#angst with a happy ending (?)

[tarwis]

I'm not usually one for OG Robin or Titans fics, but I would really like a fic like that...

Okay but what about a scenario with the season one yj team, and maybe no one on the team knows who Batman and Robin are behind the mask, not even Wally.

And perhaps the team is getting annoyed that Robin knows all of their identities, but he won’t share his. They don’t care that he tries to explain that it’s not just his identity, it’s Batman’s, so it’s not just him who has to be comfortable with sharing it with them. It doesn’t matter if he explains how paranoid Batman is, how it’s Batman who makes the final call on if Robin can or cannot share his identity. They just blame Robin, calling him a bad teammate, a bad friend.

Kaldur is the only one who doesn’t press him, who assures him that he has no obligation to share his identity with them.

Too bad the rest of the team doesn’t seem to get the memo.

And maybe one weekend, Black Canary has insisted that the team spends the weekend together. It’s a long sleepover, it’s team bonding. It’s so they can actually have a chance to act like kids.

And Robin had been excited. He’d been really looking forward to it, even if Batman did insist that he wear a mask the entire time. It’s more reliable than sunglasses, Batman said. More likely to stay in place. Not easy to remove like the sunglasses are.

Dick had laughed and said that it’s not like anyone would try to take his glasses off, but he complied with Bruce anyway. It did make him feel a little better, knowing the mask would be in place all weekend and he wouldn’t have to worry about slipping up.

But then he fell asleep during a movie. It had been a very long week, what with school and patrol and training leading to some very late nights. He was exhausted, and it was getting late into the night, and the movie was so boring. He fell asleep curled up on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, cocooned in a layer of blankets.

And he woke up to fingers trying to pry his mask off. Training took over, it was pure instinct, because Bruce has drilled into him how important it is to keep his mask on, to not let anyone remove it, even if he’d been kidnapped by a rogue and incapacitated. Anyone touching near his face makes him wake up instantly, and he grabs the hand that was near him and snaps it before backing away.

A pained yelp wakes him up more, reminds him where he is, because it was Wally whose wrist he just broke. It was Wally who was trying to remove his mask.

Dick is breathing heavily and looking around the room, trying to figure out what’s going on. But now he has the others yelling at him, asking him what’s wrong with him, why would he hurt Wally like that, it was just a joke.

“It’s not a joke!” he shouts at them, his voice cracking. “You were gonna take off my mask!”

“Oh come on, boy blunder, it’s not that serious!” Artemis argues.

“Yes, it is!” he gasps. “You can’t just take off my mask! I’ve told you all a million times that I’m not allowed to let you know who I am!”

“It’s not like we’d even recognize you just because we took it off!” M’gann argues.

That’s arguably false, considering Dick Grayson’s face is on the cover of one of the magazines M’gann currently has on the coffee table right that instant.

“That’s not the point!” Dick shouts, but he’s already grabbing his stuff and throwing it all into his bag before he darts to the zeta tubes. He’s hyperventilating and trying very hard not to outright panic when he runs into Kaldur, who looks concerned and confused. He was coming from the direction of the bathrooms, he must not have been in the room when they decided to try and take a peek.

“What’s going on?” Kaldur asks, moving to place a hand on Dick’s shoulder.

Dick flinches away, feeling bad when Kaldur looks sad.

“I’m going home,” Dick tells him, his voice cracking again. “Wally’s wrist is broken.”

“Robin? What happened? Are you alright?” Kaldur tries to ask, but Dick is shaking his head.

“They tried to take off my mask,” Dick whispers, but he’s putting in the code for the Batcave and leaving before Kaldur can say anything else.

Bruce is still hunched in front of the Batcomputer when Dick gets back, and he’s surprised to see him so soon. But he opens his arms when Dick rushes towards him, and he holds him tight and calms him down when he realizes how upset Dick is.

When he finds out that they tried to take off Dick’s mask while he was asleep? He’s livid.

He doesn’t let Robin join the team again for months. Which is fine by Dick, because he doesn’t want to work with them anyway. He misses Kaldur, but Robin and Aqualad find ways to hang out away from Mount Justice, away from the others. Aqualad relays to Robin how poorly the team performs when Robin isn’t there to pick up the slack, how their lack of experience is becoming quite evident when their mission success rate plummets without Robin.

What happens next? Idk. Maybe Dick starts his own team with Donna, Garth, and Roy. Idk.

[aventurineswife]

Hi hello hope you’re having a great day!

I’ve been in drought for Phainon fics especially after his drip marketing came out just recently.

If this isn’t too sensitive of a topic for you could I request Phainon helping reader overcome their fear of men? Perhaps with Dan Heng and Aventurine as well?? With lots of hugs too!!

Hold Me Until the Fear Fades

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Comfort, Emotional Healing, Trauma Recovery, Gentle Romance, Fluff, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Characters, Hugs, Angst with a Happy Ending, Vulnerability, Safe Space, Found Family (Implied/Optional).

Warnings: Past trauma (non-specific, implied abuse or assault), Mention of fear/anxiety triggers, Emotional distress and recovery themes, Depictions of panic or hypervigilance (mild and handled sensitively), Comforting physical contact (e.g., hugs, hand-holding) after explicit consent, Heavy emotional themes but handled with care and positive progression.

A/N: Don't worry, it's not sensitive at all! And I can relate to the topic lol.

You didn’t expect him to sit so far away.

The garden shimmered in the twilight, Coreflames casting soft glows across the marble. Phainon rested across from you on the bench’s edge, hands on his lap, eyes lowered—not in shame, but in thoughtfulness. He was careful. He had always been careful.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice trembling. “It’s just… sometimes I still flinch. Even when I don’t want to.”

Phainon shook his head gently, white hair shifting with the breeze. “Don’t apologize. Fear is something we survive through. You don’t have to justify your survival.”

You stared at your hands. You didn’t even realize they were shaking until his presence stilled them—without touching, without speaking.

Just being.

“Would it help if I moved further?” he asked softly. “Or closer? I want you to feel in control.”

You paused. “Closer… but slowly. Please.”

He moved an inch at a time, saying nothing, giving you time. When he was at your side—still not touching—he opened his regal coat and extended it slightly, a silent offer. “May I hug you?”

Tears welled unexpectedly in your eyes.

You nodded.

He wrapped his arms around you as though you were glass and treasure all at once. His embrace was warm silk, patient and steady. There was no pressure—only presence.

“You’re not broken,” he whispered near your ear. “And I will wait as long as you need. I promise, I’ll never be a fear you have to run from.”

In his arms, your breath began to slow. Maybe healing didn’t always come in leaps. Maybe it was found here—in a quiet garden, in a safe embrace, and in the trust that someone could see you and not expect anything more.

It was late when the door knocked.

You hadn’t meant to cry. The Astral Express was quiet, and the stars beyond the window blurred as your eyes stung. You expected silence in return.

But Dan Heng waited. Not entering—just… waiting.

“I heard…” His voice was quiet, hesitant. “I brought tea. And… a book. Only if you want company.”

You opened the door with trembling hands. His eyes didn’t roam. He didn’t stare. He stood with his usual stillness, a porcelain calmness that, strangely, didn’t intimidate—it reassured.

You moved aside.

He sat on the floor by the wall, letting you have the bed. Placing the tea where you could reach it. Offering nothing but presence.

“I’m afraid,” you whispered. “Men… sometimes. They’ve—hurt me. I don’t want to think that about everyone, but…”

Dan Heng didn’t flinch. He simply nodded. “It’s not irrational. You learned through pain. That takes strength—not weakness.”

“I don’t want to be scared of you,” you admitted.

“You don’t have to trust me today,” he said. “You don’t have to ever, if it means peace for you. But I will never give you reason to fear me.”

You looked at him. He hadn’t moved an inch. Not even to close the distance.

“Can I… hug you?”

His eyes softened—just barely. He stood, careful as a breeze, and let you step forward. His arms wrapped around you only after you reached for him.

He didn’t hold too tightly. Didn’t sway or rock. He was just… there.

A steady heartbeat. A silent oath.

For the first time in a long while, you felt safe at night.

Of all people, you never expected Aventurine to handle it so gracefully.

You’d flinched when he approached too quickly in the lounge. Your body had gone rigid. He stopped, instantly, arms raised—not in defense, but in surrender.

“Oh no, sweetheart. That wasn’t your fault,” he said gently, his usual flamboyance toned to a soft drawl. “I scared you. That’s on me.”

You sat at the far end of the couch. Your eyes darted to his accessories, his rings, the glint of his smile. Part of you wanted to flee. The other part…

“You’re different,” you said quietly.

He chuckled, removing his glasses and setting them down. “Darling, I’ve heard many things. ‘Charming,’ ‘terrifying,’ ‘morally grey with impeccable taste’—but that’s a new one.”

“No. I mean… you didn’t get mad when I flinched.”

He leaned back, away from you, and placed a hand over his heart. “If anyone made you feel like your fear isn’t valid… tell me their names. I’m rich enough to ruin them.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. A little.

“You’re not what I expected.”

He tilted his head, smile soft now. “I gamble for a living, sugar. But trust? That’s the riskiest hand of all. So, how about we start small?”

He held out one arm in open invitation. “You say the word, I’ll wrap you in the warmest, safest hug this side of the galaxy. Or I can stay right here. No pressure. No stakes.”

Your breath shook. You reached forward.

He caught you like silk catching rain, arms curling around you with practiced grace—yet none of his usual bravado. Just warmth. Sincerity.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I’m not here to play games with your heart. Not this one.”

You let your head rest on his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath designer fabric.

For the first time, a man’s embrace felt like shelter, not fear.

[kuiofficial]

Jinu x male reader

Reader is half demon and hides it from Jinu. He’s also an artist from Japan doing a collab and accidentally shows his marks. Jinu sees and comforts him showing he’s a demon too. Happiness ensues

Patterns

Jinu x half demon soloist male reader

Angst w/confort

⚠️ warnings: none

A/n: this is a little short because I wrote 2 fics right before this </3

You hated yourself for one single reason, being half demon. You had stayed hidden most of your life, and you preferred to keep it that way. But now that was gonna be hard to do as you shared an apartment with five other boys.

You were a soloist from Japan, a half demon one at that. You preferred to work alone, and produce your own songs but your manager decided to do a collab with a group from Korea. You really didn't want to do this collab as it required sharing an apartment with them throughout the recording. But your manager could care less, and he sent you off to go pack your stuff.

Most of the time you spent at the apartment was practicing in your room, you were too scared to interact with the others. But even being in your room didn't stop them from interrupting you with being loud. Their leader, Jinu, had always yelled at them to quiet down and you felt bad for him. But then you remember... you're a demon... you aren't worthy enough to feel bad..

Nightmares reoccur every night, and it's always the same one. You accidently showing your patterns off to your hundreds of fans, and then they call you a demon and try to kill you. You always woke up drenched in sweat, crying while hugging your knees swearing you were not like them.

However one night made you realize something.. You were practicing in your room just like you normally do, when you heard the door creak open. Looking up you saw it was Jinu, confused you furrowed your brows slightly. "Oh.. um.. I heard you practicing and wondered if you needed help with any of the lines.?" Jinu said, slightly mumbling. You stayed silent thinking for a bit, 'if I kick him out that would be rude, but I also want to be alone..'

Sighing, you allowed him to sit next to you on your bed. You felt the bed dip softly when he sat next to you. You felt nervous and tense around him, so you just pointed to a random line and said you had problems with the tone. Jinu leaned over your shoulder, making you tense up more because you were scared that he might see your patterns hidden underneath your hoodie.

Jinu however didn't notice you tensing up, "oh, this line? Why don't you try it first and then I'll help you." Jinu said, turning to look at you. You nodded slightly, then began to sing the line. Once you were finished, Jinu looked at you amazed. You were shocked at this, when suddenly Abby bursted through the room and quickly grabbed onto your hoodie. "HELP ME!! ROMANCE IS TRYING TO PUNCH MY ABS!!" He screamed, you looked shocked then realized he was slightly pulling your hoodie off of your shoulder, revealing your patterns. Quickly you covered your arm up, but it was too late, Jinu noticed.

Jinu rolled his eyes and told Abby he can deal with it by himself, sending the pink haired male away. After the door was shut, Jinu looked at you. "So you're a demon.. huh." He said, your eyes widened and you shaked your head no. You were helpless though, he already saw those familiar patterns. Tears began to fall, and you begged him to not tell anyone.

Jinu's heart ached slightly, seeing you so vulnerable when in fact he was a demon too.. Jinu put his hand on your shoulder, "you don't have to worry.. me and the others understand.." he said, you looked over confused. Then you saw the familiar patterns now covering his arms, neck, and face. Jinu looked ashamed of the patterns too, he looked sad...

You knew that he felt the same pain as you did, even if he didn't show it that well. After a bit you realized he looked like he was about to cry, so you quickly hugged him. "I-its alright.." you said trying to comfort him, he looked up at you hugging you back. You hugged for a few minutes, then after you guys felt better. Jinu opened his mouth to say something, but then stopped.

You knew what he was going to say, you could tell. "Don't worry Jinu.. I love you too.." you said, causing him to blush. No longer ashamed of the patterns covering your body, you and him kissed in the moonlight of your room..

Guys I hope this is better </3

[wolfbluebird]

When you fell, I followed…

Natasha Romanoff x f!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: The world was saved, but it didn’t feel like a victory. She was gone, and in the silence she left behind, everything else began to fall apart — the headlines, the chaos, the people rewriting the past. You tried to hold on, but grief is a quiet, cruel thing. It doesn’t shout. It whispers. And when the world forgot her name, you remembered it too loudly to keep breathing. This is a story about love, loss, and what happens when the only person keeping you grounded is the one you had to let go.

A/N: I’m sorry for this one guys… forgive me?

(Men and Minors DNI)

Vormir felt wrong.

The moment you and Natasha stepped off the Benatar, it was like the planet took something from you — something invisible and intimate, like a whisper that crawled inside your chest and rotted the air in your lungs. The wind didn’t move. The sky was dark, but not with stars. It was… hollow. Like grief itself had shaped the rock and silence here.

You reached out for Natasha’s hand without thinking.

She didn’t pull away. Not this time.

She laced your fingers together, her grip steady, her eyes unreadable.

“This place,” you murmured. “It doesn’t want us here.”

“It wants something,” she said quietly. “It just hasn’t taken it yet.”

Neither of you knew what the price would be. Not exactly. But you could feel it in your bones — that some ancient, wicked truth slithered beneath the rock beneath your boots.

Then the cloaked figure appeared.

He didn’t walk. He drifted. Like he’d been waiting for you for centuries.

You moved in front of Nat out of instinct, but she stepped around you.

“I’m here for the Soul Stone,” she said. Her voice was calm, but you heard it — the way it tightened around the edges. The way it caught in her throat just for a second.

The Red Skull lifted his head. “To possess the stone, you must lose that which you love most.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Natasha whispered, “we only get it if one of us dies.”

You shook your head before the words could settle.

“No. No, no, no. That’s not—we can’t—there has to be another way. We’re Avengers. We find a way.”

He said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Natasha turned toward you slowly. And that was when your heart started to crack.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you begged. “Don’t you dare.”

She smiled. Small. Sad. “I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re not doing this.” Your voice rose. “You’re not sacrificing yourself. Not for this.”

“I’m not doing it for this,” she said softly. “I’m doing it for you. For everyone. For all the lives that will come back because of this stone.”

You were shaking your head so hard your neck ached. “No. If you jump, I jump.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You think I can live in a world where you don’t exist? You think I’d want to?”

Natasha’s eyes were glass now. “You have to.”

“I don’t want to.” You were crying. Full, shaking sobs. “Please. Please don’t do this.”

She took your face in her hands. “Y/N…”

“I love you,” you breathed.

She faltered. That was the first time you’d ever said it like that — broken, helpless, desperate.

And still… she smiled.

“I know.”

You surged forward, kissing her like it was the only thing tethering you to the world. And maybe it was. She kissed you back with everything she had, everything she was — and then she pulled away.

Too fast.

Too sharp.

You barely realised what was happening until it was too late.

She moved. Quick. Military training. Widow precision.

You tried to grab her.

She twisted out of your reach.

She was already at the edge.

“Natasha—!”

She turned back, just for a second, her eyes locked on yours.

“I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

Then she fell.

You screamed.

You screamed so loud your voice broke.

And the universe just… watched.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You woke up on your knees. The Soul Stone was in your hand, and Natasha was nowhere.

No body.

No sound.

Nothing.

You didn’t remember how you got back to the Benatar.

Didn’t remember the moment you told the others.

You just remember Clint’s face when he asked where she was. And how something inside you shattered when you had to say it out loud.

“She jumped.”

Three syllables. A lifetime of agony.

You hated yourself for still breathing.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

The fight was won.

They brought everyone back.

Tony was dead.

Steve was old.

And Natasha? She was still gone.

No grave. No body. No funeral.

They built her a stone monument by the lake. It wasn’t enough.

You stood there every week and read her name out loud. Just to make it real.

“Natasha Romanoff.”

You touched the letters carved into the cold stone.

Your voice trembled. “She’s not here.”

The others visited less and less.

Wanda stayed the longest. She knew. Loss lived in her blood too.

“She loved you,” she said one night, gently.

You didn’t answer. Because you still didn’t know how to say I can’t live without her without meaning it literally.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You started hearing her voice.

In the shower.

In your dreams.

When you closed your eyes, you saw her reaching back for you — red hair flying, mouth open, but no sound.

You kept thinking: I should’ve pulled harder.

You kept reliving the last look in her eyes.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was free.

And that only made it worse.

Because you knew she’d made peace with dying long before Vormir. And the only thing that ever kept her here… was you.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You didn’t celebrate the triumph.

You just walked until your legs gave out and screamed into the sea.

You drank until your lungs burned.

You sat on the edge of the same damn cliff every night, staring down and wondering if the Soul Stone would even want yours too.

But every time, something pulled you back.

A whisper. A memory. A damn stubborn piece of her that still lived in your skin.

So you didn’t jump.

But you never really came down either.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

Somethung happened one night — in a dream too vivid to be a dream.

You were back on Vormir.

She stood in front of you, alive, barefoot, wearing that old hoodie you used to steal.

“Nat?”

She smiled. “Hey.”

You ran to her.

Your hands passed right through her.

“No—please. Please don’t do this again.”

She stepped back, eyes full of aching kindness.

“I didn’t go to die,” she said. “I went so you could live.”

“I don’t want to without you.”

“But you are. Every day. Even when it hurts.”

You fell to your knees, sobbing.

“I miss you so much it’s killing me.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’m still here.”

You looked up.

Her hand hovered over your chest. “In here.”

You woke up gasping, tears soaking your pillow.

That was the first morning you made breakfast again.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

Six months later, Clint handed you an envelope.

“She made me promise,” he said. “In case anything happened.”

Inside, was her handwriting.

Y/N,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone.

I don’t need to tell you why I did it. You already know.

But I do need you to know this:

You saved me.

Every damn day we spent together. You reminded me what it was like to have a heart again. To feel. To love.

And I loved you. I love you still. I don’t believe in souls or fate or any of that Red Room crap — but if anything of me lingers, it’s with you.

Please live. Not just breathe. Not just survive. Live.

For both of us.

-N.

You sat on the floor for hours, clutching the paper like it was her body.

You didn’t speak for three days.

But on the fourth, you packed your bag.

You joined a relief mission in Sokovia.

You started showing up again.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Grieving didn’t stop.

But neither did you.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You never stopped loving her.

You never stopped talking to her when you were alone.

On hard days, you whispered her name under your breath just to feel something anchor you.

And sometimes, when the wind hit just right — when the world was quiet — you swore you heard her laughing.

You lived.

But was never really over.

Tony’s funeral came and went. Steve disappeared.

The dusted came home.

But not Natasha.

Not her.

And the world didn’t stay saved for long.

Within months, the fractures started. Protests, riots, starvation in the cracks of restructured governments. “Thanos was right” plastered on buildings. Taglines painted in blood and fire. People screamed for order, for balance, for revenge. You watched it all unfold from a couch that still smelled like her shampoo.

Wanda broke next.

You tried to reach her. She didn’t answer your calls.

And then Westview happened.

An entire town rewritten, enslaved in a delusion built from pain. A grief echo chamber. Wanda didn’t just trap them — she stitched her trauma into their minds, made them play house with her agony.

You sat in silence as the reports trickled in.

“She lost Vision,” they said.

You thought of Natasha.

But no one said her name anymore.

Not even you.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You stopped going outside.

Stopped answering Sam’s messages.

Stopped watching TV unless it was to count how many more rebellions had started in the world your girlfriend died saving.

They’d taken her name off the monument after some fringe group painted “RED IN EVERY WAY” across it in bullet holes.

Clint offered to repaint it.

You didn’t let him.

Let them forget her. Maybe it was easier that way.

Easier than watching them remember her wrong.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

It was subtle, the day your heart started to fray.

You spilled coffee on her hoodie — the one you hadn’t washed in over a year — and it didn’t smell like her anymore.

You threw the cup against the wall and collapsed next to it, sobbing like a child.

You screamed until your throat tore.

And then the numbness came.

It stayed for weeks.

Wanda was gone. Vision too.

No one knew what came next.

And you… you didn’t care anymore.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

Her Necklace still hung around your neck.

Simple, tarnished silver.

A chain so thin it should’ve snapped from the weight of your guilt.

Natasha gave it to you in Prague. She said she found it in a market and thought it “looked like something someone good would wear.”

You’d laughed at her then.

You weren’t good.

Neither was she.

But you were hers.

And now she was gone and the necklace felt like a shackle.

Still, you wore it.

Every day.

Even when you stopped wearing everything else.

Even when the mirror stopped looking back.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

The city was quiet that night.

Which was unusual, given how often it burned now.

You stood on the edge of the rooftop, toes curling over the concrete ledge, your fingers clenched around the necklace like it might shatter.

The wind tugged at your coat.

You didn’t cry.

You hadn’t in weeks.

This wasn’t panic or despair or impulse.

This was inevitability.

They said time healed.

Time just made the silence louder.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

You didn’t leave a note.

You didn’t need to.

The necklace said enough.

You pressed your lips to the metal one last time.

“I’m coming.”

And then — with no hesitation, no drama, no screaming —

You stepped forward.

And the world didn’t blink.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

There was no light.

No fire.

No gates.

Just… warmth.

Not around you.

Inside you.

Like you’d been frozen for so long you forgot what it felt like to breathe in colour.

And then —

A voice.

Familiar.

Soft.

“Hey.”

You turned.

And there she was.

Natasha.

Standing like she’d never left.

Red hair loose. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Smile half-wobbled and full of unshed grief.

You fell into her arms without a word.

She held you.

Tighter than ever before.

“Why?” she whispered.

You choked on your answer. “I couldn’t do it without you.”

Her hands cradled your face. “You weren’t supposed to follow me.”

You laughed through your tears. “Then you shouldn’t have loved me so well.”

She kissed your forehead.

And for the first time in years,

you felt whole.

✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧

And Yet The city kept turning.

Sam left flowers on your window.

Clint cried at the lake.

No one knew what to say.

Because some people survive grief.

And some people just… stop surviving.

They buried you next to the stone that bore her name.

Together, at last.

Two ghosts in a world that never deserved either of you.

Masterlist

[verstappenf1lecccc]

hello I’m in need of another Fernando x reader one shot, I’m not fussed about the plot that’s up to you I just need angst to fluff and everything all cute in the end, please and thanks 🤩

sorry this took ages hope the angst to fluff ratio was okay today has been absolutely horrid for me but Fernando and gabi were too sweet to not include!!

“Austrian Skies, Cracked Hearts”

Fernando Alonso x Wife!Reader | Hurt/Angst + Healing Fluff | Austria GP, 2025

The Red Bull Ring shimmered in the late afternoon light, streaks of gold glinting off pit equipment and carbon fiber. The air was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and celebration, but the weight of emotion in your chest was heavier than the mountains surrounding the circuit.

You watched Fernando from across the paddock, arms folded across your chest as a small smile tugged at your lips. He was laughing genuine and wide his arm draped around Gabriel Bortoleto, the younger driver flushed with disbelief.

First F1 points. In Austria, no less.

And your husband? Beaming like a proud older brother. Or maybe something more.

You approached slowly, Gabriel noticing you first. . “Ah, señora Alonso,” he said with reverence, cheeks still pink. “Thank you for lending him to us for a few more years.”

Fernando chuckled, pulling you close with a warm arm around your waist. “She didn’t lend me. I insisted on staying.”

“Clearly,” you murmured, hand brushing against his back as you leaned up to kiss his cheek.

Gabriel wandered off after a few more jokes, chased by mechanics and reporters. The two of you were finally alone for a brief moment. Fernando still looked toward Gabriel, pride glowing in his eyes. “He drove like a lion today. Reminds me of… well, a younger version of me.”

“You mean the version of you that wasn’t limping after long stints and cracking his back like a glow stick?” you teased gently.

He scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Cuidado…”

Your fingers slipped around his, squeezing. “He really respects you. They all do. You’re the standard, Fernando.”

He turned his gaze on you, eyes softening. “And you’re my grounding wire. Without you, I’d fly off and burn.”

It should’ve stayed a tender moment.

But something inside you shifted. Maybe it was the way the sun hit his graying temples. Maybe it was the way you’d watched him today, holding his own with kids ten, fifteen years younger. Maybe it was your own clock, ticking quietly in your chest.

You spoke before you thought.

“We should have our own, don’t you think?”

Fernando blinked, confused. “Have our own what?”

You met his eyes. “A baby, Fernando. I’m tired of waiting.”

His smile faltered. “Now?”

Your hands folded over your stomach. “Why not now? We’ve been talking about it for two years. Every time you say, ‘after this season’ and then it’s next season, and the next. What are we even waiting for anymore?”

Fernando stepped back slightly, defensive walls rising fast. “You know why I’ve waited. This life… it’s not exactly compatible with fatherhood.”

You laughed ,short, bitter. “You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t spent nights wondering how many birthdays you’d miss because you’re racing in some corner of the world?”

“Then why push now?” he bit back. “You know what this season means.”

“Because I’m tired of putting my whole life on hold so you can keep chasing a dream that’s already behind you!”

It was too harsh. You saw it immediately in the way he froze.

Fernando’s jaw tightened. “So that’s what you really think of me.”

“No, that’s not-” Your voice cracked, your chest already tightening. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is,” he said coldly. “You think I’m some relic clinging to a sport that doesn’t want me.”

“No!” you cried. “God, no-Fernando, I love you. I admire you. But I can’t keep putting this on pause just because you’re scared.”

His breath hitched. “Scared of what?”

“That something might happen. That I’ll miscarry while you’re gone. That the baby will be born and you’ll be in Japan. That I’ll raise them alone while you’re smiling in post-race interviews. You don’t have to say it, Fernando. I know you’re terrified. But I am too. I’ve been terrified for years and you keep asking me to wait like time isn’t ticking inside my body.”

The tears came hot and fast, your voice collapsing into sobs. “And I’m scared that one day… there won’t be time left.”

That broke him.

Every wall in his body crumbled as he stepped forward, voice soft and trembling. “Mi amor-” His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing tears away. “Stop. Please, don’t cry.”

But you couldn’t stop. You had waited so long, holding back this storm, and now it was pouring out of you frustration, fear, love, longing.

Fernando pulled you into his chest, pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it was hurting you this much. I thought I was protecting you by waiting.”

You clung to him, fists twisting into his race suit. “I know you were. I know.”

He tilted your chin up gently, his eyes glistening now too. “You’re right. We’ve waited long enough.”

“You mean it?”

“I do.” His voice cracked with emotion. “I want it all with you. And if we’re scared, we’ll be scared together. But I won’t let you face any of it alone. Ever.”

You let out a laugh through your tears. “You’re going to be such a soft dad.”

He grinned, brushing his nose against yours. “Don’t tell the grid. I still have a reputation to uphold.”

“Too late. I already told Gabriel you cried when we got engaged.”

He groaned playfully. “You’re evil.”

You kissed him slow, melting into his lips, into the safety of his arms. “You love me anyway.”

“Te amo más que mi vida,” he murmured. “And if we’re going to bring a little version of you into this world, we better get started before I really am limping all the time.”

You laughed properly now, the first real laugh all day. “Deal. But I get naming rights.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Not if it’s something ridiculous.”

“Like Fernando Junior?”

“Okay, fair enough.”

He wrapped his arms tightly around you, holding you as if the world had finally fallen into place.

And maybe, just maybe it had.

[luvvjayk]

𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙩 - 𝙟𝙪𝙣𝙜𝙠𝙤𝙤𝙠

PART 1

pairing : fratboy!Jeon Jungkook x reader genre : angst, secret situationship, fboy-to-loverboy, slow-burn, university au, smut word count : ~5k warnings! : alcohol, party setting, drinking, suggestive tension, emotional manipulation, light dom energy, explicit kissing, build-up for smut, fboy!Jungkook, mentions of hookups, reader is not innocent, slow-burn attraction, explicit language.

(MDNI) - contains mature themes!

Rule 1: What happens with us stays with us.

The frat house thrummed like a living beast, its heartbeat a bassline that shook the night, vibrating through the soles of your heels. The backyard sprawled wild, red Solo cups scattered like petals after a storm, cigarette embers flickering like fading stars, beer bottles catching moonlight in sharp glints. Fairy lights hung loose above, their amber glow brushing soft halos across sweaty faces lost in the music’s grip. The air was thick with tequila’s sting, the pool’s chlorine bite, and the sweet curl of weed drifting from dark corners. Bodies danced, shouted, laughed, a restless tide chasing a high only nights like this could weave.

You stood by the pool with your girls, Mia and Lila, your laugh sharp enough to cut through the noise. Your black dress hugged your curves, bold but not desperate, its hem teasingly short, your hair spilling in waves that caught the light like liquid starlight. You weren’t the queen of this scene, and you wore that like armor. People knew you, your quick wit, your unshakable confidence, the way you held a room without begging for its gaze. Mia was mid-rant about some poli-sci boy’s failed pickup line, her voice loud and biting, while Lila, eyes alight with gossip, egged her on. You were a name, not a crown, respected, not worshipped. Guys tried their luck, but you parried with a smirk and a line, your walls built high. You weren’t here to fall, especially not for him.

Jeon Jungkook was a myth spun in ink and shadow, a name that lingered like a half-whispered warning. Across the patio, he leaned against a makeshift bar, a bottle of Patrón dangling from his fingers, pouring shots into a fishbowl with careless ease. His black shirt hung open, revealing tattoos that traced his chest, secrets inked in skin no one was close enough to read. His dark hair fell into his eyes, damp with sweat, and his lip piercing caught the light as he flashed a smirk at a girl leaning too close. He was the university’s golden boy, DJ, party-thrower, frat star with a reputation that burned bright. Every girl craved him. Every guy envied him. And Jungkook? He wore it like a crown, bold and untouchable, with rules to keep his heart caged and his nights free.

You’d heard the whispers: situationships that ended in tears, hookups that flared like comets and burned out just as fast, rules he set to keep things clean, no strings, no feelings, no chaos. He was trouble, the kind that sank into your bones and left you marked before you knew you were bleeding. You didn’t want trouble. You thrived on challenges, exams, debates, late-night bets with your girls, you lived for the rush of proving yourself. But Jungkook? He was a game you weren’t sure you should play.

Yet his eyes found you, a slow burn across the crowd, like a flame licking at dry wood. His gaze was sharp, deliberate, peeling back your walls as if he already knew the shape of your soul. You didn’t flinch. You sipped your soda water, tilted your head, and let a small, defiant smirk curl your lips. You weren’t some wide-eyed freshman. If he wanted to play, you’d make him earn every inch.

Mia nudged you, voice low, “He’s staring again.”

“Let him,” you said, eyes on your cup, voice cool as moonlight but your pulse quickening.

Lila grinned, mischief sparking in her gaze, “That’s Jeon Jungkook, party god, heartbreaker. You sure you want that smoke?”

“I’m not chasing smoke,” you said, sharp but playful, “He’s just a guy with an ego bigger than this house.”

Mia laughed, sipping her drink, “A guy who hasn’t spent a night alone since freshman year. Good luck dodging that bullet.”

You smirked, but his stare clung to you, heavy and warm, like a secret you weren’t ready to share. The night unfurled, the party growing louder, wilder, someone dove into the pool, sparking cheers, a couple slipped into the shadows, their giggles swallowed by the bass. You danced with your girls, the music sinking into your bones, your laugh sharp and free. You weren’t trying to shine, but you did, your confidence a quiet fire, your movements a challenge to the night.

Jungkook didn’t approach right away. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, circling but not striking. You saw him, pouring shots, tossing back his head to laugh with his boys, his presence pulling eyes and whispers. Each time his gaze hit you, it was a spark, a silent dare, Step into my world. You didn’t. You weren’t here to be another name on his list.

But later, when the crowd thinned around the bar, you went for a refill, weaving through bodies and spilled drinks. He was there, leaning against the counter, fingers tapping the tequila bottle, eyes glinting like trouble waiting to happen. The crowd parted, and it felt like the night had set you up.

“You’re dodging the spotlight,” he said, voice low, rough from shouting over the music. His eyes slid over you, slow, deliberate, lingering on the curve of your hips, the hem of your dress, before locking on yours, “Scared it’ll burn?”

You poured a soda water, keeping your movements steady, “I don’t need a spotlight to own the room, Jungkook.”

He smirked, leaning closer, his breath warm with tequila, “Funny, cause you’re stealing it anyway.”

You arched a brow, unfazed, “You always this full of yourself, or is the tequila talking?”

His laugh was deep, raw, like you’d surprised him, “Most girls would’ve blushed by now.”

“I’m not most girls,” you said, voice sharp but teasing, eyes locked on his, “And you’re not as smooth as you think.”

“Oh, I’m smooth enough, Doll,” he said, the pet name laced with a bold edge, grin flashing, all teeth and danger, “But you’re not like them, are you? You’re…” He paused, eyes on your lips, then back to your gaze, searching. In his mind, he thought Trouble, the word a flicker he didn’t dare speak, “You’re something else.”

The word hung between you, heavy and alive, lighting a fire in your chest. It wasn’t just a line, it was a challenge, and you were built for challenges. You lived for the rush of proving yourself, and Jungkook was looking at you like a game he was dying to play.

“Something else?” you said, tilting your head, smirk sharp, “That’s the best you’ve got?”

He laughed, softer, eyes darkening, “Oh, I’ve got plenty, but you’re not ready for it yet.”

You stepped closer, close enough to make him tense, voice low, “And you think you’re ready for me?”

His grin was slow, bold, but there was something else, something that saw you, not just the chase, “I don’t just keep up. I set the pace.” He leaned in, voice a low drawl, “Question is, can you handle it?”

Your heart kicked, but you held your ground. You loved this, the push and pull, the thrill of a challenge, “You might not like losing, Jungkook,” you said, voice dripping with defiance, “Careful.”

“Oh, I never lose,” he said, eyes burning, “And I’d make you love every second of it.”

The air was electric, the space between you humming with tension. He didn’t touch you, didn’t need to, his presence was enough, a heat that sank into your skin. You held his gaze, refusing to break. This was a game, and you played to win.

He poured two shots, sliding one toward you, “To trouble,” he said, voice low, eyes locked on yours, thinking My Trouble but not saying it.

You hesitated, your drive to win flaring. You could walk away, keep your guard up, stay safe. But his gaze, bold, daring, with a hint of something real, made your blood sing. You grabbed the shot, clinking it against his, “To winning,” you said, and tossed it back, the tequila’s burn sharp against the heat in your chest.

He watched you, eyes unreadable, then downed his shot and slipped into the crowd without a word. You stood there, pulse racing, the taste of tequila and his challenge lingering like a promise.

The night spun on, the party a haze of music and laughter. You danced with your girls, threw your head back, let the bass carry you. But Jungkook was never far, a shadow at the edge of your sight. You caught him watching, by the bar, across the yard, his eyes dark, a smirk curling his lips as he poured drinks or laughed with his boys. Each glance was a move, a silent dare to see who’d break first.

You didn’t give in. You weren’t here to be another conquest. But the tension grew, a tightening coil, every look a spark threatening to ignite. Hours later, as the crowd thinned, the air cooler, you found yourself by the pool again, laughing with Lila about some drunk guy’s failed dance move. Jungkook appeared, his presence cutting through the night, but he didn’t pounce. He lingered, leaning against a table nearby, watching you with that same dark gaze.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice low, stepping closer, “Thought you’d run by now.”

You turned, crossing your arms, smirk sharp, “Run? From you? You’re not that scary, Jungkook.”

He laughed, low and warm, stepping closer, close enough to smell the cedar of his cologne, the faint tequila on his breath, “Not scary, huh? Then why’re you keeping your distance?”

“I’m not,” you said, voice cool but your pulse betraying you, “I’m just not falling for your crap.”

He grinned, eyes glinting, “Oh, this ain’t crap, Doll,” he said, the pet name smooth and deliberate, “This is a chase, and that fire in you, the way you move, it’s making me work for it.”

You hated how he got under your skin, how he pushed every button with precision, “You think I’m that easy to catch?” you said, stepping closer, your body brushing his, daring him.

“Not easy,” he said, eyes darkening, his voice a smooth whisper, “But damn, that spark in your eyes, the way you carry yourself, it’s got me hooked.”

Your heart raced, a warmth spreading through you at his words, but you kept your face stern, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you said, voice sharp, but the heat in your core was undeniable.

“Flattery?” he said, leaning closer, breath brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine, “I’m just telling the truth. You’re a storm, and I’m dying to get caught in it.”

The air was thick, the space between you alive with tension. Your skin prickled, your heart pounding, but you didn’t back down, “You’re gonna have to do better than that,” you said, voice low, teasing, eyes locked on his.

His grin widened, a flash of hunger in his gaze, “Oh, I will,” he said, leaning closer, breath brushing your ear again, “That wit, the way you push back, it’s driving me wild. You think you can keep me out? I’m already in your head.”

You swallowed, his words sparking a rush of heat, but you kept your face stern, “You’re dreaming,” you said, but your voice was softer, the fire in your core betraying you.

“Then why’s your heart racing?” he said, voice a low growl, stepping so close his chest brushed yours, “Why’re you looking at me like you want me to do something about it?”

Your breath hitched, the air heavy with want. You could feel him, his warmth, his desire, the hard lines of his body so close you could barely think, “You think you’re irresistible?” you said, voice low, daring him, your eyes burning into his, “What makes you think you can handle me?”

His eyes flashed, hunger and desire mixing in his gaze, “I don’t just handle a storm like you,” he said, voice rough, “I make it rage. And you, with that fire, those curves, you’re gonna want me.”

Your heart pounded, a shiver running through you at his words, but you kept your face stern, “You’re so full of it,” you said, voice low, but your body betrayed you, leaning closer, your lips inches from his.

“Prove me wrong, Doll,” he said, voice a smooth whisper, and then he kissed you.

It was fire, raw and consuming, his lips crashing into yours like a wave breaking on a shore. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him, fingers digging into your hips as he backed you against a tree, the bark rough against your skin. You kissed him back, just as fierce, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. He tasted like tequila and spearmint, sharp and intoxicating, and when he bit your lower lip, just hard enough to sting, you gasped, your body arching into his.

“Fuck, Doll,” he muttered against your mouth, voice rough as he kissed you deeper, his tongue sliding against yours, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every second, “Your lips, the way you move against me, it’s fucking perfect.” His hands roamed, one sliding up your side, thumb grazing the edge of your dress, teasing the bare skin beneath, the other gripping your thigh, pushing the fabric higher, his fingers hot against your skin. You pushed back, flipping your positions so his back hit the tree, your hands on his chest, feeling the hard muscle under his open shirt, your nails scraping lightly across his skin.

“You think you’re in charge?” you said, breathless but stern, and kissed him again, harder, your lips bruising against his. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, and pulled you closer, his hand sliding to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. You could feel him, hard, wanting, his body a promise of everything you were fighting not to crave.

His lips moved to your jaw, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, making you shiver, “This spark in you,” he whispered, voice rough, breath hot against your collarbone, “The way you fight me, it’s gonna be my ruin, and I’m fucking addicted.” His words sent a rush of warmth through you, your heart racing, but you kept your face stern, refusing to let him see how much he affected you.

“You’re not getting to me,” you said, voice low and fierce, and kissed him again, all teeth and fire, your body pressed so close you could feel his heartbeat. His hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you tighter, and you moaned softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing yours in a dance that left you dizzy.

His kisses turned hungrier, messier, his lips claiming every inch of yours, his hands exploring, one sliding up your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. You matched him, refusing to yield, your hands roaming his chest, slipping under his shirt, feeling the taut lines of muscle, the warmth of his skin. He hissed when your nails dug in, his grip tightening, his kisses turning desperate, a collision of want and defiance. You pushed your hips against his, feeling the hard evidence of his desire, and he groaned, low and deep, his lips stuttering against yours.

“Fuck, you’re unreal,” he said, voice raw, pulling back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead against yours, eyes dark and wild, “That fire, the way you kiss, you’re gonna drive me insane, and I’m here for it.” His praise sent a shiver through you, your heart pounding, but you kept your face stern, refusing to let him see the effect he had.

“You’re still not getting to me,” you said, breathless but firm, your lips swollen, your body humming, “I’m not falling for your crap.”

He laughed, rough and low, and kissed you again, softer but still intense, his lips lingering like he was memorizing you, “You’re already falling, Doll,” he said, voice smooth, eyes glinting, “You just don’t know it yet.” He stepped back, adjusting his shirt like nothing had happened, pulling out his phone, typing with one hand, “We’re doing this again, no strings, just us, my rules.”

You smoothed your dress, heart racing, body still on fire, the warmth of his words lingering but your face stern, “Your rules?” you said, raising an eyebrow, voice skeptical, “You think I’m that easy to pull in?”

He grinned, eyes glinting, “Not easy,” he said, leaning in, voice dropping to a smooth, heart-racing whisper, “But that spark in you, the way you kiss, the way you fit against me, you’re gonna want this again. I’m the best you’ll ever have, and you know it.”

You laughed, sharp and dismissive, but his words sparked a rush of heat, “You think you’re irresistible?” you said, stepping closer, your voice low, daring, “What makes you think you can resist me?”

His eyes flashed, a mix of hunger and surprise, “Oh, Doll,” he said, voice rough, “I’m not even trying to resist. I’m gonna make you crave this, make you come running back. That fire, those lips, you’re my kind of trouble, and I’m gonna prove it.” His words sent a shiver through you, but you kept your face stern, refusing to give in.

“Keep dreaming,” you said, voice cool but eyes blazing, “You’re not that good.”

He grinned, slipping his phone back into his pocket, “We’ll see,” he said, turning, disappearing into the shadows, leaving you with the echo of his kiss and the weight of his words.

Back in your dorm, the silence was jarring after the party’s chaos. You kicked off your heels, your dress pooling on the floor, and checked your phone. A new message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Rule 1: What happens with us stays with us.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t given him your number, but Jungkook had his ways, probably charmed it out of someone at the party. You stared at the message, heart pounding with something you wouldn’t name. He hadn’t shown you, but he’d saved your number as My Trouble, a vow, a warning, a secret locked in his phone, a name that burned with the promise of you.

You typed a reply, fingers steady despite the fire in your chest

You think I’ll play by your rules? Cute.

You hit send, a smirk curling your lips. You should’ve deleted it, blocked him, walked away. He was trouble, the kind that could set your world ablaze. But you were never one to back down from a challenge, and Jungkook was one you couldn’t ignore, a game you weren’t sure you’d win but couldn’t stop playing.

The next morning, your phone buzzed. No text, just a photo, a grainy shot of a vinyl record spinning on a turntable, his tattooed hand adjusting the needle, the room dim and intimate. No caption, no explanation. Just a glimpse into his world, a silent dare to step closer. Then, another message, timed to make your heart stop,

Next party, I’ll be waiting. Don’t make me hunt you down.

Your stomach twisted, a mix of dread and thrill. Another party, another chance to face him, to play this dangerous game. You didn’t reply, but your mind was racing, picturing the crowd, the music, the way his eyes would find you in the dark. You didn’t know that across campus, Jungkook was sprawled on his couch, staring at your message, a grin spreading as he traced My Trouble on his screen. You didn’t know that he was already plotting his next move, something to push you past your limits, something to test the rules he’d set.

author’s note :

hi, i’m rie ♡

this story's been sitting in my drafts for a few weeks now and i finally decided to set it free. honestly? i like it… but i kept feeling like it could hit harder. maybe it’s just me being in my head about the framing or the pacing,i don’t know. but i’m trusting the slow burn, because it’s only going to get more chaotic, messier from here.

part two drops in two days—so stick around. feel free to drop a 💌 in my comments or in my inbox if you wanna be added to the taglist!

reblogs + thoughts in the tags/comments keep me alive fr 𓂃 𖥻 ⋆｡˚ 𖦹 ⁺‧₊˚✩彡 ⊹

© luvvjayk 2025 · all rights reserved

MASTER LIST

[urinarythreatinfection]

Looking Elsewhere

Mihawk x Male Reader. 2915 words.

Desc: You like looking at boobs too much and it causes conflict with your boyfriend.

cw: Angst with a happy ending, suggestive-ish, implied but not outright said bisexual reader (can be read as not)

You’re a pretty big fan of boobs, who isn't? They’re great, amazing, even not as an object of desire they’re just satisfying. Soft, plush, warm, they’ve got the whole package along with being one themselves. That’s why your eyes tend to trail, and trail they are. You used to stare at Mihawk all the time, satiating your need using your love’s beautiful perfect pecs; but he started getting annoyed quickly. You apparently “stare too much” and it makes you look like a “lustful beast”. So, you choose to look around the restaurant instead. It’s not like he’s one for small talk, preferring to enjoy comfortable silence, and you’re happy to enjoy it with him even if you do sometimes ramble. He listens, though. Noting things you like and dislike, how you feel, what your day is like; but otherwise you enjoy the silence. When going out like this with him you do the same, talk or enjoy the silence while looking around to avoid scanning him and his body. Your eyes go to a singer on stage and the way her dress is tight around her as she dances while singing.

“wooa…” You mumble, mesmerized. It’s like watching jiggly pudding, so satisfying, so great… boobs. You’re so mesmerized, in fact, you’re oblivious to the murderous intent boring into you. By the time you snap out of it and nervously turn your head back to the lover you had started to ignore it's too late. “...uhh…” Amber hawk-like eyes pierce into yours, “My love-” but before you can say anything he stands up and walks off. “Ah!” You stand up too but you can tell, it’s best to give him space when he’s mad. You sit back down and put your head in your hands. “Dammit…” You sigh and lift your head up to rest your chin on your palms. You messed up. That stress and nervousness fills your body and your eyes unconsciously trail back to the dancer to ease it, freezing when you feel eyes on you again. When you snap your head in its direction you see Mihawk, who had turned around to see you looking at a woman’s chest when you thought he was gone. ‘FUCK..!’ You just made it even worse. He narrows his eyes at you and actually leaves this time. You don’t even bother looking towards the dancer. “I hate my eyes that love breasts…” You solemnly mumble to yourself, enjoyment sucked from looking at the soft mounds now that you know your lover is upset. ‘But what do I do? I love looking at them. I don’t like making him so upset… When he’s happy I’m happy, and when I’m happy my eyes look at things I like…’ you think to yourself. That’s it. You need to train. “No longer will I make my lover upset. I am more than my eyes!” You yell out, determined. You notice it’s gone silent and you look around to see people looking at you. “my bad.”

_________________

‘This should be easy.’ You think to yourself as you sit in a guest room, a magazine pinned to the corkboard in front of you. ‘I mean, I just have to not look, right? Plenty of people don’t look, it’s normal. Which means all I have to do is become one of those people.’ The magazine features multiple big breasted women. You focus on her face. This is easy, women are more than their boobs and you are more than your instincts. If you just keep that in mind you should be able to… oops. Before you could realize you were already staring at her chest. Maybe you should switch to a different page. You switch to a different girl and try the same, but you keep glancing down at her naked chest like you’re playing tug of war. This is harder than you thought. Even when you spend the next two hours practicing your mind eventually wanders and your focus turns to the woman’s chest. You need to switch strategies.

_____________

Okay, next day. You switched to a male magazine this time. Their boobs aren’t as big and they aren’t your lover so your eyes should naturally be less inclined to look. You stare at the face of the man.. he looks weird. Maybe it’s your bias but somehow you can’t find him attractive since he doesn’t look anything like Mihawk. It’s boring to look at, you’d rather stare.. ah. You’re looking at his chest. This isn’t fair. Is it testosterone? Is that why this is so hard? No, there are tons of guys who learned to not stare even if they want to. You’re the weird one. That thought makes you desperately flip to a different page and try again, but this guy looks slightly more like Mihawk and it only gives you the urge to look until you are. This has ended up being harder than the women. What’s worse is it’s been almost two days since that incident with the singer and Mihawk still hasn’t forgiven you! Every time you eat he seems distant, and whenever you try to touch him he dodges it. You’d like to speak about it but he still acts as if he’s completely fine and he would never be upset over something so little.

“M-Maybe I should just use observation haki? Go out in a blindfold and use the haki to get around!” You’re desperate, searching for solutions as you pace the room since you haven’t been allowed to sleep with Mihawk since this morning. You can’t just ask the swordsman to let you stare at his chest either, he has the right to tell you not to look. You’ve had this problem over and over and you keep apologizing but you always end up doing it anyway. This is your last resort. You’ve been trying too long to unlearn this habit the normal way. This was supposed to be the method that would finally solve your problem, but it isn’t even working and you don’t know how much time you have to train before Mihawk possibly breaks up with you.

“I’m more than my eyes. I’m more than my instincts.” You repeat to yourself like a mantra as you sit back down. This is your training. You will learn for the one you love.

(Mihawk's POV)

‘He’s been getting more distant. Has he given up?’ Mihawk thinks to himself as he watches you retreat back to your room once again after lunch. ‘How ridiculous. I should be the one done with him yet he’s acting like he’s done with me.’ Mihawk taps his foot on the floor, getting irritated. It's been a week and a half now and you’ve gotten distant. Sure he was distant first, maybe, but he had a good reason. Meanwhile you seem like you’re done dealing with him and instead go to your room the moment you have free time. You haven’t even attempted to kiss him or look at his chest and it’s starting to tick him off, a lot. ‘Who does he think he is.’ He’s done with this. Mihawk stands up from his chair and heads to the guest room, he should’ve talked to you about this sooner. ‘I knew relationships were a waste of time.’ He thinks to himself as he opens the door.. but you aren’t there, no sign of you. ‘He must be outside.’ He’s about to turn to go to you but spots something out of the corner of his eye, a corkboard. He walks over to it and his eyes widen, then narrow with rage. “I see how it is.”

(Your POV)

You come back from outside. You had been practicing in your room again but got frustrated when you weren’t progressing fast enough, so you went to get some fresh air. When you open the door and spot Mihawk your first reaction is shock, which quickly turns into horror when you see what he’s looking at. The magazines you left on the corkboard. You assumed he wouldn’t go into this room and if he did you’d be back before it happened. ‘I didn’t even step out for that long!’ You panic in your mind. “Miha-”

“Don’t call me that. In fact, don’t refer to me at all.” His voice is cold, his eyes filled with disgust and rage. Your boyfriend(?) is pissed. “A relationship.” He pulls the knife from his cross and slices the corkboard. “What an absolute waste of my time.”

“Wait I-”

“You what? You apologize?” He walks to you. “You feel sorry for being pathetic? Unable to go without stimulation for even a few days before you satisfy your urges with porn of other men and women? You’re a disgusting lustful thing. I can’t believe I thought for even a second that you were anything but.” Your heart aches at his words. How are you supposed to fix this? He’s starting to think you’re some sort of sex addict. You run over to the fallen magazines and pick them up, turning to Mihawk.

“It was for you!” Less than a second passes before his knife is pressed to your jugular.

“That’s your excuse?” A quick flash of pain forms on his face. “Did you even think of me as anything other than a sex object? Tired of me the moment I didn’t give you what you wanted.” The tip of the knife is pressed to your skin, but you feel more sadness that the one you love is doing this rather than fear that he’ll kill you. You look down to flip through the magazine and the blade moves back just enough to not pierce you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. After flipping through it you hold it up to him, but he looks away like he can’t bear to see it.

“Look, I’m telling the truth.” He still averts his eyes.

“Leave. You don’t need to make up reasons like this.” You notice that his shirt is buttoned up as if insecure. Like he doesn’t want to show any part of himself to you anymore.

“Mihawk please.” You plead with him, you don’t want things to end and especially not with a misunderstanding like this.

“I told you not to call me that.” He mumbles, then finally looks at the magazine. It makes him feel as terrible as he imagined, like you would find pleasure in anything. Like it never had to be him. Like he was just convenient for you. Your finger points at numbers at the side of the paper. 15:02. He doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean.

“It’s the time. I was practicing. I—I know it made you mad the way I would look at other people. So I’ve been practicing not doing it.” 16:24. He stares at the numbers. You put down the magazine and pull out a notebook, showing him various notes on self control and your progress. “I just didn’t want to hurt you anymore. I’m so sorry. Please don’t break up with me. At least if you are, don't do it because of a misunderstanding. You can do it because I’m stupid and can’t control my eyes or emotions. I would rather you break it off because you don’t love me anymore than being hurt thinking I betrayed you.”

…

Mihawk doesn’t know what to say. He was in so much pain, convinced that you thought of him as only an object of desire this entire time. He doesn’t even know what to think. You could be lying, but the notes look well written; the ink differs as it continues like they were made over a period of time. He steps away from you, his hand gripping the handle of his knife tightly. “I need time to think.” The last thing said before he leaves the room. You stand there for a moment before tossing the magazine and notebook to the side.

“I should’ve gone with the blindfold.” You lament as you sit on the bed with your head in your hands.

____________________

A day and a half passes, and Mihawk doesn’t even interact with you anymore. At least before you still ate meals together and would talk a little bit but now he only eats when you aren’t there and walks past you when you try to talk with him. It’s starting to depress you, a lot. He isn’t telling you to leave and technically a day and a half isn’t very long but it feels like he wants you to leave and it’s been forever. You wake up the next morning and gloomily walk to the kitchen to eat breakfast without him, perking up when you spot him at the dining table. There’s 4 bottles of wine and 3 of them are empty, the 4th halfway done. You have a feeling he may be drunk and you don’t know how he’ll react, but you walk over to him anyway. Yet nothing happens. For a second you even think he doesn’t know you’re here. Until he speaks.

“I was thinking.” You jolt.

“Y-Yeah?” You’re hesitant about asking but decide to. “Um, about what?” ‘Please don’t say about us like we’re gonna break up.’

“About us.”

‘NOO’

“Your emotions are so obvious, calm down. I haven’t said anything yet.” Even if your face wasn’t expressive he always seems to be able to tell anyway. Mihawk looks towards the chair to the side of the table and you sit down. He clears his throat. “I acted irrationally, even if what I found looked incriminating.” You remember what he said and how harsh it was, your heart pulses with pain. “However, using magazines to practice is ridiculous.”

“I know it is but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried just willing myself not to look but that never works, practice is the only thing that has actually made any progress.” Mihawk grabs the bottle of wine and downs the rest of it.

“I do see that, and that’s good; but the core problem isn’t just that you look at other people’s chests. It’s that you can’t handle not looking at mine.” You avert your eyes in shame. “The moment you aren’t able to at least glance at my body every so often you look elsewhere.”

“I know…” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs.

“That’s why you should be practicing with me.” You look at him in shock. “Not magazines.” He reaches up and unbuttons his shirt, you notice his chest is flushed and so is his face. You end up immediately looking at his pecs but look back up at his face. When you look up he has a frown on his face, but his eyes look slightly amused. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m not! I can practice just fine, I just don’t know if you’re actually comfortable with this.”

“I am. No matter how weird the method was, you were making the effort to train. I won’t fault you for that, I fault you for using pictures of other people.” He likes that you didn’t stay helpless and tried to improve even on your own. “I’m your lover, if you’re trying to improve then I’ll help you.” Your eyes widen.

“We’re still dating!? You’re not breaking up with me!?” You’re ecstatic and he smiles.

“No, we aren’t breaking up. I’m… sorry for my harsh words.” He shifts a bit, uncomfortable with apologizing. “I don’t think you or our relationship has been a waste of time, and even if it is then it’s a welcome one.” You stare at his smile. “What?”

“Your smile is really pretty.” You state, mesmerized. His eyes widen for a second before he gives a hearty laugh.

“The only thing better than my chest is my smile, then?” His eyebrows furrow with his smile as you nod. “Very well, come.” He stands up and you follow him back to your shared room where he sits on the bed with his legs crossed. “I will help you train, but don’t think I’m going to go easy on you simply because you’re my lover.” That makes you a little nervous, but you’d rather him be harsh with you than leave you. You pull out a chair and sit in front of him. He raises a brow at you. You pause and then sit on your knees instead. “Better.”

____________________

Mihawk cut the magazines into atoms with his knife and has been helping you train; and he really meant it when he said he wouldn’t be a nice teacher. Even if you look for less than a second he makes you do push-ups. If you space out and look for more than a few seconds you do a lap around the entire manor. Still, it’s working, and he rewards you for jobs well done using meals and actual praise he wouldn’t give to anyone else. The two of you walk around the grocery mart, Mihawk turns to see you glance at another man’s chest but before anything happens you look back at him.

“I thought that guy had the same necklace as you but it’s too thin to have a knife.” You state, putting the groceries into paper bags. He pauses for a moment before giving a hum as if he doesn’t care. However, when you go back home he makes you your favorite sweet for dessert; and the two of you may have also done something very sweet in the bedroom.

Did it! Technically this could be read as gender neutral but i felt like it leaned to male more. If i want to make a gender neutral version id have to change various things and format again sigh. i wish you could duplicate posts on tumblr so you could just make two versions of one thing easy peasy.

[mrs-kmikaelson]

Our Song and Dance Series Masterlist

*COMPLETED*

*note: the photos do not belong to me, but the banner is mine. photos are not indicative of reader's appearance.

Finnick Odair x Reader You'd grown used to dancing the same dance over and over again, the victor's dance, but then you start dancing with Finnick Odair and you feel things you never thought you'd feel. So you let yourself enjoy the dance, even though you knew that every song inevitably came to an end.

Series warnings: extremely long (this is a warning), exploitation of minors, forced prostitution, unrequited love, complicated relationships, violence, death, suicidal ideation and tendencies, complex mental health issues, psychological "games," torture, grief, war, religious imagery, unhealthy coping mechanisms, made-up names

Total wc: 92K

Series Soundtrack

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

[unhinged-academic-of-waterdeep]

Anon from your last request, oh you made my day with that Halsin fic! Thank you so much! Ofc I'd wait a hundred moons or more for you, Halsin 😭 if you ever get the chance, I'd love to read how you'd imagine the king of yearning, Gale, react

I'm so glad you enjoyed it!

Of course I'll do one for our darling wizard, the king of yearning himself too!

Here you go my darling! I hope this is yearning enough for you!

I got somewhat carried away with this one, so look out for tons of yearning, and ANGST, but a happy ending at least!

He can’t help but let himself look. You’re sitting on the opposite side of the campfire, joking with Karlach. Face alight with joy, like laughter come to life right in front of his eyes. He tries not to stare, tries not to be obvious. He can tell by the way Astarion side eyes him that it must be written across his face plain as day. But he can’t help it, not when you shine brightly enough to rival even the blazing campfire, a flush high on your cheeks whether from the alcohol or from whatever sordid tale Karlach is regaling you with he can’t tell.

Your laugh is bright and clear, a balm to his weary heart, and music to his ears. Could he bottle the sound to use as medicine he would, and it would no doubt soothe him better than any potion in Faerûn. Mentally he shakes himself, no doubt his attention having passed flattering many minutes ago, moving rapidly towards creepy. But he can’t quite tear himself away, enraptured beyond reason, beyond rhyme.

It is addictive, the way the light from the fire plays against your skin, illuminating and casting shadows, playing softly against your hair your eyes, brighter still with laughing, your lips. Oh dear, he must be drunk already. Setting down the now half empty cup of wine dejectedly. If he was this far gone after half a cup, he could certainly not be trusted to drink any more.

It makes himself restless, urges him towards action of some sort. Nothing so honest as admission, of course. But that voice in him, the one that had once produced poetry and sweeter words, the one that had been dormant since the whole ordeal with Mystra. That voice, awakened again, whispering, singing, ringing in his ears. Urging him on. But alas, he remains, rooted as he were, to the spot. Watching.

Half formed phrase flits through his mind like birds playing in the wind. None in the party even bother trying to speak with him, they must see that he is a lost cause. They indulge, laugh, even sing, drinking their fair share, before, one by one filing off headed to tents and bedrolls. He doesn’t bother, it’s not like he’ll be able to sleep.

Not with thoughts of you clouding his mind like sweet perfume. Warring with his guilt, over past transgressions. With his thinly veiled sense of self-loathing. The deep set knowledge that you deserve better than a broken man with a bomb in his chest, sharing space with a heart so battered it no longer has its correct form. The knowledge that he can let himself watch, but not much more. He can let himself be soothed, but not without the guilt.

Time passes a blur, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup idly. Eventually only you are left, Karlach heading off into the night. If you had been joyously tipsy before, you would have well passed drunk an hour ago, settling assuredly somewhere around entirely off your face. You won’t make it far on your own.

He can pinpoint the moment you realize that he’s still sitting on the other side of the fire. Eyes lighting up in realization before the world seems to fog out around you again. When your eyes open fully again he is already on his feet, outside your pin prick field of vision, moving to your side.

It is a duty he would gladly fulfill every day of his life if you asked it of him. This time is no different, gentle hands moving to your shoulders, easing you off the ground. You make a soft noise of protest.

“Nice try” you slur, barely on this side of comprehensible. “you can’t come to bed with me” your words make him flush desperately. The insinuation grates at him, he wouldn’t ever take advantage of you in such a state, do you truly think so little of him?

“O-of course not.” He assures clumsily. But you continue undeterred.

“You can’t” you insist “want to know why?” your glassy eyes find his, taking aim before your slurred words lodge like a knife into his chest, parting ribs, grating against bone, seeking the soft muscle of his heart. “I’m in love.” You bestow the secret like a bomb without the safety on. Handing it to him gently, unknowing of the way it burns through his very being, charring holes into his soul.

“Don’t tell him!” you insist around a yawn, leaning more heavily on his shoulder. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t told him who you mean. He will go to the grave with your tiniest of secrets, this is no different even though he feels like it might take him with it.

“I won’t.” he fights to keep his voice from betraying him, but it shakes despite his best efforts. At least it seems to mollify you, and you let him lead you to your tent. He doesn’t want to come with you inside, but you do not stop moving, and your vice grip on his arm brings him with you, and down to kneel beside you as you lie down.

It would embarrass him, seeing you vulnerable. But his mind is occupied, wondering who it is that has captured you, wondering what he’ll do. He can’t leave, but he can’t watch you and someone else, can he? Standing on the sidelines, seeing your joy and knowing it will never be for him. Of course he would be doomed always to watch, never to have, never to hold. That ought to be part of his punishment, Gale’s folly, and the consequences, to die in service of his first lover, never to take another.

Mystra would be pleased, certainly, that he would never get the satisfaction of replacing her. Perhaps it would suffice as penance, but he doubts it. Maybe this would be the way, the way for him to make it all right again, make his death a victimless crime, the debt paid.

You speak again, soft words heavy with sleep, but they pull him back into the land of the living nonetheless. His body already feels half buried, but he doesn’t mind. Not when you speak in such soft whispers.

“I couldn’t believe it,” your voice is weighted heavily by alcohol and the late hour, but it is impossible to hear the sheer concentration of love in it. It makes him feel drunk, despite not being the target of it.

“I thought I had no chance, because of her, but then” you smile, and it makes him want to die, right here right now, he would go to the afterlife sated. “I thought I was done for, but he saved me” this brings him up short, his mind casting back to the fight a few days prior where you had nearly lost your life.

“I woke up, he held me so tight” your eyes squeeze shut as if trying to summon the sensation through sheer strength of will. The realization hits him like a kick to the chest, like the shock-wave of a bomb going off next to him. Before he even registers the movement he’s sitting on the ground next to you, having gone from kneeling to seated fast enough it ought to have given him whiplash.

“He saved me,” conviction wars with love in your voice and Gale fears the wave of feelings cresting above him, a wall of water, a tsunami threatening to drown him, will set off the orb and kill them all. “I wonder if he did that because he loves me too?”

It had been a tough fight, you had been surrounded, and before anyone had even realized what had happened you had been downed. He had rushed to your side, sending scorching rays and magic missiles at your assailants, they had been dead within minutes. And you, lying on the ground, still as a stone. He had been sure you weren’t breathing, clutching you as close as he could, fear a cold grasp around his heart. But then you had woken up, and Shadowheart had healed you. And he had felt foolish, obvious.

“I really hope so..” your words fade out around another jaw popping yawn. He needs to leave. He can’t stay here. Can’t bear to be near you, with your honesty such sweet torture.

Despite himself, his fingers find your face, tracing against your temples, stroking away errant hairs from your forehead.

“He does,” he finds himself whispering in response, voice thick with emotion. “he does.”

On unsteady feet he makes his way back to his own tent, heart stuck somewhere between elation and fear. He can’t conceive of your words. Can’t avoid them. They play in his head as he lies down for yet another sleepless night. “I wonder if he did that because he loves me too?” yes, he wants to scream, loud enough to wake the rest of camp. Yes he does. He loves you, more than his life, more than whatever penance he is supposed to serve, more than life more than death, more than magic than the weave. And he can’t wait to tell you, and he will, as soon as he can make himself dare.

[cactoratado]

A shitty comic i did for fun! I love the idea of a pathetic slobbering mess of a jax. also no, i don't quite enjoy pomni x jax, the reason she is here is because my test run with gangle turned out worse! I like to think that they're just friends comforting one another ^^

[nottellingofname]

All parts are up! Enjoy binge reading <3

Suguru Geto Tries Not To Die ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Written for Men's Mental Health Awareness Month!

Yep. You read it. We all know what happens.

Suguru Geto wants to die.

But you're not gonna let that happen.

You’ve got ten days to save him.

Suguru Geto has made up his mind—ten days from now, he’s ending it all. No theatrics, no second chances. Just silence and a long fall off the edge of the world.

What follows isn’t a love story. It’s a war—against ghosts, guilt, and the quiet kind of grief that eats people alive. Day by day, you challenge him. With memories. With hope. With everything he thought he lost.

Ten days. That’s all you have.

And the clock is already ticking.

Suguru Geto wants to die

Reason 1 - Satoru Gojo

Reason 2 - Dancing like his mother

Reason 3 - Baking

Reason 4 - Ieiri Shoko

Reason 5 - The Carnival

Reason 6 - Deserved Happiness

Reason 7 - A Crush

Reason 8 - Parents

Reason 9 - Passport

Reason 10 - You

Suguru Geto does not want to die

[bigproblemsfunnylife]

Batfamily x GN! Reader spouse

REST OF THE CHAPTERS (5/5) IN MY ACCOUNT

Title: Home is the place we build, CHAPTER 4

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Damian Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth.

Summary: You, the new spouse of Bruce Wayne, arrive at the Batfamily’s mansion full of hope but often overlooked and alone. Despite painful moments and misunderstandings, you forge deeper bonds with them all, transforming the cold mansion into a warm, chaotic family home where you finally belong.

CW: Angst, emotional hurt/comfort, references to past neglect and isolation, canon-typical references to violence and danger (briefly mentioned), despictions of low self-esteem and intrusive negative thoughts, discussions of strained familial relationships, alcohol use (in one scene), mild language, some comforts scenes.

Advertisement: The Reader is on vacation for a while in the story and has many hobbies, such as gardening and cooking… There is no mention of their job.

Words count: ~ 9470

The weight of the last few days sits heavy on your chest like a storm cloud refusing to break. You move through Wayne Manor like a ghost, your footsteps soft but your heart louder than ever in its aching silence. Damian’s words echo endlessly, cruel and sharp, carving wounds you didn’t know you had. Bruce’s fierce promises provide a flicker of comfort, but the cracks inside you seem wider now, deeper than before.

You find yourself wandering into the study late at night, needing the quiet, the solitude — somewhere to be alone with your thoughts that won’t tear you apart. The room is dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp, shadows pooling in every corner. You sit heavily in one of the leather chairs, your hands resting in your lap, fingers trembling just slightly.

The exhaustion has seeped into your bones. You haven’t slept well in weeks. The smiles you wear feel brittle, fake; the warmth you try to give the family has met coldness more often than not. You feel invisible again, trapped between wanting to belong and fearing you never will.

A sudden creak at the door startles you. You look up just as Jason Todd steps inside, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The sight of him — unexpected and unsettling — sends a jolt through your heart.

You remember the last time you saw him. The harsh words he threw at you, the venom in his voice that left scars deeper than you could speak aloud. You weren’t sure if you were ready to face him again.

He stops a few feet away, the usual guarded edge softened by something almost… tentative.

“Can’t sleep either?” His voice is low, rough, but not hostile.

You shrug, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Not really.”

Jason studies you for a moment, eyes flicking over your tired face. Without another word, he reaches behind him and pulls a bottle of whiskey from the edge of the shelf. He uncaps it with a practiced flick and pours two glasses, handing one to you.

You blink, caught off guard.

“Thought you might want this,” he says gruffly, then sits down across from you, the chair scraping softly against the floor.

You take the glass, fingers brushing his for a brief, charged moment. The burn of the whiskey is sharp, but somehow grounding.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, voice low. “For what I said before. I didn’t know how to handle… well, anything. And I took it out on you.”

The walls you’d built around your heart tremble. It’s the first time he’s admitted fault — the first time he’s reached out instead of pushing away.

You nod slowly. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

Jason’s eyes flicker with something softer — regret, maybe hope. “I’m not good at this family stuff. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone here.”

A silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid. Then he lets out a short, bitter laugh.

“Guess we’re both a mess.”

You manage a tired smile. “Yeah. Maybe that’s why we keep ending up in the same room.”

For the first time since you arrived, the room feels less cold, less empty. The weight on your chest eases just a little, softened by the unexpected camaraderie.

You raise your glass, and Jason clinks his against yours.

“To surviving the madness,” he murmurs.

“To finding some light,” you reply softly.

The whiskey burns warmly as you sit across from Jason in the dim study, the weight of your exhaustion lifting just a fraction. The two of you share a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, filled instead with an unspoken understanding between two broken pieces trying to fit in.

Suddenly, the door creaks open again, and Cassandra slips in almost silently, as always. Her dark eyes scan the room, landing on you and Jason. For a moment, the air feels charged with tension — the stoic assassin and the rebellious rogue in the same space — but then she surprises you both.

“A whiskey drinker and a troublemaker,” she states flatly, a rare smirk tugging at her lips. “Not the usual company for you.”

Jason shoots her a sideways grin. “Hey, I’m making progress. From silent brooder to social butterfly, thanks to you, Cass.”

You laugh softly, the sound catching you off guard. Cassandra steps closer, her gaze softer as she looks at you.

“You seem… less tired than usual,” she comments. “That’s good.”

Jason winks. “That’s because we’ve officially started the ‘survive the madness’ club.”

You raise your glass to her. “Care to join?”

Cass hesitates just a moment before sitting beside you, the three of you forming an unlikely circle in the quiet of the Manor. For once, the night doesn’t feel heavy with shadows or pain. It feels like a small, flickering spark of something new — friendship, maybe even family.

Later, after the trio has dispersed and the Manor settles into its usual nighttime hush, you slip quietly to your bedroom. Your phone buzzes softly on the bedside table. You pick it up, surprised to see a message from Tim.

“Hey. Cass told me you’re having a rough time. Just wanted to check in — are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. The care in his message is unexpected but welcome. You quickly type back:

“Thanks, Tim. It’s been tough, but I’m hanging in there. I appreciate you checking on me.”

Almost immediately, a reply pops up.

“Good. You’re not alone, okay? We’re all here.”

You set the phone down with a soft smile, feeling a fragile warmth in your chest. Despite the hard days and colder nights, maybe this place — this family — isn’t as distant as it once seemed.

The week after that quiet night with Jason and Cassandra passes with a gentle rhythm, each day folding into the next like pages in a book you’re still learning to read. The Manor begins to feel less like a cavernous tomb and more like a living, breathing place — imperfect and bruised, but with room to grow.

You find comfort in the small rituals: mornings spent with Stephanie over too-sweet coffee, afternoons training silently with Cassandra, evenings curled up with Bruce as he lets his guard slip just enough to laugh with you. The boys still keep their distance, but you’re beginning to see subtle shifts — a glance held a second longer, a grunt that almost sounds like approval, a softening of eyes that used to be cold.

One rainy afternoon, the heavy patter of the storm outside blends with the sharp ring of the front doorbell. You’re in the kitchen, cleaning up after a late lunch, when Alfred’s calm voice calls from the foyer.

“Master Dick has returned. From Blüdhaven, no less.”

Your heart quickens, a mixture of excitement and nervousness swirling through your chest. You haven’t seen Dick in months — not since he left for that mission that pulled him away from the Manor and from you. You step toward the entrance, wiping your hands on a towel, anticipation bubbling beneath your skin.

The door swings open, and there he stands: tall, relaxed, with that familiar mischievous grin lighting up his face despite the gray clouds overhead. In his hands, a bouquet of wildflowers — bright splashes of color against the dullness of the rainy day.

“For you,” he says simply, extending the flowers as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches. You take the bouquet carefully, feeling the thorns and softness of the petals, the scent of fresh earth and rain. It’s a small gesture, but it feels like a bridge spanning the distance of months, a quiet promise that you haven’t been forgotten.

“Thank you, Dick,” you say softly, your voice catching with the sudden swell of emotion.

He steps inside, shaking off the wet from his jacket. “I thought you might like these,” he says with a wink. “And I’m sorry for being gone so long.”

You smile, warmth blooming inside you. “I’m glad you’re back.”

For the rest of the afternoon, you sit together by the fire, catching up on stories and laughter, the storm outside fading to a soft drizzle. It feels good — right — to have him here again.

Later that evening, as you move through the quiet halls of the Manor, you find a small envelope slipped under your door. Curiosity piqued, you pick it up and open it carefully.

Inside is a sketch — precise and sharp, unmistakably Damian’s handiwork. It’s a drawing of you, sitting quietly in the library, light spilling over your face like a halo. The lines are delicate but confident, capturing something more than just your appearance — a softness beneath your exhaustion, a resilience beneath the sadness.

There’s no note. No words.

You hold the paper close, heart pounding with a confusing mix of emotions. Has Damian been watching you more closely than you thought? Is this his way of reaching out, or to say sorry— silent?

Later, you catch Damian in the training room. He’s practicing with his sword, his expression unreadable. When you approach, he doesn’t look up but slides another sheet of paper toward you — another sketch, this one of a small sprouting seed breaking through cracked stone.

You meet his eyes then, and for the first time, they don’t look cold or dismissive. Instead, they’re almost… Tentative.

“Keep it,” he says quietly, voice rough. “It’s for you.”

You nod, clutching the sketch as if it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever received.

Over the next few days, these silent exchanges continue — sketches left on your pillow, images drawn with more care and vulnerability than Damian usually shows. You begin to understand: this is his way of communicating.

It’s fragile. It’s slow. But it’s real.

That night, you sit by the window, holding the sketches close, feeling a quiet hope threading through your tired heart. 

[aventurineswife]

Hiiii!!! So excited to see that reqs are back open, even just temporarily :)

Can I request Aventurine with a bodyguard reader? They’re pretty stoic at first, but eventually start warming up to him, and at some point they get hurt protecting him, and Aven has to deal with The Feelings.

Sending you all the absolute best and I hope you’re doing well :D

No One Bets on the Bodyguard

Summary: Aventurine is always in control—until you, his stoic bodyguard, begin to chip away at his carefully crafted facade. What begins as a strictly professional partnership gradually evolves into something deeper as your silent loyalty and unwavering presence start to affect him. But when an ambush puts you in danger and you’re seriously injured protecting him, Aventurine is forced to confront emotions he’s spent a lifetime burying. In the aftermath, vulnerability and honesty become the highest-stakes gamble of all.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Bodyguard!Reader, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Suppression, Protective Instincts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Power Dynamics, Fluff in Denial, Hidden Vulnerability, Found Family Vibes.

Warnings: Blood/injury (non-graphic), Emotional repression, Mention of past trauma, Mild violence (attack scene), Survivor’s guilt references, Subtle power imbalance.

The polished floors of the IPC building reflected the golden glow of chandeliers overhead as Aventurine strolled through the grand corridor, his eyes flicking from one reflection to another. The layers of soft, calculated laughter echoed through the hallways, masking the sharpness behind his gaze. There was a game to be played, as always.

His bodyguard—your presence—hovered a few paces behind, a silent, steadfast figure who exuded quiet authority. You were ever-watchful, ever-alert, not one to indulge in the frivolous distractions that plagued the high society around you. Your stoic demeanor was the perfect counterbalance to Aventurine's charismatic and flamboyant personality, which made the contrast between you both all the more striking.

"Ah, you're as silent as ever, my mysterious guardian," Aventurine remarked, his voice teasing but carrying an edge of curiosity. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a little less... stoicism? A smile wouldn't hurt now and then."

You said nothing, only offering a slight nod. Your eyes never wavered from your surroundings, constantly scanning for potential threats. Aventurine was used to your silence, even if it occasionally frustrated him. He had learned, over time, that beneath your guarded exterior lay a sharp mind and an unwavering dedication to your duty—traits that made you the perfect protector.

The two of you had been assigned to each other months ago. At first, you had been little more than an extension of his security team, a quiet sentinel who watched over him with the same vigilance as the others. But there was something about Aventurine that intrigued you, something that made it hard to keep your distance. He was a puzzle, wrapped in a gambler's smile and the sharp edge of his strategic mind.

Still, you kept your distance. You weren’t here to make friends; you were here to protect him. Your job was clear, even if the lines between duty and something more were starting to blur.

That night, the tension in the air was palpable. Aventurine had been gambling on a high-stakes deal, and the room was full of people with dangerous motives. In a space where words could cut deeper than any weapon, your eyes never left him, your hand resting on the hilt of the concealed blade beneath your coat.

Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. A soft rustling of fabric, a quick movement—a shadow among shadows. You were already in motion before the threat had fully revealed itself.

A group of masked figures had been positioned at various points around the room, and in a heartbeat, one lunged toward Aventurine, a knife glinting under the dim light. You moved faster than anyone could track, intercepting the attacker mid-strike.

The blade grazed your side, the pain sharp but manageable. You twisted, using the momentum to disarm the assailant, but not before another managed to land a solid blow against your shoulder. The room erupted into chaos, but you managed to keep Aventurine out of the line of fire, herding him to a safer corner.

"Stay down," you hissed, your voice colder than usual, as you stood between him and the threat, your hand still clenched around the blade you'd taken from one of the attackers. You didn't need to check; you knew the blood was already staining the fabric of your uniform.

Aventurine was silent for a beat. Then, his voice, usually light and laced with amusement, was sharp with something else—a fear you rarely heard from him. "You're hurt," he muttered, stepping closer, his eyes scanning you for any further injuries. "You should let me—"

"Focus on the others," you interrupted firmly, your gaze sweeping the room. There was no time for hesitation, not now.

But Aventurine was different. His usual cool composure was beginning to crack, the mask slipping as his hands hovered uselessly near you, clearly unsure of what to do. You could see the internal conflict in his eyes, the war between his usual indifference and something deeper.

The fight continued, and the room slowly cleared. But through it all, the weight of your injuries lingered, making your limbs feel like lead. By the time the last assailant was subdued, your breath was shallow, and the world had started to tilt. The blood loss was slow but significant.

You had managed to protect him—again. But at what cost?

Later that night, after the chaos had died down, you found yourself in a private medical bay. The sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint hum of the station’s machinery. You sat on the bed, a stark contrast to the opulence of the surroundings, as a medic carefully cleaned your wounds.

The door clicked open behind you, and Aventurine entered, his steps softer than usual. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, just watching you. His face was unreadable, but you could feel the tension in the air.

"I told you not to... overexert yourself," he began, his voice low, as though searching for the right words. "You could have—"

"Done what? Let them hurt you?" You cut him off, your tone firm despite the weakness creeping into your body. "That’s my job."

His lips pressed into a thin line. There was something different about him now. His usual bravado was gone, replaced by an unsettling quiet. Slowly, he crossed the room and stopped in front of you. His hand hovered uncertainly near your shoulder, and you could see the struggle on his face.

"Thank you," he said, almost reluctantly, his gaze softening. The words hung between you, heavier than they should have been.

You didn't respond at first, the silence thick. Instead, you simply met his eyes, wondering if he truly understood the gravity of the situation. He had made it clear that he saw life as a game, a gamble—but you? You weren’t just playing with stakes; you were willing to sacrifice everything for him.

"You don’t have to do that," you finally said, your voice more subdued. "You don’t have to thank me."

Aventurine’s eyes flitted to the bandages on your body, the bruises already beginning to form. His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something more, but nothing came out.

Then, finally, he let out a breath. “I’m not... I’m not good at this,” he confessed quietly, his usual charm stripped away. “I don’t know how to... care for someone like this.”

His vulnerability, so rare for him, left you speechless for a moment. Instead of pushing him away, you let your gaze soften, a silent gesture of understanding. You didn’t need him to be perfect—just honest. And that honesty, for a man who had made his life out of lies, meant more than words could express.

"I’m not asking for perfection," you murmured, allowing a hint of warmth to enter your tone. "Just don’t gamble with your life like that again, okay?"

Aventurine smiled, a real smile this time—one that reached his eyes, even if it was tinged with something complicated. "No promises, my guardian angel," he teased, his voice laced with something far more sincere than you expected.

You shook your head but couldn’t suppress the small shift in your heart. The walls were slowly coming down, and maybe, just maybe, there was more to this gamble than either of you had bargained for.

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

“I need you to promise me you won’t bring me back.” Jason’s body gave an involuntary twitch, and he bit into his lip until it bled. “I don’t, I can’t do that again. Don’t bury me. And don’t let Ra’s get me. I can’t, B, I can’t—”

Bruce was shushing him, soft, caressing noises like they were sitting bedside in Jason’s old room, coasting off the end of a nightmare. “It’s going to be okay,” Bruce soothed, but his voice cracked in the middle.

“The fuck it will,” Jason retorted, but just hearing the words eased the knot in his throat a little. “Promise me, Bruce.”

There was a pause, an age of nothing, and then, “I promise.”

—White Lighters / Afterglow

[gigiii1sblog]

IN THE GLOW OF HIS WINDOW 003

Warning: contains sexual content, angst, tension, fluff, dirty talk, unprotected sex.

Chapter Three: The Morning After and the Things Left Unsaid.

Y/N POV:

The first thing I notice is the quiet.

Not the still kind, the kind that presses in on your ribs and fills the space where someone used to be. The kind that buzzes, faint and electric, like the hum of a light that’s just been turned off.

The second thing I notice is the cold.

The space beside me is empty.

No warmth. No breath.

Just wrinkled sheets and the ghost of his body.

I blink into the morning light.

It’s early, too early. Pale gold bleeding through my curtains, casting shadows on the wall. My legs are tangled in the blanket. My throat dry. My chest… hollow.

For a second, I wonder if I dreamed it.

If I imagined his hands. His mouth. The way he whispered my name like a secret he didn’t want anyone else to have.

But I shift, and my body aches.

Between my legs, I still feel him.

And I know it was real.

All of it.

I sit up slowly.

Everything is soft and sore, like I’m still unraveling. Like part of me is still in last night. My fingers skim the bedsheet where he lay, searching for leftover heat.

But its gone.

No note. No message.

Just the window cracked open, the wind kissing the curtains like it knows what happened here.

My stomach turns.

I don’t know what I expected.

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

But I didn’t expect this.

The emptiness.

The quiet.

The way his absence feels heavier than his body ever did.

I curl my knees into my chest. Rest my chin there.

Stare at the floor like maybe his shadow is still there.

The room smells like him.

My skin still smells like him.

But he’s gone.

He left through the same window he came in.

Like it meant nothing.

Like I meant nothing.

A knot forms in my throat.

Not a sob. Not yet.

Just… a weight.

Because I let him touch me.

All of me.

And he left without saying a word.

And maybe that’s who he is.

Maybe I always knew that.

But it still hurts.

I stay in bed for a little longer.

Not crying. Not moving.

Just remembering.

The way he kissed me.

The way he said my name.

The way I pulled him back in.

And for a moment, it meant something.

Didn’t it?

My phone buzzes once.

Not him.

I don’t have his number.

So i don’t check it.

I just lie back, close my eyes, and let the ache settle deep into my bones.

Because last night, I gave something I can’t take back.

And this morning, I woke up with nothing but his silence.

Y/N POV:

I don’t see him all morning.

Not in the hall.

Not on the balcony.

Not where he’s supposed to be.

And yet, I feel him everywhere.

In the ache between my legs.

In the stretch of silence wrapped around my bed.

In the way I jump at every sound, hoping it’s the door. Hoping it’s him.

It never will be.

I shower slow.

Dress slower.

Avoid the mirror.

Avoid the questions that start with:

What did you expect?

By the time I leave my apartment, it’s nearly noon. The building feels like it’s holding its breath. I pass neighbors. Say nothing. Pretend I’m normal.

But I’m not.

I don’t feel like me.

I feel like the version of myself I only write about—

The girl who did something wild. Something reckless.

The girl who let a boy crawl through her window and into her everything.

CHRIS POV:

She’s gone before I even open my window.

I know because I waited.

Stood there, hoodie half-on, half-off, heart in my fucking throat, listening for her steps. Hoping for a glimpse. A sound. Something.

But all I get is silence.

I think about knocking on her window.

Saying something.

Anything.

But what do you say to a girl after you touch her like that and disappear before sunrise?

Sorry I left?

Sorry I can’t be what you probably think I am now?

She doesn’t even know me.

And if she did…

She wouldn’t have let me in.

CHRIS POV: Later That Day

I see her again.

Balcony.

She’s sitting in the sun, book in her lap, sunglasses on. Legs crossed. Calm.

Her foot is bouncing.

Her fingers twitch every time she flips a page.

She hasn’t read a single damn sentence.

I lean against the railing, a joint burning between my fingers, and pretend like I don’t feel her everywhere.

She doesn’t look at me.

Not once.

Not even when I exhale slow, smoke curling toward her like a secret I want her to notice.

And that hurts more than it should.

Y/N POV:

He’s there.

Of course he is.

Leaning on his railing, smoke in hand, hoodie up even though it’s hot.

And I feel it, that ridiculous, awful pull.

The same one that dragged me to the window last night.

That stripped me bare and quiet and aching beneath him.

I want to scream.

Or cry.

Or say something cruel enough to scratch that blank expression off his face.

But I don’t.

Because then he wins.

Because then it means I care.

So I keep my sunglasses on.

Flip the page I haven’t read.

And pretend like he’s not standing six feet away, smelling like my skin and staring like he still wants me.

CHRIS POV:

I almost say her name.

Almost toss the cigarette and cross the balcony like it’s nothing.

Like we didn’t already cross every line.

But then she flips her page without looking up.

And I get it.

She’s hurt.

She should be.

I left.

I always do.

But for once, I kind of want to stay.

Y/N POV:

I’m half asleep when I hear it.

A faint shift in the air.

A creak.

The whisper of a screen being moved.

I sit up slowly, heart already pounding in my chest.

And there he is.

Chris.

Half in shadow, half in moonlight.

Climbing through my window like this is some twisted ritual now.

Same smell. Same goddamn silence.

“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper, sharp, voice cracking with sleep.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there.

Hands in his pockets.

Eyes everywhere but me.

“You can’t just—”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

He exhales hard, like the answer’s too heavy to say out loud.

His jaw tightens. His eyes finally meet mine.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

That’s all he says.

Like it explains everything.

Maybe it does.

I sit up straighter, crossing my arms over my chest even though I’m fully clothed.

“You left,” I say. Quiet now. Too quiet. “And now you just… show up?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did.” My voice doesn’t rise, but it cuts.

His lips part like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t.

He just runs a hand through his curls and mutters, “Yeah. I did.”

Silence swells between us.

Outside, a car passes. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs.

But here, in this room—

it’s just the echo of what we did and the silence that followed.

“Do you regret it?” I ask.

His eyes snap to mine.

“No.”

Not even a beat.

“Then why’d you leave?”

He shrugs, but it’s forced. Like his body’s tired of pretending.

“I don’t stay,” he says. “That’s not… something I do.”

I blink. “And this—whatever this is, you think I can just pretend it didn’t matter?”

Chris swallows. Hard.

He steps forward. Not close, but closer.

Voice low. Words softer than I expected.

“I don’t want you to pretend.”

“Then what do you want?”

He hesitates.

Then, “I don’t know. I just… I keep thinking about you. About that night.”

His voice drops. “About how you looked. How you sounded. How you trusted me.”

He’s standing at the edge of the bed now.

Not asking to touch me.

Not expecting anything.

Just standing there. Hands clenched. Breathing heavy.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he says.

“And that’s why you came back?” I ask, quieter now.

He nods.“But you still won’t stay,” I say, a statement this time, not a question.

He looks away. “I don’t know how.”

Something in me softens. Just slightly.

Because I don’t think he’s lying.

I think he really doesn’t know.

How to stay.

How to care.

How to not fuck up.

And maybe that should be a reason to shut the window.

Lock the door.

Forget the way his mouth felt on mine.

But instead, I shift back under the covers.

Not saying yes.

Not saying no.

Just… making space.

He sees it.

Doesn’t move right away.

Then slowly, like he’s afraid the moment will break,he steps out of his shoes, shrugs off the hoodie, and slides into the bed beside me.

No words.

No touching.

Just the heat of him at my back. The weight of him in the bed.

And the quiet confession of presence.

I don’t fall asleep for a long time.

But when I do—

He’s still there.

CHRIS POV:

I can’t sleep.

Not with her beside me.

Not with the weight of what I did sitting heavy in my chest like smoke that won’t clear.

She’s turned away, back to me.

Her breathing is soft, even.

But I know she’s not really sleeping yet either.

She let me back in.

Again.

No yelling. No tears. Just… space.

An open blanket. A silent invitation.

And that hurts worse than if she’d screamed.

Because she still wants me here.

Even after I left.

Even after I proved what kind of person I am.

I stare at the ceiling.

The fan turns above us, slow and steady, like it doesn’t give a shit what we’ve done. Like it’s seen a thousand nights like this.

But I haven’t.

This is new.

This is her.

I remember the way she looked last night, when I touched her, when I kissed her, when I was inside her. The way her breath caught. The way she tried to stay quiet but couldn’t.

She trusted me with that part of her.

And what did I do?

I slipped out before the sun came up.

Like a fucking coward.

I want to reach for her.

I don’t.

My hand twitches against the sheet. I close my eyes.

But the memory of her plea, of her skin?

It’s not leaving me anytime soon.

I was never supposed to come back.

I don’t do this.

Not the staying.

Not the softness.

Not the “what does this mean” mornings.

But with her…

I want to.

And that scares the shit out of me.

She shifts slightly.

Not toward me, but not away either.

I swear I hear her inhale deeper. Like she knows I’m awake.

She doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

The space between us is only inches.

But it feels like a thousand things unsaid.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I know this:

I’ve never stayed before.

And I’m still here.

That has to mean something.

Even if I don’t know how to say it yet.

Y/N POV:

The light comes in soft.

Filtered through my curtains, gold and slow like it doesn’t want to wake us. For a second, I don’t open my eyes.

Because he’s still here.

I feel him before I even move, his body behind mine, his breath against my shoulder. One leg tangled lightly with mine beneath the covers. One arm somewhere between cautious and comfortable.

He stayed.

That realization blooms in my chest like something dangerous.

He stayed.

I shift slightly.

Not enough to pull away, just enough to feel his skin brush mine under the blanket.

A breath catches behind me.

He’s awake.

We stay like that for a long time.

No words.

Just quiet.

Just the weight of what we did, and the heat of what we haven’t said.

Then—

I feel it.

His hand.

Sliding down.

Slow. Barely-there.

Fingertips trailing over my stomach, settling against my thigh.

I tense, just a little.

Not because I don’t want it.

Because I do.

Because this moment feels fragile. Too good.

Like maybe he’s changed his mind.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

His voice is low and husky and too close to everything I’ve ever wanted.

I try to smile. “You stayed.”

He’s quiet for a second too long.

“Yeah.”

Just that. No warmth behind it. No real explanation.

And suddenly that flicker in my chest? That stupid hope?

It starts to dim.

He shifts behind me.

His hand slips away. The bed creaks lightly as he moves.

Then comes the sentence I already saw coming:

“I should head out.”

I stay still.

“I promised Matt I’d help him run some errands,” he adds.

An excuse. A weak one.

And we both know it.

I nod against the pillow. “Right.”

Neither of us moves.

Then he swings his legs off the bed.

The cold air hits my skin the second he pulls away.

And just like that, the space he filled last night turns into emptiness again.

He dresses quietly.

Pulls his hoodie back over his curls. Runs a hand through his hair like this is just another day.

I stay in bed. I don’t ask him to stay.

Because this time, I know better.

He pauses at the window.

“I’ll see you,” he says, not quite looking at me.

Not goodbye.

Just… that.

“I’ll see you.”

I nod once. Bite my lip. Say nothing.

And then he’s gone.

The silence comes back stronger this time.

Like it knows what we did.

Like it watched me let him in, twice now, only for him to slip out before I could ask him to mean it.

I stare at the pillow where his head used to be.

And I wonder if he ever meant to stay at all.

Anyway

Y/N POV: Later that day

“I’m not going,” I tell Nick for the third time.

Nick throws himself on my bed like he’s auditioning for a drama series.

“Oh my God, yes you are. You’ve been moping around for days. Your vibe is, like, tragic poet with a heartbreak playlist and no will to live.”

“I’m busy,” I mumble, not even trying to sound convincing.

Matt leans against my doorway, quiet as usual, but even he raises an eyebrow. “You literally just closed your laptop and sighed at your screen for five minutes.”

“I was writing.”

“You were playing with the cursor.”

Nick groans dramatically. “Come on. It’s just one party. One night. You need to let some stupid frat boy fade out of your bloodstream.”

That catches me off guard.

He doesn’t know. Neither of them do.

I don’t think they do.

I haven’t told them what happened. What Chris did. What I let him do.

It’s mine. Mine to carry. Mine to try and forget.

But the silence is eating me alive.

And maybe Nick’s right.

Maybe I do need to get out of my head.

I say yes.

I wear black.

Not a dress. Just jeans that fit me too well, and a top that says I didn’t try but I could ruin you anyway.

Hair a little messy.

Gloss on my mouth.

The kind of perfume you only wear when you want to be smelled after you leave.

We get there around ten.

House already buzzing. Music too loud. Lights low. People packed like they’re trying to forget themselves.

It feels like stepping into a fever.

I tell myself I don’t care.

I tell myself he won’t be here.

Then I look up—

And he’s the first person I see.

Chris.

Back against the wall, red solo cup in his hand, jacket unzipped just enough to tease the curve of his collarbone.

Head tilted, hair messy, shadows under his eyes.

He sees me before I can pretend not to see him.

Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

Just watches.

And then—

His mouth curves.

That lazy, half-wrecked smile I hate that I love.

“What are you doing here, poet?”

I blink. His voice cuts through the music like it’s meant for me.

Nick and Matt are distracted already, deep in conversation across the room.

I stare at Chris.

“You don’t get to call me that,” I say.

His smile fades.

But he doesn’t drop my eyes. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t apologize.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says after a second. Quiet. Almost unreadable.

“Yeah, well,” I say, lifting my chin, “I got tired of waiting around for people who leave before sunrise.”

That lands.

His jaw clenches. His gaze flicks down my body, slow, like he doesn’t want to, but can’t stop.

“You look different,” he says.

“I feel different.”

I walk past him without another word.

But I feel his stare burning into my back.

And it almost makes me turn around.

Almost.

⸻

It doesn’t take long.

The music gets louder. The drinks get stronger.

The lights dim just enough to make everything feel possible.

I’m standing by the kitchen, sipping something red in a plastic cup I didn’t pour myself, when he appears.

He’s tall. Cute in that clean, maybe-too-perfect way.

Brown eyes.Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Confident smile.

Wearing a Celtics jersey like he wants people to know he’s from here.

“Didn’t expect to see a face like yours in this house,” he says, leaning casually against the counter.

I arch a brow. “What kind of face?”

“Not drunk. Not fake. Not bored out of your mind.”

He grins. “Or maybe just bored enough.”

I laugh. It’s soft, but real. And it surprises me.

Because for a second, I forget.

Forget him.

Forget the boy who left.

Forget the way Chris looked at me when I walked in, like I was something he wasn’t allowed to touch again.

This guy, Luca, he says is easy to talk to.

He asks where I’m from. What I study. What I’m drinking. He tells me I have a nice smile, that I seem “too put together to be here,” whatever that means.

I play along.

Because it feels good.

To be seen.

To be wanted.

To be spoken to in the light.

He leans in slightly, voice low and warm.

“You here with anyone?”

I start to answer, something vague and uncommitted—

when I feel it.

That shift.

That pressure.

The burn of a stare across the room.

I glance up.

Chris.

Still in the same spot. Same hoodie.

But now he’s not relaxed.

He’s watching.

Mouth set.

Jaw tight.

Cup in hand but untouched.

His stare is cutting through the crowd like it’s trying to reach me.

Like it’s daring me to keep going.

And I do.

I turn back to Luca.

Smile.

Tilt my head.

Let my fingers brush lightly over his arm.

And even though I’m not thinking about Luca, I feel Chris flinch from across the room.

CHRIS POV:

She laughs.

With him.

Some guy with clean sneakers and too many teeth and a face that doesn’t look like it’s ever known how to hurt someone.

I watch her laugh.

Watch her touch his arm.

Watch her lean in like it’s easy.

Like it didn’t take everything in her not to fall apart when I left her that morning.

And I hate it.

I hate the way her eyes sparkle.

I hate how she looks in that top.

I hate that she’s not looking at me.

But more than that—

I hate that this is what I do.

What I always do.

I disappear, and she gets pretty.

And someone else gets to taste the version of her I ruined.

I crush the empty cup in my hand.

And I swear—

If he touches her again…

Y/N POV:

Luca leans in a little more, smiling at something I barely heard.

It’s warm in here. Loud. Blurred around the edges.

His cologne is light. His voice is easy.

And then—

“Didn’t think you were into guys like that, poet.”

My blood turns cold.

I turn around slowly.

Chris.

Standing behind me.

Too close.

Voice low. Calm. Sharp like a blade hidden under velvet.

He’s looking at Luca like he’s something he could break.

Like he already did.

“Excuse me?” I ask, jaw tight.

He doesn’t even look at me.

Just takes a lazy step forward, eyeing Luca with that bored, dangerous stare of his.

“Didn’t realize this was your type,” he adds, gaze flicking down. “Clean. Smiling too much. Probably says please when he asks to kiss you.”

Luca straightens. “Do we have a problem bro?”

Chris smirks, tilting his head. “Not at all, man. Just surprised she moved on so fast.”

That’s when it happens.

That word.

“Moved on.”

Like I was his to begin with.

Like I wasn’t the one left with cold sheets and silence.

My hand is already moving before I think twice—

Pressing flat against Chris’s chest. Not soft.

“Back off,” I say. “Now.”

His smirk falters.

But before he can fire back—

“Chris.”

Matt’s voice.

Low. Serious.

I turn and there they are Matt and Nick, both behind him. And neither of them looks surprised.

Nick’s arms are crossed, mouth pursed. “Dude. What the hell.”

Matt’s quieter, but his stare is pointed. “You can’t do that.”

“Do what?” Chris shrugs, but the cool is cracking. “I’m just talking.”

Nick steps between us, eyes hard now. “No, you’re marking. Like she’s yours. But you’re not even brave enough to say hi to her.”

I suck in a breath.

Chris says nothing.

For once, he has nothing.

Matt turns to me gently. “You okay?”

I nod once. Just barely.

But the damage is done.

Luca clears his throat. “I should probably go.”

I don’t stop him.

He disappears into the crowd.

And I’m left standing in a room full of music that suddenly feels too loud.

Chris is still there.

Still staring.

I don’t even wait for him to speak.

I just walk away.

CHRIS POV:

She’s walking away.

After that look she gave me.

After that guy put his hand on her.

After I said what I said like it wouldn’t slice her open.

And now she’s walking away, and I can’t take it.

“Yeah?” I call out, loud enough to punch through the bass. “Because he would’ve stayed the night?”

Her steps stop.

The room stills.

Matt and Nick turn around in sync.

The air shifts like gravity just changed.

YN doesn’t face me.

Not yet.

But I can feel it, her spine straightens, her shoulders tighten, her silence louder than any shout.

Nick blinks. “What?”

Matt looks between us. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I don’t even know why I said it.

Maybe I wanted her to hurt like it also hurts me to walk away every fucking time.

Maybe I wanted someone to finally know.

Or maybe I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“She let me in,” I say.

Everyone goes still.

I stop.

Run a hand through my curls. My chest is heaving. “You wanna know what I’m jealous of? I’m jealous of someone else getting to touch her when I already did.”

Y/N POV:

The room is spinning.

But I’m not drunk.

I turn slowly, the noise around us fuzzing out like we’re under water.

He said it.

He said it out loud.

Nick is staring at me, jaw slack.

Matt looks like the floor just opened up beneath him.

And me?

I’m frozen.

Exposed.

Humiliated.

It’s not just what he said.

It’s the way he said it, like I was some secret he finally got tired of keeping.

Like he couldn’t wait to throw it in their faces.

“I cannot believe you,” I whisper.

Chris looks at me.

His face changes.

He realizes it.

He knows.

“I didn’t mean—”

“No. You did.” My voice cracks. “You didn’t want me until someone else looked at me. You used me and left. Then came back. Then left again. And now this?”

I swallow hard. I feel Nick’s hand gently touch my elbow, but I shake it off.

“Yes, I let you in,” I say, softer now. “You were the first. And you treat me like this?”

Chris doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

Good.

I don’t want his words anymore.

I walk out of the party without looking back.

And this time—

I don’t hope he follows.

CHRIS POV:

I’m still at the party.

But it doesn’t feel like a party anymore.

The music is distant. The lights too bright. The people too loud. My skin itches like I don’t belong in it anymore.

I shouldn’t have said it.

Not like that.

Not there.

I told the truth.

But I told it like it was ammunition.

And I watched her shatter.

“Chris.”

I hear Nick’s voice behind me, sharp and pissed.

I turn.

He’s storming toward me, face twisted in disbelief.

“You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?”

I don’t respond.

What can I say?

Nick doesn’t wait.

“You let her sleep with you. Then left her. Came back. Left again. And then embarrassed her in front of everyone?”

“She was flirting with some guy like nothing happened,” I mutter, jaw tight.

“Because you disappeared,” Nick spits. “You left her feeling like it meant nothing. And now you’re mad someone else wanted to treat her like it did?”

His voice rises. People are watching. I don’t care.

“You don’t get to ruin people and then be jealous they’re still lovable.”

That one hits.

I look down.

Nick shakes his head. “She told me nothing, Chris. Nothing. Do you know how hard that is for her? How private she is? How careful?”

“I didn’t know how to stay,” I say quietly.

“You didn’t even try.”

Matt is standing behind him now.

He’s not yelling.

Not pacing.

Just staring at me. Still.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Matt asks.

His voice is quiet. Honest. Worse than Nick’s anger.

“We all grew up next to her. She’s not some stranger you picked up at a bar. She’s Y/N.”

I meet his eyes. There’s disappointment in them I can’t stand to see.

“She didn’t deserve that,” he adds. “And you know it.”

I nod once.

It’s the only thing I can do.

But Matt? He just turns away.

And Nick?

He doesn’t even look back.

hope you guys enjoy this long messy chaotic chapter.

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