#BUT I HOPE THAT HE IS STILL INTERESTING TO READ ABOUT

[sceletaflores]

KILLING ME ANY WAY BUT SOFTLY...

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｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader x Tommy Miller

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 5.5k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, DDDNE W/ NON-CON & DUB-CON THEMES, no outbreak au, some pov switching, smoking, drinking, large age gap, unspecified but still brought up, joel and tommy are NOT good men, drugging, somnophilia, fingering, oral sex (f/m!receiving), nat writing a blowjob scene? the world must be ending, dacryphilia, more finger sucking (i can't stop…), p in v, unprotected sex, hair pulling, biting, blood, pain kink, creampie, mentions of prior assault, it's just super gross and super perverted yk, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT’S NOTE: i thought of this like halfway through my frankie fic but i was good and didn't start it until i was finished writing. be very proud of me because that never happens...anyway i've never written a dark fic before so this was very interesting slash fun in like the most morbid way possible. this was also partially inspired by angel @pedgito! PLAYTHING altered my brain chemistry so badly that i needed to partake in the depravity or i would die, like it was medical. everyone go read it and shower her with so much praise and love! once again please please please heed the tags and take your own personal triggers into account before reading. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! special shoutout to @iamasaddie for the icons!

you spend a night with the miller brothers…

You're too pretty to be at a place like this. Too soft. Too young.

That's what Joel Miller thinks the second he sees you.

All done up in short little cutoffs, sipping at something fruity and colorful out of a sweaty glass. Your legs are crossed neatly in front of you like you’re pretending to be grown, pretty white teeth idly chewing on the plastic straw as your eyes bounce around the room curiously.

This bar is too old, too dirty, too mean. The kind of place with dark, sticky floors and crude words carved into the tabletops. Joel’s probably been coming here since before you were born, since before you could walk, talk. 

You’re the youngest in the room by well over a decade—and that’s not lost on anyone. Not on the bartender who checked your ID twice, not on the group of bikers throwing dirty leers your way from the pool table, and sure as hell not on the two men at each end of the bar.

Tommy would call you jailbait, all dewy cheeks and big dumb eyes. Joel clocks you as one of those college girls from the next town over, still clinging onto that teenage naivety and misplaced hope that the real world won’t chew you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

The kind of girl who lies about her age to older men because the attention makes her feel special. The kind who doesn't even realize she’s being hunted until it’s too late.

You're still sweet, Joel thinks. Sweet and soft and stupid.

And he’s right, he always is.

You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.

But Joel? Joel knows exactly what he’s doing.

He catches Tommy’s eye from across the way, jerks his head in your direction discreetly. Tommy follows his eyeline, his face sparking with interest at the look of you. Hungry eyes rake over the expanse of your body with all the subtlety of a shotgun blast, lingering on the soft swell of your breasts through that flimsy top and the bare skin of your thighs.

Tommy cuts his eyes back to Joel after a good long look, brows raised in obvious approval. He nods once, a winner, before his gaze wanders back to you and he’s shifting impatiently in his seat. A moth to a flame.

Joel huffs over the rim of his glass, unamused. He should’ve figured, they haven’t found one as pretty as you in a while. His brother’s bound to get a little rowdy, a little eager.

Out of the two of them, Tommy’s always been the more excitable one. That’s why it’s Joel’s job to set the bait. Tommy’s certainly prettier than Joel, he’s got a safer look to him. He’s just too damn trigger happy, comes on too strong too quick. It can raise red flags.

Joel’s better at playing it down, at taking it slow. He can butter girls like you up and still feign just the right amount of disinterest to keep them wanting his attention. He can tell you’re one of those types, one that’ll preen under anything he gives you. You want someone like him to come over and fawn over you.

You want to feel mature. Powerful. Sexy.

You’re practically begging to be used. He sees it in the way your thighs squeeze together, in the way your glossy lips leave smudges along the rim of your glass.

Joel smiles to himself. 

If you only knew.

Joel waits until you finish off your second drink. He sips at his whiskey and watches the way your tongue swipes along your bottom lip to chase a drop of syrupy liquid. You’re tipsy now, giggling at something the bartender says, the dazed glow of your eyes giving away just how sweetly warm you feel.

You’re still in your right mind, not drunk enough to be sloppy, not yet. That’s how he wants you—pliable, loose, thinking you’re the one still in control. 

He downs the rest of his drink in one go, the familiar burn coating his throat and settling in his chest as he slides off his stool. It takes nothing to make his way over, a few long strides and he’s leaning up next to you. Not too close, just close enough to smell the perfume you’re wearing—something bright and sugary that has his cock stirring behind his fly.

“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice as deep as molasses and twice as slow, Southern charm oozing from every word.

You turn, blinking up at him, pupils a little too blown to be from two drinks alone. It makes him grin. You’re sensitive, easy. This might be a hell of a lot simpler than he thought.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you chirp, voice sugarcoated, a little too bold for your own good. “A place like this seems kinda…grungy for someone wearing flannel.”

That bright little smile of yours is like a hook in the roof of his mouth, tugging something dark and mean loose behind his teeth.

Joel chuckles low in his chest. “You sayin’ I look outta place?”

You shrug, all coy-like, swirling the last few sips of your drink. “A little.”

Joel leans in then, just enough for it to mean something. His eyes pin you down like a thumb over the belly of a butterfly, giving you a little once over that has your breath hitching. Your lips part, showing off the teasing pink of your tongue. Joel thinks about pushing into that sweet little mouth, getting that gloss all messy on his cock. 

“Maybe I was waitin’ on somethin’ worth comin’ out for,” he says, voice gone low and smoky.

You giggle, that tipsy, flirtatious little sound. You don’t notice the way Joel signals the bartender with two fingers and a single nod. He already knows what he’s ordering—something that’ll go down smooth but hit you fast. A new drink is slid in front of you before you can blink, warm amber liquid swirling in a clear tumbler.

You look confused. “I didn’t—”

“On me,” Joel says, voice slick. “Try it.”

You hesitate for just a second before bringing it to your lips, eager to please. Eager to prove you can keep up. You make a face when the smell hits you, strong and punchy. Joel just grins, already amused by the way you wrinkle your nose like it’s cute to be difficult.

“C’mon now, can’t drink that sweet shit all night,” he drawls, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Gotta learn how to hold your liquor, baby.”

You giggle again, your fingers dainty around the tumbler as you mimic his movement. He watches you sip and watches your throat bob as you swallow. Watches the little wince, the tremble in your lips as it hits your system.

“Good girl.” Joel smiles around the rim of his own drink, eyes wandering over to where Tommy was sitting. He’s long gone now, a few bills shoved under the empty glass sitting on the bartop.

Joel turns back to you, clueless and sipping slowly at your whiskey. He drops his hand from the bar, lets his fingers brush against the soft skin of your thigh. You don’t flinch, hardly even bat an eye. You just smile up at him, lashes low and lazy against your cheeks, body heat rising with the alcohol laced through your bloodstream.

Your thigh twitches under his knuckles, but you don’t move away. If anything, you lean in a little, nudging your shoulder against his arm. Your shirt slips down a few inches, showing off the lacy trim of your bra snug over your breasts. Joel sets his drink down, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip at the sight.

“You always this friendly with strangers?” he murmurs, voice quiet enough that only you can hear it, eyes dragging up to your face.

Your lips part again, catching the low bar light. “Only when they’re buying my drinks.”

Joel laughs—deep, rich with something secret. 

And he orders another round.

It takes almost nothing for Joel to get you off your stool and obediently following him out of the bar. A few sweet words and lingering touches is all you needed, liquor clouding your good judgement when you agree to come home with him.

It’s still warm, even with the sun long gone and the moon casting a white shine over the two of you. Crickets sing in the grass as you walk together, Joel’s hand splayed out across the small of your back, thumb slipped up under the hem of your shirt to rub soft circles over the notches of your spine as he gently steers you towards his truck.

The drive to his house isn’t long, a little less than ten minutes. Joel’s knee bounces impatiently as he watches the road, window rolled down so he can flick the ash of his cigarette out. It gives him something to do with his hands, something to chew on before he can get at what he really wants.

You’re sitting pretty in the passenger seat, giddy as you swipe even more sticky gloss on in the truck mirror, asking dumb questions like “Is that your guitar in the back?” and “You live all the way out here?” 

Joel grins around the filter and exhales slow, smoke curling through the cab like a warning.  “Mhm. I like it quiet.”

You laugh, all honeyed sunshine, no idea that you’re being carted out into the woods like a lamb prepped for slaughter.

His house is tucked back further in the trees, down a road so far out it turns from asphalt to dirt. Not a neighbor in sight, nothing but grass and dark skies for miles. The porch light is already on when he pulls in, gravel crunching under his tires loud in the quiet. Another truck takes up the space next to his, red with the paint peeling like a nasty sunburn.

You peer up at the place with shiny, awed eyes like you’re some damn princess and this is your castle. It makes him want to ruin you even more.

The truck’s barely in park before Joel’s out and striding over to your side, opening the door for you to keep up his Southern gentleman act. You thank him with a bold little kiss on the cheek before making your way to the door. Joel rubs at the sticky mark you left behind with his thumb, flicking the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

He tosses the keys on the counter after you step inside, booted feet dragging heavy across the floor as he watches you wander around, fingers trailing over worn furniture and sun-bleached curtains. It’s not much, but you look impressed anyway.

“Cute,” you hum, bending over to peek down the hallway. He can see the way your shorts ride up the curve of your ass, lace peeking out just like before. Your turn to him, arms crossed behind your back as you sway on the balls of your feet. “This isn’t the part where you murder me, right?”

It’s light, teasing. An innocent joke.

Joel’s smile is tight as he walks to the kitchen. “Not unless you ask me real nice.”

You laugh again, that breathy little sound, and Joel listens for the faintest edge of unease. He’s gotten good at that—spotting the cracks before they show, gauging how much of a fight this might be.

You’ve been good since the bar, and Joel hopes it stays that way. He wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty face because you tried acting out.

Joel busies himself in the kitchen, back turned as he opens a cabinet and pulls out a couple glasses. He grabs some things out of the fridge, well aware that you can’t see the little silver tin hiding in his armful of honey and bourbon.

“You like it sweet, right?” he calls over his shoulder, masking the rasp in his voice. “Figured you’d need a chaser after that whiskey.”

“Aw,” you say from your spot on his couch, clearly drunk on attention, “you’re taking such good care of me.”

Joel laughs as he rounds the corner, handing you a glass. “Only fair, since you’re bein’ so good for me.”

“I’m already in your house, Joel. You don’t need to lay it on so thick anymore.” You take the drink with a smile, clinking it against his own before bringing it to your lips.

He watches the slow press of your lips to the rim, the way your throat moves when you swallow, how you down half the glass in one long pull. It has him shifting in place, his cock straining against the rough denim of his jeans. He sets his glass down on the coffee table, untouched, and leans back against the cushions. 

You turn to him, your gaze languidly roaming over his body. Over where his shirt is stretched tight across his chest, where his arms rest on the back of the couch, where his legs are spread wide. Your eyes are hungry, pupils blown wide and dark as midnight.

Joel lets you look, waits until you make it back up to his eyes to jerk his head in an obvious invitation. “C’mere, baby.”

You bite your lip, setting your glass down next to his and crawling over to him without another word. Your arms loop around his neck, knees on either side of him as you settle in his lap. His hands fall to your hips, thumbs sliding up and down the waistband of your cutoffs.

Your lips part under his like they were made to, your soft sigh swallowed up by the hot press of his mouth. He kisses you hard, slow and deep, like he’s been starving for it. You taste like lemon and honey, the sharp bite of his bourbon buried somewhere beneath all the sweetness.

Joel’s hands tighten on your hips, dragging you closer as he nips at your plush bottom lip. “Feels good, doesn't it, sugar?”

You nod, moaning as you bury your hands in his hair. Your lips part easily for his tongue, letting him claim your mouth. Joel groans, pressing the hard line of his cock over your clothed cunt, chuckling darkly at the high whine you breathe into the space between you both.

He lets you have your fun, necks with you on his couch like a couple of horny teenagers while he waits. 

Sure enough, after a while, he can feel the first few signs trickling in. Your grip on his hair goes slack, your lips grow lazy and slow against his own, your posture slips into something more relaxed and hunched over, leaning on him heavily.

Joel pulls back, a single strand of spit connecting your lips before it dips and breaks under the weight of gravity. You’re panting, mouth slick and swollen as your chest heaves with every breath. Your chin is red and raw, scratched up from his beard. 

It takes a second for you to open your eyes, blinking at him sluggishly. You look nice and fucked, pupils so big he can hardly see the color around them anymore, glassy and unfocused in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol filling up the half empty glass on his coffee table.

“Joel…” It’s hardly a whisper, so soft and breathy. “Feels funny…tired…”

“Poor thing,” he tuts, squeezing your hips once. “Let’s get you on your back.”

You go easy enough, let him push your shoulders down until you’re splayed out across the couch. Your eyes slip shut again, your breath evening out as it finally sinks its claws in you.

Joel grins, wastes no time before he’s on his feet and sliding his arms under you. You don’t make a sound as he lifts you, your body completely pliant, head lolling to rest on his chest.

He starts down the hallway to his bedroom, the light on and bleeding through the bottom of the door to shine dimly over the carpet.

And like a ship being led safely to port by the fiery orange glow of an old light house, Joel walks, and he whistles as he goes.

You feel like you're floating, mind groggy and filled with the cloudy haze of sleep. The bourbon must have hit you harder than you thought.

The air is cold but your skin is so warm. Your limbs are heavy when you try to move, like you’re suspended in a thick, syrupy water.

Your fingers twitch against something soft. Sheets. You’re in a bed now. That much registers. You can feel the give of the mattress beneath you, the press of a pillow behind your head, the way your legs are bare.

Were you wearing shorts earlier?

Were you?

You pry your eyes open, barely having enough energy to. The world is warped, stretched at the edges like a funhouse mirror. Your vision swims, and all you can make out is light—the orange cast of a bedside lamp. The bulb buzzes faintly in your ear, the sound low and persistent, like it’s drilling into your brain.

That’s when you feel it, featherlight pressure making its way down your bare stomach. It’s soft, almost ticklish.

It takes your mind a few long seconds to catch up, to realize what’s happening.

There are hands on your body.

A slow, possessive drag over your thigh. Calloused fingers part your legs, thumb dipping just beneath the hem of your panties. You try to shift, try to close your legs, but you barely twitch.

You stir, a soft sound pushing out of your parted lips as you grip the sheets harder than before. 

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, pressing wet kisses down your neck. “You were beggin’ for it all night, remember?”

Joel. 

It comes flooding back to you in stages. The bar. The whiskey. The truck. 

It goes fuzzy after that, you can’t remember anything past sliding onto Joel’s lap. 

You whimper, body moving sluggishly under him. You try to twist away but it’s useless—he’s strong, and you’re dizzy and weak and pinned.

“You said I could fuck you,” he whispers, calloused fingers rubbing slow circles over your clit. “Said you wanted it bad. Don’t back out now, sweetheart. That’d be real mean.”

You sob, but your body betrays you—hips rocking forward against his hand, chasing the teasing pressure of his touch. Your eyes screw shut, tears burning hot and wet in your waterline. 

Joel hums, fingers spreading you open like he’s flipping through pages of a well-loved book. “Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “Fuckin’ leaking through these sweet little panties. This sweet pussy’s just beggin’ to be filled.”

You don’t hear the footsteps at first.

Not until the floorboards creak by the door.

A new voice filters in from somewhere far away, piercing through the cotton in your ears. It’s different from Joel’s, that same Southern twang but just a little lighter. A little smoother, like honey laced with iron.

“Thought I heard you gettin’ started without me.”

Your eyes snap open.

There’s a man in the doorway.

He’s shorter than Joel by a few inches, leaner too but just as broad in the shoulders. Another strong, blue collar looking type—a man that works with his hands.

Joel lifts his head with a lazy grin, glancing over his shoulder. “Not my fault you took your sweet fuckin’ time, Tommy.”

You try to move, try to push at Joel’s chest, but your arms are still too heavy to listen. “I don’t—” you start, but he hushes you again, thick fingers still sliding up and down the wet seam of your pussy over your panties. 

“I know, sugar,” he murmurs, all mock sympathy. “S’too much to think about, huh? Why don’t you let us help you feel instead.”

The bed dips behind you, and a new warm breath ghosts over your neck. You flinch at the sudden weight pressing beside you, and when you tilt your head, you finally see his face—Tommy, lit in the glow of the bedside lamp.

He looks at you like you’re a gift. Something precious and shiny, wrapped up just for him.

“She’s pretty,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over the sweat beading on your brow with a touch gentler than it should be. “Damn, Joel. You always know how to pick ’em.”

“Wait—” Your voice is hoarse, small and cracked. You start to sit up, but Joel stops it with a heavy hand to your chest, keeping you pinned to the mattress.

He leans in close, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers against your skin. “Don’t be rude, babygirl. You’re gonna be real nice to my brother, ain’t you?”

Brother.

Brother.

Your stomach lurches and you’re shaking your head before you even realize it. “No,” you whisper. “No, please—”

“Easy now,” Tommy coos. His hand is warm as it strokes over your cheek. “Ain’t no need to fight. We’ll be real good to you, sugar.”

Joel leans back, peeling your panties down your legs with a reverence that would almost be sweet—if you could move. If you could say no. If you weren’t so dizzy that you can’t tell if the ache building in your core is from fear or the sick twist of arousal.

The cool air hitting your core is a shock to your system, you gasp as it nips at the skin of your thighs, slick and gleaming. Your legs twitch, trying in vain to snap shut, but Joel holds you spread open with wide palms.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes glued to your bare pussy. His thumb runs along the seam of you, his touch slow and light. “Look at that.”

“Please,” you gasp, even as your hips twitch up off the bed. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Tommy asks, dragging his lips down your neck. “Didn’t mean to make us hard? Didn’t mean to spread your legs the second Joel smiled at you all sweet? Don’t play innocent now, babydoll. You knew exactly what you were doin’, didn't you?”

“She knew good and well.” Joel says, sliding off the mattress, big hands keeping you pinned as he settles on his knees near the edge of the bed. He shoulders his way between your thighs, dipping his head down to blow cool air over the expanse of your pussy.

“So damn pretty down here,” he mutters, the edge of a smirk curling at his lips. “Bet you taste as good as you look.”

Then his mouth is on you.

He dives in with a hunger that knocks the breath from your lungs. His tongue is practiced and hot as it drags through your folds, the groan ripped from his chest as you flood his tongue is more animal than man.

The sound vibrates through you, and your spine arches off the mattress, another tear sliding hot and fast down your temple.

Tommy brushes it off your cheek, but instead of wiping it away, he licks it from his fingertip. His eyes flick down to yours, and his smile is soft. Mocking. “Aw,” he coos. “She’s cryin’ already, Joel. Thought we’d have to work harder than that.”

“She’s fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans, nosing at you like a man starved. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, coaxing—then he seals his mouth around it and sucks. Hard.

Your hands fist the sheets beneath you so tight you can hear the distinct sounds of seams ripping under your nails. It’s an onslaught of pleasure, an attack. There’s nothing kind about the dull scrape of his teeth against your sensitive clit, but it has your thighs clenching around his head all the same.

Joel’s fingers slide into you without warning—two of them, thick and rough and curling just right as he keeps his mouth working on your clit. The stretch punches a sound from your chest, a high, keening noise that has both brothers groaning in tandem.

“Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” Joel grits out, dragging his fingers in and out lazily. “You’re gonna milk my cock just like this, huh?”

You couldn’t answer him if you tried, pure ecstasy racking your brain in all the wrong ways—burning through your veins like kerosine—too garbled and confusing for you to even think of speaking. You can only whimper, a pathetically desperate noise that’s drowned out by Joel fucking his fingers into you impossible faster.

The sound of it is loud, the wet slap of his palm and the dirty, slick sounds of your pussy sucking him in bouncing off the walls to echo back at you mockingly. 

Your hips shift helplessly, held down by Joel’s strong forearm as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. You can feel your own slick mixing with his spit start dripping down between your legs, soaking the sheets, and he groans like he loves it, nose bumping your clit as he moans into your cunt.

Tommy’s fingers start to trace the outline of your lips, dragging down to your chin before forcing them into your mouth. You choke, gag a little, but he doesn’t flinch—just presses them deeper, twisting his wrist slowly as he watches your throat bob.

“Pretty mouth,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your tastebuds. “Bet you give real sweet head, huh?”

You cry out around his fingers, your pussy fluttering around Joel’s tongue. Before you can think, you sink your teeth into Tommy’s thumb, hard. Hard enough that you feel the skin break under it, the unmistakable taste of iron spreading across your tongue. Maybe it’s a last ditch attempt to make him stop, maybe it’s a sick way of making him stay.

“Fuck.” Tommy groans like he���s been shot, chin dropping to his chest. His eyes go dark, something wicked swimming in the brown of his irises. His mouth slips open, soft pants falling from between his slick lips.

Joel chuckles darkly from between your legs, he raises head to catch your bleary gaze. The whole bottom half of his face is drenched, beard wet with your slick. “Biting won’t do you any good, honey. Tommy likes that shit.”

Tommy hums in agreement, low and vicious, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop. “Look what you did, darlin’,” he murmurs, holding it up for you to see, blood dripping down his skin in a thin stream of red. He drags it across your lips to smear it along them like warpaint. “So mean. That’s alright, sweet thing. Joel and I like 'em a little mean, it’s more fun to put you in your place that way.

He leans down and kisses you, soft at first, then deep—tongue sweeping over the inside of your mouth, sucking his own blood off your tongue. His fingers grip your chin hard enough to bruise as he keeps you still, mouth moving hungrily against yours until you whimper, struggling to breathe around the heat of it.

Joel still hasn’t stopped.

His fingers keep dragging against that spot deep inside you, stretching and curling until you’re clenching around him. His mouth sucks another bruise onto your thigh before pulling away with a low moan.

“She’s close,” he growls, sitting back on his haunches. “C’mon, Tommy. Let her mouth do some of the work.”

Tommy pulls back without another word, and reaches for his belt. Silver clinks softly as he undoes the flashy buckle with nimble fingers, never taking his eyes off you. He pops the button of his jeans, pulls his zipper down slowly, making sure you see every inch of it slipping open.

His cock springs free, hard and flushed an angry red at the tip. He takes it in his hand, pumping himself in the tight grip of fist—once, twice—before he’s tracing the drooling head along your lips. “Open up for me, beautiful.”

Joel chooses that moment to curl his fingers again, pressing right against the swollen spot inside of you, and your body reacts on instinct.

Your mouth falls open with a gasp, and Tommy takes the invitation, pushing inside until your lips are stretched tight around the thick head. He doesn’t ease in—he sets a rhythm fast, shallow thrusts that drag over your tongue, just enough to make you choke a little. 

Joel chuckles at the sound, giving your ass a quick swat before he’s standing. His jeans are already undone, his own cock just as hard and straining against his stomach. It’s flushed and leaking, veins bulging, too big for someone as stretched as thin and soft as you feel right now.

He takes your ankles in one hand, the other wrapped tight around the base as he drags the sticky head through your spit soaked pussy to rub it over your clit torturously slow.

You can’t even protest as he lines himself up to your clenching hole, Tommy filling your mouth so much you can only let out a broken whine around him, your legs straining in Joel’s firm grip.

Joel hushes you gently, like a lullaby. “It’s too late for all that, baby. You’re already open for me.”

And then he pushes in.

The stretch is sharp and immediate, your back arching as your walls struggle to take him. There’s no patience, no easing in—he feeds you inch after inch, his hips not stopping until they’re pressed flush to yours, his cock buried deep.

You sob, overwhelmed by the burn, the pressure, the way your body is forced to accept every bit of him.

“Christ,” Joel groans. “She’s grippin’ me like a fuckin’ vice. Could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

You can feel every throb, every twitch. The way he shifts slightly just to feel you react—your body spasming around him. The rhythm he sets is savage from the start. Rough, unrelenting thrusts that slap your skin raw where his hips meet yours. 

“Shhh,” Joel soothes as you mewl, bending low to press a kiss to your cheek. “You're takin’ it. You’re takin’ me so good, baby. Feels like you were made for this cock.”

The bite of sharp teeth nip their way down to your sternum, his mouth moving along the skin of your chest, sucking until deep bruises bloom. His hands wrap around your thighs, lifting your hips off the bed as he fucks into you harder, groaning with every wet slap of skin against skin.

Tommy isn’t gentle either. He fucks your mouth with slow precision, moaning every time your throat flutters around him. One hand strokes your cheek, the other twisted in your hair, tugging hard enough to make your scalp burn.

Your eyes roll back, spit running down your chin, tears streaking your cheeks—and they moan at the sight.

Every thrust is a jolt, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs as Joel fucks you deeper, each stroke driving the breath from your lungs, his heavy balls slapping over your sensitive clit. The pace is brutal, all the more suffocating with Tommy fucking your mouth in tandem, the obscene sounds of spit and slick filling the room.

“Jesus,” Tommy laughs, breathless and mean. “She’s perfect. Fuckin’ perfect.”

Joel fucks you harder, one hand slipping around your throat to pin you in place. “Gonna pump you so full, babygirl,” he pants. “You’ll be drippin’ for days.”

You feel it building, that terrible, traitorous heat pooling deep in your belly, curling tight like a fist.

You're caught between them, nothing but a warm, wet hole for them to use—your body split open, trembling and full.

“You’re ours now, honey,” Tommy pants. “Say it.”

You can’t. You choke, mouth stuffed full, brain scrambled.

Tommy pulls out, stroking himself fast. “C’mon, sugar,” he murmurs. “Tell us. Tell us you’re ours.”

Joel hammers into you, hand on your belly to press down and feel the outline of his cock. “Say it.”

You sob, the words tumbling out broken and wrecked. “Yours. I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”

Joel groans loud, hips slamming forward one last time as he spills inside you, hot and thick. You feel it fill you, warm and endless, leaking out around his cock.

Tommy’s not far behind, fisting his cock roughly until hot spurts of come stripe across your cheeks, your lips, your tongue. He lets out a ragged groan, hand still tight in your hair.

It’s too much, the dual sensations finally snapping the fragile rubber band of sanity that held you together. You shatter—mind blanking out under the weight of it all, pleasure and pain entwined so tightly there’s no telling one from the other.

Both men stay still for a long while after they’re done, suspended in the aftermath.

Tommy’s hunched over you, chest heaving as he rubs his come into your skin like a filthy sacrament. His voice is wrecked, as soft as you’ve heard it all night. “Pretty girl.”

Joel doesn’t move off your spent body, his softening cock twitching in your abused pussy as he presses his face into your sweaty throat, breathing hard.

Then he leans back, watches his cum slowly drip from your abused cunt. “You took us so good, babygirl.”

Tommy brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, gaze soft again. “Think she’s got one more in her?”

Joel chuckles darkly. “Only one way to find out.”

MINI NAT'S NOTE: it's literally seven in the morning. i'm posting this and then i'm passing the fuck out. thank you to chronic insomnia but mainly to my geek bar and addison rae's new song drop for giving me the energy to power through this. also ofc thank you to baby @ebodebo (cause she was mad i wasn’t going to mention her and threatened to hit me...someone save me...call 911…) for listening to me complain about this and not telling me to shut up even though i probably deserved it. most of all, thank YOU so much for reading! love you, mwah <3

[jellyfishsthings]

Miscommunication is key

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: funny miscommunication, the kids love you (maybe a bit too much)

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

It started, as all catastrophes in the Manor did, with eavesdropping.

Tim was in the hallway, allegedly “cleaning the thermostat” (read: tweaking the heat setting so Steph would stop stealing his hoodies), when he heard voices coming from Bruce’s office. Your voice. And Bruce’s.

Tim had no idea what the argument was actually about. Something about boundaries? Trust? Printer ink? But the tension in your tone made his stomach clench. When Bruce said, “Maybe we need to take a step back,” Tim’s heart dropped.

He called an emergency family meeting in the Batcave.

“Dad and Mom are getting divorced.”

Jason looked up from his sandwich. “They’re not even married.”

“Details!” Tim cried, pacing like a war general. “We could still be split up! This is how it starts. A little coldness, a few missed dinners, then boom—visitation schedules and emotional trauma.”

Dick blinked. “Do we... get split up?”

“Technically, no,” Damian said. “We’re all legally tied to Father. Except for Jason and Stephanie.”

“What happens to us?!”

“Don’t panic,” Steph said, reading from her tablet. “Worst case scenario, we stage a legal rebellion and declare the manor a sovereign child-state.”

“Or,” Tim said, eyes wide, “we get adopted. By Mom.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“She’d never say no to me,” Dick said confidently.

“I’ll bribe her with cookies,” Jason offered.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “I call emotional manipulation.”

Cass held up a whiteboard: Why not all of us?

So it was decided: Operation Adoption began at dawn.

They convened in the attic. Because the Batcave was under Bruce’s territory, and this was neutral ground.

Dick paced.

Damian sharpened a pencil aggressively.

Cass ate grapes and watched everyone like she was waiting for someone to cry.

Stephanie had already made t-shirts. “Team Mom 4 Lyfe.”

"We need a plan," Tim said, eyes red from Googling "how to stop a divorce you caused by being a messy adult child."

Jason held up a sheet of paper. “What if we ask her to adopt us?”

Dead silence.

Damian blinked. “You mean legally abandon Father?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s called strategic custody realignment.”

Phase One: Woo the Parent

You found your morning coffee already made.

By lunch, your office had been vacuumed, your planner color-coded, and a tray of Damian’s surprisingly excellent macarons appeared on your desk. Something was clearly up.

Dick followed you around like a golden retriever. “You look radiant today. New serum? Or just naturally ageless?”

“You want something,” you said flatly.

“Who, me?” he asked, wounded. “I’m just basking in the presence of my favorite future legal guardian.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jason appeared in the doorway. “Can I interest you in... a bribe?” He held up an embarrassing baby photo of Bruce in a sailor outfit.

“Jason—”

“Don’t make us pick sides in the fake divorce!”

“What fake divorce?!”

“Mom” Steph said, slipping in dramatically, “we’re prepared to make a case. Visitation is a nightmare, and you make the best pancakes. We’ve chosen you. Please accept custody of all emotionally damaged gremlins present.”

You stared at the room of hopeful, slightly unhinged faces.

“Did Bruce put you up to this?”

“Not unless he’s also asking for custody of Alfred,” Tim muttered.

Then Tim slid to you a small note, like they did in those spy movies he liked,  that said "Meet us in the living room in five"

Phase Two: The Pitch

The moment you entered the living room, the lights dimmed.

“Hello?”

Dick dropped from the ceiling.

Literally.

“Hi,” he said cheerfully, landing in a perfect split. “Can we talk?”

All five of them appeared like spirits of guilt, blocking your path to the kitchen. You sat them all down. “Okay. Walk me through your logic.”

Tim pulled out a graph titled Projected Emotional Outcomes Based on Custodial Assignment.

Jason had prepared a PowerPoint. “Slide one: Why Mom is the Superior Parent.”

Slide two: A chart comparing your hugs to Bruce’s handshake-head-pat combo.

Slide three: An animated pie labeled “Pancakes.”

Damian presented a legal document signed in crayon: WE THE CHILDREN CHOOSE THE COOLER PARENT.

“Steph notarized it,” he added.

“She forged my signature,” You whispered.

Steph held up a PowerPoint remote. The TV flashed on. First slide: "Why You Should Keep Us In The Event Of Inevitable Divorce."

You blinked. “Excuse me—what?”

Tim cleared his throat. “We’ve noticed rising tensions in your domestic interactions.”

Cass handed you a binder titled Custody Proposal: Draft 1.

Dick pointed at a bar graph. “Notice that under your influence, emotional stability in the household has increased by 46%. And we’ve had fewer vigilante-related injuries. Except Jason. But he’s a wild card.”

Jason saluted with a juice box.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You think Bruce and I are getting divorced because we argued?”

Damian crossed his arms. “Historically, that is how war begins. ”

Cass stood.

She held up flashcards. One had a stick figure with a cape hugging a heart. Another said ‘We Love You.’

Then she did the unthinkable.

She signed: Please don’t leave us.

Stephanie wiped away a tear. “It’s not manipulation if it’s true.”

Then Cass handed you a video montage she’d edited titled “Adoption: A Love Story,” scored with sweeping instrumental music and slow-mo scenes of you handing out snacks.

Damian climbed onto your lap. “You’re warm and you smell like cinnamon. That’s mom stuff.”

Your heart cracked, then melted.

“I’m not leaving Bruce,” you said gently. “We were arguing about printer ink.”

Silence.

“...Printer ink?” Tim asked weakly.

“He keeps buying magenta in bulk! Who uses that much magenta?!”

The kids slowly looked at one another.

“Abort mission,” Dick said.

“Too late,” Cass signed. “I already filed the motion with the fake Batkid Court.”

“Look,” you said, softening, “you don’t need to panic. Even if Bruce and I ever did break up, you’re not losing me.”

“Promise?” Tim whispered.

You cupped his face. “Swear it.” 

Jason sat beside you on the couch. “I get it if you ever want to get a divorce. Bruce is...Bruce. But you? You’re the only one who remembers to buy snacks we actually like. You’re the one who puts notes in my lunch that say, ‘Don’t stab anyone, even if they deserve it.’ That’s love.”

Dick: “And you help Bruce. Even if he’s being a Bat-Butt.”

Damian knelt. “Legally, I am already a Wayne. But if you filed paperwork, I would accept a hyphen.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Pause.

“So you’re saying we wasted $40 on matching ‘Adopt Me’ t-shirts?”

Later that night, you walked into Bruce’s study and flopped dramatically onto the couch.

“Your children tried to get me to adopt them today.”

He looked up from his paperwork. “Just today?”

“They had charts.”

He nodded. “Ah. The charts phase. Comes right before the emotional blackmail.”

You stared. “This has happened before?”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re the third person they’ve tried it with.”

You gasped. “Who was the second?”

“Alfred.”

You considered this. “They have good taste.”

Bruce smiled faintly. “They love you. That’s all this was. A weird, mildly terrifying love letter.”

You leaned back. “I almost said yes.”

“You still can. We’ll co-parent.”

“Until the magenta ink breaks us.”

He chuckled, kissed your forehead, and added, “Alfred already drafted the adoption paperwork. Just in case.”

Outside the study, eight Batkids listened through the door, celebrating silently.

“See?” Dick whispered. “Still a family.”

Jason wiped away a fake tear. “Group hug?”

“No,” Damian said. “But I will allow a high-five.”

Cass gave him one. It was perfect.

And the family stayed very much intact.

[iamcryingonceagain]

first of all, yes i did cry reading this.

even though i was expecting bob to show up through out the chapter i was pleasantly surprised when he became a second thought and i started to want to know more about reader and her life. love that little by little the reader is finding her own community even though she doesn’t realize it. how even though she did not share the sadness in her life with the then strangers, they still saw it in each other and in way that helped them and let them know that they too are not alone.

hat’s off to the author. i think even if bob doesn’t show up i would just keep reading this to keep hearing about reader and her quiet life and hoping that she can find happiness. i have to say though, you have peaked my interest with alexei being here at the end. lovely work!! (in the most positive light)

The quiet things that remain

pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Bob and Y/N used to be the best of friends, he went to Malaysia to be better, only to leave her just with a ghost in the past and unresponded messages and calls. And return, but never to her. Never to the love she didn't had the courage to announce.

Word count: 12,1k

warning: very angst, depression, self-esteem issues, extreme loniless, mysoginistic remarks

note: don't hate me

chapter II

--

The rain tapped against the bookstore windows like a soft, persistent knocking — steady, but unwelcome. Outside, the gray New York afternoon bled into the kind of evening that came too early and stayed too long. Inside, the warmth of yellow lamplight spilled over rows of untouched shelves and dust-flecked hardcovers, curling over the edges of a place that time had gently forgotten.

Y/N sat behind the counter, elbows on the worn wood, phone resting in her trembling hands. She hadn't noticed when the tea beside her had gone cold. She hadn’t noticed much lately.

The video played quietly, but every word rang louder than it should.

“...the New Avengers were spotted again today leaving the UN compound, raising more questions than answers. Who are they? What do they stand for? And more importantly… who are they when the cameras are off?”

A sleek montage of clips rolled across the screen. There they were — the so-called “New Avengers.”

There he was. Bob Reynolds. The man she hadn’t seen in eight months.

Golden-haired, cleaner than she’d ever known him, standing straight and still beside a team of killers and misfits. No twitching hands. No darting eyes. No shadow of withdrawal in his pupils. Just… peace. Control. Power.

It was like looking at a stranger. A beautiful, impossible stranger with his face.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, but the video kept playing.

“Among the many questions surrounding Sentry — the golden god at the center of the team — is one persistent theory: is there something romantic between him and his fellow operative, Yelena Belova?”

Her fingers curled around the phone. No. Please.

Footage rolled. Grainy at first — taken by paparazzi, blurred by distance.

Bob and Yelena. Walking side by side. Her arm brushing his. Another clip: her tugging him away from the crowd, laughing. A third: a hug. Not quick. Not distant. Her arms around his waist. His chin in her hair. The kind of embrace that says I know what you’ve been through, and I’m not afraid of it.

“She’s the reason I’m here,” Bob’s voice said, an old interview clip playing now. “Yelena… she didn’t give up on me, even when I did. She reminded me there was still something worth saving.”

Y/N didn’t realize she’d started crying until her vision blurred and the soft hum of her own breath broke into a quiet, gasping sob. She paused the video with shaking hands, freezing the frame on a still of Bob looking sideways at Yelena during the interview — something gentle, something fragile behind his eyes.

That was the look she used to dream about. That was the look he never gave her.

She’d held his hair back while he threw up in gas station parking lots. Bailed him out of jail with money she didn’t have. Let him crash on her couch when he was too high to remember his name. He used to call her his “safe place.” Said she was the only thing in his life that wasn’t broken.

But she’d always known. Deep down, she’d always known she wasn’t enough to fix him.

But now? Now he had Yelena.

And the world. And peace.

Y/N set her phone down face-first on the counter and covered her face with both hands, her shoulders trembling with the kind of grief that makes no sound. The kind that lives in the chest like a second heartbeat, one made of rust and regret.

No customers. No noise but the rain and the old jazz record she’d forgotten to flip. Just her and the ghosts of what they could’ve been.

In the next room, a little bell above the door chimed softly — a delivery maybe, or just the wind. She didn’t even lift her head.

Somewhere, Bob Reynolds was flying.

And she was still here, crying in a bookstore he’d once said felt like home. He wasn’t coming back. Not to her.

And still, she whispered his name. Quiet, like a prayer.

The bookstore no longer hurt.

Not in the way it used to — with that sharp, stabbing grief that made her chest cave in every time the bell above the door chimed. Back then, she'd look up, half-hoping it was him. A flash of gold hair. That awkward, tired smile. His hoodie too big, his eyes too empty.

But now, months later, there was just quiet. Not peace — never peace — but quiet.

The kind that comes after acceptance. The kind that grows like moss over memories.

Y/N didn’t talk about Bob anymore. Not to coworkers, not to old friends who still asked, “Have you seen what he’s doing now?” Not even to herself, in those late hours when the ache beneath her ribs swelled like a wound reopening.

But she felt him. In the silence between customers. In the space beside her when she locked the door and walked home. In the way she looked at the world now — all those colors, all that beauty — and felt like a glass wall stood between her and everything she used to want.

She’d loved him. Of course she had.

She had loved Bob Reynolds since the ninth grade, when he punched a teacher’s car and got suspended for protecting a kid he didn’t even know. She loved him when he borrowed her notes, when he cried on her fire escape high out of his mind, when he disappeared for three weeks and came back thirty pounds thinner, shivering and hollow-eyed.

She loved him when he couldn’t love himself.

She never said it. Not really. Maybe in the way she bandaged his hands. Or made excuses to his parole officer. Or brought him dinner and sat three feet away like she didn’t want to reach out and pull him into her chest.

And when he left for Malaysia — a “spiritual retreat” — she smiled. She smiled like she believed it, even though everything in her screamed.

Still, she let him go. She let him go because she thought he’d come back. For her.

And then came the message. Just six words.

I love you. I’m sorry.

She’d stared at those words for hours. Days. Her fingers trembling over the keys, unsent replies collecting like ghosts in her drafts folder.

“Why are you sorry?” “Where are you?” “I love you, too.” “Please come home.” “Was it ever real?”

But she never sent anything. Because part of her already knew.

It wasn’t romantic love. Not for him. She was comfort. She was safety. She was the place you go when everything else falls apart — not the place you stay when you’re finally whole again.

Yelena got that part. Yelena got all of him.

And Y/N… Y/N got to survive it.

So she started going to the park.

At first, just to breathe. Just to sit on a bench with a thermos of tea and pretend she was somewhere else. Then, one day, she brought a sketchbook. She wasn’t an artist, not really. But she remembered telling Bob once that she wanted to draw people in love. “Like those old French films,” she’d said. “Where they just sit at cafés and smoke and kiss.” He laughed and said she was corny.

She went back the next day. And the next.

She sketched mothers holding babies. Old couples feeding pigeons. Young people tangled together in the grass, drunk on love and sunshine.

They didn’t know she was drawing them. They didn’t know her heart was breaking with every line.

She packed little picnics, too. Cheese and grapes and crackers in a paper box. A single folded napkin. She ate them cross-legged on a blanket alone — the same dates she used to dream of sharing with him. Her fantasies made real, only stripped of the one person they were for.

She bought herself ballet tickets. Front row. Twice.

She cried through Swan Lake because it was beautiful. And because Bob never cared about ballet. But she’d once imagined holding his hand in that velvet-dark theater, leaning on his shoulder, whispering about the dancers under the dim light of intermission.

She went to museums with an audio guide in her ears and a silent ache in her chest. They’d planned to go once, years ago. He bailed. Got arrested that night. She remembered bailing him out, hair still curled from the night she’d spent getting ready, tickets still in her purse.

Now she went alone. She stood in front of paintings for too long. Tried to feel the meaning in each one. Tried to understand why love, for her, always felt just out of reach — like art behind glass.

Bob had loved her, she truly believed that. But now she knew it had been platonic. Or nostalgic. Or guilty. Or desperate. Not the way she had loved him. Not the kind that cracked bone and rearranged the shape of her soul.

She had been there for decades. Through every overdose. Every apology. Every relapse and redemption. And in the end, Yelena — sharp, beautiful, new — walked in and took the title Y/N had spent her whole life earning.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Not really.

But it still felt like theft.

And so, every day, Y/N practiced the quiet art of living. Not thriving. Not healing. Just… surviving.

And when she walked home past flickering streetlights, past posters of the New Avengers, past Bob’s face painted in gold and shadow, she looked away.

Not because she didn’t love him anymore. But because she still did.

The sound of her shoes echoed softly against the sidewalk as Y/N walked home from the museum, arms crossed tightly over her chest. It had rained earlier. The air still smelled like wet pavement and the petals of bruised flowers that had fallen from the trees lining the Upper West Side.

She didn’t know why she kept doing this — walking home instead of taking the bus. Maybe she was punishing herself. Or maybe it was the only time she could cry without worrying anyone would see.

The tear tracks on her cheeks had dried by the time she got to her building.

She lived on the second floor. A narrow walk-up above a tailor shop, with faded red carpeting and one window that opened if you jiggled it the right way. It was small, cramped, imperfect. But it was hers.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the weight of the day sank into her shoulders. She kicked off her shoes — too comfortable, too wide, orthopedic even. She used to laugh at herself for that, back when she imagined someone would find her quirks charming. Now they just made her feel… old.

Plain.

Forgettable.

Y/N tossed her bag on the couch and went straight to the mirror near the kitchen. She didn’t know why. She just stood there and looked.

And the more she looked, the more she unraveled.

The dark circles beneath her eyes weren’t poetic, like in the movies. They were just… tired. Her skin was dull, pale in places, red in others. Her cheeks had lost their softness from stress. Her lips were cracked.

She tucked her hair behind one ear. Then the other. Then back again.

Too flat. Too thin. Too dry.

She didn’t look like someone you’d love at first sight. She didn’t look like someone who could fly beside gods or run across rooftops or save the world.

She looked like someone who bagged your books and forgot to put on mascara.

And the image of Yelena — always there, always shimmering just under her eyelids — rose to the front of her mind.

Yelena Belova, with her radiant, smug grin and her bite-sharp wit. Yelena, who had cheekbones like a model and eyes that seemed to challenge the whole world. Yelena, who had scars and stories and strength in the kind of way that made men look and women wish.

She was everything Y/N wasn’t.

And worse… she was the kind of woman Bob could fall in love with.

Y/N’s voice cracked in the silence of the room. A whisper against the mirror.

“Of course he loves her.”

She dragged her fingers down her face, pressing against her cheekbones, her temples, like she could reshape what was there. But no matter how she adjusted the angle, no matter how she forced a smile — she still looked like the woman he left behind.

A memory. A placeholder. Never the prize.

She slumped to the floor, back against the kitchen cabinets, knees pulled to her chest.

Her breath hitched once. Twice. And then the tears came again, full and warm, slipping down her cheeks and into the collar of her cardigan.

Why did I think I ever had a chance?

The thought hissed in her mind, cruel and sharp. She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t someone the world noticed, or photographed, or followed online. She wore second-hand sweaters and cheap lip balm. She read fantasy books instead of manifesting a future. She planned picnics and movie nights for a man who never once saw her as the main character in his life.

Her hands had held his when they trembled. Her voice had soothed him when he couldn’t breathe. Her love had stitched him back together when he was in pieces.

But Yelena got his smile. Yelena got the storybook ending.

And all Y/N got was this tiny apartment, this quiet heartbreak, and the knowledge that she had always, always been too soft in a world that rewarded teeth.

She reached for her sketchbook on the table, flipped to a new page, and tried to draw.

Anything. Something. A line. A shape.

But all that came out were shaky outlines of a woman with her head in her hands.

She didn’t even need to look in the mirror to know it was her.

A little while later, she made herself tea. She added honey even though she didn’t want it. Her mother once told her honey was for healing. She didn’t believe that anymore, but the ritual made her feel like someone else might believe it for her.

She drank it slowly, eyes still swollen, heart still aching.

--

It had taken everything in her — every fragile, trembling piece of courage — to agree to the date.

She didn’t want to. Not really. Not when her heart still ached every time she saw a golden blur on a news broadcast, not when Bob’s voice still played like a lullaby in her most tired moments. But she told herself she had to try. That maybe the only way out of love was through something new. Something safe. Someone... nice.

His name was Daniel. They had matched on an app after she spent thirty-two minutes rewriting and rereading her bio before finally deciding on something honest but light: “Bookstore girl. Lover of iced tea, Van Gogh, and stories that hurt.”

Daniel had a nice smile in his pictures. Warm. Casual. His messages were funny, thoughtful — nothing like the catcalls or shallow conversations she was used to getting from strangers online. He liked foreign films, jazz, and pretended to know more about literature than he did, which made her smile. He wasn’t Bob. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

Their dinner was at a little bistro tucked into a quiet Brooklyn street, lit by the kind of dim, cozy lighting that made everyone look softer. Y/N had spent two hours getting ready. She curled her hair, put on eyeliner she hadn’t touched in months, and slipped into a pale blue dress that clung just enough to remind her that her body was still hers — even if no one had touched it in years.

She smiled when she saw Daniel waiting outside, leaning against the brick wall with his hands in his coat pockets. He greeted her with a compliment — “You look great” — and she had smiled too brightly in return, unsure of how to absorb kindness that didn’t come wrapped in years of shared trauma.

The conversation was easy, light. He asked about her job, her favorite books, her dream vacation. She let herself laugh, even told a few stories about her childhood that she hadn’t spoken aloud in a long time. They shared dessert. He paid. He walked her outside, his coat brushing her arm.

Then he said it.

“So… want to come back to mine for a nightcap?” He grinned. That kind of grin.

It hit her like a slap. The spell — fragile and delicate — shattered.

Her breath caught, but she smiled politely. “No, thank you. I should probably get home.”

He blinked once. Twice. Then his face changed.

“Oh. One of those girls.”

She paused, caught off guard. “What?”

“You led me on the whole night just for a free meal?”

“What? No, I didn’t—”

He laughed — a cruel, sharp sound that made her skin crawl. “Jesus. I should’ve known. I mean, you're not even that hot.”

Her lips parted, a protest caught in her throat. But he was already turning away.

“You act like you're this mysterious, deep girl, but you're just another average chick playing hard to get. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit like fists. Not even that hot. Just average.

She stood there, stunned, as he walked off into the night without another word.

By the time she got home, the tears had already started. Silent. Humiliating. Hot with shame.

She locked the door behind her and sank to the floor, still in her dress, her heels digging into her calves. She didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there, back against the wall, clutching her purse to her chest like it could hold her together.

“I’m not even pretty enough to turn someone down,” she whispered into the quiet.

The words echoed in her head, crueler every time they came back around.

Because it wasn’t just about Daniel.

It was every moment she’d spent wondering why Bob never looked at her that way. Every time she imagined what it might be like if he kissed her, only to watch him kiss someone else in her dreams. It was every second she stood in front of the mirror, wishing to be someone — anyone — worth choosing.

Yelena would never be called average.

Yelena had fire in her veins and a thousand stories in her scars. Men looked at her like she was art. Women wanted to be her. She could command a room with a glance, slay monsters with a flick of her wrist. Even in the mess, she was magic.

And what was Y/N?

Just… there.

The girl at the register who knew your favorite author. The girl who waited. Who stayed. Who believed in things long after they’d stopped being true.

The girl who had to beg the universe just to be noticed — only to be told she wasn’t even good enough to reject.

That night, she deleted the dating app.

She folded the blue dress and put it at the bottom of her drawer. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She made tea and didn’t drink it.

She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up, one thought pulsing behind her tired eyes:

Even if Bob had never loved her… she used to believe she was the kind of person worth loving.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

--

The air was crisp — not cold, not yet. Just enough of a bite to make the tips of her fingers shiver in her sleeves, and for the wind to carry the kind of scent that only ever belonged to October: dried leaves, earth, the distant memory of rain. Y/N had always loved this kind of weather. She used to joke that it was "main character" weather. The kind you walk through slowly, headphones in, pretending the world is some quiet, tragic film and you’re the girl who hasn’t healed yet — but might.

Only now, she wasn’t pretending.

She walked with her hands in her pockets, her scarf wrapped twice around her neck and tugged tight. Her hair was tied back loosely, pieces falling into her face with every gust of wind. Her eyes were a little tired, but soft. Distant. As if they were searching for something they didn’t expect to find.

The park wasn’t crowded. A few dog walkers. A couple of college students with coffees. Two kids kicking a soccer ball back and forth. She passed them all without really seeing them. Her boots crunched gently over leaves as she found her usual bench — the one facing the little lake with the willow trees bending low over the edge. She sat slowly, with the weight of someone who was carrying more than her coat.

She didn’t notice the old woman at the other end of the bench until several minutes had passed.

The woman was crocheting. Her fingers moved rhythmically, precisely, as if they knew this pattern by heart. A ball of pale lavender yarn sat tucked neatly in her lap, and her eyes — pale blue and clouded slightly with age — flicked up occasionally to watch the people go by.

Y/N watched the ducks. The trees. Nothing in particular. Her body was still, but her mind wasn’t.

She didn’t cry. Not this time. The tears had dried up days ago. Now it was just… stillness. Not peace. Not quite sadness. Just the absence of something she didn’t know how to name.

“Are you looking for someone, dear?”

The voice startled her — soft but sudden. Y/N turned slightly, surprised to see the old woman watching her with a small, knowing smile.

“I—sorry?” Y/N blinked.

“You’ve got that look,” the woman said, setting her crochet down gently in her lap. “The kind people wear when they’re waiting for someone they know won’t come. I used to know that look very well.”

Y/N swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“I’m not,” she said too quickly. “Just… enjoying the park.”

The woman hummed, unconvinced but kind. “Well, if you’re going to keep me company, at least pretend to be interested in what I’m making.”

Y/N smiled faintly — barely there — and looked down at the yarn. “What are you making?”

“Scarf. For my granddaughter. She wants it to match her dog’s sweater,” the woman said with a fond roll of her eyes. “I told her that was ridiculous. Then I started it anyway.”

Y/N let out a small breath. A ghost of a laugh. “It’s a beautiful color.”

“Thank you.” The woman paused, then looked at her with a soft, mischievous glint. “You ever crochet?”

Y/N shook her head. “No… But I’ve always wanted to learn.”

“Well, you’re in luck.��� The woman pulled a second hook from her bag and another ball of yarn — soft blue, a little faded. “Sit up. I’ll teach you.”

Y/N hesitated. “I… really?”

“Why not? You look like you need something to do with those restless hands. Something that doesn’t involve checking your phone every two minutes.”

She flushed. Guilty. She had been checking. Just in case there was something about him. A new sighting. A news update. A miracle.

She took the yarn.

The first few loops were awkward. Clumsy. But the rhythm settled quickly. The woman’s voice guided her gently through the pattern, her hands warm with time and patience. Y/N’s hands trembled once — not from the cold.

“What’s your name, dear?” the woman asked after a while.

“Y/N.”

“Lovely name. I’m June.”

They sat for a long moment in silence, the soft clicking of hooks the only sound between them.

Then June asked, “Was it your lover?”

Y/N blinked, the question catching her off guard. “What?”

“The one you’re looking for. The one you lost.”

Y/N stared at the yarn in her hands, her fingers frozen mid-loop. She could feel the ache creep up again, slow and sharp, like it always did when someone touched that place inside her she thought she’d hidden well.

“I… I didn’t have a lover,” she said softly.

June watched her for a moment, then nodded. “But you loved him.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“Yes.”

June didn’t pry. She just nodded again, returning to her stitching. It was quiet for another few minutes before Y/N found her voice again.

“What about you?” she asked. “You said you used to know that look.”

June smiled gently, the kind of smile that knew grief well. “I lost my husband five years ago. Charles. We were married forty-seven years. I still look for him sometimes in the park. It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not silly,” Y/N said quickly, her voice breaking just slightly.

June looked at her kindly. “No… I suppose it’s not.”

Y/N looked down at her yarn, then up at the trees swaying slowly in the breeze.

“He used to walk with me,” June said, voice distant. “Every Sunday. He’d always pick up the fallen leaves and tell me which ones were the prettiest. I used to think he was silly for it. Now I wish I’d pressed them all into books.”

Y/N’s chest hurt. “I used to plan dates for him,” she said suddenly, voice quiet. “Picnics. Ballet tickets. Museum exhibits. I’d write the ideas down in a little notebook. I never asked him out. Never told him. But I had it all planned… just in case he ever looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

June’s eyes were wet.

“Did he ever know?” she asked gently.

Y/N shook her head.

“I think he loved me,” she said. “But not the way I needed.”

June reached over, placed her hand softly over Y/N’s.

“Sometimes,” she said, “we love the right person in the wrong way. And sometimes… we’re just too late.”

Y/N let the words settle in her chest, the truth of them ringing hollow and loud all at once.

They sat there until the sun began to sink beneath the trees, painting the lake gold. A still, shared silence. No pressure. No expectations. Just two women — one in the dusk of her life, the other trying desperately to find her dawn again — crocheting side by side on a bench in the middle of a world that kept moving forward.

Y/N didn’t find Bob that day.

But she found something else.

A moment of peace.

After that day in the park, something in Y/N shifted. Not drastically. There was no revelation. No thunderous change. Just… a quiet pivot. A small crack that let something new inside.

She began crocheting like her life depended on it.

At first, she was terrible. Her stitches were too tight. Then too loose. Then tangled. She dropped the hook more times than she could count. But she kept at it with the fervor of someone clinging to a lifeline. Her apartment — once tidy, minimalist — soon became littered with yarn. Pale blues, deep burgundies, soft browns. She never made anything useful. Her scarves were too short, her hats too lumpy, her attempts at socks made her laugh through tears.

But the point wasn’t to finish. The point was that it occupied her hands. It kept her from refreshing news sites. Kept her from scrolling past video edits of Bob — or Sentry now — lifting cars, flying above cities, standing beside Yelena like they were sculpted from the same stone. It kept her from reliving every memory with him, over and over, until her mind bled from it.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she met June in the park. Rain or shine. They’d sit on the bench, often in silence, crocheting while the world passed them by. Sometimes June talked about Charles. Sometimes about her grandchildren. Sometimes they sat in companionable stillness, the weight of their grief stitching them into the same quiet rhythm.

June started calling her “kiddo,” and Y/N didn’t have the heart to admit it made her cry once she got home.

She started dressing differently too — without realizing it. Her clothes became… comfortable. Long skirts, oversized cardigans. Scarves that didn’t match and boots with scuffed toes. She looked like the kind of woman you’d see sipping tea alone in an empty café window, with a novel clutched tightly in her fingers and a look in her eyes that said she once believed in love like fire — and got burned.

She began frequenting thrift shops, telling herself it was for the coziness. The earth tones. The way old clothes felt like they had stories. But deep down, she knew it was because she didn’t feel beautiful anymore — so why bother trying?

Gone were the days of her cute lipstick, her floral dresses, her perfectly winged eyeliner that she wore just in case Bob stopped by the shop. Gone were the silly hopes that he'd see her in some new outfit and forget Yelena’s warrior smile.

Now, she was the soft ghost behind the register at the bookstore — the one who remembered every customer’s favorite genre, who stacked romance novels with tender reverence even though she didn’t read them anymore, who crocheted during lunch breaks and smelled like old paper and lavender.

Customers called her “lovely.” Never beautiful. Never striking. Just lovely.

A kind way to say forgettable.

To fill the quiet, she started a book club. Thursday nights. She pinned up a flier at the front counter and expected no one to come. But a few people did. A teacher, an elderly man with too many opinions on Hemingway, a lonely college student who needed an excuse to leave the dorms. They talked about stories, argued about endings, brought snacks. And for one night a week, Y/N had plans. A reason to change her clothes. A reason to stay awake past ten.

They all liked her. They said she had a soothing voice. That she picked good books. That she made the bookstore feel like home.

None of them knew her favorite book was the one Bob borrowed and never returned — spine cracked, margin scribbled with his half-legible notes. She kept it on the shelf behind the counter. Just in case.

Sometimes she wondered if Bob would even recognize her now. If he passed her on the street ?

Would he see the girl who held his head in her lap during withdrawal? Who bailed him out of jail with the last of her student loan money? Who made mix CDs and planned imaginary dates and waited three years for him to say I love you in a way that wasn’t a goodbye?

Or would he just see what everyone else saw now?

A sweet, quiet, unremarkable woman who smiled too politely and went home alone.

She never told June about him. Not really. She never said the name. She just said, “There was someone. And I wasn’t enough.”

June had squeezed her hand. “He wasn’t ready, love. There’s a difference.”

Y/N smiled at that.

But she didn’t believe it.

Not anymore.

Some people are stars, destined for legend, brilliance, and heroes who fall from the sky. And some people are just… soft spaces. To be landed on. To be left behind.

Y/N had accepted that she was the latter.

And so, she crocheted. She read. She sipped lukewarm tea in the evenings and wrote little notes in the margins of her books just to feel like someone might find them one day and know she existed.

She was no one’s great love story.

--

The loneliness had begun to settle like dust — fine, weightless, but everywhere. In the corners of her apartment. In the extra teacup she always poured and never used. In the quiet moments between sleep and waking, when the stillness felt too heavy and too permanent to bear.

Y/N had always loved silence. But now, it gnawed at her.

Her routine no longer offered comfort — only proof of how much space one person could take up when no one else was there to see it. She could go days without speaking to anyone outside of work. Her coworkers were kind. Customers smiled. Book club was a nice reprieve. But when the door shut at night behind her, the echo always sounded like grief.

It had been weeks since she’d cried. Not because she was healing — she’d simply dried out. The tears had gone somewhere deep inside, too tired to keep trying.

That Sunday, she woke up to an apartment that felt too quiet. Too cold. The kind of cold that seeps through your skin and rests in your chest. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching the morning light slide across the floor. The feeling was familiar. A soft, aching hollowness. The same she’d felt after Bob left. After she realized he wasn't coming back. After she watched a video of him calling Yelena his reason.

She wasn't trying to fill that hole anymore.

She just wanted… something warm.

So, she walked to the animal shelter.

It was a rainy morning, one of those gray, drizzling days where the whole world looked washed out and blurry. Her umbrella was cheap and kept folding inward, so by the time she got to the shelter, her coat was soaked through and her fingers were stiff.

Inside, the building smelled like wet fur and pine-scented cleaner. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, casting everything in a sterile yellow tone. A volunteer greeted her with a practiced smile and showed her to the cat room, explaining the basics — litter habits, vaccinations, temperament ratings. Y/N nodded politely but didn't really listen. Her eyes were already scanning the room.

Dozens of cats.

Some curled up in boxes. Others pacing. A few meowing with hopeful desperation.

But none looked at her.

She crouched near one particularly vocal tabby, only for it to hiss and turn its back. Another cat batted lazily at a toy when she approached but ignored her hand when she reached to pet it. A long-haired Persian stared right through her, regal and unimpressed.

Y/N stood there awkwardly, hands in her coat pockets, heart sinking.

She knew it was silly — anthropomorphizing rejection — but it still stung. She wasn’t even appealing to cats.

She turned to leave. Quietly. Without causing a scene. It would be just another thing she tried and failed at. Another reminder that even animals knew she wasn’t the one you picked.

And then — soft movement.

From the far corner, behind a scratching post and a tattered old tunnel toy, came the slow stretch of a lanky gray cat. He blinked at her, one eye slightly squinty from an old injury, and stood up.

He didn’t meow. Didn’t purr. Just padded over, tail upright like a little question mark.

Y/N froze.

He was all bones under his fur — lean and elegant in a scrappy kind of way. He looked like he’d lived a hard life. Scars on his ears. A slight limp. But his eyes… they were soft. Curious.

She crouched slowly and extended her hand.

The cat hesitated. Sniffed. And then, with a small sigh, leaned into her fingers.

Her throat tightened.

She scratched gently under his chin, and he tilted his head, pressing closer. As if to say, Oh. There you are.

Her vision blurred.

And just like that — she’d been chosen.

His name at the shelter was “Dusty.” She didn't change it. It suited him. He wasn’t glamorous. He didn’t leap into her lap or sleep curled against her cheek. But he followed her from room to room, curling up near her feet, always watching.

When she crocheted, he’d bat gently at the ends of yarn. When she cried quietly at night — not often, but sometimes still — he’d jump onto the couch and sit beside her. Never touching. Just near.

Like he knew that’s all she could handle.

She whispered to him often. About her day. About books. About the lives she imagined while shelving romance novels with happy endings. About the man she loved who forgot her.

Sometimes, she whispered his name.

Dusty never answered, of course. But he blinked at her slowly, and it felt like the closest thing to understanding she’d had in months.

She bought him a little blue collar with a bell. Crocheted him a lopsided bed. Let him sleep on the couch, even though she told herself she wouldn’t.

Her apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.

Not quite full, either.

But it felt alive.

And on some nights — when she boiled tea and read by the window, and Dusty curled beside her with one paw stretched across her foot — she allowed herself to pretend.

That maybe this was enough.

--

It had been raining the first day Y/N brought Dusty to the park.

Not pouring — just that kind of shy drizzle that left the leaves glistening and the air smelling of wet soil and faraway smoke. She hadn't intended to bring him. The thought itself had made her laugh, once. Walking a cat? That was a thing quirky people did in cartoons. Not quiet women with half-healed hearts and sensible shoes.

But Dusty had sat by the door that morning, tail flicking, eyes fixed on her like he knew she needed something.

She clipped on the little harness she'd bought on a whim — blue, to match his collar — and, to her surprise, he hadn’t fought her. He just blinked, stretched, and followed as she opened the door.

Y/N wasn’t used to being looked at. Not anymore. But she felt it that morning — soft, amused glances from strangers as she walked through the wet grass, the leash loose in her hand as Dusty padded carefully beside her. She adjusted her scarf higher on her neck and kept her eyes down. It felt ridiculous. Endearing. Exposed. Like she was baring too much of herself — saying, look how lonely I am that I walk a cat now.

But when she saw June already seated on their usual bench, bundled in a thick cardigan, her yarn dancing between delicate fingers — the tightness in her chest eased.

June looked up. Her eyes twinkled. “Well, well,” she grinned. “If it isn’t the neighborhood menace, dragging her tiger around.”

Y/N let out a breathy laugh and sat beside her. Dusty hopped onto the bench without invitation, curling beside her thigh like he owned it. His tail flicked with quiet pride.

“You brought the beast,” June said, amused. “I’m honored.”

“He needed fresh air,” Y/N murmured, brushing a raindrop from her cheek. “He gets restless when I work too long. I think he resents my job.”

June chuckled and leaned down to pet Dusty, who allowed it with his usual regal detachment. “He’s handsome,” she said thoughtfully. “Got that look of someone who’s seen things.”

Y/N smiled. “Like us.”

“Exactly.” June’s fingers scratched gently behind his ear. “You gave him a home?”

“He gave me one,” she whispered before she realized she’d said it aloud.

June looked at her.

Y/N swallowed. The wind brushed cold against her cheeks. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. “I have pictures,” she said, her voice too soft. “Do you want to see?”

“I was waiting for that,” June said, settling in like it was a grand event.

Y/N flipped through photos with careful fingers. One of Dusty sleeping on a pile of books. One of him in a crooked little sweater she’d crocheted — his expression pure betrayal. One where he stood on the windowsill with sunlight gilding his fur, the city behind him like a world she didn’t belong to anymore.

June smiled at every one. “He looks like he trusts you.”

“I hope so.”

“You saved him?”

“No. I think I just… showed up. And he let me stay.”

The words felt too honest. But June never mocked honesty. She only nodded, like she knew what it meant to find shelter in something that couldn’t leave.

They sat in silence for a long time after that.

June crocheted a square for her blanket — lilac and navy, the colors of twilight. Y/N worked on a tiny blue hat, not sure who it was for. Dusty rested between them, tail curled like a comma, as if he were pausing a sentence neither of them wanted to end.

Then, softly, June asked, “Do you talk to him?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Your cat. Do you talk to him?”

Y/N’s lips parted, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to the yarn in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “I think… I tell him the things I can’t say out loud.”

June nodded slowly. “We all need someone who listens. Even if it’s just ears and whiskers.”

Y/N looked at her hands, at the tiny trembling loop she was forming. “I told him I wasn’t waiting anymore.”

“Are you?”

“I think I’m trying not to.”

June set her needles down and took one of Y/N’s hands, her grip warm and soft and full of unspoken knowing. “He’s missing out, whoever he is.”

Y/N tried to smile. It wobbled. “He loved someone else.”

“Then he never really looked at you.”

“I think… I think I spent so long being someone who waited for him… I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’re not just someone’s memory, sweetheart,” June said gently. “You’re here. You’re warm hands and kind eyes and messy yarn and a cat who chose you. That’s a lot.”

Dusty let out a soft chirp then, as if in agreement.

Y/N sniffed and nodded, tears pricking the corners of her eyes but refusing to fall. Not today.

“I never thought I’d be the woman who walked her cat in the park,” she said with a broken laugh.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” June said, eyes twinkling. “You’re the woman who brought her whole heart back to life… with a leash and some yarn. That’s something else entirely.”

--

There were things Y/N never spoke aloud — not to June, not to Dusty, not even to the ceiling fan above her bed that sometimes spun slow enough to listen.

She carried some stories like bruises beneath long sleeves. Quiet things that pulsed when touched, but stayed hidden because to reveal them would be to admit she was still clinging to shadows.

One of those bruises was Mondays.

Every Monday, without fail, Y/N sat in a small corner booth at Solstice Café — a quiet, sun-drenched spot with old wood chairs and that smell of cinnamon baked into its walls. She always brought a book. Sometimes a notebook. Sometimes just Dusty’s latest pictures on her phone to scroll through. But none of that was the reason she was there.

It had started years ago, in a different life. A warmer, louder one — where laughter was careless and hope didn’t feel like something foolish.

Bob had gotten a summer job spinning a ridiculous sign for a fried chicken place two blocks away. He had to wear a full chicken costume — yellow feathers, orange tights, a beak that flopped when he moved too quickly. He’d hated it. Said he looked like someone’s acid trip. He’d tried to quit after day two.

But she hadn’t let him. She’d shown up with lunch.

“Let the world see the bird,” she’d said, grinning.

He’d groaned. But when she pulled out his favorite sandwich and a milkshake — the one with caramel drizzle on top — he’d slumped beside her on the curb, feathers and all, and eaten in silence until he finally cracked a smile.

“Only you could make this less humiliating.”

“Maybe I just like chickens.”

“You like me in tights, admit it.”

She’d laughed. He’d turned red. And after that, every Monday for the rest of that summer — and the summers that followed, even after he quit — they had lunch together at Solstice. It became sacred. A ritual. Mondays were theirs.

Even after everything else in his life fell apart, Mondays stayed. She made sure of it.

She was the one constant. The lighthouse. The one who always showed up.

And now, all these years later, she still did.

Every Monday at noon, she left work exactly on time, tucked her cardigan tighter around her, and walked the six blocks to Solstice Café. Her booth was usually open. The staff didn’t know her name, but they knew her order. Grilled cheese. Tomato soup. And a lavender lemonade, just because Bob once said it reminded him of summer.

She never told June about it. She couldn’t. It felt too desperate. Too much like a woman who was still waiting for a boy who wore a chicken suit and laughed like he didn’t know how to stop.

Dusty would never understand either. He was loyal, yes, but cats didn’t know the ache of time or the illusion of memory that played like a movie behind your eyes.

She would sit in the booth with her book open but unread, eyes fixed on the seat across from her, and she would pretend — just for a moment — that he might walk through the door.

That maybe this Monday would be the one where time rewound and gave her a do-over. A world where Bob never left. Where Malaysia was just a made-up excuse, and he came home with feathered stories and a milkshake in hand. Where Yelena was nobody. Where his hand reached across the table and found hers because maybe — just maybe — he’d finally seen her the way she’d always seen him.

But it never happened.

The booth stayed empty. The soup got cold. And she walked home alone, every time, biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from falling in public.

Sometimes she hated herself for it — for being so loyal to a memory. For loving someone who’d never really been hers.

He had said “I love you, I’m sorry” before disappearing. And she'd let that echo destroy her. She'd built fantasies from it, believing for a moment that maybe — maybe — the love had been real. But now, after everything she’d seen, it felt more like a goodbye born from guilt than love.

Yelena had arrived with her sharp edges and hero’s smile, and whatever mess of a man Bob had returned as — the Sentry, the god, the weapon — he’d looked at her like salvation. Not at Y/N. Not once.

And still, every Monday, Y/N showed up like a woman stuck in time. Haunted by a love no one else had witnessed. By inside jokes that only she remembered.

The staff never asked why she dined alone.

Maybe they thought she was a widow. Maybe a creature of habit. Maybe just lonely.

But to Y/N, it was a quiet act of rebellion. Of memory. Of refusing to forget the version of Bob who once danced badly to ‘80s songs in her kitchen, wearing mismatched socks and her apron.

The boy who said she was his only real friend.

She didn’t believe in ghosts, not really. But if she did — if she let herself — she’d admit that Mondays were when she summoned one.

And she never told anyone.

Because some heartbreaks were too precious to share. Some wounds felt sacred.

--

Weekends used to be the hardest.

There was a stretch of time—long and hollow—where Saturday mornings arrived with too much silence, and Sunday nights ended with nothing but the weight of a week repeating itself. No plans, no messages, no one waiting. She had stopped checking her phone long ago for texts that would never come. The kind that once started with “you up?” or “I need you.”

But she had to fill the time with something. The ache of idleness was too loud.

So, one Sunday afternoon after wandering aimlessly downtown, she saw a flier posted crookedly on a corkboard at a bus stop: “Looking for weekend volunteers. All heart, no experience necessary. Shelter & Hope, 17th Ave.”

It was handwritten, the ink a little smudged, the edges curling like it had been forgotten. But something about it pulled her in. Maybe it was the “all heart” part. Or maybe it was just the idea that, somewhere in the city, someone needed something—even if it wasn’t her.

That next Saturday, she showed up. She wore a plain sweater, jeans that didn’t quite fit right anymore, and a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was met by a man named Greg, who smelled faintly of coffee and wore a name tag that read, “One Day At A Time.”

“You here to save the world?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “Just trying not to drown in it.”

He didn’t press further. Just nodded and handed her a pair of gloves.

That first weekend, she washed dishes. Lots of them. In water that was too hot and filled with bubbles that clung to her wrists. Her knuckles turned red and raw, but the rhythm of it—the simple, repetitive motion—soothed something inside her.

She went back the next weekend.

And the one after that.

Soon, she wasn’t just washing dishes. She was making coffee. Folding donated clothes. Listening.

The people who came through Shelter & Hope weren’t statistics to her. They were names. Stories. Laughter that broke mid-sentence. Eyes that saw too much. Hands that trembled when offered kindness.

She met Eddie, a Vietnam vet who spoke like his voice had been lost in smoke. He told her about a girl named Luanne who once made peach cobbler every Sunday, and how the world stopped being sweet after she died.

She met Sherry, who carried her childhood in a plastic grocery bag, and showed Y/N how to mend socks with a needle as tiny as her hope.

She met Miles, a boy barely twenty with teeth too white for someone who never smiled. He liked fantasy books—especially ones with dragons. Y/N started bringing him paperbacks from her store’s discard bin. They’d read aloud together in the corner, where the flickering light made it hard to tell when he was crying.

She brought Dusty one day, on a whim, tucked into a soft sling like a baby. The shelter had no policy against pets, and he was clean, calm, the kind of cat who seemed to know when someone needed a weight on their lap and nothing more.

The residents adored him. Even the toughest of them softened at the sight of that quiet grey tabby with big amber eyes. Dusty never hissed. Never clawed. He simply sat. As if to say, I know. I understand. And somehow, that was enough.

One woman, Clarice, who hadn’t spoken in weeks, finally did—just to say, “He reminds me of a cat I had when my son was little.”

Y/N crocheted hats in the evenings. Scarves. Ugly mittens in colors no one requested. She gave them out anyway, stuffing them into drawers and offering them with a shrug. Sometimes she stitched their initials in the yarn when she knew them well enough. Her fingers worked fast now, always busy, like if she stopped, her thoughts would unravel.

She never told anyone why she was there. Not really.

They assumed kindness. A gentle soul. And she let them.

But in truth, it was selfish. It wasn't just that she wanted to help.

It was that, in their sadness, she could bury her own.

Their heartbreaks were worse. Louder. They made hers feel manageable. Bearable.

She wasn’t the only one with a ghost trailing behind her. She wasn’t the only one who’d been left behind.

And she wasn’t even the most broken. That realization brought shame and comfort in equal measure.

One Saturday, as she read quietly with Miles, he asked without lifting his head:

“Who hurt you?”

She froze.

“What?”

“You got that... look. Like you’re still waiting for someone who left.”

She smiled tightly. Closed the book.

“I’m just trying to give something good to the world.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But the world broke you first.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

She went home that night and cried into Dusty’s fur until his little paws batted her cheeks in confusion.

But she still returned the next weekend.

Because the pain didn’t go away. But at least there, in that place of tattered blankets and borrowed names, she could pretend her sorrow was part of something bigger. Something useful.

And when she handed someone a scarf or a book or just sat beside them as they spoke of lost fathers, vanished sisters, or lovers who disappeared into the fog, she didn’t feel invisible anymore.

She felt needed.

Even if she was still heartbroken. Even if no one ever came back for her.

--

The afternoon sun poured through the tall front windows of the bookstore in long slanted beams, lighting up the dust in the air like suspended stars. Outside, it was early spring, the kind that still had a winter sting in its wind, but inside the shop, it was warm, quiet, and smelled like old paper and brewed coffee from the little machine behind the counter that had been sputtering since morning.

Y/N was kneeling by a stack of unopened boxes near the fantasy section. New inventory had just come in—paperbacks smelling of fresh ink, tight spines begging to be cracked open. She loved this part of her job. The methodical repetition of slicing through tape, peeling back cardboard, stacking new titles alphabetically. It required no smiles, no explanations. Just her and the books.

Dusty sat curled like a grey loaf behind the register, blissfully asleep, his ears flicking only when the bell above the door jingled.

She didn’t look up. Customers came in all the time. Browsers. Readers. Parents searching for a birthday present they wouldn’t understand.

But then, a low voice, gravelly like it had been dragged across asphalt, broke the soft quiet of the store.

“Any good fantasy books? Not lookin’ for anything fancy. Just... a good one.”

Y/N turned, slightly startled. The man who stood at the entrance of the aisle was older, maybe in his late fifties or sixties. His beard was thick and streaked with silver, wild but trimmed like he tried, sometimes. His jacket was old leather, the kind that didn’t just hang on your body but had a history. He wore sunglasses despite being indoors, which she found odd—and oddly funny.

She gave him a polite nod. “Sure. Do you want a classic or something newer?”

He shrugged. “Something I can disappear into.”

She tilted her head. She knew that feeling.

After a few seconds of scanning the shelf, she handed him a copy of “The Last Binding.” It was new. A hidden gem. A rich story with quiet grief buried in its fantasy. She had liked it.

He took the book from her hands, brushing her fingers with a calloused thumb as he did. “You read this?”

She nodded. “It’s about a boy who forgets everything he loves to protect it. And the people who try to remind him.”

He didn’t say anything, just held the book and stared at the cover like it might give him an answer.

They stood there for a beat, the soft music overhead almost too gentle to hear.

“You always this quiet?” he asked, voice low again, not mocking, just curious.

“I talk more when I know someone better,” she replied, organizing the rest of the books without looking up.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to read this quick and come back.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

He didn’t offer a name. Didn’t ask for hers. Just stood there, flipping through the first few pages with long fingers.

For the next ten minutes, he asked her a few things—what made her love books, if this was what she always wanted to do, if she believed in happy endings. Nothing deep, nothing strange. The kind of conversation people forgot five minutes after they walked away.

But she didn’t forget.

Because just before he left, as he approached the counter with the book and stood across from her, sunglasses still hiding his eyes, he tilted his head like he was studying her for the first time. And in the smallest voice, like it didn’t belong to someone who looked like him, he said:

“You seem sad.”

The words landed like glass on hardwood. Sharp. Unwelcome.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just offered a small, almost apologetic nod, left cash on the counter—exact change—and turned without another word.

The bell rang again as he left, his boots heavy and uneven on the wooden floor.

She stood there for a long time after he was gone, staring at the closed door.

“You seem sad.”

She was sad. But no one ever said it out loud. People said she was quiet. Or shy. Or kind. But not sad. Not like that.

Not like they could see it.

Y/N sat down on the little stool behind the register. Dusty jumped into her lap, purring instantly, like he knew.

Her hands shook slightly as she pet him.

Why did it matter what some stranger said? Why did those three words hurt more than the years of silence Bob had left behind?

Maybe because it meant it was still written all over her.

Maybe because no matter how many scarves she crocheted or how many fantasy books she pushed into lonely hands, it didn’t change the way her grief still bled through the cracks.

She opened the store notebook and scribbled in the margins like she sometimes did.

He didn’t ask my name. But he knew my sadness.

Then she crossed it out. Tucked the receipt from the man’s purchase into the back of the notebook like a keepsake. Just the date. The time. Nothing else.

It wasn’t a moment worth remembering, and yet—she would.

--

The tattoo shop sat at the edge of the avenue, tucked between a pawn shop and a boarded-up bakery. The neon sign in the window blinked lazily in red and blue—“Electric Rose Tattoo”—flickering just enough to make her hesitate.

Y/N stood outside, wrapped in her oversized cardigan, her hands buried in the long sleeves like a child trying to disappear. She had been standing there for five minutes. Ten. Maybe more. The sun was low and golden behind her, casting her shadow long across the sidewalk. People passed, barely glancing. A woman holding flowers. A man with headphones. A teenager laughing into his phone. Everyone had a destination. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Except her.

The idea of a tattoo hadn’t come from a bucket list or a sudden surge of rebellion. It had arrived quietly, like most of her thoughts did these days—born in the middle of an overcast morning, while folding laundry in silence, her heart heavy with the weight of being forgotten.

She had caught her reflection in the mirror and thought, I don’t even recognize her anymore.

Same eyes. Same face. Same tired hands and polite smile. She wasn’t beautiful. She had made peace with that—or told herself she had. She wasn’t anything. Not someone people remembered. Not someone who turned heads. Not someone Bob had ever seen as more than... dependable.

So what could she change?

Her face? No. Her body? She didn’t have the energy. Her soul? Too far gone.

But her skin? That, at least, was a canvas. And for once, maybe—just maybe—she could paint something of her own.

She looked down at the piece of folded notebook paper in her hand. The design she had drawn late one night. It was simple: a tiny open book, and out of the pages, a delicate stem of lavender reaching upward—her favorite flower. Her comfort. Her scent. Her solitude. The one thing she always bought fresh every week, even if she didn’t eat three meals a day.

The tattoo wasn’t big. It would sit on the inside of her left arm, just above the elbow crease, where her sleeves usually covered. Where she could see it, but others might not. It wasn’t for anyone else.

Just her.

The bell above the door jingled faintly as she finally stepped in, the soft scent of antiseptic and ink blooming around her.

The artist, a woman named Mel, looked up from her sketchpad. “Y/N?”

She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Hi. Sorry I’m late.”

Mel smiled gently. She had full sleeves of tattoos, pink buzzed hair, and a nose ring that caught the light. She was effortlessly cool, the kind of person Y/N would have admired from afar, thinking, She knows who she is.

“Don’t worry. You ready?”

Y/N hesitated.

Ready? Was she ever ready for anything? Ready to love Bob, to lose him, to grieve him while he lived a public life as someone else’s hero? Ready to become a ghost in her own skin? Ready to crochet her heartbreak into scarves no one wore?

But she was here. She had made it here.

So she nodded again, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Yeah.”

She handed over the drawing with slightly trembling hands.

Mel looked at it, and something in her expression softened. “It’s really beautiful. You draw this?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a story behind it?”

Y/N opened her mouth. Closed it. Then shook her head. “No. I just… like books.”

It was a lie. But it was the kind of lie that kept her from unraveling in front of strangers.

They prepped the chair, the stencil, the tools. It all moved so quickly, like life always did now—just motion and murmurs, and time folding into itself.

When the needle first touched her skin, it stung—but not in the way she feared. It was grounding. Like she could finally feel something. Like her body remembered it was hers, not just a shell moving through book aisles and charity kitchens and empty park benches.

Halfway through, she felt tears on her cheeks.

Mel paused. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. She was crying for every Monday lunch where she sat alone. For every time she saw Yelena’s name paired with Bob’s. For every cruel whisper in her head calling her plain. For every man who saw her as less-than. For Dusty and June and the silence in her apartment after lights out. For being invisible for so long, even to the man who once told her, I love you, I’m sorry.

For still not knowing which part of that sentence he meant.

By the time the tattoo was finished, her sleeve was damp at the wrist from wiping her face too many times.

Ten minutes being obligated to lay down and wait was all she needed to spiral.

Mel wrapped her arm gently, like she was swaddling something precious.

“You did great,” she said kindly. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded again. But her voice cracked when she whispered, “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just for the tattoo.

It was for not asking more questions. For not pitying her. For helping her leave something permanent behind—something she had chosen.

She left the shop just as the sun was disappearing behind the buildings, sky bruised with color. Her arm stung, wrapped in sterile gauze, and the weight of the ink felt heavier than she expected.

But it was hers. For once in her life, something was only hers.

And as she walked down the sidewalk in her too-comfortable shoes, cardigan sleeves flapping in the wind, she felt something shift.

Not healing tho, maybe... refreshing feeling.

--

The next morning was one of those early spring days that still carried the ache of winter in its bones. Pale light stretched thin over the clouds, and the air held that soft chill that nipped at the fingers just enough to make you grateful for hot coffee. The park was quiet—the kind of quiet that settled not just around you, but in you.

Y/N walked slowly, Dusty tucked into the canvas tote at her side, only his little gray head poking out, eyes scanning the world like he was guarding it just for her. She had bundled herself in a wool coat and her usual fingerless gloves, but today she wore the new tattoo openly. The gauze was gone, replaced with healing balm and a slight sting every time her sleeve brushed it.

The tiny open book, delicate and lavender-laced, peeked out from under her coat sleeve like a secret she’d finally allowed herself to tell.

Her coffee was still warm when she reached the bench.

June was already there, of course—her skeletal fingers looping and pulling bright red yarn into rows, a soft crochet rhythm that looked more like a heartbeat than a hobby. Her white curls peeked from under a knitted hat, and beside her rested a small paper bag of crackers she always insisted on sharing with Dusty, whether he wanted them or not.

“You’re late, sweetheart,” June said without looking up, but the smile on her face said she didn’t mind.

Y/N smiled weakly and sat beside her, placing her coffee carefully on the bench’s edge and unbuttoning her coat. Dusty crawled out of the tote and leapt into June’s lap with practiced elegance, already nuzzling her side like he belonged there.

“Well, I brought peace offerings,” Y/N said softly.

“Oh? Do tell.”

Wordlessly, Y/N reached into her bag and pulled out a small bundle, carefully folded and tied with twine. It wasn’t much—just a hand-crocheted scarf in soft, dusky plum, the kind of purple that looked rich in any light. The pattern was imperfect. The stitches wobbled here and there, uneven tension in some rows. But the warmth it carried was unmistakable.

“For you,” she whispered.

June stopped mid-stitch, looking at the bundle like it was a relic.

“For me?” she asked, startled. “What’s the occasion?”

Y/N shrugged, eyes glistening. “No occasion. I just… wanted to.”

June took it gently, unwrapping the twine with a care usually reserved for something far more fragile.

“Oh,” she whispered, fingers trembling as she touched the scarf, dragging them slowly across each loop like she was reading braille. “Oh, my dear girl…”

Her voice caught.

“I didn’t think anyone made things for me anymore.”

Y/N looked down quickly, embarrassed by the tears threatening to spill again. She hadn’t expected this reaction—just a small smile maybe, a thank you. Not the way June pressed the scarf to her chest like it was a bouquet of wildflowers from someone long gone.

“I just thought it might keep you warm when it gets windy,” Y/N mumbled. “It’s nothing special. I know it’s not perfect—”

June turned to her, eyes watery but warm, her voice low. “It’s the most special thing I’ve received in years.”

Y/N looked at her. For a moment, they just sat there in silence, Dusty purring between them, the breeze tugging gently at their coats.

Then June glanced down at Y/N’s arm and narrowed her eyes.

“Now what’s this?” she said, voice lifting slightly. “Is that a tattoo?”

Y/N blushed and nodded. “Yeah. I… got it yesterday.”

June took her wrist gently, the same way a mother might hold a child’s hand, and studied the ink.

“A book and lavender,” she murmured. “You. That’s you right there.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “I needed something that was just mine.”

June said nothing for a moment. Then, she let go of her wrist and leaned back on the bench, pulling the scarf loosely around her shoulders.

“You’ve been hurting for a long time, haven’t you?”

Y/N swallowed. Her chest ached. “Yeah.”

“I know,” June whispered. “You don’t have to say more.”

The park hummed around them—birds chirping in soft question marks, the crunch of leaves under joggers’ feet, the distant bark of a dog. And yet, this little space between them felt like a separate world entirely. A place where Y/N wasn’t invisible. Where someone noticed the cracks.

June took her hand again, this time to hold it.

“I don’t know who broke your heart, sweetheart,” she said softly. “But you’re still here. You keep showing up. You bring light. And let me tell you something—someone who shows up every day, even when it hurts, even when they feel like nothing… That’s the kind of person who carries real love.”

Y/N couldn’t respond. Her throat was too tight. She looked down at her lap, blinking furiously, willing herself not to fall apart in the park like she always did at home.

But June didn’t need her to speak. She just held her hand, the way old women do when they know silence is the only comfort words can’t touch.

Dusty nudged his head against Y/N’s leg and meowed, as if to say, You’re not alone, even if it feels like it.

--

It had been three weeks since he last appeared.

And yet, Y/N had begun to expect him.

The mysterious old man—leather jacket always zipped, sunglasses always on no matter the weather, a neat but wiry beard that made him look like he could be anywhere from fifty to ninety—had drifted in and out of the bookstore like a half-remembered dream. Never quite real. Never quite gone.

He came during the slow hours, never in a hurry. Sometimes midday. Sometimes close to closing. He’d ask for a recommendation—“Nothing fancy, just good. Something real.” Always those same words. And she always gave him something she loved or had just read, or sometimes a brand-new title no one had touched yet. And every time, when she asked if he’d liked the last one, his answer was vague.

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “Beautiful book.”

But it was the kind of answer people gave when they weren’t really listening, or weren’t really reading. Still, he always bought the next book. Without question. No bargaining. No hesitation.

That afternoon, the bell above the door jingled, and she didn’t even have to look up to know it was him.

Same jacket. Same slow steps. The scent of cold wind and dust trailing behind him like the past.

Dusty, curled up in a sun patch near the register, lifted his head curiously. Y/N reached down to pet him, as the man approached with that familiar unspoken gravity.

“Back again?” she asked with a lightness she didn’t quite feel.

He gave a short nod. “Books are addictive. You’ve made me a junkie.”

That made her laugh—quiet, restrained, but real. The kind of laugh she only had left these days. “Well, there are worse things to be addicted to.”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he reached for one of the newer fantasy novels near the display. “This one good?”

She nodded. “Not bad. More whimsical than most. Dreamy prose. A bit sad.”

“Sad’s good,” he said. “Sad makes sense.”

She blinked at that, not sure why the words echoed in her chest the way they did. Maybe because they sounded like her own thoughts—things she’d never said aloud. But she smiled, quietly nodding again as she rang it up.

The silence stretched between them like it always did—comfortable, but strange. Then he glanced down, pointing at the little patch of gray fluff sprawled lazily on a cushion.

“How’s your little bodyguard?”

She followed his gaze and grinned. “Dusty’s fine. Still thinks he owns the bookstore.”

“He does,” the man said. “And probably your apartment.”

Y/N laughed, her fingers unconsciously smoothing over Dusty’s fur. “Yeah, that too.”

The man tilted his head slightly, looking at the chalkboard behind her. A few words were scrawled there in messy, cheerful handwriting:

Book Club – Thursdays at 9PM – Bring your favorite book! Open to everyone. Coffee and cookies provided.

He read it for a moment, then turned back to her. “That still happening?”

“Every week,” she said. “It’s free. You just show up and bring a book you want to talk about.”

His lips tugged upward. “Any book?”

She nodded.

He tapped his fingers against the counter thoughtfully. “Well, I happen to be an authority on Russian literature. The rest of your guests would be humbled by my knowledge.”

It was such a strange, out-of-place joke that she couldn’t help but burst into a real laugh.

He smiled at her reaction, brief but genuine, and tucked the book under his arm.

“Well, I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll come and teach you Dostoevsky through interpretive dance.”

“You’d fit right in,” she said softly. “Most of them are walking therapy sessions with page numbers.”

He paused then, head tilting slightly, like he saw something she didn’t know she was showing.

His voice, when he spoke again, had softened.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

She looked up, confused, mouth opening—but the words stuck in her throat. “Wait… I—I never told you my name.”

He had already turned toward the door, hand on the knob, pausing just long enough to look back over his shoulder.

“Didn’t you?” he asked, almost kindly. “I must’ve just known.”

Y/N leaned to the door. "Wait what's your name?"

"Alexei." Then he was gone. The bell jingled faintly behind him like a wind chime.

And just like that, she was alone again.

Y/N crouched, hand gently stroking the cat’s fur, eyes still locked on the door.

"He's little weird right? But he seems nice."

[uyuforu]

*´¨)  ¸.·´¸.·*´¨) ¸.·*¨)  (¸.·´ (¸.·´ * Astro Observations XII *´¨)  ¸.·´¸.·*´¨) ¸.·*¨)  (¸.·´ (¸.·´ *

©uyuforu All Rights Reserved; Do not copy work.

Pictures found on Pinterest, Dividers from Tumblr; Credits go to owners.

⋆ Astro Observations VI ⋆ Astro Observations VII ⋆ Astro Observations VIII ⋆ Astro Observations IX 18+⋆ Astro Observations X ⋆ Astro Observations XI ⋆

࣪ ִֶָ☾. It's been a while my babies! I have been very busy by a lot of things, mostly that I found a second job in a company I really wanted to work in. I paused the private readings for a while because I wanted to make sure to get well into my job. I am feeling like I can come back now, it feels good! I didn't forget about you nor astrology, in fact my mind is constantly continuing noticing things around me lol. Im gonna do a post here with some astro gossips and thing is have noticed. Hope you'll like this :)

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⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Mercury Cazimi is currently happening (May 2025). If you do not know what it is, it is the Sun and Moon making a conjunction, and it's often a perfect time to find out truths.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ The Wizard Liz, a very famous YouTuber who makes contents on women empowerment, got cheated on by her husband while she was 4 months pregnant and found out during the transit.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking about this transit, my mom found out some truth about her astro placements and work. She was always confronted with women who wanted to run the work place and saw her as a threat. She realized during this transit instead of running away from those people, she should confront them and stand against them.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Another thing that came up, for me I learned one of my coworker who flirted openly with me had a girlfriend, and didn't want me to know :)

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ What should I expect from a Libra Sun Man?? Seriously those men looooove flirting. Always cheating, sorry not sorry.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ He also got a Leo Venus and a Leo Mars, he loves the attention, which I am not giving to him, he always made sure I noticed he was in the room, talking loud, constantly commenting on anything I would do, clingy.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking synastry with this guy, his Venus and Mars conjunct my Sun, ofc he got a crush. And his Sun conjunct my Rising. Bro is so into me its so obvious, always staring.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ My other coworkers are a Capricorn Sun (man) and a Libra Sun (woman). My Libra Sun female coworker is such an angel. She has a Virgo Rising as well; which conjunct my Venus, and we get along so well.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ She is truly very dedicated to her work, but so kind and naturally beautiful. I think her Libra Sun with Virgo Rising makes her embrace her natural beauty, she is never wearing make up.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ For my Cap Sun male coworker, he nice too, but so shy omg, he a Scorpio Rising, so you can guess why he so reserved. He also got a Gemini Moon so once you get to know him he is actually very funny.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ My two bosses are both Taurus Sun, and they are only 3 days and 4 years apart, and they got the same name, which I found to be a funny coincidence.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I wanna talk about Synastry again. My Libra Sun male coworker who keeps flirting with me also got his Jupiter conjunct my Briede Asteroid (19029). But his Chiron falls in my 12H with his Sun, Im not interested in him, I often act as if he doesn't exist, he too straightforward for me AND HE GOT A GF WTF.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Though if you want to get rid of a man with Leo on their Venus and Mars: do not give them attention. It's gonna hurt their ego so bad they gonna hate you. Mission accomplished.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking about crushes, I also found out during Mercury Cazimi transit that a guy I knew back in 2022 got a crush on me STILL. He an Aquarius Sun, Aquarius Moon and idk his rising lol, but im sure its Cancer.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ His Chiron is in my 11H, he got friend zoned by me a few years ago but indirectly ;-;

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ His Union Asteroid and North Node are in my 1H, bro got a crush at first sight on me. It also both conjunct my Mars. hehehe

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I often noticed too that men who got huge crushes on me got their Mars conjunct my Venus or Sun. Often indicating strong attraction.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I found toon that your big 3 often indicates your reputation and how people see you directly. Im a Leo Sun, Libra Rising and Gemini Moon. People see me as charming and beautiful yet also fake (Libra Rising). They also think I am kind and easily in the spotlight yet some will say im attention grabbing and too much (Leo Sun). And people also see me as funny and witty, but childish and fake (Gemini Moon).

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Talking fast about Lunar Returns but the one I started my job, I had a 6H stellium. Venus was also there, and I had some coworkers who got crushes on me -.-

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ I also had a Libra Rising which is the same Rising as in my natal chart, and bro I felt like I was noticed so much by other people?? I got called beautiful by strangers so many times. I also got a glow up from me cutting my hair (which I did after Venus retrograde ended and best decision ever!)

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Ofc my 6H stellium also meant I was very busy! I had Neptune there as well and I kept dreaming/ having nightmares about work.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Also right when I found out about Liz's husband cheating on her and my Libra man coworker having a gf, it was the start of my new Lunar Return, with a 12H stellium with Venus in it. Love was OVER for me! I was feeling like it sucked, and men only cheated!

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Currently in the new Lunar Return, I also have a 1H stellium with Sun, Mercury, Uranus and Moon there, and I found out I lost weight. I am also feeling more confident in my body and I feel like im having a constant glow up.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Also, I wanna say if you have a Leo stellium, Sun in 10H or even a Leo stellium in the 10H, better realize now whatever you do, you'll be in the spotlight and people will be jealous of you. Embrace the truth and be confident baby.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Transit Pluto conjunct Natal Neptune could mean you could realize some illusions you had about a subject (to know which subject it would be about, check the house it happens). Truth could be revealed to you during this time.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Sun or Moon conjunct Mars Synastry can bring out jealousy.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Sun conjunct Mars can also bring out strong physical attraction for the Mars person. But on the negative side, Sun person have the ability to also piss Mars person off strongly lol.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Also Im gonna die on this hill, but Sun conjunct Moon never did well to anyone around me. It clashes more than anything because the conjunction is a strong aspect; while sextile and trine would be better because it's harmonious.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Mars conjunct Chiron often makes Chiron person triggered by Mars person.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ Selena Gomez being a self made Billionaire also makes so much sense looking at her chart. She has her 2H Ruler being the Sun (so money comes from the self), in the 1H. So even more that comes from the self, the money also comes from her, her image, so she was meant to build an empire around her image. BUT. Her Sun (2H Ruler) is in 29°, she is literally over famous.

Thank you for Reading!

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©uyuforu All Rights Reserved; Do not copy work.

[a8ofcrows]

I thought you liked navigating rocky terrain | bob floyd

summary: there has been some confusion about the true relationship between you and bradshaw. and even more confusion between you and your flight partner…

warnings: mention of alcohol, not even miscommunication- just pure lack of communication. implied cheating (it doesn’t happen and is a huge misunderstanding) flirting ?? maybe a suggestive comment or two. mention of blood, a *small* bar fight, kissing, bordering on making out , yearning, pining

- ᵈᵒⁿ’ᵗ ᵃˢᵏ ᵐᵉ ʰᵒʷ ᶦ ᵍᵒᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵈᵒⁿ’ᵗ ᵃˢᵏ ᵐᵉ ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵐᵒᵛᶦᵉ ᶦ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʷᵃᵗᶜʰᵉᵈ

you were sat at the bar by yourself, trying to focus on your book and your drink. the book wasn’t good enough and the drink wasn’t strong enough to distract you fully from the eyes that were on you. you sighed slightly when you heard the squeak of a chair being slid back from the table. you quickly buried your face behind your book, pretending to be interested in it. “good book?” you glanced over the edge of the book slightly, taking in the unfortunate smirking figure eyeing you. “i’ve read better.” you knew if you were too short with your answers, it would just encourage him. jake was still smirking slightly, clearly not getting the hint that he was bothering you. you had only ever called him by his call sign- hangman- or his last name; not wanting to give him the satisfaction of letting him know you remembered his first name. “well, if you want to do something more interesting-“ “i don’t. but thanks…” you glanced around the room slightly, hoping to find someone you actually liked that could save you from this interaction. “come on, sprout.” you had chosen it as your call sign, but you still hated when he used it. “is he bothering you?”

mickey had stepped beside you, eyeing jake coolly.

“yes, actually-“

“we’re just having fun.” mickey looked doubtful, leaning slightly closer to him on the table.

“she’s fine, fanboy. she can tell me if she’s not interested.”

“she already has… at least twenty times.”

your flight partner, and absolute best friend had joined you at the table. he eyed seresin coolly. “give me a break, floyd. this doesn’t involve you. unless it’s just because you just don’t want me screwing your friend. might be a little awkward for you?” bob tensed slightly, expression growing cooler. he pushed his glasses up his nose as stood to his feet. bob didn’t need to stand up. bradley was crossing the room in big strides, posture tense, expression-very clearly pissed off. “is there a problem here?” bradley stepped between you, leaning against the table, eyeing seresin darkly. you put a hand on his stomach, trying to push bradley back slightly. seresin rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply, “oh good… mister overprotective is here.”

“what was that?” bradley pushed your arm away from him- much rougher than he usually would. “what did you say?”

“he was saying he wanted to screw her.”

fanboy gestured to you, a smug smirk on his lips, below his dark expression. bradley snapped his head towards him and playboy actually flinched. he turned his attention to you, then bob, then back to you. you nodded just slightly. bob had taken a few steps back- not wanting to be on the receiving end of that murderous stare ever again. and also wanting to be out of the way for what inevitably came next.

bradley spun around and seresin didn’t even have time to lift his arms in defense. the punch sent him stumbling backwards, hands covering his nose as blood pooled through his fingers. he crashed into a table behind him, tipping the drinks and sending the inhabitants tipping backwards to the floor. people jumped to their feet. shouting started throughout the room and a few people rushed forward, towards the chaos. bob and fanboy held out their arms. fanboy shook his head with a warning expression. seresin was rushing forward now, fists clenched and ready to strike. he missed. bradley ducked and grabbed his shirt sleeve. he shoved him- hard- against the wall, ignoring the cursing and thrashing. he pinned his arms against his back, shoving his head so it was against the wall. “you think i’m overprotective now? you haven’t seen anything.” he released him finally, taking a step back. seresin had murder in his eyes. he spit, sending bloody saliva onto bradley’s shoe. bradley’s expression didn’t change. a twitch in his lip was the only indication that he had even noticed. “don’t talk to her again.” He crossed his arms, rage burning behind his eyes, “don’t even look at her again.” seresin just smirked darkly, eyes blazing with something worse than hate. bradley turned around without even glancing to you, “what are you all looking at? get back to your drinks.” you watched him return to the pool table, releasing a deep breath. you hadn’t realized how tense you were until you had finally breathed again.

“one day they’ll kill each other…” fanboy shook his head, taking a swig of his beer. this had not been the first argument between the two. and it probably wouldn’t be the last. they weren’t always because of you. they could be about absolutely anything- usually stupid things. competition, grabbing the wrong towel or socks in the locker rooms. but this had been the first one that had gotten physical. you just shook your head, finishing your own drink and then fanboy’s. you closed your eyes slightly as the music increased in volume. a smile spread across your lips, “come on, bob.” he was the best flight partner. he was also the best dance partner. “oh, um… no… i- i’m okay.” his posture was tense as he stared down at his unopened beer bottle, fingers tapping against it anxiously. fanboy looked at you in confusion, eyebrows raised slightly. “i actually um-“ bob looked down at his wrist -that didn’t have a watch, “i might actually just go. it’s.. it’s getting late.” fanboy looked at him curiously, “it’s six o’clock?” and he didn’t have a watch. bob turned away, unopened beer abandoned on the table, and started for the door.

“what the hell was that?” fanboy grabbed the unopened beer and popped it open, “that was so…unbob-like?” you didn’t respond, watching bob go with furrowed eyebrows. “he always agrees to dance with you. he agrees to do anything with you…” you just shook your head, your heart thudding solidly in your ears. was he that afraid of bradley? bob wasn’t afraid of anything. not your airborne, turbulent loops, not your tendency for rapid, upward acceleration, not even your nose dives. and certainly not someone he could fair well in a fight against. either way, you were going to find out.

bob was standing on the balcony, looking out towards the water. his posture was rigid- tense all the way throughout his body. his jaw was too clenched, his shoulders were too stiff, and his hands were gripping the banister too tightly. he looked completely unlike himself. he was entirely…unbob-like. you stopped once you were beside him, looking at him in silence. His body was still, like he was holding his breath. “you..okay?” it had been a stupid question. obviously not. “fine.. i’m fine.” his words were tight, like he had to force himself to lie. you nudged him slightly and he flinched. “i just.. i don’t understand.” “understand..? what, exactly?” you turned to face him, reaching for his hand slowly. bob stepped back, pulling his hand off the railing. he was eyeing you like he wasn’t sure who you were. “dancing? why I asked you to dance instead of fanboy? Usually girls ask boys they like to dance because they want to be close to them. it gives us an excuse… i thought you had figured that out by now.” you smirked slightly, a playful expression on your lips. “no.” His tone startled you. you had never heard him speak so shortly, or sound so..final. “stop. please just stop.” the softness returned to him briefly, “that’s not what I mean.” you looked at him questioningly. Expectantly. “you saw him in there! why do you..do this? say the things you do? look at me…with that expression. and those eyes.” you watched him, the pain evident behind his eyes. “bob. what are you—“

“i can’t do it anymore, alright?”

“bob, he wouldn’t even care if it was you.”

“listen to you! did you see how he reacted in there? and you think he would just be fine with me?” you smirked slightly, coughing out a slight laugh. “ironically, he requested that I be paired with you. he thought you would be the least threatening to me.” bob turned to look at you fully, stepping right against you, “you think this is funny?!” you flinched, stepping away from with wide eyes. he had never once spoken to you like that. with that tone. with that much anger behind his words. you weren’t sure he had ever spoken to anyone like that. “look at you…” now he sounded disappointed, which may have been even worse. “i don’t care what kind of weird relationship you have.” relationship? oh. oh no. “i don’t care what weird things he’s okay with. i won’t get in the middle of the two of you. i won’t risk the team dynamics, i won’t risk my position. and I certainly don’t want to get my ass beat. or get shoved into a wall. or get my face broken.” “but bob-“ you tried desperately to explain. to make him understand. to do anything to stop this horrible, horrible situation. “i don’t care if I’m the exception. i’m not going to be the other guy. i don’t want to be involved in an affair. i don’t want to be with a cheater. even if it’s you… i can’t be with you if it’s not..just me. because I know how i feel about you. i hate it. i wish I could get it to go away. but I won’t do this. i- It has to be just us. all or nothing. and I won’t let you to break up with your long term boyfriend for me.” you fought back a gag just at the thought. oh no. oh, dear. this was the worst, most nightmarish situation that could ever happen to anyone in the world.

“robert.”

his name on your lips brought his eyes back to you briefly.

“what the hell are you talking about?”

“please don’t. don’t play dumb with me. it won’t change my mind…”

“it’s bradhsaw! even if it wasn’t our second, i still wouldn’t. i can’t.” the anger had vanished from his face and his voice. he sounded broken. desperate. his voice shook slightly as he darted his eyes away from you, and to the floor.

“robert floyd.”

bob flinched at his full name.

“robert floyd, i love you, but for a genius, you’re being really stupid right now.” his eyes snapped to yours, anger flashing again. he opened his mouth, eyes furrowed. he was hurt by your words, confused. “i-“ you held your hand up, shaking your head slightly, silencing him without words.

“rooster is my brother.”

bob’s eyes widened; he stumbled towards you, nearly collapsing. “your- he’s-“ he let out a desperate, shaky exhale, “what.” you smirked just slightly, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to finish stammering, spiraling, panicking. “your brother.” you nodded, looking at him incredulously, slightly cocky, slightly smug. “he’s your brother. i-“ bob stumbled forward again, clearly forgetting how to function like a normal human being. he crashed into you, nearly knocking you off your feet from the force of it. his lips were on yours without anymore hesitation. he wrapped his arms around you, backing you urgently against the balcony railing. his hands held your hips tightly, leaning into you, bending you over the railing backwards. he was already out of breath, heat rising rapidly through his shirt. You couldn’t breathe. your heart was threatening to burst; or maybe break free, right through your ribs. he finally broke away from your lips, panting, finally needing air desperately enough to force himself to part from you. he swore quietly, closing his eyes, trying to pull himself back together. “i’m sorry.” he took your hand and squeezed, kissing your knuckles, then up your hand, to your wrist, up your arm, up to your neck, your jawline, finally finding your lips again. bob exhaled against your shoulder, kissed it once, nestled his face into your neck. you were out of breath slightly, “you don’t need to apologize for anything.” he kissed you again; now that he had done it once- then several more times- he wasn’t going to stop. “i do. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry for how I spoke to you. and what I said… and for thinking that- that you were..like that.” you just smirked slightly, “robert. stop. we’re okay. we’re just fine…” more than fine. so much more than okay… he breathed a sigh of relief, closing his eyes as he rested his head against your forehead.

“i guess i should have been wearing the name tag with my last name on it this whole time…”

********

a/n: this had to be redone four (4) times and completely restarted once. tumblr really hates me.

[misshoneyimhome]

What's up buttercups ♥️

We’ve made it—this is the final chapter of the series 😊 And I hope it’s brought you joy, tension, chaos, and all the closeness your heart craved. Though, while this may be the end… I won’t lie, a cheeky Chapter 20 epilogue might still be on the horizon. I mean—it’s Christmas (in the story), and who could resist one last gift? 😉🎁

So, feel free to drop your wildest wishes and softest dreams in the comments, darlings ♥️ And as always, happy reading!

P.S. Massive thanks to @tonyspep for sparking the idea behind that steamy moment with our favourite duo 🔥

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, language, Smut 18+: handcuffs, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected vaginal sex, cum inside, oral sex (f receiving), more unprotected vaginal sex, and yes, finally, more cum inside (what can I say, I want that Auston juice)

Word count: 9.1k Chapter one ; Chapter two ; Chapter three ; Chapter four ; Chapter five ; Chapter six ; Chapter seven ; Chapter eight ; Chapter nine; Chapter ten; Chapter eleven; Chapter twelve; Chapter thirteen ; Chapter fourteen; Chapter fifteen; Chapter sixteen; Chapter seventeen ; Chapter eighteen

Some who might have interest: @hockeybabe87 @tonyspep @thesecretestblogever @delayed-delusions @kurlyteuvo @emsdevs

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter nineteen: The Benchwarmer*

::

Wednesday -

The soft buzz of your phone stirred you awake before the winter sun had even cracked through the curtains.

You blinked clearly, one arm still tangled in the duvet, the other groping blindly toward your nightstand. The screen lit up your face with a low glow as you rolled onto your side.

Auston: Missed your face. Even half-asleep. Two more days, babe.

Auston: Also, dreamt you were chirping me for my bedhead again. Woke up offended.

You snorted into your pillow, the sound half-sigh, half-swoon. Sleep was already dissolving from your limbs, replaced with a warmth that had nothing to do with the heating in your flat.

Two more days.

It had only been a short road stint—Pittsburgh, then Jersey—but you missed him more than you’d expected. You talked every day. Facetimed every night. Sent stupid pictures, voice notes, playlists, screenshots of memes that reminded you of each other.

You felt sixteen again. Like this was all brand new. Like he hadn’t already seen you cry, yell, unravel. Like none of the damage had happened.

But it had. And somehow, it still felt like something whole had been rebuilt from the wreckage.

You pulled your phone closer to your chest, stared at the screen a moment longer before typing.

You: I only chirp because your bedhead looks like a hockey helmet exploded.

You: Miss you too. Come home soon.

You: P.S. tell Willy he’s not allowed to steal your phone anymore and leave that many typos.

A reply came almost immediately.

Auston: That was literally one time. And I let him because he bribed me with Swedish chocolate. You’d have folded too.

You grinned. Rolled onto your back and let the ceiling fan spin above you in slow, lazy circles.

Everything felt weirdly… good. Like the air had finally cleared. Like you’d climbed out of some emotional foxhole and found sunlight again. Auston was texting you good morning and goodnight. Jess was staying over on weeknights just to hang out. The WAGs weren’t glaring daggers in your direction. Mr. Manion had even stopped side-eyeing you in meetings.

And The Benchwarmer?

Silent.

No new posts. No snide tweets. No grainy surveillance shots lurking in corners of the internet. It was like they’d vanished with the last of November’s rain.

You thought about it sometimes—how quiet it had gone. But mostly, you didn’t care. Not now.

Let them watch, if they were still watching. You were done living like the glass could shatter at any second.

Your phone buzzed again.

Auston: Practice in twenty. Gotta run. But call me later, yeah? Want to hear that sleepy voice again.

You: You’re obsessed.

Auston: Painfully.

You were still smiling when Jess wandered out of the bathroom, made a quick stop by the kitchen before coming over to you, a mug of coffee in each hand and a raised eyebrow aimed directly at you.

“Well, well, well,” she said, voice raspy with sleep. “Looks like someone’s getting their serotonin served fresh and daily.”

You reached for the mug she held out. “Shut up.”

“No seriously,” she said, crawling up the bed like she owned it and flopping beside you. “You’ve got that look. The ‘I just got railed in a dream and now I’m texting him like it wasn’t weird’ look.”

You choked on your coffee. “Jessica.”

“What?” she grinned. “I know the signs. Blissed out. Eyes sparkly. That little secret smile. Honestly, I’m just glad it’s him and not some emotionally unavailable barista named Milo or something.”

You laughed. “Why Milo?”

“I dunno. Feels like the type who’d ghost after making you an oat milk flat white and whispering that you ‘smell like spring heartbreak.’”

You snorted again, leaning your head back against the headboard. “No Milos here. Just Auston. And me. And… whatever this is.”

Jess’s expression softened. She nudged your leg with her knee. “Whatever it is, it looks good on you.”

You glanced back down at your phone. The screen was dark now, but the words from earlier still lingered in your mind.

Painfully.

You hadn’t expected this. Not really. Not after everything. But you also weren’t going to waste time doubting it.

Instead, you took a long sip of coffee, then looked at Jess. “We’re going on a real date when he’s back.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh shit. Like a real real one?”

“Yep,” you nodded. “Fancy outfit. Nervous energy. Actual table reservation. The whole deal.”

Jess beamed. “God, I love a redemption arc.”

You laughed, heart light, body warm, and for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

Maybe you were in one.

And maybe—for once—you weren’t just playing the part.

_

The bell above the café door chimed as you stepped inside, and for a second, you debated turning right back around.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t welcomed you back. The WAGs had seen the kiss. The kiss. You and Auston, wrapped around each other in the locker room like nobody else existed. There had been witnesses. There had been side-eyes. But no one had walked away.

Still, the nerves clung to your skin like static.

Jess brushed past you, giving your elbow a squeeze as she did. Naturally, she’d come along as moral support. “Relax,” she murmured under her breath. “You’re not walking into a courtroom.”

“No,” you muttered back, “just a table full of people I emotionally betrayed and lied to for two months.”

“Semantics,” she said, grinning.

The glamorous café was all glass windows and exposed brick, warm light filtering in through half-fogged panes. The smell of espresso and burnt caramel lingered in the air. A table in the corner was already half full—Aryne, Stephanie, Sanna, Tessa, Estelle—all mid-sip and conversation.

Aryne looked up first. Her eyes met yours. She curved a light smile.

You swallowed hard.

Then she lifted her coffee and tilted it in a silent toast. “Look who finally decided to join us.”

“Was fashionably late,” Jess cut in, sliding into a chair like she owned the place. “Obviously.”

Stephanie waved toward the open seats. “Sit. Before we start gossiping without you.”

You slid into your chair, pulse still elevated, but your shoulders loosened a little when Tessa leaned over and offered you a mimosa without a word.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

She just winked. “You’re gonna need it.”

And within minutes, conversations resumed like they had never paused. It wasn’t quite normal—but it wasn’t cold. It was like standing at the edge of a hot tub, acclimating slowly to the heat. There was laughter. A little teasing. Sanna passed you the butter with a soft smile that said: we’re not pretending, but we’re trying.

You sipped your drink, eyes darting between the group as they caught up on wedding plans and team travel rumours. Jess had already begun charming her way into the circle, leaning into the conversation like she’d slays been a part of the group. Her laugh was easy. Her presence warm.

It wasn’t until Estelle cleared her throat that the air shifted.

“So,” she said, setting her coffee down with a careful clink. “Are we going to talk about it?”

You blinked. “Talk about what?”

Stephanie leaned back, lips quirking. “The locker room kiss.”

Tessa grinned over the rim of her glass. “We need details. Was that post-concussion euphoria or…?”

“It wasn’t—I mean, he wasn’t concussed,” you said quickly, flushing. “He was… aware.”

“Mm-hmm,” Aryne hummed. “And you?”

You paused. Heart thudding.

Jess gave you a knowing look, daring you.

You exhaled. “Alright… my name is y/n, and I’m in love with Auston Matthews.”

The words fell like a feather—and hit like a brick.

The table went quiet for half a breath, and then erupted with ‘ooohhh’s. 

“Finally,” Stephanie groaned.

“Oh, thank God,” Estelle muttered.

Tessa pretended to wipe a tear. “We have growth.”

You laughed, the tension in your chest splintering like sugar glass. Aryne was the only one who didn’t react at first. She just looked at you, eyes a little soft now. A little proud.

“I knew you were,” she said quietly. “Just didn’t think you knew.”

You blinked. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Conversation flowed easier after that. The teasing softened into something fond. You were no longer the girl on the outside. Not the liar. Not the story. Just another woman with a messy heart and the courage to say it out loud.

It felt like a beginning.

And then midway through your second mimosa, Stephanie suddenly turned to Jess. “Okay, your turn.”

Jess blinked. “My turn for what?”

“Your mystery man, of course,” Sanna grinned. 

Jess raised her brows. “What mystery man?”

“Oh, there’s a rumour going around that a certain player’s been asking about you,” Tessa leaned in.

Jess rolled her eyes. “There are a lot of players. I think we should be more specific.”

“Big guy. Right wing. Starts with a W,” Stephanie said sing-song.

Jess’s ears flushed pink. She looked down at her napkin, suddenly far too interested in folding it.

Aryne squinted. “Wait… you don’t mean—”

Jess cut in quickly. “I’m not interested.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Stephanie said. “But he clearly is.”

There was a pause. You watched Jess, curious. She shrugged and reached for her phone, tapping at the screen to avoid the attention. But then something changed—her posture stiffened ever so slightly. Her fingers paused on the screen, her eyes narrowing at something in her messages.

It was quick. A flicker. But you caught it.

“What is it?” you asked gently.

Jess blinked and shook her head. “Nothing. Just work stuff.”

You didn’t press. But your gut whispered something else. Because it wasn’t the look of someone bothered by work. It was the look of someone reading something she didn’t expect.

_

It was almost dusk by the time you finally called her.

You sat curled in the corner of your couch, knees drawn up beneath an old hoodie, the half-melted candle on the coffee table flickering between citrus and smoke. Your phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Hello?”

Her voice was clipped, as always. Polished. Like she’d rehearsed being unimpressed.

“Hi, Mum,” you said.

There was a moment of pause., “I wasn’t sure if you’d call this week. You’ve been… busy.”

You winced. “Yeah. Things have been… a lot.”

“Hm.” A rustle of fabric on the other end. She was probably folding laundry or wiping down a spotless counter, still multitasking even while emotionally withholding. “I saw the video.”

Your stomach dipped. “Oh.”

“The one from the game,” she clarified. “Where he got hit. And you ran.”

“Oh,” you said again, softer this time. She didn’t ask how Auston was. Didn’t ask how you were either. She never did. “It was… dramatic. Even for you.”

You breathed out a dry laugh. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

Another pause. Then a shift in tone—still cool, but slower now. Almost thoughtful. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you care about something that wasn’t your job.”

You froze for a second. It wasn’t a compliment. Not exactly. But it wasn’t a critique either.

“I’ve always cared,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “Maybe not in ways you wanted me to.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t care,” she replied, and for once, she didn’t sound annoyed. Just tired. “I said you never made room for anything else.”

You looked at the candlelight wavering beside you. “I think I got tired of fighting for something that didn’t fight back.”

“Work?”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

“Well,” she said, voice softening so slightly you almost missed it, “people don’t give you trophies for loving someone. But they should.”

You sat with that. It wasn’t I’m proud of you. It wasn’t I’m happy for you. But it was something. A thread. A whisper of grace in her voice that you hadn’t heard in a long time—maybe ever.

“I’m trying,” you said.

“I know.”

You closed your eyes, holding the silence like a fragile thing between your palms.

Then she cleared her throat. “Your sisters say hello.”

You smiled faintly. “Tell them I say hi.”

“I will.”

There was a moment a silence. 

“You’ll let us know how things go?” she then continued. Not a demand. Just a simple question. A tiny, tentative olive branch.

“Yeah. I will.”

“Alright, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mum.”

The call ended and the room suddenly felt quieter in its wake.

You set the phone down, your chest loose in a way it hadn’t been in weeks. It still hurt, in that deep-bone, childhood kind of way. But you didn’t feel angry. You felt seen. And maybe that was enough for now.

_

Thursday  -

The office was grey.

Not just the walls—though they were painted in that corporate slate that felt like an apology for colour—but the air itself. The lights buzzed overhead with the soft hum of disinterest, monitors glowed with half-read emails, and the heat from the vent didn’t quite reach your corner of the floor.

You sat at your desk, cursor blinking in time with your heartbeat, your screen filled with placeholder text for a mid-season sponsor recap. A content calendar blinked behind it. Three drafts due by Friday. You’d done two this morning. All technically fine. Sharp sentences. Clean tone. Buzzword-laced and forgettable.

Your fingers hovered over the keys. Then stalled.

You leaned back in your chair and looked around the office. Everyone moved like machines—quiet and efficient with their heads down. A team of people running the PR engine for one of the loudest teams in the league. A few months ago, you would’ve been proud of that. You would’ve straightened your shoulders and taken the next brief with a smile. Pushed yourself harder. Gone above and beyond.

But not now.

Now, it just felt… quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. The hollow kind.

You turned back to your screen. Read the first paragraph of the copy again. You’d written it in ten minutes, and it read like it. Sharp enough to get through approval. Polished enough to pass.

But there was nothing behind it. No spark. No thrill. No little voice whispering this matters.

You rested your chin in your hand and exhaled slowly.

This used to be your dream. Not just the job, but the whole arc—the respect, the profile, the rising power of it all. You’d wanted to be the woman who could walk into a boardroom in heels and own every word she spoke. And for a while, you’d been her.

You were still her. Sort of.

But somewhere between the fake relationship, the scandal, the confession in a locker room and the way Auston kissed you like he meant it—you’d changed.

Or maybe you’d just finally told the truth.

You didn’t want to be a headline anymore. You didn’t want to chase perfect phrasing and client praise and metrics on engagement. You didn’t want to craft stories for people who couldn’t look you in the eye when things went south.

You wanted to write for yourself again. You wanted slow mornings and something warm on the stove. You wanted to work hard, sure—but for something that didn’t cost you peace. Something you could walk away from at the end of the day and still recognise yourself in the mirror.

You wanted softness. Stillness. Space to breathe.

You wanted love.

And for the first time, you weren’t ashamed to want that more than success.

You clicked out of the document. Saved the file. Took a sip of the coffee on your desk—it had gone cold an hour ago, bitter and thin.

Then, quietly, you opened your calendar and blocked out an hour at lunch next week. Just one. You titled it:

Career Strategy – Personal

Nothing dramatic. Nothing rushed. Just a reminder that you’d finish the season. You’d keep your head down, do the work, ride out the storm with quiet grace.

But after that? You were done.

Done chasing a version of yourself that looked impressive but felt hollow. Done sacrificing nights and feelings and family just to say you’d made it.

Because you’d made it. And now, you were letting it go.

You sat back, staring at the calendar invite. Your heart was still. Not racing. Not heavy.

Just… still.

And in that stillness, you felt something like peace. You didn’t need to be the best anymore. You just needed to be whole.

_

Friday -

Friday night came just in time.

Maybe it was the rush of work or the way the week blurred by in a haze of coffee, emails, and soft texts from Auston that made your heart race every time your phone lit up. Maybe it was because, deep down, some part of you was afraid it would fall apart before it ever started.

But it hadn’t. Not this time.

You stood barefoot in your apartment, staring at the small collection of outfits Jess had laid out on your bed. She stood beside you, arms crossed, mascara wand in one hand, her expression somewhere between stylist and drill sergeant.

“The black dress says, ‘take me seriously.’ The green says, ‘I’m emotionally available.’ The red says—”

“Trouble,” you finished, smiling.

Jess grinned. “Exactly. Which is also the vibe you’re giving off right now, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes and reached for the green. “He’s already seen me in red. Half-naked. Screaming at him in a parking garage.”

Jess laughed. “Then we definitely pivot to emotionally available.”

The next hour passed in the kind of chaos that made you nostalgic for pre-party high school nights—curling irons whirring, highlighter dust in the air, the scent of dry shampoo and nerves. Jess moved through your space with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly how to make you feel beautiful.

“Breathe,” she said, hands in your hair. “You’ve already got him. Now you just get to enjoy it.”

You exhaled, steadying yourself in the mirror. “Do I look okay?”

She stepped back, studied you, and smiled. “You look like someone who’s about to ruin his life. In the best way.”

You laughed, heart hammering in your chest. Then you slipped into your coat, kissed her on the cheek, and walked out the door.

The city air bit at your cheeks as you stepped outside, heart pounding beneath your coat. A gust of December wind caught your hair just as you climbed into the Uber, cheeks flushed—not from the cold, but from what waited on the other side of the night.

By the time you arrived, the world outside had settled into that Friday-night rhythm: muffled conversations, golden lamplight pouring across the pavement, couples ducking into warm restaurants with laughter clinging to their coats.

You stepped into the place Auston had chosen—elegant, but not intimidating. It smelled like rosemary and wine and fresh bread, like something safe and thoughtful. Like someone had taken time to pick it. And that alone nearly undid you.

Then you saw him.

He sat near a table tucked into the back corner, jacket off, sleeves rolled neatly, hands shoved into his trouser pockets like he hadn’t quite figured out what to do with them. And when his eyes found you, everything else in the restaurant seemed to blur.

He didn’t smile right away. He just… stared.

“Hi,” you said softly, slipping toward the table.

There was a split second of silence.

“Holy shit.”

You blinked. “That’s your opener?”

Auston shook himself a little, like waking from a dream, and gave you a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I meant wow… but my brain short-circuited.”

You slid into the seat across from him. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Matthews.”

“I ironed my shirt and everything,” he said, mock-offended. “Didn’t even ask my mom to do it.”

“How heroic.”

Then the waiter appeared—Auston recovered just enough to order a bottle of wine, though he fumbled the vintage and ended up saying, “Whatever she wants,” with a lopsided grin.

And when the drinks arrived, he lifted his glass. “To real first dates.”

You clinked softly. “To not needing a PR plan to kiss you.”

He took a sip before he offered a soft smirk. “Although, for the record, I was excellent at planning those kisses.”

You sipped your wine too. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected, leaning forward. “So… What are we talking about tonight? Sports? Politics? My devastatingly handsome dog?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean my emotional support dog, Felix?”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Wow. First date and already stealing custody?”

“Just trying to find out what I’d get in the divorce,” you smiled.

“Too late,” he said. “You’re stuck with me.”

The banter was easy—familiarly sharp, lovingly annoying. You talked about stupid things at first: your Uber driver’s playlist, William’s latest ‘casual’ outfit that cost more than your rent, Jess trying to set her sister up with an Italian wine guy who turned out to be allergic to grapes.

But somewhere between the starters and the mains, something in the air shifted.

Auston casually leaned back slightly, his thumb tracing the stem of his wine glass. “Can I ask you something a bit… deeper?”

You nodded.

“What do you actually want? Not just tonight. But… after. From life.”

The question hit like a soft punch, causing you to swallow, setting your fork down.

“I used to think I knew,” you said. “Climbing ladders. Nailing campaigns. Being the girl who had her shit together.”

“And now?”

You looked down, then up. “Now I want something quieter. Someone to come home to. Less chaos. More… meaningful.”

His expression softened. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I used to think it was.”

Auston nodded, quiet for a moment. before he continued, “I used to think love had to be loud and dramatic. Something that made you bleed to know it mattered. But you… you make it feel as easy as breathing. Like I didn’t even realise how much noise I was used to until you walked in and everything went calm.”

There was a moment where you both simply allowed the silence to fill the space between you. Where your met and your breathings slowed down a bit. 

“Are you trying to ruin me, Matthews?” You said softly with a gentle smile. 

His grin was crooked, a little shy. “Maybe.”

You both sat there, smiling like idiots, the kind of smiles that made your cheeks ache. You didn’t say it out loud, but you both felt it:

Something had shifted.

And this time, it wasn’t for the cameras.

It was for you. It was real.

The ride home was quiet, but not silent. Auston’s hand found yours across the seat, his thumb brushing gentle arcs against your knuckles as the city passed by in a blur of lights and December chill. Every few seconds, he looked at you—like he couldn’t help it. Like he was trying to memorise this version of you: soft, open, warm from wine.

And by the time the car pulled up in front of your building, neither of you moved right away.

The engine ticked softly as it cooled. Outside, the streetlight cast pale gold shadows through the windshield, tracing the lines of Auston’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth—a mix of soft and serious.

Your hand was still in his, resting on the centre console. He hadn’t let go since the restaurant.

Silence settled in like a held breath, as you glanced over. “Well. That was… something.”

Auston smiled faintly. “Yeah. Kind of felt like a real date or something.”

You laughed softly, but your chest felt tight with something more. Nervous yet hopeful. Like you didn’t want this to end—not yet at least.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, slow, and thoughtful. “I should probably let you get some sleep.”

“Probably,” you said, though you made no move to reach for the door.

He then shifted slightly, turning toward you more fully. His eyes found yours, deep and warm and unreadable. “This was really nice.”

“It was more than nice Auston,” you whispered.

He hesitated for just a second, but then—very slowly—leaned in.

And you met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Careful. A whisper of a thing at first, like both of you were afraid too much pressure would break it. His lips pressed to yours, and for a moment it felt like time simply stopped. No game. No spotlight. No scandal. Just him. Just you. And the stillness of a December night.

But then something cracked open.

The kiss gradually deepened, hungry but not rushed. His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers threading into your hair. Your mouth opened to his, and he kissed you like he’d been waiting all night. All week. Maybe longer.

And when you finally pulled back, breath caught in your throat, his eyes stayed closed for a beat longer than yours.

He rested his forehead against yours. His breath was warm against your lips. “Goodnight,” he said, voice rough—like the word hurt to say.

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s it?”

His lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile. “If I don’t say goodnight now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to let you leave.”

You could still feel the shape of his kiss on your lips, like an imprint pressed into your skin. The space between you was too small to be innocent, too charged to ignore. Your heart thudded hard against your ribs.

“Maybe I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. Eyes searching and waiting.

“Aus,” you said, softer now. “You want to come up?”

His gaze held yours for a second longer as he smiled, “never thought you’d ask.”

The lift ride was short—but charged like live wire.

You leaned against the brushed metal wall, your pulse echoing in your ears. Auston stood inches from you, hands in his coat pockets like restraint was the only thing holding him together. His eyes never left yours. That lazy, hungry look. 

There was heat in the air between you—unspoken, unhurried. Not a race to the finish, but a slow, sweet burn. You could feel it in the press of your thighs, in the hollow of your throat, in the way neither of you touched but every part of you wanted to.

And when the lift dinged, the sound was almost jarring. 

You walked ahead, heartbeat in your mouth, keys trembling slightly in your hand. The hallway felt long, like it was stretching time on purpose. A final tease before the fall.

Then the lock turned. The door opened. You stepped inside.

The sound of your keys dropping onto the counter barely cut through the tension.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind him, his hands found your waist like instinct. He pulled you in gently, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed. His lips met yours again—slow, reverent, a quiet exhale of a kiss. 

You kissed him back just as softly. Until you didn’t. Until something once again snapped.

You pushed him back a step, your breath catching, fingertips fumbling with the buttons of his jacket as heat bloomed under your skin.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he whispered, voice rough with want, eyes trailing down your face to your chest, to your hands working quickly. “You drive me so fucking insane.”

You smiled against his throat as his coat hit the floor. Swiftly followed by his shirt. Then your coat and dress—the sleeves slipping from your shoulders like they’d been waiting all night for permission. You let it fall between you, and his eyes darkened.

He touched you like you were something delicate and dangerous all at once. His fingertips grazed your waist, your ribs, up to the lace of your bra, but didn’t unhook it. Not yet.

Instead, you took the lead.

You walked him backward through the apartment, every step a new brush of skin against skin. Your touch was confident and teasing—guiding him with hands at his chest, his belt buckle, the waistband of his trousers. Socks were lost somewhere between the hallway and your bed. His belt clattered against the floor. Discarded clothes forming a path. Your knickers were the final piece—tossed aside without fanfare, like gravity had grown tired of waiting.

He cursed under his breath as he felt your skin against his.

But you didn’t stop kissing. Not even as you fumbled together. Not even as you hit the edge of the bed, stumbled slightly, caught yourself with a laugh.

The sound barely had time to escape before it was swallowed by his mouth.

He lied back onto the mattress with a soft grunt, and you straddled him immediately. But then, you paused, and your eyes glinted in the low light. 

“Remember the handcuffs you introduced me to?”

His grin broke through the haze. “The ones I used on you?”

You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his jaw. “Payback time.”

He let out a low, disbelieving laugh—deep, dark, hungry. “Yes, boss.”

With sensual movements, you pulled open the bedside drawer and retrieved a pair of black furry cuffs - a gag gift from a friend once, barely taken seriously. Until now.

And Auston didn’t resist. He just raised his arms above his head, letting you snap the cuffs around his wrists and secure them to the headboard.

“You trust me?” you asked softly, eyes locked on his.

He nodded. “With everything.”

And just like that, the world slowed.

You kissed him again, but this time with purpose—starting at his mouth, then the corner of his jaw, then down to the warm skin of his bearded throat. He tilted his head back slightly, offering more, breathing harder with every inch your mouth travelled. You followed the line of his collarbone with your tongue, dragged your lips across the slope of his tattooed chest, your teeth grazing just enough to make him gasp.

Your kisses trailed down his torso—slow, methodical, and reverent. You licked along the dip between his abs, sucked gently at the skin just above his hip bone, and smiled when you felt his muscles twitch beneath your mouth. He was already getting hard, already waiting for you.

You pressed a kiss to the base of his cock, then looked up—his eyes dark and heavy, wrists tense in the cuffs above his head, chest rising fast.

“You’re fucking cruel,” he muttered, voice thick.

You dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to hear him hiss. “Am I?” you murmured, kissing the tip of his cock, your breath warm against him. “You’re the one who taught me this.”

He laughed—strained and hoarse. “I liked it better when it was the other way around.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you just flattened your tongue along the length of him—slow and deliberate. His groan rumbled in his chest, legs tensing as your hand wrapped firmly around the base. You took him into your mouth inch by inch, cheeks hollowed, lips tight, drawing out each pass like a dare.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned again, breathless. “You’re really going to do this to me?”

You glanced up, lips brushing the head of his cock. “What, this?”

Your pace gradually quickened—then slowed again. You built him up only to pull back at the edge, teasing him with every flick of your tongue, every tightened grip. His hips twitched upward, instinctive, but you placed a hand flat on his thigh to still him.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t touch. Could only feel.

And you knew he felt everything.

You kept him right there—on the edge, moaning your name like a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to finish. His hands clenched in the restraints, chest glistening with sweat, body taut with restraint. He was unravelling beneath you, and you smiled against his skin.

“A little desperate, are we?” you teased, your breath hot against his sensitive shaft.

“Please,” he growled. “Let me touch you, baby.”

Releasing him from your touch, you then gently climbed up his body again, kissing along his chest, over his collarbone, your fingers trailing behind your lips. He was burning up beneath you as you paused, hovering over his mouth, your eyes flickering over his face—so open, so wrecked.

“Not yet,” you whispered.

Then, gently, you straddled him. Guided him to your entrance, and the moment his head breached your opening, both of you sucked in a breath.

You sank down inch by inch, feeling every stretch, every dizzying wave of fullness until he was buried completely inside you. You gasped at the pressure; at the way he filled you so perfectly.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours, his voice cracking under the weight of it.

You moved slowly at first. Grinding your hips in deep, delicious circles. He moaned helplessly beneath you, hips rocking up, eyes fluttering closed, jaw clenched tight.

His arms strained in the cuffs, his fingers twitching. Oh yes, you had him undone. Completely.

And you loved it.

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his. “You give me so much power,” you whispered, rolling your hips again, harder this time. “And you don’t even flinch.”

“Only because I want you to have it,” he whispered back. “All of it.”

The words punched through your chest like lightning.

That’s when you knew—this wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just lust or power or pleasure. This was trust. 

So, you rocked faster, chasing the edge for both of you. Your palms pressed to his chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart. His moans filled the room like there was no performative restraint here. No masks.

Only you. Only him. Everything you were finally allowing yourselves to feel.

And finally, when you felt the orgasm begin to build, the knot in your lower; when you couldn’t take it anymore—when the ache between your thighs blurred into something urgent and shaking and begging—you reached for the cuffs.

Your fingers fumbled, slick with sweat, heart thudding as you unlocked one, then the other.

And the moment the metal clicked free, Auston surged.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. His mouth crashed into yours—fierce and unforgiving, all heat and hunger and gratitude. Like he needed to taste every second he’d spent waiting. His hands seized your hips, and then, with almost dizzying ease, he flipped you beneath him. The shift in power was immediate, almost electric.

He pinned your wrists above your head, fingers laced tight, his body caging yours.

“My turn,” he murmured, voice low and ragged with need.

Then he thrust. Hard and deep.

The breath punched out of you in a choked cry as your back arched off the mattress, your legs instinctively locking around his waist. Again. Again. Each stroke sharper, rougher—like he was trying to bury himself in you completely. Like he needed to leave a mark not just on your body, but on your soul.

His grip tightened around your wrists, grounding you while the bedframe slammed rhythmically against the wall, a percussion of chaos and want. His name tumbled from your lips, broken and wild.

He kissed your throat, your jaw, the soft dip beneath your collarbone—mouth greedy, almost worshipful. His teeth grazed your skin. His tongue soothed it. He was everywhere at once, inside and out, and you were coming undone beneath him.

And like every other time, you shattered first—your orgasm ripping through you like a lightning strike. Your whole body tensed, thighs trembling, breath caught as you sobbed his name. He made sure of that. And you barely had time to come down before he angled his hips, adjusted his grip—and hit that perfect spot again. And again. 

You cried out, high and helpless. You didn’t think you had another climax in you. But naturally, he proved you wrong.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled into your shoulder, voice fracturing. “You feel so good—so fucking good—can’t get enough of you—”

You pulled your wrists free, arms winding around his back, nails digging into the flex of muscle as he drove into you with punishing precision. It wasn’t just about dominance. It was about passion. Mutual, unspoken, and complete.

You felt his body begin to shake, pace growing erratic, and a low groan building in his chest. He leaned down, lips brushing yours, as his fingers clenched the sheets.

“Fuck—baby—” he gasped again, and then the words tumbled out, unguarded and raw. “Fucking love you.”

He said it like it had been waiting in his throat for days. Maybe longer. 

And then he came, shuddering violently, buried deep, his whole body bowing into yours as his release crashed through him with a fractured moan.

You held him as he collapsed against you, both of you panting, limbs trembling, skin slick and overheated. You didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

His forehead rested against your shoulder, and you carded your fingers through the damp curls at the nape of his neck. 

Eventually, Auston shifted—slow and careful—as he pulled out of you with a soft, quiet hiss. The motion made you both wince, tender and spent. He didn’t say a word as he rolled to his side, just reached for you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his chest like gravity itself depended on it.

His lips brushed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth—softly, sweetly.

But this kiss was different. It didn’t ask. It answered. It didn’t burn—it warmed.

You opened your eyes, breath still catching in your throat, and looked at him.

“I love you too,” you whispered, voice small but steady.

Auston let out a short, sheepish laugh. “Shit… I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

You raised a brow, though still smiling. “You didn’t?”

“Oh, I meant it,” he said quickly. “I’ve meant it for a while. Just… thought I’d do it better. More romantic. Less… mid-climax.”

You laughed, tucking your head under his chin. “When have we ever done anything the romantic way?”

He made a sound of agreement, rubbing his thumb across your lower lip. “True. But that doesn’t mean we can’t start.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes again. “Next time?”

His smile softened. “Next time.”

The apartment was quiet.

The kind of quiet that hummed beneath your skin—post-storm, post-bliss, post-everything. You were curled under the covers, bare and spent, your body still aching in the best way from the way Auston had held you, taken you, made love to you.

The soft sound of the fridge door closing echoed from the kitchen.

You turned your head just slightly, watching his shadow stretch against the wall as he moved—barefoot, in boxers, hair still messy from your fingers. He’d gone to get water. Said he’d be right back. Said it with a kiss to your shoulder and that boyish little smirk that made your toes curl.

You smiled to yourself, letting your eyes drift closed for a second, before suddenly you were interrupted by a buzz.

Your phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a soft glow. You reached for it lazily, expecting it to be Jess—or maybe Auston, sending something ridiculous from five feet away.

But it wasn’t.

Maya: Timing’s everything. Just a little more and it’ll all be over. Finally.

You blinked. Sat up straighter, sheet still pulled over your chest. The light from your screen seemed brighter than it should’ve been.

Something about it—the tone, the cadence—sent a ripple across your skin.

You read it again. And again.

You stared at the message for a moment longer, your heart beginning to beat faster—not with desire this time, but something colder.

It wasn’t what she wrote. It was how she wrote it. 

The rhythm. The punctuation. The way it seemed to watch you, not speak to you. So, unlike her. 

Like a whisper behind the curtain. Like a caption under a photo, you hadn’t meant to take.

And suddenly, you knew what it reminded you of.

You pulled open your message history, scrolling further back—weeks, months even. Maya didn’t text often. She was more of a meme-sender and voice-noter, short, sharp, always a bit rushed. But tucked in between the usual casual chaos, there were a few odd texts. Vaguely phrased. Almost… scripted.

You opened the most recent Benchwarmer post. The last one, before everything went quiet.

Your eyes scanned the lines. The phrasing and the tone. Then back to the message.

Your stomach flipped.

It wasn’t definitive. It wasn’t proof. But something in your gut—the same gut that had warned you when the first post dropped, when Chase made threats, when Auston was lying on the ice and not moving—twisted hard.

There was a voice behind the Benchwarmer. And it was starting to sound a lot like hers.

You barely heard Auston’s footsteps returning. But when you glanced up, he was already close to the bed, two glasses in hand, chest bare, hair damp from a quick shower.

“You good?” he asked, pausing in the doorway when he saw your expression.

You swallowed, locking your phone without thinking. “Yeah. Just… spaced out.”

He came onto the bed, offering you the glass. You took it with a faint smile, your fingers brushing his.

You wanted to say it. Wanted to say it out loud—Could it be her? What if it’s Maya?

But you didn’t.

Instead, you sat the glass on the nightstand and just curled back under the covers as he slid in beside you. His arm looped around your waist, warm and grounding.

_

Saturday –

The morning light slipped through the curtains in soft, slatted stripes, casting gold across the tangled sheets. The world was still, hushed by winter. You blinked awake to the warm weight of Auston behind you—one arm looped loosely around your waist, breath steady against the back of your neck.

You stayed like that for a moment, just breathing. Just existing. His presence was grounding, anchoring you to something real in a world that had shifted so much.

You knew he had training in a few hours, so carefully, you peeled yourself from the duvet and padded toward the bathroom, your body still pleasantly sore from the night before. You took a moment to just freshen up a bit, but you hadn’t made it halfway back to the room before you heard him stir.

“Where you going?” his voice rasped, still syrup-thick with sleep.

You turned, catching the sight of him stretching—shirtless, eyes barely open, hair a glorious mess. His hand reached for the spot you’d just vacated.

“I was letting you rest,” you said, padding back across the floor.

He made a sleepy, discontent sound and opened his arms. “Get your ass back here. Not done with you yet.”

You laughed quietly, slipping under the covers. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” he mumbled, already pulling you into him and flipping you onto your back. “And I don’t care.”

He kissed your bare shoulder—lazy and lingering—then your neck, slow enough to make your pulse jump. His hand drifted down, grazing the curve of your hip, then lower still, until his fingers slid between your thighs.

“You’re so wet, baby” he said, his voice suddenly alert, darker. “Is that for me?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The look in your eyes told him everything.

He then coaxed you onto your stomach, mouth trailing kisses down your spine. You gasped when his tongue found the back of your thigh—then higher, spreading you open with gentle hands and no shame. You buried your face in the pillow, breath stuttering as he began to lick between your folds.

Soft at first. Then deeper. More insistent. His hands gripped your hips as he worked you apart with mouth and tongue, moaning into you when your body started to tremble.

It was too much and yet not enough.

Your fingers clenched in the sheets as heat built and broke like a wave. But Auston didn’t stop—not until your hips were twitching and your moans cracked open the quiet.

And when he finally pulled away, his lips were slick, eyes dark with heat. He leaned over you again, kissing the back of your shoulder, your jaw, your ear.

“Still with me?” he whispered.

You nodded, dazed. “Please. Don’t stop now.”

You didn’t have to ask twice.

He simply guided your hips up a little, his chest pressed to your back as he slid into you—slow, thick, and deep. The stretch made your breath catch, your body arch. His hands flattened against yours on the mattress, fingers lacing.

He moved with reverence, hips rolling in deep, steady strokes. The angle—him above and behind, his mouth at your neck—made you ache in a new way. Each thrust stoked the pleasure again, not sharp like the night before, but rich and slow, a different kind of hunger.

You moaned his name, and Auston swore under his breath, driving in deeper.

“You feel so good, baby,” he gritted. “So fucking good.”

Your answer was a gasp, a tremble, a soft cry when his hand slipped beneath you again and circled your clit—just enough to make you tip over the edge again. Your body clenched, back arching, as you came hard beneath him.

And he followed fast, hips stuttering, breath ragged in your ear as he emptied himself inside you, still holding your hand.

You both collapsed onto the bed, chests heaving, legs tangled beneath the covers.

Auston’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you back against his chest. He kissed your shoulder once. Then again.

“Good morning,” he murmured, still breathless.

You turned your head just enough to smile. “Best one in a while.”

And you meant it.

Later that day, you sat curled in the corner of your couch, legs tucked beneath you, hands nervously toying with the edge of your phone case. The message still lingered in your inbox—cryptic, harmless on the surface, but soaked in implication.

Maya: Timing’s everything. Just a little more and it’ll all be over. Finally.

You stared at it, rereading it for the third time before you finally said, “Jess… can I show you something?”

Jess looked up from the kitchen, hair piled in a top knot. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and came over, her brow pinched in curiosity.

You handed her your phone. Watched her eyes skim the text.

She didn’t speak at first, but then opened her mouth slowly to speak. 

“When did she send this?”

“Last night.”

Jess’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “That’s… weird.”

You nodded. “It’s not what she said. It’s how she said it.”

Jess read the message again, thumb hovering above the screen, then let out a quiet sigh. “I’ve thought about it before,” she said finally. “Back when the posts first started. Something about the tone—it always felt… personal. Like she knew too much. But I didn’t want to believe it.”

You looked at her, heart thudding. “So, you thought it too?”

Jess nodded slowly. “Yeah. But Maya’s been our friend for years. She was always just… there. Funny. So positive and happy. The least likely to do something like this.”

“She said she was fine,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Jess. “She always said she was fine.”

Jess’s voice softened. “Sometimes people don’t want you to see the cracks. Especially when they’ve spent so long smiling through them.”

You leaned back, phone still glowing on the coffee table between you. “I don’t want it to be her. I really don’t.”

Jess sat beside you. “But it makes sense. Doesn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because it did.

The phrasing. The timing. The way Maya’s messages always seemed to know just enough. Like someone writing from inside your house. Someone who once knew your passwords. Your moods. Your weakness.

“She’s not going to confess if we confront her,” Jess said, quiet but certain. “If we charge in, she’ll lie. She’ll deflect. She’s too proud to fold under pressure.”

“So, what do we do?”

Jess tilted her head. “We wait. We invite her out. Let her think it’s a regular catch-up. Let her bring the story to us.”

You looked at her, unsure. “And what if she doesn’t?”

“Then we know.” Jess reached out and squeezed your hand. “But either way, we do this smart. Not emotional. You’ve been the story long enough. It’s time you took the pen back.”

You exhaled, the weight of it all sinking in.

You: Hey, coffee soon? Haven’t caught up in a while.

Maya: Sure. Our usual spot?

You: Perfect. See you tomorrow?

Maya: Can’t wait.

You stared at the screen long after the chat went dark.

You weren’t sure what would happen. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to happen. But one thing was clear: you were ready to hear the truth. Even if it broke you.

_

Sunday -

The café smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon. It was your usual spot—warm light, scuffed floorboards, the gentle hum of indie music floating beneath clinks of ceramic. You’d met here a hundred times before. After work. On slow Saturdays. In moments when the world was a little too much and you just needed your girls.

But today, the energy was off.

You sat at the corner table with Jess beside you, her coat still on, fingers wrapped tightly around her coffee cup. Across from you, Maya stirred her drink in slow, lazy circles, the spoon clinking against the mug like a metronome marking the pace of something quietly unravelling.

No one spoke right away. Not really like you.

Jess was the one to try and open with something easy. “How’s work? Still chasing chaos?”

But Maya just gave a vague shrug. “Same old.”

You nodded. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

Maya looked up, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “So have you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just… unfamiliar. Like the three of you had been dropped into a conversation halfway through a play you didn’t audition for. Jess tapped her nails against her cup. You adjusted the sleeve of your jumper. Maya kept stirring.

“You seemed off the other day,” Jess said finally. “Everything okay?”

Maya gave a tight little smile. “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”

You exchanged a glance with Jess.

“Maya—” you began, but she cut you off.

“No, really,” she said, louder this time. “Everything’s great. You’re back with Auston. Everyone forgave you. The WAGs are obsessed again. Even Jess is fielding hockey boy attention. Life’s peachy.”

The words hit with a sharpness you didn’t expect. “Okay… what’s going on?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Maya’s smile twisted. 

Jess stiffened. “Get what?”

Maya sat back, eyes narrowing at you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like watching someone coast through life while you’re clawing for air the whole time?”

You frowned. “Maya, that’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” she snapped. “You had everything. Have everything. Talent. Looks. The job. The attention. And you never fucking appreciated any of it.”

Your heart stuttered. Jess leaned forward, voice calm but firm. “Okay. Let’s not do this here.”

“No, let’s,” Maya said, and suddenly her voice cracked—not angry. Just exhausted. “Let’s talk about how I busted my ass for years trying to get anyone to take me seriously. No internships. No by-lines. Nothing. And you? You waltzed in with your clean résumé and PR smile, and everything just fell into place.”

You stared at her. “You think it was easy for me?”

“I think it was easier,” she hissed. “Because you were you. Perfect. Polished. Marketable. You knew the right people. Said the right things. And when that wasn’t enough, you caught him.”

Auston.

The name wasn’t spoken, but it didn’t need to be.

“Maya…” Jess’s voice dropped, suddenly cautious.

But she ignored her.

“I loved him,” she said, eyes locked on yours. “And I know that sounds pathetic. I know he never saw me. But I saw you. The way you looked at him. The way you ignored it. Took it for granted. You had something I wanted more than anything, and you didn’t even know you were holding it.”

You swallowed hard; words caught in your throat.

“So yeah,” she said, voice hardening. “I wrote the first post. And the second. And every other one after that. Because I couldn’t be the girl who got him. But I could be the girl who ruined the one who did.”

The confession cracked through the air like glass underfoot.

You felt Jess freeze beside you. Heard the hum of conversation around you, far away. Maya looked away, jaw clenched, as if ashamed of herself—but not enough to take it back.

“I wanted to make you pay,” she whispered. “For never realising how lucky you were.”

The pain in your chest bloomed slowly.

“I was lucky,” you said softly. “And I fucked it up. And I hurt people. But I never tried to hurt you, Maya. You were my friend.”

She flinched.

Jess leaned in, voice low. “You didn’t just write gossip, Maya. You invaded privacy. You humiliated people. You targeted her.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Maya snapped. “You think I haven’t stayed up every night for weeks knowing this would fall apart eventually?”

“Then why not stop?” you asked. “Why keep going?”

“Because if I couldn’t be the one he loved—at least I could be the reason you didn’t get to keep it.”

The truth cut deeper than the cruelty.

But then Jess stood slowly, her hand brushing yours. “Come on. I think we’re done here.”

You allowed a second to pass before you stood too—slowly, like you weren’t quite sure how your legs were holding you up. Maya didn’t look at either of you as you turned to leave. But just before you reached the door, she spoke again.

“I didn’t do it for clout,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I did it because watching you be happy hurt.”

You stopped—but didn’t turn back.

Then after a moment, Jess gently nudged you forward. And you left the café without another word. 

_

Monday -

The locker room buzzed with post-game chatter and the soft clicks of cameras. Reporters gathered in the usual scrum, microphones extended like antennae, eyes trained on Auston Matthews—still in partial gear, damp hair curling at his temple.

A reporter leaned in. “Auston, another strong performance tonight—two assists and the OT winner. What’s been fuelling your game lately?”

Auston shrugged lightly, towel slung around his neck. “Just… locked in, I guess. Trying to keep things simple. Have fun with it.”

Another voice piped up—this time from the back. “And off the ice? You seem… lighter lately. Happier. Anything—or anyone—to thank for that?”

He paused.

The corners of his mouth lifted into a slow, knowing smile. He didn’t rush the answer. Just let it linger for a beat too long before finally replying.

“Yeah. I’m in love.”

The room stilled for a second. Pens scratched faster. Cameras zoomed.

He chuckled softly, eyes dropping for a moment like the weight of the truth had just settled in properly.

“Happier than I’ve ever been.”

[goingmoa]

chronically offline

pairing: physics nerd!jake x fem!reader

summary: jake is strong in physics, but struggles when it comes to keeping up with internet culture. lucky for him, you can teach him a thing or two about it.

genre: fluff, two smart idiots in love

warnings: reader gets hit on by a guy that doesn't get the hint that she's uninterested, but jake swoops in just in time

word count: ~3.4k

author's note: my first fic!! i wanted to treat my jake biased bestie with a fluffy read, and i hope this delivered! i had a lot of fun writing this LOL ~~ please feel free to let me know what you think!

The physics department is musty in that specific, clinical way only old university buildings know how to be – too drafty, too bright, and somehow suffocating and drab all at the same time. You step in wearily, pulling the cuffs of your hoodie sleeves over your hands to rub the sleep out of your eyes. It was eight in the morning, so you were expecting the place to be empty. Almost no one comes to these optional tutorials.

Except, apparently, for him.

Jake, one of your classmates, is already there, one leg bouncing lightly under the desk, chin resting on his hand as he squints at the problem set like it personally insulted him. His laptop is open, his screen displaying neatly organized notes with colour-coded bookmarks. You spot a sticky note stuck to the edge of his screen.

Remember: you're NOT dumb!! Just confused (temporarily). A wonkily drawn smiley face grins beside it.

You stifle a laugh. Cute.

"Is this seat taken?" you ask, gesturing to the chair across from him.

He glances up, blinking once as if it takes him a second to recalibrate to human interaction. Then he smiles, slow and lopsided, shaking his head. "Nope. You're good."

You plop yourself into the chair and start unpacking your stuff. Jake goes back to his worksheet.

For about three minutes, the only sound is the scratching of pens on paper and the occasional sigh of defeat, mostly from Jake's direction.

"If this vector projection were a person, I'd square up with it in a parking lot." he mutters, mostly to himself.

You snort. "At this rate, I fear it may have the upper hand."

He lifts his head, surprised but amused to hear your little quip. "Oh ye of little faith."

"You know," you say, tapping your pencil thoughtfully against your cheek. "If you really want to cause some damage, you should hit it with a force equal and opposite to its own."

Jake blinks.

Then he laughs, and it's bright, warm, and a little surprised, like the sound suddenly snuck up on him. He leans back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Wow. Did you just weaponize Newton's Third Law?"

"Maybe. Keeps the course interesting, don't you think?" you shrug, grinning.

He looks at you for a moment, still smiling, something unreadable flickering across his face.

"Honestly? I haven't enjoyed physics this much all semester." he admits.

You raise an eyebrow. "What, because it finally came with bad jokes?"

“Nah,” he murmurs, twirling his pen between his fingers with lazy precision. “Because apparently, it comes with you.”

You blink, caught off guard, your gaze trailing from the spinning pen to his eyes, which were entirely too focused on you.

He clears his throat, eyes widening a bit in alarm.

“Sorry, that sounded smoother in my head. I’m Jake, by the way. I don’t think we’ve officially met.”

You glance up at him, mind still reeling. You’re not sure if you’re more confused or flustered – honestly, probably both – but the flicker of something warm and fluttery in your chest is quick, insistent. You ignore it. Now isn’t the time to go unpacking whatever that is.

Jake’s pen spins a little faster now, the movement noticeably less casual, and he’s chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s already regretting every word that just left his mouth.

He looks so embarrassed that you decide to spare him the added awkwardness, pretending not to notice and offering him an easy out.

“I know,” you say, your voice thankfully sounding steadier than you feel. “You’re always here early. Kind of hard to miss.”

And it's true, you had noticed him before. More than once.

He was always there when you walked in, tucked into the same spot, neat notes, brows furrowed in deep concentration. Quiet, but focused. Kind of effortless in that way some people are without realizing it. And yeah, you always thought he was attractive.

There were a few times you considered pretending not to know how to solve a problem just to have an excuse to ask him for help… but you would always snap yourself out of it before you did something you might regret. You were not about to play dumb just to get a guy's attention – even one with annoyingly good hair and a face so distractingly beautiful that it could ruin anyone's GPA.

Besides, you could handle physics just fine – more than fine, honestly. You had a knack for it, a natural instinct for numbers and patterns and solving for things people didn't always see. But you kept your head down and stayed out of the spotlight. You were more comfortable being the person people underestimated, letting your exam score speak for themselves.

So yeah, you had noticed Jake. And sure, maybe you had imagined talking to him once or twice.

But you kept your curiosity to yourself. Until now.

"I guess I like the quiet." he states sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

You respond by introducing yourself, and he says your name like it's something new and delicate. Like it's something worth remembering. You try not to overthink how much you like hearing it roll off his tongue.

“So,” you say, taking a sip from your drink and squinting at him playfully over the rim of your tumbler. “You must have a thing for fluorescent lighting.”

Jake shrugs, the motion a little shy, like he’s used to defending habits he can’t quite explain. “I just like having time to set up.”

“Interesting. Most people I know would rather rot in bed doom-scrolling than show up early to a physics tutorial.” You tilt your head, pretending to analyze him.

He blinks once, confused. “Doom... scroll?”

You pause, lowering your cup. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You don’t have TikTok, do you?”

“Should I?” he asks, looking genuinely uncertain.

You stare at him for a beat, then dramatically slap a hand over your mouth.

“Chronically early and chronically offline?” you gasp. "We've got a rare case here."

Jake laughs, and the motion sends a few loose strands of hair falling across his forehead. Your fingers twitch, resisting the ridiculous urge to brush them back in place.

“You make it sound like a condition.” he chuckles.

You raise your eyebrows, mock-serious. “It is a condition. I’m pretty sure you qualify for observation.”

"Chronically offline?" Jake repeats, furrowing his own brows.

"Oh no." you say, mock-horrified. "It's worse than I thought."

He laughs again, and oh. That’s when it really hits you, just how down bad you were. Because apparently, all it takes is one laugh to completely short-circuit your brain. “You’re making it sound like an actual medical condition.”

“It is,” you say solemnly. “I diagnosed you just now. You’ve got stage four meme deficiency.”

Jake grins and leans forward, elbows resting casually on the table, closing the distance just enough to make your pulse stutter.

“Is there a cure?” he inquires, playing along.

“Lucky for you, I’m the internet incarnate. Stick with me and we’ll fix you up in no time.” ypu smirk, lips quriking up at the corners.

“Good,” he says, and his eyes catch yours, lingering a second too long, like he’s testing the waters.

“I think I’m ready for treatment.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

The weeks pass by like pages in a physics notebook – messy, a little chaotic, and filled with things only the two of you would understand.

You start calling it Meme Therapy. Jake calls it “physically and emotionally enlightening.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

WEEK ONE

Jake is sitting in his usual spot with two coffees. He sips on one of them, extending the other shyly towards you as you approach the table. “I figured this might be part of my treatment plan.”

You thank him before accepting it.

“Caffeine and mild chaos?”

“Exactly.” he confirms, his eyes twinkling.

You sit in front of him again, scrolling through your shared Google Doc titled Chronically Offline: Jake’s Guide to Surviving the Internet.

There’s a new section waiting for you: Eras, Vibes and Cores Explained (A Visual Guide) – complete with wildly inaccurate frogcore diagrams and a chaotic collage of TikToks Jake clearly does not understand.

You turn your laptop screen towards him, pointing to something on the display.

He tilts his head, brow furrowed as he stares at a frog in a pink bonnet sipping a cup of tea on a brightly coloured mushroom.

“So… it’s giving frog?” he attempts, sounding defeated already.

You nearly choke on your coffee, laughing. “It’s giving amphibious excellence.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

WEEK TWO

The physics tutorial ends early, so you stay behind to show him a video called Italian Brainrot: A Cultural Awakening.

He watches in complete silence, eyes narrowed in focus like he’s analyzing experimental data, as ballerina cappunicca echoes dramatically over an AI-generated video of teacups in ballet slippers pirouetting across a spotlighted stage. Then comes the tung tung tung sahur family, seated in the velvet theater seats, watching the performance unfold. Finally, the crescendo: bombardino crocodilo. The crocodile-plane hybrid swoops in, spinning mid-air before crash-landing onto the stage in a pixelated explosion.

To be honest, even you have no idea what’s going on anymore.

You brace yourself for Jake’s reaction. Any second now, he’s going to laugh or look at you like you’ve lost your mind.

Jake turns to you, eyes wide and sparkling. “That’s… kind of brilliant. Like, chaotic resonance.”

You blink. “What?”

He gestures at the screen, still a little stunned.

“It shouldn’t work, but it does. It’s like constructive interference. Two completely unhinged things overlapping at just the right frequency to amplify each other.”

“You’re telling me bombardino crocodilo is like… a wave function?” you deadpan, still trying to wrap your head around the nonsense he just spewed.

He nods, totally serious. “Yeah. A beautiful one.”

You blink again. This man is not real.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

WEEK THREE

You’re late today. When you walk in, Jake’s already claimed his usual seat, along with the one next to it. A sticky note sits on the desk in his slightly messy handwriting, Reserved for: Meme Consultant. Perks include coffee, memes, and my undivided attention.

“Careful. This is dangerously close to adorable.” you say with a smile while sliding easily into the chair.

“Is that a bad thing?” he asks, nudging your leg with his.

“Depends,” you respond, teasing. “What exactly are you trying to get out of this arrangement?”

He pauses, then smiles, eyes warm. “I think I’m developing an addiction.”

“To memes?”

He hesitates, just for a second, then smiles, his eyes softening. “To you.”

Your breath catches. You pretend to be very invested in opening your notebook, but your bright red cheeks are already giving you away.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

WEEK FOUR

You’re working through a tricky problem together, seated side by side now instead of across from each other. His handwriting is a disaster, but his voice is steady as he explains something about vector fields.

You reach for the calculator just as he does. Your fingers brush, and you freeze, the sudden touch sending a rush through, gentle and thrilling all at once. The contact lingers longer than it should. The world seems to pause. His skin is warm against yours. It feels... right.

Neither of you pulls away.

Your heart stutters. His voice does too.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours. “Guess you’re in my field.”

You arch a brow. “Magnetic, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you really are.” he whispers, letting out a soft, breathless laugh.

It’s so quiet, you almost wonder if you imagined it.

Eventually, the bell rings. Neither of you move.

Something between you is shifting, and it is impossible to ignore.

But neither of you speaks it into existence, sitting in comfortable silencs, as if naming it might scare it off. It was still too new, too fragile to touch just yet.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

The party is louder than you'd like and packed with people who major in shots, not physics.

You stay close to the kitchen island, sipping fruit punch from a red Solo cup and scanning the room for anyone familiar. Jake said he might come — heavy emphasis on might — because he's still “not sure how parties work,” to which you told him was “a pretty hot take from someone who was chronically offline.”

You’re about to check your phone when you feel a familiar presence at your side.

“I still don’t really peg you as a party person,” Jake says, suddenly there like a small miracle, all easy smiles and confidence. He’s ditched his usual flannel-centric fits (which you’ve secretly grown to love) for a dark, fitted button-down, left open just enough to reveal a glimpse of collarbone.

You blink. Not what you expected. But definitely not bad at all. He’s always looked good, but… damn.

You arch a brow, smirking. “Didn’t take you for someone who owned anything other than flannels.”

“Didn’t take you for someone who’s been thinking about what’s in my closet.” he fires back with a shit-eating grin.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You’re caught off guard, and he knows it. You can tell by the way his smile lingers, looking proud of himself for short-circuiting your brain.

He takes the moment to allow his gaze to flick briefly over your outfit. Nothing scandalous, but a step outside your usual lecture-core comfort zone. You actually put thought into it. Even hoped it might get noticed. It was looking like it did.

“You look really good, by the way,” he says, a little softer now.

You blink, caught off guard again by his directness, and feel heat rise in your cheeks. You lift your cup like a shield, trying to play it cool. “Not bad for someone who only learned what 'rizz' meant last week.”

He chuckles, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. “Just trying to keep up.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

You and Jaka end up tucked into a quieter corner of the living room, talking about everything and nothing. Jake is leaning in closer than usual, his knee brushing yours, his eyes soft in a way that makes your pulse flutter. But you convince yourself that it must be because of the music, which was too loud to talk over without closing the distance between you.

Still, you can’t help your delusions from wandering, wondering if something might happen tonight.

Someone suddenly calls his name from across the room, snapping you out of your reverie. The classmate calls him again, already half-drunk and waving him over.

Jake glances at you, like he’s not quite ready to move.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, flashing an apologetic smile. “Promise I’ll be right back.”

You nod, trying not to let your disappointment show as he stands and disappears into the crowd.

You're left alone.

And it only takes a few minutes.

Someone else slips into Jake’s empty seat. It’s a guy you don’t recognize, all swagger and slurred confidence. He’s too close before you even realize what’s happening, leaning in with the heavy sway of someone who’s had a little too much to drink.

He’s not aggressive exactly, but there’s something about him that tightens your chest uncomfortably.

“You here alone?” he asks, smirking like you’ve already said yes.

Before you can respond, he leans in further and adds, “Wanna get out of here?”

His breath smells like beer and bad decisions. Your skin crawls.

“I’m good, thanks.” you laugh as politely as possible, standing up quickly to put space between you.

But he follows, pushing up from the couch with too much momentum. “Aw, come on, doll. Just a little fun. Don’t make me beg.”

You freeze, your smile slipping and heart racing warningly.

Then suddenly, a hand slides around your lower back, not quite touching, but providing comfort nonetheless. With it comes a familiar presence and an overwhelming relief of safety.

“There you are,” Jake says, materializing at your side like he’d been summoned. His tone is light, almost casual, but his eyes are steel. “Babe, we’ve gotta go. The livestream’s starting.”

Your heart pounds — from the pet name or the adrenaline, you’re not sure — but you nod, slipping into the role without hesitation.

“Livestream?” the guy blinks, thrown off.

Jake doesn’t miss a beat. His arm stays around you. You lean into his touch.

“Yeah." he says almost dreamily. "The Italian brainrot pasta review? The one where they slap spaghetti against drywall while the Tralalero Tralala remix plays?”

You cough into your drink to hide your laugh. Jake shoots a quick glance your way, a silent 'go with it.'

You nod seriously, slipping into the act with ease. “He’s right. If we miss it again, I’ll spiral and lose my shit. Last time, I cried. Full breakdown.”

“It was giving tragic.” Jake gasps dramatically, shaking his head with fervor.

The guy takes a step back, visibly confused. “Are you guys… okay?”

“We’re frogcore. It’s terminal.” Jake deadpans.

You both stare at the guy, eyes unblinking, doing your best impression of chaotic meme cultists.

The guy mutters something unintelligible under his breath and walks away.

The second he’s out of earshot, you both burst into laughter. Your shoulders are shaking, the tension snapping like a canned soda popping open. You lean into Jake further without thinking, and he doesn’t move away — just stays there, solid, safe, and warm beside you.

Relief floods your chest. You hadn't realized how tightly you’d been wound until now.

“Thank you,” you say, the weight of it folded between the words.

He looks at you, soft and serious beneath the grin.

“Anytime.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

You find yourselves on the front steps a few minutes later, away from the music and the buzz of the party. You were both ready to call it a night after that. Jake sits next to you, arms resting on his knees, smiling softly.

“That was the most cursed performance I’ve ever seen.” you chuckle, bumping your shoulder into his.

“I’m just relievee it worked so well.” Jake smiles, returning the action of endearment gently.

“I’m still speechless. I think you might’ve scared him into deleting his Instagram.”

“Nice,” he exhales slowly, but there’s something lingering behind the smile, a tension that hasn’t quite left him. “I just… I didn’t like how he was talking to you.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

“I know I’m not… great at this stuff,” he says, voice lower now. “But when I saw him – saw you and the way you were cornered, I couldn’t think straight. I was scared.”

He finally looks up at you, jaw tight with the memory. “Not that he’d hurt me. That he’d do something you couldn’t laugh off. That I’d be too late to stop it.”

There’s a pause, the air between you charged.

“But I knew I had to do something. Because I like you. And I couldn’t stand the thought of you not being safe.”

Your heart flutters at the honesty in his voice, rough with emotion and sincerity.

“I like you too, Jake.” you smile, soft and sure. “Even if your use of internet slang is objectively awful.”

He smiles, the kind that lights up his entire face, and pretends to be offended. “Hey, I’m improving.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You’ve gone from absolute zero to mildly impressive. That’s, like, a major thermodynamic shift.”

And before either of you can overthink it, you lean in to kiss him. It’s a little shy, but it’s real. He kisses you back, and you can feel his lips curving upwards against yours.

He blinks when you pull back, momentarily stunned, then breaks into that smile you’ve come to crave.

“So,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “Does this mean I’m officially online?”

“Welcome to the internet, Jake.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

The physics room looks the same as always: buzzing fluorescent lights, too much dust, and that faint smell of old carpet and blackboard chalk.

But it feels different now.

Jake’s already there, of course. He’s got a coffee waiting at your usual seat. There’s a new sticky note on your side of the desk, Reserved for: Meme Consultant + Girlfriend (hopefully).

“You’re really committing to the title, huh?” you say, plopping yourself down next to him.

Jake looks up from his notes, his face lighfing up at the sight of you. “I’ve decided to embrace my new era.”

“Which era is that?” you raise an inquisitve eyebrow, unable to suppress your own smile.

Jake pretends to think.

“Boyfriend-slays-with-vectors-core?” he offers.

You laugh, then steal one of his pens.

As you open your notebook, you find something tucked between the pages: a small printed meme. A pixelated frog in a physics lab coat, next to text that reads: My love for you defies Newtonian mechanics. It’s accelerating.

Your mouth hangs open in awe.

“I made it myself,” he says proudly. “Be honest. Is it giving?”

“You’re such a nerd.” you laugh, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“So you’re saying I’ve progressed to stage five?”

“Stage five of what?”

He taps the sticky note beside your coffee. “Terminally online. Emotionally attached.”

You smile, cheeks warming. “You’re hopeless”

Jake shrugs, his grin widening. “Worth it.”

[olderthannetfic]

I keep being baffled by the amounts of readers who seem to have fits whenever a fic doesn't have chapters. How do they deal with all the Real Literature TM that doesn't have chapters?

Apart from the very simple "don't like, don't read" approach, if it's because you lose your place because the browser reloads, several options have already been suggested, and I sincerely hope it helps whoever feels that was the big problem.

I am one of those who post all in one go, regardless of the length, so I don't see the point of chapters. Yes, I know, "Post chapter by chapter anyways to improve readership and max your comment count and be more popular" or whatever the equivalent of "Game the algorithm" is on AO3. It feels like cheating to me; it's already all written down, and I am not here to play a numbers game. I crave feedback and interaction, of course; that's why I'm posting, but I don't want to use that kind of trick if it's already, well. All there already. Readers can take breaks whenever they want if they like breaks; I'm not their parent.

I also don't like reading WIPs because I will not have the immersion I prefer, or will forget half of what happened before, and I don't have time to reread everything each time I pick it up again, so I guess I don't see the appeal. You do you, etc. To each their preferences. (As a reader, I am team finished work + full_work or, more often, just download it all. That's how *I* roll; it doesn't mean *you* have to do the same, you know?).

I did try to post chapters a few times. Once, I inverted two of them while posting (still smarting over that years later), and another time, I was posting once a day to follow a daily prompt list… which gave me Big Angst because what if I dropped dead partway? (Yes, someone had access to my AO3 to post the drafted chapters if I croaked). Each time, I was really anxious about where to put the cutoff, or change the POV - at this point it makes the chapters more balanced length-wise, but it would be more interesting to have this scene from X's POV! This scene ends a chapter's subplot, but thematically goes with the next chapter's prompt! It might be stupid, but it is what it is, and I don't see why I should choose to torture myself for something I, as a reader, couldn't care less about.

I just… don't know when to break things up. I write linearly, and while I know the rough idea of where I'm going, I don't have a definite plan and sometimes things will be shaken up as I write. I use visual markers for scene changes and POV changes (not the same markers, actually), but sometimes a scene or POV will be much longer/shorter, so it would all make chapters super unbalanced, so??? Choices? I have to make choices? Nope. Visual marker it is, and I can breathe.

If that's grounds for muting/blocking me, then go for it, I guess? I just don't get the virulence of some of these anons on the topic - it's a you do you situation, and sometimes we just don't get why people do things differently, but that's how it's like sometimes. No need to be mad at people for not doing things the way YOU like.

--

I don't care about maximizing readership, but chapters are the norm in many styles of writing. I prefer to divide a longer work into them instead of using anemic little section dividers. I save those for a sub-chapter division, should I need one.

Honestly, genre fiction is mostly divided into chapters. Yes, there are famous authors who don't use them, and I'm sure you're about to pull five out of your butt, but I think their work reads more poorly than the many, many authors who do use them. Yes, even Mr. Extra Famous And Loved By Fandom, whomever he is this time.

I don't particularly care about non-genre fiction, but plenty of multi-POV literary fiction does use chapters to divide the points of view.

It is common for chapters to be different lengths—desirable even. If a writer can't figure out how to divide something, I think that's a failure of skill... but no, I don't think it's that big of a deal in fic, and I'll read whatever has my blorbos and looks good even if it's formatted poorly and/or in a way I don't prefer.

[bearforcecaptions]

"I'm sorry, I don't think you're a good fit for this position. But I do have something in mind for you..."

The words hung in the air with a certain weight—calm, final, but not unkind. The sunlight streaming in through the high windows of the interview room had mellowed into a golden sheen, the late-afternoon kind that slanted just right to cast long, sleepy shadows on the table. Bradley Sutter sat across from Mr. Renshaw, arms folded tightly, unsure how to respond.

Bradley had worn his best suit for this meeting. Charcoal gray, subtle pinstripes, a conservative tie. His résumé was impeccable. MBA from Wharton, two internships, a promising stint in analytics at a mid-tier consultancy. His shoes were still shining with this morning’s polish, though he found himself shifting his feet uncomfortably in them. For some reason, they felt tighter than they had during the walk in.

“Something else?” Bradley asked, puzzled. “I was hoping to discuss the strategic operations role. I thought the interview was going well.”

Mr. Renshaw offered a small, practiced smile—the kind people in corporate offices give just before redirecting your entire trajectory. “You’re not quite what we’re looking for in strategy,” he said evenly, “but I think you’ve been miscategorized. You strike me as someone... with practical strengths.”

Bradley frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Renshaw leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled. “Bradley, when you’re not analyzing spreadsheets or preparing slide decks, what do you enjoy?”

Bradley hesitated. “I—I mean, I read. Hike. Occasionally work on my car. But that’s just a hobby.”

“Interesting,” Renshaw said, glancing at the papers in front of him as though reviewing something more fundamental than a résumé. “I don’t think it is just a hobby. You’re a hands-on man. Aren’t you?”

There was a dull warmth spreading across Bradley’s chest, almost like sunlight on skin. He shifted in his seat again, loosening his tie—which he realized wasn’t there anymore. His collar was open, the shirt beneath rougher than it should have been. He looked down and furrowed his brow. Was he... wearing a different shirt?

The fabric wasn’t crisp cotton anymore. It had the weight and stiffness of denim, with a darker patch where something—maybe oil?—had soaked in long ago. His fingers, when they brushed it, felt broader, rougher. They left faint smudges. Grease? The nails were darker than he remembered, edges square and flat. They looked... used.

“I—I don’t think I’m the guy you’re looking for,” he said, voice faltering slightly. It sounded different in his ears. Lower. A little hoarse.

“But I do,” Renshaw replied calmly. “Let’s talk about your work ethic. You’re always the first one in, and you don’t clock out until the last tool’s back in the drawer. That’s been your pattern for years, hasn’t it?”

Bradley opened his mouth to disagree, but nothing came out right away. Instead, he gave a slow nod. “Well... yeah, I s’pose I like seein’ a job through,” he said, the syllables dragging slightly, as if coated in dust. “Ain’t no sense quittin’ when you’re half done.”

A flicker of confusion crossed his face, but faded almost instantly. His back ached faintly, like he’d spent all day on his feet. His shoulders were tight, heavy with the sort of tension that didn’t come from spreadsheets. The sleeves of his shirt—no, coverall, he now realized—were rolled up just below the elbows, exposing thick forearms dusted with dark hair. His skin had deepened a shade, sun-worn and marked with years of small nicks and oil stains that wouldn’t scrub out no matter how hard he tried.

“I can tell you take pride in what you do,” Renshaw said, glancing at his notes again. “The guys downstairs say there’s no one better with diesel diagnostics. That true?”

Bradley—no, Josh—scratched at his chin thoughtfully, the rasp of callused fingers on stubble filling the space between them. “Well, I don’t like to brag,” he muttered in a low drawl, “but yeah, I got a feel for it. You listen close, you can tell a clogged injector from a slipped timing belt.”

“Of course,” said Renshaw. “You always had good ears.”

Josh nodded slowly. His neck was thicker now, the line of his jaw broader and more square. His cheeks carried the shadow of a beard that never quite disappeared, even when he shaved. A ring of sweat had formed beneath his collar, soaking into the worn fabric of his coveralls. His name was stitched on the chest in red thread over white: Josh Mallory.

Renshaw didn’t seem surprised to see it. “Isn’t that right, Josh?”

Josh blinked once, then broke into a grin. “Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “Sure is.”

He reached up to run a hand through his hair—it was cropped close now, a simple, no-nonsense cut. His fingers caught briefly on the grit of the day’s work still lingering along his scalp. The faint scent of motor oil, sweat, and clean steel lingered on his skin. He didn’t mind it. Never had.

“Well,” Renshaw said, standing and collecting the paperwork into a folder labeled Employee Check-In. “That’s all I needed. Thanks for making time this afternoon.”

Josh pushed back his chair and stood, his broad chest stretching the front of his uniform slightly. “No problem. Let me know if y’all need anything else.”

He shook Renshaw’s hand—strong grip, firm and practiced—and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Josh?” Renshaw said, just before he opened the door.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been with us for over ten years now. Hell of a run.”

Josh gave a slight laugh, the corner of his mouth curling with pride. “Damn right. Ain’t no place I’d rather be.”

And just like that, he stepped out into the hallway, the muffled clanks of tools and distant engine rumbles filtering up from below. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A few younger guys passed by, nodding as they saw him.

“Afternoon, Mallory.”

“Boss was lookin’ for ya earlier.”

Josh nodded. “Just had a quick check-in upstairs. I’m headed back now.”

They didn’t question it. Why would they? Everyone knew Josh Mallory had been here forever.

[arcadianmoonshadowjedi]

TDP Arc 3 Speculative Fic-WIP:

I’ve finally done it 😩😭 I’ve officially declared myself a part of @tategaminu’s Pregnant Rayla cult 😂🙌🏽

Jokes aside though, I’ve always had ideas regarding a plot of an unplanned Rayllum pregnancy especially during the time or right before Aaravos’s return and how much of an interesting plot and storyline this would be for our beloved couple 😊❤️ So here’s what I currently have for a pregnancy reveal fic that I came up with and I still have more ideas before and after this about theories I have for arc 3 that I hope to write out too and plan to post on my ao3 I hope you enjoy this 😁❤️

.

Callum walked into their bedroom to find Rayla pacing back and forth, gripping her chin.

“Hey honey, I’m back!” He said, only to receive no response, just Rayla stopping and heaving. “Uhh Ray?” He asked, quickly walking up to her and turning her towards him. She looked up at him with worry in her eyes.

“Hey…is everything alright?” Callum asked softly, caressing her shoulders.

“Callum, I…” Rayla paused, gritting her teeth. She let out a light sigh then forced a smile. She grabbed one of Callum’s hands off her shoulder and placed it on top of her belly, to which Callum’s eyes widened.

“Callum, I’m pregnant,” she finally told him with a light but nervous smile.

Callum’s whole world just froze. Suddenly, so many clashing thoughts ran wild in his head. This was just so… so unexpected. And at a time like this too. But also…

Callum let out a little chuckle. “Wow that’s…that’s amazing!” He exclaimed as he wrapped Rayla in his arms. Rayla buried her small face into Callum’s chest as he rested his chin on top of her head.

“But Callum,” she finally said, slightly pulling away. “Aaravos is returning this year. And now we have a baby on the way. And there’s still Claudia and her loyalists preparing for his return. How can we deal with all of that and… and keep our little one safe in all of this?” She said while stroking her belly.

“Rayla,” he finally stopped her before she could say anything else, holding onto her waist. “We’re in this together, ok? We have our friends. We can do this. Let’s just…take things one thing at a time, ok?”

Rayla looked at him with a determined smile and nodded. Callum leaned forward, cupping her cheek in his hand, then planted a kiss onto her forehead. He then pulled Rayla into his embrace once more and held her protectively.

.

Thank you for reading and this is all I have for now! It’s currently just a WIP so I might revisit this and make any changes I find necessary.

[fandomzombiesimp]

Fuck it. I want Eva lore, but I know we will probably never get more than we already have. Instead, I will make head canons about the absolute GODDESS that bagged Sparda, and gave us Dante and Vergil.

• Eva was raised in Fortuna. I know her outfit doesn’t seem to quite fit the style of Fortuna or Redgrave, and I think it’s because she adapted her style from that of Fortuna for a slightly less conservative style after moving away from it, but still holds every bit of elegance if not more.

• After Sparda disappeared, she wanted to look for him, but knew that would mean leaving Dante and Vergil behind, since Sparda didn’t come back, it’d be too dangerous for both her and the twins.

•she’s an only child that had an interest in demons studies, and that’s how she met Sparda, before she realized he was kind of her god.

• Eva was excited to meet Sparda, but still tried to keep herself in check as to not make a fool out of herself, which in turn, endeared her to him.

•when the twins upset at each other , she’d make a dessert they both enjoy in hopes that they’d get along and share it, giving them enough time to either cool off and apologize, or at least have a break from said fight before they work it out.

•She owned tarot cards and did readings often to try and get an idea of what her sons will turn out like when they grow up.

[jeremiahhawkinsfanfics]

JAYCE & VIKTOR TALK ABOUT THEIR LOVE LIFE ❤️🤔🥰

And Jayce learn some new czech words! 😉 This scene takes place during Jayce’s BIPOCALYPSE 🔥😂😈

Extract from Loving is Caring Chapter 8 - Twisted Mind

Read the fic on AO3

“Vik, I was wondering. What’s the word for “partner” in your language?”

“Parťák,” Viktor answered flatly, still watching the quiet city.

“Oh! Partak. That’s… easy to remember.”

A chuckle escaped Viktor’s lips - soft, endearing. It always happened when Jayce asked about a new word. Maybe Viktor found his accent funny.

“Parťák.” He said again more slowly, making Jayce repeat it again and again until it rolled the right way on his tongue.

“Is it specific?” Jayce asked candidly. “Or is it like “partners”? Like it can be used for colleagues, friends, or lovers?”

“What the fuck is wrong with my brain?! What was that question?”

Viktor turned to him a little too fast. One eyebrow arched in clear surprise. The analytic gaze returned, now tinged with intrigue – similar to when the result of an experiment contradicts his previous conclusions.

“There are distinct words for that. For a romantic partner, you’d say lásko.”

“Lasko.” Jayce repeated carefully. He liked how it felt — smooth, warm, tender. He imagined Viktor saying it to him and felt his face heat up. “That’s a beautiful word.”

“It is.” Viktor agreed. “You can also say miláčku, but I personally prefer lásko.”

Something moved in Jayce’s brain – a very familiar and dangerous feeling. Curiosity.

“Have you ever had a… a lasko?” Jayce asked, carefully looking away, all too scared to give away his most private thoughts.

Viktor’s eyes wouldn’t leave him.

“No” he answered with a tone much more casual than his gaze. “I had a few lovers. More for… scientific curiosity, if I can put it that way. But I never had a significant other – a lásko. Not yet.”

Jayce felt his caution wrestling with his curiosity. It was a brutal, uneven match. And caution wasn’t winning this round.

“And… would you like to?” Jayce risked, still stubbornly looking outside, knowing all too well what kind of bare emotions were dancing in his eyes right now.

“Of course” Viktor smiled. “As long as it’s with the right person, love seems like a fascinating thing to experience. Don’t you think?”

Jayce’s blush deepened, and he pretended to look at something down in the street to hide it.

“Yeah… yeah. Love is… really something fascinating.”

“I trust your word on that.” Viktor said, looking back to the city. “I imagine you’ve had plenty of lásky.”

“Not that many… I mean, I had a few girlfriends before, and I've loved each of them. But I hope one day I would meet the one true love, like my parents did. They really had a beautiful story” Jayce smiled, starting to relax.

“Interesting,” Viktor replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jayce shifted awkwardly.

“What about you?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “You said you didn’t have a lásko, but… have you ever had a crush? Been in love before?”

An odd chuckle passed Viktor’s lips – one that sounded a bit ironic – as they curled into a quiet and endeared smile.

“… I have.”

His voice was just a whisper – like a secret, quietly placed in Jayce’s hands, precious and fragile.

Jayce turned to him. There was something new in Viktor’s expression. Something vulnerable, tender, and loving.

“How was he like?” Jayce asked, now burning with curiosity.

Tall? Strong? Handsome? Brilliant? Everything all together? What could Viktor’s secret love be like?

Viktor let another chuckle pass his lips.

“… Kind.”

His eyes were infinitely more eloquent than his words – filled with more love Jayce could have ever imagined seeing in those pearls of brightness and intelligence. Long lashes dropped modestly as if hiding something too raw to be fully seen.

And suddenly, without warning, Jayce’s heart ached.

That look… That smile… That affection in Viktor’s eyes… Jayce realized he wanted them for himself. He wanted to be the one Viktor would think of like that.

But if Viktor had never had a lásko… that meant this affection, this love, had never been returned.

Someone had wasted it – someone who hadn’t been smart enough to accept it, to cherish it.

Had this man rejected Viktor? Had Viktor been through a heartbreak because of him? Or had Viktor simply never dared to tell him – like this man made him feel like he was not enough?

Jayce imagined Viktor alone in bed, tasting nothing but loneliness and longing, instead of being covered with all the love and affection he deserved. Could it even be that… this man ever made Viktor cry?

A burning wave of protectiveness flooded Jayce’s chest, running stronger at each beating of his heart.

Viktor deserved better. So much better.

Viktor deserved to be kissed good morning every day, to be brought sweet milk to bed, to be cuddled before going to sleep, to be spooned to stay warm through the night, to be told every hour how beautiful, and smart, and funny he was, to be listened to when he had another brilliant idea or when he had a bad day. Viktor deserved a man who would gift him that book he couldn’t find anywhere for his birthday, who would make him feel everyday how wonderful, and brilliant, and loved he was.

Jayce heart skipped a beat.

“Now that… that really feels like love. And really not like friendship.”

He felt them again: the wires crossing, short-circuiting his mind. Like love and friendship had been both battling in his mind for weeks – and right now love had placed a powerful blow. The whole blueprint of his relationship with Viktor shifted again – an unsolved equation just getting even more complex.

Before chaos could fully overpower him, a grounding hand settled on Jayce’s shoulder.

“We should get back to work now, parťák”

Want to read more? Read the fic on AO3!

Thank you for reading 😊

[muiitoloko]

Hey, how are you? Sorry to bother you, but I have a fanfic idea, if you're interested in writing it.

You know that fanfic you wrote "Exposed: A Dangerous Game"? So in the last part you wrote, Eli demands that only he photograph her for a fee and everything.

In this case, would it be possible for you to make a third part in which the reader, almost at the end of college or a little before, decides to end this arrangement with him? The reason would be that she would like to have a relationship that, now that she was at the end of her course and with the prospect of a job in her field, had some future. A relationship where her partner thought about marriage and children, about building a life with her. And the reader knows that Eli would not be that kind of man. You could also add to this reason that she was in love or on the verge of being in love with him, so she decided to end things before she really got hurt.

You could put this conversation in the middle of a sex scene between them or something. Eli... well, he wouldn't accept it at all for some reason that you might not want to put in (it's okay if you don't): he's reluctantly falling in love with her or he likes her company or something. So you'd make him very possessive.

Also, you could introduce a new classmate that the reader has been catching her eye with, and they talk and do some things together, and the reader thinks he's a potential candidate. Eli would notice this and get really jealous, but he wouldn't say anything about it for a while or whatever. It's up to you.

Just an idea and I apologize in advance for the long text! Kisses!

Title: The Terms of Use

Summary: She wanted out. He offered freedom. But obsession isn’t something Eli surrenders—it’s something he fucks deeper.

Pairing: Eli Michaelson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: I want to give a special thank you to @graciesbow and @coldkidcookieneck for helping me with this story—for all the encouragement and ideas you shared. I really hope everyone enjoys it, even though part of me still feels like I strayed from the narrative a bit. Oh, and @coldkidcookieneck suggested that "Obsessed" by Mariah Carey fits the story, and I totally agree! And just a warning, there will be a part 4, which will probably be the last one.

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

Eli took the photos. Too many, if anyone asked. The bastard had ideas—scenarios, as he called them—like some twisted director with a dirty lens and a God complex. His office, first. Then his living room. The backseat of his car. Even the goddamn lecture hall after everyone else had gone home, the lights buzzing overhead, the smell of dry-erase markers still hanging in the air.

He had a list. A fucking list.

“Here,” he’d said, handing you a scrap of paper one night, fresh out of bed, his cock still wet, his baritone like velvet over gravel. “Outfit. Pose. Location. We’ll do three this week. Don’t eat lunch before, I want your stomach flat.”

You’d snatched the paper out of his hand, glare sharp, but you didn’t tear it up. You didn’t throw it back in his smug, self-satisfied face. You’d just shoved it in your bag and showed up. Like always.

He even bought a camera. Professional, he claimed. State of the art. Bullshit.

The thing clicked and whirred like a dying printer. Half the shots were crooked. He cut off your elbow. The lighting made you look like a haunted doll. But it didn’t matter. Eli didn’t care about framing or exposure.

He cared about you.

You bent over the armrest of his leather chair, breasts pressed against the cushions, ass in the air, head turned just enough for him to see your flushed cheek, your glassy eyes. His hand on the camera. His cock hard in his trousers.

“Don’t look at the lens,” he’d bark. “Look at me.”

You did.

And he dropped the camera to the floor—again—just so he could fuck you over the chair, grunting curses against your throat like some deranged auteur whose medium was possession.

The photos were awful.

But he loved them.

He printed them. Framed them. Carried them around on a flash drive like they were fucking data sets. And true to his word, he paid you for every shoot—stacks of bills in unmarked envelopes, like hush money from a man too arrogant to admit he was obsessed.

You almost started to believe you could live with it.

Until the third week. Until he found out.

It was a Thursday. Midterms had started. You’d barely slept. And Eli had been oddly nice that morning—nicer, at least—sitting beside you in his office as you reviewed formulas, his fingers ghosting your thigh, his voice low and indulgent as he corrected your work.

Then, the door slammed shut behind you.

You turned.

He was standing there, coat still on, magazine in hand. Not his photos. Playboy.

Hot off the press.

You knew that cover. The editor had emailed you proofs just last week. That issue wasn’t even supposed to be out until Friday.

But here it was.

And so was Eli. His eyes—hazel, bloodshot with rage—never left you as he tossed the magazine onto the desk. It landed face-up. You. Kneeling in nothing but thigh-highs and a pearl necklace, mouth parted in soft, pornographic surprise.

“You’re still doing it.”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

You swallowed. “I—”

“You lied to me,” he cut in, walking toward you with a slow, measured pace. “You looked me in the eye, let me fuck you in my office, in my bed, and you lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” you said quickly, “I just didn’t tell you—”

“Don’t you dare try to parse language with me, little girl,” he snapped, baritone rising like thunder in a bottle. “I asked you if you were done. You said yes. You fucking promised—”

“I have a contract!” you shouted, finally, chest rising and falling. “Six more shoots. The fine for breaking it is fifteen grand—I don’t have that kind of money.”

He went still, his hands clenched at his sides.

You pressed on, fast, before he could erupt again. “It’s the only reason I can afford tuition. Rent. Food. I don’t have rich parents or a Nobel Prize. I’m just trying to get through college and get the hell out of here—”

“Oh, you’ll get out,” Eli hissed, stepping closer, his face inches from yours. “But you’ll crawl.”

You stared up at him, trembling. “Eli—”

“No,” he snapped. “Not Eli. Not anymore.”

He reached behind you, grabbed the edge of the desk, and shoved everything off it with a crash. Pens, papers, his computer mouse—everything hit the floor in a cacophony.

“Bend over.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You want to whore yourself out for tuition?” he snarled. “Fine. But you’re going to pay me too.”

You took a step back. “This wasn’t the deal.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice soft and vicious. “Now it’s a punishment.”

He grabbed you by the wrist, dragging you to the desk, bending you over it with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. His hand splayed across your back, holding you down as you writhed beneath him.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” he whispered against your ear. “You don’t get to act like you’re just doing this for money.”

His hand slid under your skirt, yanking your panties down. “From now on,” Eli growled, “you pose for me. You fuck for me. You belong to me.”

You shuddered, lips parting in a ragged gasp.

“And if you disobey me again,” he added, his voice low and lethal, “I’ll send those photos to every academic committee you’ve ever applied to. We’ll see how generous Playboy is when your name hits a scandal blog.”

You froze.

Because you believed him. Because you knew he meant every word.

“Now,” he purred, lining his cock up with your dripping cunt, “let’s talk about that six-issue contract of yours…”

And then he thrust inside you like he was claiming what was owed.

Because Eli Michaelson didn’t forgive.

He collected.

When Eli finished, he let out a long, satisfied sigh and collapsed into the chair behind his desk, one hand lazily dragging down his face, the other resting on his spent thigh. His trousers were still open, his cock softening against his belly, and he looked like a man who’d just delivered a lecture that no one dared interrupt.

You didn’t say a word.

Just moved quietly. Deliberately. You gathered your clothes—what was left of them—sweater half-buttoned, panties twisted, your bag clutched tightly to your chest as you bent to retrieve your glasses from where he’d tossed them earlier. The room was silent except for the subtle rustle of fabric, your shallow breathing, the click of a belt buckle.

Eli didn’t pay you much attention.

Not at first. Not until he heard it.

A sniffle.

Soft. Choked. Barely audible—but it sliced through the air like a scalpel.

He looked up, confused. Irritated.

“What the hell are you crying for?” he asked, his baritone dry, incredulous.

You stood near the door now, your hand trembling as you wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve. You looked at him like you couldn’t believe the question had even left his mouth.

“You think I like this?” you spat, your voice tight, trembling. “Selling pictures of my body like I’m some kind of fucking whore?”

Eli blinked, caught off guard not by your tone—but by the tears. Actual tears. Not manipulation. Not performance. Not the teasing, breathy sobs you made while riding his cock, but real, quiet grief.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the rest, your eyes shining with anger and something else—shame.

“Why the fuck do you think I’m here, Eli?” you asked, breath hitching. “Why do you think I go to class? Study? Work two jobs? Pose for disgusting men with cameras? You think I enjoy this shit?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly, expression unreadable.

“I’m trying,” you whispered. “I’m trying to build a life where I don’t have to keep selling myself just to eat. I want a real career. One where I get to be smart and respected and not jerked off to by a man old enough to be my father.”

You wiped your cheek with shaking fingers.

“And I thought I had that,” you continued, voice cracking. “Here, at this school. No one knew me. No one recognized me. I was invisible and I liked it. I finally got to be someone other than the fucking centerfold.”

You turned your back, gripping the doorknob like it might hold you up.

“And then you found out,” you whispered. “And you ruined it.”

Eli sat there, hands frozen at the waistband of his trousers, the click of his belt buckle loud in the quiet room. He looked away. Not out of guilt—not that he’d admit—but because your crying made something sharp twist beneath his ribs, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Stop crying,” he muttered. Not cruel. Not cold. Just… uneasy.

You didn’t answer. You kept dressing. Pulling on your coat with jerky movements, shoulders hunched, throat tight with swallowed sobs.

He stood.

“Come here,” Eli said.

You didn’t move.

“I said come here.”

You shook your head. “Go to hell.”

He crossed the room in two steps.

His hand didn’t grab you—just rested on your shoulder, firm and heavy, the way a man who’d never learned to comfort might try to offer something resembling presence. His voice dropped, baritone low and coaxing.

“Come here.”

You turned slowly, reluctantly, eyes brimming with hurt—and Eli, without thinking, pulled you into his lap. The chair creaked beneath your combined weight, his arms steady around your waist. You resisted at first—halfhearted, angry—but eventually you let yourself fold into him, your face pressing into the collar of his shirt, your breath shaky against his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please don’t ruin this for me. Don’t make me start over again. I can’t—” Your voice broke. “I can’t lose this. My scholarship. My advisor. I just… I just want to be something.”

Eli didn’t respond right away. His fingers ghosted up your back, unsure, awkward, but steady. His hooked nose brushed against your hair. He could smell your sweat, your perfume, the faint trace of tears and shame.

And something, God help him, twisted in his chest. He didn't say sorry, he didn't promise anything; he couldn't; that wasn't who he was.

But he didn’t push you away, either. He just held you there in his lap, quiet, still, his hands resting at the small of your back, until your shaking started to ease.

And when your breath finally slowed, your tears soaking into the collar of his expensive shirt, he said, quietly:

“You’re done with those Playboy shoots,” he said flatly, his baritone calm in that dangerous way, like a bomb ticking down. “Today.”

You blinked up at him, still curled awkwardly in his lap, tear-streaked, skin bare under your half-buttoned coat. Your eyes, puffy and raw from crying, were wide with something between confusion and disbelief. “What?”

“I said you’re finished,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was speaking to a particularly stupid lab tech. “No more centerfolds. No more glossy come-hither bullshit. You’re done.”

You sat up slightly, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. “But I told you—I can’t break the contract. There’s a penalty fee. A huge one.”

“I’ll pay it.”

You froze.

The silence was thick, stunned. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes flickering to his face like you weren’t sure if you’d heard him right.

“…You’ll what?”

Eli didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just leaned back slightly in the chair, his arm still firm around your waist, hazel eyes fixed on you like a predator who’d already done the math.

“I’ll pay the fine. Tear up the contract. Walk away from all of it.”

Your mouth opened, closed, opened again. “But—that’s—”

He cut you off with a sharp wave of his hand, his baritone crisp and impatient. “And before you ask me about tuition and books and all the other student bullshit—yes. I’ll cover that too.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, the hook of his nose casting a sharp shadow across his cheek as his lips curved into a slow, smug smirk.

“But you’re going to sign my contract.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“You’ll finish your degree,” he continued, ignoring the way you flinched, “on my dime. I’ll pay your tuition, your fees, your textbooks, all of it. And in return, you’ll work for me for a few years after graduation. I need an assistant. You’re good at chemistry. I can use that.”

You blinked. Hard. “Wait… that’s it?”

Eli’s smirk deepened. “Disappointed?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your body was still tense, half-expecting some filthy twist, some degrading clause.

“You’re not asking me to…” You lowered your voice, glancing toward the door like someone might hear. “To do sex work for you. As part of this job.”

His brows rose, amused. “Do I look like a man who wants to fuck his lab assistant during conference calls?”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

He let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, I don’t. I need someone competent who won’t ask idiotic questions while I’m trying to prove a compound isn’t thermodynamically stable just because it looks pretty on a whiteboard.”

You swallowed hard. “So this is… a real offer?”

“It’s a Michaelson offer,” he said. “Which means it’s binding, inconveniently generous, and not open for negotiation.”

You chewed your lip, brows furrowing. “What about my rent?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he drawled, “that’s not a necessity, is it? You want me to pay your rent, you’ll have to earn it.”

“…You mean with photos.”

“Exactly,” Eli said, pleased. “Still need to supplement your income? Fine. You take pictures for me. Exclusive, of course. I’ve been thinking about a new scene.”

“Oh God.”

“A bathtub,” he continued thoughtfully, like he was planning a thesis. “Old-fashioned clawfoot tub, white porcelain. Maybe some bubbles. Just enough to tease. You could wear pearls again. That necklace looked exquisite wrapped around your throat.”

You huffed. “Your pictures aren’t even good.”

That stopped him cold.

Eli’s expression shifted—just slightly. His smirk faltered, and his hazel eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

You crossed your arms. “They’re not. Half of them are blurry, the lighting’s off, and your angles are atrocious. You cut off the top of my head in three of them.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Eli reached into his pocket.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. Just dug into the front of his trousers, fingers slipping into the lining like he was fishing for keys—or a scalpel. And then he pulled them out.

Photos. Glossy. Printed. Your photos.

You gasped. “You’re carrying them around?” you shrieked.

He looked smug. “Of course.”

“In your pocket?”

“Yes.”

You stared at him, horrified. “Why?”

“Because I like them.”

“That’s not—normal!”

He shrugged, unbothered, flipping one over and holding it up to the light. “You look particularly fuckable in this one. It’s the one where you’re lying on my bed, wearing nothing but my glasses and a pencil in your mouth.”

Your face burned. “That was your idea.”

“Excellent idea,” he said. “One of my best, actually.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. “You’re sick.”

“Mm,” he said, already sliding the photos back into his pocket, neat and unrepentant. “And you’re under contract.”

Your hands dropped from your face. “You haven’t written a contract yet.”

He smiled, all teeth.

“Oh, sweetheart. I started writing it the moment you said 'Please, Professor'.”

The days passed. And Eli, of course, did exactly as he promised. He paid off your Playboy contract in full—wire transfer, no questions asked. Within forty-eight hours, the editor was emailing you with a sour “Best of luck” and a very legal “Your termination has been processed.” Tuition? Paid. Books? Delivered in a neat stack to your dorm room, with a post-it from Eli that just said: You’re welcome. Don’t spill anything on the thermodynamics text.

You didn’t know how to feel.

You were trapped. You knew that. Bound to a man who carried your nudes in his suit pocket and called them “inspiration.” But somehow—strangely, confusingly—you still felt… free.

Maybe because Eli didn’t make you choose.

He didn’t force you to sleep with him. Not again. Not explicitly. Not after that night.

Instead, he let you study. Pushed you, even. He sat next to you with a red pen and a scowl as you solved reaction equations, occasionally snatching your notebook just to correct something with an infuriating flourish. He insulted your sloppy handwriting and your “teenage girl pen preference,” but he stayed up until two a.m. helping you understand your chromatography lab results.

And he talked to you. That was the strangest part. Not sweet nothings, not compliments—but real conversation. About literature. About chemistry. About the way most Nobel laureates were “smug bastards with bad skin and worse ethics.” He teased you. You teased him back. Once, you even made him laugh so hard he spilled coffee on his own lap, then blamed you for it.

It was… a weird relationship. It didn’t have a name. You weren’t dating. You weren’t exclusive. You weren’t naive enough to think Eli didn’t sleep with other women. He didn’t bother to hide it. You saw the wrappers in his trash. The lipstick on the wine glasses. Once, you found a lacy thong in his laundry room and just threw it in the bin without comment.

But he didn’t use condoms with you.

So you kept a strict routine. Pills on time, every time. And you focused on school. You had to.

There was no time to fall in love—not with Eli, not with anyone.

Especially not with Eli.

That night, for example, you were sitting cross-legged on his couch, eating Chinese food straight from the carton, chopsticks in one hand, your laptop open beside you. Eli sat across from you in his armchair, glasses low on the bridge of his hooked nose, flipping through a stack of freshly printed photos.

“You blinked in half of these,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, shoveling lo mein into your mouth. “Because your flash is set to nuclear.”

He didn’t look up. “And your posture is getting worse. Sit up straight next time. Arch your back.”

“I’m eating noodles,” you said through a mouthful. “Not auditioning for Penthouse.”

Eli held up a photo—one where you were sprawled on his rug in a silk robe, one leg hooked over the arm of the couch, hair falling over one shoulder. Your face was turned just enough to be coy, lips parted, eyes hazy.

“This one,” he said, tapping the corner. “Frame-worthy.”

You swallowed, then reached for the egg roll. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

You glanced at him. “You ever going to tell me what you do with them?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“I think if the university ever searched your laptop, your tenure would burst into flames.”

Eli smirked. “Please. I keep them on a private drive. Triple encrypted. Labeled ‘Lab Archives.’”

You snorted. “That’s actually disgusting.”

“And yet you keep letting me take them.”

You paused, egg roll halfway to your mouth. “You pay me.”

He shrugged. “You let me fuck you for free.”

You threw a fortune cookie at him.

He caught it midair, nonchalant, and set it on the coffee table. “Tell me something honest,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Anything. What you’re thinking. What you want. What you hate.”

You hesitated. Then, slowly: “I think… I’m starting to understand you.”

That made him pause. Just slightly. His hazel eyes lifted from the photo in his hand.

You pressed on, more cautiously this time. “Not like, agree with you. But understand. You’re an asshole. You manipulate people. You treat everyone like they’re dumber than you because they usually are. But you also… remember things. Help. Teach.”

You twirled your chopsticks, gaze flicking down to the pile of photos on the table. “You make me feel smart,” you murmured. “Even when you’re making me feel used.”

The silence stretched. Then Eli leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked at you.

His voice was low. Steady. “You’re not used,” he said. “You’re mine.”

You didn’t know whether that was better or worse. But you knew—somehow—that it was true.

And for tonight, that was enough. You were halfway through your egg roll when Eli’s phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with a familiar soft-blue glow. He didn’t flinch—barely even looked—but you did, peering over your noodles with idle curiosity.

“Who is it?” he asked lazily, still flipping through the stack of photos in his lap.

You leaned forward, squinting.

“It’s… an international number. London,” you said. Then, after a beat: “Thomas Benson?”

Eli didn’t even glance up. Just grunted. “Ignore it.”

You blinked. “You’re not going to answer?”

“No,” he said flatly. “It’s just my little brother.”

You froze mid-chew, your brows lifting slowly. “You have a brother?”

Eli finally glanced up, one brow arched. “Half-brother. Father’s side.”

Your chopsticks paused in the air, forgotten. “And… he’s in London?”

“He’s ten,” Eli said, his voice distant, almost distracted. “Got a phone for Christmas. Calls me almost every day. Mostly to tell me about frogs or Minecraft or whatever he thinks is going to impress someone with a Nobel Prize.”

There was a strange tone to his voice—not annoyance exactly. Not affection either. Just something weary. Dismissive. Like the kid was a wrinkle in a suit Eli didn’t have time to iron.

But you weren’t letting this go.

“Wait, wait,” you said, setting the food carton aside. “His name is Benson? Not Michaelson?”

That made Eli look at you, fully this time, his hazel eyes narrowing over the rim of his glasses. “You’re very nosy.”

You grinned, unrepentant, and chucked another fortune cookie at him. “It’s called being curious. You should try it sometime.”

He caught the cookie—again—and this time didn’t even blink. Just set it on the arm of his chair like you were handing him ammunition for later.

Then, with a soft, resigned sigh, he stood and finally reached for the phone, which was still buzzing insistently. He didn’t answer it—just stared down at the screen a moment, the light painting his hooked nose and sharp jaw in flickers.

“I don’t use my father’s name,” he said at last, voice lower, more tired than usual. “Not since I was seventeen.”

You sat up straighter.

“He and I don’t get along. We never did. But it got worse after my mother died.”

You were quiet now, watching him closely. The lines in his face looked deeper in this light. The usual smugness in his posture had faded just enough to make room for something else—something you weren’t used to seeing on Eli Michaelson.

He exhaled through his nose. “She was the only person in that house who didn’t treat me like an soldier. Or a threat.”

He paused, thumb still hovering over the phone screen. “When she died, I stopped being his son. I became his failure. His competition. His problem.”

You swallowed. “So you took your mother’s name.”

He nodded once. “Michaelson was her maiden name. I used it on my first published paper. I was twenty-one. He didn’t even notice until it showed up in Nature. By then, it was too late.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “He called it petty. I called it autonomy.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Eli rarely talked about anything that wasn’t scientific, sexual, or scathing. And yet here he was, standing in front of you in a living room littered with noodles and nudes, holding a phone he didn’t want to answer from a brother he didn’t ask for, wearing a name that wasn’t the one he was born with.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly.

“Of course you didn’t,” he muttered, glancing away.

“Do you ever… talk to your dad?” you asked, cautiously.

Eli snorted. “He sends Christmas cards. I burn them.”

You gave a small, dry laugh despite yourself.

“And Thomas?”

Eli’s jaw twitched. “He’s a good kid. Too young to know better.”

You tilted your head. “So why not answer?”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And for a second, you saw something in his eyes—not guilt. Never guilt. But maybe... reluctance.

“Because every time I do,” Eli said, baritone low and steady, “I remember what it’s like to talk to someone who still thinks I’m a hero.”

You blinked.

“And I’d rather not hear that voice change.”

The phone stopped buzzing.

He set it down with care, then turned back toward you, his face already slipping back into its usual guarded precision. “Now. Are you going to eat the rest of that egg roll, or are you just going to stare at me like I’ve grown a conscience?”

You stared at him another moment, heart strange and soft in your chest.

Then you picked up the egg roll.

And threw that at him too.

It was amazing how fast time had passed.

Your last year of college had crept up like a quiet threat, suddenly everywhere—capstone deadlines, job fairs, applications, exit interviews. You were almost done. Almost free.

And Eli knew it.

The contract had always been clear: he paid your tuition, your books, your rent. In exchange, you worked for him—assistant duties, photos, whatever he asked. There was no salary, not until the debt was paid off. But the experience alone? Worth it. His name on your résumé would open doors. Maybe not every door, but enough. You had plans. A real future. A job with benefits. A house outside the city. A garden. A dog. Maybe a husband. Maybe a child.

But none of it included Eli Michaelson.

You knew that. He did too.

That’s why you tried to end it. Tried to say it while he was licking your pussy like he owned it, moaning softly against your clit like it soothed something ancient in him. A mistake. A strategic disaster.

You were breathless, thighs trembling around his head, one hand buried in his silver-streaked hair when you whispered, “Eli—this is the last one.”

His tongue didn’t stop. If anything, he flicked it harder.

You gasped. “I mean it.”

He pulled back just enough to glare at you, hazel eyes dark and narrowed beneath the sharp bridge of his nose. “The fuck does that mean?”

You swallowed. “I don’t want to do this anymore. The photos. The... us.”

He blinked. Slowly. Sat up, his shirt half-unbuttoned, face still slick with you.

“You’re ending this,” he said, flatly, “while I’m eating your cunt.”

“I—”

“Jesus Christ.” He stood, buttoning his shirt with short, furious movements. “Is this about that friend of yours?”

You froze. “What?”

“The one with the hair. The stupid fucking scarf. He’s always hanging around your building like a stray cat in heat.”

“His name is Jordan,” you snapped. “And no. It’s not about him.”

“Bullshit,” Eli barked. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at him? Like he’s some goddamn fantasy come to life.”

“I’m thinking about my future,” you shouted. “Something you clearly don’t give a shit about unless it’s framed and laminated and hanging in a university hallway.”

“Oh, don’t be so fucking noble,” he snarled. “You liked this. You loved it. You came crawling back every time. You let me touch you. Pose you. Fuck you. Don’t act like you’re suddenly above it because some underfed undergrad told you he likes your handwriting.”

You stepped forward, rage curling tight in your chest. “I’m twenty-five, Eli. I want a family someday. A real one. A house. Stability. You can’t even commit to a coffee order.”

“I gave you everything,” he hissed. “I paid for your future.”

“And now I’m trying to build it!”

The room went still. His fists clenched. His jaw set. That impossible nose catching the light like a blade.

Then, quietly, he said, “You’re mine.”

You stared. “What?”

“You’re mine,” Eli repeated, voice low and hoarse. “You don’t get to leave. Not yet.”

Your heart hammered. “You don’t love me.”

His eyes flickered.

“You like owning me,” you said, each word sharper than the last. “You like fucking me. But you don’t love me. And I can’t build my life on a man who calls me a whore when he’s angry and forgets I exist when he��s bored.”

His face gave nothing.

You turned, grabbing your coat. “I’m finishing the degree,” you said. “I’ll work the contract. I’ll be professional. But after that? We’re done. No more photos. No more sex. No more you.”

You opened the door.

“Close it,” Eli said behind you, voice dark and shaking. “Close it right now.”

You didn’t.

He caught up to you before you’d made it five steps from the garage. You didn’t even hear him coming—just felt the sudden grip of his hand on your wrist, then your back slammed into cold metal. Eli’s car, the dented Mercedes he never washed, gleaming under the harsh light of the streetlamp like a complicit witness.

“Let go of me—”

“You’re not leaving,” he snarled, his face inches from yours, breath sharp with coffee and spite. “Not yet.”

His mouth crashed into yours, angry and desperate, teeth scraping, tongue ruthless. His hand found your waist, the other threading into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp.

“I’m not done with you,” Eli growled, baritone cracking against your skin. “Not done eating that perfect fucking cunt.”

Before you could answer—before you could shove him away or scream or laugh or do anything to stop this train wreck—he dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On the pavement.

You froze. “Eli—what the hell are you—”

He hiked your skirt up with both hands, shoving your coat aside. Cold air kissed your thighs as he yanked your panties to the side with an impatient flick of his fingers.

“I said,” he rasped, mouth already hot against your skin, “I’m not done.”

Then he buried his face between your legs. You whimpered—sharp and involuntary—as his tongue dragged through your folds with zero preamble, zero finesse. Just raw, possessive hunger. His hooked nose pressed firm against your mound, lips sealed over your clit like he was starving, like eating you was oxygen and he hadn’t breathed in days.

“F-fuck, Eli—” You squirmed, one hand flying to the roof of the car for balance, the other grabbing a fistful of his silver-streaked hair. “Someone’s gonna see—!”

“Let them,” he muttered into your pussy, tongue relentless. “Let them see whose cunt this is.”

You gasped as he sucked your clit between his lips, tongue tapping fast, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still. You tried to close your legs. He growled. Bit you. Spread you wider with his shoulders until your knees buckled and your moans echoed into the empty street.

He didn’t slow. Not even when your hips bucked, not even when your thighs trembled, not even when your breath hitched in short, helpless sobs.

“You think that idiot John’s gonna make you this wet?” Eli snarled, pulling back just long enough to glare up at you, mouth slick, his voice gravel over fire.

You blinked, half gone. “His name’s Jordan—”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, diving back in like your correction had only pissed him off more.

He flicked your clit with ruthless precision, tongue punishing, lips sucking, fingers bruising your thighs. You cried out, clutching at his hair, shaking all over.

“Answer me,” he growled. “You think he’ll ever make you come like this?”

“N-no—fuck, Eli, please—”

“Say it,” he hissed. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours—it’s yours—!”

You shattered. Came with a scream, your body arching against the car, your knees giving out entirely as he held you up by the hips and drank you in.

When he stood, his lips glistened. His eyes were fire and ice and jealousy and something far too close to pain.

“You don’t walk away from this,” he said, voice low and rough, pushing you gently but firmly across the hood of his car. “You don’t walk away from me.”

You tried to speak, but he had you bent before you could form a word. One swift motion—your panties down, your hands braced against cold metal—and his cock was out, thick and hard and already slick from how badly he needed you.

“Eli—wait—someone—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he growled, slamming into you with a brutal thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “You’re going to feel me. You’re going to remember.”

You moaned, loud, shameful, needy.

He grabbed your hips and pounded into you like the night owed him something, like you did. Every thrust was a punishment, a plea, a broken promise.

His voice never stopped.

“You think he’ll take care of you?”

Thrust.

“You think he’ll pay your tuition?”

Thrust.

“You think he’ll memorize the sound you make when you come around his fucking tongue?”

Thrust.

“You think he’d get on his fucking knees for you?”

Thrust.

You sobbed. There was no other word for it. You cried out against the hood, forehead pressed to cool metal, thighs trembling.

He leaned over you, breath hot on your neck. “He’ll never know you,” he whispered. “Not like I do. Not like I will.”

You moaned, broken, as he fucked you deeper.

And Eli—God, Eli—he was unraveling too. Not that he’d say it. Not that he’d admit what this was.

But it was there.

In every savage thrust. In every hiss of your name. In the way his hand covered yours on the car, fingers lacing with yours like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding on.

Because the truth was simple.

He didn't know how to love, but he knew he couldn't lose you. And in Eli Michaelson’s world? That was as close as it got.

The cold made your nipples pebble through your bra, visible even in the dim light. Eli noticed. Of course he did. His hand slid up from your waist, fingers splaying wide over your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. He pinched your nipple through the thin lace, twisting just enough to make your back arch and your pussy clench tighter around his cock.

“Sensitive tonight,” he murmured, smug, his voice that familiar blend of velvet and gravel. “You like getting fucked in public, sweetheart?”

You whimpered, your cheek still pressed against the hood of the car, hips canted up just enough for him to keep driving into you. But when he rolled his hips—not hard, not fast, just deep, slow, intentional—he found that spot inside you. The one that made your legs shake. The one that always made your body betray you.

You cried out, biting your lip to muffle it. Too late.

“Fuck,” Eli groaned, feeling your cunt flutter around him. “There it is. That little spot that makes you melt.”

He was losing rhythm now, but not control. Never control. His thrusts were measured, deliberate, every one angled to hit that place—watching you tremble beneath him like a live wire.

Eli Michaelson had never been a man who cared about anyone’s orgasm but his own. He got off, he left. That was the deal. The standard. But with you?

With you, it was different.

He wanted to learn you. Wanted to master you the way he mastered equations and experiments—thorough, precise, obsessive. He wanted to know every reaction, every weakness. Wanted to make your body his.

He loved the way you looked with your thighs spread and your cheeks flushed, your voice gone raw from begging. He loved the way your pussy spasmed around him when you came, and the way his cum leaked out of you after, dripping down your thighs like a signature.

And the idea of someone else seeing that? Feeling that?

It made something violent stir in his chest.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, almost to himself. “I can’t stand the thought of anyone else inside you.”

He released your breast with a rough squeeze, then brought his hand to his mouth, sucking the same fingers that had just pinched your nipple. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then his wet fingers slid down.

Further.

Lower.

You froze—body tight with anticipation—until you felt the slick press of his finger circling that tight ring of muscle behind your pussy, the one he knew drove you crazy when you let him near it.

“Relax,” he muttered, his tone dropping into that dark, coaxing register. “You know I know how to do this.”

You whimpered, arching back against him, your body already giving in before your brain caught up.

His finger moved in slow, teasing circles, barely pressing in. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to remind you that he was the one who got to do this. That he was the one who knew every part of you—even the ones you hadn’t meant to give.

“You think that little scarf-wearing shit could handle you like this?” he muttered, mouth close to your ear now, hips still rolling inside you, his cock deep and thick and pulsing. “Think he’d even know where to touch you?”

You shook your head. Weak. Desperate.

“Say it,” Eli hissed, his finger still circling, his cock buried deep. “Say no one else gets this.”

“N-no one,” you breathed. “Only you.”

“Damn right,” he growled.

And then—still fucking you deep, still rubbing that tight little hole—he slipped his finger inside.

You choked on a moan, body convulsing, every muscle locking as sensation overwhelmed you.

Eli groaned, low and brutal, as he felt you clench around both his cock and his finger.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispered, baritone thick with hunger. “You were fucking made for me.”

[aivylz]

Frostbitten

It has been four long years since Zayne has left Akso Hospital for good, including you and Linkon City. Four long years leaving you with multiple questions left unanswered, only for it to be bestowed upon you four years later.

؛ଓ requested by anon, no tw but there will be hurt/no comfort in here. for the zayne girls reading this, i am no zayne girl myself for i am a rafayel girl but i did my best to understand his personality and intentions for this work. enjoy :) .ᐟ ao3

Four years. Four long years after Zayne had left you, for good. You didn’t know where he went or where he was, leaving you desperate and mad at him for leaving you in such a state. His phone? Static. No calls or text messages from him, or perhaps it was because he restricted your number. Your messages still went through, and your calls always ended up in voicemail. Surely, he didn’t block you, but perhaps abandoned his number to keep himself from reaching out to you.

Four long years leaving you devastated with unanswered questions, filled by rage and anger as to why he left so suddenly. Hurt that he did, and sorrow for leaving you independent. Of course, you had your friends with you, sure. But it was Zayne, the same person who promised to never hurt you again and would stay by your side may the heavens and earth fall down from the sky.

Zayne was your… everything. Your closest friend, your lover, your adviser, and might I add your doctor. He was there during your childhood, to be the one who would always patch up your wounds, to your doctor who treated your heart with care and delicateness, only for him to throw it onto the ground and be the one to break it after caring for it for the longest time. How could someone else fill that gap inside your hollow and dejection?

Oh, snap out of it. It’s been so long, surely you can’t still be upset about it. 

You averted your gaze from the familiar toy handing on the shelf at the same place you two once played the claw machine with, a child holding onto your hand as he looked up to you.

“Are you okay, miss y/n?” The kid said, his eyes full of concern and interest.

Your eyes met the kid, giving him a small laugh and a sweet smile. “I’m alright, Kevi. Don’t worry.”

You bumped into the kid just by Azure Square while you were taking a walk, with the same Professor Lucius, of course. You insisted that you would walk around the city with the kid, which ended up in Twinkle Toys.

“Take your pick, Kevi. I’ll buy you whatever you like. But just one, okay?” Kneeling down, your eye level met his. His eyes sparkling with joy as  he nodded and immediately looked around. He instantly pointed towards the one by the bottom shelf a few steps away from you. It seemed like it was a replica of the current famous protagonist of a movie you recently saw. “You want this one?”

Kevi nodded as you picked up the doll, showing it to him. “Alright, let’s get you this one!”

You stood up from the floor and checked the price tag. Ahh… nothing. But there is a barcode. 

Walking towards the cashier, you asked the lovely lady by the desk to scan the code. She placed it in front of the scanner and showed you the price, and thankfully, it was in your budget. You went to grab your wallet from your pocket when you heard a familiar, featherlike voice that once soothed you.

“Good morning.” He said, but he wasn’t talking to you. 

Oh, there he is. “Zayne?” You muttered out, accidentally. 

It almost felt unreal, that maybe you were just hallucinating. Hoping that it really wasn’t Zayne and someone who just resembled him too much, or how your heart started to quicken as the man turned his head towards you. Lo and behold, your eyes weren’t deceiving you at all. It really is Zayne.

Your grip on Kevi began to tighten, making him pull on your hand to grab your attention.

“y/n?” Zayne said, looking almost as shocked as you were. His hands were in his pocket, as the plush toy he was going to buy sat on the counter.

You repeated his name, almost as if you were calling out to him, but under your breath. Your grip started to loosen, checking up on the child as you turned to face Zayne again. 

Oh, God. How could you even face him so shamelessly? Almost as if you weren’t just cursing his name and his entire existence yesterday for the past four years, only to feel so nervous and horrified to see him again. You wanted to run away, you really did. Even to the point you ignored him and continued to grab your wallet and the money for the kid, creating an awkward silence between you. To think that silence like these was comforting to the both of you, now it felt like a disturbance in your morning.

You paid for the damn toy and wanted to run off as soon as possible, but as the lady was calculating your chance, he broke off the silence with a simple, “How are you?”

He didn’t turn himself to look at you, but rather slightly tilted his head so he could see most of you from his peripheral vision. 

This man. How could he act so… normal? After he left you so bluntly without a word nor a single trace. Which is funny, how such a big shot doctor like him could just leave Linkon City without anyone noticing. Not even you. The thought leaves a bitter feeling in your mouth, but you have to hold back on your attitude.

“Fine.” You said. It was a neutral answer, really. You really were just fine. 

Zayne hummed at your response, vaguely shaking his head with a soft sigh. Seems like there wasn’t any way to speak to you, and he knew you might be still hung up on last time. He was about to take his leave, grabbing onto the paper bag when you called out to him.

“Wait, can we… talk. I believe you owe me an explanation.” You said. 

…What were you doing? You haven’t even processed the thought before it came over running in your mouth, even you were surprised and taken aback with your words. You just wish the world ended there, or at least no one around so you can freely bang your head against the wall repeatedly over and over again until it was echoing in your skull, practically telling you there was nothing inside your head.

Thankfully enough, Zayne was still somewhat the same understanding person you knew. He nodded at your request and pulled out his phone. You gave Kevi the toy and excused yourself to bring him back to the Professor, “How about… the same bakery from last time?” You suggested a place where you will meet him.

“That will do.” He replied, looking back at you as he shoved his phone back in his pocket. 

As you stepped out of the store, you let out the biggest sigh known to man. You never realized that you were holding in your breath the whole time, and leaving that place was very much needed.

“Let’s get you back to your father, hm?” You said to the child. 

The walk back to the square felt so short, even if it did take you roughly about ten minutes. One minute you’re leaving the store and the next you’re already standing in front of the bakery. Do you intend to run away again this time? He might’ve paid for it already. He always did.

Oh, shut up.

You pushed the door open with your shoulder, looking around to figure out where Zayne would sit. If I was Zayne, where would I be? Normally, he would sit by a window, a place where it’s cozy and you can see people walking back and forth outside. So, you peered through the left and right windows and found Zayne sitting there. You gracefully worked your way towards him, your heart racing and thumping through your ears almost like loud drums who were impending on your misfortune.

With delicate breathing, you managed to even out your gasps of air as you pulled back the chair and sat down, apologizing to him for taking your much needed time. There, on the table, you noticed that he really did already buy fill in pastries and drinks. It wasn’t all flashy, but seemed delicious enough to take a bite of. 

“You didn’t have to…” You said, swallowing down on your words as you looked at him, his face barely readable now. Are you losing your prowess to read him?

He seemed to shrug your decline, crossing his legs as he connected his fingers as his elbows sat on the arm rest. “It’s already here, no need to decline.”

“You must be talking about what happened before, yes?” He questioned, his gaze sitting firm and unwavering on you as he noticed the way you were subtly averting his gaze.

Well, you did say he owes you an explanation, so why decide to dodge the topic? You’re already here and faced with the opportunity to seek the answer you oh so desperately sought out for. Would you really want to choose to steer the conversation differently and let your feelings slide again just for the sake of speaking to him like nothings wrong? Yes, it's bittersweet to be able to have a conversation with him once again, but that would mean ignoring the aching feeling in your heart just because you chose him again.

You nodded your head as you fidgeted with your fingers, “Yes, but, why did you leave Akso first? I mean, when you left, the director didn’t approve your resignation at all. By the time I went to visit you, everything was just… gone.”

Zayne raised his eyebrows at your question. He’s thankful you were honest about your answer, but he wasn’t expecting you’d bring up the hospital right after. He let out a soft sigh as he calculated the right words to say, “Because I knew that if I stayed with Akso, I’d still be in Linkon and you’d come looking for me.”

He stopped his words as he continued his gaze on you, waiting for you to ask another question or to simply speak. When you didn’t, he continued. 

“I couldn’t bear to face you again after what I did to you. I feared that if I stayed a lot longer, I’d come to hurt you again one day.” Zayne removed his glasses and placed them onto the table, you head slowly nodding with understanding and a new profound perspective and insight. You thought he was done explaining, but he spoke for the third time.

“I figured that me leaving would hurt you again, but it’d be better if I left and hurt you for the last time than stay and wonder when will be the next time my evol will go after you many more times.” 

You let out a shaky ‘ah’ at his words, biting down on your inner lip as you furrowed your eyebrows. “So that was what you leaving was about?”

No wonder. You should’ve expected that he didn’t leave because he didn’t want you anymore. Rather, he left because he loved and cared about you too much to keep himself from hurting you.

He left out a hum as he took a sip of his… boba tea. You assume it’s the usual, a hundred percent added sugar to it. You wanted to laugh, to say that some things don't change at all. A chuckle left out your lips instead, a small smile creeping up to your face as you reminisced how you’d always scold him that he’s just waiting for diabetes to hit him already.

He noticed this, shaking his head with a smile and asked if his explanation was fit and expected of your standards. With a nod, you stirred your drink with a spoon.

“I… I think I understand it now.” You said, a mumble but clear enough for him to hear. 

“I’m glad.” 

You wanted to keep the conversation going, wanted to explain how much hurt he caused you for leaving, but it felt like it wasn’t valid anymore knowing he left with good intentions and not to physically hurt you. You were capable of defending yourself, but a type of hurt from Zayne is different–something you can’t defend and recover from.

“So… where did you go after leaving Linkon?” You asked, your voice slightly shaky as you still avoided eye contact from him. Your eyes fixated on the food and drinks in front of you.

Zayne’s composure went back from earlier, elbows rested and fingers intertwined. “I stayed in a different city far from Linkon, but I recently moved back to the outskirts of the city just five months ago.”

“Really? What were you doing then?” Since he ran from his job, you wondered what kind of living he had back then.

“I took the time to manage my evol, as well as wonder what life is like outside the city.” His answer felt sincere. No false wording or lies behind it, you assumed. This time, you looked at him and took a bite of the pastry. It didn’t taste bland, nor was it too sweet. It was just perfect to your liking.

“I’d like to ask you the same thing. How's your aether core?”

You stopped chewing when you asked, not really expecting that he would bring up this topic. You nervously laughed as you shook your head. “I’ve… been stationed to another doctor, but regarding the aether core itself, I do take the time to visit Doctor Noah instead. Other than that, I’ve been fine.”

With the time left in both of your hands, you both managed to catch up on each other's lives. How Zayne lived off well in the city he ran away to, or how you’ve been doing well and far better than before as Hunter. You’ve mentioned that you reunited with Caleb recently, and with the same mocking disinterest in his face as you spoke. 

You found yourself growing soft and lowered your guard around him, even when you felt like you had a whole wall around you and another wall behind it to make sure your feelings won’t slip away. But, this is Zayne. You can’t act like you still don’t want him right at his face. The same person that made you feel like home and provided the comfort you needed, you can’t hate him even if you wanted to.

By the time you noticed the time, it was already somewhat around the afternoon. There was a tug in your heart that you don’t want this moment to end, not just yet. Letting him leave meant that you’ll miss him all over again, when your heart yearns to come back home to him. There you were, in your seat, dazing off as he spoke and ate, do you really want to feel the same emptiness once he leaves? You could stay as friends, of course. But how do you stay friends with someone who has wanted and longed for each other ever since you were children?

“Zayne–” You blurted out, cutting him off suddenly. You don’t remember what he was saying, so you assume you were already dozing off by that then. “Do you think…”

Say it. He’s already in front of you. What’s stopping you? But gosh, you can’t speak properly. Your words and your heart was fighting each other. 

“Is there a possibility for us to… try again?” 

Your heart was racing, absolute cold sweat running down your face. Your back felt hot, almost like the devil itself was watching you from behind. Your throat went dry, and your whole body felt like it was shaking uncontrollably. You see, here’s what it looks like. His love for you was to protect you, making him run away from himself. However, your love for him was to seek the closeness you both once had. You two had different approaches. You thought to yourself, and usually two negatives causes posit–

“I’m afraid there’s no possibility.”

Huh? Why not?

Before you could speak, he removed the glove from his left hand and, oh fuck. 

“You’re… married?” You eyed the golden ring on his finger, unsure what to feel. You feel… sadness, yes. Almost ridiculously for even trying. The way the ring shined with the sun’s glow, almost like an object of ridicule. 

Your face turned into a scowl as you kept your eyes glued onto it, breaking your contact as he wore the glove again. You can’t… ugh, you can’t even come to a conclusion let alone an explanation on what was happening. During those four years he left, he already got married? 

“I’m only back in Linkon because my wife requested to be here.” He started.

No. No, please stop talking. Please, just stop. Maybe this was just a dream, and that the Zayne in front of you is just a nightmare. Zayne never went back to Linkon, you never bumped into him in that damned toy store, and you never caught up with each other in this damned bakery. This was never real.

“The toy I bought was for our child.”

Stop. Stop talking. Please, stop.

The scowl on your face turned sour as you felt water trickle from your waterline. You never noticed that your heart got heavy and how you were about to cry. The trembling hands that sat on your lap balled into a fist as you swallowed down a lump in your throat. Please, don’t cry. Not now.

All the same, you never realized either that he already stood up from his seat and pulled the jacket around his shoulders again, grabbing the paper bag from the sides. 

“The food is already paid for. I apologize for having to come to this ending. I’d appreciate it if you don’t let the food go to waste.” And with that, he walked past you and you heard the door ring, emphasizing that he already left. 

Oh, poor you. Left alone once again. Your sigh was shaky as you lowered your head, Your hands immediately covering your mouth as you felt yourself breaking down. You tried to muffle your cries, not when you’re in a public area with barely any people. Stop crying.

But it was pathetic, your heart wanted him yet he was already married. Four years of you wondering where he was, your heart aching for an explanation, and four years of wanting to just be with him again. How could this happen? You grabbed your napkin from your pocket, opening it to cover your face as you continued to silently cry and pray to whoever was listening for the staff to not notice you. You wanted to run. Run away forever and never come back to this place, knowing the chances of bumping into him again and again. It hurts loving Zayne, doesn't it?

[rookflower]

how can people hate leafpool? I only read like 3 books with her and I remember she was just so sweet and nice to everyone

(assuming that by following this warrior cats blog you are cool for spoilers that happen in warrior cats books that came out a decade or two ago) sorry for the unintentionally long post:

when people dislike or have mixed feelings about leafpool, it's usually for one of the following reasons:

the way she treats disabled characters (specifically jayfeather and kind of cinderpelt) around po3. this is warrior cats so leafpool is far from the worst offender in ableism, but i think her treatment of jaypaw hits close to home for people since she's a mother/aunt/teacher to him, and also as his mentor she's the character he spends the most time around in the arc aside from maybe his siblings. therefore she kind of becomes the character through which the series conveys his frustration about being treated differently for his disability. to be fair some conflict comes from jaypaw's own projection (because he's understandably insecure, and can read other people's minds but not hers, so tends to assume the worst) but she can be genuinely harsh too.

because of the way her novella was written, people will sometimes argue that she "manipulated" her sister into raising her kits for her. the least charitable read that people have on this (which is very rare nowadays but some people were fairly vocal about back when i joined the fandom) is that she's a stupid slut who carelessly and selfishly got pregnant and then forced the kids onto squirrelflight via cruel use of emotional manipulation so she wouldn't have to deal with them. which is uh. hm. well. i agree the situation wasnt fair to squirrelflight and i think conflict in the decision between them could be theoretically interesting (even if i think having her be the one to offer to take the kids would be a better writing/character decision) but people used to be reeeeally unsympathetic about leafpool's side of things until squirrelflight's hope came out

people used to think she was boring because she was a "camera" (pov character who isn't very proactive and mostly is written to give the reader information about what's happening elsewhere). i think this is subjective and agree to disagree. personally i dont think wc's character writing is very strong anyways and dont care for most of the tnp journey cats or any of the shit that was going on with the tribe so a cut away to leafpool's boring gay adventures at home were welcome

to be clear, i would definitely not consider leafpool an outright controversial character in the modern fandom, especially on the tumblr and twitter side of things. i never finished sorting the results for my big survey, but in the 500+ answers for "least favourite character" i got through, she only got 3 votes (for reference, the same amount as blackstar, fernsong, firestar, nightcloud, scourge, and spiderleg. which are all characters i think the fandom has very varying opinions on depending where you look. im surprised nightcloud doesnt have more honestly people used to be NASTY to her and still are). but regardless i think the big majority of views on leafpool skew positive nowadays (she was a strong contender for voted in FAVOURITE character on the other end of the list, currently sitting at a comfortable third with a 31 vote difference from fourth)

[whimzycle]

Hi Whimzycle! I'm a HUGE fan of your art, it makes my days brighter and I absolutely love how you draw Aster! <3 I started enjoying ROTG and the GOC saga again and I was wondering if you felt comfortable sharing your top 3 fanfics! :)

Thank you so much!

Daawwee thank you!! I appreciate it!! I used to be intimidated when it comes to drawing Bunny but lo and behold, he is the only one that I drew the most out of all the rotg cast lmao.

As for fics though...[Sweats in majority of the rotg fics I read are Jackrabbit centric]

I'll try to keep it as neutral as possible though lmao

Top 1. Prelude to Time Feelers by atimefeeler

I'm sorry I know I said I'll keep it neutral but I really can't help it. It's a really good fic, Jackrabbit notwithstanding. In my defense, the romance isn't really romancing, really they're more queer platonic that's why I like it very much. This fic is so good, genuinely. It's a reimagine of events that happen in both the book series and the movie. The fusion of both media is really well-done and it's world-building even more so! It features perspectives from Mother Nature, Bunnymund and Jack. So like, essentially, you get Mother Nature's backstory, Bunny's backstory and Jack's pov all in one chapter. It's great I love it. High tier, 10/10 fic. Though if you really aren't comfortable with the Jackrabbit part of it, it's cool. I still think you should give it a try lmao.

Top 2. My Stars and Your Valleys by ketren

This is one of the really cool ones lmao. It's a science-fiction au!!! Almost like the likes of Star Trek but it feels more like a treasure planet for me lmao (I've never seen star trek, I'm sorry I'm a degenerate lmao) One of the things that I really like about this fic is how well it incorporates elements of the movie into this fic like oh my god. Especially Jack's initial relationship with the guardians is almost like the movie and it's good, it's great I love it. Oh and the plot!! Goddamn the plot!! It's so eerie and mysterious and I love it. It keeps you interested for the entire duration of the fic, wondering what the hell is happening lmao. But oh! I most love Jack's relationship with his sister, even though it's only at the first and last chapters lmao. They're so good, I love how complex it is. It's a high tier, 10/10 fic!!! Please read it!!!!! It's so good!!!!!!!

Top 3. 188 Hugs by Icka M Chif (mischif)

Affectionate Guardians are my weakness and this fic exploits my love for it. Also, it's Jack and Bunny centric so it's a two-for two punch of things that I love. The title says it all when it comes to the plot lmao. It's essentially an exploration of Jack and Bunny's friendship through hugging lmao. It's a great fic high tier, 10/10. (Although really, any fic from this author is a 10/10) I love how it tackles the Jack is lonely for 300 years bit and the only way to dismantle that is through the power of friendship and found family. Really, the only solution to everything. And I love it, it's great, it's amazing and I feel so much joy over this fic. I really don't need to explain much lmao. This fic is just so good, I'll let it explain itself for you. So please!! Read it!!! So you can experience the immense joy I had when reading it lmao!!!!!!

Now, I know you only said my top 3, but I'm adding honorable mentions because it is a crime if I do not include any of them:

Sparks Fly by Icka M Chif (mischif)

Naughty and Nice by Icka M Chif (mischif)

Not a Guardian by Icka M Chif (mischif)

Advent, Advection by pengiesama

Selenographia, sive Lunae descriptio by pengiasama

Looming Shadows by Reidluver

Nights and Nights Again by partingxshot

When Hope Gives Way to Joy by taizi

Other Ways by Asidian

Unique by Asidian

Learning to See by emeralddawn

Mischief Managed followed by April Fools by Neyiea

Allegro Non Molto by tablrcloth

Flower Prompt: Yarrow by melissae-astron

Like a Star by Lunermoon1000

Protege by ProlixEllipsis