#why are you trying to start a conversation with someone you wronged without apologizing first ???

[imjustavenuxwithaboomerang]

eli should've been allowed to be mad at robby about the shaving thing for longer than five minutes, in this essay i will-

[halfmoonaria]

wasn’t supposed to

pairing: sam carpenter & female reader

summary: sam didn’t trust her sister’s new tutor, but the more she pushed her away, the more she started wanting her around.

word count: 10.2k

author’s note: this was a request, but i absolutely hate this so i do apologize if this wasn’t what you imagined.

Sam didn't like the word "friends."

It sounded too soft. Too safe. Too much like something people said before they disappeared or turned on you — or worse, expected you to need them.

Friends asked questions. Friends crossed lines. Friends got hurt.

Sam had tried once, maybe twice, to let someone get close. But people always wanted more than she could give, and when she failed to meet their expectations — when she wasn't open enough or warm enough — they left. Or judged. Or flinched the second her last name came up in conversation.

So she stopped trying. It was easier that way. Keep it small. Tara, Mindy, Chad — even that felt like too much, sometimes.

She didn't like when new people showed up, either. Especially the ones who wormed their way into Tara's life — the ones who made her laugh in a way Sam hadn't heard in months, who knew what she was studying, what she was struggling with, who called her smart and meant it.

Tara had always let people in easier than Sam did. Even as a kid, her little sister never needed convincing — she just trusted people, let them get close, believed that kindness meant safety. But after Woodsboro, after everything they'd survived, that kind of trust wasn't a strength. Not anymore.

Sam had tried to teach her that. Tried to set rules, boundaries, warnings. But Tara never really followed Sam's rules — not when they were kids, and definitely not now. Not when she was older, smarter, and convinced she could handle herself.

People like that didn't show up without wanting something. And Sam had gotten very good at spotting what people wanted.

Which was why her stomach had twisted the second Tara mentioned that one of her professors had recommended a tutoring option after Tara bombed a test she swore she had studied for.

Sam hadn't liked the sound of that. Not the vagueness, not the fact that this mysterious "help" came in the form of a single person, and definitely not that the sessions were happening weekly, sometimes twice a week, in offices or on quiet corners of campus. If Sam had to imagine the perfect setup for someone trying to get close to her sister — trying to study her, learn her schedule, her trust patterns — this was it.

It was the dream Ghostface scenario.

But Tara hadn't seen the danger. She'd barely even humored Sam's warnings. All she cared about was passing the class.

"I'm sorry," she'd snapped one night, exasperated, "so you'd rather I fail psych just to avoid anyone who isn't already on your vetted list?"

And the worst part? She had a point. Because even though Sam hated the situation, she also knew Tara couldn't afford to fall behind. The last few months had already been hell enough. She didn't want her sister to drown in school stress on top of everything else.

So she'd bitten her tongue. Let the tutoring sessions happen. Let this person — this professor — circle closer and closer around the one person Sam couldn't afford to lose.

But she was watching. And the second something felt wrong, she would step in.

She tried not to be dramatic about it. That was the promise she'd made to herself when Tara first mentioned the tutoring thing. Just be calm. Be rational. Reasonable.

It was only one session. The first one. That meant there was still time to shift the plan, make it safer, more controlled. Time to keep things from going sideways before they even started.

She brought it up the morning Tara was supposed to meet you. While Tara was shuffling around the kitchen — still in pajama pants, hair tied messily back, sleep heavy under her eyes as she half-blindly prepared the coffee. Sam stayed seated at the table, pretending to scroll through her phone. Waiting for the right moment. Keeping her tone easy.

"I could come with you," she said finally, watching as Tara dumped spoonfuls of grounds into the machine. "Not for the whole time. Just to check things out. You said it's in the library, right? I could sit a table away. Pretend I'm studying or something."

Tara didn't even glance at her. "No."

Sam blinked. "Just no?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Tara muttered, reaching for the milk as she moved to pour cereal into a chipped bowl. "Tutoring's already bad enough. Do you want me to wear a giant I'm failing sign too?"

Sam had tried not to bristle. She really had. But that stung more than she expected it to.

It wasn't that she thought Tara was weak, or dumb, or incapable. If anything, she was proud of her for being willing to get help. But that didn't mean Sam had to trust the person giving it. Especially not someone she'd never met. Especially not in this city, after everything they'd been through. You didn't just let strangers get that close — not anymore.

So she tried again.

"You could have her come here," she said, keeping her voice measured. "Just this once, maybe. You know... do the session in the apartment. That way you're comfortable, it's a familiar place, I'm around—"

"I said no," Tara cut in sharply, this time turning to look at her. "That would be weird. I don't want some random girl I've never met walking into our apartment just because you're being weird about this."

Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Random girl. She hated the way Tara said it like that — like it was nothing. Like being careful was something to roll her eyes at.

Sam blinked, her temper flaring. "Random? I thought you said you knew who she was."

Tara rolled her eyes. "I do."

"But you've never met her?"

"I've heard about her," Tara argued, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "Other students know her — she tutors, like, half the psych department. And Professor Perry said she's smart as hell and actually gets the material. That's more than enough."

Sam let out a humorless laugh. "So now word-of-mouth and one professor's opinion make someone safe?"

Tara didn't answer. She just looked at her — annoyed, a little tired. Like she'd already had this argument in her head a dozen times and nothing Sam could say would change her mind.

Sam exhaled slowly through her nose, still watching Tara move around the kitchen. "How old is she again?"

Tara didn't look up, turning towards the fridge instead. "I don't know. Twenty? Twenty-two, maybe"

"Right," Sam said. "So she's, what, a couple years older than you? And she's just... made a career out of tutoring undergrads?"

Tara let out a dry laugh as she pulled out the carton of milk and shut the fridge with her hip, "Jesus, Sam."

"I'm just saying it's weird," Sam pressed. "She's not a TA. She's not on payroll. But she's spending her time helping psych majors for free?"

"For free?" Tara turned then, eyebrows raised. "Who said anything about for free?"

Sam blinked. "You're paying her?"

"Of course I'm paying her. What, did you think she was just doing it out of the goodness of her heart?"

Sam didn't answer.

Tara shook her head, her voice sharpening. "I'm trying to pass this class, Sam. I don't need some guilt-tripped pity sessions. I need actual help."

"And you think she's the answer?"

"She gets it. Professor Perry literally said she's one of the best students she's ever had — and that if anyone could explain the material, it'd be her."

Sam's jaw clenched. "Right. The twenty-year-old genius who just happens to be available and interested in helping you."

Tara turned away again, putting a cup down on the counter hard enough to make a point. "You'd rather I fail?"

"That's not what I—"

"Look, Sam," Tara cut in, finally turning around fully. Her coffee steamed in her hand, her expression sharp. "I'm going to this session. You don't have to like it. You don't have to approve. But I'm going."

Sam stared at her, lips parting slightly, like maybe she still had something to say. But Tara didn't wait.

She turned and left the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor, retreating to her room without another word. The door didn't slam — Tara wasn't like that — but the quiet click of it shutting still felt final.

She didn't speak to Sam for the rest of the morning. Didn't come out for breakfast, didn't offer a goodbye. When Sam heard the front door open a little after eight, she didn't even get a glance on the way out. Just the sound of keys, the rustle of a backpack strap, and the dull thud of the door closing behind her.

So that was how Sam's day began — and how it stayed. Eight hours behind the counter at the café, apron on, dish towel in hand, wiping down tables that never seemed clean enough. Her mind wasn't there, not really. Not in the espresso shots or the lukewarm tip jar or the regular who always asked for too much syrup.

It was with Tara. With you.

Somewhere in that crowded library, probably at one of the back tables where no one really looked twice. You'd be sitting together, talking. You'd be asking her questions, and Tara would be answering them. Laughing, maybe. Smiling.

Sam hated how much it bothered her — hated the way her stomach turned every time she pictured it. Because it shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just one session. One hour. Nothing.

But it didn't feel like nothing.

It felt like letting her sister walk straight into something she couldn't see — and being told not to get in the way.

After that, it just... continued.

One session turned into two. Two turned into a weekly thing. And soon it wasn't just tutoring anymore — not the way Tara talked about it.

She'd come home with that buzz in her voice, the kind she used when she liked something but didn't want to admit how much. When she'd drop your name into stories about her day like it wasn't anything — like you were just there. Like a given.

"You'd think this class would make more sense," she'd mutter, flipping through a highlighted packet on the couch. "But even she said the material's kind of trash. So, y'know, not just me."

She. Not the tutor. Not some girl from the psych department. Just you now — casual, assumed, familiar.

Sam hated how familiar it sounded.

She tried to be normal about it. She really did. She'd ask how the sessions went, nod along when Tara talked about how smart you were, how patient. How you made things make sense in a way her professor didn't. Sometimes, Tara would laugh and say you reminded her of someone — some dork from high school or a character from a show she liked. Sam would pretend to laugh, too.

But she didn't like it. Any of it.

Sometimes, she managed to keep her mouth shut. She'd just hum and change the subject or excuse herself to go do dishes that didn't need doing. But sometimes the words slipped out anyway.

"Just... don't get too close," she'd said once, barely loud enough to count. Tara had looked up from the couch with a frown.

"What does that mean?"

Sam hadn't answered. She just waved it off. Something about boundaries. About how tutoring was tutoring, and maybe it should stay that way.

But Tara didn't listen. She never really had.

"She's not a serial killer," she said once, dryly, when Sam had brought it up again. "She's literally a TA. You're acting like I'm going on tutoring dates with Ghostface."

Sam hadn't even dignified that one with a response. Just stared at the wall, jaw tight.

Because it wasn't just about danger. It wasn't just about keeping Tara safe. It was about the way things shifted. The way your name came up more and more often, the way Tara spoke about you like she already trusted you.

And Sam knew her sister. Knew how she let people in too easily. Knew how she looked for softness in places that didn't always deserve it.

And she knew — even if she couldn't prove it yet — that something about this wasn't right.

Still, she kept her mouth shut. For a few days, at least. Let Tara have her little victories. Let her pretend this was just school and help and nothing else.

But when another Friday came around — the end of Tara's second full week of sessions — Sam offered to pick her up. Said she'd be in the area anyway. Didn't mention that she'd gotten off work early, or that she'd planned it that way.

The campus was mostly cleared out by then. Late afternoon, sun starting to dip, the building quiet except for the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps down the hall. Sam found the classroom easily — tucked near the end, just like Tara had texted — and leaned against the wall outside.

The door was open an inch.

Inside, she heard voices. Her sister's — light, relaxed, full of something warm. Then yours, steady and calm, with this almost annoying gentleness in it. Not flirty. Not even particularly enthusiastic.

Just familiar.

Sam didn't move. Not yet. Her hand hovered near the door, but her eyes caught the angle between the wood and the frame. She looked.

Tara sat at one of the desks, papers scattered in front of her, pen twirling between her fingers as she laughed at something. Across from her was you. You were relaxed, leaned back just slightly in your chair, speaking with your hands as you explained something she clearly didn't get the first time — but you weren't annoyed about it. You weren't even trying hard.

It just looked easy.

Like you'd done this before. Like you knew her. Like the two of you knew each other.

Sam's jaw clenched.

She didn't know what she expected — maybe boredom, maybe formality, maybe even tension. But not this. Not Tara smiling like that, not you smiling back. Not the air in the room feeling warm in that settled way. She couldn't hear everything, but she didn't need to.

It was the way Tara kept looking at you. The way you kept looking back.

Too comfortable. Too fast.

You were sitting on the other side of the desk, one ankle tucked over the other, posture relaxed in a way that didn't scream "teacher" but didn't cross into casual either. You wore a dark long-sleeve, something fitted but simple, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms. Your hair was a little messy, but not in the careless way — in the intentional way. Like you didn't care, but still managed to look too put-together.

Not flashy. Not even particularly intimidating. Just... cool. And older.

Mid-twenties, maybe. Comfortable in your skin. And it showed — in the way you tilted your head when Tara said something dumb, or how your smile curved at the edge like you were holding in a laugh.

There was nothing overtly inappropriate about the scene. No lingering looks, no touching, no boundary crossed.

But Sam didn't like the way Tara kept leaning in a little. Or how you mirrored it — subtle, automatic, like you were just used to the rhythm of talking to her.

She could already hear Tara's voice in her head: "It's not like that."

It didn't matter.

She hated the way you looked at her sister. Even worse, she hated how comfortable you were with it — like this was routine. Like you'd both gotten used to each other way too quickly.

Her hand curled into a loose fist at her side, and just as she was about to push the door fully open, you glanced up and noticed her.

You looked straight at her. No startled double-take. No awkward scramble. Just a blink — slow and even — before you stood.

You were tall. Not taller than Sam, but tall enough that it was the first thing she noticed. The second was your expression: polite, faintly warm, like you'd been expecting someone eventually. You offered her a hand, voice smooth and professional.

"Hi," you said, smiling just enough to show it was real. "You must be Sam. I'm—"

She didn't take it.

"I'm just here to pick up my sister."

The words weren't rude, exactly. Just... cold. Dry. Dropped like a pin in the middle of what had been an easy, flowing moment.

There was a short silence after that — not awkward, but definitely clipped. A shift. Like someone had hit pause and turned the temperature down.

You didn't flinch. You just let your hand fall naturally back to your side, the smile on your face slipping into something more neutral. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just... reset.

"Of course," you said simply, still holding eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. "Tara's made real progress."

That was when Sam felt it.

The tone of it. The quiet confidence. The way you said her sister's name like it wasn't borrowed — like it belonged to you too. Like you'd earned the right to say it that way.

Sam hated it.

She hated how you said it. Like you were proud of her. Like you had any idea who she really was.

Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn't. Not even close. But it was familiar. Warm. Like you knew her. Like you were proud of her. Like you saw something in Tara that maybe even Sam hadn't been able to get her to show lately.

She didn't say anything. Just stared at you with that same cool expression, shoulders square, hands in the pockets of her coat. Still holding her ground in the doorway like she had every right to stand there, to interrupt, to judge.

Tara stood behind you, finally rising from her seat and brushing a hand over the top of her backpack. The sound of the zipper gave the moment somewhere to land.

"Hey," she said, turning toward the door. Her voice was lighter than usual. Easy. "You're early."

"Traffic was light."

Sam's eyes flicked to her sister now — finally. Tara was still in the same shirt and jeans she'd left the apartment in that morning, hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow still worked. She looked relaxed. At ease. Like she wanted to be here.

Like she wasn't in a rush to leave.

You didn't say anything else, just smiled again — smaller this time, polite, purely professional — and turned back to your things. Your hair fell in front of your cheek as you bent slightly over your notebook. Neat handwriting. A few color-coded tabs poking out from the corners.

Sam watched all of it.

You were older than Tara, that much was clear. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Something about you was put-together in a way college students weren't usually — like you actually slept, actually planned. You wore a soft sweater tucked slightly into black jeans, the kind of look that seemed effortless but wasn't. Your jewelry was minimal — just one small ring and a pair of earrings. Gold. Clean.

Everything about you was... neutral. Soft. Harmless.

Sam didn't believe that for a second.

Tara slung her bag over one shoulder as she reached for her phone. "Same time Monday?"

"Yeah," you replied, glancing up at her with a small nod. "Unless you need to move it."

"No, Monday's good."

You told her to have a good weekend. Then you glanced at Sam again and added, with simple sincerity, "Take care."

And then you walked out — calm, unbothered, collected. Like you didn't feel the strange charge still hanging in the air. Or maybe you just didn't care.

The moment the hallway swallowed your footsteps, Tara turned to her sister.

She shot her a look — one that could've cut glass. Short, sharp, annoyed.

"She was being nice," Tara muttered under her breath. "You could've just said hi."

Sam didn't answer at first. Just crossed her arms, jaw tight.

"She's friendly," she said finally, voice flat.

"She's not a stranger," Tara snapped back.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "She's still new."

"She's literally my professor," Tara said, brushing past her on the way to the door. "And she's helped me more than anyone else."

Sam stood there for a second, catching the door with her hand before it could swing shut behind Tara. She followed, a step behind, her mouth set in a hard line.

It wasn't jealousy.

But something in her felt off-kilter. Like she'd just lost a round in a game she didn't agree to play. Like she'd watched someone else pull Tara further out of reach — and hadn't even been given a chance to stop it.

The car ride home was quiet at first. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Tara shifting in her seat, tapping her nails against her phone screen as she texted someone — probably you.

Then she started talking.

Not about anything major. Just bits and pieces from the session. The chapter she finally understood. The way you explained something using examples no one else had thought to use. How it just clicked. How smart you were. How easy you made it feel.

Sam stared ahead at the road, hands locked at ten and two, the muscle in her jaw twitching.

Tara didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care.

"She said something today about cognitive frameworks," Tara added, adjusting the volume of her own voice like she didn't even realize she was smiling. "The way she broke it down — like, actually made sense. It's kind of insane how good she is at this."

Sam didn't respond.

She just tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

Tara knew better. Knew not to trust people so quickly. Not to let them too close, too fast.

And yet here she was — windows down, backpack half-zipped, talking about some twenty-something tutor like she'd known her for years.

Sam felt it again. That quiet, gnawing sense of something slipping just beyond her reach.

And this time, it wasn't going away.

The sessions didn't go away after that day either — if anything, they started happening more often. What began as scheduled weekly meetings turned into casual text exchanges, late-night reschedules, extra time added "just to review a few things." Tara talked about you more often, too — not in any way that would normally matter. Just in passing. Offhanded mentions of things you'd said, concepts you'd helped her understand, the books you recommended that she "actually kind of wanted to read."

At first, Sam told herself it wasn't that deep.

But over the next few weeks, it started to feel deeper.

You were always around. Or if you weren't, it felt like you had just been. Tara would leave the apartment with her hair barely dry from the shower, always rushing, always saying she didn't want to be late — not for class, but for you. She started staying later after school, coming home in better moods, more talkative. More sure of herself in the way she explained her ideas.

It wasn't that Sam didn't want her to be doing better. That wasn't it.

But something about it rubbed against every protective instinct she had.

Because it wasn't just about the studying anymore. Sam could hear it in the way Tara spoke — more relaxed, more familiar. There was this warmth in her voice, one she rarely let slip for anyone else.

You were no longer just her professor. You were becoming a part of her life. Softly, gradually, without Sam's permission.

She noticed it everywhere. In the extra coffee mugs on the counter sometimes — one of them not theirs. In the new books stacked on Tara's desk, all borrowed. In the small, thoughtful things: a sticky note Tara had saved with reminders in your handwriting. The way she mentioned something "you'd" said about learning styles or memorization techniques, like you were a mutual friend they both had.

And then there was that afternoon.

Sam came home early, the front door still halfway unlocked. She had just stepped into the apartment when she heard it — the low sound of laughter coming from outside. She walked to the window just in time to see Tara shutting the passenger door of your car, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, smiling at something you'd said through the window. She lingered. So did you.

Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious.

But Sam felt it anyway — the way you both fit into that moment like it had been practiced a dozen times before.

When Tara came inside, Sam didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a quick look and went back to wiping down the kitchen counter, as if it hadn't meant anything.

But later that evening, when she passed Tara's room and saw her curled up on her bed with a textbook open — the corner of a napkin used as a bookmark, with your handwriting on it again — she couldn't help herself.

"She drives you home now?" Sam asked, leaning in the doorway.

Tara didn't even look up. "Sometimes. If we finish late."

Sam nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's nice of her."

Tara finally glanced over. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Like what?”

"You know what."

Sam just gave a faint shrug and said nothing.

From that point on, her interactions with you became clipped. Cool. The kind of polite that almost bordered on passive-aggressive. Never outright rude — never something anyone could really call her on. But enough.

A slightly too-long pause before answering your greetings. A dry "huh" when you offered a compliment about Tara's progress. A subtle edge to her voice anytime your name came up.

She didn't trust you. She didn't like that she couldn't explain why.

And worst of all — she didn't like how much Tara seemed to.

You weren't around often, not directly. Tutors weren't supposed to linger, and Sam figured you knew that. But still — you existed. Within earshot, within reach, inside her sister's life in a way Sam hadn't agreed to. And somehow, you were still always there.

A name in passing. A quiet chuckle when Tara remembered something you said. A phone vibration Tara answered a little too quickly.

It got under Sam's skin more than she'd admit.

She didn't know how to place you, and that bothered her. You were kind, but never too familiar. Professional, but not stiff. And worst of all, you never gave her a real reason to be mad at you. You never overstepped — not obviously. Not directly. But there was something about you she couldn't shake, something that made her feel like she was being quietly replaced.

Whenever you and Sam crossed paths, the tension lived in the smallest details.

You'd greet her, polite, neutral — "Hi, Sam" — and she'd nod once without looking up from whatever she was pretending to do.

You'd say something encouraging about Tara's work, and she'd mutter, "She's always been capable."

You'd offer a small joke once, lightly, while Tara was laughing beside you — and Sam's smile wouldn't even reach her eyes.

None of it was loud. But it stung, even if no one else seemed to notice.

What made it worse was how Tara started talking about you like you were something more. Not just her professor. Not just a tutor. But a person. Someone funny. Someone helpful. Someone she liked.

It wasn't romantic — Sam could admit that. She wasn't being irrational.

But it was something else. Something worse.

It sounded like Tara considered you a friend.

That part burned. Because Sam knew what that meant. Tara didn't let people in like that — not often, and definitely not gently. But she let you in, and Sam didn't know what that said about you, or worse, about her.

She tried not to care. She really did. There were a thousand ways to reason herself out of it. But every time she heard your name from Tara's mouth, something in her bristled.

She wanted to push you out — cut the cord, find some polite excuse to stop the sessions, make Tara study with her instead.

But she already knew how that would go.

They'd tried before. It ended with slammed doors and Tara storming off, her voice sharp with irritation. "You're not helping," she'd snapped once, back when Sam tried to reteach her freshman psych notes. "You're just making me hate this."

And then you had entered the picture.

And Sam had stayed out of it. At least on the surface.

But the thing that really got to her — the moment that kept replaying in the back of her mind — was the time Tara had invited you over.

It had happened weeks ago, maybe longer, but Sam still thought about it.

Tara had done it without telling her. Said it was because she focused better at home. Said she'd clean the place herself. Said Sam would be at the café all afternoon, anyway.

You had tried to decline, as far as Sam could tell. You'd said you preferred public or campus spaces. But somehow, Tara had worn you down — and for a few hours, you'd been sitting in their living room, with your notes spread out across the coffee table and Tara's knee bouncing as she scribbled down whatever you were saying.

Sam didn't even find out until later — days later, when she noticed a notecard with your handwriting stuck inside one of Tara's textbooks and asked where it came from.

"Oh," Tara had said, way too casually. "That was from when she came here. I needed help before the midterm. You were at work."

Just like that. Not a big deal. Nothing to be defensive about.

But Sam had flipped. Not in front of Tara — not fully — but enough. Her jaw tightened. Her voice dropped an octave.

"You let her come here?"

Tara rolled her eyes. "I didn't let her. I asked her. And it's not like I let her into my room or anything."

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd care."

That part stung most of all.

Because of course Sam cared. Because this was her space. Her sister. And it felt like you'd stepped into it — not forcefully, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Like you belonged.

And Sam wasn't sure if that said something about you.

Or something about how far she'd already been pushed out.

But more than that — more than the invisible lines you seemed to cross without hesitation — it was the certainty that got to her. The comfort. The trust.

Because Sam didn't trust anyone.

Not really. Not anymore.

Not after everything they'd survived. Not after what people turned out to be. After how easily someone could smile at you — offer help, offer kindness — only to drive a knife through your spine the second you let your guard down.

She had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. And it was burned into her now, bone-deep.

So when she saw Tara relaxing around you — smiling without effort, leaning in to listen, opening herself up — something in Sam twitched. Alarm bells, sirens, something.

You were new. Polite. Well-spoken. Friendly. All the things Amber had been, too.

That was the worst part.

You didn't seem dangerous. You didn't act suspicious. And that made Sam trust you even less.

Because the ones who meant it — the ones who planned it — never did.

So no, she didn't think you were just some harmless academic. She didn't care how many degrees you had, or how patient you were with Tara's questions, or how helpful your notes might've been. She cared about why. Why you were here. Why you'd agreed to help in the first place. Why you were still sticking around even now.

And whether or not you were waiting for the moment Tara finally let her guard down just enough.

She couldn't prove it — not yet. But Sam had learned how to live with that kind of doubt. She carried it everywhere now. Like instinct. Like armor.

And even if she was wrong about you — even if you were just... you — that didn't stop the fear from crawling up her spine every time she saw Tara laugh in your direction.

Because Sam didn't just worry about losing her sister.

She worried about watching it happen. One slow, trusting step at a time.

And that was why Sam felt this deep, burning rage every time she saw you.

Because she knew. Or at least, she thought she did.

She knew what this was. The slow disarming. The calculated softness. The ease with which you'd slipped into Tara's world. The careful way you stayed polite, professional — likable — while making yourself impossible to ignore.

She saw it coming.

She felt it in her gut, the way she used to before a knife came down — the heavy, sick pulse of something about to snap.

You were going to hurt Tara. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was coming. Sam could feel it.

And yet... she wasn't sure. Not completely.

Because what if you weren't like the others? What if you were just some regular person — kind, patient, weirdly generous with your time? What if you were actually helping?

She couldn't exactly pull you aside, corner you in some hallway and accuse you of plotting murder. Not without proof. Not without risking Tara looking at her like she was crazy again.

So instead, Sam just stood there. Watching. Seething. Caught between her instincts and her doubt.

Because no one was that soft for no reason. No one stuck around that long — gave that much — without wanting something.

No one looked at Tara the way you did unless they meant something by it.

And Sam didn't know what it was yet.

But she was going to find out.

Because that was what Sam did. She knew how to spot danger — she had to. Her whole body lived in it, breathed in it, woke up every morning already braced for whatever was coming. It was survival now, the way her shoulders never quite relaxed and her jaw never fully unclenched.

And still, somehow, all that tension had to go somewhere.

She wasn't stupid — she knew she walked through life with a fuse already half-burned. Most days, it just sat there, simmering under the surface. But on bad days — really bad days — it felt like the whole world was just waiting to strike the match.

And today had been hell.

The espresso machine broke down mid-rush. The new girl on register kept messing up orders and blaming Sam when customers got pissed. Some guy knocked over a tray of drinks and left without apologizing. And worst of all, her manager — who always pretended she was "just trying to help" — hovered the whole time, correcting Sam like she'd never worked a food service job in her life.

By the time she clocked out, her shirt was soaked with milk, her shoes were sticky, and her hands stung from scrubbing dried syrup off counters someone else was supposed to clean.

All she wanted was to get home, shower, and sit in silence.

But when she stepped into the apartment — dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes — the first thing she saw wasn't quiet.

It was you.

There again, sitting beside Tara at the table. Books and papers spread across the surface, a cup of coffee in front of you like this was your place. Like you lived here.

Sam stood still for a second, frozen in the doorway. Not because she was surprised. Just because of course this was happening.

Of course Tara had invited you over again.

Of course you were laughing softly at something, that same effortless calm in your voice as you leaned over to point at something in her notes. Of course Tara was smiling — open and easy in a way Sam didn't get to see anymore.

Sam didn't say anything. Not yet.

She just dropped her bag a little harder than she needed to, loud enough that the both of you looked up.

Tara blinked. "Hey. You're home early."

"Yeah," Sam said. Voice flat. "Finished my shift."

You smiled — polite, as always. "Hi, Sam."

She didn't answer. Just gave you a look, sharp and unreadable, before turning toward the fridge like you hadn't spoken at all.

She could feel her pulse behind her eyes. Could feel the shift in the room — not dramatic, but enough. Enough to light the fuse a little more.

Because there you were again.

In her space.

In Tara's space.

And Sam could already feel what was coming.

The tension wasn't just in her shoulders anymore — it had spread. Crawled under her skin, curled hot behind her ribs. That low, seething burn that told her something needed to snap.

She headed straight for the sink.

The dishes were still piled up from last night — bowls streaked with congealed sauce, two mugs stained with dried coffee rings, a plate with crumbs hardened onto it like glue. She stared at the mess for a second, jaw tightening.

Of course.

Of course Tara hadn't done them. Because why would she? She had you here. Sitting cozy at the kitchen table. Like you were both college roommates or something.

Sam turned the tap on. Hot — too hot. It scalded her hands when it hit her skin, but she didn't flinch. Just grabbed the first mug and started scrubbing.

One by one, she cleaned them — not carefully, but fast and rough, her fingers slipping from the soap. The sound of plates clattering against each other echoed through the kitchen. One slammed down a little too hard against the next, sharp enough to make Tara glance over.

"You okay?" she asked, casual, half-distracted.

"Fine," Sam muttered.

She wasn't listening. Not really. She didn't want to hear.

But she couldn't not.

Your voice drifted over the clatter — low, calm, patient. Sam couldn't make out every word, but she didn't need to. She knew the sound. That soft, level tone people used when they cared. The kind of voice you used to walk someone through something, to keep them from giving up on themselves.

And Tara responded. Sam heard it in the tiny confirmations, the small hums of understanding. The way she said "Ohhh, okay, that makes sense now," like her world had just unlocked another door.

She didn't sound bored. Or defeated. Or irritated the way she did when Sam tried to help.

No — Tara was focused. Present. Engaged.

And then you said something else — Sam couldn't hear what — but it made Tara laugh.

That light, easy laugh that Sam hadn't heard in weeks.

It made something snap loose in her chest.

She dropped a plate into the drying rack harder than she meant to. It clanged loudly, unmissable. Tara flinched a little at the sound, just barely, and Sam's knuckles turned white around the sponge.

Her stomach twisted.

Because she knew she wasn't being fair.

But rage didn't care about fair. Rage only needed an opening. And Sam could feel it rising now, flooding in fast. Her thoughts turning sharp and cruel, already searching for somewhere to land.

And you, sitting there in her kitchen like you belonged, were the easiest place to start.

Sam dropped the last plate into the sink with a sharp, glassy clink — loud enough to break whatever calm had been hanging in the air.

You flinched. Just slightly. But Sam caught it.

She reached for the dish towel, hands still wet from the heat of the water. She wiped them dry, slow and deliberate, gaze already shifting to you — not polite or casual or curious. Just hard.

She wanted you gone.

"Isn't it time for Y/N to head home now?"

Your head turned, caught off guard by the sudden edge in her voice. You looked surprised. Maybe confused. But you didn't answer right away — which only made her jaw tighten further.

Sam tilted her head just enough to keep the tension sharp. "That's your name, right?" she said, voice low but flat. "Y/N?"

You nodded slowly, uncertain. "...Yeah."

Tara's pencil stopped moving. She looked up from her notebook, frowning just enough to notice.

"She'll leave when we're finished," she said, not rude — but firmer than before. "We're almost done."

Sam didn't move. Didn't blink.

Tara's voice came again, slightly sharper this time. "Why are you in a rush? You just got home."

Sam opened her mouth. Closed it. A million biting things sat on the tip of her tongue — things she could say, accusations she could throw. But none of them would land right. Not yet.

So she just shrugged once. "Didn't realize tutoring needed hours every other night."

Tara rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sam."

You said nothing. Still seated, still quiet — like you didn't know whether to excuse yourself or stay frozen in place. You looked over at Tara like maybe she would tell you what to do.

And that made Sam's chest clench.

Because now you were waiting on Tara. Like she was your person. Like she made the call. Like she decided when it was time for you to go.

And Sam couldn't fucking take it.

The dish towel hit the counter with a slap, and she turned fully to face you both — barely managing to keep her tone level, but the fury bled through anyway.

"How long is this tutoring thing supposed to go on?" she asked, her arms crossing as if that could contain the heat in her chest. "Or is this just... a new hobby?”

You looked up, confused. Tara turned toward her sister, brows already drawing together.

"Or is this really just tutoring?"

The question landed sharp and sudden, cutting through the ease in the room like a blade.

Sam didn't stop. Didn't breathe.

"Because I don't know many professors who go out of their way like this for one student. Who text late at night. Who show up multiple times a week. Who laugh like that in someone else's kitchen."

Your throat tightened.

Tara straightened in her seat. "What the hell are you talking about—"

"I'm saying," Sam went on, louder now, eyes fixed on you, "that maybe you're not helping her because you care about her grades. Maybe it's something else."

A silence fell — not the usual kind. Not awkward or paused or uncertain.

This was thick. Charged.

"Sam," Tara said, voice low, warning.

But she wasn't done.

"You're what — three years older? You think she's special? You think she needs you? Or are you just bored enough to pretend you're doing this for free out of the kindness of your heart?"

Sam didn't stop. Her voice was low, sharp, dripping with that kind of condescension that didn't even try to mask itself anymore.

"Or is this some little fantasy for you? Tara — the shy, smart student. You — the helpful, older mentor. Is that what this is?"

Your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to speak — like you wanted to explain, to clear it up, to understand. But Sam cut you off before a single word escaped.

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't give me that look like you don't know what I'm talking about."

Tara's chair scraped against the tile, harsh and sudden. But Sam kept going.

"You're too invested. Too available. Too fucking interested. No one just gives this much of a shit about someone they barely know."

You flinched, visibly this time, but Sam didn't care. She was breathing fast now, eyes locked on you like she couldn't look anywhere else.

"Showing up here like it's normal. Acting like you're part of her life. Laughing at everything she says. Do you think she doesn't notice that? Do you think I don't?"

Tara said your name — quiet, a warning — but Sam kept talking like she hadn't even heard it.

"You're not her friend. You're not her fucking therapist. And you're definitely not just her tutor. So what are you?"

That one echoed. That one stuck.

You looked stunned, pale — like the room had shifted underneath you. Because you hadn't thought of it like that. Not even close.

But Sam had. Over and over. For weeks. She'd built it up in her head, let every laugh and every lingering glance rot into something suspicious, something dangerous, something she knew had to be real.

"You're obsessed," she muttered, almost like it was the only thing that made sense anymore. "You don't even see it, but it's fucking obvious."

And then, silence.

Still and tight and ugly.

Because she'd finally said it. Every accusation she'd held in, every awful thought she'd spun in her head — out loud, no way to take it back.

And now it just sat there between you all.

Burning.

That was it. That was the one that landed.

Because even Tara didn't speak for a second.

And Sam knew she'd gone too far. But for a moment, it felt right. Like throwing a punch in a dream. Like finally saying the thing that had been rotting in the back of her throat for weeks.

She wanted to regret it. But she didn't. Not yet.

Not when you were sitting there, stunned, trying not to show how much it hurt.

Not when Tara's face had gone still. Cold.

Not when Sam finally, finally, felt like she had a little power back. FINALLY

___

Everything shifted after that night.

You hadn't raised your voice.

Hadn't argued. Hadn't even defended yourself.

You'd just blinked — once, slow — like you were still trying to make sense of what you'd heard. Then you stood up, collected your things with quiet, deliberate movements, and offered a strained, polite, "I think I should get going.”

Tara had shot up from her seat. "Wait — you don't have to—"

But you were already shaking your head. Already forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"It's fine. I've got a lot to do anyway. Tell me how the chapter goes."

Tara had followed — not close enough to stop you, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.

"I'll text you," she'd said, just as you reached the door.

You gave a soft nod. "Yeah. Sure.”

And then you left. Quiet. Shaken. Gone.

The door had barely clicked shut before Tara turned.

"Thanks," she snapped, voice sharp and unforgiving. "You ruined everything."

Sam hadn't said anything. Not right away. Not because she didn't have a defense — but because none of it would've made her look better. Not when Tara was glaring at her like that. Not when it was already so clear whose side she was on.

Tara shook her head, hands on her hips like she needed something to hold herself together.

"All you had to do was be normal," she muttered. "Just once."

Sam stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, hands still damp from the dish towel she'd twisted too tightly a few minutes earlier. Her chest ached — from the mess, from the things she'd said, and worse, from how much she'd meant them. Not consciously. Not completely. But enough.

"You always do this," Tara bit out, stepping forward. "You don't like something, so you burn it down. Just because you can't keep your temper in check—"

"She's too close," Sam cut in — too fast, too defensive. "She's not just tutoring you. You don't see it."

"No, you don't." Tara's voice trembled, but it didn't lose its force. "She actually gives a shit about me. She helps me. She shows up. And the second that threatens your little control complex, you tear her apart."

"She could be dangerous," Sam hissed. "You think I'm just paranoid? You think I haven't seen people like her before?"

Tara's laugh was sharp, cold. "You've never seen anyone like her before."

And then she was gone — disappearing down the hallway with quick, angry steps and a slammed door, choosing silence over staying in the blast radius of her sister's fear.

Sam had stayed in the kitchen, motionless, surrounded by everything she'd created. Plates still wet in the sink. One of your notes left behind on the counter. Her breath heavy in her chest.

And for the first time, something like regret had a place to sit.

A week passed.

Tutoring didn't happen.

There were no texts asking if Thursday still worked, no last-minute reminders or reschedules. No shared notes left on the counter. No sign of you at all.

But Tara didn't bring it up. Not once. And Sam didn't ask.

Still — she noticed.

She noticed everything.

She noticed the way Tara's phone barely left her hand now. How she wasn't scrolling through socials or mindlessly watching reels like usual — she was in her messages, always, staring at something, rereading, typing something out and then deleting it. Stopping. Starting again. Changing her mind.

She noticed how Tara would get a reply, and it would quiet her even more. How she'd go still for a second, like she was trying not to react to it. Like whatever she got back wasn't what she was hoping for. Not angry. Just... disappointed. Or maybe sad. It was hard to tell — Tara was guarded now in a way Sam hadn't seen since their first year in New York.

And Sam could connect the dots.

Because Tara didn't just stop texting people for no reason. And Tara didn't just sigh after checking her phone unless she was waiting for someone.

You were still responding — that much was clear. But your replies were short. Not cold, exactly. Just formal. Like someone pulling away carefully, hoping not to cause a scene.

And Sam didn't ask if Tara had reached out again.

Didn't ask how often you texted, or if Tara was the one keeping the conversation going.

She didn't ask if the silence between you and the apartment was mutual — or if it was just what happened after someone realized they weren't welcome anymore.

But she thought about it.

At night, mostly — when the apartment was too quiet, and Tara hadn't left her room in hours, and Sam was doing that thing she always did: reliving every conversation she'd ruined by saying too much too fast. She replayed it all. The plates, the glare, the way you'd flinched. The sound of her own voice, low and cruel and far too confident. The way your face had gone still when she'd said your name like it was something ugly.

She didn't regret the instinct — not entirely. But she regretted how it stuck now. How she'd meant for you to leave, and now you had, and it didn't feel the way it was supposed to.

And Tara wasn't letting it go either.

She wasn't yelling anymore. No slamming doors. No full-out confrontations.

Just cold. Every time she spoke to Sam, it was with a new kind of distance. A deliberate chill. One-word replies, long silences. Conversations that used to last ten minutes were over in ten seconds. If Sam asked how school was going, Tara would shrug. If she asked what she wanted for dinner, Tara would say she'd eat later. If she asked anything else, Tara wouldn't even look up from her phone.

It was punishment. Not loud. Not dramatic.

But it was punishment.

And Sam didn't say anything back, because she knew exactly what this was. Tara was waiting for her to admit it. To say she'd gone too far. To take it back. But Sam didn't.

Because they were both stubborn. Always had been.

Tara thought the silence would break Sam first.

Sam thought Tara would get over it.

And in the meantime, the apartment stayed quiet.

But it wasn't like things stayed broken forever.

Eventually, the next Thursday came. And then the one after that.

And the sessions started again.

No one had asked. No one had said anything. The text from you had just come in — simple, direct.

Still good for tonight?

Tara had stared at it for a long time before replying.

yeah. of course.

And you'd shown up. Right on time. Notebook in hand. Polite smile. The same way you always had.

But it wasn't the same.

Because you weren't asking about Tara's week anymore. You weren't laughing at her sarcastic comments, or telling her weird stories about your walk over. You didn't bring her favorite snacks. You didn't call her out for zoning out during a grammar question or gently tease her about always skipping the last page of assigned readings.

You were still kind. Still patient. Still you, technically.

But something in your voice had changed. Detached, maybe. Just enough that it made it clear: you weren't her friend right now.

You were her tutor. That was it.

And Tara noticed it right away.

The first night, she kept waiting for the shift — like you were just tired or stressed, and it would wear off once you got talking. But it didn't. You stayed focused. Friendly. Distant.

By the second session, it was a pattern.

You asked the right questions. You corrected her answers. You said goodnight with a soft smile and the same quiet professionalism she hated hearing from her professors.

Tara didn't say anything about it. Not during the sessions. Not after.

But it was obvious something had changed.

And when she finally asked — when you were packing up your things one night and she just blurted it out — she regretted it almost instantly.

"Did something happen?"

You looked up, caught off guard.

Tara knew something had happened. She also knew what had happened. Who had happened.

She didn't know why she'd asked. But she continued anyway, she needed to hear you confirm her sister had ruined yet another thing in her life.

Tara tried to soften it. "I mean... did I do something?"

And you'd hesitated. Not because you didn't have an answer. But because saying it out loud felt like picking sides.

"No," you said carefully. "Nothing you did."

Another pause. Your bag slung over your shoulder. A small shrug.

"It's just... I don't want to cause trouble."

Tara's stomach twisted. "You're not."

You gave her a look. It wasn't mean. It wasn't angry. It just... was.

Then you looked down, fiddled with the strap of your bag, and said, "I think maybe I just overstepped."

That caught Tara off guard. "What?"

You offered a small, careful shrug. "Your sister doesn't want me around. I get it."

Tara's jaw tensed. "That's not—"

"It's okay," you cut in, too quickly. "It really is. I'm still happy to help you. This doesn't have to be awkward."

But it was awkward. It had been awkward for days. Ever since Sam said what she said and you just... stopped acting like any of this mattered to you beyond homework.

And Tara wasn't stupid. She could hear it in your voice — how hard you were trying to make it sound like none of this bothered you. Like you weren't hurt. Like it wasn't still happening every time you walked through their door.

"I'll talk to her," Tara said suddenly. "About what she said. She had no right—"

"No, no—" you rushed to cut her off, already shaking your head. "Please don't. I don't want to make this a thing. She doesn't even have to be there."

Tara blinked. "What?"

You hesitated — then tried to make it sound casual. Like it wasn't a big deal. "I was just thinking... maybe we could start meeting somewhere else. Library, coffee shop, whatever. It'd probably be easier for both of us."

And you were smiling when you said it. That same smile you'd been using all week — polite, easy, and completely not real.

Tara stared at you, and slowly, the pieces clicked into place.

You didn't want to come over anymore.

You weren't just pulling back — you were scared. Scared that Sam would say something else. Scared she'd come into the kitchen again, cold and calm and cruel, and throw another grenade into something that had once felt so safe.

"Right," Tara said quietly. "Sure. That makes sense."

She didn't fight you on it. She could tell you didn't want her to.

But she didn't know what pissed her off more: that you were pulling away, or that you were being so damn nice about it.

Because it meant she couldn't even be angry at you.

So instead, she'd taken it out on Sam.

That night, after you left — again — Tara had followed Sam into the kitchen and snapped, "She's still uncomfortable, by the way. In case you were wondering."

Sam hadn't even looked up. "She came back, didn't she?"

And Tara had rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Yeah. Because she's nicer than you. Not because she forgot what you said." NICER THAN YOU

Sam had said nothing. She didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just stood there like she always did — quiet, unreadable, like that made her immune to being wrong.

And Tara had tried again, the next night. Tried to get her to talk about it, or at least acknowledge that she'd messed everything up.

But Sam just shrugged her off again. Told her she was being dramatic. Said maybe if you were that quick to switch up, you were never as genuine as you looked.

And Tara hated her for it. Hated her for acting like none of this mattered. Like you didn't matter. Like Tara hadn't just spent weeks actually feeling okay for once — and now it was all ruined.

And even worse: you weren't even angry. You were just... gone in a way that made it feel like you weren't coming back.

Like you'd already decided it wasn't worth the mess.

Tara could feel it.

And so could Sam — though she'd never admit it out loud.

She noticed the cold shoulders. The one-word answers. The silence between rooms that used to be filled with laughter.

But unlike Tara, Sam didn't take it as a loss.

She took it as confirmation.

You were pulling away — fine. But that didn't mean you were harmless. If anything, it made you more suspicious. More calculated. Because Sam had seen people like you before. Friendly. Charming. Helpful. Too helpful. Always ready to show up, always quick to care — until you got close enough to do damage.

And she'd let you get too close. She'd waited too long.

So she started paying attention.

Not to Tara. Not anymore. This time, she watched you.

She didn't mean to at first. It wasn't like she'd planned anything. But she'd been walking back from the store when she spotted you leaving the library — alone, earphones in, hoodie pulled up like you didn't want to be noticed.

And she'd just... paused.

Watched you cross the street. Watched you duck into that little café you always went to after your study sessions.

It didn't mean anything.

Except it did.

Because the next day, she lingered a little longer in the same neighborhood. And the day after that, she changed her shift so she could take the later train — the one that passed by campus around the time you usually left.

It was never anything direct. Never anything obvious. She just kept ending up where you were.

To make sure.

To be sure.

To prove she was right.

Because something was off about you. Something had always been off. You were too careful. Too nice. You'd formed a bond with Tara like it had been planned — slow, natural, believable — and then you'd backed away the second you were confronted.

That wasn't normal. That wasn't how innocent people acted.

And Sam couldn't shake the feeling that you were still waiting — still watching. That the second she let her guard down, you'd try again. Try to win Tara back. Try to pull her further out of reach.

So she followed.

Not because she was obsessed. Not because she was afraid of losing her sister.

But because she knew something was wrong with you.

And she needed to see it for herself.

At first, it was just once or twice. A passing glance. A coincidence. That's what she told herself.

But then it was three times. Four. Then she started recognizing your schedule — the classes you must've been leaving based on the time, the path you always took down the side of campus, the small moments you didn't think anyone saw.

You usually had your headphones in. You never walked fast. Always polite when someone stopped you — a student needing help, a professor who knew your name — but you never lingered. Never smiled.

You answered everything kindly, patiently. You were never short. Never rude.

Just... distant.

Like you were only halfway there.

It was the same in the café you always went to. You sat in the corner with your laptop open, a notebook pressed flat to one side. You didn't scroll your phone or check your reflection or look at anyone walking in. You didn't laugh. You didn't eat with friends.

You just sat there, sipping coffee that probably went cold too fast, scribbling something into the margins of papers you didn't even have to grade.

Like you were trying to keep busy just to keep from thinking.

By the end of the second day, Sam could see it clearly. You weren't dangerous. You weren't calculated. You weren't planning anything.

You were just... sad.

Moving through your day like a ghost.

And the worst part? Sam hated that she noticed. Hated that it made her feel anything.

So she buried it.

Started making excuses — for herself, for Tara. She wasn't following you. No. She was just taking a different route home. Just checking out a bookstore she'd never noticed before. Just passing by the quad at the same time your tutoring sessions usually ended. That's all.

And when Tara asked what she'd been up to all afternoon — where she'd gone, what she'd been doing — Sam didn't even hesitate.

"Errands."

"Walked around a bit."

"There's this new place opening on 9th."

"Needed some air."

None of it true.

But all of it necessary.

Because she had to be right.

Had to believe there was something she was missing. That you were putting on an act. That she just hadn't caught it yet.

Because if she had been wrong — if she'd said all those things to someone who didn't deserve it — if that was what had shattered everything...

She wasn't sure she could live with it.

So she kept watching.

Even after the truth had started to make itself obvious.

The fifth time she followed you — it was almost by accident. She'd told Tara she needed to go to the pharmacy. Something about prescriptions. Vitamins. Whatever came out of her mouth fastest. She didn't even care if it made sense.

She just needed to see.

You took the bus this time. A short ride. She followed in her car, always two cars behind. Parked on the street and waited, engine still running, trying not to feel like this was completely insane.

You didn't go into a store. Didn't meet up with anyone. You walked for a while down a quieter road, a small paper bag tucked under your arm. You turned into a cemetery.

That was the first time Sam had to turn her car off.

You stayed there for a long time. Almost an hour, just sitting on the grass. You didn't cry. You didn't do anything dramatic. You just sat there, legs crossed, facing the headstone like you were waiting for someone to talk back. After a while, you laid down a small bouquet of flowers from the bag. Daisies. Nothing expensive. Just quiet.

You stayed until the sun started to dip. Until the light caught your profile and made you look younger.

That image stayed with Sam for days. It made her feel something, which pissed her off even more.

But she didn't stop following you.

She went back the next day. Not to spy — or so she told herself. Just to check the grave. Just to... understand.

And that's when she saw it:

In loving memory of Harper L/N

Beloved Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter and Niece

★ November 20 2002

✞ April 23rd 2021

More than anything we could've wished for. 

She didn't need to do the math. That birthday year— that was the same as Tara's.

It hit her like a punch to the ribs.

Because suddenly it all clicked. You hadn't seen Tara as some new shiny thing to manipulate or get close to. You hadn't seen her as a project. You hadn't been calculating.

You'd just seen her.

Someone the same age. Someone who reminded you of someone else. Someone you couldn't save.

Sam stood in front of that headstone for a long time, arms crossed so tightly it hurt her ribs.

But even then, she didn't let herself believe it was that simple. That clean.

She'd lost people too. She'd buried people too. People she loved. People who died screaming.

And just because you were grieving didn't mean you were safe.

Just because you were sad didn't mean you were right.

So she walked back to her car with her jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying to forget the flowers you'd left behind.

And trying even harder to forget the way you sat there like you didn't have anyone left.

But she couldn't.

She tried.

She went home, showered, changed, scrolled through her phone like everything was normal. She even laughed at something on TV, once — loud, forced, stupid. She kept waiting for it to pass. That ache in her chest. That image of you, cross-legged in the grass, hands folded like you were praying without meaning to.

But it didn't pass.

Days went by, and it stayed.

It stayed when she made coffee in the morning. When she cleaned up Tara's mess in the kitchen. When she passed your building by accident on the way to the gym. That name —Harper— it clung to the walls of her brain like smoke.

And what frustrated her most — what actually made her angry — was that she started to feel sorry for you.

Sorry.

After everything she'd told herself, after every reason she'd built up for why she was right to push you away — now she felt sorry?

It made her want to slam a door. Throw something.

Because she knew what she saw. That closeness. That softness Tara saved just for you. And it had terrified her. Still did. Because feelings like that could make people blind. And Sam knew better than anyone what happened when you stopped looking over your shoulder.

So why couldn't she stop thinking about the way your fingers smoothed the grass beside that grave?

Why couldn't she stop remembering how you'd smiled — once — the very first time she met you, before she even had a reason to be suspicious?

Why did she keep replaying how quietly you sat there, like you weren't waiting for someone to rescue you, just... sitting with it. Like that's all you had left.

And why — why — did she feel like she'd seen that same kind of quiet before, in the mirror, years ago?

It pissed her off. All of it.

She didn't want to care.

She wasn't supposed to care.

But now that she'd seen it — really seen it — she couldn't stop.

And worse than that, she wanted to apologize.

Not out of guilt. Not out of obligation. Not even because Tara would've told her to — because she hadn't told Tara. Wouldn't. That would've only made things worse. Tara would've gotten upset, said Sam couldn't keep treating people like suspects just because she didn't know their stories. She would've said that again, like it was something new.

But Sam always had the same answer.

You don't know what people are.

That was the rule. The thing that had kept them alive. Amber had smiled at them too. So had Quinn. So had Ethan.

But even saying that to herself didn't land the same anymore. Not since she'd seen you there, knees tucked up in the grass like you'd already learned how to live without being comforted. Not since she heard that name.

Harper.

She didn't even know who that was. And yet it haunted her.

So yeah — she wanted to apologize.

Not because anyone told her to. Just because... she needed to.

But the chance never came.

She kept waiting for you to come back to the apartment. For another tutoring session to happen, like before. She'd come home from work on edge, hoping you'd be there, half-expecting to hear your voice. She even stopped at the store once just to buy more of that tea you drank, the one with the ridiculous name she always rolled her eyes at.

But the table stayed empty. The door stayed shut.

And Sam didn't ask about it. She wasn't stupid. She already knew why.

She told herself maybe it had just moved to the library or a café or wherever else people studied. But deep down, she knew that wasn't it. You weren't coming back. Not while she was there. Not if you could help it.

So she tried something else.

"I'll pick you up," she offered, casual, when Tara mentioned a session one night. "If it's late."

She said it again the next time. And the next.

Tara didn't question it much — just shrugged, said "sure," tossed her bag in the car like it didn't matter. But Sam knew what she was doing. She was creating a window. A sliver of opportunity. One hallway, one sidewalk, one parking lot. That's all she needed.

But every time, it ended the same.

You were "in a rush."

Always with that same tone. Light, polite, no sharp edges. But no room either. No pause long enough for Sam to get a word in.

And she told herself it didn't mean anything. That maybe you were in a rush. Maybe you had somewhere to be.

But she didn't believe it.

She'd seen it in your eyes. That flicker of avoidance. Like you were expecting her to say something and wanted to be gone before she could.

And once, when you'd barely nodded goodbye and disappeared across the street, Tara had muttered something under her breath — just loud enough for Sam to catch.

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

Sam didn't say anything back. Just clenched the steering wheel harder and watched you go.

She couldn't blame you.

But that didn't stop her from wanting another chance.

And eventually, it got to the point where she wasn't just hoping anymore — she was planning. Watching the calendar. Tracking your sessions like they were appointments that mattered to her.

When Tara mentioned the library, Sam said she'd pick her up again — casual, like always. But this time, she left work early. Parked two blocks down. Walked over and stood across the street, leaning against a brick wall with her hands in her jacket pockets, trying to look like she wasn't waiting for anything.

But she was.

She was waiting for you.

She heard your voices first. The soft hum of goodbye. Papers being tucked away, zippers closing. And then the doors opened, and there you were — smiling at something Tara said, gentle and brief, like a reflex you hadn't totally lost yet.

You saw her before Tara did.

Your smile dipped — not completely, but just enough. A quick, soft flicker of nerves across your face, like a kid caught sneaking out. You didn't stop walking, didn't freeze, but Sam could tell you didn't know what to do either. Like maybe you were hoping someone else would make the decision for you.

Tara clocked her a second later.

"Oh," she said, half a groan. "You're early."

Sam shrugged. "Figured I'd come straight here."

You nodded, quiet. Almost like you were trying not to disturb anything.

Tara turned back to you, her voice all easy again. "See you Thursday?"

You nodded. "Yeah of course. Bye."

You stepped back, already starting toward the sidewalk, but Sam cut in before you could escape.

"Actually..." Her voice came out steady, but her heart wasn't. "I'd like to talk to Y/N real quick."

You both looked at her. Tara blinked.

"Why?"

"I just—" Sam shifted her weight. "Just a minute. In private."

Tara's eyebrows knit, defensive before you even needed her to be. "Why? What's going on?”

"Nothing," Sam said quickly. Too quickly. "It's not like that."

Tara didn't move. "I'll stay."

"No," Sam said, sharp. She softened it. "Please."

That just made Tara squint harder. "Why should I—"

"Because I need to say something I should've said weeks ago," Sam cut in, firm now, eyes locked on Tara's. "And because I need to say it without you standing there glaring at me the whole time."

Tara opened her mouth again, but hesitated.

And that was all Sam needed.

"Go wait in the car."

Tara looked at you once — just a flash — before stepping back, clearly unhappy but not arguing anymore. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started walking, slow and sulky, like she expected to be called back any second.

Then it was just you and Sam.

And that silence — it hit hard.

You were still standing there, clutching the strap of your bag like it gave you something to do. You didn't look angry. You didn't look anything, really. Just unsure. Bracing for something. Or trying not to.

Sam didn't waste time.

"I was wrong," she said.

Your eyes flicked up to hers, surprised — but not shocked.

"I don't have an excuse," she went on. "I was wrong. About a lot of things. And I'm sorry."

You didn't speak right away. You just looked at her. And then you nodded — once, small.

"Thank you."

That was it. Just those two words. No hesitation. No bitterness.

And Sam didn't know why, but it knocked the air out of her.

Because she hadn't expected it to be that simple. She hadn't expected you to be that simple.

She thought maybe you'd glare at her. Say nothing. Turn away.

But you hadn't.

You forgave her like it was easy.

Like it wasn't the first apology you'd ever gotten. Or maybe it was — and that's why you took it so quietly, so carefully. Like it mattered.

And after that, Sam couldn't stop seeing it. That thing she'd been trying not to notice.

The way you kept your head down when you walked through crowds. The way you laughed with your shoulders tensed, like you weren't sure if it was allowed. The way you waited outside buildings for a few seconds longer than necessary, like you weren't in a rush to go home.

The way Tara always texted you first.

The way you never asked for anything.

The way no one else really said your name.

She hadn't seen it before.

Now she couldn't unsee it.

And when you murmured a quiet bye and turned to leave, she stood there a second longer than she meant to. Watching you walk down the sidewalk with that same steady pace, bag strap slung over your shoulder like always, hoodie pulled up half-shielding your face from the wind.

No flinching. No final glance back. Just gone.

Tara was waiting in the car with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face when Sam finally got in.

She didn't ask what was said.

And Sam didn't offer.

But the silence was lighter than usual.

That night, Sam couldn't sleep. Not from guilt — or not only that — but something else, something that felt like the tight ache of wanting to redo something. Like the feeling you get when you leave a conversation too early and realize too late there was more you could've said.

So the next time there was a tutoring session — back in their apartment again — Sam didn't hide in her room. She didn't come up with errands to run or excuses to leave.

She stayed. Kept the kitchen door open. Made dinner slow enough that she had a reason to hover nearby.

You greeted her politely. Nothing more. And that made her insane, in a way she didn't expect. Because the apology had been real. She meant it. So why did it still feel like you were folding in on yourself every time she walked in the room?

She tried to let it go.

But the next session, she made enough pasta for three. Left a bowl on the table where you were working and said, "You can have some if you want." Not warm, not cold — just flat, casual. Like she wasn't holding her breath.

You blinked. Hesitated. But then you said thank you. Ate half of it. Said goodnight before you left.

Small things.

After that, it got harder to tell what was guilt and what wasn't.

Because it wasn't just dinner. She started looking up articles she thought you might like — weird ones, sometimes, about obscure history or psychology or whatever you'd once mentioned offhand to Tara. She'd forward them through Tara at first, never directly. But then Tara got annoyed.

"Why don't you just send them to her yourself?" she muttered one night, not looking up from her phone.

So she did.

And it didn't stop there.

Movie night came around — something Tara insisted on every Friday — and Sam found herself asking, too casually, "Is Y/N coming?"

Tara had raised a brow. "No. Why?"

Sam shrugged. "Just thought she might want to. You could invite her."

"You want her to come?"

"I don't care."

But she did.

Because she kept checking the clock during the opening credits.

Because when you actually did show up the next week, something inside her unclenched.

You sat on the far end of the couch, quiet as ever, legs pulled up, sleeves hiding your hands. And Sam watched you when she wasn't supposed to. Watched the way you leaned toward Tara when you whispered a question. The way you smiled at the screen when you thought no one was paying attention.

And when you laughed — actually laughed — Sam didn't even hear the punchline. Her brain just froze, stunned.

She found herself wanting it again. That sound. That version of you.

She wanted you to look at her like that, just once.

And that's when she realized something had changed. Somewhere in the middle of all that guilt and all that trying, something had shifted.

It wasn't about proving a point anymore.

It wasn't about earning forgiveness.

She just... liked you.

More than she should.

And what scared her most wasn't the fact that she felt it. It was the fact that she needed you to feel it too.

And that... made her angry.

Because she wasn't supposed to like you.

That wasn't what this was.

You were Tara's friend — quiet, steady, harmless. Kind in a way Sam didn't know what to do with. You weren't part of her life. You weren't supposed to matter. And yet — now — she caught herself checking the apartment calendar. Looking for the days Tara had scribbled little "tutor 4pm" notes with hearts over the i's. She found herself staring at the clock fifteen minutes before your sessions were set to end, wondering if she had time to fix her hair or change her shirt or at least look like she wasn't waiting.

And then Tara had said it.

"Why are you suddenly inviting her to everything?"

Sam blinked from where she stood at the stove. "What?"

"You never used to care. And now it's like — dinner, movies, sending her articles? It's weird."

Sam clenched the wooden spoon in her hand.

"It's not weird. I'm being polite."

"You've never been polite," Tara said, only half teasing.

"I'm trying," Sam snapped.

Tara raised both brows. "Try a little less. You're freaking her out."

And maybe she was. Because even when you smiled now — soft, polite, quiet — it never quite reached. It felt cautious. Like you were waiting for something to snap.

So one afternoon, after another session in their apartment — another polite goodbye, another tight smile — Sam didn't let it go.

You'd just slung your bag over your shoulder when she followed you toward the door. Tara had already wandered off toward the kitchen.

"Hey," Sam said, a little too quick, voice catching.

You turned, mid-step. "Yeah?"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Tried again.

"I don't—" she paused, hand half-raised like she needed to physically pull the words out. "I don't hate you."

You blinked. Confused.

She kept going — because stopping would be worse.

"I know I acted like I did. For a while. And I probably came off... hostile. But I didn't— I mean, I don't. I was just..." She let out a breath through her nose, short and irritated. "It doesn't matter. I was wrong. That's all I'm saying."

You stared at her for a beat. Not cold. Not defensive. Just... surprised.

Then you said, gently, "I don't dislike you either."

Sam's chest tightened.

"I just didn't want to get in the way."

She hated how fast her heart moved at that. Like the idea of you feeling in the way lodged itself somewhere behind her ribs.

"You weren't," she said quickly, and softer than she meant to. "You're not."

You nodded. "Okay."

Another silence.

Sam could still hear Tara clinking something in the kitchen, like she was giving them space on purpose — but just barely.

She looked at you, really looked, and realized how much of herself she saw there now. How she'd judged too fast and held on too long and maybe missed a dozen chances to be decent — to be kind — just because she'd been afraid.

Afraid of what it meant to want something soft. Afraid of you.

"I'm sorry," she said again.

You smiled. Not all the way. But it was real this time.

"Thank you," you said.

Then you opened the door and left — like you always did.

But for the first time, Sam stood there smiling, too.

She didn't mean to keep watching the door after it closed.

She just... did.

And for the rest of that evening, she felt like something had shifted. Not huge. Not dramatic. But real. Like a door had cracked open somewhere between you.

She wasn't chasing you out of guilt anymore.

She knew it as clearly as she knew her own name. Guilt had driven her before — that sharp, sour taste of regret in her mouth, the sleepless nights turning over your face in her memory like a puzzle she couldn't solve. But now it was something quieter. Slower. Almost peaceful.

She wanted to know you.

That was it.

Not to fix what she'd broken. Not to earn forgiveness. She just wanted to know you — to be near you, to make you laugh, to hear your voice when you weren't just speaking for Tara's sake. She started noticing the way her day felt better if she knew you were coming over. How she lingered a little too long in the living room under the excuse of folding laundry when you and Tara were studying. How she listened more closely when you spoke, even if it wasn't to her.

And you — you changed too.

Gradually. Carefully.

It showed in how you stopped rushing out the door. In how you stayed behind a few extra minutes to finish a sentence or to ask Sam if she wanted any of the leftover tea. In how you started making eye contact again. Longer. Softer. Less afraid.

One night, Tara fell asleep early on the couch, half-buried under a throw blanket with a textbook open across her stomach. You stayed — you didn't have to, but you did — helping Sam clean up the mess of takeout containers and notebooks without being asked. Sam offered to walk you home.

You said yes.

It was a short walk. Barely ten minutes. But neither of you spoke for most of it. Just the sound of your shoes on the pavement, the occasional hum of a passing car, and the way Sam's hand kept brushing yours by accident.

She didn't apologize for it. You didn't pull away.

At your building, you turned to her like you almost wanted to say something — but couldn't find the words. And Sam, who usually had nothing but sharpness and suspicion in her mouth, just gave you a small nod.

"Get home safe," you murmured.

"You too," she said, like it was habit now.

You lingered a second longer, and then went inside. And Sam walked the whole way home with her hands in her jacket pockets and a strange ache under her ribs — warm, familiar, terrifying.

She didn't see it happening. Not exactly.

It was just that one day, she realized she'd stopped thinking of you as Tara's friend.

You were just you.

It was in the way things quieted around you. How the air in the apartment felt different when you were there — not tense anymore, just aware. The kind of silence that made you listen more carefully. The kind of silence Sam had never been comfortable in, until now.

You started answering her texts more often. A couple of emojis at first. Then a few words. Then full sentences.

You laughed at something she said once — something stupid, something she hadn't meant to be funny — and it caught her completely off guard. It made her feel light. Stupidly, dangerously light.

And she started to notice things.

Not just the way your voice softened when you were tired, or how you'd tug on the sleeves of your sweater when you were thinking. But how being around you didn't feel like a risk anymore. It felt like a want. A quiet, steady want that built itself into her routine without asking permission.

She caught herself cooking more than she needed. Making enough for three even when Tara wasn't home. Asking if you wanted to stay, even when it was late, even when you probably had other places to be.

You didn't always say yes. But sometimes you did.

And those were the nights that lingered.

One of them — after dinner, after Tara had left to crash at a friend's — you stayed. You sat beside Sam on the couch, the TV humming in the background, both of you watching it without really watching.

You didn't talk much. Just shared the same space.

That was new.

And that was when she noticed — how close you'd shifted. How your knee almost touched hers. How you didn't move away.

She didn't know what it meant. Not really. But she knew how it made her feel.

It didn't happen all at once.

But it happened.

And when it did, she didn't fight it this time.

She let herself want you.

Not in the loud, reckless way she used to want things — not like impulse or desperation or fear. This was different. Quieter. Slower. Something that built over time and stayed even when she tried to brush it off.

She started noticing the small things.

How your laugh sounded when Tara wasn't in the room. How you always sat with one foot tucked beneath you. How your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your sleeve whenever you were too tired to filter your thoughts.

She started listening more.

Asking things she'd never cared to ask before. About your day. Your classes. Your favorite movies — even the dumb ones. She made fun of you for liking Twilight but secretly looked up the soundtrack just to hear what you heard in it.

And it wasn't guilt anymore that made her care. It wasn't regret.

It was you.

The way you leaned into her when you were tired.

The way you said her name now — like it didn't hurt anymore.

The way she wanted to keep you in the room just a little longer, every time.

She didn't tell anyone. Not Tara. Not even herself, not really.

But it was there, always. Quiet and stubborn. Settling under her skin.

It showed up in the way she kept sitting closer.

In the way her knee brushed yours and didn't move.

In the way she didn't pretend to care about the show playing in front of you — just let the silence settle between you, comfortable now, soft in a way she couldn't name.

And then

And then you turned to look at her. Smiled.

So did she.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

You were the one who looked away first — down, almost shy — like maybe you were about to say something but didn't.

And Sam... she wasn't thinking when she reached for you. She wasn't planning.

Her fingers brushed your wrist, so gently it almost wasn't there. But you looked up again, and this time you didn't step back.

She kissed you before she could talk herself out of it.

Soft. Careful. Not like a question, but not like an answer either — more like a quiet thing passed between people who didn't know where they stood but knew they wanted to.

You kissed her back.

Not for long. Not urgently. Just long enough for her to know it wasn't a mistake.

When you pulled away, you didn't speak. You just looked at her like maybe you were still trying to believe it happened. And Sam — Sam didn't say anything either. She only watched you nod once, breath shaky.

And in that moment — on that couch, the TV still playing some half-forgotten movie in the background — Sam didn't feel guilty. Or confused. Or scared.

She just felt... full.

Like every version of herself that had pushed people away, that had ruined things before they could matter — all of it had fallen quiet, just long enough to let this happen.

You pulled back first. But only barely.

You looked at her — a little stunned, a little breathless — and she could feel it in the air between you. That shift. That something.

She didn't speak.

Didn't have to.

Because for the first time, she wasn't chasing you to make something right.

She wasn't trying to fix what she broke.

She just wanted you. And you wanted her, too.

And in that moment, she thought — without panic, without fear —God, I think I'm falling for her.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

that didn't scare her at all.

[goobstars]

𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄

summary : headcanons about what it's like to date jax.

tags : romance, censored profanity, heavy flirting, and jax in a maid outfit.

note : i tried to make this as in-character as possible.

— when you first started dating jax, you didn't know what to expect. would he secretly be a huge romantic? would he continue to act the same?

— luckily for you, you got a mixture of both!

— jax is the type where, when he's around the others, he'll treat you like how he did before you both started dating. he'd pull pranks on you, make idiotic remarks, etc. despite the fact everyone knows you're both dating, he doesn't want the others to think he has a "soft spot" for someone.

— even though it's fairly obvious he has a soft spot for you. while he does treat you like how he used to before, everyone noticed how his pranks were slightly lighter and smaller, and his stupid remarks were filled with more playful taunts rather than his usual provoking ways.

— now, when referring to how you got a mixture of both, that also means jax has a romantic side.

— who knew? certainly not you.

— he isn't the flashy type, but he's the type that does small stuff that speaks volumes.

— he's the type to notice the small things. he'll note in his head how you react to certain things like conversation topics, and he'll start asking you about those topics just to see you get all excited.

— will he call you a nerd if you know a lot about that topic? yes, but he doesn't mean it in a mean way.

— that's also another thing. all of those nicknames he called you suddenly have a flirty tone to them.

— his favorite thing to call you? doll.

— and he knows it's you're favorite, too, so he will be teasing you with it every chance he gets.

"jax, what did i tell you about going into my room without permission?" your question was only met with jax's smirk as he shrugged, "i don't know. what did you tell me, doll?" before you could speak, your mind comprehended his words, and your lips slightly pursed as you stared at him in silence. you knew what he was trying to do by calling you that, but despite the fact you were aware of his game, you didn't call him out on it. the rabbit's smirk only grew as he took a step closer to you, and he leaned down by your ear. "what's wrong, doll? somethin' on your mind?" "die." "fiesty..." he grinned before straightening his back, and you only turned around and walked away from him in irritation.

— he loves irritating you, but only because that means later on, he gets to sneak into your room to "apologize" to you.

— he doesn't apologize. he just wanted an excuse to go into your room.

— why does he want to be in your room? because it means he gets to be with you without the eyes of all the other members being on you both.

— now, while he acts all cocky when everyone else is around, that act fades a bit when he's in your room. he's quieter as he gets on your bed and settles himself near your side.

— he would be the little spoon when you both cuddled. sometimes he'd like to hold you, but most of the time, it's nice for him to just be held as he gets to relax with you.

— he will tease you with the different outfits he gets during adventures.

— usually, his outfits stay the same, but he notices the way you look at him a little bit more when it changes, especially when he was in that suit at the bar.

— he saw you eyeing him, and he wouldn't stop teasing you.

"like what you see, doll?" you only rolled your eyes at his words as you fidgeted with the glass in front of you—swiping your finger across the top of the glass while jax placed his elbow on the counter and leaned against his palm. "you didn't deny it..." "be quiet." you mumbled, and jax only grinned. "make me, dollface." the others were too busy facing ragatha as she talked about something, so you took the opportunity to grasp his tie before pulling him close. the action slightly caught him off guard as a light flush sprawled across his face, yet his smirk never dropped. "just admit you like how i look in this outfit." you only paused for a moment before tugging his tie closer, and you placed a quick kiss against his cheek. a dazed expression crossed his face as he stared down at you, and he tilted his head. "that works, too..."

— the only time you admitted you liked his outfit was when he got put in a maid costume.

"i definitely like what i see..." you teased as jax's face only flushed more, and he slightly glared at you. "shut.up." "what? you look good! do a spin for me—" "shut the f*#$ up."

— jax would then proceed to pounce at you right then and there.

— did he hurt you? no, it was something that he would never do, but he did shake you a little bit while griping about how you betrayed him by voting for the maid outfit to be put on him.

— finally, he would always make comments about how he was your boyfriend, and he would do it just because he likes the idea of him being your boyfriend.

— you're going to your room? he should go with you since he was your boyfriend. you were going to go ask caine something? he should go with you since he was your boyfriend. you were going to take a small step away with him so you had some space in your bubble? he would take multiple steps towards you and invade your bubble because he was your boyfriend.

— he liked the idea of him being your boyfriend, even if it was in the digital world.

[lilacgaby]

˗ˏˋjealousy, jealousyღ

pairing: boyfriend!megumi x reader

summary: after overhearing a conversation, you get seriously annoyed with megumi. he makes it up to you in his own way.

tags: fem!reader, assumptions, kissing, pet names, one phrase from jjk270, cursing, she/her pronoun use, no proofread

wc: 1k

after a hard day, you decided to get some milkshakes for you and your boyfriend. you'd looked all around for him, finally hearing his voice down a hallway. you saw him and called out to him.

“megum–”

“when shall we have the ceremony?” hana mused, clapping her hands. a moment of silence passed in the hallway, both you and megumi shared the same expression of disbelief. he turned and noticed your presence, reaching a hand out.

“[na–]”

you walked off before he could finish, leaving him with an embarrassed hana who had realized she'd jumped the gun.

but before she had the chance to apologize, he went after you. you were leaving, quickly. going to find your car and ditch this place, arms crossed and annoyed.

was it probably nothing? yes, but why would she even say that?? it pissed you off to no avail.

you sipped on your milkshake in annoyance, throwing it out in the nearest trash can to you. the taste was ruined and now sour like your mood.

the sound of megumi's' footsteps behind you made you rush to get the keys out of your purse quicker, unlocking the door with antsy hands. you slip in, only to realize you got in the passenger seat out of habit.

you cursed in silence as he slid into the driver’s seat besides you, rolling your eyes at the hand on your thigh. “whatever you heard, it's not what you think.”

“mhm.” you stared out the window, letting him take the keys out of your hands to start the ignition and the a.c, your car just got so hot. “baby, it wasn't like that.”

“sure it wasn't.”

he groaned in frustration, still holding your thigh as you felt his green eyes on you. “look at me.”

“why? need advice for your ceremony? i'd be great flower girl.” he palmed his face, annoyance evident in his features. “it wasn't like that and you know it.” you turned on the radio, not wanting to hear his excuses. but that honestly just pissed you off more. changing through the channels, it seemed everything just sought to make you mad.

“(jealous), just leave me alone, (jealous), just leav–”

“toss your dirty shoes in my–”

“yo no soy celoso, ¿pero quie–”

“i need to get her out the picture, she's really fuckin–”

you turned it off, the sound of the fan the only thing you heard. your eyes were closed but you could feel him looking at you. his hands moved to grab yours. he spoke gently. “are we gonna talk now?”

“maybe.”

“she got the wrong idea babe, i don't– i don't even think of a future without you, let alone talk about it with someone else when it doesn't involve us.”

“but why didn't you say anything?” you opened your eyes now, facing him as you pouted. “you shouldn't have even entertained the idea.”

he tried to stay serious, but he couldn't help the smile that spread out across his face. you just looked so cute while you were trying to be angry, like a mad bunny stomping it’s feet. “i didn't, i walked after you right after. i didn't even look at her, just at you. always you.” the smile of his face had to be hidden under his other hand, you were so annoyingly pretty.

“really?” your eyes were glossy as you looked over to him.

“really.” your faces inched closer, megumi leaning in first. your lips meet in a sweet kiss, the tension and jealousy fading as you melt into him. his arms wrapped around you, caging you into him.

your hands found themselves around his neck, deepening your kiss. the both of you could almost taste your desire for each other. well, he could taste the flavor of your milkshake, but that was besides the point. as his hand moved up to cup your face, tapping your jaw to wordlessly ask for permission, you tilted your head and let him in.

as if memorizing the cavern of your mouth, he explored it. you tasted so sweet, you felt so sweet against his hands too.

he finally pulled away. “mine.” he whispered in between kisses, “m’ all yours.” chaste kisses were peppered on your face, making you laugh and hit his chest.

you both were breathless at the end of it, faces dusted with pink. his pupils had hearts in them, holding your hand tightly with a soft smile over his face. “it really was nothing, i promise.”

“i know.. sorry.”

“id be mad too if someone said that to you, don't worry too much.” he kissed your forehead, before having a moment of realization.

the car felt hot, yes it was because you just had a romantic moment together, but it was also because you didn't have tinted windows. meaning,

“babe.”

“what?”

“i think.. everyone just saw us right now.”

your eyes widened. “you're.. holy shit you're right! drive megumi drive!”

you rushed him and simultaneously you covered your face. sorcerers, people, and in particular yuuji, nobara, hana, and gojo were jaw dropped outside the car. gojo had a hand over his heart.

“well, at least nobody will hit on either of us, right?

…i'll be quiet.”

“that's for the best.”

[gyaruhana]

Do you write for hyun ju? Cause i have this idea where she and reader are dating and in the mingle game, we saved young mi and took her place in dying hehehehehe thats all tyy

Hyun-Ju/Player 120 - Sacrifice

Synopsis: you sacrifice yourself to save Youngmi.

A/N: sad sad sad idea ughh

Warnings: angst..

From the moment you stepped foot in this hellhole, death had been looming over your shoulder.

If it were up to you, you would've left after the first game. Sure, money was an issue but you valued your life more than you valued money. Even if the sum was 45.6 billion won, you didn't want to risk your life so carelessly. Besides, there were 455 other people who you'd have to compete against. You didn't see the odds being in your favor.

Fortunately, you managed to make a nice group of friends who you grew to trust through each passing game. You grew closest with a trans woman by the name of Hyun-Ju. You were honestly surprised to make such a good friend here of all places but you were certainly glad you did. Hyun-Ju provided you with much needed comfort and your conversations always filled the quiet air after a particularly challenging game.

Strangely enough, you didn't feel as scared when she was close by. Even though you watched so many people die, you didn't fear you'd be next when she was around. You knew she'd keep you safe and you'd gladly return the favor.

That's how you're here now.

The game was mingle and it involved making groups based on the number called out before the timer runs out. Things had gotten a little messy as Youngmi had accidentally been knocked down while running behind them. Of course, Hyun-Ju realized this after stepping in the room when there was little time left on the clock.

She ran out to try grab Youngmi when someone else barged in, pushing her back and telling her there wasn't enough time. You looked at Hyun-Ju's distraught face as she tried to move past and get out to help Youngmi. It was a rather reckless desperation but Youngmi was important to her. A friend who she cared for.

You glanced toward the timer and read the clock. 6 seconds left.

Without another thought, you pushed past them and opened the door before grabbing Youngmi and helping her up. You didn't waste any time in pushing her in the room before closing the door behind her knowing that you couldn't stay when they already had enough people in the room. On que, the door locked and Hyun-Ju immediately went to it, banging on it desperately.

"What are you doing? Why would you do that?!" She yelled angrily as she looked at you. Hyun-Ju wanted nothing more than for this door to burst open. She would've pushed that guy out for you. She didn't want you to die - not like this. Not when you were one of the few people who actually showed her a shred of empathy and kindness.

"Hyun-Ju, it's fine. I'm fine," you say reassuringly. While you were scared that death would soon take you, you put on a brave face for her. Even as tears formed in both your eyes and hers. "I'm sorry," Hyun-Ju spoke and you quickly shake your head in disapproval. She had no reason to be sorry. This was your choice.

"Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong. This was my decision. My decision, okay?" you speak with a smile that didn't match the fear and worry in your eyes. "You're still going to win that money and go to Thailand, yeah? For me?" you speak and Hyun-Ju couldn't help but let out a choked sob at your words.

"..Yeah," she responded with a nod as she averted her gaze for a moment to compose herself. "Good," you say before the sound of footsteps comes closer to you. You turned around and were met face to face with a guard holding his gun to your face. The sight immediately made Hyun-Ju panic as she started banging on the door again and yelling again.

"No! No!" Hyun-Ju cried out but her cries were quickly cut off by the sound of a gunshot. Some of your blood splattered on her face leaving her in a stunned silence as she came to terms with what just happened. She closed her eyes and leaned against the door as she cried. She was upset and angry. You were supposed to live. Not die like this.

But it was too late now. You were dead, and you were never coming back.

[thedraculacat]

Green Eyed Curse ೃ⁀⤵

sebastian sallow x reader

masterlist

synopsis: when you begin spending more time with ominis, sebastian starts acting... odd. cold glares, dismissive comments, and that one moment in the undercroft where he finally snaps and says what he's been holding back for far too long.

w/c: 1.3k

For Sebastian, Defense Against the Dark Arts had never felt so long.

Students shuffle around the room as Professor Hecat paces between rows of dueling partners she’s assigned, yelling corrections in the voice of a professor who expects nothing short of perfection from each one of the students in her class. Her sharp voice slices through the air, each bit of criticism even more bitter than the last. She seems to be especially strick today, eyes like a hawk as she monitors each wand movement.

You’ve been paired with Ominis Gaunt- a solid choice for his competency, grace, and dueling abilities.

You mutter your incantation, your wind flicking just a bit too slow.

“You’re curling the end too much,” Ominis says quietly. His voice is kind, not condescending. “It should be a sharper flick. Like this.”

He adjusts his stance slightly and demonstrates the spell with such precision that you almost forgot he can’t see. It then dawns on you that he is stepping in to help- saving you from one of Hecat’s verbal lashings. Two students have already been yelled at for similar small mistakes.

You smile gratefully, nudging his arm. “Show-off.”

He smirks. “Only a little. I’m trying to save you from Hecat’s wrath. She’s in rare form today.”

Across the room, Sebastian Sallow stands frozen, his want loosely gripped in his hand. His brown eyes narrow in your direction, though he quickly looks away when Garreth Weasley leans over with his mischievous grin.

“Looks like Y/N’s traded in her favorite troublemaker,” Garreth teases, nodding toward Ominis. “That’s got to sting, mate.”

Sebastian scoffs, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he tightens his grip on his wand and sends a spell flying with a bit more force than necessary. Unfortunately, it results from his name being called by the Professor.

You look over when you hear his name, watching your friend be explained the basics of wand usage like he’s a first year. You can’t help but smile to yourself before looking away.

When class ends, you turn to look for Sebastian, hoping to share a smile and a joke about Hecat’s incredible diaphragm, but instead he brushes right past you without a word.

The next day comes with a long-awaited trip to Hogsmeade. You walk with a group of Slytherins- Ominis Imelda, and a quiet Sebastian linger in the back of the group.

You try not to notice his silence. Try even harder to ignore the ache it leaves behind while the others chatter excitedly.

At Honeydukes, Ominis hands you a Fizzing Whizzbee. “It’ll make you float,” he grins just as you pop it into your mouth. And once your feet start to lift off the ground, he reaches for your hand before you can get too far away. You smile, delighted from the free candy.

Outside Zonko’s that evening, you ask Ominis if he knows why Sebastian isn’t bothering to pull any of his usual stunts. He apologizes, says he truly doesn’t know in that sincere-as-always voice, but you can’t seem to get over the fact that something has to be wrong. 

After your last stop at the Three Broomsticks, the sky has dimmed and the temperature has dropped. You rub your gloved hands together.

“It’s getting dark,” Ominis hums, head tilting toward you. “Let me walk you back.”

You blink. “Are you sure? I’m fine, Ominis. Really.”

He gives you a small, knowing smile. “Then humor me.”

Unbeknownst to either of you, Sebastian had been making his way toward you. He stops dead in his tracks, catching the tail end of your conversation.

“Okay then,” you smile casually as you link your arm with Ominis’s.

Sebastian’s mouth tightens into a line.

“Are you alright?” Imelda asks, noticing him standing nearby. 

“Just fine,” he mutters, crossing his arms.

Imelda snorts. “Looks like someone’s got their panties in a twist. Probably hate seeing Y/N and Ominis acting like some sappy couple.”

Sebastian passes her a look before turning and storming off in the opposite direction.

Back in your dorm that night, you’re getting ready for bed when something slides under the door with a whoosh.

Sam, your roommate, is instantly on it. “Ooo, is that a letter? A secret admirer, perhaps?”

You groan as she walks over and retrieves the parchment.

“Let me guess,” Sam says dramatically, holding it up like it’s a prophecy. “Ominis is finally growing a spine. Honestly, by the way you two have been acting this week? Stars in your eyes… It’s no wonder Sebastian’s been so mopey.

You laugh nervously. “Sebastian? Moping? He’s probably just tired.”

Margo wags her finger. “Yeah, tired of watching his best friend fall for his crush.”

You roll your eyes as you stand up and snatch the letter from her hand, only to freeze when you see your name written across the front.

And as you open it:

“Meet me in the Undercroft. Tonight. You know where. -S”

Your heart skips a beat.

Sam peeks over your shoulder. “Guess it wasn’t Ominis after all.”

You quickly fold the letter and stuff it in your drawer.

“Wait- what’s the Undercroft?” she then asks. “Sounds mysterious.”

You try to sound casual. “Uh, nothing. I don’t know. He probably just made it up to mess with me.”

She looks skeptical. “Mess with you? Girl, he wants to kiss you.”

You roll your eyes and smile softly. “I don’t know about that, but I better go find out what he wants. I’ll see you later.”

The Undercroft is quiet, dimly lit by the enchanted candles floating near the stone walls. You step inside, your heart pounding.

Sebastian stands in the center of the room, pacing. He turns the moment he hears your footsteps.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he mutters.

“You asked me to. Why wouldn’t I?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Figured you’d be too busy with Ominis.”

You sigh. “Sebastian-”

“No, just- listen, alright?” He pauses, inhaling shakily. “I need to say something before I completely lose it.”

You step closer. “Then say it. Please.”

He looks away, jaw clenched. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you laugh with him. How he always knows just what to say. The way you let him walk you home, like it’s his place-”

“He’s my friend, Sebastian.”

He turns sharply to face you. “And what am I, then? Just someone you practice spells on? Someone you smile at in passing? Because it feels like I’m watching you slip away.”

“You’re not,” you say softly.

His fists clench at his sides. “You don’t get it. I want to be the one beside you. The one you laugh with. I hate feeling like this- like I’m just the friend watching you from the corner.”

You move forward again, close enough now to heart the way his breath catches.

“You could’ve been,” you whisper. “All you had to do was say something.”

His eyes widen. “You mean…”

You nod. “I’d been hoping. Wondering if maybe…”

“We’re not just friends,” he finishes for you. “Not to me.”

He exhales, stepping even closer, voice lower now. “I know you, Y/N. I know how you trace your wand before casting. How you press your lips together when you’re trying not to laugh. How you can’t fall asleep without letting out a deep breath first. I see all of it. I see you. And I-”

He pauses, his heart visibly pounding. “I love you.”

You inhale sharply. “Sebastian…”

He winces. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

But you close the distance and kiss him.

It is a messy, desperate, full of years of tension and quiet yearning. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, holding him there, grounding you both in the truth that had always been there, just beneath the surface.

When you finally pull back, breathless, his forehead rests against yours.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, “how long I’ve wanted that.”

You smile. “Then don’t let go.”

And he doesn’t.

[heaven-s-black-box]

Notes- Blabber Mouth; Anemo Men x gn!Reader

Return to File

Recovery date: February 9th, 2025

Description: Anemo version of Blabber Mouth

Notes: CW a few suprise pregnancies I put Wanderer in here, but I personally subscribe to trans-man Wanderer because why would Raiden give him a male body? Also, this series is slowly separating from the original prompt and I feel like I'm just making these kids psychic but shhh, babies

Hydro Dendro Cryo Pyro Anemo Electro Geo

Back to directory

Aether

Kids , he likes them but never really thought they were in his future

I mean, he’s always traveling with his sister, it’s not until Teyvat that he kind of settles down

Abyss!Aether or Traveler!Aether, they meet you and staying here doesn’t sound too bad

Your first is an accident, they make the decision for him

Not that he wanted to leave you anyways

Your second is planned, but your first born beats you to tell him

Aether comes back from wherever he was, helping Khaenri’ah, a commission, ruling the Abyssal Khaeri’ans, and your kid tackles him in a hug

Then, without you saying anything, they talk about reading a story to the baby

And you play mock offense thinking they were reading to you and Aether is trying to figure out what baby

You send your kid off to clean up their toys so you can talk

Aether drops to his knees and hugs your waist

Xiao

It’s not that he doesn’t want kids, he just doesn’t think about it because he doesn’t want another thing he can’t have

He can’t be around people normally, being around an infant? Bad idea

So, you’d have to be anything but a mortal, someone who can be around him despite his debt

Then, he gives it some thought and he’s still really not sure

It takes many conversations for him to see your side of things

Cries the first time he holds your baby

As your first grows up, he tries to figure out how to broach the subject of having another

You laugh when he finally gets it out, face red, and quickly apologize before saying another sounds nice

Your kid is very defensive, and they try defending you from one of the dogs around Wangshuu inn one day

When you ask what’s wrong, because normally the dogs aren't a problem, your kid says they saw the dog scare a baby the other day

Takes you both a second to figure out how that correlates and then it’s a trip to Baizhu

He cries, the first time it wasn’t real to him until he held the baby but this time it’s real from the start

Venti

You guys start talking about having kids, and he’s not even sure he can have them

Like, he’s a windspirit and sure he’s in human form but how far does that extend

So your first born is a bit of a surprise

But he’s so happy, sings to them all the time while your pregnant

He drinks less too, can’t be drinking at Angel’s share when he’s trying to wrangle the little whirlwind into bed

It’s one such night when your little one runs out of their room and into yours

They curl up with you in your bed, and Venti’s trying to convince them to sleep in their bed

They declare they want to sleep with their sibling

You stop reading/pretending to sleep, confused, and Venti just gives in

They make a good point, how could he pull such a protective big sibling away from their little sibling

Venti’s been around enough to know that children can just tell these things

So he just wraps you all up in his wings and you go to Barbara in the morning

If either of your kids are boys, he’s naming him after the nameless bard

Kazuha

Kids… he wants them, he doesn’t want his family line to end with him

But, it’s not really an option when he’s on the run

Once he returns to Inazuma though, he gives it more serious thought

Spending time in the forge, he sees kids run by a lot and watches their awe as they watch him

He brings it up to you, and you have your first born

We don’t know what his friend’s name is, but your first born is getting named after him

Even if he has to alter it a little bit

He likes to write poetry with your kid, it helps their vocabulary, creativity, and fine motor skills

You two also use it to encourage their self expression

So they express their excitement about the friend in your belly

That poem is getting framed, it makes you both laugh

Heizou

Likes playing with the kids in the city and around Ritou

Hasn’t really considered kids of his own

It’s not until he sees you with the kids that he starts thinking about it

I think your first is an accident, but his excitement even surprises him a bit

Not that he thought he wouldn’t be happy/excited

And your kid takes after their father’s investigative curiosity

So you start acting off and they’re running their own investigation

This one is less of a “little kid sixth sense” and more like “mini detective”

They even get Heizou to join in the investigation

But there’s definitely a bit of weird sibling psychic-ness, your first born predicts baby's gender later on

Everyone’s excited, you first born is already planning investigations to do with them

Extra note, but Heizou definitely takes your infants on easy investigations strapped to his chest in a baby harness

Wanderer

I… don’t think he can have kids, I personally think he was not modeled with the required hardware (fully believe his original model was at least a ken doll and and at most fem)

But, between handling the electro gnosis and being around Dottore, I could see him getting the hardware and systems

I do not think he knows he has these systems, mostly because he’s never tried

So your kid is an accident

And Wanderer has a lot of thoughts but, I think he holds the baby and decides that he can do this

First baby’s name is Niwa

This kid has him wrapped around their finger, and he’s happy with one

And now that you two know he can get you pregnant you two are more careful

Your kid asks for a sibling and he’s not one to deny them if you’re okay with it

They’re also the one to tell you, one day they just press a kiss to your tummy before Wanderer puts them to bed for the night

Tighnari’s in the city, so you check in with him before he leaves

I think Wanderer surprises himself with the love he feels for his kids

[straykidsdreamer]

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘏𝘦 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦

⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆ Synopsis: "I can feel your heartbeat against my lips." Warnings: Angst, unresolved tension, yelling, emotional withdrawal, reader cries, Hyunjin breaks down, slow healing, comfort at the end. Word count: ~2.2k ⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆

You could always tell when something was wrong by the way Hyunjin stopped talking. Not the kind of silence that was calm or peaceful, but the sharp kind — where his responses were short, his eyes didn't meet yours, and his touch pulled away before you could even miss it.

The quiet had started weeks ago. Late-night rehearsals turned into overnight stays at the studio. His phone calls became less frequent, his texts dryer, one-worded. And when he did come home, it felt like you were talking to a ghost of him — like Hyunjin’s body had walked in, but his soul hadn’t followed.

You tried to be patient. You knew what it meant to love someone in the spotlight. You’d been with him before the awards, the flashing lights, the stadiums full of screaming fans. Back when he still got nervous during practice showcases. Back when he’d crawl into bed after hard days and whisper, “I don’t know if I’m good enough,” and you’d stay up reassuring him all night.

But now… now he didn’t whisper anything.

So when he came in the door that night — past midnight, drenched from the rain, no apology in sight — something in you finally snapped.

“Hyunjin,” you said, voice steadier than you felt, “can we talk?”

He barely looked up as he toed off his shoes. “I’m tired. Can it wait?”

“No,” you said, sharper. “It can’t.”

He froze in the hallway. “If this is about me being late again—”

“It’s not about being late,” you interrupted. “It’s about the fact that I don’t know who I’m dating anymore.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

He dropped his bag and finally met your eyes, his were dull — like someone who’d already rehearsed every possible version of this conversation in his head. “I’ve been busy. I thought you understood that.”

“I do understand that,” you snapped, “but I also understand what it feels like to be pushed away without explanation. I’ve been patient, Hyunjin. I've waited and waited and told myself you’d come back when things calmed down, but you didn’t.”

He looked like he wanted to yell, to defend himself, but all he did was throw his hands up. “What do you want me to say? That I’m a terrible boyfriend? That I’m selfish? That I can’t balance my career and you?”

“I want you to talk to me!” you cried. “To tell me why you don’t come home anymore, why you look at me like I’m a stranger, why you don’t let me love you anymore!”

Your voice cracked. You hadn’t meant to raise it — hadn’t even realized you were crying until the tears made your vision blur.

Hyunjin looked stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to break first.

He took a step toward you, but you stepped back.

And that seemed to hurt him more than anything.

“You think I don’t want to let you in?” he said, voice trembling. “You think I want to be like this?”

“Then why are you?”

He ran a hand through his rain-damp hair, breathing hard. “Because every time I walk off a stage, I feel empty. I smile and wave and dance, and I go backstage and I can’t even remember who I am. And then I come home, and you’re here — you’re here, still loving me — and I don’t feel like I deserve it.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“That’s not your choice to make,” you whispered. “You don’t get to decide whether you’re worthy of being loved. You’re not broken, Hyunjin. You’re just… hurting. And I’m trying so hard to help you, but you won’t let me in.”

He stood there, chest rising and falling with every shallow breath, eyes glassy. “I thought if I could just keep going, keep performing, keep being enough out there… then maybe I could come home and be enough here too.”

You closed the space between you slowly, carefully. He looked like he might shatter at the wrong word. “You are enough. I don’t need the perfect version of you, Hyunjin. I just want the version that tells me when he’s struggling instead of shutting down.”

His lip trembled. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix it alone,” you said, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You just have to stay.”

And in that moment, something in him cracked.

Hyunjin leaned into your touch and let out a shaky sob — the kind that comes from holding everything in for too long. He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your shoulder, like he was trying to hide from himself.

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

You held him tighter. “It’s okay. I’m still here.”

For the first time in weeks, you felt him exhale. Not a tired sigh, not a defeated breath — but the kind that said maybe, just maybe, he believed you.

Maybe he would stay.

⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆｡˚✩˚｡⋆

Author’s Note: This story is for anyone who’s ever felt distant from someone they love and didn’t know how to reach them again. Sometimes the strongest love isn’t loud — it’s patient, steady, and quietly waiting on the other side of the storm. 💔

[auroralwriting]

𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓊𝓅

pairing: billy dunne x reader

summary: billy dunne messes it up with you. can he fix his mess?

warnings: no warnings for this story

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

gracie abrams songfic challenge

There were two types of mistakes in Billy Dunne’s life. The ones you make because you’re young and stupid, and the ones you make even though you know better. You? You were the second kind.

You had been in his life long before the band ever made it big. Pittsburgh. Cold winters. You and Billy, wrapped up in blankets that didn’t quite cover your toes. Sharing coffee cups. Writing lyrics on napkins. You were his muse before he even knew what that word meant.

And he loved you. He loved you like oxygen. Like you were the one thing that kept him alive. Everyone could see it. Everyone knew. But when the music started calling louder, and the band took off, when the spotlight hit him square in the chest, Billy changed. Not all at once. Not in ways that were easy to point out at first. But slowly, like a crack spreading through glass.

It started with late nights at the studio. Missed calls. Conversations that stayed unfinished. You tried to understand. God, you tried. But understanding only got you so far when the man you loved started disappearing one decision at a time.

And then he messed it up.

He never cheated. At least, not with his body. But Billy cheated with his silence. With the way he stopped telling you things. With how he let your love fade into the background of whatever version of himself he thought the world wanted more.

He cheated when he started writing with Daisy more than he thought about you.

You walked out after the third time he showed up hours late to dinner, smelling like smoke and stale beer, saying he forgot. Not because of the dinner, but because he looked at you like you were just another thing on his list.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry—not until you were gone. Billy didn’t chase you.

That was the part that gutted you the most. He let you go. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes hollow. Like he’d already made peace with losing you. But peace never came. Not for either of you.

It had been almost a year since that night. The band was bigger than ever. Sold-out shows. Magazine covers. Billy Dunne, frontman of the decade. And yet, every stage he stepped on felt wrong. Every hotel bed felt empty. His songs rang out to thousands, but none of them sounded right anymore. They all sounded like apologies.

The worst part? He couldn’t even blame you for leaving. He would’ve done the same if he were in your shoes.

It was Graham who reached out first. A casual question while he was watching television. “Saw someone today who reminded me of her. You ever think about calling?”

Billy didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The ache in his chest answered for him. That night, he didn’t go to the studio. Didn’t meet the guys at the bar. He stayed in, sat on the edge of his bed, and stared at the contact he’d never deleted from his phone.

You.

He hadn’t called. Not yet. But you had. Out of the blue. Like the universe had cracked open and given him one more shot.

Your voice on the other end of the line sounded tentative. Like maybe you regretted dialing. Like maybe you thought he wouldn’t answer. But he did. On the first ring.

There was a long pause, too long, really. The kind where both of you were thinking too much, wondering what the hell you were doing.

“Hey,” you said, finally. Barely above a whisper.

Billy let out a breath like he’d been holding it in for months. “Hey.”

Silence.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” you admitted.

“I didn’t think you’d call.”

And that was it—that one line cracked the thin ice the two of you had been trying to delicately balance on.

“Why didn’t you?” you asked. “Call me, I mean.”

Billy’s voice stiffened, defensive without meaning to be. “I figured if you wanted to talk, you’d have picked up the phone sooner.”

“Oh, right,” you said, something sharp threading into your tone. “Because it was so easy to just pretend none of it happened. That you didn’t tear everything we built apart.”

Billy scoffed. “You think I wanted to lose you?”

“You didn’t fight for me,” you snapped. “I left, and you let me. You didn’t even chase after me, Billy. Not a word. Not a single call.”

“I thought you were done!” he yelled, and it startled you both into silence. His voice cracked. “I thought I’d already ruined everything.”

“You did.”

The words hung in the air. Icy. True. You could hear him breathing on the other end. Labored. Like he wanted to scream or cry or punch something—or all three.

“I know I messed it up,” he finally said, voice low and shaking. “I know that. I’ve had to live with that every goddamn day.”

You closed your eyes, letting your forehead fall into your palm. “Then why did it feel like I meant nothing to you at the end?”

“You meant everything to me,” he whispered, and your heart squeezed at the sheer agony in his voice. “You still do. That’s the fucking problem. You still do.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

Billy sighed so hard it sounded like it came from the deepest part of him. “I shouldn’t have let you go. I know that. And I—I can’t stop wishing I’d run after you. I should’ve grabbed you, begged you to stay, done something. But I didn’t. I froze. And I hate myself for it.”

You sat with that. “I didn’t call you tonight to fight,” you said, voice finally softening. “I don’t know why I called. I just… I was thinking about you.”

“I think about you every day,” Billy said. “Every night. Every time I pick up my guitar. It’s always you.”

You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, the silence between you turning heavy and warm. “I’m in L.A. for a few days,” you offered. “Just… here for work.”

Another pause.

“Can I see you?” he asked, timid like he didn’t think he deserved to ask.

You hesitated. You wanted to say no. You wanted to protect your heart. But your heart didn’t care about protection, it only knew how to beat for him.

“..Yeah,” you said. “You can.”

You agreed to meet at a coffee shop on Melrose. Neutral territory. Public, but not loud. A place where people came to work and daydream, a place where heartbreak could sit across from hope with oat milk lattes between them.

You got there first. Of course you did. You were early, painfully early, and regretting it with every tick of the clock. You sat by the window with your hands curled around a ceramic mug, the warmth doing very little to settle the nerves buzzing beneath your skin. You’d stared at your reflection in the glass so long you stopped recognizing your own face.

Would he recognize you? Would you recognize him?

The bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t look up right away. You didn’t have to. You knew it was him by the way your entire body went still, like your heart was holding its breath.

“Hey.” His voice was quieter in person. Like it had lost its armor on the way in.

You raised your eyes, and there he was, Billy Dunne in a worn denim jacket, curls a little longer than you remembered, jaw sharp, eyes soft. There were shadows beneath them, like maybe he hadn’t slept in days. Or years. Like maybe he was still haunted by things he never said.

You stood up before you could talk yourself out of it. “Hi,” you said, and suddenly it felt like you were seventeen again, waiting in the back of his old truck while he tried to fix the heater.

He smiled, but it was tentative. Careful.

“Is it okay if I—” He gestured to the seat across from you.

You nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And for a second, neither of you were in a coffee shop in a city that had torn you both in different directions. You were kids again, in his basement with a record spinning and no future except each other. “You look good,” he said, like it hurt.

“So do you,” you replied, even though it wasn’t entirely true. He looked tired. He looked like he’d been carrying your ghost around like luggage.

“I didn’t know if you’d show,” he admitted, fingers tapping against the table. “After that call, I thought maybe I pushed too hard.”

“I almost didn’t,” you whispered. “But I wanted to.”

That seemed to land somewhere deep inside him. He swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, and the words spilled out fast. “For everything. For not calling. For not showing up. For not being enough back then—”

“Billy—”

“No, let me say it,” he rushed out. “I was scared. I was chasing this dream, and I told myself you’d be better off without me. And maybe you were. But I wasn’t better off without you. I fell apart. And I kept trying to write it into a song like that would make it okay. But it didn’t. It just made it worse. Because every song still sounded like you.”

Your breath caught. “I loved you,” you said, voice trembling. “You were it for me. You were everything. And when we ended, I didn’t know how to breathe anymore.”

His hand reached across the table. He stopped just short of touching yours.

“Do you still feel it?” he asked, voice barely there. “Because I do. It’s been years and I still feel it.”

You looked down at his hand, trembling slightly. And you reached out. You laced your fingers through his. The touch felt familiar. Like home.

“I never stopped,” you admitted. “Loving you.” His eyes closed. Like he was praying. Or finally exhaling.

When he opened them, he leaned forward, and there was a soft desperation in his voice when he asked, “What do we do now?”

You squeezed his hand. “We start slow. We talk. We figure it out.”

His smile was small. Fragile. But real. “Can I take you to dinner tonight?” he asked.

You raised an eyebrow, teasing. “A little fast for starting slow, isn’t it?”

He grinned for real this time. “Okay. Lunch?”

You laughed. It felt good. Light. Like oxygen after being underwater. “Lunch sounds good.”

Maybe this time, Billy wouldn’t go and mess it up.

[goingmerryfics]

Catches you crying w/ Zoro, Ace, & Law

Content: Gender Neutral reader, NSFW free. Law’s part has a reader who deals with chronic pain, condition not specified.

Notes* Part 2! Read part 1 here

Zoro

There’s not many places to hide on the ship, so while Zoro is on his way to the kitchen to bother Sanji for a snack, it’s not surprising that he catches the sound of you sniffling on his way

He doesn’t even think twice as he peeks into where you’re hiding to see what’s going on

“Hm? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

He catches you off guard, and you try to wipe away your tears in a rush, muttering that you’re fine, it’s nothing, you’re not crying

Zoro closes the door behind him, leaving you both to privacy

“You’re not. It’s ok to not be ok, you know. Just tell me what’s wrong so we can try to fix it.”

He’s stern with you in this, but not pushy. You know that he’s a problem solver, and communication is how he problem solves

You take a deep breath and start to explain how you’re unhappy with how Sanji treats you all the time, and you’re not sure how to better your relationship with him to one where you’re more comfortable in his presence

Admittedly, Zoro is someone who you didn’t want to go to about this because of his already tense relationship with the cook, but surprisingly he keeps a level head about it

His first piece of advice is to talk it out. He asks if you’ve ever tried to have a conversation over his treatment towards you, to which you shake your head

You’re worried about coming off the wrong way

Zoro shakes his head and insists you stick up for yourself

He even helps you to plan out what you’re going to say to him, offering advice on how to word things differently to get your point across

He offers to be there for back-up if need be but you don’t allow him to do that. You didn’t want to make anything tense

“It’s ok to cry. But you need to remember that all of us here on this crew are here for you, so don’t hide your emotions from the ones who can help you feel better, ok?”

Ace

It’s still dark out when Ace is woken up by the sound of shuffling in the room

He reaches over for you to pull you close to him, but only finds a cold spot and frowns

His eyes slowly open and he squints while he tries to adjust to the low light, given only by the moon outside of his window

He sits up and rubs his eyes

He hears the sniffle again and now he’s wide awake as he realizes that can only be you

And not just you, but you crying

He calls out your name into the darkness, and the small hiccups and sniffs cease

He leans over the bed to find you on the floor, knees pulled up against your chest

You ask him if you’d woken him, apologize, and tell him to go back to sleep in that order

“Can’t sleep without my pretty little cuddle buddy, firefly.”

He shifts to throw his legs over the side, grabs the blanket and comes down to sit next to you, draping the blanket over your shoulders

“Wanna tell me why we’re down here?”

He asks it softly, with the full intent of backing off if you say no

You explain how you had a nightmare and its contents, and how you didn’t want to wake him up over something stupid

He tells you it isn’t stupid if it made you cry, and he can sleep anytime. That he’d rather be woken up so he can be there for you when you need him

You’re always there for him when he’s upset, he wants to return the favour

You both crawl up back into bed and he pulls you to his bare chest, legs wrapped around your waist, and a hand in your hair, petting gently to soothe you

Law

Usually the both of you would get up together. You’d get dressed, have breakfast, and then split up to do your daily duties

But this morning was going to be one of those days, it seemed

Law gets up just fine, and he’s just barely got his jeans on when he notices you haven’t moved

“Come on, we can’t sleep in and be late again. You remember what happened last time, right?”

You groan in response, so he crawls up before he’s even buttoned up his jeans and starts to press kisses on your face. It’s a sweet tactic, but your joints are achy and sore, and you tell him that

His face falls- a condition he can’t do much about, unfortunately

“Alright, stay in bed. Let me get you a heat pack and some tea and I’ll be right back, ok?”

He tucks you into an extra blanket- he knows how the heat and warmth help you feel better, and he’s been meaning to get you a heated blanket but no where you’ve stopped yet seems to have one

Law goes on and does his morning routine, skipping breakfast in favour of getting your tea and heat pack. Bepo asks about you when he sees you’re not with Law, but he quickly assures the furry friend that you’ll be ok, you’re just taking a day off

Meanwhile you’re sure this time it’s worse than normal, and you force yourself up with the blankets held around your shoulders to go find him- but you only get two steps away from your bed before your knees give

You hit the floor and hiss in pain

Well, this is your life now. Damn your body

When Law returns to you with your things, you’re curled up under the blankets, trying to deal with the pain you’re in, on the floor. Law quickly sets your things on the side and comes to check under the blanket, and his heart hurts at how your eyes flood with tears

“Let’s get you back to bed. Here, hold onto me.”

He gets you back into the comfy bed and leans down to kiss away your tears

Then he puts the heat pack between your knees and you sigh as you feel some relief in your muscles

“I’m sorry, I should have come back sooner.”

He decides to say fuck it and ditches work for the rest of the day so he can take care of you

[imaniwriting]

Season 2 rafe when he has to leave his love reader to go live somewhere else because if wards 'death' and so he calls insomnia!reader at night and talks with her ti make her go to sleep and the pouges listen in on there conversation because they were accidentally hiding in his room?? Sorry if it doesn't make sense 😭

(Some requests got deleted and i don't remember them well enough to still write the imagine)

𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 (requests are open)

Warnings : swearing

Summary : when rafe left, you realized that it wasn’t the pills that cured your insomnia it was rafe

Genre : fluff

Ever since rafe left you could not sleep. It wasn’t that you weren’t tired, no rather the opposite every part of your body begged for rest but your brain didn’t grant those wishes.

Only now had you realized that Rafe was the reason you slept so good. The way his arms were wrapped around you or the way you were close enough to hear his heart beat was the reason you could sleep.

But now all these things were gone, his scent, his kisses, his hugs maybe never coming back. You hit your head against the pillow hoping that maybe something in your head would move and you would fall asleep. But it didn’t and you were left to stare at the ceiling.

Then your phone started ringing making you flinch since it was so quiet only the sound of the waves hitting shore. “Fucking hell” you groaned sitting up in your queen sized bed.

You picked up your phone and put on your glasses the one you only used when it was night since you didn't like the way you looked with them.

You picked up the call with a smile after seeing the callers id and not long after Rafe’s face popped up on the screen “hi” you breathed out after seeing him smile at you through the screen.

“You have your glasses on!” He exclaimed laughing when you just stared at him he apologized and stared at you through the screen. “God i fucking miss you already.” He admitted he would never do so in front of anybody else but you were different.

“He’s whipped” whispered JJ from his place in the walk in closet the pouges all were stuffed into when they saw rafe entering the room. Sarah nodded she knew her brother he would never in a thousand years admit affection for someone.

“So what are you doing Mr. Cameron why are you still awake? You asked curiously while laying back down on her bed. Rafe shook his head “im awake because i know you can’t sleep and that you most likely wont until i help you to” he explained getting comfortable on his bed.

“Well i would love to tell you, you are wrong but sadly you aren’t.” You replied sighing. ”didn't know y/n needed help sleeping” john b piped up leaning his head against the wall. Even though he was nervous about the whole being in Rafe Cameron’s closet thing he found it quite amusing.

“Did you at least try and take your pill’s?” He asked softly seeing the tired look on her face. “You just want me to fucking tell you that I can’t sleep without you do you Rafe?”

“Maybe” he said smiling slightly you were the only person that could read him. You let out a yawn which made Rafe smile harder he knew that this was the first stage now he only had to tell you random stories about his life before you and you’ll sleep.

”dude this is actually impressive” whispered Pope making JJ frown at him “what the fact that she starts getting tired?” He asked making pope shake his head “well not exactly that but it takes a lot to make a insomniac sleepy by just talking to them” he explained

“Baby, how was your day?” You asked running your hand through your hair. And with that Rafe started talking about how he missed you and how his day looked like without you. At the end you were fast asleep and the pouges were also trying not to fall asleep. It was after all almost 3 am.

“Good night baby i have to take care of something” rafe whispered hanging up and then he stood up walking over to the walk in closet already knowing what was waiting on him on the other side.

[uselessmoonlight]

Stranger part 6

Reader is Telemachus' friend, and when he leaves for his "diplomatic mission" he asks her to watch over his mother.

Later, once the king has returned, she stumbles upon an injured Poseidon.

Previous / series masterlist / next

Content specs: she/her pronouns used, afab reader, Platonic! Telemachus x reader, Epic!Poseidon x reader, possible OOC!Poseidon, Polites’ daughter! Reader, unrequited love, blood, fighting, nudity, illusion, possibly more?, trying to avoid using y/n, slowburn, suggestive themes, but no smut, English is not my first language, sorry if it's too much exposition, it's my first fic.

Ónoma literally means name in Greek, at least according to google translate. View this as the y/n of this fic.

In the morning she’d fetched the, now sleeping, priestesses some breakfast and a lot of water. They’d need it when they woke up. Her head was still reeling from her conversation with whatever God it may have been and today she’d have to deal with more bullshit. Some rude dude she’d stupidly helped and now she was stuck with, dinner with royals and their stupid customs, and the townspeople.

Ónoma had stretched herself too thin, and now she was facing the consequences. She loved her best friend, truly, and his mother was an amazing woman as well, but they could be a bit stuck up. Odysseus she had not known long, but she would not be surprised if he was hardened from the years at sea, and Ctimene. The woman had gained a brother but lost a husband. She’d mourned him for twenty years, but it still must have been a blow.

While Peach was not looking forward to dining with royals, she was looking forward to an evening without Perikles, but until then she’d have to deal with him. Last night she had decided that she was indeed offended by his comment. Why could she not have been a priestess? She’d almost wanted to become one just to prove the stranger wrong. While she’d not been very talkative with the man before, she was even less so now, giving him the silent treatment.

The tantrum did not go unnoticed by the God, who’d started pestering her more than ever before. But every question the man asked, was met with either no answer, or the vaguest answer she could come up with, until he asked the right question, that is.

“Did I piss you off?” The bearded man asked while she’d been busy, making something for him to eat while she’d be gone.

“What could possibly make you think that?” She’d bit back, the sarcasm not lost on the deity.

“You know, I would apologize, if I actually knew what I did wrong.”

“Typical.” She’d muttered, followed by her rolling her eyes. Men. “If you’ve any brains, you’ll figure it out. Dinner’s in the pot, I might not be back tonight.”

“To the temple again?” He asked, sounding pretty sure of himself.

“No.” Was all she replied.

She’d expected more people to be sat at the table, nobles of Ithaca, perhaps friends of the family, but there was no-one, just her, Ctimene, her best friend and the king and queen. Sure, she knew most of the men had left for war twenty years prior, but there had to have been someone left here.

The dinner started incredibly awkwardly, Ctimene seemed uncertain of how to act towards her long-lost brother, Odysseus and Penelope were eye-fucking each other, and Telemachus was positively buzzing that all his loved ones were in the same room. Much like the king’s sister, Peach did not know how to act. That was until Telemachus broke the ice.

“I heard you had a difficult time with the priestesses last night, apparently, Damianos accidently gave them the wrong wine. I don’t buy it, he probably did it to mess with you, get you back for the pig.” He’d spoken between bites. Telemachus was everything but proper, stuffing his face, talking with his mouth full, and choosing inappropriate topics of conversation. Which was exactly the reason he was her best friends. All of Ónoma’s worries melted away as her friend addressed her so casually. Tonight was not a night for etiquette.

“The pig?” Odysseus’ interest had been piqued. The second the prince’s father spoke, his face fell. His mother was not supposed to know about the shenanigans they’d been up to. It was too late now, he’d spoken of them, so he’d have to share the rest of the story.

“You know Damianos, right? The vigneron? We let a pig loose in his home, just to mess with him, all in good fun, really, but it got into some of his wines and got drunk? There’s really no way to describe it, but it tore up the entire house. We helped him clean up afterwards, of course! You should’ve seen it, I’ve never seen such a mess, not even the suitors could’ve caused that.” Telemachus rambled, Ónoma occasionally filling in.

Penelope was less than amused, but Odysseus was barking with laughter, and Ctimene was chuckling at the story and her brothers reaction. Eventually Penelope came around when she saw how happy her husband got.

At the end of the night Ónoma had learned of her father’s failure at winning over her mother, his fainting during the birth of her eldest brother, and his banishment form the midwives workplace, as he’d been so worried for his wife’s safety that he’d stop by and ask them about every little pain or feeling her mother told him about. It apparently got to a point where her mother would not speak to her father, in fear of him bothering the midwives.

She’d also learned about the numerous occasions where Odysseus had saved his life, and the one time he’d been too late. Ranging from a rolling boulder, a magic boar, an apple, an arrow, and finally the cyclops.

Telemachus had stopped his father from telling anymore stories of Polites when he noticed the look on his best friends face. He did not know what the determination on her face meant, but he did not want to find out. He wouldn’t put it past her to seek out and kill the cyclops on her own, just out of vengeance.

Eurylochus was not a topic they visited, as every time Odysseus’ second in command was mentioned, both siblings started tearing up. So, instead they conversed about lighter topics, and of the imminent arrival of some of Odysseus’ old war friends. Word had been sent of his return and in turn, a celebration had been organised.

Towards the end of the night, when they were all rosy faced from all the wine, the topic shifted to something darker, the night of the king’s return.

“You seem to be quite well versed in battle, for such a young woman, tell me, how did you take down thirty suitors all on your own?” The king asked her.

“Thirty?” Penelope gasped, whispering with Ctimene about how little the young woman had gotten hurt.

“Well, it’s not like they came at me all at once.” She deflected. Peach glanced at her friend, who was watching her intently. He too was wondering how she’d done it.

“Answer my question.” The king said sternly. Ónoma gulped.

“Well aside from Ares being on my side that night, I’ve always known one thing to be true.”

“And that is?”

“That ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves.”

next

Taglist:

@suckerforblondies

@barrythestrawberry041

[vipwinnie]

Silence treatment

Draco malfoy x reader

Summary: Draco's actions have gone too far, so you decide to ignore him

At the end of the day you went as usual to join your boyfriend, Draco, in the Hall. When you finally saw him, you saw him with Crabbe and Goyle intimidating a Gryffindor much younger than them, probably in the first or second year. Draco always had this reputation as a stalker. It was in his character to act like a bully, and yet that hadn't stopped you from going out with him. Ever since you got together with him, you made him swear to never harass anyone again. Because harassing someone was like a crime to you, you were so sensitive about this subject. And as you could see now it was just empty promises. So you don't waste your time. You had watched helplessly as your boyfriend, Draco, harassed a young boy in the street. Anger boiled inside you, and you couldn't stand idly by in the face of this cruelty. Tears of sadness and rage beaded down your cheeks as you turned towards Drac. "Draco Lucius Malfoy, how can you be so mean? This boy hasn't done anything to you, and yet you treat them like this? I can't stand this." Draco, surprised by your intervention, tries to defend himself. "It was just a joke, you're exaggerating! Why are you getting into my business?" Your eyes fill with cold determination. You knew you couldn't tolerate such cruel behavior. "It wasn't a joke, Draco. It was harassment, pure and simple. I can't be with someone who behaves like that." Draco, realizing the extent of his actions, tried to apologize. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it would go this far...I didn't want to lose you."

You shook your head, arms crossed, leaving no room for his excuses. "Your apology isn't enough, Draco. You need to think about your actions and the impact they have on others. I can't be with someone who doesn't understand that." Without a backward glance, you walk away, leaving Draco alone with his thoughts and remorse. He bit his fingers as he realized that he had lost something precious because of his irresponsible behavior.

After your argument, you went straight to your room, you didn't come out even to go eat, Draco had definitely ruined your appetite. The next morning, after thinking all night about what you were going to do to Draco, you finally decided to have the silence treatment. So that he understands the lesson.

When you join him at the breakfast table, you can feel his eyes on you, looking for a way to start a conversation. Yesterday, you witnessed harassment and it deeply affected you. You can't just erase it. He cleared his throat, trying to find the courage to speak. "Hey, uh... about yesterday, I wanted to talk to you." You keep your gaze fixed on your plate, refusing to meet his gaze. Silence hangs in the air, a heavy barrier between you. "I know what I did was wrong. I shouldn't have acted that way. I'm really sorry." He continues, his voice full of remorse. You remain silent, your anger and your disappointment boils inside you. He crossed the line and that wasn't something you couldn't easily forgive. He shyly reaches out and places his hand on top of yours. "Please listen to me. I regret my actions. It was a moment of weakness and I deeply regret it." You remove your hand, giving him a cold look. Your silence speaks volumes, reflecting your discontent and the distance you feel.

He sighs, shoulders slumping. "I understand that you're upset and I deserve it. But I want to make things right, to show you that I'm capable of change." You didn't respond, choosing instead to focus on your breakfast. It's clear that this conversation is far from over, but for now, you've made your decision. As you continue to eat in silence, the atmosphere remains heavy with unresolved emotions.

The rest of the day passed quietly, you had neither encountered Draco in the corridors nor in the hall for lunch. And yet his absence could not have lasted. Draco was anxiously awaiting your arrival “Hey, I'm really sorry about what happened. I acted stupidly and I sincerely regret it. I've been waiting here for hours, just to talk to you and ask you to forgive me. Please just give me a chance to explain.” When you see him standing there, his eyes full of sadness and hope, you pretend not to notice. “I know I screwed up. But please don't treat me like that. I can't do without you, you are everything to me. I'm ready to change, to do whatever it takes to make you happy. Please come back to me.” he continued But you decide to continue on your way by continuing to ignore him. “You are my reason for living, my sun in the darkness. Without you, my life is empty. I feel lost, broken. I would give anything to get you back. I beg you, don't leave me in this state. I can’t bear to see you indifferent to my grief.” You should admit to him that you liked these words but he had to realize his act once and for all. So you decide once again to remain silent. “I know I made a huge mistake. But I love you so much, I would give anything to prove to you that I can change. I am ready to compromise, to work on myself. I just want you to forgive me, to give me another chance." You couldn't resist this scene you were about to break down and forgive him everything but you remember why you didn't talk to him and it's there that you will find the strength to look away from this scene.

“Please don’t reject me like this. I'm willing to do anything to get you back. I know I hurt your heart, but I promise to fix it. I can't imagine my life without you. I beg you, speak to me, tell me that you forgive me. ”

Trying everything for everything. He approached you, his voice filled with despair, and gently laid his hand on your face, caressing your cheek. ”If you change your mind, meet me tomorrow night in the astronomy tower, I will wait for you all night if I have to, I love you my love. ”And so he withdrew his hand and left like a ghost, his eyes looking down on the ground.

The next morning, you hadn’t spoken to Draco since yesterday’s interaction, and you hadn’t seen him at any meals. It pained you, her condition yesterday afternoon after you left school hurt my heart so much. And you had to admit that you miss him so much, that night was for you a real ordeal without him by your side. You were thinking about what he had told you yesterday: “Meet me tomorrow night in the astronomy tower, I’ll wait for you all night if I have to”. It was then decided you can't stand this situation anymore, you will go to him and you will forgive him.

That evening you were on your way to the astronomy tower, and as you walked through the door, you fell face to face with a neat draco holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers.

Before he could say anything, he kissed me full on the mouth, dropping the bouquet on the floor. You didn't waste time and responded directly to this fiery kiss. You definitely missed him so much. After letting go due to lack of breath. He then began to speak, looking you straight in the eyes: “My love, I stand before you today with a heavy and remorseful heart. I know that I have made mistakes, that my actions have caused pain and sadness in your heart. I want you to know how sorry I am. I promise you today that I will change. I will work on myself, on my faults and my weaknesses. I will do everything in my power to become the man you deserve, the one who will make you happy every day of your life. I want you to know that you are the most important person in my life. I can't imagine a world without you. Please forgive me for my past mistakes. I humbly ask you to give me a chance to redeem myself, to show you that my love for you is sincere and true. I love you, and I want you to know that my love for you is infinite. Forgive me, my love, and let me show you how I can be the man you need. When he was finished you had tears in your eyes, and you kissed him with all your strength, jumping into his arms. What I knew for sure was that he wasn't going to do it again any time soon.

[caitlynsnumber1defender]

Just want to go on a lot rant about a Caitlyn anti I had encountered earlier this year.

Disclaimer : sorry if there’s any grammar/spelling mistakes. English is not my first language. And sorry if it doesn’t make since, as my memory’s a little foggy as this happened a few months ago.

Like I said, I had made a video earlier this year talking about the racism towards Caitlyn and how her haters are always calling her a “white girl”. It was doing relatively well for the most part.

After an hour or so of it being up, I had gotten a comment along the lines of “we don’t hate her causes she’s Asian, we hate her cause she’s an oppressor”, which honestly confused me cause I never said anything about how they hated her for being Asian, so I replied to them telling them that’s not what my initial video was about.

We had a back and forth that then lead to me finding out that Ekko’s Va(Reed)started the whole triple Kiramman “joke” cause of the racism he was receiving. I had told them I did not know that since most of the racism he was receiving was on Twitter and I don’t use Twitter all that often.

I had acknowledged that and apologized for it(don’t know why I was apologizing honestly. Maybe it was the fact I didn’t know, but I don’t know. Our whole conversation was all over the place at this point), but they never really responded, which I found weird(we’ll get to why in a second). After some more back and forth, I was just over it so I went back to scrolling on Tik Tok. As I was scrolling, I had gotten a comment pop up from them that said “maybe the world would be a better place without you in it.” I went to go look at it, but they had already deleted it, so I just blocked them.

After awhile, as I was scrolling through Tik Tok once more, I had gotten a few more comments from this same person, but from a different account saying to “unblock them” and how they would make an “expose” video on me. Blocked that account, to which they did the same thing on two other accounts that I also blocked.

True to their word, they made an “expose” video/slideshow about me.

As I mentioned before, they had never replied to the comments where I acknowledged the racism towards Reed, which, again, I found weird, but then it clicked when I saw their slideshow. They were using screenshots of their comment history.

Now, if you’re wondering why this has to do with anything, it’s cause when you reply to someone, and you go to your comment history, you’ll see your comment and a bit of the comment you replied to.

In the slideshow, they were calling me “racist” while showing their comment history to “prove” that I was, which none of the screenshots showed what was actually being said by me.

I’m guessing that they knew that if they had replied to any of the comments where I acknowledged the racism towards Reed and me apologizing, they wouldn’t have been able to call me racist in their “expose” video/slideshow.

I’m not the first person they’ve done this to as they had made countless videos/slideshows doing the same thing(most of them just “exposing” terrible Caitlyn fans).

I’m gonna be honest, I’ve never seen someone this fucking dedicated to hating Caitlyn and her fans that they have to make “expose” videos to show how “terrible” they are, when in reality it’s just them trying to point out what they’re(the Caitlyn antis)wrong in what they’re saying and just trying to correct them.

[coyotelip]

moonwater microfic: coffee (shop au) || @moonwater-microfic || wc: 802

“You're grumpy again today. I think I'm starting to forget what your face looks like when you're not in this mournful mood.” James teases him in a friendly way, but behind his smile is a real concern for his friend.

Remus loves working shifts with James. Or he did before his coworker started asking him why he's been so moody this past week. And don't get him wrong, he trusts James and willingly shares the details of his life with him on slow days when neither of them has anything to do but idly rub the glasses and cups they rubbed a few hours ago.

But there are some things Remus can't even admit to himself, let alone say out loud to his coworker.

So Remus ignores him and continues to rub the counter with lazy movements.

The morning rush of customers has already subsided, and only a couple of tables are occupied, so Remus is preparing for another dull and long day at work.

Until the bell above the door informs them of a new customer. At first, Remus thinks about giving it to James - the boy is clearly more suited to the role of cashier today, as he is always smiling and ready to give small compliments. But out of the corner of his eye, Remus spots a familiar dark green shape.

A second later, his head quickly turns toward the entrance, watching a shorter figure approach the cash register. Before Remus can realize what he's doing, he drops his towel on the floor, wraps his arms around James' waist, and pushes him away from the register to take his place. Just in time to meet the green eyes of his regular customer.

“Hi,” the guy says, a little embarrassed and quietly.

“Hello, and welcome back.” Remus replies with a long-forgotten smile that instantly returns to his face. “Regulus, yes, as usual? Takeout, cappuccino with hazelnut syrup?”

He quickly picks up a plastic cup, hurries to sign it with a familiar name, and tries not to stare at the guy in front of him.

A person can't change much in a week, but some details catch his eye, such as the bruises under his eyes, the less healthy skin tone, and the hair not so carefully styled. The first two points bother him, but the last one seems cute and makes his fingers tingle with the desire to touch the unruly curls.

Instead, Remus grips the cup tighter and waits for an answer.

But Regulus presses his lips together and says, still embarrassed, “No, I think I'll stay inside today.”

“Оh. It's cold outside, isn't it?” and Remus is surprised at himself for trying to make conversation, something he doesn't usually do with clients. He shouldn't be concerned with why or how someone chooses to drink their coffee one way and not another.

“Yeah.” Regulus tries to smile back, but his voice sounds hoarse and the next moment he breaks into a cough. “I apologize, I'm not fully recovered yet.”

“No need.” Remus puts down the already signed cup and takes a wide mug instead, one of his favorites. “I was wondering why I haven't seen you this past week,” the words come out of his mouth on their own, and his cheeks flush with the words he's just said.

However, instead of misunderstanding or scolding, a soft smile finally appears on Regulus' face. “I didn't mean to disappear like that, I apologize.”

“There's no need,” Remus repeats, thinking he's the one who's being foolish because of the way the disappearance of his regular customer has affected his mood. “Please, take any table and I'll prepare your order.”

Rolling on his heels, Regulus stands silently in front of him for a few more seconds, as if he wants to add something. But he lowers his head and turns back to the hall, choosing which of the empty tables suits him best.

Remus, meanwhile, quickly makes his coffee without even touching the cash register, and doesn't forget to add a few oatmeal cookies to the saucer. Avoiding James's gaze, he quickly gets out from behind the counter, heading to Regulus at the far table with his order. “Please, enjoy. I hope it helps you get better.”

And when Regulus nods at him with a soft smile, Remus hurries back to his workstation so he doesn't say anything else.

“So that's what this is all about,” James says slowly, understandingly, when they're alone at the counter again. “I should have known better.”

“Oh, shut up!” Remus tries to sound irritated, but the smile still remains on his lips, so the words sound much softer.

And for the next fifteen minutes, his gaze constantly wanders toward the far table, only half afraid to face the green eyes that are also looking his way.

[verstappentime]

haven't shared anything new in a bit so here's the start of a maxiel bit where max was actually just hormonal in hungary and that's why he was cranky.

(tw: there's like a brief description of max puking here, apologies.)

max has to tell medical, because he’s afraid if something is really wrong, he might bleed out or something.

the medic says he’s fine, presses all over his abdomen and checks for tenderness and all that. they suggest he go to a real doctor, and tell him deciding to race was really stupid. he snaps something about how he knows that, thanks.

he’e still shaking when he walks back, has been since GP told him he crashed hard enough to alert medical.

he can’t pay attention to the debrief, can only think about the little app on his phone telling him the baby is the size of a tadpole or whatever. he thinks it would make him feel better to look at it, to remember how much cushioning they have in there, but he hasn’t got his phone back yet.

they keep asking him questions; he just nods or shakes his head, all of that simmering anger from before gone as fast as it came. just fucking hormones again, probably.

he has to leave the debrief to go throw up. he’s almost too late realizing the anxiety has turned into real illness.

he nearly knocks his chair over, pressing a hand to his chest like he can stem the burning as he fumbles to get out of the room. it always starts with a roll of nausea, then acid reflux, then. yeah.

he’s managed to go the whole day, the whole race, thank god, without this happening. he probably should have appreciated it more while he could, because he’s currently regurgitating all the water he had after the race and cold sweating and he might as well die here.

he’s embarrassed enough by the whole fucking day, by how mad he got at GP, at how the things he said must have cut hannah. and now he’s– now this is happening, and someone is probably going to come look for him, because he made it obvious what was happening. or, worse, tell daniel to look for him, and then he’ll have to make up some dumb story and get caught, because he’s an awful liar.

there’s a knock on the door. “max.” it’s brad, not daniel. at least he’s won something.

he coughs, chest heaving. the worst of it may be over. “present,” he says, voice scratchy. his throat is starting to get raw after the past week of what he is really trying not to let himself call morning sickness, because he’s in denial, which is fine as long as he’s self-aware about it, and also because it’s not just the morning, just whatever fucking time his body decides it will be.

“can i open the door? i have gatorade for you.”

“yeah, go ahead.” he really doesn’t want anyone to see him sitting on the fucking bathroom floor, but his head is throbbing now, and he’s really not trying to make anything worse.

brad doesn’t look phased, at least. he crouches down and hands max an orange gatorade. he’s got two more tucked under his arm. “you look rough, man.”

max a tiny sip. he’s glad it’s something with sugar. water tastes fucking awful the past few days. “thanks,” he mumbles.

“you looked bad yesterday, too,” brad says, conversational.

he knows he did. he was nauseous and moody and exhausted. he yelled at GP about the fucking rain. “thank you for the concern.”

brad rolls his eyes and points to the gatorade, “drink the rest of that. how dehydrated do you feel?”

“i’ll drink it.” max rubs his forehead. he doesn’t want an IV or anything. they made him do that last time he was sick after a race. he takes a long sip; it actually tastes alright. “see? i’m drinking it.”

brad gives him a look, like i’m watching you. “going to tell me what’s going on?”

max closes his eyes, letting the back of his head thunk against the wall. he doesn’t know why he can’t be one of those people with no symptoms. he hasn’t told anyone, didn’t want to until he made it through this weekend. he wanted to tell victoria first, cry down the phone and let her tell him what to do. fuck.

“what does it look like?” it doesn’t even sound mean. he’s too tired to make it mean, and his voice cracks, even though he really, really didn’t want it to. “could you just– can you get daniel, actually?”