had taken Ellie years ago. Even with the significant loss of that damned doctor that Joel had killed, the doctor who was willing to sacrifice a child for a cure he clearly couldn't provide, they hadn't rested. They continued searching for those immune to Cordyceps. When they discovered a part of the group's hideout, Joel was the first to question whether they were holding hostages—people who had a chance to survive and live full mediocre lives—for an almost impossible greater purpose.

It was obvious Tommy didn't approve of his decision. But Joel wanted to understand Ellie; he wanted her to live in a world where, if someone else like her existed, she might feel a little better within Jackson's fragile walls.

Perhaps then, she could forgive him.

He embarked on a journey alone in the middle of the night, giving the excuse that he had swapped his patrol shift with some young boy he couldn't even pronounce the name correctly. He rode all night until dawn when he reached what appeared to be an abandoned hospital, experiencing the same flashbacks of years earlier when his heart raced at the possibility of losing his daughter—again.

Because Ellie was his daughter; he couldn't deny it. Not to himself, not after so much effort and sacrifice had been made to ensure she was breathing safely miles away.

Joel heard loud screams, which sounded like a woman, a desperate one, and didn't hesitate to enter the location with his gun ready to kill whoever was necessary. The place was empty somehow, with only a female figure chained to a gurney, wearing little more than a hospital gown, though it seemed she still had on her underwear. She was scared, appeared injured, and still had two IV access points in her arms.

"Ain't here to hurt ya," he said, his accent echoing strong and gravelly. Despite being almost sixty, Joel was still in good shape, except perhaps for the prominent belly from all the beer he used to drink at Tipsy Bison with Tommy almost every night, and the knee pain he always ignored until he had to take a day or two off patrol to recover. "M'gonna take those access out of ya' and then I will give you m' jacket, okay?"

He slowly described everything he was doing to keep you from screaming, but your eyes were pure panic, as if you were completely dissociating, a way to make everything less painful. And well, the doctor and nurses weren't gentle at all; your arms would certainly be all bruised later if you made it out alive, and the wound around your waist had been roughly shaved so they could examine it. Gods, they didn't even have the right equipment for it. You screamed, begged for them to stop.

It was useless.

But as Joel tried, you nodded. It would be better to die by a bullet than slowly from pseudoscientific experiments.

Joel carefully removed the access points, adjusting the dirty piece of cotton as best he could to prevent any bleeding. Once he got you sitting on the gurney, he took off his own jacket and put it on you. It would be a long ride to Jackson, and you two hadn't much time before they returned. Joel had promised himself he wouldn't kill anyone unnecessarily, knowing how much Ellie would disapprove if she found out. He was tired of being a monster, but he wouldn't leave you to die to the whims of chance or fate.

You didn't say anything, no sound emitted except for a few moans of pain when your bare feet hit the cold, dirty floor. Joel agilely lifted your body and, even with his back aching, carried you with surprising gentleness to the back exit where his horse was tied. Getting onto the animal was a little difficult, but when he managed to adjust your body in front of his, trying as much as possible to keep your body warm in a respectful way, he didn't hesitate to move as fast as he could. Even during the small, breathless pause he took in the middle of the dark and silent woods, you refused the food he offered, not out of fear, but because you felt the horse's swaying would make you vomit at any moment, still groggy from the excessive amount of medicine they got you. Joel remained silent, his expression worried. He had briefly seen the wound that should prove your immunity when he put you on the horse, your body still trembling, but he said nothing. It was none of his business anyway.

You certainly didn't remember when you had fallen asleep, but when you did, you only woke to the sound of metal creaking and distant shouts. A group seemed to be on standby in case they needed to go looking for Joel, but they began to disperse when they saw the old man riding back to the gates, almost two days later, given his figure, holding a young woman in his arms, especially as she clung with all the firmness she could to his thick plaid flannel, which wasn't much, completely weak and hurt.

From that, you were taken to a doctor, received proper care and a new chance, without ever crossing paths with the man to whom you owed your life out of pure stubbornness.

He seemed hesitant whenever he saw you, always about to say something but never doing it. You gave no opening, afraid he would tell others about your secret or feel too intimate to be a regular part of your life.

However, Ellie Williams, or whatever her name was, seemed willing to break down all your walls effortlessly. She struck up conversations during lunch and all other meals, invaded your space, offered to walk you home even if she filled the silence the whole time with chatter and you couldn't even pay attention. It was more like she wanted to be listened to, and later you discovered that she was Joel's adopted daughter. He saved her just as he saved you.

It was one afternoon while she was skipping beside you that Ellie revealed Joel had told her about your immunity — you froze. It wasn't his secret to share. You opened your mouth and closed it, still unsure what to say to a teenager who genuinely seemed to want your friendship. You didn't want to hurt her feelings, but the anger was boiling your blood.

"I am like... this. No one knows it, of course, it's still dangerous even here but... Joel told me the day you guys arrived and made me promise I wouldn't act weird." Her voice was low, as if the two of you were sharing a secret, and in fact, you were. "I thought I was a monster but... You don't look like one. That just means I'm not alone."

A knot formed in your throat as you continued walking, your gaze fixed on your own feet. The wound, a constant reminder of your past, seemed to sting a thousand times more now, burning with shame. It was painfully clear that a girl like her, Ellie, was just lonely. And though you were still frustrated with Joel, you started to understand his perspective. It wasn't his fault, or yours, or hers. You simply didn't know how to handle it.

"I don't like talking about it." You cut the conversation short, something you'd never done before. Ellie looked upset, clearly taken aback by your sudden shift, but you didn't care. You'd reached your house anyway. Slowly, you climbed the steps, crossing your arms, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You stepped inside and slammed the door shut, unable to shake the annoyance. All of this felt like a curse, and honestly, you didn't care about a cure. Not when, after all these years, it clearly wasn't going to work. You were alone, and there was no reason for you to sacrifice yourself for anyone. Selfish tears streamed down your face as your body collapsed onto the sofa. You didn't even notice the fireplace was lit, as if someone had been there, not until you read the note left in rough letters on stained paper on the wooden coffee table.

"Figured ya'd could get cold. The house needs some fixing, let me know when you're available. — J" 

You weren't alone; all those people wanted to help you. Still, the only thing you felt was rage, having spent so long surviving on your own that any display of affection felt like the end of the world. You didn't feel worthy; you felt dirty.

But you weren't the only one. You weren't a freak of nature. You could handle this.

You should.

You fell asleep right there, and when you woke, sunlight had already faded, giving way to the stars and the full moon, another cold night. You searched for Joel’s jacket, the only one you owned, and put it on, deciding to head outside. The clock read nine o'clock; dinner had barely begun.

The leather still carried his scent. You hadn't mustered enough courage to return it, and it was warm, lined inside, preventing the dampness from reaching your other layers of clothing. For the first few days in your new home, you even wore it to sleep, not because you were cold, but because it felt familiar, something you couldn't recall feeling throughout your entire life.

As you walked toward the community hall, shrinking further into the jacket, your mind drifted far away. You knew you should apologize to Ellie; after all, you were the adult, and despite everything, she deserved answers too. You understood more than anyone how lonely Jackson could be. Maybe if you found her there, you could tell her how sorry you were and start again.

Your dissociative state, however, shattered when your body collided with another, sending you sprawling to the ground, your tailbone protesting with a loud crack from the sheer lack of exercise.

“Jeez’, doll!” You'd recognize that voice even with your eyes closed, but staring at his worn and heavy boots was enough to confirm it was Joel offering his large, calloused hand to help you up, a worried look on his face. He was wearing another thick, dark jacket, a scarf, and his glasses seemed fogged by the cold. His curly, graying hair was slicked back as if he'd just stepped out of the shower. “Didn’t saw ya’, my bad. Was lookin’ for ya’ the other day and…” 

His eyes lingered on your body as you stood, brushing dirt from the jacket. Joel would never admit how much his chest swelled with satisfaction seeing you still wearing his jacket. It was certainly too big, but even so, it looked better on you. His gaze softened on your rosy lips, on features he found so beautiful he almost forgot the years that separated you. You were certainly in your mid-twenties or so, but he was still sixty and could be your grandfather.

"I…" You started, trying to form a sentence, but since you'd arrived in town, you hadn't exchanged a single coherent phrase with him, stunned and scared. Joel seemed to understand. "Thank you, Joel. For everything."

That's what escaped your lips, and he nodded, the phrase heavy with meaning dissolving the earlier anger. Because above all, you understood he was just an old man who wanted the best for his daughter, who wanted to understand her world, and yet, he was generous enough for that to involve saving strangers in hospitals and risking his own life during the process.

"Ya' don't have to thank me," he mumbled back, realizing he was still holding your hand and making no move to let go. "Hope I didn't burn your house down with the fire today."

"No, you did not," you replied, pulling your hand from his and burying it in the jacket's pockets, feeling your cheeks burn with a shyness you didn't know still existed deep inside you.

Joel cleared his throat, sounding as awkward as you felt, but instead of moving on, just as he was about to take a step away, he looked at you again.

"Ellie told me ya' got a bit upset today. It was my fault, not hers. She likes you a lot. Don't be mad at her," Joel confessed, sounding somehow emotional. "It was the first time she really talked with me in months… When I rescued you, I told her the reason but… Today was the first time she…"

"I'm sorry about that. I didn't know she wasn't talking with you." You were sincere. "I was going to apologize to her. Maybe we could walk together? I… suppose you're heading to dinner?"

You stumbled over the words slowly, captivating Joel's attention with every second without even realizing it. He wasn't going to dinner, no. It was rare for Joel to have dinner; he usually spent his nights at the Tipsy Bison and ate whatever he found at home afterward since he hated all the chatter in the community hall and all the lines, the stress of choosing a group to interact with due to the lack of individual tables… Well, he was kinda a lone wolf too.

"Yes, sure," he grunted. It was funny how Joel's grumpy demeanor extended to everyone but you. How he seemed to ignore all the waves, especially from all the middle-aged women, as he walked silently beside you, hands in his pockets, toward the community hall.

Before you could even step inside, voices were already audible and you flinched. Joel seemed to notice, looking at you with a raised brow. You certainly hated the stares you attracted; it wasn't as if you'd arrived in Jackson as a refugee or anything. Joel had gone out on his own and returned with you, and whatever his reasons were, clear to you, they certainly weren't—and shouldn't be—to the rest of the community.

"I have sum' stuff at home I could cook for us. I know how… suffocating it can be," he offered gently, as gentle as his husky voice allowed, which sent shivers through your entire body. You knew you shouldn't accept, knew you should continue your life as alone as possible because you viewed all attachments as weaknesses.

That's what they had taught you your whole life. But here… here, affection was present in absolutely everything, and it made you long for something you couldn't have.

Even so.

"That would be nice…" You agreed, sighing in relief. The great food wouldn't compensate for the small talk that churned your stomach, all the filtered parts of your past during a thirty or forty-minute period.

You both began walking in the opposite direction. Joel had a long stride but seemed to make an effort not to let anxiety consume him, adjusting his pace to match yours.

"I saved ya' that day because I was looking for someone like Ellie. Maybe a child or a young man but… that wasn't… just fate. These damn so-called-doctors are stalking people down and treating them like a fuckin' experiment." He sounded almost angry, and you wondered if that's how his and Ellie's lives had crossed.

"I never stepped in to say thank you properly," you began, feeling utterly embarrassed. "I was alone since my last group left me to die, and I… Well, these people you rescued me from, whatever they are called, found and knocked me down. The last thing I remember was being tied and having my bruise scalped and…" Tears threatened to fall from your eyes, the air suddenly thin, and you couldn't finish your sentence, clearing your throat and looking up at the starry sky.

You rarely saw stars in the dense forest; they seemed almost a miracle, a gift.

"I just want you to know that I was alone my entire life, and it's hard for me to let people help… That doesn't mean I'm not immensely grateful for what you did for me. You saved my life, and I owe you forever." You said, your voice still thick with emotion.

"You owe me nothing, darlin', just be happy, and I'll be satisfied." He seemed sincere. Joel was difficult to decipher.

You walked for a bit longer before he pointed to his own house with his right hand. He lived at the end of the street, with a rather beautiful view of the surrounding fields and mountains. When he opened the door and let you in, it felt much more like a home than yours. The furniture was of the same worn standard, but picture frames were scattered about with the few photographs he had: an unknown girl in a purple shirt, placed directly above the fireplace in a photo where he was smiling and looked years younger, even before everything happened. A photo of Ellie and another one of Tommy beside a younger Joel. They weren't many things, but they felt personal.

The sofa held a beige blanket, and the fire in the fireplace was almost dead. He attentively switched on the lights and gestured for you to make yourself at home.

Joel wasn't good at small talk but neither were you and the silence felt comfortable. You settled into one of the chairs around the not-too-large table, entertained by what looked like a cube full of colors that never seemed to align correctly.

You hadn't seen much of the world, never even had the opportunity as you were born after everything had fallen apart. Deep down, you held onto the belief that you couldn't miss something you'd never experienced. Still, you knew life was about more than just surviving, eating rabbits, and leaving a trail of blood wherever you went.

"It's called a 'magic cube,' you have to match the colors right," Joel said, his tone almost playful, as he put pasta into a pot of water and searched for other ingredients to make what was presumably a sauce. "I never solved it; it's quite impossible."

"Indeed it is," you agreed, examining it with curiosity, trying to find a solution.

"How old are you?" he asked, using another pot and pouring ingredients into it.

"Twenty-four. I'll be twenty-five next spring. I just don't know the day, so I just assume it's the first one after that." You answered, still too focused on the cube, but deciding to put it aside the moment you realized it truly seemed to have no solution, letting out a single laugh to yourself. “It’s funny.” 

“You can take them. Ellie has plenty of those. She lives in the garage.” He explained, seeming hopeful that maybe his relationship with his daughter could improve.

Joel continued to unravel the mysteries in his own kitchen and you started to feel slightly useless just standing there. Rising from that feeling, you moved to the sink, beginning to wash whatever he dirtied and set aside for more than three seconds. It was almost like a silent connection. You both seemed to function well, your bodies nearly touching, sharing the small space in synchrony with the warmth you both emanated.

You knew Joel was a broken man, and like you, he carried demons he'd never dared to face. Perhaps, that was the most beautiful part of him.

When everything was ready, and he set the food on the table, along with the plates and glasses filled with cold water, you moved towards your chair, bumping into him for the second time that night. This one, however, instead of letting you collide, Joel caught your waist, and your faces were forced to meet. His breathing seemed labored, and his strong arms were exposed by his moss-green t-shirt, having shed his outer layers minutes before for better mobility.

"Watch out, beautiful," was the only thing he said, making no move to release your waist, his touch deepening, as did the tension between you. He looked at you almost as if he were starving, and the confusion in your eyes didn't seem to be an impediment, because deep down, you felt the same thing. 

Joel finally looked into your eyes, and all you knew was that the entire world had fallen silent, as if it were waiting for something.

[pretentious-blonde]

realisation

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: it’s a feeling he hasn’t touched in years—something selfish and dangerous and impossible to let go of

warnings: therapy, big big feelings from steve, migraines, anxiety

a/n: soft steve always has my heart <3

series masterlist

Steve never liked the quiet, that’s part of the reason he loved his job. The noise in his classroom was gentle, filled with curiosity—excitement. It was an odd definition of peace, but he never questioned it. Kids brought out something within him he thought was lost, he liked that about them.

That’s also why he never enjoyed going back to his own place. It was the kind of quiet that felt too suffocating. When he first signed the lease after leaving his parents' house, he thought the isolation would be a blessing—a sanctuary where it was just him, no drama, no outsiders.

No threats.

But as time went on and memories resurfaced, that same quiet began to feel heavy.

He found himself remembering what it was like when he first moved here, when progress was just beginning—because in a way, it was again.

Slashed, back to fucking zero.

He could no longer move forward. Couldn’t talk about it anymore—not in the way he needed to.

He couldn’t safely open up in his therapist’s office, couldn’t make you understand now, not really.

All he had left was Robin—the same Robin who had nearly fallen apart trying to hold him together at the start of all this—and he couldn’t do that to her again. Wouldn’t.

That is why he has to do this. 

It’s late afternoon, and he’s got one sock on, one sock half-off, pacing across the tiny stretch of kitchen linoleum with the phone pressed to his ear. His free hand scraped through his hair, again, again—like maybe if he does it hard enough, he’ll comb away all the thoughts circling in his head.

He hasn’t slept. The therapist’s words from yesterday rattle in his mind, reverberating through every breath. 

Intervene. 

He’s replayed the warning all night, half expecting someone to burst through the door and threaten him again. It churns in his stomach. All the guilt and fear—he can’t figure out which is louder. 

He just knows he’s been lying in bed, eyes wide at the ceiling, again. 

The excuse he comes up with is a simple one, not really a lie. Because in a way, his head does ache. It’s not the blinding kind of pain that used to knock him off his feet after a particularly bad episode, but the pressure’s there, right behind his eyes, throbbing in time with his pulse. 

He might as well call it a migraine if it keeps you at arm’s length—keeps you safe from whatever might be going on inside his mind. But that’s not really true anymore.

The threat is, once again, in the real world.

He closes his eyes the moment he hears your voice on the other end of the line. He tries to answer in a steady tone.

“Hey,” he begins. “I—hey. Um. I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

It’s quiet as he waits for your answer, like you're feeling out the tone of his voice. 

“Why?”

Didn't take much to sense something was wrong. You were observant. 

Too observant. 

That’s why he had to create this distance. 

“I’ve got a migraine coming on,” he manages, voice unsteady. “Just… sort of crept up on me. Thought it was gonna pass but… doesn’t feel like it.”

He can picture the worried fold between your eyebrows, the way you’d tilt your head if you were standing in front of him. 

“Is it bad? Y’know… like last time?” 

You ask it so gently, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

Last time.

The last time—when he nearly lost everything you had built together.

The last time he left you scared.

The last time he really fucked up.

“No,” he speaks quickly. “Not that bad. Just a bit of pressure. Thought I should stay home—sleep it off.”

He hears you exhale, a soft sigh that says you’re not convinced. 

“Steve…”

“Sweetheart,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light, “I’m alright. I just… need a quiet night.” He punctuates it with a half-hearted laugh, like it might sell the story better.

“Okay.” There’s a pause on your side. “Well—I’m coming over.”

His chest constricts. 

Of course you are. 

He knew you would. It’s one of the things that scares him most about letting you in: you show up. 

Always. 

“No—no, you don’t have to,” he blurts. “Really. I’ll just be in bed. It’s not exactly good company.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for thrills,” you tease, voice warmer. “Let me take care of you a little.”

He almost loses it right there. The phone cord wraps around his wrist as he paces in a tight circle, sock skidding on the tile. 

He thinks you’re too good for him. So he says it out loud, in a voice that cracks just a bit. Hopefully he can blame it on the “pain.”

“Maybe,” you answer, and he can practically see your small smile, the tilt of your lips. “But I like you. So that’s kind of your problem now.”

He can’t fight it anymore. He'll say it's his lack of energy.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Door’s unlocked.”

He hangs up too fast, like if he stays on the line a second longer, he’ll give up the entire game. The phone slips from his hand onto the receiver with a dull clack.

He just stands there in the fading sunlight, staring at the pattern of the kitchen countertop. He can’t figure out if he’s more relieved that you’re coming, or more terrified that you’ll see the cracks he knows will soon show. 

He moves into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions sink under his weight like they’re trying to swallow him whole. He feels like an idiot as he scrubs his hand over his face. He should’ve just faked the entire day, come up with an ironclad excuse—maybe said he had to run errands or something. 

But then you’d ask questions, you’d want to help him, and he’d buckle anyway because he can’t say no to you. Not when you sound like that. 

Not when your first instinct is to care.

He glances at the stack of second-grade spelling tests on the table and pushes them aside, annoyed at the very sight of them. He was trying to keep busy, to put a pen in his hand and shut off his brain. But the weight in his chest is too big, too heavy to ignore, and nothing about marking a dozen attempts at the word “elephant” is going to clear the images swirling in his mind.

Last night was bad. 

Worse than usual. 

He’d tossed and turned for hours, drifting into shallow snatches of sleep that delivered him into the Upside Down, or a half-memory of it. The vines. The pulsing lights. And you, off in the distance, looking at him like he was a stranger. 

He’d woken with a jolt, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. Spent the morning sipping lukewarm coffee with no music, no TV, no noise at all—just the sound of his own heartbeat roaring in his ears.

He knew this would happen, especially after his last appointment, but it still hurt all the same. He hadn’t had a dream like that in weeks, proof that all of his progress feels like it’s been ripped from under him. 

Everything about this is too much and not enough. He’s tiptoeing on a razor’s edge of fear and yearning, wanting to protect you but also wanting to crash into your arms. He doesn’t deserve how you look at him, the way you always ask if he’s okay. 

And now you’re on your way over, and he can’t stop you. 

Doesn’t truly want to stop you.

Because in the back of his mind, he knows this feeling. He knows it all too well.

Knows what it does to a person.

It always starts slow—just a ripple, a toe in the water—until suddenly the tide’s pulling you under and there’s no surface left to reach for.

He knows what it means to drown—in both senses of the word. But this time, it’s worse. This time, it’s not his choice whether he comes back up.

This time, it’s yours.

And all he can do is hope that if it comes down to it, he’ll be the one sinking. 

Not you.

The front door swings open quietly, you don’t bother waiting for an invitation. By the time Steve looks up, you’re already stepping inside with that urgency in your eyes—like you’ve come prepared to handle any crisis he’s trying to hide. 

He hates that he can read your body language. Hates that he can see how cautious you are, bracing yourself for whatever version of him you’ll find.

And he hates even more that you’d still come anyway.

For a moment, he just stands there in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do with his hands. He was halfway through tidying up, something to move his stiff body. Make you think that your boyfriend can at least seem to hold his life together. 

He’s in his usual knit jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, hair a little mussed from the nervous nap he never took. The lighting softens him, makes him look more fragile than he feels, it traces the curve of his jaw and the soft downturn of his mouth. 

He’s tired. You can see it instantly—the weighted slump of his shoulders, the slight effort in his exhale. Maybe there’s a pang of guilt in his chest at being so transparent, but he can’t quite fix his expression into something more reassuring. 

Not tonight.

“You look rough,” you say, raising your eyebrows in that gentle, teasing way.

He can tell you’re worried. It’s there in the careful tone of your voice, the way your gaze flicks over him like you’re scanning for damage.

“Yeah…” His lips twitch in what might be an attempt at a smile. “I know.”

Before he can stumble out a courtesy greeting, you close the distance, slipping your arms around him and drawing him into a hug. The warmth of your body presses flush against his chest, and he stiffens for half a heartbeat—like he’s not quite sure he has the right to accept this comfort. Then instinct kicks in, and he melts. The tension drains from his shoulders, and he drops his head to the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent. The one he never knew he would crave so deeply. 

His arms rise to wrap around your waist, palms splayed against your back as if to steady himself.

“Hi,” you murmur into his hair, voice muffled against his temple.

He breathes you in, a tired sigh slipping out. 

“Hey,” he answers, almost inaudible.

The quiet in the room no longer feels suffocating—it feels like a shared breath, something that belongs to both of you. Your fingers slide into his hair, combing it back gently, and his eyes flutter shut. 

He thinks about how a hug like this might’ve been a luxury in another life—before nightmares and secrets twisted everything into shadows. 

But with your arms around him, he lets himself believe it could be simple. 

Just for a moment. 

He’ll give himself a moment. 

When you finally pull back to look at him, there’s a softness in your expression he’s not sure he deserves. Your attention drifts over his shoulder, landing on the small table behind him. Paper after paper is scattered there—spelling tests, wobbly handwriting, even a few crayon doodles. You tilt your head, curiosity nudging your brow. 

“What’s all that?”

He steps out of your hold, just enough to glance at the mess over his shoulder. Reluctance flickers across his face. 

“Just… some papers I needed to get through,” he says, swallowing. “It’s nothing. Spelling stuff.”

“You can’t possibly do that when your head’s hurting.” 

He’s dealt with worse. 

He shrugs one shoulder in a half-hearted gesture. 

“It’s not so bad,” he tries, though the hesitation in his voice betrays him.

You don’t buy it. He can see the resolve in your stance, the way your chin sets. 

“Trying to concentrate on eight-year-old handwriting is not how to cure a migraine,” you say flatly, giving him a look that shows your playful exacerbation.

“Honestly, it’s fine,” he insists. But even as the words leave his mouth, they sound weak. 

He’s still holding onto that white lie, and guilt gnaws at him from the inside. You’ve already started marching past him toward the table, your gaze determined. 

“Why don’t you sit down and relax?” you say, lifting one stack of papers. “I’ll do it.”

He follows, hand raised in a weak protest. 

“No—hey, that’s my job,” he says, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Like, my real actual job.”

The one he needs to keep. 

Your grin appears, brightening the mood without effort. 

“I think I can handle some spelling tests,” you retort, eyeing the pages in your hands. “Pretty sure the complexities of second-grade grammar won’t defeat me.”

He sighs, a smile finally curving his lips for real. It’s small, but it’s genuine. 

“Am I gonna convince you otherwise?” he asks, half-rhetorical.

“Nope,” you say simply, lips shifting smugly as you slide into one of the dining chairs. It’s a look that tells him you won’t budge on this. 

Stubborn as always. 

He stands there for a second, torn between wanting to help and wanting to give in. There’s this warmth building under his ribs, relief and something else—something so dangerously close that he daren’t name. 

“Okay,” he finally murmurs, stepping back. The tension in his spine eases a fraction, and he can almost feel the exhaustion settling in now that he isn’t forcing himself to keep going.

“You gonna stand there or go lie down properly?” you ask, not looking up from the first spelling sheet you’re scanning.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and drags his feet over to the couch, sinking down into the cushions with an exhale that betrays how tired he truly is. 

“Here’s fine,” he says quietly. 

The idea of vanishing into his bedroom feels unbearable right now. 

Too far. 

Too alone.

It’s selfish—how much he needs to stay near. Near enough to hear your voice, the soft scratch of your pen, proof that you’re there.

He rests his head against the arm of the couch, turning just enough to watch you from across the room. You spare him a glance, understanding flashing in your eyes. 

“Okay,” you accept. .

You stand abruptly and move to the lamp in the corner. A soft click and golden light spills into the room, bathing the scuffed hardwood floors in a gentle sheen. The overhead light blinks off with a flip of the switch, and suddenly everything feels softer, quieter—like you're tucked away in a little sanctuary, a space carved out of the world, just for two.

He shifts, propping one arm under his head, blinking against the change in light. 

“Hey now,” he jokes, words a bit slurred with fatigue, “it’s bad for your eyes.”

“Maybe,” from over by the lamp, you look at him and shrug. “But your head.”

His mouth twitches—he can’t help it. The weight in his chest lifts, just a little. 

“Right,” he mutters in agreement, the fight slipping out of him. 

He’s not sure if he wants to keep up the migraine ruse anymore, but it’s too tangled in everything else. Better to just let you have this small comfort. 

You deserve it.

You’ve been way too good to him—and because of that, he’s dragged you into this mess.

And the worst part? 

He knows he won’t be able to let you go, half-truths are going to have to be enough to compensate for his carelessness. 

You go back to the table, pulling out a chair and settling in with the stack of papers. Your face furrows in concentration as you pick up a pen—his red marking pen, the one he’s been avoiding all day. The faint sound of your writing tip against paper is a soothing background lull.

He watches you, eyelids heavy. He just lets his gaze linger on the shape of your face in the lamplight, the slope of your shoulder as you lean over a misspelled word. He breathes, in and out, feeling a tug in his chest every time you shake your head in mild amusement or scribble a little note in the margin. He closes his eyes, so filled with longing he cannot figure out where to put it all. 

Just let him have tonight.

Let this be all he feels tonight. 

Seconds bleed into minutes, and he’s not sure when his breathing slows, or how his tense muscles start to loosen. Eventually, he feels the calm settle over him, the quiet that used to feel like a noose around his neck. Now it’s more like a blanket—soft, encompassing, safe. He exhales as his eyelids droop.

His mind drifts in a liminal space between wakefulness and the pull of sleep, cocooned by the low lamplight. 

You clear your throat and tap the tip of a red pen against a test paper, amusement lacing your words. 

“One of your kids spelled kitchen like kitchin. I kinda like it,” you say, a small laugh escaping. “It feels… softer.”

He murmurs a response, voice thick from exhaustion. 

“Yeah,” he manages, eyes fluttering open just enough to find your silhouette at the table. “Bet that’s Jackson. He says breakfirst too. I never wanna correct that one.”

His words slur slightly, and he barely registers that he’s smiling. You lift your attention from the paper, your own playing at the corner of your mouth.

“Breakfirst makes sense,” you tease, the pen still in your hand. “It’s the first thing I think of when I wake up.”

He chuckles softly, shifting against the pillow. The motion tugs at his shoulders, reminding him how tight his muscles are. 

“Mhm,” he drawls, eyes sliding shut again. “He told me last week he wakes up thinking about pancakes. Said it just… appears in his brain.”

You snort a laugh, then set the test paper aside, leaning back in your chair. 

“I think I’d like him,” you remark, mock-serious. “He’s got the right idea.”

It’s so easy for him to picture Jackson—a scrawny seven-year-old with an overbite and an endless supply of energy. The image floats into his mind and settles there, a soft spot in the midst of his own troubles. 

He can almost see the bright classroom, the crayons and the whiteboard, the echo of little voices calling him. It feels like a life unshadowed by therapy sessions and the secrets choking him from within.

He lets the moment linger, a comfort in the back of his mind. Then a memory surfaces—one he rarely shares: his mom, the aroma of melted butter, the slowness of an early morning without his dad. It nudges at him, stirs something bittersweet in his chest.

“My mom used to make pancakes when my dad was out of town,” he hears himself say, the words spilling out so softly he almost isn’t sure he’s speaking aloud. He feels you pause. You don’t respond right away, giving him space to unravel the memory if he wants to.

Like you always do.

He swallows, blinking slowly at the ceiling. 

This is a safe one to share.  

“He traveled a lot,” he continues, voice quieter now, each syllable steeped in nostalgia. “Work stuff. Sales, I think—always sounded vague. But when he was gone, it was like… things relaxed a little. She’d let me sleep on the couch, and we’d have pancakes in the morning. Not the box kind, either. She did the whole thing—batter from scratch, butter in the pan, bubbles on top when they were ready to flip. Real old-school.”

Your pen lands gently on the table. He can feel your eyes on him across the distance. He knew you’d appreciate another piece of his past, no matter how small.

What scared him was how much more he wanted to give you.

How easily he’d hand it all over—just from the look on your face.

“That sounds nice,” you say, your voice subdued, maybe to match the mood he’s set. He wonders if you can tell how vulnerable he feels, laying this out for you. 

“She’d put bananas in them sometimes,” he murmurs. “I hated it—but I never told her. Didn’t wanna mess it up. It felt like… I don’t know.” His voice wavers, and he breathes out carefully, as if exhaling might scatter the memory. “A good thing.”

For a moment, all he hears is sound of his own breath. Your voice comes softly across the room. 

“You didn’t want to change it.”

“Yeah.” He nods, eyelids heavy, almost speaking more to himself than to you. “Exactly.”

He slips deeper into the cushions, a sort of melancholy peace settling in his bones. Remembering those mornings—milk and flour and eggs whisked in a bowl, the hiss of the stove, his mom’s rare, relaxed laugh—feels comforting and too big to hold onto. 

It reminds him of being a kid, back before entire worlds twisted into nightmares and scars. Before he had to figure out how to keep people safe by keeping them in the dark.

Outside, the sky is darkening, casting shapeless shadows across the walls. You rustle the papers again, returning to your marking with diligence. That rhythmic scritch, pulls him back from the edges of old memories.

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again, barely conscious, his words filled with drowsiness. A little piece of anxiety wells in him suddenly—intrusive. 

It’s about the kids—about whether they notice the days he can’t quite summon his usual energy. The way he knows he’ll be tomorrow, when the smile won’t come as easily, no matter how hard he tries.

He hates asking you this. It’s the kind of thing he’d usually save for Dr Avery, but that isn’t an option now. It feels cruel—testing the waters just for his own peace of mind, leaning on you to give him the direction he can’t find on his own.

His voice is small when he finally asks. His eyes half-lidded, drifting toward you, too tired to stay open all the way.

“D’you think the kids…"

Fuck, this is hard.

"D'you think... they know when I’m having a bad day?”

You pause for a moment, shaking your head as your eyes meet his, looking at him like he just hung the moon. It undoes him utterly, the way you let out a gentle sigh,

“I think…” you speak slow, perhaps to allow his exhausted mind to keep up, but the words end up hitting him twice as hard. 

“I think they know you’d still show up for them anyway. It’s… just who you are, Steve.”

It's just who he is...

Is that how you see him?

He absorbs the statement slowly, like it needs time to settle in his bones. There’s a kind of weight to it—the raw honesty behind every word you offered, like you handpicked them with care, laid them down gently just for him.

It loosens something deep in his chest. A knot he didn’t even know he was carrying starts to unspool.

He doesn’t feel like he’s a failure.

Maybe he is a mess. Maybe he’s always been a little broken, stitched together with stubbornness and guilt and whatever scraps of hope he can still find—but he’s here. 

He’s trying. 

He’s still showing up.

That has to count for something.

His eyes drift shut at last, sleep too heavy to fight. Maybe he can let himself rest a little. Just for now, with you close by. He breathes out, chin dipping into the pillow, and finally gives himself permission to fall.

As his consciousness fades, he holds onto one stubborn wish: later that evening, when he opens his eyes, you’ll still be there, still close enough to chase the doubt out of his mind—at least for a little while longer.

When Steve’s eyelids flutter open, it takes him a second to remember where he is—or why everything suddenly feels this peaceful. 

The living room is draped in darkness, the overhead lamp turned off in favour of a single warm light coming from the kitchen. For a disoriented moment, he hears nothing. Then a soft clink of metal on ceramic reaches his ears, followed by a faint hiss and the gentle scrape of something in a pan.

He pushes himself upright, blinking the last traces of sleep from his eyes. The couch creaks and the fabric of his jumper feels slightly rumpled from dozing. He rubs the back of his neck, rolls his shoulders, wincing at the dull ache there. 

A quick glance at the window tells him night has fully settled over Hawkins—streetlights glow faintly outside, their beams catching on the air.

The heaviness he’s carried around for days has receded, at least for the moment. His head doesn’t throb. His chest feels looser, the anxiety dulled. 

That sure as hell isn’t just from the nap. 

Slowly, he stands, letting the blanket slide off his hips, and runs a hand down the front of his jumper. His bare feet touch the floor with soft thumps as he pads toward the kitchen, one sleeve pulled over his hand like a restless kid, not even realising he’s doing it.

The closer he gets, the more the smell of butter wraps around him. He’s struck by how surreal it all seems—like stepping into a memory. Except it’s not some dusty recollection from his childhood. 

He stops in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, and sees you standing at the stove. You’ve rolled your sleeves past your elbows. There’s a mixing bowl on the counter, a spatula in your hand, and the sizzle of batter hitting hot butter is the only real noise besides his own breath. 

Plates are stacked on a small portion of the counter you’ve managed to clear. A current of tenderness runs through the space—through him—that has little to do with the heat of the stove.

“Hey,” he says softly, still a little groggy. His voice is low, reverent, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will shatter the spell.

You glance over your shoulder, a quick smile flicking across your face as you meet his eyes. 

“Hey,” you answer, tone hushed not to hurt his head. “How’re you feeling?”

He swallows, stepping into the kitchen a bit more, hand trailing against the wall. 

“Much better,” he admits. 

And he realises, in that moment, it’s true. 

The tension in his spine has eased. When he looks at you, all sweet in his space, the last of his fears feel like they’re retreating into the corners of his mind. 

“What’re you doing?” he adds, voice soft, curious.

“Making dinner,” you reply with a casual shrug, turning back to the stove.

You slide the spatula and lift it, revealing a perfect golden underside. As you flip, the batter sizzles, sending up a little puff of fragrant steam. You nod toward the mixing bowl. 

“Figured something simple might do the trick,” you say quietly. “And, y’know, you mentioned them.”

He lingers a step longer, breath catching in his chest as he’s catapulted back into the memory he shared with you earlier. The smell of a hot pan threads nostalgia through his core, tangling with the gratitude he feels in this moment, watching you do something so unexpectedly thoughtful. It renders him speechless.

“Pancakes,” he manages finally, the word falling from his lips, soaked in wonder.

You glance back, giving him a small smile. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, catching the weight of that memory in his eyes. “You don’t have any bananas.”

You really were something else. 

He exhales a shaky laugh through his nose. It’s almost real—almost. It slips out unsteady, because there’s something about the simplicity of it all. The way you act like the world could be set right with just this—this one small, human thing.

And what floors him, is that for a second—God, maybe longer—he believes you.

Believes it could be that simple. 

You gesture with the spatula toward the small dining table. 

“Go on,” you suggest, “sit.” 

There’s a gentle command in your tone, like you’re used to looking after him—even if, not so long ago, he would’ve insisted he didn’t need it.

He obeys, walking over on slightly unsteady legs. 

Obeys.

The word sounds strange, but it’s accurate: you speak, and he follows. Not because he’s weak, but because you make him feel safe. You make him feel seen. And in that safety, he allows himself to lean on you more than he’d ever planned.

Drawing a chair out, he settles into it with an exhale, placing his elbows on the tabletop. The wood is cool through the knit material, and he can feel the faint vibration of your movements through the floor. Figures form in gentle arcs along the cabinets, as if the night outside has pressed its nose to the windows but hasn’t dared to intrude.

He’s spent a lot of time alone here, pacing the small perimeter while his mind churned with old memories. 

He wonders if this is what normal looks like. If other people get moments like these all the time—moments where the person they trust wanders into their space, rummages in their cupboards, whips up something simple that tastes like childhood. 

If so, he thinks he’s missed out for too long. 

Please let him keep this.

Just for a little while.

He’s not sure how long he watches you. He’s content to let the seconds stretch, your quiet movements hypnotising him. The whisk tapping the side of the bowl, your gentle footstep shifting weight. 

When you finally switch off the burner and turn to face him, plate in hand, he’s still staring. You serve the pancakes on the two most similar plates you can find—he doesn’t exactly have a matching set. You slide one in front of him, the other in front of you, the only sounds are the dull scrape of forks cutting through soft batter, the occasional drip of syrup pooling on porcelain.

He lifts a bite to his mouth, nodding in faint approval as he chews. His jaw still feels tense, like it’s absorbing some leftover stress. Beneath the table, his leg bounces with restless energy, but outwardly, he tries to keep calm. You watch him, noticing the slight furrow in his brow. Neither of you speak until you finish the first few bites; the tension in the air is subtle, but it lingers.

“You going into work tomorrow?” you ask, casual enough that someone who didn’t know him might think it an idle question. But he senses the concern under your tone. 

You’re not prying, exactly—just checking in.

“Yeah.” He nods, quickly swallowing. “I’ll drop you back home after this, don’t worry.” 

The words come out automatically, as if he’s already set a plan for the day: take you home, show up, teach the kids. Everyone safe and accounted for.

You carefully set your fork down, the faint clink slicing through the atmosphere. Your gaze holds him a second longer than normal. 

“I’m not leaving,” you say softly.

“What?”

“What if…” Your voice takes on a cautious edge.  “What happened last time… happens again?”

Last time?

Oh.

Angel, don’t do this to me. 

He goes rigid. The memory knifes through his mind like a jolt of cold water: the flash of your startled eyes when he’d woken gasping, his fingers clamped around your arm before he even registered he was awake. The shame of your worried face as he stammered an apology, trembling with leftover panic from the dark corners of his sleep. A strangled feeling clutches his chest, and he drops his gaze to the plate. 

“It’s not gonna be like that,” he murmurs, his voice guilty.

“I already packed my pyjamas.”

He sits back in the chair. 

The effect you have on his is downright dangerous. 

A part of him wants to argue—he doesn’t deserve this level of care, not when his baggage bleeds into reality and threatens to drag you with them. 

“No, seriously,” he presses, voice quieter now. “I’m gonna be just fine.” 

There’s a self-loathing edge to the words because he knows it’s not true. You sense it in an instant.

“I’ll take the couch, alright?” you say. That softer note creeps into your voice, the one that tells him you’re not afraid of him—you’re just concerned. 

“Won’t be able to sleep if I’m worried about you.”

Something clenches in his throat, and he drops his head into his hands. His fingers thread through his hair, gripping it lightly as if that might keep his thoughts from spiraling. Another ragged breath escapes him. 

“You’re not taking the couch,” he mutters, muffled behind his palms. The image of you spending the night curled in discomfort while he’s holed up in his bed feels all wrong.

“If you’re feeling rough,” you insist, “you need your own bed. Please just… let me stay.”

He can’t look at you right away, eyes still trained on the dark space between his knees. The weight of everything squeezes his stomach. He drags his eyes up. And there you are, watching him with genuine concern—no pity, no judgment. 

He sees it in your eyes—there is no budging on this.

“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

A small smile crosses your features, one he has no right to feel pride at. You pick up your fork again, like this decision was the easiest thing in the world. 

He glances at the swirl of syrup pooling around the edges of the plate, but he can’t bring himself to take another bite. 

All along, he thought he was the selfless one.

He lies in bed, sheets tangled around his hips, trying to convince himself that stillness might bring sleep. 

One arm is flung over his eyes, pressing down as if he can block out the cacophony of thoughts that refuse to be quiet. The dark presses in, broken only by the light of the clock—each minute passes in silence, ratcheting up his restlessness. 

He rolls onto his left side, then back onto his right, shutting his eyes as hard as he can. 

Come on, breathe in, breathe out… 

His therapist’s voice echoes in his memory, urging him to focus on his heartbeat, to ground himself. But his brain crackles with tension, refusing to comply.

The advice feels fake now, anyway.

He flips again, this time onto his stomach. It doesn’t help. His jaw is clenched so hard he can practically feel the ache up into his temples.

When the sheets start to feel suffocating, he snaps upright and shoves them away. His legs swing over the edge of the mattress, feet meeting the cool floor. A hiss of breath leaves him—everything feels too loud despite the silence. 

He drags a hand over his face, scrubbing at his chin like he’s trying to scrape away the anxiety. He stands, letting the duvet pool behind him as he pads barefoot out into the hallway.

The living room is dim. He notices the lamp's still on, a small puddle of light that silhouettes your form on the couch. You’re curled up, fast asleep under an old throw blanket, one arm tucked beneath your cheek. Your breathing is gentle, the rise and fall of your shoulders almost imperceptible. 

You looked so soft.

He tells himself he should go back to bed, not disturb you, let you have your rest. But there’s a stronger voice in him—the one that urges his forwards. 

It’s a jarring realisation that knocks something loose in him.

You’re becoming the next point of call when things get rough. The person he turns to now, instinctively, without thinking. And what unsettles him most is knowing you’d be glad to hear that. You’d take it as a sign of closeness, of trust.

But it feels cruel.

Cruel that you’d take pride in being his safe place when you still don’t know the full extent of what you’re stepping into. Cruel that he’s letting you play nurse to wounds he hasn’t even shown you yet.

He shouldn’t need you like this.

But he is going to be cruel, just for tonight. 

He brushes a strand of hair off your forehead. The small touch makes you stir, and your eyelids flutter open. Confusion flickers across your features until you register it’s him crouched there, face etched with concern.

“Steve?” You mumble, voice foggy with sleep. “Are—are you alright? Did something happen?”

You’re panicking because of him, and it makes it ache even worse.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs, voice soft as he tries to soothe you. “Nothing happened. I promise.”

You start to push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off one shoulder to get a better look at him. The shape of your arm emerges, goosebumps prickling from the cool air. He swallows, feeling another wave of guilt that you even have to sleep out here. 

On the couch for God's sake. 

“I just… can’t sleep,” he admits, voice dropping. The confession tastes vulnerable on his tongue. 

It sounds pathetic—like a kid who never figured out how to function.

“Bad night?” you ask, still blinking sleep from your eyes. Your hand finds his forearm, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Even that tiny touch feels like a lifeline.

“Yeah. I don’t know.” He nods as he lets out a shuddery breath. “Everything feels… loud.”

His request is simple, but the desperation laced in his voice betrays just how badly he needs the answer.

“Will you… come to bed with me?”

You still. The air between you tightens. He can see the caution in your eyes, the trace of a memory of the time before. He hates that he’s the cause of that worry. 

“Steve, I—I don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your lap as you recall his grip on your wrist, the way he shot out the door without so much as an explanation. “Last time, you were so out of it, and I didn’t know what to do, and you—”

“I know,” he interrupts, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth radiating from him. “I know. And I’m sorry—I really am.” His voice wavers, and he takes a shaky breath. He wants to reach for your hand but forces himself to keep still, give you space. 

“But—but it’s not gonna be like that tonight. I’m okay, I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

You search his face, like you’re checking for any sign of doubt. Your gaze wanders over the weariness lining his eyes, the way his shoulders slump, the vulnerability in his expression. 

“...Are you sure?” You ask softly, a thousand questions and concerns pooling behind the simple words.

He’s sure. 

He wouldn’t put you in that kind of danger. 

“Yeah. I just—please.” 

He doesn’t care that it sounds like begging. Right now, he is begging. 

Your eyes dart between his, and you sigh softly. In the low light, he looks worn down—like that earlier nap had only skimmed the surface of whatever’s been dragging him under. 

It doesn’t take long to decide. The fact that he’s asking at all tells you everything. He wouldn’t, not unless he was sure. This isn’t casual. It’s something close to desperate.

“Okay.” Another short pause, your hand still on his forearm. “Okay. Just give me a sec.”

You shift the blanket aside and stand, the couch springs creaking as you move. He rises too, unfolding himself from his crouch. There’s an awkward silence where neither of you speaks. He feels like he should apologise—but where to start, he isn’t quite sure yet.

He extends his hand, fingers itching to hold your own. He leads you down the hall, every step slow. At the threshold of his bedroom, the air cools, and he can feel your hesitation in the slight drag of your feet. It sparks another pang of guilt. 

He nearly drops your hand, ready to say it’s okay, you don’t have to do this. But you tighten your grip, an assurance that you’re choosing to stay.

The bed is still rumpled, blankets half on the floor from where he stormed out. Silently, you both gather them up. You toss one over the mattress, smoothing it down just enough to make room to lie on.

When you finally slip under the covers, he follows, gingerly settling next to you on the mattress. He keeps to his side at first, giving you space.

The moment stretches—two heartbeats, three. 

The tension is palpable, and he regrets getting up in the first place. You turn onto your side, facing him, catching his eyes with your own. They’re wide, and beautiful. 

So fucking beautiful. 

There you go, looking at him like that again 

You look weary, and he bets he does too, so he can blame the sleep when he reaches out. He slips an arm around your waist and waits—just waits. Allowing you to choose how close to him you will get. 

He doesn’t let out his breath until you nestle closer, allowing him to tuck his chin over your head, the long exhale that seems to pour into the darkness. 

“You okay?” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers.

He hopes he will be. 

He senses your small smile, lips curving upward against his jumper, a subtle shift in your posture as you settle down. 

“Get some sleep,” you murmur, reaching curl your arm around his waist, mirroring his position. 

“I will, angel,” he murmurs into your hair. 

He will, but not yet. 

First, he waits for your breathing to slow, for your shoulders to uncoil, for sleep to settle over you. Guilt weighs on him for putting you through this—sleeping beside someone you believe isn’t okay. 

He isn’t, but there’s a sick sixth sense inside him that warns when a night will be rough. Tonight won’t be, though. 

He’s sure of it.

What he’s just done feels like a trial, a test of whether you’d follow him, stay with him. It troubles him the more he thinks about it, but there’s no other way to explain it. 

He needed to know if you would—because if you did, it’d mean you feel for him what he feels for you.

He might be hopeless when it came to saying how he felt—couldn’t talk to his parents, had to be cornered by Robin, nearly let it all slip through his fingers just trying to name what was going on. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it.

Steve felt things—deeply, messily, all at once. Always had. He’d felt this particular emotion before, or thought he had, in flashes: in borrowed bedrooms, first relationships, and soft pink roses. Young and dumb, sticky and sweet, like he saw in the movies. 

But it was never like this. This was bigger than him, something that carried a risk—like most things now did. 

Everything in his life felt more intense now. 

This was no exception. 

He felt it in every part of him. For the first time in years, he was glad he could still feel that much. That he hadn’t gone numb to it.

He held you, a secret he needed to keep. Even if he couldn’t give you every word of it, Steve Harrington knew what this was.

He knew what love felt like.

He’d fallen into it.

He knew better, but he chose to anyway—damned the fallout, and damn the cost.

It meant he could keep you to himself, just a little while longer.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni @everythinghasafacee @irrelevantbutembarrassing @almostfullstarfish @aurora-austen @yourgirlfriennd @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles 

[compil]

i love taking jabs at The Ineffables' horrific communication skills as much as the next guy but i hope you all understand that their piss-poor communication is built upon centuries of having to deny the truth of their relationship and having to take orders from Mega Powerful Organizations that they don't necessarily agree with but could kill them if opposed

all of their interactions until the end of Armageddon't had to be hidden under layers of deception, excuses, and plausible deniability — clandestine meetings at St. James' Park, risking discorporation via guillotine for a lunch date in Paris, "go back to my place" "my side won't like that", not accepting each other's gratitude. the same could be said for anything they did that their head offices don't agree with — doing good deeds because laudanum might not make him accountable for his actions, saving the Earth against heaven's wishes under the guise of thwarting a demon, having sushi to "live like the locals" when really he just likes sushi and interesting restaurants where they know his name. they never learned to be completely honest with each other, or with anyone (including themselves) for that matter.

it's honestly a testament to how strong their connection is that they've grown to trust each other so deeply ("i knew you'd come through for me, you always do" / "i can rely on you and you can rely on me"), given the circumstances. how do you place all your faith in someone despite the fact that you two could only ever whisper half-truths and read between the lines? god i love them

now that the walls are down, they're learning how to voice everything they never could out loud. it's clumsy, and painstaking, and they might cause each other grief along the way, but they'll get the hang of it, little by little

[empressdede]

When He’s Not There

Word count: 6.5k

Warnings: infidelity (idk why I keep writing this trope but don’t drag me😭), fluff, and smut.

To the world, Egypt and Joshua Fatu were just friends. Best friends.

The kind that finished each other’s sentences, laughed a little too loudly at shared jokes, and spent hours talking about nothing.

The kind who were always too comfortable in each other’s presence — too familiar for it to just be a platonic relationship, but never enough for anyone to question their boundaries.

They had always been that way. Always.

Except, somewhere along the line, the lines between “friends” and “something else” had blurred. Neither of them had ever dared to name it, but it was always there.

The way Joshua’s hand brushed hers when they reached for the same thing, and neither of them would pull back.

The way Egypt could find him in any room without looking, their eyes meeting across crowds with a silent understanding.

The way he would show up for her, no questions asked, even when she told him she was fine, even when she pushed him away.

And yet, they were still just friends.

Everyone else believed it, Egypt believed it, too, at least for a while.

But then came Caleb.

Egypt’s boyfriend of two and a half years.

A man who had once made her feel like she was the center of his world.

Caleb had been kind once, attentive, the kind of boyfriend who would surprise her with flowers, listen to her talk about her day, make her feel seen.

But over time, the attentiveness had faded. Their conversations became clipped and strained, their moments of intimacy sparse. Caleb, the man who once filled her world, had become a stranger. And the more Egypt tried to ignore the distance between them, the more it weighed on her heart.

She should’ve left him, she knew that.

She knew it.

But she didn’t.

Because every time Caleb walked out that door, whether for work or whatever excuse he gave, Joshua was always there to fill the void.

He didn’t ask why she and Caleb were distant.

He didn’t push her to explain why she never quite felt alive when she was with Caleb anymore.

He just showed up. And every time, he was exactly what she needed.

But it wasn’t enough to make her leave Caleb. Not yet.

⸻

The night Joshua won his first World Heavyweight Championship at WrestleMania 41 was supposed to be his night.

It was the culmination of years of hard work, sacrifices, and a relentless pursuit of a dream. It should have been a night to celebrate with his brothers, with his fans, with everyone who had ever supported him.

But as he sat in the back of the company’s rental on the way to his hotel room, belt slung over his shoulder, a familiar ache gnawed at him.

He’d been on top of the world just hours before, standing in the ring, hearing the crowd roar his name. And yet, as he ran his fingers over the cold metal of the title, it didn’t feel as fulfilling as he thought it would.

There was still something missing.

Someone missing.

He’d expected Egypt to be there.

He’d expected to feel her excitement, to share the moment with her. After all, she was always there for him. Their friendship had been built on years of unspoken understanding, late-night talks, and shared dreams. He’d expected to text her after the win, expecting her congratulations, her voice.

But he hadn’t heard from her.

He knew the reason.

Tonight was the anniversary of her and Caleb. The day they had been together for three years. He didn’t need to ask; he didn’t need to be told. He just knew. Caleb had her tonight.

And Joshua had no right to ask for anything else.

⸻

Egypt stood by the hotel room window, the cool breeze from the night air brushing against her skin. She had been pacing for hours, unable to shake the feeling that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She had meant to stay home with Caleb, to put on a smile and pretend everything was fine.

But Caleb hadn’t seemed to notice her absence when he left for work. Not like she had hoped.

And Joshua…

Joshua had been on her mind all day. She had sent him a text, wishing him luck, but deep down, she knew she wanted to be there for him, celebrating his victory.

She didn’t know when she had stopped caring so much about Caleb’s presence in her life.

Maybe it had been months, maybe even years, but tonight, on the night of her anniversary with Caleb, Egypt knew the truth. She was tired of pretending.

When the door to the hotel room opened, it was Joshua who stepped inside.

His eyes locked onto her instantly, and a breath caught in his throat. She was there. In his hoodie. Her presence felt like everything he had been missing. But the weight of the moment was not lost on him. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Egypt,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “What are you doing here?” His hand instinctively reached for her, needing to touch her to make sure she was real, to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

She smiled softly, the kind of smile that told him everything he needed to know. “I was only going to celebrate with one person tonight,” she said, her voice steady despite the turbulence swirling inside her. “And it wasn’t going to be Caleb.”

Joshua’s breath caught in his chest. “You left him?” he asked, disbelief mixing with the emotion he couldn’t quite contain.

Egypt nodded slowly, stepping closer to him. “I’ll make it up to him later. I’ll figure out the right words. But tonight… tonight is yours.” She reached up to touch the side of his face, her thumb brushing over his jaw. Her gaze was soft but determined. “I want to be here. With you.”

Joshua stood frozen for a moment, his heart hammering in his chest. She was here. She had chosen him — even if it was only for tonight, for just a moment. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions crashing inside him.

But all he could do was reach out and pull her into him.

His lips found hers with a desperation he hadn’t even known he felt until this moment. He kissed her as if she was the air he’d been starved of. His hands slid down her back, pulling her impossibly closer, feeling the heat of her skin beneath his fingers. It was the first time in a long while he had felt alive.

Egypt kissed him back with a fierceness that matched his own. She needed him, needed this — needed to feel wanted, needed to feel like she wasn’t just another woman in Caleb’s life, waiting for his scraps. She had been waiting for this for far too long, and now, with Joshua, it felt like it was the only thing that made sense.

She broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “I’m scared, Josh,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “I’m scared of what this means. I’m scared of losing everything… losing you…”

Joshua cupped her face in his hands, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. “You won’t lose me,” he said firmly. “But you need to stop pretending. You need to stop lying to yourself. I’m here for you, Egypt. Always.”

She closed her eyes, her heart aching with the weight of his words. “I don’t know how to make this right,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t have to,” Joshua replied, his lips brushing against her forehead. “We’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to go back to him. Not if it means you have to keep pretending.”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer. “I don’t want to pretend anymore,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper.

Joshua kissed her again, slower this time, savoring every second of it. It wasn’t about the victory tonight. It wasn’t about the championship. It was about them. About the way they had always been, about the way their connection had never really gone away, even when they tried to hide it.

Later, in the quiet of the room, tangled in sheets, their bodies intertwined, they didn’t say much. There were no words for the rawness of what they had shared. No words for the guilt, the longing, the inevitability of it all.

Just the sound of their breathing, their hearts beating in sync for the first time in what felt like forever.

In that moment, there was only the here and now. Only Joshua. Only Egypt. And everything else faded away.

Tonight, when he wasn’t there, Joshua had what he had always wanted.

Tonight, Egypt had what she had been longing for.

The sun barely crept through the blackout curtains of Joshua’s hotel suite, casting a soft glow over the crumpled sheets and tangled bodies. Egypt lay nestled against his chest, her cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his breath. For a long time, she didn’t move. She just listened to his heartbeat — slow, strong, safe.

The weight of the night before hovered in the air, thick and unspoken. Her hand was still resting on his chest, her fingers curled lightly around his chain. Joshua had fallen asleep with his arm around her waist, his face buried in her curls like he couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving in the night.

She hadn’t.

She stayed.

Egypt blinked slowly, her lashes brushing against his bare skin. Her heart was heavier than it had been in a long time, but not because she regretted anything. That was the worst part. She didn’t regret last night. Not the way his lips had found hers like a man starved. Not the way he whispered her name like a prayer against her throat. Not the way he looked at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted in his life.

No. She didn’t regret any of that.

What she regretted was going home.

Joshua stirred beside her, exhaling through his nose as his arm pulled her in tighter, unconsciously. His voice came to her, low and rough from sleep.

“You’re still here.”

She smiled, eyes still closed. “You sound surprised.”

“I thought you’d be gone before the sun came up.”

Egypt finally looked up at him, their faces so close their foreheads nearly touched. “I thought about it,” she confessed. “But then I thought… I didn’t want this to be just one night.”

His gaze softened, thumb brushing against her bare hip beneath the sheet. “You stayed,” he repeated, like he was reminding himself it was real.

“I did.”

“Then stay a little longer.”

A silence fell between them. Comfortable, but thick with implication.

“It’s WrestleMania weekend,” she whispered. “You have a million things to do. Interviews. Appearances. Media.”

“I canceled them,” he said simply.

Egypt blinked. “You what?”

“I told them I needed rest. Told them I was celebrating my win in private.” His tone turned almost smug. “They bought it.”

“You’re serious?”

Joshua reached out and tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “If I’m gonna have you, ‘Gyp… even for a little while… I want all of you. I want both days. Not just scraps of time when he’s not paying attention.”

Her throat tightened. “Josh…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just stay.”

Egypt hesitated. She should’ve said no. Should’ve reminded herself that she had an anniversary dinner waiting back in Georgia with a man who probably wouldn’t even notice she was emotionally absent. But that was the thing about Caleb — he didn’t see her anymore. Not the real her. He saw the version of her he wanted to believe was happy. Settled. Easy.

But Joshua saw everything.

She buried her face in his neck and whispered, “Okay.”

Room service arrived around ten. Egypt had slipped into his oversized hoodie, legs bare, hair loose, and eyes still heavy from sleep. Joshua padded over in nothing but sweats, grabbing the tray and tipping the bellman before locking the door again.

“You really canceled everything today?” she asked again, disbelief coloring her voice as she nibbled on a croissant.

He smirked, sitting beside her on the couch and lifting her legs into his lap. “I told you. If I’m selfish enough to take what I want, I’m gonna be selfish enough to keep it.”

“That’s dangerous talk,” she teased, sipping her coffee.

“Maybe,” he murmured, eyes trailing across her face. “But I’ve been waiting years to have you like this. I’m not letting go that easy.”

Egypt looked away, her heart stumbling over itself. “You always waited,” she said quietly. “Even when I didn’t see it. Even when I chose him.”

Joshua didn’t respond right away. He reached for a strawberry, then brought it to her lips. “I waited because I love you. Even if it took years. Even if I had to watch you play happy with someone else.”

She looked down at his hand, her lips brushing against the berry as she bit into it. “That’s not fair to you.”

“It wasn’t fair to you either,” he replied. “You deserve more than cold dinners and empty promises.”

A silence stretched between them, and for a moment, all Egypt could hear was the buzz of the city below them. Her fingers found his again.

“Do you remember the night we first met?”

Joshua smiled. “How could I forget? You spilled wine on my brand-new sneakers.”

“You were so dramatic about it.”

“I was trying to impress you.”

“You did,” she admitted.

He looked at her, surprised. “I did?”

“You were real. You never played a part. You never tried to be what I wanted. You were just… you.”

“Still am,” he said gently. “Still yours. If you want me.”

Her breath hitched.

Egypt didn’t leave that day. Or the next. She canceled her flight home. Claimed she caught a cold and didn’t want to get Caleb sick. It was a flimsy lie, but it bought her more time.

And Joshua?

Joshua made good on his promise.

They didn’t leave the room. They ordered takeout, watched old matches, laughed like kids, made love like the world was ending.

The second night felt different than the first. Slower. More intentional. Like they were savoring the moments, knowing they might not get another one.

As Egypt lay on top of him, her hair spread across his chest, she whispered, “What happens when I go back?”

He was quiet.

“I mean it,” she said. “What happens when I walk back into that house and pretend like none of this happened?”

Joshua turned his head, eyes burning into hers. “You’ll pretend. Because that’s what you’ve been doing for two and a half years. But I won’t.”

She swallowed hard. “Josh…”

“I’ll wait again, if I have to. I’ll wait in silence. In shadows. But I won’t let go.”

“Even if I can’t choose you right away?”

He nodded. “Even if you never do. I had you for two days. And I’ll live on that if I have to. But I’m never letting go again, Egypt. Not in here.” He tapped his chest.

Her heart cracked open.

⸻

The Morning After WrestleMania Weekend, Egypt stood at the window, watching the sun rise. Her bags were packed. She was leaving this time. She had to.

Joshua came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You don’t have to say goodbye.”

“I do,” she whispered.

“But not forever,” he said.

She turned to face him. “Tell me this wasn’t a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Tell me you’ll still be there.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She pressed her forehead to his. “Then tell me one more time.”

“I love you.”

Egypt kissed him like she wanted to freeze time. When she finally pulled away, her voice trembled. “I love you too.”

⸻

When Egypt got back home, Caleb was already on the phone when she walked in. He barely glanced at her, offering a distracted, “Hey babe.”

Egypt stood in the doorway for a long moment, her heart heavy but her soul light.

He didn’t ask about the trip. Didn’t ask if she missed him. He just went on with his call, business as usual.

Egypt watched him, a strange calm settling over her.

Because now, she knew.

Even if she stayed a little longer, her heart wasn’t here anymore.

It was with Joshua.

And even if the world never knew…

She had finally found something real.

The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly in Joshua’s mind, days after WrestleMania 41. His body still ached from the toll of the match, and his championship title sat heavy in his duffle bag, but his thoughts… they weren’t on victory.

They were on her.

Egypt.

He replayed the weekend on an endless loop—the look in her eyes when she walked into his hotel room, the trembling way her hands had found his after she closed the door behind her, the way her mouth had whispered “I love you” between every desperate kiss. And the sound of her laughter the next morning, tangled beneath the sheets, unapologetically his for just a little while.

He was supposed to return to media rounds. WWE had rescheduled a major interview after he skipped the original one to spend another day with her. Selfish, maybe. But after waiting a couple months—years, if we’re truly being honest—to have her in his arms like that, he wasn’t giving up a single minute.

He remembered her sleepy voice that second morning, head resting on his chest as she muttered, “You’re not going to get in trouble for this?”

He had only smiled, brushing his fingers through her curls. “I’d miss a whole damn press tour if it meant keeping you here another night.”

Joshua knew it was temporary—hell, Egypt did too. But he didn’t care. He wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t want more, didn’t want her permanently. But if secret moments were all he could have, he’d make every one of them count.

Still, life moved on.

By mid-week, he was back under the harsh studio lights, answering questions with his usual charm, smiling for cameras, and tossing the weight of the world title over his shoulder like he’d been carrying it his whole life.

But beneath it all, a countdown ticked in his head.

April 29th.

Her birthday.

He remembered once, three years ago, when she joked that no one ever really made a big deal out of her birthday. That she always played it down. That Caleb “wasn’t the type to go all out.” And Joshua remembered the way she had looked away when she said it. Like it didn’t bother her. But it did.

And this year, she deserved more. She had sacrificed her own anniversary to celebrate his win. She had risked everything to be with him, even if just for a weekend.

He wouldn’t let the day slip by.

He wouldn’t let her forget that someone in this world saw her.

⸻

The sun crept through Egypt’s bedroom blinds in slanted beams of orange and gold. Morning arrived slowly. She lay still, listening to Caleb’s usual routine—the rustling of his suit jacket, the creak of his closet door, the clink of his coffee mug on the kitchen counter. Same as always.

Predictable. Distant.

Her eyes drifted to the dresser where a small glass vase sat, holding five roses. A card leaned beside it. Hallmark. Printed words. His signature scribbled without a note.

She read it once and left it unopened after that.

No “I love you.”

No “Happy birthday, baby.”

Just… “– Caleb.”

She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around her chest and blinking against the light. She didn’t cry. She wasn’t even angry. There was just that dull ache again—the one that never really left.

He left for work without a kiss, like always. Egypt stood at the window, arms crossed as she watched his car back out of the driveway. And then he was gone.

And she was… free.

Free to breathe. Free to feel. Free to smile without forcing it.

Her phone buzzed. She already knew who it was.

Lani: Happy Birthday, queen! Brunch at our spot in an hour. I’m not taking no for an answer.

Egypt smiled faintly, typing back.

Egypt: On my way. No Caleb today. Just me.

Lani: Even better.

⸻

Brunch was perfect. Lani always made her laugh. There were mimosas and French toast with strawberries, a little too much syrup, and stories loud enough to make the waitress raise a brow twice. They talked about old times, high school messiness, Lani’s new situationship, and the one-night stand Egypt pretended didn’t count in college.

“You’ve got that glow,” Lani said halfway through their second drink. “Don’t try to lie.”

“I do not.”

“You do. Don’t make me guess—”

“Lani.”

Lani leaned in. “You saw him again, didn’t you? Joshua?”

Egypt didn’t answer. But her smile gave her away.

“You’re in deep,” Lani whispered.

Egypt stirred her drink slowly. “He won the championship… and I couldn’t not be there. Caleb didn’t even care. And for once, I wanted to be selfish.”

“Was it everything you thought it’d be?”

“It was more.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.”

Lani didn’t push. She didn’t have to. Egypt’s silence said it all.

⸻

That evening, Egypt returned home alone. Caleb was working late again, supposedly. She stepped out of her heels, peeled off her earrings, and started toward the kitchen to pour a glass of wine.

But when she turned the corner—

Her breath caught.

Candlelight flickered softly across the living room. Roses—dozens of them, red and white—lined the floor in a winding path. And there in the center of it all stood him.

Joshua.

Black t-shirt. Fitted jeans. A single rose in hand.

“Happy birthday,” he said, voice low.

Egypt froze.

“How… how did you—?”

“Lani might’ve helped.” He smirked. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” she breathed. “I’m… I don’t know what I am.”

He stepped toward her, pressing the rose into her hands. “You’re the birthday girl. And I told myself I wasn’t going to let today pass without showing you how much you mean to me.”

She looked around—candles, petals, a small table set for two in the corner.

“You did all this?”

He nodded. “You gave me a night I’ll never forget. I wanted to give you one too.”

Egypt swallowed hard, heart fluttering in her chest. “What about Caleb?”

“I didn’t ask about Caleb.”

That earned a laugh from her—soft, tired, but real.

“I made dinner,” he added, guiding her toward the table. “Well… I had it made. But I plated it, so that counts, right?”

She sat, hand still gripping the rose. “This is… incredible.”

He sat across from her, eyes never leaving hers. “You deserve it.”

Dinner melted into music and soft conversation. They ate slowly, savoring more than just the food. Every glance, every brush of fingers across the table, was layered with a history only they understood. They had years of friendship behind them. Years of “almosts” and “what ifs.”

Now they were here. And it was all real.

After the last bite, Egypt pushed her plate aside. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“Good.”

“Joshua…”

“I mean it.” He stood, walking to her side. “I meant every ‘I love you’ that night. I meant every kiss.”

She leaned back to look up at him. “It’s not that simple.”

He knelt in front of her, taking her hands. “I know. But I’m not asking for anything tonight. No promises. No plans. Just let me give you this.”

Her lips trembled. “I’m scared of what I feel for you.”

“I’m not.”

She closed her eyes as he kissed her knuckles. “You make me feel like I matter.”

“You do,” he whispered. “To me, you always have.”

And then he stood, pulling her gently to her feet.

“Dance with me.”

“There’s no music.”

“We don’t need any.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, and she leaned into him like she always did—like her body remembered what her mind tried to forget. And they moved slowly, swaying in the soft candlelight, her head against his chest.

“I wish this wasn’t temporary,” she murmured.

Joshua didn’t speak at first. But when he did, it was a vow only she could hear.

“Even if it’s a secret. Even if it’s wrong. I’ll never let you go again.”

And Egypt, with her eyes closed, heart aching and full all at once, knew she didn’t want him to.

Not anymore.

The lights were dimmed low in Egypt’s house, the faint glow of vanilla-scented candles flickering softly from the dresser and nightstand. Outside, the quiet hum of the late April night carried a spring warmth that seeped through the cracked window, brushing against the gauzy curtains like a whisper. Inside, the air was thick — not just with the scent of roses Caleb had barely acknowledged her with earlier, but with the presence of someone who had always been more than just a friend.

Joshua was seated at the foot of her bed, his broad shoulders hunched forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees. His eyes followed her as she moved around the room, her movements slow and deliberate — not teasing, not hesitant, just… sure. Sure in a way she hadn’t been in a long time. Her dress was still on, the silky black fabric hugging her frame in a way that made it hard for him to look away, and impossible to forget.

“I still can’t believe you showed up tonight,” she said softly, turning to face him with her arms crossed, not out of defensiveness, but to hold herself together. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

Joshua looked up at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “Yeah, I did.”

She gave him a soft, almost embarrassed smile. “Why?”

His voice came out quieter than expected, but heavy with emotion. “Because you gave me your anniversary night. You should’ve been with him… but you chose me. I’m not about to let that go unnoticed. Egypt, I’ve wanted to be the man you come home to for years.”

Her breath caught, and she blinked — not out of surprise, but out of knowing. Deep down, she always knew Joshua felt something for her. She had seen it in the lingering stares, heard it in the warmth of his voice when they talked, felt it in the gentle way he touched her lower back when they hugged. And truth be told, she had longed for those moments far more than she had ever admitted — even to herself.

“You always loved me better than he did,” she whispered, finally saying the words that had been echoing in her head for months now.

“I still do,” Joshua replied. “Even if it’s wrong to everyone else… even if I’m not supposed to — I do.”

Egypt crossed the room slowly, stopping when she stood between his knees. Her hands reached for his face, thumbs brushing along the scruff lining his jaw. “Then be with me tonight,” she said. “Not just like before. Really be with me. In here.”

Joshua swallowed hard, eyes holding hers with that silent storm he always carried. “You sure?”

Her nod was small, but steady. “I’m tired of pretending. Tired of coming home to a man who doesn’t see me… who doesn’t even try to. Tired of fighting myself over you. This is what I want.”

His hands found her waist and guided her gently onto his lap. She settled against him with a soft exhale, her forehead resting against his. The world outside those four walls didn’t exist anymore. There was no Caleb. No WWE. No guilt. Just her and the man who had always looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Their lips met with the kind of hunger that came from years of holding back. The kiss was slow at first — tender and reverent — but it quickly deepened, igniting the fire they both knew too well. His hands moved up her back, hers tangled in his hair, and together they lost themselves in that moment. No questions. No apologies. Just truth in every touch.

Joshua lifted her gently and carried her to the bed. She felt weightless in his arms, and somehow, like she was finally home. He laid her down carefully, eyes never leaving hers, and when he joined her, it was like something in both of them clicked into place.

The air became charged between the two, the feelings the two had for each other has overflowed and they stared to pour it out into each other.

Jey’s hands trailed up her thighs as he kissed her, caressing her skin like it was the most precious thing he’s ever put his hands on, and to him she was.

His index finger rubbing her lips through her panties, feeling the wet spot that has been pooling since she first seen in her living room and without any warning, he pushed her panties to the side and slid his fingers inside.

The gasp that left her lips, gave him the advantage of pushing his tongue into her mouth to really taste her. Egypt was something he could have forever if she would let him.

His fingers twisted as he pushed them in and out of her, causing her to cry out and grip onto his shirt as she whispered his name out as a plea.

"Feel good baby?" Jey mutters, and Egypt could only answer with a moan, rocking her herself against his fingers.

Jey pulls back just a bit to watch her, Egypt’s curly hair sprawled out on the sheets, sweat forming on her forehead as she kept her eyes on him, but they weren’t focused. No, she was losing herself in the pleasure that he was bringing her just through his fingers.

“Josh, please.” She begs, and a small smirk forms on his face because he knows he’s the only person who gets to see her like this.

"Damn ‘Gypt," He mumbled, eyes trailing over her face before locking with her low glossy eyes. A smirk spread across his face as he twisted his fingers again, "You getting close baby?"

She nodded her head eagerly, moaning out softly as her stomach tightened up. "So close," She whimpered, keeping her eyes on his as she continued riding his fingers, matching his pace. "Ooo-baby."

He wrapped his right hand around her throat and gently squeezed as he sped up the pace of his fingers, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. "Ride my fingers till you cum baby, get yo nut."

She responded by rocking her hips faster to match the pace of his fingers moaning louder as she felt her orgasm slowly sneaking up on her. The pleasure was felt throughout her body and he could tell she was right at the edge as he curled his fingers in a 'come here' motion, pushing her right where she needed to go, watching her downfall.

"Ohmyg—Josh." She panted as her eyes rolled back, her back arching of the bed, releasing all over his fingers. She slid her arms around his neck and held him closely, letting the pleasure subside on its own. "Shit."

And Josh couldn’t stop the possessiveness that took over in the moment. Egypt had told him she was tired of pretending and so was he, so he was going to take advantage of the situation to the fullest.

"Turn around for me pretty girl." Josh muttered out to her, and he only stepped back to undress himself and Egypt wanted to do what he told her but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from him.

Tribal tattoos on his caramel glazed skin that looked so pretty in the moonlight. Egypt didn’t even notice that Joshua was fully undressed, not until he walked back to the bed.

He didn’t even give her a chance, he just turned her around and flipped her onto her stomach. She automatically assumed the position and Josh bit his lip at his at her deep arch and shook his head, rubbing his top against her clit. She was so fine and seeing her like this made made him brick hard. "Finna give you something to really celebrate."

Her clit throbbed from his words and she gripped the sheets to prepare for his insertion. But nothing could've prepared her for what was next as curse words left her mouth as he entered her slowly, completely stretching her out and filling her up.

"Oh my fucking God-" She gasped breaking her arch a little but he quickly pushed her back down, holding her in place as he thrusted slowly until she relaxed and let him all the way in.

"There you go, let me in." He cooed

Egypt’s moaned filled the air as her he began speeding up, pushing every inch into her as he started to blow her back out. He watched as she moved up slightly every time he pushed all the way inside of her, chuckling. He moved his hands back to her waist and pulled her closer to him fucking her harder.

“You leaving him for good baby?” He asked, eyes focused on where they entangled together.

Her cream looked delicious on his dick as he pushed it back on her. “It’s gon be me and you from now on right?” He questions but she could barely hear him over her moaning and the sounds of their skin clapping together.

Egypt's moaned filled the air as her he began speeding up, pushing every inch into her as he started to blow her back out. He watched as she moved up slightly every time he pushed all the way inside of her, chuckling. He moved his hands back to her waist and pulled her closer to him fucking her harder.

"What you say?"

Egypt cried out and gripped the sheets so hard it came off the bed. He pushed his thumbs into her back dimples and slowed down his pace, pushing deeper.

She buried her face into the bed and screamed.

"Huh I can't hear you?" He asked, leaning forward to see her face as he continued fucking her, slapping her ass. "You done with him baby?"

“YesYesYes baby, m’done with him, I promise.” Egypt cries out, her hand reaching out to push back at his stomach and the only thing Josh did was grab her hand and intertwined their fingers together.

What happened between them next wasn’t just sex — it was the culmination of all the nights they couldn’t, all the times they’d said goodbye when they didn’t want to. He worshipped her like he had been waiting his entire life for this night. And she loved him back with the kind of vulnerability that came from finally choosing the thing she was most afraid of losing.

“I love you,” she breathed out as he poked her spot, her walls squeezing against him to warn him that she was close.

Joshua paused, eyes meeting hers again. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

He kissed her again, slowing his pace this time. “I swear to God, Egypt… nobody is taking you from me again. I don’t care if I have to fight him tooth and nail.”

Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. She smiled instead, one hand clutching the sheets in euphoria. “You won’t have to.” She breathed out before letting out a quiet moan.

“I know baby, let go for me. I gotchu.”

And Egypt’s eyes rolled to the back of her head as she cried out Josh’s name as she came all over him.

And Joshua didn’t stop, kept pushing into her until he felt himself twitch and he released himself inside of her.

“I love you.” Josh whispered back to reciprocate her declaration of love.

“And I’m serious, I want you Josh.”

And she meant it.

They fell asleep tangled in each other’s arms, the sheets warm around them, the scent of sex and satisfaction lingering in the air. The morning sun crept in through the curtains, but neither stirred. Not right away.

When Egypt finally opened her eyes, the guilt didn’t rush in like it used to. Instead, it was clarity. A quiet knowing. She turned her head and found Joshua already awake, watching her.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she smiled sleepily.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “More than okay.”

They laid in silence for a few minutes, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

“I should feel bad,” she whispered, “but I don’t. I thought I would… but I don’t.”

Joshua brushed his fingers down her spine. “You gave too much of yourself to someone who stopped appreciating it. You’re not wrong for wanting more.”

She swallowed. “I think I’m ready to stop hiding.”

He looked at her carefully. “Even if it means losing everything else?”

Egypt turned fully toward him now, brushing her knuckles along his jaw. “What I had with Caleb wasn’t real anymore. What we have… is. That’s worth the risk.”

Joshua didn’t speak right away. He just pulled her closer, kissed her deeply, and let that promise linger in the air between them.

Later that morning, after another slow round of kisses and whispered laughter, Egypt finally got out of bed and padded softly to the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, brushing her fingers through her hair, taking in the faint blush in her cheeks and the contentment in her eyes.

This was her truth now.

She stepped back into the bedroom to find Joshua scrolling through his phone, bare-chested and comfortable like he belonged there — because he did.

“I gotta head out in a bit,” he said, voice thick with reluctance. “They want me to redo the interview I canceled.”

Egypt leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You gonna talk about the title?”

Joshua smirked. “I’ll talk about the win. But I’ll be thinking about this.”

Her lips quirked. “Smooth.”

“I’m serious. WrestleMania was huge, but you showing up at my hotel room that night… that was everything.”

She walked over and kissed his forehead. “Go be a star. I’ll be here.”

As he left, Egypt stood by the door for a long while, her fingers resting lightly over her lips, heart already aching for him. But this ache… it wasn’t the same empty kind she felt every day with Caleb. This ache was full of love. Full of hope.

She didn’t know how everything was going to unfold, didn’t know how long they could keep this quiet — or if they even should — but one thing was certain.

Joshua wasn’t just a friend anymore. He was hers. And she was his.

Finally.

Omg this story actually whooped my ass😭 I hope you guys like this.

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[shizuturnspages]

I feel a little silly for this one, but could you do Wriothesley and Diluc + whoever you want to add with a Hu Tao-like reader? Like they have the same occupation and responsibilities, just in a different nation. Maybe they’re even actually know and are close friends with Hu Tao herself both from having a similar line of work and vibing with each other’s humour and whatnot.

Where the Living Meet the Dead

Synopsis: You’ve always joked that you’re married to death. Some people find that creepy. Others find it fascinating. But you? You just find it funny. Death is part of the cycle, and you—like your dear friend Hu Tao—are just the bridge between. You’ve always been good at guiding souls, easing grieving families, and organising the most beautiful, reverent funeral rites this side of Teyvat. But let’s be honest: you’re also way too hot and charismatic for your line of work. Your playful teasing, your love for macabre jokes, your ability to go from grinning about coffins to whispering ancient incantations—it leaves people off-kilter. And sometimes… dangerously curious. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Wriothesley, Diluc, Zhongli x Hu Tao-like Reader

Wriothesley — Fontaine’s Cold-Blooded Protector

You weren’t even supposed to be in Fontaine for long—just helping transfer a drowned spirit from a sunken ruin up to the surface so it could find peace. A quiet, respectful job.

But of course, someone just had to throw a wrench in that.

Wriothesley catches sight of you in the Fortress of Meropide—chatting casually with Sigewinne about embalming practices while swinging your legs on a medical bed. He’s halfway through dismissing you as another oddball when you grin at him, tilt your head, and say:

"You smell like metal and loneliness. Bet the souls here love following you around."

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

You only laugh. "I can feel them, you know. All the ghosts that cling to this place? One’s staring at you right now. Right behind your left shoulder." You give a cheeky wave. "Hi, old man."

Wriothesley doesn’t sleep that night.

You become something of a fascination. You’re unnervingly accurate, playful with the guards, and you make the inmates nervous. But the worst part?

You're beautiful when you're focused. Quiet when you're guiding a lost soul. You make death seem sacred, something only you can touch.

And he wants in. Not just your company—he wants to understand you. Consume you. Break past that teasing mask and keep you underneath where no one else can look at you.

He starts appearing at your side. Escorting you through the fortress. Asking “innocent” questions.

"Tell me… if I died, would you handle my body too?"

You raise a brow. "Only if you ask nicely."

He’s obsessed before he knows it.

Diluc — Mondstadt’s Brooding Flame

You’d met him years ago, briefly, when you helped bury an old knight from the Dawn Winery’s private guard. You remember him because he scowled the whole time and refused to laugh at your joke about being six feet under.

So when you return to Mondstadt on business and waltz into Angel’s Share like a gust of wind in funeral robes, Diluc does a double take.

"Still morbid, I see," he mutters.

"Still emotionally constipated, I see," you chirp back.

But something’s changed. You’ve grown more alluring. More enigmatic. You wear black lace and gold rings shaped like skulls. You tilt your head when people lie. And worst of all?

You never stay.

Diluc doesn’t get you. You make the worst jokes about death, but then cry when no one sees. You flirt without meaning it—or maybe you do, and it drives him insane trying to figure you out.

He watches you light incense for the dead, how you kneel with reverence and pray even for strangers. It unsettles him, how easily you flip from silly to sacred. Like you're more spirit than flesh.

And when you leave Mondstadt again? He burns every letter you ever sent him—but memorises the words.

"If you ever die, Diluc," you once teased, "I’ll make sure your grave’s haunted. Just for fun."

Now? He dreams of it. Of your fingers closing his eyes, of being buried under your care.

Better yet… why not make you stay? Why not keep you in the Winery—where the dead rest and no one would ever disturb you?

Alive or otherwise.

Zhongli — Liyue’s Ancient God of Contracts

Unlike the others, Zhongli understands you immediately. Maybe too well.

When you first met, it was over tea with Hu Tao. She introduced you as "my adorable death twin from overseas!"

Zhongli had simply bowed and said, "The scent of spirits clings to you. Yours is a quiet strength. A familiar one."

You liked him instantly. You traded poems about death, discussed old funerary rites long since forgotten, and sometimes, you walked together through Liyue Harbour at dusk—silent, contemplative.

He sees the mask you wear. He sees the age in your eyes, the sadness behind your wit. You remind him of ghosts not yet gone—especially when you smile like you���re trying not to cry.

You think you’re mysterious. Untouchable.

But Zhongli is a god. He’s buried empires.

And you?

You are the first mortal he’s ever feared losing.

He begins suggesting contracts. Ritual bindings. Small “favours” to tie your work to Liyue. You laugh it off.

But he’s serious.

He would preserve you in amber if he could. Immortalise your spirit. Make sure the only death you ever see again is the one you guide others through.

You, at the Centre of it All

You return home after another long journey and find gifts.

A sealed tea box from Zhongli—death-scented, with a note: “A reminder that some things should linger.”

A red wine bottle from Diluc with no tag—but you can feel the heat in your palms as you touch it.

A cold metal bracelet, Wriothesley’s insignia engraved inside. How it got to your bedside, you don’t know.

You laugh to yourself.

The dead may follow you, but the living…

They’re much more terrifying.

[rivereverie]

Astarion and Learned Cruelty

Spoilers for all of Astarion’s story through all acts of BG3. As always, this is all just my interpretation of the character. Feel free to disagree. 

I love the writing choice to make Astarion genuinely immoral at first. They could have easily pulled the overdone trope of "I only pretend to be evil because I'm traumatized. I'm really just a sad little guy who wouldn’t hurt anyone". Now I do believe his behavior is a direct result of his trauma, but I'll get to that in a minute. The point is that he does genuinely relish in violence, although his actions will be swayed by whichever moral direction the player decides to go. But he does enjoy combat, spilling blood, and even some more cruel and unusual things. However, what makes this so compelling and narratively rich is that this is a learned mindset.

I think that a lot of people don't acknowledge that going into act 1, Astarion has just come out of a situation where he was quite literally forced to participate in horrific crimes, with severe consequences if he refused. That absolutely does not excuse the fact that he's okay with if not outright enthusiastic about murder, but we do see that he was not always this way (e.g., he tried at least once to let a target go because he couldn't bring himself to take them to Cazador). I just think it's worth acknowledging that that mindset was the product of centuries of torment and active overt and covert conditioning. He became who Cazador wanted him to be; who he had to be in order to survive. Astarion and Karlach are two sides of a coin in this regard, in that they represent opposite responses to trauma and loss of autonomy. Karlach was forced into martial servitude, which in my opinion explains why she's still kind of bloodthirsty even though she's such a good and kind person bent on protecting others. She's shaped by the role she was forced into, and it's the same with Astarion. Again, not to say he isn't morally dubious, but there's a big difference between someone evil and someone who was never allowed to be "good" suddenly being thrust back into freedom and forced to figure things out.

To a degree, I do also think that his over-the-top declarations of his love for violence are another piece of his mask. Just like with his feigned hedonism and sexual forwardness, he's trying to hold power over people by controlling their perception of him (as well as his own self-perception). He's holding a big sign that says "I'm selfish and evil, and you shouldn't like me unless you are too", when really he's not anywhere near as selfish and evil as he pretends to be. He does this in part to keep people at arm's length, but also to convince himself; to craft his own reality wherein he is the person he needs to be to get through this situation. His worldview has been warped to see domination and control as synonymous with strength, and so he's being strong in the way he knows how. As the story progresses with a good player on his side, he's beginning to learn how to be something better. And that's why it takes time: because he's unlearning 200 years of conditioning and survival instincts.

It's worth talking about that it's not unheard of for abusers to force victims to participate in the abuse of others. I think that representing that experience in this game is important and valuable. We should all walk the line between holding these kinds of survivors accountable for what is appropriate, and to offer them oceans of understanding and empathy for them over what they were forced into. Even if Astarion weren't magically forced to do Cazador's bidding, I hope that we all could still understand the power that abusers hold over their victims, empathize with him, and see that those actions were an extension of Cazador, not himself.

Official D&D definitions of "evil" aside, I don't think he's ever truly evil unless he goes down the evil route with the player and/or ascends (Ascended Astarion is a whole other can of worms I’m not going to get into in this post). By the end of the spawn storyline, Astarion does have a lot more concern and care for others, and most importantly, he takes responsibility. To me, that shows profound strength and goodness. He's never a saint, but in my opinion he's never really evil, either. He's still learning how to live in a world where he doesn't need to be cruel in order to survive. 

Concerning the early access backstory about him being a "corrupt magistrate", it's up to the individual how to headcanon that information. Personally, I think he was probably a little self-interested, but not evil by any means. I think he was probably just a pretty normal person before Cazador, not predisposed to cruelty.

In summary, I think it’s important to talk about what makes people “bad”, especially in the context of the cycle of abuse and victimization. In Astarion’s case, much of his taste for cruelty came from implicit conditioning over his years of being forced to hurt others. There are a number of lines from him during the dungeon/crypt sequence where he keeps insisting, defensively and desperately, that he didn’t have a choice in bringing victims back to Cazador. That it was all on his orders and he couldn’t say no. This might come across to some as him trying to shirk blame, but the thing is… he’s right. He didn't have a choice, other than death, but I think Cazador would deny him even that. He wanted to make his spawn into obedient tools, but also to break them. To make them an extension of his own monstrous cruelty. But in the end, Astarion takes responsibility as best he can, and begins to forgive himself for being a part of Cazador’s evil. This is part of what makes the line “I am so much more than what you made me” so powerful.

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

SKZ DRABBLE-OT8

The one where maybe a period doesn't actually have to be the end of the sentence. or The Twenty Eighth Installment of the SKZ!Pack Prequel Series.

Tags: Skz, Stray Kids, Stay, SKZ!pack, ABO, Omegaverse, Skz!Pack prequel, Pack!prequel, ot8, skz x you, skz x reader, femreader, ot8 x you, ot8 x reader, bang chan, lee minho, seo changbin, han jisung, kim seungmin, yang jeongin, lee felix, hwang hyunjin, y/n, skz imagines, skz reactions, skz scenarios, skz abo, skz fluff, skz angst, skz smut

Genre: Angst, LOTS of Fluff, Suggestive, Light Smut

Warnings: Blood, Periods, Periods, Periods. If you don't like talk of menses, this one probably isn't for you. Period Sex, Blood Play, Blood as Lube, Mentions of Abortion, Unhealthy views of menstrual cycles

Title: End of a Sentence

“You look like shit.”

You barely raise your head from where it rests on your forearms at Hwasa’s observation, hearing the rustle as she slides into the seat beside you at the back of the lecture hall. 

“Yeah, well-” You mutter out, turning your head slightly so you can narrow her in your field of vision, the movement making your headache pound behind one of your eyes. “-I feel like shit.” 

She leans on her elbows on the desk, lowering herself so she can scan her gaze over your face, her dark hair falling over the shoulder of the fluffy faux coat she currently wears. 

A wave of lavender washes over you at the movement.

“What’s going on with you? Pre-rut?” She asks in a lower voice, her dark eyes flicking between your own, full lips pulled into a hint of a worried line. 

You shake your head. “Worse.” She stares at you for a moment, and then you see something akin to regretful acknowledgement flash across her gaze.

She sighs. “Ah, shit.” 

You nod, keeping the movement jilted to stop from worsening your headache. “Yep.” She sits back in her chair, blowing out a breath, the perfect dark eyeliner-reminiscent of cat eyes-framing her lashes wrinkling a little as she narrows her gaze, pursing her lips in thought. 

“I mean, you’re in a pack now, does it help at all?” She finally queries, glancing back over to where you still lay slumped over the desk like some sort of victorian plague victim. 

You groan, pushing yourself up to a somewhat sitting position, and ignore the protests of your body as you do so, the pull of the sharp cramps tightening around your midsection, making your pubic bone ache. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t told them.” 

Hwasa’s gaze sharpens on your own, disapproval washing over her pretty features and leaking into her tone when she speaks. “What? But you guys have been together long enough to have this happen several times now, right?” 

You give a little shrug. “Well, yeah, but I don’t hang around them during that time of the month. I give excuses, and crawl into my bed and die for a week, and then when it’s over, I drag my ass back to life and no one is none the wiser.” 

Hwasa crosses her arms over her chest, sharp, pointed nails ticking across the arms of her coat as she stares at you. 

You feel your hackles rise under her gaze. “What?” 

She sighs, long and heavy, like you’re a disappointing child, and retorts, “You need to tell them. They could help you through it, like a rut. Trust me, it’ll be better for everyone.” 

“It’s gross and personal-” You protest right back, already feeling your cheeks heat at the thought of having to talk to the pack-made up entirely of males-and explain to them why you’re out of commission for a week out of the month. “-they’re not gonna understand.” 

She scoffs at that. “Please, you’re all adults, and if they’re not ready to deal with a little bit of period shit, then they have no right to be in your life in the first place.” 

“It’s easier said than done-” You whine, putting your forehead in your palms and staring at the chipped surface of the desk. Someone has drawn a crude pen rendition of what looks like a penis just below your notebook. 

“(Y/N).” Hwasa says your name sternly, and when you don’t look at her, she leans over and loops her fingers around your wrist, causing you to meet her gaze. She fixes you with a firm look. “They’re in college, I’m sure they’ve had the talk a long time ago and know about female anatomy, okay? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

You groan, but she stops you from tugging your gaze away from hers once more. 

“Honey.” She sighs, and her fingers loosen around your wrist a bit, her voice going softer, her expression growing sympathetic. “I know from our time together, and all our years of friendship since, that your ‘time of the month’ if we’re being delicate, is a lot worse than what’s considered normal. So please, just let them in. They might be able to help and it might save you some misery in the long run.” 

You make another little groaning sound, but the headache behind your eyes is pounding and the cramping is only getting worse, so in the end, you acquiesce, at least to just stop talking about it for the moment. 

“Okay.” You sigh and give her the hint of a tight smile. “I’ll talk to them.” 

*****

“They’re getting worse.” You told your mother, standing in front of the bathroom sink, hands braced on the cold tile, staring at your pale reflection in the mirror. 

She had put her hand on your mid back, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “It’s the change. Presenting always affects women differently and more dramatically than men.” 

“I don’t want it.” You had cried, already doubled over from the cramps, tears streaming down your cheeks. 

It was unfair, cruel even, and in that moment, you’d wanted to disappear, cease to exist, sink into the floor. 

“It’s not a choice.” Your mother whispered, pressing kisses to the top of your head. “Women were chosen to suffer, and it is simply something we must endure. In turn, when you are older, the ability to create life will be yours.” 

You’d thought that sounded awful in the moment, but didn’t say anything, and determined to follow in your mother’s footsteps, suffered in silence. 

*******

It was awful, you decided, to be cursed with such a fate. 

Awful in the fact that you could do nothing but curl in your bed and wait for the pains to subside. 

Awful that blood stained your hands and thighs and the floor of the shower when you stood beneath the stream of the water, wanting to be clean for just one single moment, but denied the pleasure, a constant reminder.

Awful that no one knew, no one wanted to know. 

Awful in the way that he looked at you, like you were some sort of disgusting creature, base and dirty and unworthy. 

Awful, awful, awful. 

It was raining, drops pelting the window, wind howling, when he came to stand in the doorway of your darkened room, dressed to go out. 

Sitting up, you had begged him not to go. 

He had simply waved you off, already pulling on his coat. “I don’t have time to sit around with you while you go through whatever this is. Other girls I’ve been with managed to take care of themselves still, get dressed, accompany me, all while this went on.” His lips curved into a sneer as he stared at you, huddled on the bed, bent over from the agony. “At least shower, for god’s sake, put a little effort into yourself for my sake.” 

He’d gone out, leaving you alone, and you decided at that moment that it was better to suffer alone, than suffer under the scathing gaze of someone else. 

*****

At eighteen, you realized your mother had lied to you. 

She’d told you creating life was a gift, a blessing, given to adults. 

The positive test sitting in the shaking palm of your hand said otherwise, a blatant lie bathed in stark pink lines. 

There wasn’t an option, not now. 

It was raining again, when you took the bus to the clinic by yourself. 

It was raining when you went home, alone. 

Raining when you laid curled up on the bathtub floor. 

Raining, raining, raining. 

Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. 

Awful, awful, awful. 

******

You’re sitting in your bed, curled up against the wall, heating pad held tightly over your midsection, trying to distract yourself with scrolling on your phone, when there’s a knock at the door. 

Heaving yourself up, groaning slightly as it jostles your body and worsens the agonizing cramping, you practically double over as you walk to the door, reaching for the handle. 

On the other side is Hyunjin, flanked by Felix and Jeongin. 

You straighten a little, surprise flickering across your face as you see the omegas standing in the hall of the alpha dorm like they belong here. 

“Oh. Hey.” You manage to get out, palm splayed flat on the heating pad to keep it in place as you stand, leaning against the door. “What are you guys doing here?” 

Hyunjin gives you the sassiest, most annoyed look you think you’ve seen in awhile. 

“Please, like we were gonna sit and let you suffer alone after all you told us in that message?” He sniffs, looking you up and down. “Not very personable by the way, you couldn’t have told us in person?” 

You flush slightly, remembering the text you’d sent the pack the night before. 

‘This is embarrassing, but I’m on my cycle this week, and you probably won’t see me much. It’s usually pretty bad, but don’t worry, I’ll be good as new next week, and I’ve had plenty of experience dealing with it. Just didn’t wanna make any of you worry with my silence. Plus Hwasa told me I needed to tell you. So there. 😛’

“I didn’t think-” You start to say, and Felix cocks his head, staring at you. 

“Didn’t think we’d care? We do.” He says softly, firmly, in a way that makes your bones warm. 

“Yeah, noona.” Jeongin nods from behind Hyunjin’s shoulder. “I don’t know much, but I know enough from having girl friends that this time of month sucks on the regular.” 

Hyunjin loops his arm through yours. “Now c’mon. We have a bath already drawn up for you in the omega dorms. Let’s go before it gets cold.” 

“What, but I-” You begin to protest, but Felix takes your other arm as Jeongin shuts the door to your dorm behind you. 

“No buts.” He admonishes gently, giving you the hint of a smile. “You always help us, now let us help you.” 

It feels odd, foreign even, but you nod anyway, biting your bottom lip and swallowing the rest of your protest as they walk you over to the omega dorms. 

When they lead you into the communal bathroom, the large, sunken tub is already full of steaming water, bath oils shimmering on the surface, bubbles collecting at the edges. 

They really weren’t kidding when they said they’d drawn a bath for you. 

The room is steamy and warm and smells of citrus and something floral adjacent. 

Felix locks the door, and Jeongin moves to grab a couple of towels, as Hyunjin tugs you over to the large tub. 

He releases you, putting his hands on his hips, taking you in before he motions with a tilt of his head. “C’mon then, the water's not getting any warmer.” 

You hesitate, staring at him for a moment, and then you swallow. 

“You guys really don’t have to do this.” 

Jeongin glances at you from his seat on the lip of the tub, dangling his fingers in the water, genuine confusion on his face. “Why wouldn’t we?” 

“Well, just because-” You hedge out, not really sure how much detail to get into. “It’s kind of gross, and it gets messy-really messy, for me-and the bath is so nice, but you really don’t have to stay-” 

Hyunjin’s expression firms as he stares at you as you stutter out excuses. “Please, you don’t think we’re used to messy? C’mon, sweetheart, you’re talking to a room full of omegas here, we’ve got slick and bodily fluids and mess for days.” 

You blow out a breath at that. “I know, but-” “But nothing.” Felix says firmly, his hands going down on your shoulders. “A little blood isn’t gonna put any of us off. Right guys?” He glances to the other two omegas and they both nod without hesitation. “See?” Felix murmurs in your ear, his low voice sending a slight shiver down your spine. He moves a small fingered hand to cover your own where you still hold the heat pack to your lower stomach. “You don’t like to see us suffer, right? And you’ve helped us all through heats at this point, so let us help you now, okay?” 

Your gaze meets Hyunjin’s and he gives you a pointed stare.

“Just get in the fucking bath.”  

Sighing, you finally nod. “Okay. But let me go to the bathroom first.” 

You step into the ensuite bathroom and close the door, because suddenly, you feel self conscious. You’ve been naked in front of all of them before-they’re pack, for fuck’s sake-but this feels more intimate, more terrifying. 

Words used before ring through your mind as you strip down. 

Dirty. Pathetic. Shameful. Disgusting. Weak. 

Taking in a breath, you remove the protection you wear and toss it, and almost immediately, blood is slowly starting to ooze down the inside of your thighs, coating your skin with warmth and slickness. 

“Fuck.” You swear, glancing down, and decide that as much as you’d like to hide out in the bathroom for a few more moments, you can’t risk it. 

Not if you don’t want a puddle on the floor. 

Plus, the cramps are resuming with the removal of the heat pack. 

So with a sigh of resignation, you leave the bathroom, arms wrapped around you as you step into the warm humidity of the other room where the omegas are waiting. 

Trying to keep your legs clamped together so they can’t see the crimson coating your skin, you hurry to the bath and slide into the water. It instantly takes on a pink hue, and you hope they just attribute it to the bath oils they’d clearly added while you were gone. 

“Temperature okay?” Felix asks, moving to sit beside Jeongin at the edge of the tub, his gaze assessing your features. 

“Yeah, it’s good.” You breathe out, and shift awkwardly beneath the water. Already the heat is helping, but the way they’re all staring at you-

“All right, move over.” Hyunjin commands the younger omegas, as he approaches the bathtub with a rag held in one of his hands. He arches a brow at you as they slide apart, making room for him on the edge of the large tub. “Lemme see.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, mouth slightly parted. “No, it’s okay. You really don’t have to-” 

He crouches down beside the tub, wetting the rag in the water, his gaze never leaving yours. 

“It wasn’t a request, babe. Let me see.” 

You don’t think you’ve ever heard Hyunjin sound quite so authoritarian before. 

So without another word, you bring your knees up out of the water and spread your legs for him. 

The water has washed away the majority of the blood, but there’s still stubborn dried patches from earlier stuck to the warm skin of your upper thighs. 

Carefully, slowly, as if he’s scared he’ll spook you, Hyunjin leans forward over the lip of the bath and begins to gently scrub away the bloodstains from off your skin. 

You tense under the contact, taking in a sharp breath, but Felix reaches out to put a cool hand on the overheated skin of your shoulder. 

“C’mon, noona. You’d do the same for us. Let us take care of you.” 

You give a slight shake of your head, and you don’t know if it’s because you’re currently on your period, or if you’re just emotional suddenly, but tears choke your throat a little. “No, it’s not that. It’s just-” Your words cut off as you bite your tongue, because maybe being too honest in this moment isn’t the best thing. 

You feel Hyunjin’s gaze flicker up from his work in between your thighs, scanning over your pinched expression. 

“Someone gave you shit for it, didn’t they?” He asks softly, and you meet his gaze, your own mirroring the sudden shock his words send crashing over you. 

Felix’s fingers tighten a little bit on your shoulder. 

Hyunjin scoffs a little laugh-humorless and bitter-and must take your silence as an answer of itself, because he ducks his head to continue washing your skin with the warm water, saying in a murmur, “Yeah, I figured. People like to shit on things they don’t understand. It’s fucked up, but it’s the way it is.” 

“That’s just stupid.” Felix announces with a slight edge of defensiveness to his tone. “It’s an anatomical function. Just like something associated with secondary genders-like scents or slick or knotting. You can’t do anything about it.” 

“Yeah, but-” You hesitate, then push yourself to continue. “-mine’s always been worse than normal. Way worse than normal. And people just never liked to deal with it.” Your voice dips softer, your breath coming out in a sigh. “It got worse after I presented, so I just kind of holed up every month and dealt with it on my own.” 

“You’ve got us now, noona.” Jeongin murmurs back, moving his hand to cover Felix’s where it covers your shoulder.

You glance up and give him the hint of a smile. “I know.” Your smile wavers a bit. “But old habits die hard. And I don’t want you guys to ever think-” Once again, your words stutter to a halt. 

“Think what?” Felix pushes softly, as Hyunjin finishes washing your legs, and moves to lean against the lip of the tub, studying you silently, seriously. 

You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. That I’m gross or pathetic or something like that.” 

“Why would we ever think that?” Felix asks again, his voice coming out a little sharp in obvious defense of you. 

“Because someone else did.” Hyunjin answers for you, not looking up, playing with the rag held between his hands. He glances up at you. “Right?” 

You give a little nod and release a shaky breath. “Yeah.” 

“We’re not them.” Felix pushes firmly, his fingers squeezing into your shoulder until you look up at him. “Okay? We could never be like them.” You hold his gaze until a small part of you believes him, and move to squeeze his fingers back. 

“Okay.” 

********

The door to your dorm opens, and you glance up from your laptop, as soft footsteps head down the hall toward you. 

You smell him before you see him-rain. 

Chan appears in the doorway, clothed in an oversized hoodie and sweats, hood pulled up over his unruly curls. 

He leans against the doorframe as you shut your laptop, shifting it to the side of your bed as you meet his gaze. 

“Hey.” You say softly as way of greeting. 

“Hi.” He returns, reaching up to push his hood back with his free hand, the other dangling by his side, a plastic bag clenched between his fingers. “Yeosang said you didn’t feel well enough to go running this morning.” 

“Yeah.” You sigh, glancing down at the pile of blankets on your lap, the heating pad warming your lower stomach buried below the layers. “Wasn’t up to it.” 

Chan pads over to the bed and sits down on the edge, careful not to jostle you as he does so. 

You flick your gaze to his, and you can tell, by the furrow between his brows and the slight souring of petrichor that he’s worried. 

He holds aloft the bag in his hand. 

“I brought you some things.” 

Your lips curve slightly at the unexpected gesture. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Of course I did.” He counters back, sliding the bag across the bed so it rests in your lap. 

You bite back a smile and glance down, undoing the knot of the bag to reveal the contents. 

On top is his overly large Nirvana hoodie, the fabric warm and soft between your fingers. 

“Your hoodie?” You look up at him in slight surprise, and the tips of his ears go red as he tries to play it off with a shrug. 

Adorable. 

“Yeah, I thought it might help.” 

You arch a brow, but pull out the hoodie and slip it on over your head without another word. 

You swear Chan makes a sort of muted purring sound in his chest when you do so. 

You dig into the bag some more, and pull out a couple of boxes of your favorite treats, some sports drinks, and a couple of DVDs-probably snagged from Jisung’s extensive collection. 

“Channie.” You breathe out, glancing up at him once more, and again, the stupid tears are threatening. “You really didn’t have to do all of this.” 

He shrugs, reaching for one of the movies, turning it over in his large hands. “C’mon, you really thought I was just gonna sit by and stay away while you’re clearly over here dying? You really don’t know me. Or him.” 

You give a little laugh at that, and Chan grins, dimples flashing. 

Glancing down at the treasures in your lap, you find yourself murmuring before you can stop the words, “No one’s ever done something like this for me before.” 

Chan shifts slightly on the bed, reaching out to put his hand over yours. “Yeah, well, that all ends now, baby. You’re stuck with me.And all of us.” 

You glance up at him, and he gives you another grin, reaching up to tousle his fingers through his hair as he spreads the movies out in front of you. 

“Now c’mon. Pick a movie. I brought you the cream of the crop.” 

You hold up one of the cases toward him, brow arched. 

“‘Hard Boiled’?” You announce with slight disbelief, a smirk curving your lips and brow disappearing further into your hairline. 

Chan reaches out and snatches the movie from you. 

“Okay, so maybe that one’s a miss. I tried.” 

You bite back a grin, and settle on one of the chickflicks you’ve seen a thousand times. 

But hey, classics are classics for a reason, right? 

After Chan fetches your laptop and gets the movie started, settled in the perfect spot on the end of the bed, you pat the spot beside you, scooting slightly so he has a bit more room. 

He hesitates. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna hurt you or anything.” 

You roll your eyes, reaching out to tug him down beside you with your fingers buried in the fabric of the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“I’m not injured, I’m just simply bleeding out slowly and surely.” 

“Oh, because that sounds so much better.” Chan retorts back in a grumble, but he doesn’t resist anymore, sliding beneath the layers of blankets with you. 

Grinning, you tug the hood of his Nirvana hoodie up over your head and snuggle into him, cheek on his broad, warm chest, arms wrapping around his middle. 

He’s like a furnace, and he smells like wet pavement. 

He wraps his arms around you in turn, keeping you tight against him, as he reaches to turn off the bedside lamp as the movie begins to play across the small brightly lit screen of your laptop. 

His cheek is resting on the top of your head, and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your own cheek is soothing. 

“Okay?” He asks softly, and you nod, cheek brushing the fabric of his own hoodie. 

“Yeah.” You murmur back. “More than okay.” 

You feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, and suddenly, you don’t feel so bad anymore. 

******

You open the door to Minho, who immediately pushes past you without a word, a tower of bentos held in his arms. 

“Hello to you too.” You mutter as he marches past you, directly toward your small kitchen. 

You follow behind him wordlessly, and he motions to the table with a jerk of his chin as you enter, already spreading the boxes out on the counter top, removing lids like he has some sort of personal vendetta against them. 

“Sit.” He commands, and you decide it’s better not to question him, so you do. 

Almost within moments, Minho has presented you with a bowl full of steaming ramen with all the garnishes-fish cake, bamboo, mushrooms, bean sprouts-shoving a pair of chopsticks in your hand as he turns back to the counter. 

Your mouth falls agape, and your stomach rumbles loudly as the smell of the food reaches your nose. 

He returns to the table with a smaller bowl full of hot rice, and one full of kimchi. Last but not least, he positions a slab of perfectly cooked pink beef ribs atop your ramen and slides you one of the sports drinks Chan had brought you from the fridge. 

“Eat.” He commands once more, and you stare at him as he sits down across from you after tidying up the now empty bento boxes. 

“What-” You start to question, and he simply fixes you with an unblinking gaze, expression unreadable. 

“What, you’ve never had ramen before, sweetheart? You’re supposed to put it in your mouth.” 

Glancing down at the food before you, you hesitantly take your chopsticks and gather up a mouthful, before blowing on it and popping it into your mouth. 

It’s so heavenly, you almost moan. 

“Good girl.” Minho praises, seemingly satisfied, as you take another bite, and then another. He sits back in his own chair, watching you, but the food is too delicious for you to feel embarrassed under his sharp, astute gaze. 

“Holy shit, Minho.” You manage to get out in between bites. “You made this?”

Minho scoffs lightly. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a good cook.” He leans forward slightly, sweeping his gaze over the quickly dwindling food. “I usually make this one with pork belly, but I read something about red meat being better when you’re on your period, so I swapped it for the ribs this time around. It wasn’t too disappointing.” 

Your gaze meets his, and your mouth falls open. 

“You read something?” You squeak out, and Minho has the decency to look offended, rolling his eyes. 

“What? I can read too you know, sweetheart, cooking isn’t just my one speciality. I’m a multi trick pony.” 

“No, no.” I shake my head, wiping my mouth and setting down my chopsticks for a moment. “You read up on what to make me while I’m on my period? Why?” 

Minho holds your gaze, arching a brow. “To get the recipe right.” 

You stare at him for another long moment, and when it’s clear that’s all you’re going to get, you move to resume eating, finishing the ramen in record time. 

Minho moves to gather up the now empty bowls, and in a bold move, you reach out and snag his hand with your own. 

“Thank you.” You say softly, seriously, and he gives you another long stare, before he pulls away and moves to pack up the dishes. 

You’re surprised when he moves to sit back down across from you instead of leaving immediately now that you’ve eaten his food. 

You sit in silence for a few moments, and you don’t know what it is about Minho that’s always made you feel safe, unjudged, able to tell him anything, but you find yourself, once again, volunteering to tell him something you’ve never told anyone else before. 

The words are already at the tip of your tongue before you can stop them. 

“I had an abortion.” You announce into the silence, and if Minho is shocked by you baring this truth out of the blue, he doesn’t show it. Which gives you the courage to go on, fidgeting with your fingers, as you stare down at the chipped surface of the table. 

“When I was a teenager. And it made them worse-the periods, I mean. They were bad before, but ever since-” You give a slight shake of your head and let out a breath. “-they’ve been awful.” 

“Mm.” Minho makes a sound of acknowledgement beneath his breath from across the table, but that’s it. He doesn’t offer anything more. 

So you keep going. 

Spilling your guts into the silence. 

“I thought, for a long time-” You sniff and take in a breath, a humorless sharp little choked laugh leaving your lips as you continue. “-that maybe I was being punished, you know? Punished for being born a girl, punished for presenting as an alpha, punished for-” Your words trail off a little. “-well, you know. Not keeping it.” 

You shrug, tapping your fingers along the table softly. 

“I dunno. Maybe I thought that bleeding was a symbol of everything I’d ever done wrong. It was certainly treated as such.” 

There is a long moment of silence, your words hanging heavy in the air between you, and then Minho takes a breath, leaning forward across the table.

“You know, sweetheart-” He murmurs, and you glance up at the soft tone of his voice, so unfamiliar when it comes to the alpha sitting across from you. “-I’ve come to learn that everything is simply a coincidence. There’s no higher power punishing people, bullshit happens to people every day and it’s all just a fluke. There’s no rhyme or reason.” 

You swallow, and he holds your gaze with his own. 

“So believe me, when I tell you, that whatever idiotic moron made you think there’s something wrong with you that needs to be ‘punished’ every goddamn month, is a fucking fool.” Your lips part slightly, but he doesn’t let you speak. 

“And if it’s yourself, well then-” He gives you a hint of a smirk, tilting his head slightly as he regards you. “-I’m afraid you’re just gonna have to tell that bitch to shut the fuck up, sweetheart.” 

******

You wince slightly, coming in after your shower, hurrying to the dresser to find a pair of underwear to slip on beneath your oversized t-shirt before you can drip all over the floor. 

Changbin must take notice of the grimace from his spot on your bed, because he pushes himself up, arching a brow. 

“Cramps?” 

You nod, still digging through your drawers for underwear, swearing slightly under your breath. “Yeah. They always get worse whenever I stand up and move around.”

You feel his presence behind you, smell a wave of smoke wash over your senses. 

“You know what they say.” He murmurs, wrapping a strong arm around your waist, careful not to put too much pressure on your tender midsection. “About helping cramps.”

You scoff a little, glancing over your shoulder at him. “What if that’s just an old wives tale?” 

He wiggles his eyebrows at you playfully, smirking a little now. “Is it?” 

You skate your gaze away from his, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean. I don’t know.” 

There is a brief moment of pause, and then Changbin asks in slight surprise, “What, you’ve never done it before?” 

You huff a breath at that, still avoiding his gaze, hands stilling in the depths of your drawer. “I mean-” You hesitate, before admitting, “-it’s gross.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Changbin turns you at that, hands going down firmly on your shoulders, lifting your chin with a finger after another moment of you not looking at him 

“I’m gonna drip blood all over the floor if you don’t let me go find something soon.” You protest a little weakly, reluctantly holding his gaze. 

“In a minute.” He waves you off, expression going serious as he stares at you. “Listen, I mean, if that’s you talking, and you personally think it’s gross, then by all means, I get it, and that’s well within your right. As Hyunjin would say, ‘Slay, pussy boss bitch queen’ or whatever he usually says to empower females, but-” 

You watch the way his brow furrows, dark gaze holding your own, lips pressing into a firm almost angry line. “-If some son of a bitch pussy footing prick masquerading as a man put that idea in your head that it was gross, then we’re gonna have a whole other problem.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, mouth opening and closing for a few brief seconds as you try and comprehend what he’s telling you. 

“You-” You hedge out, still staring at him in slight disbelief. “-don’t think it’s gross?” 

Changbin chuckles, and then it turns into a full blown laugh. “Baby girl. What part of who I am and all you know about me points toward the fact that I would find anything about this gross in the slightest?”

“I don’t know-” You protest back helplessly. “I just thought-” Changbin backs you up until your back hits the wood of the dresser behind you, hands going on either side of your head, and when you take in a sharp breath, meeting his gaze, his irises are almost gleaming completely gold. When he speaks, his tone is low, voice almost predatory. “Well, let me correct you then.” He leans closer to you, breathing in against your temple, taking in your scent. 

“Blood is not a turn off for me. Or him. Quite the opposite actually.” 

You take in a shaky breath, mind taking a moment to catch up to what he’s telling you. 

“So.” He brushes his nose along your hairline, breathing you in still. “I’m going to ask you again. You know what they say helps cramps?” 

Your voice is small, barely a whisper. “Yes.” He flicks his gaze down to yours, smirking slightly-teeth flashing dangerously in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “You wanna try it?” 

You swallow hard, and push past every single part of you that’s screaming at you to say otherwise. 

“Yes.” 

As if that’s all he needs to hear, Changbin sweeps you up with a growl, and deposits you will little to no effort on the center of your bed, flat on your back. 

You don’t even have a moment to feel ashamed or embarrassed, or check the situation down below before he’s already crawling between your legs, forcing your thighs apart for him. 

“Bin-” You start to protest, panic setting in once more as you feel the telltale stickiness on the inside of your upper thighs, but he silences you with one glance. 

“I’m gonna take it easy on you, baby. It tends to get a little more sensitive down here around this time, yeah? We’re gonna make sure you’re comfortable,so don’t worry about that, but I also don’t want to hear one word out of that pretty mouth unless it’s begging me for more, understood?” 

He settles himself down on his stomach between your thighs, and you find yourself only able to whisper out, “Yes, sir.” 

A sharp flash of white teeth. “Good girl.”

You take in a breath, holding it, and then let it out slowly, trying not to think of anything but the feel of his warm breath on your skin, the tickling of his fingers skating up your bare legs, moving back the hem of the large t-shirt you wear-

He slides a finger inside of you, and you instantly tense up. 

“Relax.” He murmurs, and you try to do as he asks, and you know he can feel it, when he gives a slightly approving hum in the back of his throat, almost a growl. “Good girl. There you go.” 

“Oh.” You breathe out, as you slowly relax, and he slides a second finger in, moving them carefully, searchingly, looking for that spot inside that makes you feel like you’re floating on air, sparks flashing before your eyes. 

He’s right, you are sensitive down there, and everything is overwhelming, but in a good way. 

“Bin-” You whine out, squirming slightly now, body already keying up as hot ropes of pleasure start to gather low in your belly. 

“Yeah, baby.” He purrs, and when you meet his gaze, his pupils have completely taken over the gold of his irises. 

It’s almost enough to send you over right then and there, the way his lips are slightly parted, drinking in the sight of you writhing beneath his touch greedily. 

He pulls back, before you can fully succumb to the pleasure though, and you have to bite down hard on your lip to stop from whining at the sudden loss of contact. 

He shifts, pulling his hand back from you, and holds up his fingers for you to see, his gaze slowly tracing over the blood dribbling down the digits, staining his skin crimson. 

“Beautiful.” He growls, and the way he says the word has a shiver running down your spine. 

He raises the fingers to his mouth, and without thinking, you jolt upward, already reaching out for him, old habits kicking in as you blurt out in a sudden panic once more, “Don’t-” He holds your gaze steadily as he slips the fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean, slowly, one by one. 

You stare at him, mouth agape, chest heaving, and you hate to say it, but it’s probably one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen-watching him savor the taste of you on his fingers, cleaning them with swipes of his tongue, his dark gaze never wavering from yours. 

“‘Don’t’ what?” He growls out, pinning you beneath his swirling golden gaze. “Don’t taste you?” 

And without warning, he leans back down between your legs, and drags the warmth of his tongue up your center, flattening it against you as he slowly works his way upward. 

Your breath comes out on a sort of choked sound, and you fall back against the bed, muscles trembling. 

“Jesus fuck-” You swear breathlessly, and a guttural growl rumbles in his chest at the words leaving your lips. 

He surges up, hands going down on either side of your head now, staring down at you, eyes dark and hungry and predatory. 

His lips are reddened, stained with blood. 

Your blood. 

Well, fuck. 

He smirks, and you reach up without really thinking to swipe the pad of your thumb across the full swell of his bottom lip, studying the crimson that comes off on your skin when you do so.

A slightly awe filled laugh leaves your lips on your next exhale. 

Changbin flashes bloodstained teeth at you in a sharp grin. 

A completely dangerous sight you could get used to. 

“Want me to keep going?” He murmurs, holding your gaze. 

You nod eagerly, already moving to pull him down to you. “Yes please.” And when you kiss him, you taste yourself on his lips in an entirely new way-the way he must-and he’s right. 

It’s fucking beautiful.

****

“Feeling better, gorgeous?” Jisung murmurs to you, leaning back against your chest, your arms wrapped around his tiny waist beneath the warmth of the blankets. 

“Much.” You breathe back, rubbing your nose against his soft hair. 

Seungmin scoffs from his position behind you, his own arm slung along the couch behind your heads. 

“Be quiet. The two of you are gonna miss the movie.” Jisung leans his head back and grins up at you, nose wrinkling, as he whispers to you loudly, “Party pooper.” 

You laugh, kissing the tip of his nose. 

Seungmin sighs behind you, but you feel him stroking his fingers idly through your hair regardless of his show of irritation. 

You snuggle down between the betas, the air filled with the spice of ginger and linens, warm and safe beneath the blanket between their bodies, and feel, for the first time in your life, that maybe this week isn’t as awful as you always thought. 

Maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t need to be. 

Not ever again. 

Not with them. 

[b14augrana]

The End Of The World

Alexia isn’t well post-breakup

Alexia Putellas x reader

masterlist

Warnings: angst, mutual breakup, yearning and heartbroken alexia, no happy ending

A/N: listen to the song for max effect! ‘right where you left me’ is another good one that fits this story. this is only a short fic, but i hope you enjoy :)

You and Alexia breaking up was for the best. She knows that.

Her career is demanding, and you just weren’t willing to pursue that lifestyle yet; it was glamorous, being the girlfriend of a professional footballer, but it also meant there were rarely any opportunities to spend quality time with her and that wasn’t the relationship you wanted. She understands that.

So why does it hurt worse than ending on bad terms? Actually, that’s a stupid question. Alexia knows why it hurts. If she had a reason to hate you, it would be easier to move on, but she cannot think of a single thing worth hating you for.

That’s what she hates the most — the lack of cruelty, toxicity, infidelity behind the breakup. There isn’t a single proper reason for her to stop yearning for you.

The first week after the breakup, she finds herself seeking out any signs of you wherever she could. It hurts, and she doesn’t have an excuse or a reason. She swore that your perfume lingered in the air, following her, taunting her. Whenever someone walks past, she notices; everyone smells like oranges, earth, and incense. Everyone smells like you.

On every street, there is something of yours. A mural you posed in front of for a photo, a flower bush you once pointed out on a walk because the budding flora stood out to you, a restaurant you introduced Alexia to without knowing it would quickly become her favourite. She sees apparitions of you in places that you would’ve been in right now, if you were still here. Still with her. Still part of her life.

Everything seems pointless and from the moment you declare the love story of her life to be over, Alexia thinks that everything should cease to exist. Why does the sun shine through the gaps in her curtains, when you aren’t laying beside her in the mornings to compliment it? Why does her heart continue to beat, when it cannot be listened to on sleepless nights, with your head on her chest?

Nobody works up the courage to ask her what’s wrong when she walks into the gym with dull under eyes and little to no energy in her movements. Alexia’s signature enthusiasm to be in the gym and improving herself is gone, and her teammates only look on with inconclusive questions as to why their captain is so… different. She watches them go on with their lives like nothing ever happened, and she’s so offended and bitter. They’re completely unaware that the end is here, at least for Alexia. The world has been at its inevitable end for longer than they know — the world ended when you stopped loving her.

Alexia isn’t one for letters, so it’s incredible that she finds herself sitting at her dining table, hunched over at an ungodly hour, scrawling words in her best handwriting onto a piece of paper.

She seals it in an envelope, running her thumb along the smooth surface for a second. She still knows your address by heart, and despite your house being much like a prison for her in terms of trying to avoid it at all costs, she finds herself navigating streets and turning corners to end up there.

Alexia passes a bookstore, and in the short moment she stands in front of it, she recalls standing in between aisles with you while you chose a book to buy. Clothing shops line the roads, and she can point out shirts in their windows that you own. A restaurant sits on the corner of the street, and she can point out the table you two had eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner at…

But she can point something else out — you.

You’re there, in the window, sitting at the table in the same seat you always chose. It makes her wonder if those memories were lost on you. Magazine in one hand, tea in the other. She knows it’s tea, because you hate coffee.

Alexia becomes acutely aware of the letter in her hand, and her plans have changed.

When a waitress comes up to your table with a little white envelope in hand, explaining that someone had just come into the restaurant and asked her to give it to you, you’re confused. When you unfold the letter and read it, whatever you’re feeling is inexplicable.

‘Mi querido,

I probably shouldn’t be calling you ‘mi querido’, or writing this letter in the first place, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t tell you how much I love you one more time. I cannot imagine a life where being happy and being without you are able to coexist. If I knew that my career would’ve been the end of us, I would’ve traded my first love for my forever love, in a heartbeat.

Sincerely yours…

Your head lifts and you crane to look out of the window. Streaks of blonde hair disappear down the street, further than you can see from your seat.

…Alexia.’

[daeniradraconis]

Banter Between the Lines - Hughes Brothers

Note: Hey, so here’s another quick chat-style piece! I haven’t had much time to sit down and write properly lately, so short and sweet it is for now. 😊 Feel free to send me some requests if you’d like! (You can check out the "rules" here: link). I can’t promise when I’ll get to them, but I’ll definitely find time soon.

Summary: A little fluff with a touch of smut (nothing too crazy, just some extra flirting). Quinn’s girlfriend roasts the boys while calling them out in their group chat.

Warnings: Nothing major, just some mention of 🍆.

It was one of those quiet Sunday nights where everything felt slow. You'd spent the evening catching up on your favorite shows, but it was hard to concentrate when all you could think about was Quinn. The constant distance between you two had become harder to ignore with each passing day, and as much as you loved how happy he was with his team, you missed him. And, truthfully, you missed the whole family.

You’d gotten close to Jack and Luke over the years, and now, with Quinn playing for the Vancouver Canucks and Jack and Luke together on the New Jersey Devils, the family dynamic felt a little more spread out than you liked. Sure, they’d all make time for you when they could, but it wasn’t the same as those days when you’d all hang out together.

Tonight, instead of a call or a quick text, you decided to turn to something a little more familiar. You opened up youtube and searched for their latest highlights.

All three of them were struggling on the ice, and it showed. It hurt to see them like this, especially when you couldn’t do much to help. So you did what you always did in times like these—opened the group chat and prepared to roast them into oblivion. If nothing else, it might make them laugh.

you: just finished your highlights. Quinn, congrats on being the saddest guy on the ice again 🥇. Jack, loved the mini tantrum energy 👏. Luke, did you forget which team you play for? because those turnovers were next-level.

Jack: wow, you really woke up and chose violence.

you: always. someone has to keep you humble.

Luke: humble? this feels more like a personal attack.

Quinn: what would you call it, then?

Luke: bullying.

you: oh, Lukey, don’t take it so hard. I tease because I care 💕

Jack: you literally plotted my ex’s demise last month. is that “caring” too?

you: first of all, it wasn’t a plot. it was more of a… fantasy.

Quinn: putting her in the ground “while she’s still breathing” doesn’t sound like a fantasy…

you: listen, if she hadn’t been such a manipulative little snake, I wouldn’t have had to consider it 🐍

Luke: terrifying. but honestly? fair.

Jack: I could’ve handled her myself, you know.

you: oh, really? because from where I was sitting, she had you wrapped around her finger like a puppet.

Quinn: she’s not wrong!

Jack: whose side are you on?

Quinn: hers. always.

you: damn right honey. and don’t worry, I’m not plotting her demise anymore… unless she tries to come back. then all bets are off.

Jack: remind me to never date again. you’re scarier than Quinn’s slap shot.

You grinned as the banter flew back and forth, but your focus shifted to Luke. His disastrous date still didn’t sit right with you.

you: okay, but seriously, Lukey. I've heard some gossip. how does a girl ditch you mid-dinner? you’re literally the sweetest human alive.

Luke: THANK YOU! finally, someone gets it.

Jack: don’t encourage him. he needs to toughen up.

you: excuse me? let him be sweet! not every guy needs to have your level of 'I’m too cool for feelings,' Jack.

Quinn: valid point.

Luke: thank you, Quinn.

you: honestly, Luke, I’ll never understand how she left. did you say something weird?

Luke: no!!! I was perfectly normal.

Quinn: “normal” is a stretch…

Jack: is this really the same guy who told a girl on a first date he’d make six different accounts just to sort himself into Hufflepuff six different times because he didn’t 'trust the algorithm'?

Luke: OKAY, THAT’S DIFFERENT. I was being honest!

you: oh, Lukey. you’re lucky you’re adorable because that is painful 😂

Luke: this is why I didn’t want to tell you guys.

Quinn: bro, it’s fine. just embrace the awkward puppy vibe. it’s clearly your brand.

Luke: I hate you.

Jack: ugh, why does he get the sympathy? roast him more guys!!! I can’t be the only one taking L’s here.

you: because Luke doesn’t put ketchup on his eggs like a serial killer, Jack.

Luke: yeah, what is WRONG with you? ketchup on eggs? really?

Jack: you people are so dramatic. it’s normal.

Quinn: nothing about that is normal.

you: thank you, Quinn. once again, the only rational person in this chat.

Jack: stop flirting with my brother. it’s disgusting.

Luke: seriously. I can feel the weird vibes through my phone.

You smirked, knowing exactly how to push their buttons.

you: you’re just mad because Quinn’s risotto is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Quinn: best risotto AND lasagna. don’t forget!

you: how could I? it’s the only reason I keep you around. And of course your magic 🍆

Quinn: oh, not my sparkling personality? btw you're objectifying my body...

you: hmm… maybe that too. but i have my priorities straight!

Jack: 🤢 STOP. this is disgusting.

Luke: seriously. this is TMI guys!!

you: just jealous, you two can’t even scramble eggs properly.

Quinn: cooking skills = key to a woman’s heart.

Luke: ugh. golden child strikes again.

Jack: some of us don’t need to cook because we have charisma, thank you very much.

Quinn: does your charisma excuse ketchup on eggs? because it shouldn’t.

Luke: still the biggest red flag in this chat.

Jack: Y’ALL ARE SO DRAMATIC.

You smiled at their bickering, your heart full, untouched by their chaos.

you: okay, but for real… I miss you guys 💔.

Luke: aww, finally some love.

Jack: are you feeling okay?!

you: don’t get used to it. but yeah, I miss you. Quinn, risotto night when you’re home! Jack and Luke, you can come eat it too.

Quinn: deal. but I’m ignoring them for the first hour I’m back. i need my time with you!

Luke: RUDE!

Jack: gross. is this the flirting portion of the chat? can we not?

you: love you too, boys. even if you’re disasters.

Jack: love you too. now stop flirting with Quinn before I puke.

Luke: seriously. save it for your own chat.

Quinn: jealousy doesn’t look good on you two.

Luke: jealous of what? your cooking? maybe. your 🍆? absolutely not.

you: you should be Lukey! your brother got some great 🍆

Jack: I’m OUT.

Luke: same.

Quinn: good job hon. guess it’s just us now. you: just how I like it 😘

[grapejuicebrat]

between us - d.s. pt. 1

The moment Drew first notices Y/N, and the tension begins to grow.

series masterlist

my masterlist

———

Drew Starkey had never been someone who believed in love at first sight. He’d seen it too many times—celebrities swearing they’d found “the one,” only for the tabloids to rip them apart a few months later. He wasn’t naïve. He knew better than to buy into the romantic fantasy. And for the longest time, he had convinced himself that his career, his ambition, was all he needed.

He was fine with his life, or at least he told himself that every morning as he stared at his reflection, dressed in the same worn leather jacket and the faded T-shirt that seemed to comfort him more than any fancy suit ever could. Hollywood had a way of making you forget who you were, of transforming you into the person everyone else wanted you to be. Drew had spent years trying to keep a part of himself intact, hiding in plain sight, playing roles both on and off-screen, but never fully engaging with anyone—until he met you.

You were 18, a fresh face to the world, but to Drew, you seemed like something else entirely. The first time he noticed you, you had walked into the café with a kind of quiet confidence that was hard to miss. It was a small local place, tucked away in a corner of the city where celebrities rarely came, which was exactly how Drew liked it. He was tired of being a target for the paparazzi, tired of pretending that his life was perfect. Here, he was just another guy with a coffee in his hand.

But you—your energy was different. There was something about the way you carried yourself, something that made Drew’s chest tighten in ways he didn’t quite understand. Your eyes weren’t full of awe when you saw him. No, you glanced at him briefly, and then you went about your business, ordering a drink and finding your usual seat by the window, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Drew couldn’t stop watching you, though. The way your fingers brushed the pages of your book as you read, the way your lips moved when you muttered something to yourself, the little things that most people would overlook, but Drew couldn’t stop noticing. He had never been a fan of people who were “too much”—too loud, too bold, too attention-seeking. But you? You were different. You didn’t try to impress anyone. You simply existed, and in a world full of noise, that was somehow the most captivating thing Drew had ever seen.

At first, he told himself it was just curiosity. Just a passing attraction. He wasn’t about to get involved with someone so young. He had seen the damage that age gaps like that could do. The power dynamics, the imbalances—he wasn’t blind to it. But every day, there you were, sitting in that same spot by the window, looking like you belonged there as much as he did. And slowly, the line between casual glances and unspoken attraction started to blur.

Days turned into weeks, and Drew found himself making excuses to visit the café more often. He didn’t need the caffeine; he just needed to be there, to watch you without saying anything, to pretend that this strange pull he felt toward you didn’t exist. He had convinced himself that it was just a phase. That it would pass. But it didn’t. It only grew stronger.

Then one day, as he walked in, there you were, sitting at your usual table by the window, but this time, you were reading something different. A notebook, filled with scribbled notes, your handwriting a beautiful mess. You didn’t look up when Drew entered, but something about the way you were so absorbed in whatever you were writing made Drew feel like an intruder.

He moved quietly toward the counter, ordered his usual coffee, and then turned to leave. But before he could take a step, he felt your gaze on him. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, everything around them seemed to disappear. The café, the low murmur of conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine—none of it existed. It was just the two of you, in that quiet, charged space. Drew didn’t know if it was the way you looked at him, or the way his heart beat a little faster, but in that moment, he felt something shift.

“Hey,” you said, your voice soft but not shy. “You’re Drew Starkey, right?”

Drew froze, almost too stunned to answer. People recognized him all the time, of course, but there was something different in your voice. It wasn’t admiration, or surprise—it was casual. Like you were asking about the weather.

“Yeah,” he replied, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his chest. He shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to do or say next. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”

You gave him a small smile, a little lopsided but genuine. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I see you here all the time.”

Drew blinked. “Really?”

You nodded, tapping the side of your coffee cup thoughtfully. “You’re the one who always orders the same thing—black coffee. Every day.” You leaned back in your seat, narrowing your eyes as if trying to place something. “It’s funny, you know? I always thought actors were supposed to be flashy, always ordering the most expensive drinks or whatever. But not you. You’re… simple.”

Drew chuckled, feeling a strange sense of relief that you weren’t fawning over him like so many others did. There was no flattery, no “Can I get an autograph?” just a conversation like any other.

“I guess I’m not much of a flashy guy,” he said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“No, I don’t think you are,” you replied, eyes twinkling. “But there’s something about you that’s different.”

Drew’s heart skipped. He wasn’t used to people seeing him like that—like he was more than just the role he played on screen. But somehow, you did.

For the rest of the afternoon, Drew stayed in the café longer than he planned. He found himself taking sneaky glances at you when you weren’t looking, not sure what was happening but unable to stop himself. There was an undeniable pull. You were so much younger than him. There were rules—unwritten rules—about this sort of thing. The difference in your ages couldn’t just be ignored. But Drew was beginning to understand that he wasn’t the one in control here. Not anymore.

When he finally stood to leave, you flashed him one last smile. “See you tomorrow, Drew.”

And that was the moment he realized there was no turning back. He couldn’t get you out of his head.

[hisbelfastboy]

just kill me it would literally hurt less than this 😭😭 - @eoinmcgonigall

No but listen, I've been thinking about Paddy and his relation to touch non-stop for days and now you've given me the perfect excuse to talk about it? I love you <3 (Tags were from this post)

One thing that struck me most with Paddy/Eoin is how often Eoin reaches out for Paddy (ie. lightly tapping his shin when Eoin gets back to their tent) but most importantly, Eoin ALWAYS squeezes before withdrawing the contact, almost like he's preparing himself, or Paddy, or both, to lose this connection. But also, I'm a firm believer that Eoin was as much in love with Paddy as Paddy was with him, and that was his own little indulgence (and what a rush it must give him, being the only one allowed to touch Paddy in a way that isn't a punch or marked by violence). And the touch is always so tender, lingering, this is (to me) Eoin threading the line between what's acceptable between two best friends and what raises eyebrows. He always drags the touch a little longer, always touches Paddy even if the situation doesn't call for it.

On the other hand, Paddy touches Eoin almost only when there's an 'excuse' for it, like steadying himself on Eoin shoulder to play the piano while standing (gif 1). The one time the situation doesn't call for touch but Paddy touches Eoin anyway is in prison (gif 2), and it's such an awkward little pat, almost like Paddy knows he doesn't have an excuse to hide behind beyond wanting to touch Eoin and is trying so hard not to reach for more (and!! he drags his palm over Eoin's hand as he takes his hand away!! Repressed Paddy, I love you so)

But back to the way Paddy reacts to Eoin's touch; he never outwardly reacts to it. In fact, he never (except for the jail scene) watches Eoin i those scenes, always keeping his eyes in front of him and carrying on whatever he was doing. In the plane, before the jump, that can be explained; he's focused (gif 2). But in the scene where he's eating soup (gif 3), I can't help but feel like he's making a point not to look at Eoin as the touch is made, almost like when someone who doesn't usually give physical affection lays their head on your shoulder and you stay still so you don't bring attention to it and they withdraw. Now, Eoin is rather free in his affections with Paddy, so my theory is that Paddy makes a point not to bring attention to the touches so Eoin doesn't withdraw, but Paddy is soaking in every touch. Maybe this is their silent understanding, that they're Friends but friends don't usually touch like that but They do, because they're Paddy&Eoin. Maybe he's come to associate Eoin with these friendly, if lingering touches. A beacon of affection when the only other people who ever touch Paddy are the people he's fighting/boxing with/MPs arresting him

Anyway to me, this purports my hc that both Paddy and Eoin were in love with each other but neither of them dared to confess. I think Eoin was comfortable/aware of his feelings, but he wasn't sure how that was with Paddy so, not wanting to push Paddy, he was happy to indulge in those touches, making them linger because if that's all he was going to get, he was going to make the most of it. On the other hand, Paddy strikes me more as repressed - not so much in being gay (see the poem he recites in his first jail scene + the signet ring) but in his feelings for Eoin, only finding the strength to confront them once Eoin's gone, because what is there left of Eoin if not the love Paddy has for him? (These are all personal hc, of course, I'm not preaching lmao)

Which brings me to my point: the last time Paddy touches Eoin is when Eoin can't feel it anymore. The only time Paddy finds the courage to hold Eoin's hand is when Eoin is no longer alive to return the hold. And, if memory serves, that's the last time anyone touches Paddy in season 1 (though I could be wrong, it is the last time there is any close-up on touch and Paddy, except for the fighting in the sand scene with Augustin). But Paddy is definitely isolated once Eoin dies - by choice, as shown by the fact that his tent is outside the main camp of Jalo.

* and ** For some reason, the technique I used to properly link specific gifs from a gifset stopped working midway despite the different links BUT gif 2 is from the same gifset as gif 1, and gif 4 is by @loo-nuh-tik in this gifset. If anyone knows why tumblr only showed the first gif of the gifset despite manually putting the link to another one and tumblr showing the new link but not a different gif, please do tell me so I can properly credit the OP

Now season 2; as far as I recall, there are only three persons who dare to reach out and touch Paddy in non-fighting situations, Bill Stirling (gif 1 and 2*), Jim Almonds (gif 3) and Eve (gif 4**) (excluding the barber and Montgomery fixing his beret, even if in that one it was Paddy was Not Comfortable). All three times (although honorable mentions to every time Bill Stirling pats Paddy's shoulder/back, even if it's quick, it's ALWAYS deliberate), Paddy freezes for a millisecond, looking slowly down at the touch like he's trying to make sense of it, if he should allow it, what the touch means, and how long has nobody laid a hand on him without wanting to hurt him? Should he shake it off?

Let's remember that season 2 starts in 1943, almost a year and a half after Eoin's death. That's a LONG time to go without any meaningful touch; Paddy is someone who likes his personal space, who's uncomfortable when people reach into his space (you know how sometimes, if someone touches you it makes you tense up because they aren't some of the Special People you've mentally allowed to touch you?) but he ALWAYS let Eoin into his space. And then, there was no more Eoin, and few people daring to reach out (and the few who do are people who genuinely care about Paddy). And even during his home leave, he did not go see his mother, did not hug her or his siblings, even though it could have been the first time he saw them since at least 1941, and since his father's death (do you ever think about how he had no one to comfort him, to hold his hand and give him a hug when his dad, whom he clearly loved, died? I do and it's not fun).

Anyway, my heart breaks for him

[pepsoui4]

Where I Want to Be Part 3

Reader realizes shes in too deep and tries to walk away from her and Bodhi Durrans situation ship. It doesn’t go as planned.

Word count: 7,428

Warnings: insults, the end?

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783022222549942273/where-i-want-to-be?source=share

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783108795206451200/where-i-want-to-be-part-2?source=share

-

There was a rhythm to them now, quiet and unspoken, like the familiar pull of gravity. Constant, steady, and invisible until you missed it. Somewhere between strategy sessions and sparring drills, between bruises and breathless laughter in candlelit corners of the archives, the lines between her and Bodhi had blurred. What began as necessity had softened into habit, and habit into something else entirely. Late nights once reserved for battle briefings and cadet evaluations turned into slow evenings in each other’s dorms, legs brushing under shared blankets, their shoulders pressed together as they passed a bottle back and forth in place of words. Other nights, they flew. Just the two of them and their dragons, skimming across midnight skies while the rest of Basgiath slept. Phyrrian, ever too wise for her age, would rumble with amusement when Y/N pretended the stargazing was tactical. Terrain memorization or aerial positioning. But even she had stopped mocking her rider after the third time she caught her smiling without realizing it.

The warmth between them never burned too hot. Bodhi, for all his razor-sharp wit and cocky charm in public, was frustratingly patient in private. He never asked her to name what was building between them, never reached too far, never pushed too hard. He simply was present, dependable, infuriatingly calm. And it was that steadiness she found herself drawn to more than anything. In a world where everything demanded something of her: her name, her control, her flame. Bodhi asked for nothing. He just stayed.

Until he didn’t.

At first, she barely noticed it. A missed night here. A half-hearted excuse there. He’d still show up most of the time. Still leaned against her doorframe with that lopsided smile, still slung onto her bed with the ease of someone who no longer asked for permission. But there were cracks now. A strange tightness in his smile. A distracted edge to his gaze. And once a week, almost like clockwork, he’d disappear altogether. He’d vanish into the dark before anyone else had even begun to wind down, no explanation, no warning, just gone. And when she asked, he’d wave it off. “Something with Garrick,” or “Just needed air.” But he wasn’t the kind of man who needed air. Not unless he was suffocating on something he wouldn’t name.

And lately he was always busy.

He was there, technically. Still her second. Still her sounding board. Still the calm to her storm. But his mind wandered more. His eyes darted elsewhere during briefings. And there were moments. Small, sharp moments when she caught him looking toward Violet Sorrengail with something unreadable in his face. Concern, maybe. Guilt. Something quiet and heavy she didn’t understand.

And it was starting to make her unravel.

Not all at once. Just in pieces. Just enough to notice the weight of the silence stretching longer than it used to. Just enough to hear herself wonder, alone in her bed at night, why Bodhi Durran, who had spent weeks drawing her out like no one ever had was starting to feel so far away.

It didn’t start as jealousy. Gods no. Jealousy was petty, irrational. And she was neither. That word didn’t belong in her vocabulary. It had no place in the mind of a FlameWalker trained to weigh loyalty over longing, precision over emotion.

She assessed people the same way she read battle formations. Shifts in behavior, patterns in timing, the silent gaps between words. She wasn’t bothered by Bodhi’s sudden distance, not emotionally. She was simply aware. Tracking a change in dynamic. That was tactical. Responsible. Expected. It was her job to notice when her second-in-command became distracted. That’s all it was.

Still, the changes scraped under her skin like grit caught beneath armor.

One missed evening turned into two. Then three. Then this whole week where his knock never came, where Y/N and Phyrrian took flight without them, and the space beside her bed stayed maddeningly empty. He was still Bodhi. Still calm and clever, still standing beside her during drills. But now his laughter was a beat too late, his mind somewhere else when she spoke. He hadn’t said anything was wrong. But she didn’t need him to. He was shifting. She could feel it.

“You could always ask.” Phyrrian’s voice was dry as heatstroke, curling in her mind like sun-scorched silk. “Instead of pacing a rut in your floor like you’re trying to summon answers by friction.”

“I’m not pacing,” she snapped back, irritation flaring hot.

“You’re spiraling, and you hate not knowing.” A pause, then the dragon’s voice dropped lower, sly. “You always notice when it’s him.”

She clenched her jaw. She didn’t respond. Phyrrian’s presence didn’t waver.

“Confront him.” The words came like a strike. Fast, clean, brutal. “You’re not afraid of battle. Don’t act like you’re afraid of the truth.”

She shut the bond harder than she meant to, the mental door slamming like a blade between them. Not because Phyrrian was wrong. But because she wasn’t. And that was the problem.

It hadn’t started as jealousy. It had started as observation and now It had become something uglier.

Violet Sorrengail.

That was the name twisting under her ribs like a blade she refused to acknowledge. She wasn’t threatened by her. It wasn’t about Violet. It was about Bodhi. About the way his focus, once so steady and unobtrusive, now drifted elsewhere. He didn’t tease Y/N as often. Didn’t linger quite as long after briefings. And when she caught his eye from across the mess or the field, he looked away first.

And gods, wasn’t that the worst part?

She’d grown used to being seen. To the quiet way he paid attention without demanding anything in return. And now, that silence was back, but cold this time. Detached. She didn’t know when it changed. Only that it had. And she hated the way it made her feel unguarded, unstable, and worst of all, wanting.

She wasn’t jealous

-.

Morning arrived without mercy, dragging pale light across the edge of her windows like it didn’t care that she hadn’t slept. The sky outside was colorless, flat and heavy with fog. The kind that pressed low against the rooflines and made everything feel too quiet, too slow. Her room felt colder than usual, the chill biting at her ankles where the blanket had fallen during the night she hadn’t really spent in bed. She’d stayed sitting upright instead, spine stiff, arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself in place because if she didn’t, she wasn’t sure what might fall apart.

Sleep had tried to come once or twice, brushing against her like a hand she didn’t want to take. But her mind had been louder. Faster. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Bodhi’s expression in a dozen different versions. Smirking over a wine bottle, grinning with wind in his hair during a late-night flight, quiet beside her in the dark of the archives, his voice a low murmur she’d started to need more than air. She saw the way he looked at Violet, too. Concerned, focused, like his world had tilted slightly and no one had told her.

But this wasn’t jealousy. She refused to let it be. This was strategy. A controlled decision. A tactical withdrawal before something truly dangerous could detonate between them.

The moment she decided was not loud. There was no burst of emotion, no flash of anger. Just a slow, steady quiet that filled her chest and didn’t leave. Like cooling embers. Like a fire that had gone out because it had to. And somewhere in that silence, Phyrrian stirred. Calm, poised, patient as ever. The dragon hadn’t said anything since the night before, when her voice had cracked through the reader’s denial with unshakable certainty: “Confront him.” But she was there now, a familiar weight in the back of her thoughts, watching as her rider began the slow process of preparing for war.

Because that’s what this would be. Not a battle with swords or flame, but something more intimate. More painful. She was going to take the thing she’d allowed to grow quietly between her and Bodhi, the thing that had slipped past her defenses like a whisper and bloomed in the dark, and she was going to sever it. Gently, yes. But completely. Because whatever they were had become dangerous. Not in the way her father would rage about, or the marked ones might whisper about, but in the way that made her weaker. Softer. Vulnerable.

And that wasn’t something she could afford.

Her movements were clinical as she dressed. Each boot buckle fastened with practiced tension, each layer pulled tight against the morning chill. Her jacket felt heavier today, like it carried more than just its usual weight. Like it knew what she was about to do. Her fingers hesitated for half a breath at the collar, but she forced them into motion, smoothing the lapel and shrugging into her posture like she was putting on a mask.

Phyrrian didn’t speak. But the dragon’s presence curled tighter around her, a quiet support with no pressure, no push. Just presence. Reader knew the bond was waiting. Watching. Hoping, maybe. But neither of them said what they were both thinking.

That it would hurt.

That it would have to.

She stepped out into the corridor without a sound, the early morning still blanketing the halls in silence. The world smelled of dew and stone and cold, cleansing, almost. Like something was about to end.

And tonight, it would. Because it had to.

-

Her hand hovered over the door for a moment too long. It was late. Later than she usually allowed herself to act on impulse. But this didn’t feel like impulse. It felt like necessity, the kind that rises slowly over days, over weeks, until it suffocates the space between thoughts. The hallway was dark and cold, lit only by the flicker of the corridor lanterns casting long, unkind shadows against the stone. Her knuckles met the wood with three sharp knocks. They were measured and intentional, even though her chest felt anything but. It had been over a week since they’d been alone. Over a week since he’d leaned against her door with a grin she could feel in her spine. Since their dragons had flown together beneath a sky full of stars and everything, just for a few hours had felt still.

Now everything felt stretched too thin. Too distant.

She waited.

A beat. Then another. And then the door creaked open, slow and quiet. Bodhi stood there barefoot, his curls mussed and shirt hanging loosely at his collarbone. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from drills or leadership. The kind that settled into your bones when something you cared about had been left untouched too long.

He looked at her with faint confusion. No sarcasm, no welcome grin, no preloaded joke. Just that slight frown between his brows. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” he said, voice low and even.

She ignored the way her stomach twisted at the sound. “Can I come in?”

He stepped aside without hesitation, the door falling shut behind her with a soft thud that felt far too final. The air inside his dorm was warm, smelling faintly of old paper, leather, and the kind of herbal soap he always seemed to carry with him like a ghost. It felt familiar in a way that made her ache. But she didn’t sit. Didn’t let herself soften. She stayed standing, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, her spine held taut with the kind of discipline that came from holding too much inside for too long.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. Couldn’t. Her gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder, and when the words came, they were clipped. Surgical. “I’m ending this.”

That hung in the air between them, as brittle as frost.

“Whatever this is, was, it’s over.”

Bodhi didn’t speak. Not yet. She could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing. And for some reason, that silence made everything worse. She kept going, faster now, like if she didn’t say it all at once she’d lose the strength to say it at all.

“We crossed a line, Bodhi. Several. And it’s starting to show. People are watching. I can feel it. I hear it.” Her voice sharpened, voice trembling beneath the edge of composure. “You’ve been distracted. Distant. You disappear once a week without explanation. You barely look at me during training. I’m not stupid. I know when something’s changed.”

Still, he said nothing. Still, he watched. The gates were open now and there was no stopping the words that tumbled from her lips.

“I’m not asking for details,” she added quickly, cutting off the argument he hadn’t offered. “I don’t want explanations. I know this was never meant to be anything serious. And that’s fine. That’s more than fine. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter when you vanish. I can’t keep feeling like I’m the only one who’s still standing in the middle of something I never had the courage to name.”

Her throat closed around the last few words, and for a terrifying moment, she thought she might break. But she didn’t. She forced her chin up, forced her voice steady again.

“I don’t want to care. Gods, I don’t. But I do. And that’s the problem.”

She finally looked at him then, really looked. And the softness in his face nearly unmade her.

Because he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t defensive. He was surprised. Genuinely, silently stunned as if he hadn’t known she felt any of it. As if every quiet moment they’d shared hadn’t already spoken volumes.

And maybe that’s what hurt most.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she finished, quieter now. “It’s too dangerous. Too messy. For both of us.”

The silence that followed was long and unbearable.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Part of her expected him to laugh it off. To shrug and say it was fine. That they’d go back to being leaders. Partners. Strangers again. But he just stood there, like she’d taken the air from the room and left him with nothing to breathe.

And for the first time since she met Bodhi Durran, he looked like he didn’t know what to say.

It took him a long time to speak. Not because he didn’t have words—Bodhi always had words—but because the ones he needed now weren’t the ones he knew how to wield. Not with her standing there, arms crossed and shoulders squared like she was trying to hold herself together through sheer force of spine. Her silence had never felt so far away. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could reach her.

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said finally, voice low, controlled. Like he was handling a skittish dragon. Like she might bolt if he touched the wrong nerve. “Things have just been… busy.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Her eyes pinned him like a blade to the wall.

“With Aeto’s squad?” she asked, tone razor-flat.

His mouth opened, too quickly. “Yeah. And some new assignments from Xaden. Some night patrols. Nothing major.”

Her jaw tightened, just slightly. Enough to crack through the expressionless mask she wore.

“Night patrols.” She repeated it slowly, like she was testing the taste of the lie in her mouth. Her voice didn’t rise. Didn’t break. But gods, it cut. “You disappear at the exact same time every week. You come back looking like you’ve been wrung out. And the only person who seems to know where you are is Riorspn. You really expect me to believe it’s nothing major?”

His mouth tensed. A fraction of hesitation. Not enough to be obvious but too much for her not to notice.

She stared at him, and the hurt pooled in her chest wasn’t fire. It was ice. Quiet, spreading, and numbing everything in its path. She knew him too well. Knew the cadence of his honesty, the way he never flinched when he spoke truth. But now, his gaze dipped slightly, right eyebrow twitching. His stance wavered just enough.

He wasn’t lying maliciously. He was lying to protect something.

And that made it worse.

“You don’t trust me,” she said, not accusingly. Just as fact. A sad, quiet realization that settled heavy between them.

Bodhi looked at her then, fully, and there was something soft in his eyes. Something that might’ve been guilt. Might’ve been longing. But she didn’t give him a chance to shape it into words.

“No,” she said, shaking her head once, the weight of all of it finally collapsing inward. “Don’t try to explain something you’ve already decided I don’t get to know. I’m not doing this.”

“I’m not trying to shut you out,” he said quickly, stepping forward but not enough to close the gap.

“You already did.” Her voice cracked. Just barely. Just once. But it was enough to feel the shame crawl under her skin like a second spine. “You shut me out and then kept showing up like I wouldn’t notice.”

He looked like he wanted to reach for her. Like something inside him was breaking too. But she stepped back just enough to signal that this was done. That if he touched her, if he said anything that sounded like hope, she might not have the strength to follow through.

“I came here to be honest,” she said, quieter now, like her voice was fraying at the seams. “I’ve given you everything I have. Even when it scared the hell out of me. And you didn’t even trust me with the truth.”

She turned before he could speak again. She couldn’t bear to see his face if he called her name.

Her boots hit the stone floor too loud in the silence, echoing with every step as she opened the door and stepped into the hall. The cool air slapped her in the face, biting against the heat of everything she was holding in. She didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

And behind her, Bodhi didn’t follow.

He let her go.

And that—that—was how she knew it was over.

-

It had been four days.

Four days since she’d stood in Bodhi’s dorm with her heart clenched like a fist and her voice wrapped in iron. Four days since she’d turned her back on the only person who had ever made the silence inside her feel like something safe. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t indulged in anger or wallowed in the sting of walking away. That wasn’t her style. Instead, she’d done what she was trained to do: she executed. She rose with the sun. She attended every lecture. She called drills with clipped, decisive orders. She corrected footwork and signet misfires and strategic formations with the same calculated poise she always had. From the outside, nothing had changed.

But inside, everything had shifted.

The ache sat heavy in her chest, not loud or dramatic but present. Like a second heartbeat. She’d thought the decision would leave her with relief. Freedom, even. Instead, it hollowed her out. There were no late-night knocks now. No stolen glances across training fields. She didn’t realize how much of her day had been spent looking for Bodhi until he stopped looking back.

He still showed up, of course. Bodhi had always been consistent, maddeningly so. He attended drills on time, filled his role as executive officer without hesitation, passed reports to her with clean margins and cool professionalism. But the rhythm was off. The unspoken thread that had bound them through chaos and calm alike had unraveled. They didn’t speak unless they had to. They didn’t move in tandem anymore. And worst of all he didn’t look at her the way he used to. Not with curiosity. Not with quiet understanding. Not with anything.

She told herself it was fine. Better, even.

But that morning, the lie was harder to believe.

She stood off to the side of the sparring mats, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed as she watched one of the younger first-years run through a set of warm-up drills. She offered occasional corrections, not with cruelty. Her tone was cool, her mind half elsewhere. The sky was still gray from an overnight storm, the ground damp with the scent of rain and churned grass, and every bootstep seemed louder than usual.

Somewhere to her left, near the edge of the warm-up circle, she heard it.

Low voices. Whispering. Just far enough to be subtle. Just close enough to be caught.

“I heard he only got that spot ‘cause he was screwing her.”

A snort, followed by a different voice, mocking, male. “Please. Like she’d let anyone that close. Girl’s got fire in her blood. Probably burned his off.”

“Yeah, well, whatever it was, she ditched him. Saw her storming out of his room the other night. Guess he finally realized legacy girls don’t play nice once daddy starts asking questions.”

Laughter followed. Soft and cruel.

Her grip on her arm tightened, fingers curling around the crook of her elbow like she could anchor herself in the pressure. She didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, eyes still on the first-year she was supposed to be coaching, even though the girl’s movements had long since blurred at the edges of her vision.

She wasn’t surprised. Not really. Whispers like that had always followed her. Since Threshing. Since she’d first dared to stand with Tail Section. But this time, it hit somewhere deeper. Somewhere raw.

Because this time it wasn’t entirely untrue.

They had been something. And she had ended it.

And now, Bodhi’s name lived on her tongue like an ache she refused to speak aloud.

She inhaled slowly, forcing her breath to even out, forcing her gaze to sharpen back on the cadet stumbling through a footwork pivot. She offered a correction. Cold. Clinical.

She didn’t look toward the whispering voices.

And gods, she didn’t look toward Bodhi, even though she could feel his presence across the field like a sunbeam she refused to step into.

She was fine.

The whispers didn’t stop. Not through drills, not through formations, not even when she shifted pairings to force the cadets into harder footwork that left them breathless and off-balance. She could hear them in fragments, tails of sentences curling under breath, sharpened by assumption and jealousy, softened only by the cadence of cowardice. She didn’t call them out. Not yet. She told herself it was discipline, restraint. That to acknowledge it was to validate it.

But every word sank deeper. And the fire in her spine threatened to rise.

By the time the final set was complete and the mats were cleared, the sky was smeared with late morning haze, the heat heavy and clinging. She dismissed the section with a clipped tone and crossed arms, her voice echoing crisply across the field.

“Good work today. Recover smart, rehydrate, and don’t do anything stupid until I say you can.”

A few cadets grinned. A few nodded quickly, eager to escape. The group began to break apart into smaller conversations, some jogging off to the water basins or benches, others stretching beside the edge of the field. The weight in her chest hadn’t lessened. If anything, the forced routine had only sharpened it. She was just about to turn to retrieve her notes when another voice cut through the murmur like a whip crack.

“Must’ve been a hard fall for the great FlameWalker. Slumming it with the rebellion and then getting left behind.”

There was a beat of silence. And then, softer, meaner.

“Guess it’s true what they say. Even the loyal ones leave eventually. Especially if they were never yours to begin with.”

Something in her body turned to stone. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. She knew that voice. Same smug bastard who’d mouthed off about her before. Same cadet she’d humiliated on the mats weeks ago. The bitterness hadn’t burned out of him. Just learned to rot quieter until now.

But before she could turn, before the words could curl in her throat like flame and ash, someone else stepped in.

Bodhi’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “That’s enough.”

The tone silenced the field. It wasn’t barked, wasn’t sharp. It was measured. Steady. Controlled in a way that made it worse, like the stillness before a blade fell. She turned slightly, barely, enough to see him a few paces away, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes leveled on the cadet like he was just another mark on a page. Calm. Detached. Dangerous.

The younger cadet, caught in the open, shifted his weight like he wanted to step back but couldn’t without showing fear. “I didn’t mean anything by it,.”

Bodhi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No, you did. That’s the problem.”

The field was silent now. Even the rustle of gear and breath had gone still. Y/N watched him, unmoving. The way he held himself: not tense, but deliberate like every word he spoke had already been calculated and carved in stone.

“You want to question my loyalty?” Bodhi said, voice smooth as steel drawn slow. “Fine. But when you insult your section leader in front of her squad after she’s spent months bleeding to get you here? You’re not making a statement.” He took one step closer. “You’re making a mistake.”

The cadet’s face paled, but Bodhi didn’t stop.

“FlameWalker has carried this section farther than you’ve walked since Threshing. You don’t have to like her. But you will respect her. Or you’ll find yourself on the floor explaining your attitude to your dragon while the rest of us move on without you. You’re lucky It’s a rule section leaders can’t kill cadets from their squad”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t theatrical. It was final. And that, somehow, was worse than anything she could have said.

The cadet muttered a shaken nod and turned, retreating into the crowd with hunched shoulders and burning ears.

Bodhi didn’t look at Y/N. Not right away. But everyone else did.

She stood still, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She should’ve been furious: he’d undermined her authority, stepped in where she should’ve crushed it herself. But she wasn’t.

Because he hadn’t defended her like a man protecting something delicate. He’d defended her like a soldier recognizing a commander. And somehow that cut deeper than if he’d touched her.

The field slowly came back to life around them, but the mood had shifted. No one laughed now. No one lingered. A few cadets murmured to one another under their breath, heads ducked, eyes darting toward the two leaders still standing beneath the gray-washed light of the late morning. They weren’t subtle about it, but they were smart enough to move. Smart enough to give them space.

She didn’t look up. She kept her head bowed over her notes, flipping through the corners of the worn leather-bound pages with too much focus to be genuine. Her pulse had slowed, but her stomach hadn’t unknotted. The scribbled columns of times and partner matchups blurred in her vision, and still she pretended they mattered more than the boy who had just defended her like she was still his to protect.

The others were gone now. She could sense it. One by one, the cadets peeled away toward their next obligation. Another round of weapons drills, sparring evaluations, a tactics exam. They left without a word, not because they didn’t have things to say, but because they knew better than to speak them aloud. Because there was something sharp and unfinished lingering in the courtyard air, and they weren’t about to breathe it in.

She snapped her notebook closed, the worn leather slapping softly against her palm, and bent to slide it into the narrow satchel she’d brought out for field review. Her fingers had just tightened around the strap when a shadow passed across her shoulder. Broad, familiar, too close not to recognize.

“Can we talk?”

The words weren’t forced. They weren’t desperate. But they landed heavy all the same.

She straightened slowly, her spine rigid, jaw tight as she adjusted the strap across her shoulder before finally meeting his gaze. Bodhi stood a pace away, hands relaxed at his sides like he wasn’t the same man who’d just dismantled a first-year with nothing but his voice and the weight of truth.

She didn’t answer immediately. The air between them was still thick with whatever had been left behind in his defense of her. Respect, regret, maybe something else. She hated that she couldn’t read him anymore. Hated that a week ago, she could interpret a twitch of his mouth, a glance, a shrug and now, everything felt unfamiliar.

“Now?” she asked, voice calm but strained.

He nodded once, eyes steady. “Yeah. Now.”

Of course it had to be now. Because if it wasn’t now, she didn’t know if she’d ever let it be.

She lifted her chin, ready to walk past him like she hadn’t just watched him silence a courtyard for her. Like the last four days hadn’t frayed every thread of her composure. But Bodhi wasn’t moving. And now, neither was she.

“You really want to do this now?” she asked, voice flat, not even looking at him. “You made your point already.”

“I didn’t say what needed to be said,” Bodhi replied, not missing a beat.

She let out a slow exhale, biting down on the instinct to tell him she didn’t need anything from him. That was a lie, and they both knew it. She turned slightly, trying to pivot away from the weight of the moment. But he followed. One step. Close, but not crowding. Just enough to let her know he wasn’t going to disappear this time.

“You’ve been angry at me for days. You deserve more than the silence I gave you.”

That stopped her. Just enough. She turned, arms still crossed, eyes unreadable. “Then talk. Say whatever it is you’re here to say. But if this is another apology wrapped in a half-excuse? Don’t bother.”

“I can’t tell you everything,” he said carefully. “I wish I could. But some things I’ve been ordered not to talk about.”

Her jaw clenched. “Then don’t expect me to understand what you won’t explain.”

“I’m not asking you to understand everything,” he said. “I’m asking you to let me tell you the part that is mine to give.”

She stared at him, something fragile flickering under her glare. “Then say it.”

He nodded once. No hesitation, just quiet resolve. “Violet Sorrengail is bonded to Xaden Riorson. Through their dragons, Tairn and Sgaeyl. That bond? It’s complicated. Dangerous. There are people who would tear her apart if they knew because it would kill Riorson. So, there’s a group of us: me, Garrick, Imogen and some others. we’ve been keeping her safe. Keeping her quiet. And that’s where I’ve been. Every week. Every time I left.”

The words landed like a stone in her gut. “You’ve been protecting her?”

“Yes. Because if I didn’t, she’d be dead by now, so would Xaden. And you would’ve never known why.”

Something flickered across her face. Shock, anger, and betrayal, all tangled into something she couldn’t name. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” he said, his voice low. “The more people who know, the more risk there is. I wanted to tell you. Gods, Y/N of course I wanted to. But it would’ve dragged you into something you never agreed to.”

Her breath hitched. “So instead, you just vanished. Let me think it was my fault. Let me think I wasn’t—” She stopped herself, swallowed hard. “Forget it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“You still did,” she whispered, the confession hot on her skin.

And that? That made the silence stretch again. Thicker now. Like the space between them had become its own kind of battlefield.

She looked away first. “So what, you’re just here to lead me on?”

“I’m here because I owe you the truth. Even if it’s not all of it.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that?” Her boots shifted slightly in the damp grass, her weight redistributing like the ground beneath her had tilted. She could have walked. Could have tossed a half-hearted "see you around" over her shoulder and vanished into the fog of the day like she always did when things got too close. But her feet didn’t move. Her mouth didn’t either. Everything inside her felt suspended, like her thoughts had slowed down just enough to let the weight of everything crash down at once.

Bodhi was still standing in front of her, a careful distance kept between them. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough that she could breathe, and hate that she wanted to step into his shadow. He wasn’t trying to touch her, or convince her. He was just there. Steady. Quiet. Letting her sit in the silence without trying to fill it.

And gods, that was somehow worse.

She didn’t know what to say. Her thoughts were a mess of tangled emotion and half-formed questions. She was angry, yes but that was fading now, replaced by something messier. Regret. Relief. Something tighter and harder to look at. Yearning, maybe.

She glanced at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t wearing that easy smile he used like a shield. His brow was furrowed slightly, like he was holding something back. Like maybe this moment meant more to him than he was ready to admit. And yet, he wasn’t running.

Neither was she.

“I thought I had it figured out,” she murmured, voice hoarse and small in the wide space of the empty training field. “Us. You. What this was. I thought it made sense.”

“And now?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

She exhaled, looking away, shaking her head. “Now it’s just noise.”

Bodhi was quiet for a moment. Then he said, softly, “Can I add to the noise?”

She looked up at him, wary but silent.

He gave her a small, uncertain smile. Real, this time. A little nervous, even. And something about that, seeing Bodhi Durran unsure of himself nearly broke her in half.

“When I met you, I thought you were terrifying,” he said lightly, but there was a weight behind it. “Not just because you could take me apart on the sparring mat. Which, for the record, you absolutely can. But because you didn’t bend for anyone. You didn’t care what people thought. You didn’t smile if it wasn’t earned. You were sharp. Controlled. And I respected the hell out of it.”

She blinked, confused. “You’re confessing to being scared of me?”

His grin widened a little. “I’m confessing that I thought you were untouchable. That I liked watching the girl who held herself like a loaded weapon and pretended she wasn’t lonely.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her chest felt too full to speak.

“And then,” he continued, voice softer now, “you let me in. Not all at once. Not even intentionally. Just in pieces. Late-night plans. Stupid jokes. Flying under the stars because neither of us know how to sleep when the world is quiet.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to hers. “I didn’t mean to fall for any of that. I just did.”

Her breath caught. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her satchel.

“I haven’t said anything,” he added quickly, “because I know you don’t let people in easily. I know the moment I ask for something more, you’ll weigh it like a blade in your palm. But I also know this. ” He stepped forward. Not far. Just enough.

“I miss you. Not the idea of you. You. And I don’t want to go back to pretending we don’t know what this is.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Everything in her felt like it had been cracked open and left raw in the sun. And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel angry or hurt or betrayed. She just felt seen. And gods, it terrified her.

He hesitated. Then: “Whatever you want. I’m not asking for anything back. I just didn’t want you to keep carrying the worst version of us.”

She exhaled slowly, jaw clenched, blinking up at the gray sky like it might offer her something steady. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

“Thanks,” she said finally, voice dull. “For telling me what you could.”

And she didn’t say it, but she still wanted more. And maybe that was the part that hurt most of all.

The silence that followed Bodhi’s words wasn’t heavy it was thick. Full. Brimming with all the things she’d held behind clenched teeth and crossed arms for weeks. And he just stood there, giving her space to run if she needed it, but also hoping—gods, he was hoping she wouldn’t.

She should’ve turned away. Should’ve said something biting or cool, changed the subject, shut the door before it opened wider. That was what she did. That was what she always did.

Instead, her mouth opened and against all odds, her voice wobbled out, dry and sharp as ever. “You fell for the girl who threatened her cadets and sparred you bloody twice?”

Bodhi blinked, startled.

A second passed.

Then she giggled. Gods help her. It wasn’t loud, but it was real. A breathless little exhale that slipped out before she could catch it, her hand moving up to her mouth like she might physically push the sound back in. Her face flushed instantly, high across the cheekbones, down her throat. She wasn’t even sure if it was embarrassment or relief.

“I guess you really are an idiot,” she added under her breath, laughing once more, too pink now to look at him properly.

And Bodhi beamed. Not his usual cocky smirk, not his practiced grin. This was something soft, something unguarded and boyish and absolutely floored by the sight of her smiling at him like that.

She cleared her throat, straightened, tried to bring back even a scrap of her usual edge but her voice cracked slightly when she spoke again.

“I didn’t mean to let you in either,” she admitted, quieter now. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and this time, she didn’t look away. “And I didn’t like it. I don’t like feeling out of control.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“But you’re…” She rolled her eyes, frustrated with herself, with everything. “You’re there. Always. Even when I’m horrible. Even when I shut you out. Even when I lie to myself and tell Phyrrian it’s easier without you.”

Her hands twisted in the strap of her bag again, trying to ground herself in something.

“But I missed you too,” she said, finally. “And it’s awful.”

Bodhi laughed. “Romantic.”

“I hate this,” she groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I hate that I let you in and now everything feels off when you’re not around. I hate that I look for you even when I’m furious.”

He stepped closer again. Slow. Careful. His voice was warm when he replied. “You don’t have to love how it happened.”

“I don’t.”

“But you don’t hate me.”

She glanced at him, lips twitching. “No. Unfortunately, I don’t.”

A breathless laugh passed between them, her cheeks still flushed, her expression still caught between exasperation and something much softer.

And then, gently, she murmured, “So what now, Bodhi?”

He reached for her hand. Not forcefully, just enough for their fingers to brush and said, without hesitation, “Now we stop pretending we’re not already choosing each other. One night at a time.”

And for once, she didn’t run. She just nodded, still pink-faced and unsteady, still her exact sharp-edged self but with a small, crooked smile that she only ever gave to him.

Their fingers brushed, then held. Her grip was cautious at first, like she wasn’t quite convinced this wasn’t all about to collapse beneath her. But he didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud or squeeze too hard. He just stood there, steady as ever, like he’d been waiting exactly this long for her to take the lead.

It was terrifying how natural it felt.

They stood like that for a moment, quiet until the reality of it crept back in like morning fog rolling back over sun-warmed stone.

“I guess,” she murmured, eyes still locked on their joined hands, “this is the part where we talk about the awkward, legacy-shaming, politically inconvenient parts.”

Bodhi chuckled under his breath. “Right. The ‘you’re from a flame-blooded dynasty and I have a literal rebellion branded into my skin’ part.”

She gave him a withering look. “Not exactly ideal.”

“Scandalous,” he agreed, absolutely grinning now.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. “You know my father will lose his mind, right?”

“Do you want me to write him a letter?” Bodhi offered, voice light and teasing. “Something like, ‘Dear Sir FlameWalker, please accept this formal notice that your daughter is dating beneath her station. Sincerely, the disappointment with a tattoo problem.’”

That drew a laugh from her, warm and involuntary, the tension in her shoulders easing another notch. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” he said smugly, bumping his shoulder gently into hers as he squeezed her palms in his. “Clutching my hand like it’s your new favorite weapon.”

She tried to scoff but she didn’t let go. Not even a little. There was a beat of quiet again, gentler now, wrapped in something softer than tension. Something close.

“Do we have to talk about all of it right now?” she asked eventually, the words quieter than before. “The rebellion. My family. All the ways this will probably explode in our faces?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Not while you’re still blushing and mad at yourself for admitting you have feelings.”

She punched his arm. Lightly. “Shut up.”

“I mean it,” he said, smile still there but softer now. “We’ll talk about all of it. But not today. Not when we’ve already survived four days of self-inflicted emotional torture.”

She looked at him, and something in her expression cracked just slightly. “Later,” she agreed. “We’ll do it later. When I can’t use stress as an excuse for being soft.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You? Soft? Never.”

She sighed, dry and dramatic. “I already regret this.”

But then he stepped forward, close enough that their foreheads nearly touched, and she didn’t move away.

And gods, the warmth.

Bodhi’s presence was like sunlight. Calm and constant, seeping into her skin even through armor she hadn’t known she was still wearing. When he wrapped his arms around her, it wasn’t tight or possessive. It was slow. Thoughtful. One hand resting at the small of her back, the other curling gently behind her neck like she might still vanish if he wasn’t careful.

She melted before she meant to, her arms lifting up his chest. Sighed into the space between his shoulder and collarbone and let her forehead rest there, eyes slipping closed.

“You’re too much,” she muttered, voice muffled.

“Not a bad trade for terrifying, is it?”

She let out a soft laugh against his chest. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

And maybe it was the way her hands fisted gently in the back of his shirt, or the fact that his breath hitched when she leaned just slightly closer. But suddenly the air between them shifted again. Slower this time. He pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet.

His hand was still at her jaw. Her breath catching in her throat.

“You gonna punch me if I kiss you?” he asked, voice low, teasing but laced with something real.

She blinked. Swallowed. “Only if you’re bad at it.”

That was all he needed.

He leaned in.

And when their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. Tt was flames. Slow, steady, built from everything they hadn’t said. His mouth moved against hers like he’d been memorizing the moment before it even happened. And gods, she kissed him back like she was still angry, still unraveling, but finally willing to burn just a little if it meant feeling something real.

When they finally pulled apart, her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, her hands still curled into his shirt.

“So?” he whispered, breath brushing her skin.

She smirked, cheeks flushed, voice hoarse.

“…I’ll allow it.”

[sherewrytes]

Love and Gunshots, Eren x Black Reader

Gang member Eren x Introvert black reader

Summary: In a dangerous urban landscape, y/n, an introverted Criminal Law student, finds herself drawn into the violent world of the Sixx Gang through her protective cousin, Onyankopon. When she locks eyes with Eren Yeager, a hot-headed gang member, a twisted game of desire and danger begins.

As Eren becomes obsessed with y/n, he threatens to unravel the fragile balance Ony has maintained to shield her from their brutal lifestyle. With loyalty tested and violence lurking at every turn, the lines between love and danger blur, leading to a dark climax where the heart proves just as lethal as a gun.

Genre: Dark Romance/Crime Modern au

Warnings: Graphic violence, drug use, smut, obsession

I’ll re edit this when I’m better, in the mean time happy reading

chapter 7: Sink or Swim

Levi's voice cut through the tension like a knife, his words sharp and unwavering. "That's enough," he commanded. The air in the warehouse shifted immediately. The chaos of our confrontation with Eren came to an abrupt halt, the weight of Levi’s authority settling over us like a heavy blanket.

I stood there, chest heaving, blood pumping, but I didn’t move. Eren was on the ground, still trying to regain his breath, eyes burning with that familiar fire. But Levi wasn’t having any of it. He turned to Reiner, Jean, and Connie, his eyes colder than ice.

"Start explaining what the fuck is going on with them both," Levi ordered, his voice carrying the weight of someone who didn’t take any excuses.

Reiner stepped forward first, looking over at me, his expression tight. He knew exactly how fucked up this situation had become, but he had no choice but to answer. “Well, it started with YN... and how she got caught between all this shit. Eren's got his thing with her, and Ony... well, he’s been keeping his distance but... it's a mess. You know how it goes.”

Jean’s eyes shifted between Levi and the others. “It’s not like it was just about YN, though. It’s been building up for a while now. They both... they both have shit they’re dealing with, and it’s like they’re getting pulled in every direction.” He glanced briefly at me. “This is bigger than just a rivalry.”

Connie folded his arms, shaking his head in frustration. "The whole thing’s a powder keg, Levi. Eren, Ony... both of them have been pushing buttons for weeks now. Eren’s been making moves on YN, and Ony’s not gonna let that slide. But now it’s spilling over. And they’re both too fucking proud to back down.”

Levi was silent for a moment, letting the words hang in the air, the weight of the situation sinking in. He looked between all of us, his gaze sharp, calculating. Then, with a small, irritated sigh, he spoke.

“You both better start thinking real fucking carefully about where you’re headed. I don’t want to deal with this shit on my streets, but I can’t have you two constantly at each other's throats. YN’s been dragged into this mess, and now I’m dealing with two of my best men acting like children.”

He turned his gaze to Eren, who was slowly pushing himself up from the ground, and then to me. “And you,” he said, his voice low, “stop making things personal. There’s a fine line between taking control and burning everything to the ground, and right now? You’re both teetering on that line.”

I clenched my jaw, the anger still simmering beneath the surface. This wasn’t how I wanted things to go, but I wasn’t going to let it slide either. YN wasn’t just some game to me, and neither was Eren.

“I’m not backing down,” I muttered under my breath, though I knew Levi was listening. “Not until I make things right with her.”

Levi’s eyes flicked to mine, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something—maybe understanding or maybe just irritation. “Make things right,” he repeated, his tone almost mocking. “That’s the problem, Ony. You’re both too damn proud. This shit’s not about you, and it’s definitely not about YN. It’s about keeping things under control.”

His gaze hardened. “Now, you two... figure this out before I do it for you.”

I shot a quick glance at Eren, who had finally gotten to his feet, his body still tense, blood staining his shirt. There was a mutual understanding between us now, something unspoken, something that told me this was far from over. But for now, I had to back off. For now, I had to listen to Levi.

It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Levi turned on his heel, steps purposeful as if he intended to leave without another word. But then, as if struck by a thought, he paused mid-stride. A slow, sharp smile spread across his face—cold, calculating, and laced with intent.

"Connie," he said, voice steady but weighted with authority. "Go fetch me Y/N. Now."

The room stilled, tension thick enough to choke on. Connie hesitated, glancing at me as if to confirm Levi's words, but the man left no room for doubt.

With a sharp motion, Levi cocked his gun, the metallic sound echoing ominously. He looked at the two of us, his sharp gaze cutting like a blade through the air.

"I’ll fix this."

The statement hung heavy, a promise of reckoning.

He started to walk away again, but this time, his parting words sliced deeper than any weapon ever could.

"I hope you two can come together long enough to plan a funeral."

evi's words hung in the air like a death sentence. As he turned to walk away, he stopped, a smile curling on his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes. His voice was cool, calculated, like he knew exactly how to drive the point home.

"Connie, go fetch me YN now," Levi said, his tone steady but ominous. He cracked his gun in his hands, the sound sharp and final. "I'll fix this."

The coldness in his words sent a chill through me. There was something about the way Levi spoke—like he controlled everything around him, like we were all just pieces on a board. My stomach tightened. He wasn’t playing around.

Levi turned to face both Eren and me, his eyes hardening as he addressed us directly. "I hope you two can come together to plan a funeral," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It was a clear warning. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if it came down to it.

I clenched my jaw, frustration bubbling up inside me, but I knew better than to speak out. If Levi wanted to end this, he could do it with a snap of his fingers. No matter how much I hated to admit it, we were both at his mercy.

Connie started moving toward the exit, his pace slow and deliberate. He gave me a glance as he passed, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. I wasn’t sure if he was on my side, or if he was just following orders.

Eren stayed silent, his eyes still burning with anger, but now there was an added weight in them—something like fear. The reality of what Levi could do seemed to finally sink in.

And just like that, we were left standing in the silence, knowing full well that whatever happened next would determine how things would play out for all of us.

Eren was the first to break the tense silence, his voice low but laced with unmistakable fury.

"If you harm her, Levi, I will kill you."

The words fell like a thunderclap, freezing everyone in place. A stunned hush overtook the room. No one—not a single soul—had ever dared to threaten Levi before.

Levi’s eyes narrowed, his hand twitching toward his weapon, but before he could act, the air shifted. A new presence filled the space, one both commanding and unexpected.

The atmosphere shifted as the door to the warehouse creaked open, and in stepped a figure none of us had expected—Erwin. His presence was like a sudden gust of wind, a reminder of authority that cut through the tension in the room. His eyes scanned the group, resting briefly on Levi, before settling on Eren, who had just made his threat.

Levi froze for a moment, his hand still gripping the gun, but his expression unreadable. He turned slowly to face Erwin, his cold gaze narrowing.

But Erwin wasn’t having it. He stepped further into the room, his voice calm but firm, the kind of calm that always came right before a storm.

From the shadows stepped Erwin, his voice calm yet cutting.

"Levi, why are you beating the members again?"

rwin asked, his voice carrying weight, as if it was a question meant to settle the room, to pull Levi back from the brink.

The tension was palpable. Everyone in the room knew that Erwin was the only person who could challenge Levi without fear of immediate retaliation. And now, with Erwin in the mix, the rules of the game had changed.

Eren, still standing with his fists clenched, took a step forward. "I said," he repeated, his voice colder now, "if you harm her, I will kill you."

There was a flicker of something in Levi’s eyes—a shift in his posture, something subtle but telling. He didn’t like threats, especially ones directed at him, but there was respect in the way he hesitated now.

Erwin stood between them, like a mediator in a game of power. His eyes locked on Levi’s, then shifted toward Eren, acknowledging the weight of the situation. "This has gone too far," Erwin said. "All of this, the violence, the threats—it has to stop."

Levi, who rarely entertained such discussions, let out a soft sigh, clearly displeased with Erwin’s interruption. But he didn't argue, not right away. Instead, he leveled his gaze at Eren, as if measuring him. His lips curled slightly, a sign that he wasn’t entirely unamused by the challenge.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that, kid," Levi said finally, the weight of his words settling in the air between them. "But understand this—this isn’t your fight." He glanced over at Erwin, a brief look that said everything.

Erwin, who had always been the calm, strategic mind behind their operations, finally turned his attention to the rest of the room. "Enough, Levi," he said, the authority in his voice unmistakable. "We’re better than this. We need to handle this situation... without more bloodshed."

The tension didn’t disappear, but it seemed to shift. No one spoke immediately, the silence hanging heavy as everyone processed the weight of what had just transpired. Erwin had stepped in, and Levi had, for the first time in a long time, allowed someone to get between him and his actions.

Eren stood, still simmering with anger, but it was clear that Erwin’s presence had caused him to pause, just long enough to reconsider his next move.

Levi looked at Erwin with a quiet, almost amused expression, before turning back to Eren. "You’ll get your chance," Levi said, his voice quieter now, almost dismissive, as if the moment had passed. "But understand this, kid—things don’t work the way you think they do."

As for me, I was left standing there, watching the play unfold, still unsure of who to trust, and wondering just how far this strange, tangled game would go.

Eren’s face twisted with raw fury, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if Levi’s words had pushed him over the edge. He was already a ticking time bomb, but now, it felt like he was moments from exploding. The words Levi had spoken—cold and calculated—pierced through the tension like a knife, and Eren snapped.

"You think..." Eren's voice was shaking, low at first, but rising in intensity. "You think you can just say that and get away with it?!" His fists clenched so tight, his knuckles turned white, but even then, he didn’t move toward Levi. No, he stood there, seething, looking like he wanted to rip everything apart in the room, especially Levi.

Levi, unfazed as ever, just smiled darkly, leaning slightly forward with that air of arrogance he carried so effortlessly. "What’s wrong, Yaeger?" Levi taunted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can't take the truth? Or is it that your fragile little mind can’t handle the idea that the woman you’re obsessed with might not survive this? Because if she does survive... well, you know how this game works. You and Ony both have too many ties to my streets, and you won’t get to walk away clean."

Eren’s whole body trembled, his breath ragged as he tried to suppress the overwhelming rage. But it was clear that Levi had pushed him to the edge. The idea of Y/N being threatened—being a casualty in Levi’s world—was something Eren couldn’t accept, not when it was so close to the one thing he cared about most.

"No," Eren growled, his voice more animalistic now. "No, you don't get to do this. You think you can control everything, but I won't let you. I’ll tear this whole world down before I let you touch her."

Levi’s grin only widened, enjoying the chaos unfolding before him. He could sense the power struggle in the air, the way everyone was watching this standoff, and he wasn’t going to back down. "I think you’re forgetting something, Yaeger," Levi said, his voice cold, yet there was something almost playful in it. "I hold all the cards here. You, Ony, and even Y/N—none of you matter if I say so."

The way Levi spoke, like they were all pieces in his game, made the whole situation feel even more suffocating. Every word out of his mouth added fuel to Eren’s already boiling fury, and it was clear that things were about to escalate to a breaking point.

Eren’s gaze shot to Levi, his eyes full of something dangerous, something that no one had ever dared to see before. "I swear, Levi, I’ll make you regret this." His words were thick with venom, but his voice barely held together as he tried to control the storm inside of him.

Levi just chuckled, a low sound that echoed in the room, before glancing over at the rest of the crew. "You’ll get your chance, Yaeger," he said with a mocking tone. "But for now, let’s see how well you can handle the consequences of your choices."

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence as everyone waited for the next move. Eren was still shaking with rage, his eyes never leaving Levi, as if daring him to try something else. But Levi, the master of control, held his ground, enjoying the chaos, knowing that for all of Eren’s fury, he was still caught in Levi’s web.

And me? I stood there, caught between the two of them, wondering just how far this madness would go before someone would break.

The tension in the room thickened as Levi’s eyes locked onto mine, cold and calculating, like he was daring me to speak. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not with everything happening—Yn was here now, and I wasn’t about to say anything that would put her in more danger, not when the stakes were this high.

Levi, of course, didn’t let up. His tone shifted, sharp and insistent. "You’re awfully quiet, Onyankopon," he said, almost with a smug smile, like he knew he had me cornered. "You don’t want to say anything about your precious family? About Y/N?"

His words hit hard, and every nerve in my body screamed to protect her, to do whatever I could to keep her safe, even if it meant sacrificing my own silence.

But just as I was about to speak, Eren’s restraint shattered. His fists clenched, his whole body trembling with unrestrained rage. He could barely hold it together, and it was clear he was ready to snap.

"I said stop!" Eren finally roared, his voice shaking with anger. "You’re pushing us both too far, Levi!"

The tension was unbearable, but before anyone could say anything else, the door creaked open, and in walked Yn.

Her eyes scanned the room, landing on me first, then shifting to Eren, before locking on Levi. Her expression was unreadable, but I could see the way her body tensed. She was here, and I felt like every movement in the room, every breath we took, was now amplified with the weight of her presence.

Levi didn’t miss a beat. He turned toward Reiner and Jean, who were standing at the edge of the room, and gave them a sharp command. "Get me my favorite things," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Erwin, on the other hand, rolled his eyes in disbelief, clearly tired of this whole charade. "Levi, relax," he said, his voice holding a rare calmness amidst the storm brewing in the room.

But Levi wasn’t listening. He just smirked and gave his signature cold laugh, an unsettling sound that made my blood run cold. "No, Erwin," Levi said with finality, his gaze sweeping back over to Eren and me. "This needs to be handled. And if they want to keep acting like nothing’s wrong, I’ll make them see just how far I’ll go."

I could feel the weight of Levi’s words and the depth of the danger we were all in. Every second felt like it could spiral out of control. And with Yn here, I knew we were all just one wrong move away from everything falling apart.

But even as I stood there in silence, knowing I couldn't protect her from everything that was about to unfold, I also knew one thing for certain: I was about to do everything in my power to make sure she didn’t pay for my mistakes. Even if it meant losing myself in the process.

The cold, unforgiving steel of the chains around my wrists felt like the weight of the world. I could barely move, and the pain in my body was nothing compared to the torment eating at me from the inside out. Eren was just a few feet away, his eyes full of anger and regret, but also fear—something I hadn’t seen from him in a long time. We were both trapped, and Yn... Yn was right there, too close, too vulnerable. Her tears fell freely as she sat there, her body trembling slightly, but it was the way she looked at me, like she didn’t know what to believe anymore, that hurt the most.

I could feel the pit in my stomach grow deeper. I thought I had been trying to protect her—keep her out of all this. But now... it was too late. I couldn’t stop the whirlwind I’d set into motion. If she died here tonight, my family would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself.

Levi stood in front of us, his eyes glinting with something dark and calculating. He looked at Yn with an eerie calmness that made my stomach churn. "I was going to spare you," he said, his voice like ice, "but I’ve changed my mind. So... I’m sorry."

The words hit me like a physical blow, and I could feel my breath catch in my throat. The coldness in Levi's voice made it clear that he wasn’t apologizing because he regretted anything. He was apologizing because he didn’t care. This was his way of showing power, making sure we knew how much control he had over us, over everything.

I couldn’t speak. The guilt and anger tied my tongue. The only thing that mattered now was making sure she didn’t suffer because of my choices, my actions. But Levi wasn’t about to let that happen. He wasn’t going to just walk away from this, not with Yn here in front of him. He wanted to break us, and he was doing it slowly, methodically.

Yn’s teary eyes met mine, and I saw the fear in them. It was that fear, that quiet desperation, that made me want to scream. I could hear her soft breaths, the way she tried to steady herself despite the situation we were in, but it wasn’t enough. Not when Levi was so close to destroying everything we had.

"I’m sorry, Yn," I whispered under my breath, more to myself than to her. "I never meant for any of this to happen."

But the truth was, I didn’t know how to fix it.

Erwin's voice broke through the tense atmosphere, his tone firm, but there was a hint of concern in it. "Levi, you're taking this too far... it's not her fault."

Levi didn’t flinch. He didn’t even seem to care. His eyes glinted with cold amusement as he turned his attention to Eren. "Like I care about that," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. The cruel, calculating edge of his words cut through the air, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, the tension suffocating.

Then, with a wicked smirk, Levi shifted his gaze back to Eren, who was still chained to his chair, seething with rage and frustration. "Tell her why you really want her," Levi ordered, his words sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.

The room fell deathly quiet as everyone turned their attention to Eren. He had always been unpredictable, but now, there was something even more dangerous in the way he stared at Yn.

I could feel a knot in my stomach tighten. Eren’s obsession, his twisted need for control, had always been there, but now it seemed to be escalating. I knew that there was something more to it, something dark and deep inside him that had never been fully exposed.

Eren’s jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with something I couldn’t quite place, before he finally spoke, his voice low, gravelly. "She’s... more than just someone to me," he began, his words slow, deliberate. "She’s my way out. She’s the only thing that’s real to me in all this madness."

The weight of his confession hit the room like a bomb. Yn’s gaze locked onto him, and I could see the disbelief flicker across her face. She wanted to say something, to respond, but the words never came. She looked at me, then back at Eren, confusion and fear swirling in her eyes.

I wanted to stop him, to protect her from the truth that was now hanging in the air between us, but I couldn’t. I was powerless, just as trapped as she was. The tension between us all was thick, suffocating, and I felt the walls closing in.

Levi was watching Eren with an almost amused expression, clearly enjoying the chaos he was stirring. "So, tell her, Eren," Levi taunted. "Tell her what you really want from her."

Eren's voice was almost a whisper, but it cut through the air with chilling clarity. "I like to break things," he muttered, his eyes distant, as if lost in the thought of something far darker than anyone in the room could comprehend. "Take perfect things and break them down... Yn is perfect for that, perfect for me."

The weight of his words hit me like a physical blow, and something inside me snapped. My blood boiled as I heard him speak, each word a twisted confession of what he really wanted—what he intended to do to her.

I couldn't stop myself. Rage surged through me, a raw, primal anger that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I looked at Eren, the twisted smirk still on his face, and all I could think was that I would never let him do this. I swore under my breath, my voice low but deadly, "I swear to God, I'll kill him."

The room went still.

Levi's sharp eyes flicked toward me, but I didn’t care. I was past caring. All I could see was Eren, sitting there smug and untouchable, thinking he had the power. But he didn’t. Not over me, not over Yn. I would make sure of that.

Eren met my gaze, his lips curling into a grin. "Go ahead," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "Try me. But it won’t matter. You’re too weak to stop me from taking what I want."

I didn't answer him, but the anger, the resolve inside me only grew stronger. I couldn’t let this happen. Not to her.

Levi watched the exchange with a glimmer of amusement, but there was a dark undertone to his silence. He was enjoying the chaos, pushing us both to the edge. But it didn’t matter. None of it did. The moment Eren had threatened Yn, the moment he had said she was perfect for breaking—he had crossed a line. A line I would make sure he never came back from.

I looked at Yn, who was still silent, her expression a mix of fear and confusion. But I could see the flicker of something else in her eyes. Something fierce. Something that might just give me the strength I needed to end this.

Levi’s voice broke through the tension, cold and calculating. "Enough of the theatrics," he said, his tone indifferent. "Eren, Ony, it’s time for you both to face the consequences of your actions. Let’s see how much you're willing to sacrifice for her."

Levi’s eyes were cold as he looked between us—Yn, Eren, and me. The tension in the air was thick, suffocating. "Pick now. Five seconds," he said, his voice low but sharp, like a blade waiting to strike.

Yn's eyes darted between Eren and me, her face pale, her hands trembling slightly. She could feel the weight of the decision, the life-altering choice she had to make in a matter of seconds. The silence felt like an eternity, stretching longer with every passing moment.

I could see the panic in her eyes, the conflict, and I hated that I was part of this twisted game. But more than that, I hated the fact that this was even a choice she had to make. She shouldn’t have to choose between us—between two men who had already failed her in different ways.

"Yn," I said, my voice softer than I intended, trying to convey some sense of reassurance. But it was hard when I knew the weight of what Levi was pushing on her. "Just… just remember who’s here for you. Who’s never backed down."

Eren’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk. "Don’t listen to him, Yn. He’s lying to you. I’ll show you what it means to be real, to be truly alive." He leaned forward, his eyes dark, full of his usual arrogance.

But I couldn’t let him win. Not this time.

The seconds ticked down, and I could see the gears turning in her head. She was on the brink of something, but what would she choose? I held my breath, my mind racing. Would she pick me, the one who had always tried to protect her—even if I was flawed? Or would she pick Eren, the monster who reveled in destruction and chaos?

Levi’s voice sliced through the stillness once more. "You’ve got five seconds, Yn. Choose."

Levi’s laugh echoed through the room, dark and mocking, as he leaned back, taking in Yn's words with an expression of disbelief. His eyes flickered between Eren, who was glaring at her with raw frustration, and me, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Choose yourself?" Levi repeated, his tone dripping with contempt. "Well, well… isn’t that cute."

Eren, on the other hand, looked like he had been slapped. His jaw tightened, hands clenching at the sides of his chair as he struggled against his restraints. "What the hell does that even mean?" he spat, his voice tinged with both anger and hurt.

Yn didn’t flinch, her gaze steady on Levi as she met his mocking smile with one of her own, fierce and unwavering. "I’m not your pawn, Levi. I’m not his, either," she said, her voice cool, the strength in it surprising even me.

Levi’s grin faltered slightly, but he quickly regained his composure, turning to Eren with a cold chuckle. "You hear that, Yaeger? She doesn’t want to be a part of your game."

Eren’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I saw something flicker there—something that resembled regret. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar fire of anger and obsession. "You really think you can just walk away from all of this, Yn? You think you can choose yourself and leave us behind like that?"

Yn didn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering. "I don’t need either of you to define me." She looked directly at me for a moment, her eyes softening slightly, but the resolve was still there. "I’m choosing myself, not you, not him."

Levi remained silent for a moment, his eyes watching her like a predator. Then, after a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice a mixture of amusement and something darker. "Well, I guess you’ll learn the hard way. But for now, I’ll let you have this little moment of defiance. We’ll see how long it lasts."

The room was heavy with tension, but it was clear now—Yn wasn’t backing down. Not from him. Not from any of us.

Levi's eyes narrowed as he shifted his focus entirely onto Yn, the earlier mockery in his expression replaced by something sharper, more calculating. He leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth but edged with an intensity that made it clear he wasn’t just asking out of curiosity.

"So," Levi started, his gaze never leaving hers, "criminal law, huh?" He tilted his head, studying her with a strange mixture of interest and disdain. "You think you're gonna save the world with that?"

Yn didn’t hesitate, her chin lifting slightly as she met his gaze head-on. "I think I’m going to make sure people like you don’t get away with what they do."

Levi smirked, clearly amused by her boldness. "Bold words for someone sitting in this room," he said, tapping his fingers against the armrest. "Tell me, Yn, what exactly is your plan after you finish your degree? You think you’re going to walk into a courtroom and make a real difference? How’s that going to work when you’re still tied to people like him?" He gestured to me, his eyes flicking over to me for a moment before landing back on her.

Yn’s lips tightened, but she didn’t back down. "I’ll figure it out. One way or another, I'll make it work. I don’t need your approval, Levi."

Levi leaned back in his chair, tapping his gun against his leg thoughtfully. "Hmm, I wonder how long that optimism will last once you realize how deep you’re really in. This world doesn’t exactly care about your nice little degree, does it?"

He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing, "So tell me, what's your dream job? Do you want to work for the state? Or maybe defend people like him—people who've got a lot of blood on their hands?"

Yn's face remained impassive, but I saw the fire in her eyes as she clenched her fists. "I want to do what’s right, not what’s easy," she replied coolly. "And that doesn’t include defending criminals like you."

Levi chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re cute, Yn. Real cute." His tone had taken on a dark amusement now, and he leaned in closer, voice lowering to almost a whisper. "But don’t mistake this world for some pretty little courtroom. You can’t just show up and expect things to change because you’ve got a degree. You’ll learn soon enough that people like us always win in the end."

Yn’s expression faltered for just a moment, but then it hardened again, her resolve unwavering. "I’ll be fine. And so will he," she said, gesturing toward me without looking away from Levi.

Levi sat back, his lips curling into a twisted grin. "We’ll see about that."

Levi sighed looking around the room bored now, he turned to Connie, Jean and Reiner and said "This is boring connie, jean reiner get back to beating those two Erwin can you escort yn back home please."

Erwin’s expression tightened, but he didn’t argue. He stepped forward and nodded, offering Yn a hand to help her up. "Come on, Yn. Let’s get you out of here," he said, his voice soft but firm.

Yn hesitated for a moment, eyes flicking toward me and then to Levi, but in the end, she stood and allowed Erwin to guide her away from the chaos.

Levi watched them go, his gaze cold as ever. Once they were out of the room, he gestured for Connie, Jean, and Reiner to move closer, his voice taking on an edge of finality. "You heard me. Get back to it."

The trio nodded, stepping toward me and Eren, the air thick with tension. I could feel my heart race as I stared at the floor, refusing to show any weakness.

Eren, still seething beside me, shot me a look that could kill. His chest heaved with frustration, but the restraints holding him back were stronger than his anger. I could hear him muttering under his breath, but no one paid attention to him.

Levi’s cold eyes turned to Erwin, who was now guiding Yn to the exit. "You better keep her out of this, Erwin. If I find out she's getting any more ideas in that head of hers, I won’t hesitate to deal with it."

Erwin didn’t look back but gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Understood."

With that, the door slammed shut behind them, and the sounds of fighting in the next room began again.

Finally, I was able to get this chapter out.