#lost to time and clutter somewhere

[bgwlsmahf25]

For Keeps

Pairing: Natasha x female reader

Warnings: reader gets upset; touch of angst; fluffy ending

a/n: just something small, a little angsty, a little fluffy! :)

Rolling over with a sleepy sigh, you reached out instinctively, then sighed again as you took in the sight of the empty space next to you. Natasha was still away on a mission but would be back later that day and you couldn’t wait to see her.

There were a few hours for you to kill before her return. Propping yourself upright, you groaned at the sight of the messy room and chaos around you. Clothes and papers were strewn across the floor, books half-open on your desk, with an abandoned highlighter next to them, its lid missing, and a towel hanging precariously off the back of your bathroom door. Natasha was the tidy one – always keeping you in check with apparent minimal effort – but when she was gone, it was like order left with her.

Still waking up, you reached towards your beside table for your engagement ring. The one that Natasha had slipped happily onto your finger just a couple of months ago. You still felt the butterflies every time you thought about the proposal – how she’d perfectly surprised you by getting down on one knee. How she’d asked you to be her wife.

But your hand only met wood and scattered clutter. You frowned, confused.

You patted the surface again, more frantically this time, pushing aside your phone, several lip balms, a mug from two nights ago – no ring. It was a large, oval diamond, set into a gold band with two smaller gems either side of it – and you adored it. A twinge of panic bloomed in your chest.

“No, no, no, no, no,” you whispered, already half-falling out of bed as you dropped to your knees. You shoved aside clothes, books, a pair of Natasha’s old socks, tearing through the mess on the floor, under the bed, under the dresser. It had to be here. You always took it off and left it right there before going to sleep.

Or had you?

Your chest tightened. You thought you’d left it on the nightstand. But maybe you hadn’t. Maybe you'd been distracted. You’d gone swimming yesterday with some of the team – did you take it off in the locker room? Did it fall off in the water?

Hopping around the room on one leg, you quickly pulled your clothes on and tore out of your room, heading for the pool. The compound was silent – most of the team were at a conference or away on missions. Thankfully, the world was silent from any major threats and the Avengers were being drafted in to help with SHIELD initiatives across the globe.

You checked every locker, every bench in the changing rooms, scanning for any glint of gold. Nothing. Swallowing your nerves, you kicked off your clothes and dove into the pool, wincing at the chill of the unheated water. Tony had recently installed a new system that heated the pool – it was extremely costly but he declared it was worth it, muttering something about ‘team morale,’ though you had no idea what he meant by that.

Taking a deep breath, you swam laps underwater, eyes stinging as you searched every inch of the tiled floor, fingers scraping along the bottom in vain.

No ring.

You surfaced with a gasp, blinking away frustrated tears. Your breaths came quick and shallow as you raced through all the possible locations of where it could be. Had it slipped off while you were drying your hands? Fallen behind your dresser? You were usually so careful with it. With a brief twinge of guilt, you wished you’d asked Natasha to keep the box it came in, regretting throwing it out. It would have kept the ring safe, and you wouldn’t have lost track of it so easily.

Dragging yourself out of the water, you slowly redressed and headed back upstairs, heart pounding, tears refusing to fall. It had to be in your room. It had to be somewhere, you thought bitterly. You couldn’t bear to imagine what Natasha would think. What if she believed you didn’t care? What if she – you cut yourself off sharply. No. Don’t go there. Not yet.

But the knots in your stomach only tightened.

A sudden stroke of inspiration came to you. Pulling off your damp garments, you changed into jeans and a hoodie, then pulled on the old biking boots that Natasha had given you. You’d recently re-visited the spot where she’d proposed because it made you feel close to her. Maybe the ring had fallen off there. It was a long shot, but you were willing to try anything.

Grabbing Natasha’s motorcycle helmet and your keys, you raced out the door.

***

The compound was quieter than usual when Natasha returned.

Too quiet.

She’d expected to find you hovering by the hangar doors like you always did when she came home – often barefoot, often yawning, pretending not to have been anxiously refreshing the flight tracker. But today, the corridor outside her room was still, the only sound her own footsteps as she made her way toward your shared space.

Her brow furrowed the moment she opened the door. Her kit bag hit the floor with a dull thud.

The mess hit her first—your side of the room had exploded into chaos. Clothes everywhere, drawers half-open, the bed completely unmade. It looked like a war zone. Not the normal lazy clutter you left when you were missing her, but frantic. Rushed. Desperate.

Something was wrong.

She stepped carefully inside, scanning the floor, the overturned laundry basket, the faint trail of damp footprints leading in from the hallway. There was a pile of damp clothing in the bathroom, dropped haphazardly in the shower tray. She recognised one of her old hoodies which you always wore when she was away. Her stomach twisted with a creeping sense of unease.

“Honey?” she called out softly. No answer.

Her eyes moved to the bedside table – yours, specifically. She glanced at the scattered items on it, then at the bare space where your engagement ring always sat while you slept.

Empty.

That wasn’t unusual – you’d normally be up at this hour, but given the circumstances and the explosion of mess and clutter in your room, Natasha knew that something was off.

Her chest tightened.

She crouched beside the table, fingertips brushing along the floor. Nothing at first. Then – something. A glint. Just barely catching the light.

Natasha reached further, her knuckles grazing the wall as her fingers finally closed around cool metal.

She pulled her hand back slowly.

There it was.

The ring.

Her ring.

The one she'd chosen so carefully. Oval diamond, gold band, the tiny side stones meant to represent your birthstone and hers. It sat in her palm like it had never been lost – like it had been waiting.

Natasha stared at it for a long moment, her jaw tightening. She wasn’t angry, not really. But the thought of you spiralling over this, tearing apart the room in a panic and then vanishing – without so much as a text – made her heart ache. She turned the ring over in her fingers once, then slipped it into her pocket.

She needed to find you.

And when she did, she’d remind you that she didn’t propose because of a ring.

She proposed because she wanted you. All of you – chaos, clutter, and everything in between.

Glancing around the room for a clue to your location, she noticed the absence of her motorcycle helmet at the same time that she heard the familiar roar of her bike outside. Confused and slightly worried, she left the room.

***

You pulled the helmet off, your hair a mess, your eyes red from crying. The ring wasn’t where you hoped it would have been, and you’d broken down crying at the very spot that Natasha proposed. Slipping your keys into your pocket, you leant against her bike, shoulders slumped, exhausted with the pressure of finding it before her return. Your eyes flicked to the landing pad and your heart lurched as you spotted the quinjet.

Natasha was home. And she was probably looking for you.

The shift of a footfall to your left made your head jerk upwards, noticing Natasha moving slowly out of the doorway and towards where you were standing.

“Where have you been?” she asked. Her voice was low – tight – but not angry. Just... tired. Worried. “I came home to an empty hangar and an empty bed. The room looks like a war zone. What’s going on?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Looked down at your feet. “I – I…” You were out of excuses and didn’t know what to say to her to explain the chaos you’d left behind you.

She took a step toward you. “Are you avoiding me?”

You nodded, throat thick.

“Why?” She took another step.

You swallowed hard, blinking fast. “I – I lost the ring.”

She stilled.

Your voice cracked as the words spilled out. “I took it off last night before bed, and this morning it was just... gone. I tore the room apart. I checked the pool. The changing rooms. The laundry room. Everything. And I couldn’t find it. And I thought – thought that…” Your breath hitched. “I thought you’d be mad. That you’d think I didn’t care, or that I wasn’t ready. That I didn’t deserve it.”

You felt your shoulders shaking and wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly so small under her gaze. “I know it was stupid, I just – I panicked, Nat. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Silence.

Then, she stepped closer.

“I’m not mad because you lost a ring,” she said softly. “I’m mad because you were hurting. And you didn’t come to me.”

You looked up at her, lips trembling. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Natasha’s expression flickered, something vulnerable crossing her face. “You think I proposed because of a ring?” she asked, gently. “I proposed because I want to marry you. Not the version of you who always has it together. Not the tidy one. You. The messy, sleepy, stubborn, overly dramatic you that I fell in love with.”

You gave a shaky laugh, wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t say anything at first.

Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out something small and shining.

Your breath caught.

“Looking for this?” she asked.

You stared.

The ring sat in her palm like a little miracle.

“I found it behind your bedside table,” she said. “Rolled just out of sight. Probably when you put your phone down last night.”

You blinked, stunned. “You – how?”

“I’ve lived with you long enough to know where things usually disappear to.” She gave a soft smile. “And I know when you’re running.”

You laughed again – a disbelieving chuckle. “You found it.”

“I did.” She paused. “But you’re still the best thing I’ve ever found.”

Your heart twisted.

Then she held out her hand.

“Are you ready?”

You blinked. “For what?”

She tucked the ring safely in an inside pocket, then picked up the second motorcycle helmet that you hadn’t noticed she’d been carrying. “I’m taking you somewhere.”

“Where?”

She just smirked. “You’ll see.”

And in that moment, you knew. She wasn’t just giving the ring back. She was going to ask you again.

***

The sea was roaring its slow, unhurried dance when Natasha pulled up by the viewpoint. You could see people heading out for the last surf of the day. They looked like specks against the vastness of the ocean.

Natasha kicked the stand into place and stepped off the bike, holding out her hand to help you dismount. You wrapped your fingers through hers and carefully swung your leg over and out, feeling shaky despite being on solid ground. This time two months ago, you had no idea what was about to happen. Now, it was different, but your body was still swarming with butterflies.

Slowly, she reached out and unbuckled your helmet, pulling it off and staring at you with an intense gaze that made you blush and turn your face away. She smirked knowingly and pulled her own helmet off, running a hand through her short red hair. She’d cut it again recently and you loved how fearless she looked.

“You really didn’t have to bring me all the way out here again…” you quipped, unsure whether you and Natasha were okay after the tumultuous, emotional day you’d just had.

She looked evenly at you. “Yes, I did,” she said, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small smile. “The first time I asked you to marry me, I caught you completely off guard. You were in shock for like… three hours.”

“I wasn’t in shock,” you mused, leaning on the railing and staring at the setting sun. “I was processing. There’s a difference,” you added, turning to look at her.

“Hmm.” Natasha chuckled softly, remembering. “I distinctly remember you saying, “Are you serious?” about four times before you then said yes.”

You bit your lip to prevent a wide smile from spreading across your face. “That was because I couldn’t believe you actually wanted to marry me.”

“I still do,” Natasha said softly, “even more so now. Come on, honey,” she added, reaching out and taking your hand gently in hers. “It’s me.”

You slowly turned to face her fully, winding your fingers through hers and looking down at your joined hands, almost in disbelief. When you glanced up, Natasha was holding the ring between you. No grand gesture this time – just quiet certainty.

“You still manage to catch me off guard,” you whispered, your voice thick and tears prickling at your eyes.

Natasha smiled. “You thought losing this meant you’d lose me.”

“It felt like I didn’t deserve to wear it anymore,” you admitted, scuffing the ground with the toe of your boot and chewing at your lip nervously.

Natasha let go of your hand and reached out, gently tilting your chin up so that you were looking at her. There was something unreadable in her gaze, but the level of vulnerability she was showing you took your breath away. This was your Natasha – no walls, no barriers.

“You don’t wear this ring because you’re perfect,” she said quietly. “You wear it because you’re mine. I want every version of you, honey – messy, anxious, loud, soft. I didn’t choose you because you’d never lose things. I chose you because I never want to lose you.” She gently took your left hand in hers. “So, let me ask you again. No panic, no pressure. It’s just us. Will you marry me?”

You stared at her, tears flowing, heart thumping and nodded furiously. “Yes. Of course, yes. It’s always a yes, Nat.”

With a broad smile, Natasha slipped the ring onto your finger again – slowly but surely, placing it back where it belonged. You sighed in relief at the comfortable weight on your finger. It felt like a missing jigsaw piece had just slotted back into place.

Natasha pulled you into a hug, pressing her forehead to yours and planting a soft kiss on your lips. You tucked your head into the crook of her neck and stared out at the surfers beneath the sunset, holding your hand out to stare happily at the ring on your finger. Natasha ran her finger over it, before slotting her hand into yours, your fingers winding comfortably through hers.

“I’m never taking it off again,” you murmured.

“Good,” your fiancée said, kissing your cheek. “But even if you do… I’ll still find you.”

[inkspiredwriting]

The Case of the Missing Wedding Ring

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

For a man who had tackled apocalypses, and timelines, Five Hargreeves was astonishingly unprepared for the moment he discovered his wedding ring was missing. He stared at his empty finger, the gravity of the situation dawning on him as he rummaged through his pockets for the tenth time.

“Y/n is going to kill me,” Five muttered, running a hand through his hair. The ring had been a symbol of their bond, a piece of eternity they had vowed to keep. And now, it was gone.

Determined to find the ring before Y/n noticed, Five decided to enlist the help of his siblings. The mansion was a labyrinth of hiding spots, and if anyone could help, it was the rest of the Hargreeves.

He found Klaus lounging in the living room, casually flipping through a fashion magazine. “Klaus,” Five began, trying to keep his voice steady, “I need your help.”

Klaus looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Sure, bro. What’s up?”

Five hesitated, then blurted out, “I lost my wedding ring. I need to find it before Y/n realizes it’s gone.”

A grin spread across Klaus’s face. “Oh, this is going to be fun. You know she’s going to murder you, right?”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Five replied dryly. “Are you going to help me or not?”

Klaus stood up, stretching dramatically. “Of course, dear brother. Let’s find that symbol of eternal love before Y/n finds you and makes you wish you were dead.”

Five and Klaus’s search quickly spiraled into chaos as they recruited the rest of their siblings.

Luther took the mission seriously, meticulously checking every corner and crevice of the mansion. “Are you sure you didn’t lose it outside?” he asked, lifting the couch to peer underneath.

“I’m sure,” Five replied, exasperated. “It has to be here somewhere.”

Diego, on the other hand, approached the situation with his usual intensity, flipping over cushions and even dismantling parts of the kitchen. “Maybe it slipped off when you were washing your hands,” he suggested, checking the drain for the third time.

Allison joined the hunt with a sense of determination, her focus on finding the ring unwavering. “Don’t worry, Five. We’ll find it,” she reassured him, peeking into cabinets and drawers.

Viktor, ever the calm presence, methodically sifted through various rooms, his face a mask of concentration. “Have you retraced all your steps?” he asked, glancing up from his careful search of the library.

Meanwhile, Klaus provided a running commentary, much to Five’s annoyance. “Maybe the ring ran off because it felt neglected,” he joked, earning a glare from Five.

As the search dragged on, Five grew increasingly anxious. He couldn’t help but imagine Y/n’s reaction if he returned empty-handed.

The siblings gathered in the kitchen, their faces a mix of concern and amusement. “What if we can’t find it?” Five asked, his voice tinged with worry.

“We will,” Allison said firmly. “We just need to think. Where’s the one place you haven’t looked?”

Five thought for a moment, then his eyes widened. “The attic. I was up there earlier looking for an old book. Maybe it fell off while I was moving boxes.”

The group hurried to the attic, their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit hallway. Klaus couldn’t resist a final quip. “If we find a ghost up there wearing your ring, I’m out of here.”

The attic was cluttered with dusty old furniture and boxes of forgotten treasures. Five waded through the mess, his eyes scanning the floor. His heart pounded as he reached the spot where he had been earlier.

There, amidst a pile of old books and papers, glinted a small silver ring.

“I found it!” Five exclaimed, relief flooding his voice. He picked up the ring, inspecting it closely to make sure it was undamaged.

Klaus clapped him on the back. “Nice going, Sherlock. Now you just have to come up with a story for why you spent the whole day frantically tearing the house apart.”

Five slipped the ring back on his finger, the familiar weight reassuring. “Thanks, everyone,” he said, a rare smile touching his lips. “I owe you one.”

Later that evening, Five sat on the couch, his arm around Y/n as they watched a movie. She hadn’t noticed anything amiss, and Five was determined to keep it that way.

As the credits rolled, Y/n glanced up at him. “You seem unusually quiet today,” she said, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

Five’s heart skipped a beat. “Just tired,” he replied smoothly. “Long day.”

Y/n nodded, her attention returning to the screen. “Well, I’m glad i’m home. I missed you.”

Five smiled, the warmth in her voice easing the last of his anxiety. He tightened his arm around her, grateful that the crisis had been averted.

In the kitchen, Klaus and Diego exchanged knowing glances, barely suppressing their laughter. “Think he’ll tell her?” Diego whispered.

“Not a chance,” Klaus replied with a grin. “But you know what? I think she already knows.”

[maiiuelle]

˚❀˚

you and rafe spend the majority of your time together at tannyhill. it just makes more sense, his house is bigger, usually vacant, and void of your father, who has plenty of choice words about your new rich boyfriend. but today is different, your dad is out investigating a break in on the opposite side of the island, and your mom disappeared off to the golf club hours ago. it’s the perfect opportunity to sneak rafe in.

“come on, come on! you’re gonna love my room.” you hug rafe’s arm, tugging on him excitedly. a smirk pulls at his cheeks, finding your eagerness adorable.

“alright, m’coming — gonna pull my damn arm off.”

you push open the door, revealing your cozy bedroom. there’s a big window overlooking the street with a vintage bench shoved underneath for your nighttime reading. a soft white rug sprawls over almost the entire hardwood floor, and your vanity sits next to the door, expensive makeup products and gold jewelry cluttering the surface. on the opposite wall is your overflowing bookshelf, your nightstand with your record player, a warm floor lamp, and your giant bed that sits in the center. it has pink floral sheets, white fluffy pillows, and a wide-eyed siamese cat sitting in the middle.

“oh! this is simon.” you introduce your kitty proudly. you didn’t expect him to be out, usually hidden away somewhere the second someone new steps foot in the house. in hopes he’ll stick around, you sit down gently on the bed beside him to run your fingers through his white fur. "he's a little shy."

“shy? fur-ball looks like he wants to eat me.” rafe raises an eyebrow at him, pacing closer. the little kitty’s eyes widen and his ears go back, rafe’s looming height too intimidating too fast — he’s quick to abandon the bed, hiding underneath as usual.

“rafe!” you whine, all hopes of friendship between the two of them lost immediately. you cross your arms dramatically, pouting. “gotta be slow — gentle. he’s sensitive!”

“yeah, yeah. i’m sure he’s just fine, babe.” he brushes it off in the moment but seems to take your words into consideration. later, when he’s lying half asleep in your pink sheets with you curled up beside him, the siamese cat hops back up on the bed, landing right in rafe’s lap. it surprises both of them, the cat probably forgetting he was even there. you don’t notice a thing, already out cold, lulled to sleep in rafe’s arms.

the two just stare at each other for a second, neither really sure what to do. in a moment of bravery, simon sniffs around the comforter and even rafe’s ringed hand, still unsure but suddenly not as skittish. he finds a dip in the blankets, and eyes rafe suspiciously before finally curling up between the two of you. “hm, m’not so bad now, huh?” rafe’s sleepy, gravely voice is soft, and he slowly brings his free hand to brush through the purring kitty’s soft fur.

˚❀˚

[undreaming-fanfiction]

My brain refuses to sleep, so more drabbling! Probably modern-ish AU?

Steve makes a career for himself as a re-decorator (or de-decorator, as he loves to call himself). His clientele are those celebrities who rose to fame so quickly they have plenty of money, but they don't have time to make their houses feel like home. They just bought penthouses and mansions and now live in homes that are fancy, but they feel like hotels.

Steve is there to fix that.

One of his clients is the hard working rockstar Eddie Munson whose life path went from a trailer park to couch surfing to living with 4 people in a tiny apartment, then suddenly tours, hotels and boom! He has a house that looks like an IKEA prop.

He doesn't hide his distaste at the pristine condition of the place (yes, Eddie has a cleaner). "Oh god. A beige carpet?" he scoffs and he sounds so bitchy Eddie decides he likes him already.

He likes him even more when Steve puts on reading glasses. Damn.

Over coffee, they discuss what Eddie wants. Except Steve doesn't just...tell him. He doesn't give him any hints. He just keeps asking about Eddie's favorite colors, what movies he likes, does he have hobbies apart from music? Can Steve see some of the items that bring him comfort?

And Eddie's surprised. "Shouldn't you, like...be telling me what I'm supposed to want?" he asks the gorgeous man who almost wails when he sees the vase with fresh flowers ("This is the third place in a row that has this fugly thing! Is it like a status symbol? Uh, tasteless.").

And Steve just stares at him. "Uh, Mr. Munson?"

"Eddie."

Steve nods. "Eddie. Why should I have any say in what you want? If you ask me what's practical, easy to clean, what bounces off light well, that's another thing. But in matters of taste...you're the boss. You live here, I don't. (Pity, Eddie thinks) Now, let's change this place into somewhere you actually like staying, hm?"

They spend the whole afternoon talking. Eddie opens up about what he loved before the touring and expectations from his agent took that from him. He talks about the Lord of the Rings, Dungeons and Dragons, fantasy in general, and Steve listens, makes tons of notes and asks questions that make Eddie's heart bleed, such as "and who is your favorite Lord of the Rings character?" and "you mentioned elves, dwarves, orcs, wizards...so what is your favorite group?" and "which DnD class would you be then? I guess a bard? Is that too obvious?". Now, Steve doesn't know much about these things, but learns quickly and works with the info he has.

They walk through the house again, with Steve making notes and wincing at transgressions against humanity or at least against his taste in things ("Oh ew. EW. Glossy finish on a kitchen counter? What is this, a future crime scene?") and Eddie feeling equally amused and curious. Eddie orders dinner for them, it goes something like:

"I don't know what would be appropriate, any preferences?"

"Eddie, there's no time or space when pizza is not appropriate."

"What about a funeral?"

"It puts fun in a funeral."

"Touché."

They follow up on a bunch more things. Steve notices Eddie fidgeting and asks him like the mindreader he is if perhaps the place is too clean for him. "Minimalism is what everyone's trying to push," Steve says, not without sympathy, "but it's not for everyone. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but you seem like a person who'd love a more....personal, cluttered space."

And god, Eddie feels so seen. He tells Steve about all his favorite books and trinkets that he lost during a horrible earthquake in Indiana, so when he moved to the city it was just some clothes and his two guitars. Steve makes so many notes. "I've seen quite a lot of collectibles for your beloved trilogy," he says with a hint of a smile. "Is that something you'd like in your home?" Eddie can't nod any faster.

They talk about the budget (Eddie just scoffs at that, for the first time in his life money is not an issue), Eddie's absolute no go things ("No more vases, please! PLEASE. Also maybe the one room that can stay as it is is the studio, there's no decor"), if he has issues touching any materials, if he wants to keep any areas in the house neutral for visitors (he doesn't). Then finally, he asks Eddie if he wants to be more consulted or surprised.

And Eddie, tired and surprisingly relaxed from talking to Steve, just grins and says: "Surprise me, big boy."

Steve just smirks and makes one more note. "Oh, I will, Eddie."

...

Eddie goes on yet another tour for a couple of months, which is the ideal time for Steve to start working on the house.

Steve sometimes texts Eddie random choices, such as "Rohan or Gondor or both?" or "what's the best pub in the Middle Earth?" and Eddie usually trips over his feet trying to get to his phone after concerts to see if maybe he has another message from Steve. He learns bits and pieces about the man as well - he has a younger brother, Dustin, who is into the same stuff that Eddie is. Sometimes it goes like this:

STEVE: What's the best battle in the LotR movies?

EDDIE: The Ride of the Rohirrim, duh!

STEVE: Dustin says you're wrong, it's the last stand at the gates of Mordor.

EDDIE: The disrespect to king Théoden!

And finally, the big day comes. Eddie meets with Steve at the door. From the outside, the house still looks boring, but that's what they agreed on. At least for now.

But there's one notable difference and Eddie gasps when he sees it.

"I know we said no changes on the outside," said Steve sheepishly, "but I took the liberty to make one slight change."

Where the door used to be bland and white, it is now carved with silver etchings. It replicates the Doors of Durin. Eddie loves it.

Steve smiles at him. "Speak friend and enter, right? Dustin told me. Anyways, are you ready?"

Turns out, Eddie wasn't ready. Steve took all of the shiny and sterile surfaces and turned them into something beautiful.

The kitchen is now in warmer colors, brown and green, imitating the Green Dragon inn, plaque included.

Guest rooms have been changed, each to represent a group or a nation of the Middle Earth. Eddie thinks his uncle will love the Rohirrim one.

No more vases are to be seen, but Steve got potted plants ("almost immortal, as long as your housekeeper waters them once a week or so").

Eddie howls in laughter when he sees that Steve somehow managed to disguise all his security cameras as tiny eyes of Sauron.

The bathroom is inspired by the Rivendell, with soft tones and nods to Elvish architecture.

Eddie's bedroom resembles the Shire, with round shapes and homely motifs.

But Eddie's absolute favorite is the living room.

The only things that remain there that he bought are the massive TV and his stereo system with records. The rest though...

Gone is the ugly and sharp couch that looked like a geometry exercise. The new one is large and comfortable, with a couple of armchairs to finish the cozy feel. The coffee table and TV stand are more rough looking, with decorative ironwork. And then, around the room and on the walls...

"Oh wow," whispers Eddie and Steve beams at him.

There are collectibles and figurines that young Eddie Munson would have killed for. A replica of the Narsil hangs over the TV. It's cluttered but tasteful, still easy to clean, but Eddie always has something to touch, to play with.

And then he spots the bookcase and actually sobs. "What the fuck, Steve?" he asks, but there's no anger, just awe. "How did you know?"

The bookcase is full of Eddie's most beloved books, all that he told Steve about and more, but it's not just that. These aren't just pristine new prints - Steve managed to get both those and well-loved used copies. Most of them are the same editions that Eddie had before the earthquake. He runs his trembling finger over the back of the Hobbit and it feels like home.

"That was the hardest part," says Steve and leaves Eddie to rummage through the books, the old DnD guides and used comic books. "But I assumed you're sick of new and shiny. In fact, most of the collectibles are already used as well. They have some history. As for the books, uh..." He scratches his neck, embarrassed. "I will be honest, I don't read much. Dyslexia and some issues with the eyes, although audio books are making it more possible for me now. So I had to ask Dustin for help. We looked for editions published before the earthquake. I hope we got some of them right?"

Eddie just mutters "Sorry, I'm about to do something really unprofessional now" and pulls Steve into a bear hug. And Steve reciprocates.

"Fuck, this...this is everything," says Eddie into his shoulder. "How did you do this? Are you magic. You must be magic."

Steve grins. "I take it the surprise was a success then?"

Eddie finally pulls back. He would have loved to keep embracing Steve for a bit longer, but boundaries. "A total one. Wow. I mean. It's a lot, but so good. SO GOOD. How can I repay you?"

"You already paid me, Eddie."

"You know what I mean!" Eddie points and the books and apparently also a DVD collection he now owns. "This must have been so much more work than you normally do, no? I doubt every client has you memorize the members of the Fellowship."

"Not just that, but also why Sam is the best," Steve smiles at him and fuck. Eddie might be in love. "It was more than usual, but I loved it, Eddie. That's why I like my job so much, helping people find themselves again. You don't owe me anything. Although, if you're offering..."

"I'm listening."

Steve runs his fingers through that majestic hair. "So, I didn't tell Dustin that I was decorating the house for you, but he's a huge fan of your music. Like, massive, has every album, has been following your career from the start. And feel free to tell me it's too much, you are my client after all, but...he'd love to meet you. Over a pizza, maybe? The plain ham and cheese one you like so it doesn't have too many flavors?"

And Eddie melts. Because Steve still remembers his pizza choice from months ago, even though this definitely wasn't in his notes. He decides there and then that Steven Harrington is a national treasure.

"Sure, big boy," he smiles at Steve, and hopes he didn't imagine Steve leaning into the touch. "How about you invite him over for a movie night or something? With pizza of course."

It looks like Steve could kiss him, but he doesn't. Not yet. That only happens a week later, when they bump into each other in Eddie's kitchen when they scramble to make more popcorn for Dustin.

Steve stays the next night. And maybe a few after that. Always in a different themed bedroom.

They travel for work a lot, but when they are both in Chicago, they always meet in the Green Dragon kitchen, cuddle in the bed that would be far too large for a hobbit, and in the night, Eddie wraps himself around Steve and whispers: "My preciousssss."

And Steve can't really complain, because it's his fault that his boyfriend has re-discovered his dorkiness, so why would he mind?

[honeyslibrary]

I Love You, I'm Sorry | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Long distance relationship, angst, not sure what else, edited once

Summary; Reader and Luke get a taste of how difficult being in a long distance relationship is.

Word Count; 4.5k

Authors Note: This is a part one. I’d love your thoughts on what you think the ending should be. I personally love angst, but I know a lot of you love happy endings, so let me know (: As per usual, reblogs are appreciated 🩵 -Honey

It's late, nearly midnight in Ann Arbor, and your room is dim except for the soft glow of your laptop screen. Outside, snow is falling in slow, half-hearted flakes that dissolve before touching the ground, visible only when they drift through the cone of yellow light from the streetlamp below. Your desk is cluttered with notebooks, highlighters with their caps missing, and a half-eaten granola bar that's been sitting there since noon, its wrapper curled at the edges.

When Luke picks up, he's backdropped by the familiar off-white walls of his place in Jersey, hair damp and curling from a post-practice shower. He's wearing that oversized black Kith hoodie — the one he practically lives in, frayed at the cuffs from constant wear — and his voice comes through, slightly distorted by distance and poor connection.

"Hey."

You smile, automatic, muscle memory that hasn't faded despite everything. "Hey."

There's a beat of silence where neither of you rushes to fill the space. It's not awkward. Just... distant. Like the signal is fine, but the connection is still lagging, caught somewhere between Ann Arbor and Jersey, lost in the miles between what you were and what you've become.

"You look tired," he says, eyes scanning your face through the screen.

"Thanks," you deadpan, but self-consciously run a hand through your unwashed hair.

He smiles, a little, the corner of his mouth lifting in that familiar way that still manages to make your heart stutter. "Rough day?"

You nod, feeling the weight of hours spent hunched over textbooks and lab equipment. "Had a three-hour chem lab and then my professor went rogue and assigned us a ten-page paper due Monday, even though it's supposed to be a five-week course project. So, yeah. Classic Thursday."

"Damn." He leans back against his headboard, the wood making a soft thunk. You can see the edge of a team photo taped to his wall, the corner peeling. "I don't miss that."

"You're telling me," you say, rubbing your eyes until pinpricks of light dance behind your closed lids. "I've had coffee for dinner two nights in a row. My blood is basically caffeine at this point."

He watches you for a second, eyes softening with something like concern or maybe nostalgia. Then asks, quieter, "Is it still like... non-stop all the time?"

You hesitate, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your sleeve. "Yeah. I mean, I guess I'm getting used to it again." The lie tastes stale on your tongue.

Luke nods slowly, a micro-expression of hurt flashing across his face so quickly you almost miss it. Then he glances away for a second, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something. When he looks back, there's something different in his eyes. Not annoyed, just... worn down, like fabric that's been washed too many times.

"I was trying not to bug you," he says, carefully measuring each word. "With the whole settling-back-in thing. Figured the first couple weeks of school would be hectic, so I didn't want to be, like... all over your phone."

You shift in your seat, the old wooden chair creaking beneath you, uneasy. "You're not bugging me."

"I don't know," he says, fingers absently tracing the team logo on his hoodie. "It kind of feels like I am."

You go still. He's not raising his voice. He's not accusing. But it hits anyway, like a door closing quietly but firmly in your face.

"I mean, you barely text me," he continues, voice level but threaded with something raw. "We haven't FaceTimed in... what? Over a week? And when we do talk, it's usually because I called first."

You swallow, suddenly too aware of how quiet your room is, just the faint hum of your laptop fan and the distant bass from someone's music three doors down. "I've just had a lot going on."

"I know," he says quickly, too quickly. "Me too. But... it's been a month now."

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, a muscle working at the corner, and he won't quite meet your eyes, instead focusing on something just past your shoulder.

"I was giving you space because I thought you needed it," he says, voice dropping lower. "But now I'm starting to feel like maybe I'm just... not part of your life anymore. Not really."

Your chest aches, a physical pain that spreads outward like ice cracking. "Luke—"

He cuts in, not unkindly, but with a firmness that makes you flinch. "I'm not mad. I just... I didn't think this would be so one-sided."

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a pathetic defense: "You know I suck at texting."

He gives a short laugh. Not mean, just tired, the kind that carries no actual humor. "Yeah. I do. But I thought you'd try. Because this is different now. We're not two blocks apart anymore. We're two states apart. I can't just swing by after practice or meet you at Espresso Royale with those stupid chocolate croissants you like." His voice catches slightly. "You're all I've got, and half the time, it feels like I'm not even crossing your mind."

"That's not fair," you whisper, the words hanging in the air between you like frost.

He meets your gaze, and it's the quiet in his voice that stings the most. "It doesn't have to be fair, it's how I feel."

You press your fingers to your forehead, like that'll stop the swirl in your brain, the mounting pressure behind your eyes. "I wasn't trying to ignore you. I've just... I don't know. Everything's overwhelming again. And I guess I thought if I didn't reach out, it would hurt less. Like... not reminding myself how far away you are."

He looks at you for a long second, the blue light of his screen making shadows under his cheekbones. "It hurts anyway."

And there it is.

The truth neither of you wanted to face, finally spoken aloud. Your fingers go cold.

You look at him, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it into a knot and then releasing it. You feel like you're staring at something that's slipping through your hands, slow and inevitable, like sand or water or time.

He sighs, quiet, the sound barely reaching your speakers. "I'm gonna head to bed. Early skate tomorrow."

You nod, barely, feeling numb. "Okay."

He doesn't hang up right away, and for a second, it seems like he might say something else, something to soften or backtrack. Offer a lifeline. But instead, he just gives you a small, sad smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Goodnight."

Then the screen goes dark.

And you're left staring at your own reflection, sitting in the silence you built, with only the soft tapping of snowflakes against your window for company.

You wait for a text that doesn't come.

The next morning, you send him a message, something casual about hoping he had a good practice, a peace offering disguised as small talk. Usually, he responds within minutes. This time, your phone stays silent for hours, until finally, mid-afternoon: It was fine. Pretty tired though.

No questions about your day. No follow-up. Just five words that feel like a door closing.

You tell yourself it's nothing. He's busy. He's tired. But the pattern continues. Your texts receive shorter and shorter replies, sometimes hours later, sometimes not until the next day. He doesn't call. When you try calling him on Sunday night, he doesn't pick up, just texts back twenty minutes later: Sorry, was out with the guys. Talk later maybe?

Later doesn't come.

By Wednesday, the realization hits you with startling clarity: this is what it feels like to be on the other side. This is what you've been doing to him for weeks.

Thursday night, you're sitting in the library, pretending to study organic chemistry but really just staring at your phone, willing it to light up with his name. It doesn't. A week ago, you would have been annoyed by the interruption. Now you'd give anything for it.

Your roommate slides into the chair across from you, giving you a strange look. "You okay? You've been staring at that same page for like, twenty minutes."

"I'm fine," you mumble, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

"Luke?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

You look up, surprised. "How did you—"

"Well, for starters, you've checked your phone approximately eight hundred times in the past hour. And you've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like someone stole your favorite hoodie." She pauses. "Which, by the way, isn't that his Devils hoodie you're wearing right now?"

You glance down. It is. Luke left it with you when he left for pre-season, and you've been sleeping in it for weeks. It still smells faintly of his laundry detergent and that cologne he pretends not to use.

"He's not talking to me," you admit finally, the words feeling strange in your mouth. "Or, well, barely. It's like... he's just gone cold."

Your roommate doesn't look surprised. "Girl, are you stupid? You've been doing the same thing to him for weeks."

The bluntness of her assessment stings. "I've been busy," you protest weakly.

She gives you a look that makes it clear she's not buying it. "We're all busy. That's college. But you don't see me ghosting my boyfriend back home."

"I wasn't ghosting him," you insist. But even as you say it, you know it's not entirely true. You were keeping him at arm's length, minimizing contact, treating him like an obligation rather than a priority.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, closing her notebook and giving you her full attention.

You stare at your phone again. No new messages. "I don't know."

Friday morning, you check your phone the moment you wake up. Nothing. Friday afternoon, between classes, you find yourself opening your photos, scrolling back through pictures of the two of you. Friday night, you cave and call him. It goes straight to voicemail.

Hey, Luke. It's me. I just... I miss you. Call me back?

He doesn't.

Saturday passes in a blur of anxiety and regret. By Sunday, you're sitting on your bed surrounded by unfinished assignments, your laptop open to a half-written paper, but all you can think about is him.

The silence stretches into a second week. His social media offers glimpses of a life continuing without you: team photos, a night out bowling, a video of him laughing at something one of his teammates said. He looks fine. He looks happy. He looks like he's moving on.

It's only when you're scrolling through your calendar to check a due date that you realize what tomorrow is: one month since he helped you move in. One month of being apart. You'd talked about celebrating somehow, doing something special over FaceTime. Now you wonder if he even remembers.

Monday morning, your phone pings with a text as you're walking to class.

Can we talk tonight? 9pm?

Your heart jumps into your throat. You text back immediately: Yes. Definitely.

The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. By 8:45, you're sitting at your desk, hair combed, room hastily tidied, wearing a sweater he once said brought out your eyes.

At exactly 9:00, your laptop chimes with an incoming call. You take a deep breath and click "accept."

Luke appears on screen, looking tired but more serious than you've ever seen him. There's none of the warmth from before, none of the easy familiarity. Just his eyes, steady and questioning.

"Hey," you say, voice small.

"Hey," he replies. Then, after a pause that stretches too long: "So, I think we should talk about what happens now."

You swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what "now" might mean. "Luke, I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I know I made you feel like you weren't important, and that's not true at all. I was—"

"Stop," he says, not unkindly but firmly. "I don't need apologies. What I need is to know if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication.

"Because," he continues, voice steady but with an undercurrent of hurt that makes your chest ache, "I can't be the only one trying here. These past two weeks... this is what it felt like for me, for a month. Waiting for calls that never came. Checking my phone fifty times a day. Wondering if I still mattered to you at all."

You feel tears threatening, but you blink them back. "You do matter. You matter so much."

"Then why didn't you act like it?" The question isn't angry. It's genuinely confused, which somehow makes it worse.

"I don't know," you whisper, and then, forcing yourself to be honest: "I think I was scared. Of how much I missed you. Of how hard this was going to be. It felt easier to just... pull back. To pretend I was fine on my own."

He's quiet for a long moment, considering this. "And are you? Fine on your own?"

You look at him, really look at him, and shake your head slowly. "No. These past two weeks have been awful. I hated every minute of it."

"Welcome to my world," he says, but there's less edge to his voice now. "So what do we do? Because I can't go back to how things were before. I won't."

The silence stretches between you, full of all the things you've left unsaid. You know you're at a crossroads. You can make more promises, beg for another chance. Or you can face the truth: that long distance is harder than you thought, that you're both changing, that maybe what you had belongs to a different time, a different version of yourselves.

Luke waits, his expression unreadable. The choice is yours.

"I don't know how to fix this," you admit finally, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want to. I really want to."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your heart ache. "I want to believe that."

"You can," you say, leaning forward. "Luke, these past two weeks... I've been miserable. And it made me realize that I've been taking you for granted. I've been acting like you'll always be there, waiting, no matter how I treat you."

He's quiet for a moment, eyes searching yours through the screen. "Why should this time be any different?"

It's a fair question. One you've been asking yourself all week.

"Because now I know what it feels like to lose you," you say simply. "And I never want to feel that way again."

He looks down, and you can see him weighing your words, deciding whether or not to believe them. When he looks back up, his eyes are guarded.

"I need more than words," he says. "I need to see it. In your actions."

You nod, relief and anxiety tangling in your chest. "I know. I understand that."

"Do you?" he asks, and there's a challenge in his voice. "Because what I need is for you to make time for us. Real time. Not just when it's convenient for you or when you don't have anything better to do."

You flinch at the truth of it. "I will. I promise."

He shakes his head slightly. "Don't promise. Just do it. Or don't. But I can't keep...hoping things will get better. That's the part that kills me, you know? The hoping."

You feel tears threatening again, but this time, you let them come. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "I'm so sorry, Luke."

His expression softens just slightly. "I know you are. But I'm not looking for an apology. I'm looking for change."

You wipe at your eyes, nodding. "So...what now?"

He seems to consider this, then says, "Now we take it day by day. See if we can build something that works for both of us. But I need you to be honest, with yourself most of all. If you can't do this, if you don't want to do this, then let's not drag it out."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "Is that...is that what you want? To end it?"

Luke's gaze is steady. "What I want is a relationship where I don't feel like I'm chasing someone who's always running away."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything that's been said and everything that hasn't.

"I'm not running," you say finally. "Not anymore."

He nods, but there's still hesitation in his eyes. "Okay."

"Okay," you echo, not sure what else to say.

"I should go," he says after a moment. "Early morning tomorrow."

Panic flares in your chest. "Wait, can we talk again?"

The question hangs in the air. Before, he would have been the one asking that. The one worried about when the next call would be. Now it's you, and the role reversal isn't lost on either of you.

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I don't know. When do you want to talk again?"

You recognize the test in his words. "Tomorrow? I don't have class until eleven. We could have coffee together. Virtually, I mean."

He considers this. "I'll be up at six for training."

"Six is fine," you say quickly, even though you haven't voluntarily seen six a.m. since high school.

His eyebrows rise slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You've never been more certain of anything.

He studies you for a moment longer, then nods. "Okay. Six it is."

"I'll be here," you promise.

"We'll see," he says, and it stings, but you know you deserve it. Before he ends the call, he pauses. "You're wearing that sweater I love."

"What?" You glance down, feeling heat rise to your face. "Oh yeah."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile, the first real smile you've seen from him in weeks.

Then the call ends, and you're left staring at your reflection again. But this time, it's different. This time, you're not paralyzed by indecision or regret. This time, you know exactly what you need to do.

You set your alarm for 5:45 a.m. Then you open your calendar and begin to carve out time, real time, for the person who matters most. Not leftover minutes between classes or half-attentive late-night calls when you're too exhausted to really talk. Actual, intentional time.

It won't be easy. Nothing worth having ever is. The distance is still there. Your schedule is still overwhelming. His hockey season is just getting started.

But as you close your laptop and get ready for bed, you realize something: you're not just fighting for Luke. You're fighting for yourself, too. For the person you want to be. Someone who knows what matters and acts like it. Someone who doesn't take love for granted.

You curl up under your blankets after changing back into his Devils hoodie. Outside, the snow continues to fall, covering everything in a clean, white blanket. Like a fresh start.

Morning will come early. But for the first time in weeks, you're looking forward to it.

The blaring of your alarm cuts through your dreams like a knife. You groan, blindly pawing at your phone until the noise stops. Your room is dark, the sky outside still black. For a moment, you lie there, disoriented, wondering why on earth your alarm is going off at this ungodly hour.

Then you remember. Luke. The call. Six a.m.

You force your eyes open, squinting at your phone screen.

7:28 a.m.

Your stomach drops. No. No no no.

You bolt upright, suddenly wide awake, heart hammering against your ribs. How did this happen? You set your alarm. You remember setting it for 5:45.

But the evidence is right there on your screen, mocking you: three missed alarms, all snoozed in your half-conscious state. And worse, two missed calls from Luke.

"No," you whisper, panic rising in your throat as you fumble to call him back. It rings once, twice, three times. Then his voicemail.

You try again. Straight to voicemail.

Your hands shake as you type out a text: Luke I'm so sorry. I slept through my alarm. Please call me back.

Nothing.

You try calling once more. Voicemail again.

Please Luke. I swear I didn't mean to. I set three alarms.

The message shows as delivered, but there's no response. You sit in the cold light of morning, the reality of what's happened sinking in like lead. One chance. You had one chance to show him you were serious, that things would be different.

And you blew it.

By 8:15, you've tried calling five more times. Each time, straight to voicemail. Your roommate finds you sitting cross-legged on your bed, still in his hoodie, staring at your phone like you can will it to ring through sheer force of desperation.

"Whoa," she says, taking in your expression. "What happened?"

"I messed up," you manage, voice hollow. "I was supposed to call Luke at six this morning. I slept through my alarm."

She winces. "Ouch."

"He won't answer," you continue, feeling tears build. "He probably thinks I just... didn't care enough to wake up."

Your roommate sits on the edge of your bed. "Did you explain?"

"I tried. He's not responding."

"Give him some time," she suggests. "He's probably at practice anyway, right?"

You nod weakly. She's right. He's probably on the ice right now, skating through drills, trying not to think about you. Or worse, thinking about you too much.

"What do I do?" you ask, hating how small your voice sounds.

She considers for a moment. "You wait. And then you try again. And you don't give up after one mistake."

The words echo in your mind as you drag yourself through your morning routine, as you force yourself to attend your classes even though you can barely focus on what your professors are saying. By late afternoon, you've checked your phone approximately a thousand times. Nothing from Luke.

At 4:17, just as you're leaving your last class, your phone finally buzzes. You nearly drop it in your haste to check.

Can talk now. Call me.

Your heart races as you find an empty bench outside your building and call him with trembling fingers. He picks up on the second ring.

"Luke—" you start, the relief of hearing his voice almost overwhelming.

"Are you kidding me?" His voice is tight, controlled, but you can hear the hurt beneath it. "Seriously? After everything we talked about last night?"

"I know," you say quickly. "I know how it looks. I set the alarms, I swear I did. I even set three of them. But I must have turned them off in my sleep. I never even heard them."

"Right." His tone is flat with disbelief.

"It's true," you insist. "Luke, please. You have to believe me. I wouldn't do that to you. Not after last night."

There's a long pause, and you can almost see him pacing in his dorm room, running a hand through his still-damp hair, trying to decide if he believes you.

"You know what the worst part was?" he says finally. "I actually got excited. I set up my laptop on the kitchen counter while I made breakfast. I thought... I actually thought this time would be different."

The quiet disappointment in his voice is worse than if he'd yelled.

"It will be," you say, desperate. "It is. Luke, I messed up. I know that. But it was a mistake, not a choice. I wanted to talk to you this morning. I was looking forward to it."

Another silence stretches between you. Then, quietly: "I think we need to take a break."

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "What? No. Luke, please—"

"I can't do this anymore," he says, his voice oddly calm. "I thought I could. I thought if we just talked it out, if you just understood how I was feeling... but this morning made it clear."

"It was one mistake," you plead, tears filling your eyes. "One morning."

"No," he says, and the gentleness in his voice somehow makes it worse. "It's not just this morning. It's every morning. It's the fact that I keep hoping things will change, and they never do. It's the fact that I'm constantly disappointed, and I'm starting to think that's just... how it's going to be with us now."

"It won't," you whisper.

"Maybe not," he concedes. "But it's how I feel. And I can't keep feeling this way. It's killing me."

You press a hand to your mouth, trying to stifle a sob. "So what, we're just... done? Just like that?"

He sighs, and you hear so much exhaustion in that sound. "I don't know what we are. I just know I need some space to figure out if this is even worth fighting for anymore."

"Of course it is," you say, voice breaking. "Luke, I love you."

"I love you too," he says quietly. "But right now, that's not enough."

The finality in his voice sends a chill through you. "How long?" you manage to ask. "How long of a break?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I need to focus on hockey. On myself. And honestly, maybe you do too."

You want to argue, to fight, to promise him that you'll do better, that you'll be better. But the words stick in your throat because deep down, you know he's right. You haven't been the person he needs. You haven't even been the person you want to be.

"Okay," you say finally, the word barely audible.

"I should go," he says after a moment of heavy silence.

"Luke—" you start, not ready for the call to end, not ready for whatever comes after.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he cuts in, voice soft. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Keep the hoodie. It looks better on you anyway."

Before you can respond, the call ends.

You sit there on the cold bench, phone clutched in your hand, tears streaming down your face. Around you, students rush to classes, laughing, talking, completely unaware that your world has just imploded.

Eventually, you make your way back to your apartment. Your roommate takes one look at your face and opens her arms without a word. You collapse into them, the sobs you've been holding back finally breaking free.

"He's gone," you choke out. "He's gone and it's my fault."

She holds you as you cry, stroking your hair, telling you it will be okay. But you know it won't be. Not for a long time.

That night, you curl up in your bed, still wearing his hoodie. You know you should take it off, that it will only make things harder, but you can't bring yourself to do it. Not yet. Outside, snow is falling again, heavier now, erasing footprints, covering everything in blank whiteness.

Your phone sits dark and silent on your nightstand. No goodnight text. No plans to call tomorrow. Just emptiness where there used to be him.

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[slvbum]

youre on your own kid ♡ Rafe Cameron!

content WARNING: Rafe Cameron × Barbie!Reader, bad parenting, mentions of drugs, mentions of sex, mentions of pregnancy, abandonment.

♡ notie note . . . reposting this bc it got lost n the other acc lol!

For nearly a week, Rafe had been crashing at Y/N’s trailer, and it felt like they’d carved out their own little universe. The world outside didn’t exist. It was just them, tangled up in each other, high on whatever she had stashed in her beat-up jewellery box.

The trailer was a mess, with empty beer cans, ashtrays overflowing, and her glittery thrift-store clothes strewn across the floor, but it was their mess.

They’d get high, and fuck with a reckless intensity that left them breathless, laughing, and clinging to each other. They’d sprawl on her lumpy mattress, passing a joint, her head on his chest as she rambled about absurd things, like how she’d be a pop star in a past life or how the trailer park was secretly built on an alien landing site. Rafe would laugh, call her “barbie,” and pull her closer. They’d raid her fridge for stale chips, make out against the counter, and fall back into bed, the rest of the world irrelevant.

And for once, Rafe didn’t feel like he was running from something. With Y/N, he could just be.

But by the sixth day, something nagged at him.

The trailer was quiet—too quiet.

No parents stumbling in, no shouting matches, no signs of life beyond her chaos. Her mom, Tammy, was a drunk who’d usually barge in slurring insults, and her dad, Earl, was a ghost who’d show up only to break something or yell. Rafe had braced himself for Tammy to storm in, maybe catch them half-naked and scream about him not daring to get Y/N pregnant. As it always happened, but it didn’t happen this time.

The absence was loud, heavier than the haze they’d been living in.

That afternoon, they were sprawled on the couch, her legs draped over his lap. She was sober for once, her eyes clearer but her movements restless, like she was trying to outrun something. Rafe lit a cigarette, watching her pick at her chipped neon polish.

“Where’s your mom been?” he asked, casual but curious. “Haven’t heard her yelling all week. Or your dad. They on some bender?”

She froze for a split second, then forced a giggle, her go-to shield. “Oh, you know, probably off winning parents of the year somewhere.” She flicked her hair back, but her smile was too tight, her eyes darting to the floor.

Rafe wasn’t high enough to let it slide. He sat up, exhaling smoke. “Y/N. Where are they?”

She shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her shorts. “They left. No big deal.” Her voice was light, but her fingers trembled slightly.

“Left?” Rafe’s brow furrowed. “Like, for a trip or what? How long they been gone?”

Her giggle was weaker this time, almost brittle. “Uh, like… three weeks? Give or take.” She stood abruptly, crossing the room to a cluttered kitchen counter, where she pulled out a crumpled envelope from under a pile of takeout menus. “They left this. Some cash, too. Real generous, right?”

Rafe took the letter, his stomach twisting. The paper was cheap, stained with coffee rings, and the handwriting was a messy scrawl. It was barely coherent, a rambling mess about “needing a fresh start” and “you’re better off on your own, kid.”

They mentioned leaving her a couple hundred bucks, like that was enough to make up for it. The last line stuck out: Don’t come looking. We’re done.

Rafe read it twice, his grip tightening until the paper crinkled. He looked up at Y/N, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, staring at the floor.

“They’re gone,” Rafe said, not a question. “For good.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, well, good riddance, right? Less yelling, more space.” She tried to laugh, but it came out more like a choke. “I mean, I’ve been on my own forever anyway. Same shit, different day.”

Rafe stood, crossing the small space to her. He saw it now... the way her shoulders slumped, the way her fingers dug into her arms like she was holding herself together. The trailer felt suffocating, a trash heap of a home she’d been abandoned in. He wanted to say something, anything, but words weren’t his thing. Instead, he pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her. She stiffened at first, then melted, her face buried in his chest.

“You’re not alone,” he muttered, his voice rough. “You got me, alright?”

She didn’t respond, just held on tighter, her fingers clutching his shirt.

For the first time all week, the haze was gone, and all that was left was the raw, ugly truth of her life.

Rafe didn’t know how to fix it, hell, he could barely fix himself, but he knew he wasn’t leaving her in this dump alone.

“C’mon, barbie,” he said, pulling back to look at her. “Let’s get out of here for a bit. Grab some food, get high, whatever you want.”

She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and managed a small, real smile. “You’re paying.”

He smirked, grabbing her hand. “Always do.”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ©slvbun — written with love.

[carlislefiles]

weight | fushiguro toji ╰►toji carries a lot of weight on him: the weight of his job, the weight of fatherhood, the weight of his fears, the weight of his past, and the weight of himself—his flaws, his failures, his mere pitiful existence…but that weight seems to fall off, pound by agonizing pound, when he’s with you. 9.5k words

a/n: honestly, this could be misconstrued as toji just weaponizing his incompetence, but I guess all I can say is that isn't how I meant it? he's just a guy, you know? and so if you see me doing laundry and cooking for a 6 foot tall assassin in his dingy apartment...leave me alone, I'm exactly where I wanna be <3 fr though this is very heavy and much longer than I anticipated it being, talks a lot about self-worth, hating yourself, regret, grief, etc. definitely would not recommend reading if you don't feel like you're in the right headspace for that. I would probably call this angst, but there's also a lot of comfort in here!! (take a shot every time I say 'maybe...' 26 fucking times)

he doesn’t keep much. a knife. a lighter. a photo half-burned at the edges—face blurred, but he knows who it was. a bracelet that never fit his wrist, tucked in the back of a drawer. a receipt for something he tells himself he should’ve stolen, but didn’t. junk, really. clutter he should’ve thrown out years ago.

he stares at it sometimes. doesn’t touch it. doesn’t move. just…sits. breathing slow. letting the weight settle. it’s not guilt, not exactly. he doesn’t deserve that word. guilt’s for people who tried, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it often. this is more of an ache. a longing for a life he might've lived if he wasn't such a miserable piece of shit. who is he kidding? he was never going to be anything else.

before you came around, these kinds of thoughts consumed him. chewed through the meat of him every night, before he drowned himself in the last couple sips of the bottle and passed out sideways on the floor. there was no one to catch him. he didn’t want to be caught. and then you showed up; unceremoniously, with little fuss. he doesn’t remember the moment clearly—just the aftermath. the echo of your laugh in a room too dark for joy. his number in your phone, typed with his own hands, even though he swore he didn’t give it out. him, calling you weeks later when he hadn’t answered a single text, hadn’t promised a damn thing, hadn’t even given you his last name, and you still came.

he was awful to you in the beginning. touchy when he wanted something, distant when he didn’t. gone for days, sometimes weeks. didn’t text back. didn’t explain. he expected you to leave, told himself that's what he wanted. expected you to look at him and see what everyone else had: a fun mistake. a lost cause. something to be ashamed of the morning after. and maybe you did see it—but you never treated him like it. most women would've dumped his ass without blinking. moved on to the next guy who remembered birthdays and didn’t smell like musky cologne and blood. but not you. time and time again, when he resurfaced like something rotten dragged in by the tide, there you were—dry towel in hand, quiet smile, no questions. just eyes that saw right through him and still softened anyway.

he let you in. not all at once. it was small things. letting you stay the night instead of slipping out before dawn. giving you his key without saying anything. cooking once, maybe twice, when he realized you skipped dinner waiting on him. it wasn’t conscious. it wasn’t strategic. it was survival. somewhere between fuck and forget, you’d stitched yourself into the parts of him he thought were too far gone.

he still remembers the first time you crawled into his bed like you belonged there. you didn’t ask. you didn’t need to. he was sprawled out like a corpse, half-dressed, barely sober, and you just curled around him like gravity itself had finally decided to be kind. he didn’t really sleep that night—too stunned. too afraid to move, like it might’ve all been a fever dream. but you stayed. and in the morning, when you stretched and kissed his shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world, he knew something had shifted. fatally. beautifully.

he never asked you to move in. never said the words. you just stopped leaving. toothbrush in the cup. body wash in the shower. your coat hanging next to his like it had always been there. and now he doesn’t seem willing to let you leave. not ever.

not when the nights get too quiet. not when the weight in his chest flares up and threatens to tear him open from the inside out. not when he comes home limping, blood on his hands, and finds you waiting with warm food and gentler eyes than he’s ever deserved.

you’re not just something good in his life. you are his life. his whole goddamn center of gravity. and when he looks at you—really looks—he thinks: this is what the knife was protecting. this is what the bottle was numbing. this is what I almost missed. but he usually only lets himself think those things when he’s drunk, or pretending to be drunk, at least. because sober toji cannot bear that kind of responsibility...can he? he thinks, when you lean back against him in the miniature closet of his apartment, tapping your lip curiously, deciding what to wear, that maybe he can. 

and maybe he’ll always be a little fucked up. maybe he’ll always feel like a man made more from loss than love. but for once—for once—he’s got something worth staying for.

......

it’s a job. that’s it. in. out. blood on his hands, sometimes on his boots. he doesn’t blink anymore. doesn’t pause. this armor is muscle memory now. cold, quiet, efficient.

you don’t ask what he does. maybe you understand the extent of it. maybe you don’t. maybe it’s better you never say it out loud (he knows you know, you're too perceptive not to). but he sees the way you look at him when he comes home late. smell of copper still clinging to him. red scar on his cheek that wasn’t there this morning. you don’t flinch. you just hold the door open.

you make him take his shoes off. wash his hands. sit down. you talk about your day like he just came home from his nonexistent 9 to 5 day job. like he isn’t built from violence. like he’s still a man. and for a moment—just one—he forgets the weight. the blood. the cold. the armor doesn’t come off. not fully. but you make it crack. you make it crumble. and that’s more dangerous than anything he’s ever done.

he doesn’t understand it, the way you love him.

it’s not a performance. not a plea. you don’t look at him like you’re trying to fix him. you just look. like he’s already something worth looking at. like the blood under his nails doesn’t scare you. like the things he’s done aren’t rotting inside him, leaking out through the cracks. 

he’s never been gentle. doesn’t know how. not with his hands. not with his words. but you—you laugh like you don’t notice. you kiss him like you do. and it breaks him. every time.

because you see him. you see the weight, the filth, the violence stitched into his bones—and you stay. you press your fingers to the jagged parts and don't flinch. you cook him breakfast like he isn’t a murderer. you hum while you clean his wounds. you kiss his temple, not his mouth, and he thinks he might actually cry. god, how long's it been since he's done that?

he tells himself it’s weakness. that you’ll leave, eventually. you’ll see what he really is and run. but until then? he’s yours. and that’s the scariest job he’s ever had. what he doesn't fathom quite yet, is that you already know who he really is and you're staying anyways. or maybe he does know that, but he can't possibly understand it; so he won't admit it, to you or to himself.

…… 

some nights, it hits him out of nowhere.

he’ll be halfway through peeling an orange at the counter—shirtless, scarred, domestic in a way he doesn’t feel entitled to—and then he’s not. he’s back in some shitty living room, smoke curling up the wall, a tiny pair of shoes by the door, and no strength in his arms to pick them up.

he wasn’t there. not really. even when he was. too consumed with jobs, debts, the sound of screams in his ears. he knew he was messing it up in real time. watched it all slip, and chose not to stop it. it felt like the only thing he was good at—leaving. you come up behind him now, wrap your arms around his waist like you always do when you know he’s drifting. he doesn’t flinch. he lets you anchor him.

“he used to get scared of thunder,” he says, voice gravel, soft like he’s afraid it’ll shatter. “wouldn’t cry. just…sit real still. like I did.” you rest your cheek on his back, listening. "I didn’t—” he swallows, hard. "I didn’t know how to comfort him. I just told him to sleep through it. like it’d make him tough. like that’s what a good dad says.”

he turns, face unreadable, eyes hollowed by something that’s been gnawing at him for years. “he was a good kid,” he says. "I just…wasn’t a good man.”

you don’t say that’s not true. he wouldn’t believe you. you don’t try to offer him redemption, not outright. just the kind of steadiness he never had growing up, the kind of steadiness he could never offer. the kind of forgiveness that isn’t flashy. it’s just there. “what would you say to him now?” you ask quietly, thumb brushing over the scar on his side.

toji hesitates, stares at the floor like the answer might be buried in the tile. “...that I'm sorry,” he says eventually. like that'd fix anything, he thinks. “that I knew better. and I still left. and that he didn’t deserve that.” his voice cracks at the end. he clears his throat too harshly, like he’s trying to scrape the pain out of it.

you pull him down to sit, and he lets you. he sits between your legs on the floor, head bowed, shoulders too big for the shame he’s trying to fold them under. you just run your hands through his hair. “you did what you knew,” you whisper, and that's all you can say. not you did the right thing, or it's okay because that's not true and you both know it.

he closes his eyes. “doesn’t make it right.”

“no,” you agree. “but it means you'll do better.” he doesn’t respond. but his fingers curl around your ankle like a lifeline. like maybe, just maybe, there’s still time to learn what love looks like—without the leaving. and for tonight, at least, he stays. and who is he kidding? certainly not himself. for as long as you’ll have him, for as long as you allow his presence, he’ll stay. he’d never leave, not until you ask, because that’s what a good man does, right? 

the fear is the heaviest weight of all, and on nights like this, it drags him down under, and he’s so damn tired of swimming. fear of what, he doesn't quite know. fear of his past, though he thinks that sounds stupid. fear of you leaving, and that...that doesn't sound quite as silly to him. that is very, very real.

the grief comes quiet. doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t wail or scream. just settles into his bones like it’s always belonged there—grief for megumi, yes, but also grief for who he could’ve been. for the man he never got to grow into. for the kind of father he might’ve become if the world had given him just one more inch of slack, if he'd allowed himself to share instead of steal, let him give what he had instead of hoard it all to his chest; not just what little money he had, but the love he might've given, the care he might've shown.

you feel it before he even shifts. the way his body stills beneath your touch, the tight coil of muscle in his jaw, like he's holding back a scream that has nowhere to go. he doesn’t cry. of course he doesn’t cry. it’s not in him—not anymore. but you can feel the weight pressing on him, pinning him in place like a second skin.

he’s not thinking about just megumi now. he’s thinking about everything. the years spent as a blade, not a man. the people he’s killed. the blood under his fingernails that never quite washes off. the nights he should’ve slept but stayed awake because closing his eyes meant seeing their faces.

grief, regret, shame—what’s the difference anymore? it all tastes the same going down. bitter. rotting. permanent. you don’t say anything. you just lean into him, your head on his shoulder, your hand pressed flat to his chest like maybe if you’re close enough, you can keep his heart from collapsing in on itself.

"I never thought I’d live long enough to miss anything,” he mutters after a while, voice like sandpaper. “didn’t think there’d be anything worth missing.” his hand is on your thigh, holding tight—not possessive, just scared. of the dark. of the silence. of himself.

“but then you happened,” he says. “and now every time I look at you, I think about what I almost didn’t get to have. what I still don’t deserve.” the fear in his chest flares hot. ugly. alive. the vulnerability makes him nauseous. but he doesn’t look away from you. doesn’t bury it this time. just lets it sit there between you, raw and real.

and you, unshaken, still breathing next to a man the world tried to turn to ash, just whisper, “you do now.” and something in him cracks, quietly. like a storm on the horizon deciding to pass over. just this once.

……

he wakes up some mornings already braced for impact—heart hammering, mouth dry, stomach tight like he’s expecting a bullet instead of breakfast. 

but then there’s the smell of coffee. a plate on the table, still warm. the dishes in the sink—his dishes, his mess—already scrubbed clean. you don’t say anything about it. you never do. never ask him why he leaves nonperishable food out for himself everywhere, why he never eats more than a few bites, why he sometimes disappears for a day and comes back with blood on his soles and that hollow look in his eyes. you just wipe down the counter, hum softly under your breath, and hand him a fork.

he doesn’t know how to say thank you. not in words. not in the ways that count. his gratitude is jagged and half-formed, splintered beneath years of being treated like a monster, like a thing made for killing, not caring. and still, somehow, you never flinch.

he watches the way your hands move when you clean up after him. when you fold his laundry, not because he asked, but because he forgot to. when you take his hand and press it to your chest without speaking, like you know he’s about to spiral without needing an explanation.

it makes him physically ill, the way you love him. not out of pity. not out of naïveté. but wholly. steadily. willingly.

and there are nights he almost pushes you away for it. almost snaps. almost recoils. because he doesn't know what to do with love that doesn't come with strings, or shame, or screaming. but he doesn’t. he won’t. because a good man wouldn’t. and you—you—you’ve never asked him to be anything more than that. you ground him in ways he didn’t think possible. you ask nothing, demand nothing, expect nothing—and somehow that makes it worse. because now he wants to give you everything. the pieces of him still worth offering. the ones not soaked in blood.

so when his fingers twitch toward the doorknob in a moment of panic, when the air gets too tight and the guilt claws at his throat—he stops. breathes. thinks of your hands, your voice, your steadiness. and he stays. because a good man doesn’t run. and for you, he wants to be one. and with you, sometimes he thinks he can be because you’re so sure of him. so confident that he can deserve you, provide for you, earn you. some nights, you even whisper in his ear that he already has. 

……

he’s holding the knife like it’s a weapon. which—technically, it is. but probably not the way you intended when you handed him the cutting board and told him, so sarcastically it peeves him, “you’re on onions tonight, chef.”

toji stares at the onion like it insulted him. then back at you. you’re already halfway through prepping something complicated-looking with spices he couldn’t name if you offered him a million yen and a one-week head start. he mumbles something that might be a curse. might be his last will and testament. and then he starts cutting.

you don’t correct him. not when he massacres the first one. not when he holds the knife like he’s defusing a cursed object. not even when he somehow ends up slicing the onion vertically, horizontally, and diagonally all at once. you just hum along to whatever music you’ve got playing, give him a quick kiss to the jaw when you pass behind him, and toss a handful of salt into the pan like you’re dancing with it. he doesn’t understand how you do that. how you make this place—a cramped kitchen with uneven tile and a broken light—feel like sanctuary. like something holy. and how you look at him—him, of all people—with that stupid, stupid smile every time he gets something right. or wrong.

when he burns the egg, you coo like he’s a toddler. wrap your arms around his waist, press your a kiss to his bare skin—he shivers, it always tickles him—tell him, “you’re learning, baby.” he grunts. scowls. tells you to knock it off. but the tips of his ears go red and he doesn’t push you away. he can kill a man with his bare hands before breakfast. he’s outrun the best of the best. he’s been on every watchlist in japan at least once. but he can’t cook a fucking omelet without your help. and he hates how much he loves that.

because it means he gets to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hips brushing, listening to you ramble about sauces and slicing techniques, and seasoning ratios he’ll never remember. it means he gets to clean the dishes after—not because you ask, but because you cooked, and he’s not a total bastard. not to you. it means, when you curl into him after the kitchen’s dark and clean, your belly full and your hair damp from the steam, he gets to close his eyes and pretend he’s someone else. someone who’s not just good with a knife. someone who knows what it means to make a home. even if he burns half of it along the way.

……

toji knows it’s a joke. this whole thing—the dinners, the quiet nights, the way you kiss the scar on his lip like it’s holy instead of hideous—it’s a cosmic, cruel joke. one day, you’ll wake up. you’ll blink twice. the spell will break. and you’ll see him for what he really is: pitiful, rotten, born wrong.

and you’ll leave. they all do. he doesn’t say it out loud. never has. he doesn’t have to because it lives under his skin, worms its way in between the silences. it clings to his shoulders when he watches you stir cream into your coffee or fold laundry wearing his clothes and humming along to your music that always seems to be playing. it creeps up his spine when you laugh at one of his dry, half-hearted jokes, like he’s actually someone worth listening to. and it chokes him, some nights, when he lies next to you—your head on his chest, your fingers soft on his stomach—and wonders how the hell someone like you ended up here, in his goddamn bed, with him.

you should’ve run by now. and maybe that’s what scares him the most. you haven’t. you know. you know what he’s done, what he still does. you’ve seen him, bloody and broken, dragging himself through the door after a job. you’ve kissed the bruises on his ribs. you’ve scrubbed his blood out of your towels. you’ve seen him with shiu—heard the way he talks, the shit they laugh about. you’ve stood there, gentle and glowing, while toji snarled and bristled like a guard dog when shiu smirked at you a little too long. and still, you stay.

you even made dinner for shiu once. sent him home with leftovers and told toji, “you could be nicer. he’s your friend, isn’t he?” toji had rolled his eyes and grunted something obscene, but he shut up. because whatever you say—whatever you say, whatever you say—is gospel. what you don’t see, what you can’t see, is how much that fucks him up.

because he’s not some battered stray you picked up off the street. he’s not some tragic redemption arc waiting to happen. he’s a killer. he’s toji fushiguro. and the longer you look at him like he’s worth saving, the more it feels like the air around him is thinning—like you’re pumping oxygen into his lungs with every kind word, every kiss, every goddamn meal. and he’s terrified of needing you too much. of building a whole second life out of your kindness, only to watch it collapse when you realize he’s still made of rot and regret underneath.

and yet—there’s this one night. you’re curled up beside him on the couch, watching something light and stupid. you’re both tired. comfortable. and you mutter something under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

"I wish I didn’t have so many freckles. I look like a connect-the-dots puzzle.” he stiffens.

“what?”

you wave him off. “nothing. it’s just funny, how stupid they make me look. I mean, why’d I end up with freckles head to toe and you’re like this tall, muscle pig—”

“don’t say that shit." it’s low. serious. sharp enough to cut. you blink up at him, caught off guard. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t soften. just watches you like he’s daring you to keep talking.

“toji…”

"I mean it.” his eyes are dark, hard. "I don’t wanna hear that kind of shit from you. ever. you got me?”

you soften. smile, faintly. “okay. I got you.”

but it this weight doesn't seem to settle, like his usually does when he's with you. not really. not when he’s still thinking about it an hour later, staring at your profile, at the not-so-faint dusting of freckles across your nose, at the way you bite your lip when you focus. imperfect? you? no. you’re perfect. you’re perfect.

and if he could dig into his chest and rip out every ounce of self-loathing and burn it at your feet just to deserve you, he would. he would. but he doesn’t know how. not yet.

this simple act, though, shows him a side of this relationship he didn't think he'd get the chance to see. for all your beauty, for all your saving grace, he could be right for you, too. as right as you are for him. he'll never be enough for you, nothing could ever convince him of that...but maybe you need him in ways he didn't see before. it's always been about how much he needs you, how he doesn't think he could survive this life anymore without you, as much as he's trained himself not to need anyone. you haven't. you're not afraid of needing him, of desiring him.

so he's found his new purpose: being needed by you. for some reason, as this occurrs to him with you snuggled up to the hard plane of his chest that night, softly snoring, he feels dizzy, light-headed, disoriented even though he's laying down. he feels like he's floating. he feels weightless.

……

the wind howls outside like it’s trying to claw its way in, bending the trees, rattling the walls of your apartment until they groan in complaint. the kind of storm that seeps into your bones, into your dreams, and makes it just a little harder to fall asleep. toji knows that. he’s been home for only a few hours, fresh off a hit that took longer than usual—two, maybe three days of radio silence. longer than you're used to. not longer than he’s used to, but much longer than he’s okay with being away from you. you usually fill those first moments back together with chatter—telling him about every little thing that happened while he was gone, like your voice can patch the aching silence that clings to his skin like a film of sweat.

but not tonight. tonight, you don’t speak. you don’t need to. you’ve already said everything you needed to in the shower, the warm water washing away days of grime and distance. you'd missed him. you always missed him, and something primal inside him lights up at being missed.

he never says it out loud, but it thrills him, this domesticity, this relationship of being dependent on each other. that caveman instinct, the one he pretends he doesn’t have, gnaws at his ribs like a hunger: the need to protect you, to provide, to make sure you're okay. he watches you eat like he's witnessing art, watches your eyes get heavy like he’s earned a trophy.

and god help him, he loves cleaning you. lathering shampoo into your hair like it’s sacred. drying you off, dressing you in one of his sweatshirts—hanging off your frame like a blanket—and those tiny shorts you wear to bed that he thinks are criminally short, though he'd never complain. you brush your teeth next to him and nearly fall asleep against the sink, and all he can do is watch, dazed.

he doesn’t say much. he rarely does. but when he finally crawls into bed next to you, he's a man unraveling.

toji doesn’t cuddle. that’s what he says. but here he is, wrapping himself around you like a vine, tucking your smaller frame against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as if you’re the one who’s been gone, and he’s trying to remind himself you’re real. he squeezes tighter than he should—just shy of bruising. you make a sleepy noise, more instinct than complaint, and he eases up immediately, but not much. he can’t. he needs this. needs you.

you could leave him.

that thought hits him harder than any punch he’s ever taken. you could just...decide you’re done. not with malice, not with drama. just simply, with love of course, as you do everything. you’d just slip away. like mist. like the dreams he can’t ever seem to hold on to. he presses his nose into your neck and breathes you in. you smell like his shampoo, like his soap, like a person-shaped sanctuary. he presses a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, feather-light, almost reverent. he wants to say something, but doesn’t trust his voice not to crack.

you shift against him, and it takes his breath away. just a twitch. a tiny sleepy sound. but your hand finds his where it's splayed against your waist and holds it like it's second nature. like he belongs there. you don’t even open your eyes.

sometimes, when he comes home late and you’ve already drifted off on his side of the bed, he slides in quietly, trying not to wake you. and without fail, without thought, you reach for him. groggy and half-asleep, you find him, pull him in, curl yourself around him like your body knows he’s home before your brain catches up. he doesn’t always sleep well. years of sleeping with one eye open will do that to a man. but when you pull him close like that, when you press your cheek to his chest and hum in your sleep, he thinks maybe he could unlearn that. maybe he wants to.

he’s not a romantic. never was, never will be. but this? this is romance, in its rawest, ugliest, most basest form. holding you close, letting you sleep while the wind screams outside and the whole world feels like it’s falling apart—that’s what love looks like for a man like him.

you shift again, half-waking, and mumble something into his shoulder. he doesn’t catch it all, but he hears the words “you’re home.” said with relief, like you were worried he wouldn’t be. and suddenly, he can breathe a little easier. he closes his eyes.

……

he almost dies. again.

that’s not hyperbole. you find him half-conscious in the doorway, shoulder wedged against the frame like it’s the only thing holding him upright. his jacket’s soaked with blood—his or someone else’s, you can’t tell yet—and when you lunge forward, hands shaking, toji barely reacts.

his head lolls. your hands catch it before it hits the tile. "jesus christ, toji—"

but he’s not hearing you. not really. his mouth is slack, his breathing shallow. you press your fingers to the side of his throat and feel it—there, barely—his pulse, weak and stuttering, like it’s trying to decide if it wants to keep going. you call his name again, louder this time. your hands are everywhere—his neck, his ribs, his jaw, trying to anchor him to this world—and when his eyes flutter open just enough to register your face, he flinches.

not from pain. not from the blood or the busted rib or the gash over his eyebrow. from you. like he didn’t expect you to be there. like he wishes you weren’t.

you drag him to the couch somehow, your body aching from the effort, your voice breaking as you bark orders he’s too out of it to obey. but he lets you tend to him. lets you strip off the ruined jacket. lets you clean the blood from his temple and cradle his face in your hands like it’s something fragile, something worth saving. he hates that. hates the way your touch makes him feel real. present. human. like a man with something to lose.

he lies there in the dim light, body trembling from pain or shock or the sheer effort of holding himself together, and he watches you. you, barefoot in your sleep shirt, crying softly as you press gauze to his shoulder. you, who should’ve left the first time he came home like this—broken and near-bled dry—but didn’t.

“you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “not like this. not ever.”

you don’t answer right away. just lean in, forehead pressed to his. "I chose you, toji. I don’t just get to pick the easy parts.”

and that wrecks him. splinters him. because all he can think about—his blood still warm on your hands—is how easily he could disappear. he could do it. tonight. leave while you're sleeping, soft and unsuspecting. take some cash, take nothing, it doesn’t matter. he’s done it before. closed the door so quietly they never even knew he was gone. maybe you’d convince yourself he was a dream. just some violent little hallucination in your bed for a while. maybe that would be kinder. cleaner.

but the thought of you waking up alone makes something inside him howl. you’d cry. you’d blame yourself. you’d look in the mirror and ask what you did wrong. and that? that’s the thing that nails him to the floor.

so instead of running, he says nothing. he lets your fingers card through his sweat-damp hair. lets your lips brush the corner of his mouth, gentler than he deserves. lets you tuck the blanket around his battered frame like he’s something precious, something yours. because he is. god help him.

later that night, you fall asleep upright, curled at his side with your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. and toji watches you, throat tight, eyes burning.

his head nearly fell off. in the literal sense. and the metaphorical one. and still—you held it steady.

he wants to weep from the absurdity of it, from the wonder. he doesn’t.

……

toji’s hand settled firmly at the small of your back, the warmth of his touch a steady anchor as he guided you through the dull hum of the apartment building’s hallways. the elevator dinged open, and you stepped inside, still blindfolded, your breath catching slightly with the mix of anticipation and nerves curling inside your chest. he was always touching you in some way or another—fingertips brushing your arm, the occasional rough palm at your shoulder—but this was different. this touch was leading, showing, promising something new.

he’d run through dozens of ways to make this moment perfect. carry you bridal style over the threshold, surprising you with a soft “welcome home.” or maybe telling you the night he signed the lease, forging your signature because he couldn't do it legally. no fuss. but in the end, he chose surprise. you’d been working all morning, tired and unaware, and he only had a limited window. shiu had helped him move everything from that shabby, hellhole of an apartment you’d shared—the one with peeling wallpaper, the creaky floors, the lingering smell of smoke and regret—into a small, weather-beaten trailer parked out back.

neither of you had much stuff, and most of the busted furniture he’d left behind. but he’d packed up the things that mattered: the pictures of you, the quiet memories wrapped in faded frames; every cooking utensil you owned, all the cleaning supplies—anything he thought you’d want to keep. it was a collection of fragments from the life you’d built together, crammed into a few boxes like a secret treasure.

now the elevator stopped. toji’s grip tightened slightly as he moved you forward. the jingle of keys sounded before the door clicked open. you still couldn’t see, but you caught the faint scent of something new, clean—unlike any place he’d ever lived before. he guided you inside, his steps steady but deliberate, careful not to rush the moment. when he finally removed your blindfold, you blinked against the flood of light, taking in the space. it wasn’t huge. small, really. you probably always wanted small. but it was clean—no stains on the floors, no moths buzzing in the corners, no stale smoke thickening the air. it smelled fresh, like new paint and hope.

your eyes darted around. the kitchen caught your breath: a real kitchen, with a working oven and microwave, a stovetop free from grime or burnt bits, counters you could actually cook on without worry. no mystery stains, no peeling tiles. it was home. yours and toji’s. and somewhere in that simple, honest space, toji was on his knees, eyes bright with something that looked like gratitude—maybe awe—that he was lucky enough to share this with you.

you walked around, taking it all in, and couldn’t help but scold him a little. “why didn’t you let me help move anything? you must be exhausted.”

his chest swelled, pride making his rough edges soften. “I did it for you,” he said, voice low. “didn’t want you busting your ass over a couple ‘a boxes.”

you unpacked slowly, quietly—unpacking wasn’t glamorous, but every box opened felt like laying down another brick in your new life. you arranged the few things you’d brought, marveling at how this place could feel so alive, so full of potential. you told toji how proud you were, not just of the apartment, but of him. how he’d made this happen, even when everything else seemed like a mess.

he stopped you before you could go on, voice firm, a little rougher than usual. “I ain’t doing nothing for you that you don’t already deserve.” you shook your head, feeling tears prick your eyes. he looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. instead, you just stood there in that small, bright room, knowing that this—this was home. and he knew that it was because of you.

the next few days stretched long and sweet. you found it hard to leave the apartment you shared. you threw on some paint-stained overalls and a tank top, plastering the walls with broad, uneven strokes of color—rose floral wallpaper for the kitchen, bold and a little bit feminine, just like you.

toji tried to help, but there wasn’t an artistic bone in his body. his idea of decorating was hanging things where they fit and making sure the pipes didn’t leak. he grumbled a little about your wallpaper choice, but deep down, he loved it. loved how you’d made the place yours, the toaster you’d picked out, the way you’d organized everything like a promise for the future. he installed shelves, tightened screws, hooked up the stove and the fridge, always grumbling but never complaining when you asked for his help.

you bought painfully comfortable blankets for the bed, small luxury items—a tiny tv you both knew you wouldn’t use much, a new kettle because god only knows how long you’d gone without one that didn’t sputter or leak. you weren’t quite wealthy enough for this, but for the first time, that didn’t matter. this was your space. your home. no expense too small, no detail insignificant.

one evening, toji came home late from a job. something easy to make ends meet, the kind of work he’d been taking more often lately. you barely blinked at his worn boots or the grease under his nails. you liked these simpler jobs he seemed to be taking, though he was complaining about them. they pay like shit, he’d whine. but money was no longer the constant weight in the pit of his stomach. you’d unconditioned toji’s hoarding habits, slowly but surely. there was no more cash hidden under mattresses or tucked away in boots or secret cupboards. when he needed money, he knew it was there—your joint bank account, two cards that made life easier and more secure. and when the money ran low? you both made do, scrimped by a little, and nothing bad happened.

the only thing toji hoarded these days was you. you lay together in your new bedroom, soft warm lamps casting lazy light across the walls. you talked quietly, about everything and nothing—hopes, plans, memories. his hand found yours under the blankets. he traced slow circles on your skin, breathing in the way your voice filled the room, the way your laughter loosened the knots in his chest. he loved the sound of you. more than anything.

months later, the apartment still smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. but it also smelled of you and him. the scent of love, hard-earned and fiercely protected. the weight of the past was still there—heavy, yes—but it no longer dragged him down. it anchored him. you had taught him that. anchor, anchor, anchor. and this small space, these simple walls, were your anchor too. together.

……

toji steps inside, and immediately the proof of your shared life is everywhere. two pairs of shoes sit neatly by the door—his heavy boots and your delicate ballet flats—silent witnesses to the everyday rhythm you’ve built together. on the small table by the entrance, two metal water bottles stand side by side, worn but cared for, like trophies of a quiet domesticity he never expected to want.

his eyes drift to the kitchen window above the sink, where a printed photo leans against the glass. it’s from that night at the club—him, sharp-edged and fierce as always, but gazing at you with something softer, something almost sacred. you’re breathtaking, the dress painfully beautiful, your hair done up in intricate curls that frame your face like a halo. he’s not smiling, but the reverence in his eyes speaks volumes, like you’re a goddess only he can see.

the scent hits him next—a perfect mix of your perfume and his natural musk, a heady blend that clings to the air. it wraps around him like a second skin, comforting and intoxicating. he remembers leaving this morning, not even noticing the faint smudge of your lip gloss still lingering on his cheek until shiu caught it mid-tease. that bastard grinned, poking fun, but toji just grumbled, wiped it off, and let a secret smile break through. yeah, suck it sideways, shiu, he thought, I’ve got a girl who loves me at home, and you don’t.

this—this was different. it used to scare him, this softness, this intimacy. the idea of someone caring for him, of him caring back, shook him to his core. but now? he craves it. he asks when you’ll be home, not because he needs to control your schedule, but because the answer settles him. he assumes you’ll be sleeping in his bed, and when you are, the room feels whole.

at night, he plugs in your laptop without a word. he eats the lunches you make, savoring every bite like it’s a love letter. in the kitchen, the two of you stand wrapped in each other’s arms, chores forgotten in the warmth of your closeness, sharing soft kisses like secrets no one else knows. it’s not just a place. it’s a life. it’s home.

……

you don’t ask much of him. not really. toji works—hard. not the kind of job with clocks or breaks or performance reviews, but the kind that leaves blood in your mouth and bruises blooming beneath your ribs. hunting. tracking. killing. it’s brutal, and it's not without its toll. there’s a version of him—older, colder—who might’ve used that as an excuse to do nothing else. a man who would've let you clean up after him, cook for him, nurse him back to health while he rotted on the couch like a king on a crumbling throne. but not this version. not anymore.

this version keeps the living space clean. your living space. he wipes down the counters, sweeps the floors, keeps things tidy with quiet, obsessive precision. he doesn’t just help cook because he enjoys watching you zone out while you dice vegetables, even though that’s a major draw. he does it because it feels good. it feels like providing, and for the first time in his life, that word doesn’t taste sour in his mouth, it’s not just financial means. he likes knowing you’re full and warm and safe. he likes the idea of taking care of you, he relishes in it.

it took him longer than it should’ve to realize: the more time he devotes to taking care of you, the less he has to spend inside his own head. the less space regret takes up in his chest. it’s not healing, not really, but it’s something. a survival tactic that smells like lavender laundry detergent and sizzles like garlic in butter. sometimes you let him cope this way. sometimes you don’t. you’ve said it before—you’re not here to fix him. if this is how he wants to keep the darkness at bay, you’ll allow it. but you won’t let him kill himself in the process.

you find him dozing off on the couch, sprawled sideways in the dim afternoon light. not a rare sight—but it’s rare that he doesn’t immediately snap upright the second he hears your key in the lock. that worry itches at the back of your mind. you set your bag down, shoes off, quiet as can be. then you pad over and settle beside him, curling a hand around the back of his head. your nails graze gently through his scalp, soothing, grounding. it’s a lullaby touch—but instead of sinking deeper into sleep, it stirs him.

he blinks awake fast, guilt chasing the sleep from his bones. “shit,” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “fuck, I forgot. I was supposed to—groceries—I'm sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I meant to—” his voice is thick with sleep, apology pouring out like a busted faucet, but he’s distracted. you’re smiling. soft and sweet, like you’re indulging a child. your fingers are still in his hair, still combing through the overgrown strands, and you’re thinking it might be time for a trim—but you don’t say it, he doesn't want to hear it. you just let him talk, even though you’re not sure he even knows what he’s saying.

you know what he means, though. he’s terrified of disappointing you. it clings to him like a second skin. not because he thinks you’ll scream, or slam doors, or walk out—but because he knows you won’t. because you’re kind to him. and that is infinitely more devastating. you keep smiling. and it guts him. why aren’t you mad? why aren’t you yelling? why isn’t this devolving into an imperfect argument, filled with bitter silence and slammed cupboards? why aren’t you leaving him—not just over the groceries, but over everything?

you hold out your hand.

“c’mon,” you say, voice light as the breeze coming in through the cracked window. “let’s go to that taco cart for dinner.”

he blinks. “but…what about…we were gonna cook. the list—the stuff you needed—”

“we’ll grab it after,” you shrug. like it makes perfect sense. and to you, it does. you reach for your bag again, grab your keys, and press his wallet into his hand. “then we’ll come home and go to sleep.” you raise a brow, giving him a look that’s more affectionate than scolding. “someone needs it.”

it’s so simple. so casual. so…domestic, it makes parts of him shrivel up in disgust. it’s sickening, in the best way. your tenderness feels like someone peeling off his armor with bare hands. not a weapon in sight. no bullets, no blades. just you. and you’re deadlier than anything he���s ever fought. not with a gun to his head or a knife to his throat, not with a target spotting him from his spot, not during any sex he’s ever had, has he felt more vulnerable, more naked than he does when you’re smiling up at him like that. 

he can’t speak. he just looks at you, bleary and stunned, like you’ve slayed him with a smile. he wants to ask—why aren’t you mad? why do you always forgive me? why are you so good to me? but you’ve told him before. when you’re brave, when you think he needs to hear it—when you just want to say it—you’ll look him in the eyes and say: because I love you, because you deserve it, because I want to. he’d begged you to stop, once. voice cracked and fists clenched, like it physically hurt to hear. but you didn’t. you never do. and though it makes him squirm, sometimes miserable, it also makes him feel—blissfully, painfully—happy. you’re already at the door now, holding it open with a look. you coming? he stands slowly. he doesn’t say a word. he would follow you anywhere.

……

the first time you ask to cut his hair, he scoffs. the second time, he ignores you. the third time, you plead—and something about the tilt of your head, the way your fingers curl around his wrist and your voice goes soft with sincerity—it breaks past whatever wall he's built around himself.

so now he’s here, in your bathroom, perched reluctantly on a low stool that still doesn't make him small. even sitting, he’s nearly your height. his knees brush against the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’s trying not to look too invested. he’s not. Probably. but he lets you touch him.

your fingers start slow, carding through his thick black hair, tugging gently as you tilt his head this way and that. he grunts under his breath, but doesn’t move. not away, at least. the pads of your fingers massage his scalp as if you’ve forgotten what you came here to do, nails skimming gently, almost apologetically.

“this a haircut,” he mutters, “or a spa day?” you smile, but say nothing. you keep touching him like that—light, aimless, reverent—and he thinks maybe this is some form of slow death. or slow mercy. he can't decide. he should tell you to knock it off. to hurry up. he opens his mouth to say as much. nothing comes out.

instead, he leans into your touch, almost involuntarily. his eyes slip half-lidded. his shoulders—always so tense—lower by degrees. you haven’t even made the first cut yet, and he already feels like you’re disentangling him.

eventually, you start snipping. the sound of shears, soft and rhythmic, punctuates the silence. hair falls to the tiled floor in quiet flurries, dark strands catching the light like feathers. you move with surprising skill—no hesitation, just quiet confidence as you circle around him. he tracks you in the mirror until he doesn’t. at some point, his eyes close again.

and the strangest thing happens. he relaxes. fully, wholly, in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. your touch is so practiced, so sure. he lets himself imagine—for just a second—that he’s something soft enough to deserve this. that the hands moving through his hair aren’t just being careful. they’re being kind.

the air smells like your shampoo and your skin. you’re breathing softly, and the rhythm of it is lulling, almost hypnotic. he feels lighter already, and not just from the hair. like something else is being cut away. something heavy. something he’s been dragging around for years. you finish before he wants you to. his eyes open slowly at the sound of your voice. “all done,” you say. there’s a flicker of pride behind your smile, a quiet triumph like you’ve just completed a work of art. you point to the mirror. “what do you think?”

he looks. it’s…the same, mostly. the same rough cut he’s always worn. nothing fancy. nothing new. but there’s something about it now, something that wasn’t there before. it’s yours. you did this. with your hands, your touch, your steady love. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but the look in his eyes is molten.

“yeah,” he says, voice a little too quiet for him, almost a whisper. “looks good.”

you beam. he looks away quickly like it burns to witness you that happy over something he can’t even explain. what he doesn’t think is this: he’s had a hundred haircuts in his life. barbershops, backroom shears, blade-over-sink jobs. none of them made him feel like this. like he could close his eyes and let someone else take care of him. like it wasn’t just about cutting hair, but about cutting away the pieces of him that no longer serve him.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just sits there, feeling weightless. and when you lean in to brush the stray hairs off his cheek, he closes his eyes again—just for a moment. because this is what mercy feels like.

......

toji didn’t know shiu was dating. like—dating dating. sure, they’d both had their fair share of late-night texts and bar meetups that ended in someone else's bed. it was practically a hobby back then. occasional hookups weren’t newsworthy. temporary girls came and went. but this? a double date? toji hadn't thought shiu had it in him. hell, he hadn’t thought he had it in him. but then you slept over that first night and... that was it. like something clicked into place. like his body had been hardwired to want you there, limbs tangled in his sheets, warmth soaking into the mattress. he never looked back.

and somewhere along the way, shiu must’ve seen that. maybe he saw how you curled into toji on public benches, or how toji texted you back with uncharacteristic quickness. maybe he saw how soft toji looked when he watched you talk, like you were made of glass and starlight and he was just a guy trying to be worthy of either.

now here they all were. a table for four, a place with real lighting and menus that didn’t come laminated. it wasn’t exactly michelin-star territory, but it was definitely not their usual corner food cart with grilled meat skewers and soda cans. the place even had cloth napkins.

toji had taken a long moment to size up the woman shiu arrived with. pretty. confident. comfortable in her own skin. her nails were the kind that made clacking sounds on phone screens and held wine glasses like weapons. she kissed shiu on the cheek and adjusted his collar like she’d been doing it forever. and shiu? that cocky bastard just grinned, let her. pride throbbed through toji’s chest unexpectedly. he hadn’t realized he’d been the blueprint. not that he’d ever say that out loud.

you slid into the booth beside him, and instinctively, toji threw his arm across the back of the seat behind you. he didn’t even realize he was doing it until the waiter showed up for the third time in ten minutes—refilling your glass like it was the holy grail and completely ignoring everyone else’s. toji glared. the kind of glare that held no subtlety. he didn’t like the way the guy looked at you. didn’t like the fake smile or the way he angled his hips toward you while pretending to check on the table. toji’s hand dropped from the booth to your waist, a silent little minefield of possessiveness. you leaned into it, like it was nothing new.

"think our waiter wants to fight you," you murmured, sipping from the now suspiciously full glass.

"let him try," toji muttered. his fingers tightened slightly at your hip, like he was physically anchoring you to him.

meanwhile, you and shiu’s girl hit it off like wildfire. she was funny. you were funnier. the two of you commiserated about how the boys drove like hellspawn and never rinsed the damn dishes. you swapped book titles, music playlists, compared manicure preferences. she gasped over your new apartment and sighed theatrically about how she was begging shiu to move.

“he still lives above that loud-ass karaoke bar, right?” you asked.

“yes, and it gets worse,” she said, flicking her eyes toward shiu. “he insists he likes the ‘ambiance.’”

toji barked a laugh, low and guttural. “she’s got you pegged.” shiu rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

you kept talking. they kept listening. at some point, toji noticed he and shiu were just…watching. you two were in your own world, giggling over who knows what. your eyes sparkled under the restaurant’s soft lighting. shiu’s girl tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at something you said. and suddenly, toji felt it—that sharp twist of how the hell did we get here?

he caught shiu’s eye across the table. they didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the silence between them was filled with mutual disbelief and unspoken realization. how the fuck did a couple of losers like us get so damn lucky? they’d been wreckage not long ago. men built from smoke and bad decisions. and now here they were—sitting in some semi-fancy restaurant with two women who loved them, who laughed and teased and didn’t look the least bit afraid of their shadows.

toji blinked slowly, like maybe this would vanish if he looked too fast. like it was all some trick of the light.

after dinner, shiu mentioned they lived nearby, and it felt natural to walk. the streets were quieter here, less chaotic than downtown. you all stopped at a late-night gelato place on the corner—just to “peek,” according to shiu’s girl. you got a small cup of chocolate hazelnut and fed toji a bite off your spoon. he pretended to scowl. you did it again just to annoy him. he let you.

shiu’s pda was subtle, but it was there. an arm draped low around her waist, thumb brushing idle circles into the curve of her hip. protective, sure. but also a little amazed. like he still couldn’t believe she existed. the four of you meandered toward their apartment, voices low and full of warmth. toji didn't talk much. he didn’t need to. the warmth of your hand in his said enough. when you got to shiu’s building, the goodbyes stretched long—talks of next time, maybe a game night, maybe cooking something weird and homemade. she hugged you tightly. you liked her. you could tell.

then it was just you and toji again, walking toward the metro. he noticed you were quieter now. the city around you was humming in a low buzz, but your steps slowed near the stairs that led underground.

“I’m happy for him,” you whispered, almost like you weren’t sure if you should say it. your voice barely carried above the city’s rhythm. toji looked down at you. your hair was blowing a little in the wind. you looked tired but beautiful. soft. still glowing from the night.

he gave a small grunt that barely masked the emotion behind it. “yeah?” he said. “me too.”

the train station lights flickered softly as you descended, the sound of your shoes echoing lightly against the stairs. he held your hand the entire time, firm and unyielding. you leaned into him, shoulder against chest, warmth on warmth. there was a time when the idea of domesticity would've made him scoff. the word itself sounded foreign—fragile, like something you could snap in half. but now? now it was everything he had. everything he wanted. and seeing it bloom in someone like shiu, someone just as wrecked and unfinished as he’d once been?

it made toji believe a little more in miracles. or at least in second chances.

that night, as the train rumbled forward and the city blurred by in streaks of yellow light, toji didn’t say much. but he held you tighter. because love like this—real love—it didn’t need words to be understood. it just needed staying power.

……

toji comes home late tonight, the kind of late that smells like dust and smoke and too many footsteps running from something worse than pain. he’s not bleeding—at least not enough to worry you—but every muscle in his body is screaming exhaustion. it’s a deep, bone-deep tired that nothing fixes except the kind of peace you wouldn’t think he deserves.

you’re there. you shouldn’t be. not with him like this, not with him angry at the world, angrier at himself, not after the day he's had. but here you are anyway, and he’s not letting the moment slip through his fingers. he grabs your wrist, hard enough to anchor his weight down, to keep from collapsing. his tall frame bows down, nearly breaking his own rules about keeping his distance, dipping his face into the curve of your neck. your scent—soft, warm, a strange kind of sanctuary—hits him like a punch he didn’t know he needed. he breathes it in, slow, like it’s the only medicine that’ll put the fire out.

you feel the weight of him as he presses you back against the doorframe, steady and relentless. it’s not just fatigue—it’s loneliness wrapped up in muscle and scars, something almost desperate. he’s letting the world fall off him here, pound by agonizing pound.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. he just holds you, steady and silent, like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin feels beneath his calloused hands. sometimes, when toji lets his guard slip, he lets you hold him—wrap your arms around his shoulders, cradle the mess of pain and pride. but not tonight. tonight, he’s possessive, almost feral in his need to claim this moment, this quiet, this fragile tether to something good.

you sink into the couch, and he lets you stay there, letting his head rest heavy against your collarbone, your heart, your existence. hours stretch out, wordless and raw. just two broken people breathing, one holding on because he’s too tired to fight, and the other holding him because somehow, that’s enough.

he’s never going to be a saint. hell, he’s never wanted to be. toji isn’t built for white picket fences or sunday morning brunches. but he’s yours and you’re his.

he can’t undo the past—not the nights he wasn’t there for megumi, not the hands that pulled triggers, not the ghosts that haunt him in the dark. he doesn’t believe in miracles, only in the small victories: better hits, higher pay, more room in his heart for this love you seem to freely give, a better ability to reciprocate it. 

it’s not about the dreams he's never given the time of day. it’s about the ones you have—the quiet kind that don’t need fancy fences or spotless lawns. and yeah, maybe that’s why, no matter how hard he tries, he’s never quite left the job. it’s the life he knows, the path he walks. but he’s learning to walk it better, with less weight crushing his steps.

he cooks now. sometimes burns the vegetables. cleans without being asked. takes care of himself, because taking care of you means being a man who’s still standing at the end of the day. because taking care of you means taking care of himself, and that's all he's ever wanted to do, really.

by god, he’ll die trying to take care of you—in every way he knows how, in every way you’ll let him.

the weight he’s carried with him for so long—the guilt, the shame, the regret—it doesn’t vanish. but around you, it loosens. just a little. like a heavy coat in the summer heat, slipping off, forgotten on the floor.

and in that quiet space, between your hands and his scars, toji finds something he never thought he could hold onto: love. love is a weight of it’s own, a kind of weight he’s more than happy to bear.

[llamaqueenprompt]

What You Mean to Me

Characters: Evan Buckley, Reader

Not Requested

Word Count: 1.6k

Inspiration: "You don't even realize what you mean to me"

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As he walks in the firehouse feels different.

Not in any obvious way. The lights are dimmed, the hum of the fridge still buzzes in the background, and someone left their coffee mug in the sink again. But Buck can feel it. Like the air’s heavier. Or maybe it’s just him.

He moves slowly through the halls, each step eachoing back louder than the last, like the firehouse is holding it’s breathe just like him. He’s still reeling. Still trying to process everything Abby said. Everything she didn’t say.

He tought it would give him closure. Seeing her again. Hearing her voice. Actually talking to her. But if anything it just peeled open wold wounds that had never fully healed.

She’s getting married. She’s finally happy again. And Buck? Buck is standing here, heart cracked open and filled with the image of someone else entirely.

Y/n.

He finds her in the back office, exactly where he knew she’d be. She’s leaning over her desk cluttered with paperwork and half-empty coffee cups, her glasses sliding down her nose and a pen twirling between her fingers. She looks tired, like she’s been working too long. Like maybe she’s been waiting up.

When she sees him, she glances up, and the second their eyes meet, something shifts.

“Hey,” she says, softly. Gently. Like she’s afraid she might startle him away. “You’re back.”

He nods, his throat thick. “Yeah. Just got in.”

Y/n straightens, setting the pen down carefully. “How… how did it go?”

Buck leans agaisnt the doorframe, arms folded across his chest to offer him a sense of security. “We talked. About the train. About…everything.”

She nods, and her eyes flick away, like she doesn’t want him to see what she’s thinking. But he sees it anayway, the flicker od pain, the way her shoulders tense.

“She’s engaged,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “She met someone. Moved on.”

There’s a long silence.

Y/n swallows hard. “I’m sorry, Buck.”

But he shakes his head, stepping into the room. “No. Don’t be. That’s not why I’m here.”

She watches him carefully, warily. Like she’s bracing herself.

And she has every right to. Because what they had, what they have, has always lived on a fragile space. Somewhere between friendship and something more. Something unspoken. Their arrangement started with laughter and tequile and whispered “just this once” promises that turned into every night, and breakfast, and inside jokes, and familiarity that felt an awful lot like home.

They acted like a couple. They felt like one.

But Buck never let them be one. Not completely. Not whule Abby still haunted the edges of his heart.

And Y/n… God, Y/n stayed. She never asked for more. But he saw it. In the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. In the way she said goodbye a little too softly each time he left her apartment.

She loved him. And he let her sit in silenece with it all this time.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, and his voice wavers.

Y/n tilts her head, her hands curling around the edge of the desk. She doesn’t speak. Just waits.

“When Abby left,” Buck begins, “I felt like I’d lost a part of myself. Like I wasn’t enough. Like I’d been left behind.” He lets out a shaky breath. “And then you came in. All sharp wit and warm smiles and coffee with may too much cream. You made everything lighter, Y/n. You made me lighter.”

She blinks fast, her lips parting, but he keeps going.

“And I told myself it wasn’t real. That if I didn’t name it, it couldn’t hurt. That if I pretended it didn’t mean anything, I could keep you without the risk of losing you.”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “But you were still holding onto her.”

He nods. “I was. And that’s not fair to you. It never was.”

Y/n looks down at her hands, her fingers tightening. “I told myself I could handle it. That I could keep you in pieces instead of not having you at all. But it hurt, Buck. Watching you love a ghost while I stood right in front of you.”

“I know,” he says, his chest tight. “And I’m so sorry for that. I should’ve said this a long time ago. I should’ve seen it. Seen you.”

He steps closer, close enought now that he can see the shine in her eyes, the way she’s holding herself still like she’s afraid one wrong move will make everything fall apart.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he says softly. “Maybe the night you stayed up with me after I got hurt. Or when you showed up at the hospital with snacks you knew I wouldn’t eat but brought anyway. Or that morning you kissed my forehead and didn’t realize I was already awake.”

Her breath hitches.

“I just know I looked at you tonight, and everything clicked. I didn’t want to go back in time. I didn’t want to rewrite anything with Abby. I just wanted to come home. To you.”

He reaches for her hand, hesitates, then wraps his fingers around hers when she doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t even realize what you mean to me,” he hesitates. “But I want you to. I want to show you. If you’ll let me.”

Y/n’s eyes close for a moment, and when she open them, they’re glassy with tears.

“You really mean that?” she asks, voice trembling.

He cups her cheek, brushing away a tear with the pad of his thumb. “With everything I’ve got.”

And then she’s pulling him in.

No hesitation, no fear, just her resting her arms around his neck and fingers tangled in his hair like she’s afraid if she’s not touching him as much as possible, he’ll disappear aagain. Buck doesn’t waste a seconf. He holds her back just as tightly, his face buried in her shoulder, like maybe if he presses close enoigh, all the pieces of him, she’s quietly been carrying, will finally come home.

For a moment, neither of them speak. They just breathe. One another. Their feelings for each other.

The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward or heavy. It’s safe. Intimate. The kind of silence that only comes when words aren’t big wnough to hold everything between two people.

Eventually, Y/n pulls back just enough to look at him, her forehead still resting gently against his. Her eyes search his face, as if she’s memorizing the way he looks he looks at her like she is his world.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” she murmurs, the corners of her mouth trembling with the beginnings of a smile.

He exhales a soft laugh, one hand still resting on her wais. “I think I’ve been saying it without words for months. I just didn’t realize it.”

Y/n runs her fingers through his hair, slow and tentative, like she’s still trying to convince herself she isn’t dreaming. “I used to imagine this moment. You showing up, saying you wanted me. Choosing me. But I always woke up before the good part.”

“This is the good part,” Buck says, his voice low and certain.

She laughs, a watery, broken sound, and presses a hand to his chest, right over his heart. “I was so scared you’d go see her and realize I was just… a placeholder. Someone to make the quiet nights easier.”

“You were never a placeholder,” he says fiercely, his hand coming up to cover hers. “Y/n, you filled the space I dind’t could ever be filled. You brought me back to myself. You’ve been there tjrough every storm, and I was too blind to see that you weren’t just helping me survive…you were the reason I wanted to.”

He watched as her eyes fill again, but this time, it’s not just pain. It’s from love, open and shining and completely unhidden now.

She leans in, brushing her lips to his, soft at first, just a question, and when he answers with a deep, reverent kiss in return, it feel like the beginning of everything they never tjought they’d get to have.

The kiss in gentle and slow, not rushed like the stolen ones in dim hallways or post-shift goodbyes. It’s full of everything they’d left unsaid: I missed you. I wanted you. I love you.

When they finally break apart, Buck rests his forehead against hers again, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I want to do this right. No hiding. No halfway. I want breakfasts with terrible coffee and real dates and someone who keep stealing my hoodies even though she has her own.”

Y/n grins, teary-eyed and radiant. “I make your coffee better than anyone here, and you know it.”

“I do,” he says, his smile wide and boyish and utterly Buck. “And I want to fall asleep next to you without pretending it’s just for tonight. I want to wake up knowing I don’t have to say goodbye when I leave. I want us.”

Y/n nods, emotion tightening her throat, but she still finds the words. “Then we’re done pretending.”

He brushes a kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then finally, her lips again, soft and sure.

Outside, the firehouse is still. Quiet. But inside this small office, everything has shifted. The weight has lifted. The longing has found its answer.

And for the first time in a long time, Buck isn’t running toward the past.

He’s standing still, holding the future in his arms.

[narnian-neverlander]

Meant to be Yours [Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: A sigh and then you watch his hand move to curl two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his; you’re shocked to see how very vulnerable he looks at this moment. “Do you truly believe I would have reacted so intensely, so violently, at seeing you again if I didn’t care? If I hadn’t thought about you almost every day during the last decade? If you didn’t still matter to me today?”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,2k

Warnings: mentions of injuries, character ‘death’ and canon typical violence

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten lost, even with directions. The sprawling, elaborate halls of Piltover Academy all look very much the same to you, and you thank Janna when you finally arrive at a door with a little plaque reading ‘Talis’ next to it. You knock, you wait. And you do it again. And again. Until you grow tired and crack open the door to peek inside. It’s a relatively small space; several desks cluttered with papers and blackboards utterly covered in equations and diagrams against the walls - and a man that most definitely isn’t Jayce sitting at one of the tables, head propped up with his fist against his cheek, other hand scribbling into a notebook and completely unaware of your presence.

“Uhm, pardon me?” you call out as you enter and he startles, head snapping up to look at you with wide eyes. And you’re actually taken aback for a moment, cause he’s probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen: lithe frame, messy chestnut hair, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, intense golden eyes and thick brows, currently furrowed in confusion. “You’re not Jayce.” It’s a statement, not a question; voice deep and smooth and accented. You blink once, twice, before you manage to stutter out, “N-neither are you.” You realize that this doesn’t exactly make you seem any more trustworthy or approachable, so you try to elaborate and hold up the notebook in your hands, the Talis family crest emblazoned on the cover. “He, uh, he left this at my place the last time he was there? I don’t understand any of what’s in it, but it seemed important, so I just wanted to return it.” A slender hand takes the offered book from you, quickly flipping through it as if to confirm that it indeed belongs to the man you claim. “And he still signs every page…”

It’s nothing more than a quiet, slightly exasperated mutter under his breath and if the room wasn’t as quiet as it is, you probably wouldn’t have heard him, but you do and can’t help but snort in amusement. “Yeah, he’s been doing that for years; I don’t think that’s a habit he’s about to break any time soon.” Amber eyes flick up from the pages he’s still thumbing through to focus on you instead and while the way he studies you might be slightly unnerving, there’s another part somewhere in the back of your mind telling you that you know him.

“You said he left this at your place the last time he was there; so that would make you his…?” The unfinished sentence hangs in the air between you, prompting you to complete it and there’s heat crawling up the back of your neck and into the apples of your cheeks as it dawns on you what you’ve accidentally insinuated so you vehemently shake your head. “Oh no, no, no, no, no! It’s not my place— Well, technically it is my place, but— It’s not a place for— I mean, it’s not like that, it’s—“

Dropping your head into your hands, you groan and take a breath to collect yourself before you face him again; bewilderment and slight amusement written all over his handsome features. “I own a restaurant not super far from the academy? Jayce has been a regular for years; he left that at his table last time he came in.” Something akin to recognition flashes in his eyes at that. “Ah, so you’re the chef he’s always rightfully raving about. He’s brought in some of your food a few times; it’s exceptional.” Some of the tension that’s been keeping you rooted to the spot and your entire body on edge starts to ebb away. “Oh, well, thank you; I’m glad you enjoyed it. And that Jayce actually managed to share.” It’s starting to make sense why he seems so familiar to you, now. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume you’re the new research partner he’s been yapping about for weeks?” The corner of his mouth twitches upwards at that, the mole above his upper lip going with it - cute. And you can’t help but feel like you’ve seen it before. “Has he now? Apologies, I’m sure I make for a terrible topic of conversation.” That actually gets a laugh out of you. “Not at all; he’s only had good things to say about you. Well, mostly. Besides, I’m glad he finally has someone who shares his dream.”

As if on cue, Jayce enters the room, carrying a box of what looks to be spare machine parts under one arm. He’s as surprised to see you here as his partner was and when questioned, the brunette still sat at the desk simply holds up the notebook and waves it in the taller man’s face. “Do try not to leave vital research lying about when you go out for lunch?” Jayce winces lightly. “Sorry. But maybe that wouldn’t happen if you just joined me for lunch every once in a while like I’ve asked, Viktor.”

All the times that you’ve had to listen to Jayce talk about this man and he’d never bothered to mention his name; so now it’s like a shock to your system. Like the final piece of a puzzle finally clicking into place and your brain kicks into overdrive, pulse picking up to an almost worrisome degree as you feel your palms get sweaty.

You take him in again and yes, his face was rounder, softer back then, his eyes bigger and more innocent, but there’s still the same mischievous spark in them as he good-naturedly bickers with Jayce, the same wit in every well calculated retort.

“I’m sorry, I’m sure this is gonna sound weird, but… are you from the Undercity?” The two men turn their attention to you; Viktor’s eyes narrowing, taking on a colder, harsher look and there’s a slight edge to his voice as he responds. “Yes. Is that a problem?” You quickly shake your head, wanting to dispel any notion of what he thinks you’re implying. “No, of course not! I’m from the Undercity; I grew up there and I… I had a best friend when I was younger? We always played together down by the river and he brought his inventions for us to test out and when they got stuck somewhere he couldn’t reach I’d get them for him and—“ You’re rambling, you know it, but it doesn’t have to be fully coherent for him to understand. For his eyes to grow wide in disbelief. For him to whisper your name under his breath, even though you’d never introduced yourself.

And oh, oh, you didn’t realize you’d missed hearing your own name in his voice. How much you’d truly missed your beloved childhood friend.

Jayce is looking between you both in wonder. “Wait, no way! Viktor is the childhood friend you told me about? The one you’ve been looking for?” Tearing your gaze away from Viktor, you turn to your friend, smiling ear to ear. “Yeah, I… I guess he is.”

Your beloved childhood friend, finally back in your life.

Jayce claps you on the back happily. “I’ll be damned. Life sure has a way of bringing people together, huh? We should celebrate! I know a good restaurant not far from here.” You giggle as he waggles his brows at you playfully, but it’s short-lived as your attention returns to your long lost friend, who doesn’t seem to be sharing in the current joy; face scrunched up in clear reluctance and displeasure and looking anywhere but you. His voice is bitter and harsh when he speaks.

“I do not think that necessary. There is nothing to celebrate.”

Your beloved childhood friend, who you used to spend every day with.

“What? Don’t you want to catch up? You two haven’t seen each other in… what? Ten years? Longer?”

Your beloved childhood friend, whom you’d made a promise to; to tell him all about Piltover after your parents took you there for the first time. To go there again together, once you were both older.

“Exactly. We were friends once, yes, but we are mere strangers now. I do not see the merit in interrupting my work to go have drinks with someone who no longer holds any value in my life.”

Your beloved childhood friend, who doesn’t know that you didn’t leave him willingly. Who must think you’d gotten a taste of Piltovian life and had simply forgotten about him; left him behind for a better future for yourself.

It’s far from the truth, but he can’t know that.

And if you’re being honest with yourself, even if it tears you apart from the inside out, “He’s right.” You interrupt Jayce as he opens his mouth, no doubt wanting to come to your aid again. “Whatever we had it… it was a long time ago. He doesn’t owe me anything and it’s clear that he doesn’t need me in his life anymore.” Patting Jayce’s arm, you turn towards the exit; if you stay here much longer you won’t be able to hide the strain in your voice and the quiver of your bottom lip anymore. “I’ll see you around; do try to keep your wits and your notes about you, ‘kay, pretty boy?” It’s obvious he is less than pleased with how the situation has turned out, lips pressed together in a thin line and brows furrowed in irritation. But he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t try to stop you from leaving. You do end up pausing at the door, hand already on the handle, deciding to take another look at your old friend - possibly your last. He has his back turned to the both of you, attention back on his work, you seemingly already forgotten.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I got to see you again, Viktor. I always knew you’d end up somewhere you’d change the world. And I can’t wait to see it.”

The next few hours keep you busy, thankfully; keep your mind off the heartbreak and grief, but now, all alone in the restaurant, wiping down the counter in preparation to close, it comes back full force, hanging over you like a dark cloud. So when the bell above the door chimes, signaling the entrance of a customer, you don’t bother looking up; you’re not in the mood. “Sorry, we’re already closed.”

“I’m not here for the food.” Your palm almost slips on the wet surface which would’ve sent you face first into the counter. Instead, your head snaps up in disbelief and sure enough, Viktor is right in front of you, still clad in his academy uniform, cane in hand. “W-what are you doing here?” A heavy sigh as he comes to stand across the counter from you. “Jayce thought it… prudent that we have another conversation.” A tiny laugh from your side, not more than a breath out of your nose. “He didn’t shut up about it after I left, did he?” The answer is deadpan and exasperated and it’s almost endearing in it’s own way. “No, he did not. He walked me all the way here and I would not be surprised if he’s still outside.” You make a quick mental note to make Jayce’s next order on the house, before your mind starts racing, trying to come up with a way of starting this conversation. As it turns out you don’t have to, as he beats you to it.

“I should… apologize to you. For how I spoke to you earlier.” That’s definitely not the opener you expected and you blink at him owlishly in surprise. “While my assessment of our situation might’ve been correct, there was no reason to be as cruel and stern to you as I was. I’m sorry.” Mulling over his words, you decide it’s now or never. “Well, thank you. But just for the record, for all your smarts and brilliance, your assessment of our situation is not in fact, correct.” He raises his brows in intrigue, a mocking ‘Oh?’ leaving his lips as he rests his elbows on the counter in a silent challenge. “So you are actually going to try and convince me that you didn’t forget all about me the moment you stepped foot in this city?” Your answer is immediate and certain and judging by the look on his face, he’s actually taken aback for a moment. “Yes. That’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

He ends up having the audacity to scoff and roll his eyes. “Please, don’t strain yourself. You do not need to make up lies to… spare my feelings? Or whatever it is you believe this will accomplish.” You don’t blame him for it, if your roles were reversed, you imagine you’d react similarly. It still hurts, to have him be so dismissive of your side of the story when he’d once valued your opinion and feelings above all else. “I understand that this might be too late and really, you’re right, it doesn’t hold any weight or merit in our current lives anymore, but… it’s still important to me that you know that I didn’t leave you behind willingly.”

“Right.” He spits the word like venom, accompanied by what you can only describe as a snarl. “So what was it then? You wanted to build a proper life here first and then come back for me? Or did your parents fall ill and you devoted all your time to taking care of them?” You wince at the mention of them. “They took care of themselves quite well by selling me and fucking off to who-knows-where to build a better life for themselves without me.” Any trace of malice immediately vanishes from his face, replaced by confusion and downright shock. Sighing, you rest your forearms on the counter and keep your gaze on your fidgeting fingers. “Yeah, they sold me to some rich household with… peculiar preferences. A gilded cage is still a cage though; as long as you adhered to their rules and demands, they kept you fed with only the best food Piltover had to offer and put the finest clothes on your back. And I would’ve traded all of the fancy things they threw at me just for a single day back down by the river with you.” You can’t bring yourself to look at him; you’re scared to find cold indifference written all over his features. Or even worse, the pity you’re oh so sick of. You’re not looking for sympathy or condolences for everything that went wrong in your life; you’re simply trying to make good on a promise from long ago. You’d once prided yourself on always keeping your word and you’d be damned if you let them take that from you, too.

Slender, pale fingers enter your field of vision, blurred by tears you didn’t realize were there, and gently come to rest on your arm, his skin warm against yours. “I did not mean to force you to recall any painful memories, please forgive me.” Not pity, a simple apology for a what he thinks to be a mistake on his part. You sniffle and shake your head. “You couldn’t have known, it’s fine.” It’s quiet between you for a while, his thumb drawing patterns against your skin in thought before he carefully speaks up again. “Out of all the scenarios I came up with to explain your disappearance, I will admit this was never one of them.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t have made this up if I’d wanted to.” Then you pause as his words fully sink in. “Wait, don’t tell me you actually gave me some thought during all these years?” And he truly sounds offended when he replies with, “Of course I did.” You snort. “Didn’t exactly sound like that earlier today.” A sigh and then you watch his hand move to curl two fingers under your chin, forcing your gaze up to meet his; you’re shocked to see how very vulnerable he looks at this moment. “Do you truly believe I would have reacted so intensely, so violently, at seeing you again if I didn’t care? If I hadn’t thought about you almost every day during the last decade? If you didn’t still matter to me today?” You manage not much else but to stare at him wide eyed and slack jawed, so he drops his hand from you and digs into his waistcoat instead, producing what looks to be a tiny, halfheartedly put together bundle of cogs and bolts from an inside pocket. Placing it onto the counter between you both, he elaborates. “Do you remember the little cat I built you? After those bullies destroyed your favorite toy? I’d wanted the tail to be able to move, but I just couldn’t get the mechanism right. You’d been so sad though, so I just gave it you unfinished. I’d planned on fixing it up, with the toolset you’d been so excited about bringing me back from Piltover, but…” He falters at that and it takes him a moment to find the right words to continue with. “I still built that mechanism eventually. Kept it with me, in case you… in case you ever came back. And when I realized that wasn’t going to happen, I kept it as a reminder. A reminder of my roots. Of the kind of people I want to help with my work. Of the first person who ever believed in me.”

You pick up said mechanism and gingerly turn it over with careful fingers. The feeling in your chest can really only be described as warm and fuzzy as you quietly rasp out, “I still have it.” He cocks his head to the side in curiosity. “You still have what?” You bring your eyes from the metal in your hands back up to his questioning amber gaze and smile, soft and reminiscent. “The cat. I still have it. I went back to my old house after I… after I got out of that horrible place. Just to, I don’t even know, have some sort of closure, maybe? It was ransacked, nothing but ruins, but that was still there, under all the dirt and rubble. So I kept it. It’s been sitting on a shelf in my living room together with that toolset for you ever since.”

It’s quiet and disbelieving, but he actually laughs at that and you decide then and there that you want to hear it more often. “You… you still got me that toolset?” Heat shoots up all the way to your ears with how he’s looking at you, all affectionate and amused, so you scoff and throw up your hands in surrender. “Well, yeah, I promised you after all, and I’ve never broken a promise before. I went back to the river every once in a while, hoping I’d maybe run into you again. I even considered leaving it there with a note at some point, but I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else taking it. It was always meant to be yours, after all.”

The expression on his face shifts while you talk, the small, teasing grin slowly fading into something more tender. It makes your heart flutter so you simply keep talking in hopes of distracting yourself from it. “I know it’s silly, but—“

“It’s not.” he interrupts decidedly, so you clamp your mouth shut to listen instead. “How about you bring both of those to the lab tomorrow and I’ll see what I can do about finally fixing that cat?” You’re certain he must be able to hear your heart with how loud it’s beating, blood roaring in your ears, butterflies going crazy in your stomach. He… he still wants you in his life? Is that what he’s implying? He must mistake your silence for distaste at his proposal, as he quickly adds, “If that’s agreeable with you?” Shaking your head to force yourself out of your stupor, you nod vigorously. “Y-yeah, of course, I’d love to! I’ll bring some food, too; Jayce tells me you’re horrible at remembering to eat while you work.” He brings a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Pardon me? That is… how do you say? The pot calling the kettle black? He is not much better at it.” Grinning joyfully, you come around the counter to stand in front of him and poke him in the chest. “He has been coming in for lunch less and less in the past few weeks. I wonder whose bad influence that could be, hm?”

And just like that, it’s like no time at all has passed for the two of you. Like you’ve never been apart.

He grins right back at you as he slaps your hand away and glares at you playfully. “Eh, if you make it to the lab regularly I think you’ll see for yourself soon enough.” You lean forward and raise your brows at him teasingly. “Oh so this is a regular thing already now? You realize I have a business to run here; I do not have time to take care of you two nitwits every day.” Putting a finger on his chin, he hums in thought. “Then it looks like I’ll have to take Jayce up on his offer after all and tag along when he comes here.” You shake your head at his antics and smile at him fondly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to figure out some sort of arrangement. Now get outta here, it’s late; you need rest and I still need to lock up.”

A hand at the small of his back, you steer him towards the entrance, but he stops and turns to you right at the door. He hesitates before he speaks and when he does the joyful, teasing tone from before is gone, replaced with something more serious, accompanied by an almost desperate glint in his eyes. “I will see you tomorrow then?” Your heart isn’t sure wether it wants to break or melt, as you remember these exact same words from the very last time you saw him when you were children. And before you know it, you have him enveloped in a hug, arms around his middle and head nestled into the crook of his neck. He’s surprised, to say the least, if the way he completely freezes up is anything to go by. “Definitely…” you whisper and tighten your arms just the tiniest bit. But even with all the long lost familiarity slowly returning, you haven’t seen him in over a decade and you most definitely remember Jayce telling you about how he’s particular about his personal space, so it dawns on you that this is in no way appropriate and while you may not want to, you losen your grip and begin to pull back - just in time for the arm that isn’t used to support himself on his cane to loop around your waist and for his cheek to come rest against the top of your head. “Good.” It’s a quiet murmur and if you weren’t as close to him as you are you probably would have missed it, but as things are now, it only makes you more reluctant to let go. So you stay like this for a few moments more, safe and content in each other’s embrace, before you finally release him. He looks at you, opening and closing his mouth a few times; whatever he wanted to say forever remaining a mystery to you as he simply settles for a small, slightly awkward smile instead and then bids you goodbye.

You lock the door behind him, closing your eyes and resting your forehead against the old, worn wood with a shaky exhale; shoulders slumping as your entire body relaxes, screaming out in relief as literal years of anxiety and worry finally let you go, leaving you almost a little lightheaded. The small, joyful smile won’t leave your lips and it escalates into a full blown, slightly delirious laugh, not that you have it in yourself to particularly care at the moment; your beloved childhood friend is finally back in your life, after all.

When you blink your eyes back open, you’re looking at the same dull, white ceiling you have been staring at for the past weeks. The same scratchy hospital bed linens at your back. The same sterile, bleak smell in the air. Flipping over on your side still causes you more trouble than you care for, muscles weak from disuse. Your gaze drifts out the high windows, watching the stars shine against an otherwise dark sky as your mind wanders.

Another memory. Another dream. Another desperate, hopeless attempt of your broken psyche to try and hold together the pieces of your shattered heart. A reminder about simpler, happier times. But those times are long gone, just like he is. Lost to one senseless act of violence that had utterly destroyed any hope for peace that might’ve remained for these two cities. Numb, stiff, useless fingers fumble for the chain around your neck and tug, bringing forth the circular piece of metal from it’s hiding spot under your shirt. The room’s too dark to make out the engraving on the ring and the nerve damage to your hands makes it impossible to feel for it; yet you know exactly what’s written there, you’ll always know. Just like you know that you will always hang on to this piece of jewelry, even though it really doesn’t mean anything anymore. Because it never got the chance to stand for what you’d intended it for. Because you never got the chance to give it to him, even though it had always been meant to be his.

[yenhan]

“S’i’ Fosse Soap”

Thoughts on TF141 & International student neighbor

Part One - Masterlist

a/n: f!reader

Synopsis: Soap & the very bad, horrible Italian poem.

You sent them a text. Did it sound like a poorly worded order from a hobbit half their size? Yes. Nothing screamed “girl power” more than a panicked invitation typed at midnight on an overdose of Cheetos, deleted twice, and sent with one eye closed for emotional damage control:

Lunch at mine, 1PM Saturday. Nothing fancy. Pls pretend to be normal :)

To your surprise, all four of them showed up.

You’d cleared the clutter off your tiny table, whipped up a savory pie with loads of leftover vegetables and meat, and added the closest thing to a centerpiece you could find: a half-dead bouquet of tulips and a candle that smelled like disappointment. It will have to do, you thought. Everyone knows you're on a budget. You were hosting four former elite soldiers with the table manners of well-trained raccoons. Upon witnessing Simon inhale the tray of lemon crumb bars you'd baked to celebrate his garage opening, the raccoon comparison felt generous. Everything was going great until Johnny and Gaz presented their “welcome gift” with stupid, toothy smiles. Mind you, regular adults have 32 teeth… Your beloved sergeants would lose all their incisors if they didn’t remove that monstrosity from your humble abode in the next 5 minutes.

Jellied eels. Ew.

You stared at the wobbly mess, blinking like a confused owl or a murderous hyena; it’s all about perspective. “This is a joke, right?”

Gaz beamed. “Traditional British cuisine!”

Soap bounced with enthusiasm. “Delicacy, lass. Cultural exchange an’ all that. Dinnae ye trust yer Johnny-boy?”

You muttered something not fit for polite company in two and a half languages before plotting your vengeance with a smile that should’ve worried them. “Fine, but as punishment, you’re reciting S’i’ fosse foco.” You hummed sweetly.

Johnny’s grin died instantly. “Whit’s that?”

You pulled out a battered paperback from your bookshelf. “It used to be my favorite Italian poem. It's a middle school classic. He’s an angry little man who wants to burn the world. Very relatable.”

—

Price leaned back on the couch, amused; he’d fetched himself a consolation drink after you actively prohibited cigars in the house. Ghost, on the other hand, crossed his arms, clearly resigned to another descent into chaos. Soap cleared his throat, ready to give the performance of his life. You pressed record on your phone.

“S’i’ fosse foco, arderei ‘l mondo…” he began, absolutely butchering the pronunciation with a Scottish-Italian hybrid accent so atrocious it made your ears weep and your ancestors cry out in horror.

You lost it somewhere around “s’i’ fosse acqua, i’ l’annegherei,” where he pronounced “acqua” like “ack-wah” and made dramatic tsunami movements with his hands. Kyle was the only one cheering for him.

“Eh, no one can say I didnae put my heart into it,” Johnny puffed out his chest.

You wiped tears from your eyes, still convulsing with giggles as you hit stop on your phone. “That was something, Johnny.”

Eventually, Soap knighted himself ‘Sir Butchersalot.’ “A self-proclamation of power, lass,” he insisted, and your cheeks ached from smiling. Ghost paused at the door, gave your shoulder a pat that nearly dislocated it, and grumbled a “Good lunch.”

You stood at the threshold as they walked away. What a bunch of weirdos, at least Johnny matched your freak.

Translations for reference:

“S’i’ fosse foco, arderei ‘l mondo…” - If I were fire, I would consume the world

“s’i’ fosse acqua, i’ l’annegherei” - If I were water, I would make it drown

Set somewhere between part one and two. I apologize, I'm obsessed with the boys and this trope and got too much time in my hands.

[luvseisagi]

— two years late.

read part 1 here.

ft. itoshi sae x reader. wc. 5.7k

summary. after two years apart, the call you thought would never come finally did. content. gn!reader, no pronouns used, reader wears makeup. even more angst and even less comfort (sorry), right person wrong time, childhood friends to strangers, miscommunication. aged up characters (sae and reader are 20, rin is 18). sae might be ooc and has issues. author's note. there was like a FULL power outage in my country today i was isolated completely alone in my house with no light no cooked food no electricity no internet connection for HOURS. SUFFERING.. so i wrote this - it was actually supposed to be shorter than the first one?? and it's twice as long?? i like writing angst too much i fear.

𝜗𝜚 english isnt my first language, so any corrections or advice are highly appreciated, as well as feedback (please) ! enjoy

rin

did u arrive alr? mom says u have to pack everything u wanna keep before we come back give it two hours or so

sae sighs, the messages on his phone too bright for his liking. he has just arrived home from a twelve-hour-long flight and a painfully slow ride from the airport. the last thing he wants to do right now is start packing his old room’s things.

“sure” he types back, before shutting off his phone and throwing it onto the bed. his relationship with his little brother isn’t as bad now —sae is twenty and rin eighteen—, but he still gets slightly annoyed when they talk over text. only it isn’t exactly annoyance, but a cluster of unpacked feelings and regrets he never learned to express. 

not to his brother, at least. not to anyone in his life, since —well. since you and him weren’t friends anymore.

sae shakes his head in annoyance, as if a physical movement could somehow make the thoughts disappear. he leaves his suitcase in a corner of his room, still closed, near the window whose blinds he hasn’t bothered to raise yet. the jacket is lost somewhere in the pile of clothes cluttering the messy living room —it isn’t usually like this, his family has someone help with the cleaning daily. however, since they’re moving to a bigger house, his parents didn’t care at all if the common rooms stayed untidy. they just wanted to move out as fast as possible.

at first, he hadn’t understood why. sure, it was a matter of time before they bought a bigger, more expensive house —specially now that sae had just turned twenty and gotten signed for the actual re al team, and not the u20 one, and rin was considered the star of his generation, next to his always friend-and-rival isagi yoichi—, but why the rush? 

he had just come back from spain, again, and they were already pushing him to pack up and leave the only place where he had lived the memories he actually treasured.

it was unfair for him to think that way, though —him, who had been the first to abandon said place, and said memories, not once but twice. 

and that’s why now, standing alone in the gloom of his old room, he understands. because he isn’t the type of getting attached to things, people, places, or anything that has nothing to do with football, and he doesn’t really care about living in a big apartment or even a bigger house, but he feels the urge to run away from the moment he sets foot inside his old room.

instead of a bunk bed, there is now a big double bed his parents had ordered when he came back from spain the first time, two years ago. next to it, there’s a wide closet that takes up almost the entire left wall. and in the corner near the window, there’s the custom-made glass shelf they gave him when he was younger —which quickly filled up with trophies and awards from his high school years—. 

right beside it, there’s a dark wood desk he never really used —he didn’t like studying—, that would be empty if not for the pile of colorful envelopes sitting on top of it. 

his thought process is fast: if he lies down on the bed now, he will fall asleep for more than the two hours their parents are going to take before coming home. the trophies are valuable for him, but he isn’t on the mood to remember all the matches and competitions that they carry, and there are too many memories stuffed inside his closet that he doesn't want to dig up now.

so he walks to his desk, and he sits on the chair in front of the pile of letters.

they’re letters from fans, he remembers. his manager had dropped them off two years ago, a few days after rin left for the blue lock project. when he was younger, he would usually read all —or almost all, at least until he got bored— of the letters he received. his favorites were always the ones written by little kids telling him how he inspired them. 

he never really thought he could ever make an actual impact in japan’s football scene, but those kind of letters reminded him of his little brother, so he did appreciate receiving them.

it’s weird he hadn’t read these, considering most of the envelopes are pink, blue, or orange, and his manager’s address —the one published for receiving fan mail— is adorned with little hearts, flowers, and football balls. it’s pretty obvious most of them were written by kids.

he’s just about to open the first envelope —a dark pink one, similar to the color of his hair, adorned with little spirals, hearts, and a doodle he thinks it’s supposed to resemble him— when he remembers why he didn’t read them back then.

reality hits him like a punch straight to the stomach, and his chest feels suddenly so heavy he needs to close his eyes and focus on breathing. 

the shouting. the blame. the unanswered questions. he remembers everything, second by second.

the regrets. the indifference. the anger and the sadness. and you, crying so loudly you couldn’t even talk, sitting in the same chair he’s sitting in now.

he had been about to read the letters right before your argument —the first and last time you came to his house, after four years separated by thousands of kilometers, two continents and one ocean —, and he hadn’t had the strength to read anything after you left.

because the first thing you had said to him was “why did you say all those awful things to rin?”

not i missed you, or i’m really happy to see you. not even a hi, sae, but a question about his brother —which he knew he was important for you too, of course, but you were his best friend, not rin’s. sae should had been your first priority, not his brother.

the next thing he knew, you were shouting at him, blaming him for something he wasn’t even aware he had done. rin had a full breakdown because of their silly encounter that first day? he had just been being a big brother, telling him the truth —it was better if it was him, and not the big world outside, who taught him a lesson. 

but rin hadn’t understood that, apparently. and neither had you.

he had entered the autopilot mode —the same one he used while in interviews, or irrelevant social events in madrid— right after you mentioned rin. he barely even remembers what he told you now, what he answered or what he tried to explain. back then, the only thought of his mind was that you were standing right in front of him —taller, your features more mature, and somehow even prettier than you already were— and you hand’t even brought yourself to hug him yet. 

sae opens his eyes. 

yn’s not here. he thinks, repeating it to himself as a prayer, as if his words could make your ghost disappear from the room. there’s no one but me here. i’m alone.

again.

he lifts his head, feeling slightly dizzy after nearly choking in the waterfall of memories that just flooded him. i’m here alone, he tells himself once more, knowing full well he must look insane right now.

because he’s lying. you’re there. you’re everywhere.

you’re lying on his bed, even though you never actually had time to sleep in there —back when the old bunk bed he shared with Rin still stood in the room—, and you’re laughing in whispers while trying to decipher what rin’s dreaming about. 

you’re sitting on the floor, struggling to explain him a math problem for the twelfth time, annoyed because he insists on kicking a ball instead of paying attention to you. 

you’re almost drowning in a mountain of clothes, his room a runway while you try on his football jersey with a long skirt you stole from his mother. 

and you’re standing in front of the shelf, pretending to ask about each trophy —even though you knew exactly which belonged to which victory, because you had been there for every single one.

you’re also where he is now, sitting by the desk, your trembling hands playing with the colorful envelopes, fighting your urge to cry. 

but your voice —it sounds broken; and he knows he lost you way before you slammed the door and left his house forever, your jacket sleeve stained with the makeup you tried to wipe away and your lips pressed tight as if you were about to throw up your heart.

and still, everything on his room is so him he doesn't even understand why it's reminding him of you.

the only thing that anchors him to the real world right now, he thinks, are the envelopes on top of his desk. he tries to control his breathing, he tries to focus his gaze, and his hands are nearly shaking when he plunges his hand in the pile of letters. he doesn’t know why he clings to one, but he pulls it out of the pile and stares at it, the tips of his fingers brushing over the messy star drawn on the paper.

and suddenly he stops.

then he wonders.

he wonders why there's a letter on his hands, and why does it have your handwriting in it. 

for sae, and nothing else. there’s no address, which means no one sent it to his manager, and he knows it's yours, because he still recognizes your handwriting —and because even though all his fan letters have hearts drawn around his name and brightly colored envelopes, you're the only one who would have chosen the exact shade of teal of his eyes and the drawing of a star instead of the a in his name. 

he can't understand why his hands are practically shaking when he frantically tears the flap open, and he can't swallow the lump that forms in his throat as he reads the sentences written in black ink by a hand that seems unsure of itself. 

your handwriting is so familiar that his heart skips a beat, and now he doesn’t know if it’s because of sadness, regret, nostalgia or the excitement of having a piece of you in his hands again. 

as he reads, sae realizes when exactly you wrote that letter —since there’s no date to be seen anywhere. it looks like you had been trying to start writing something to him more than once, but your words never felt natural enough to express everything you wanted to tell him. not until he came back, and had an argument with rin.

in the letter, you tell him you expect a reasonable answer as for what happened with his brother, but that’s everything you mention about him. the rest of the message —three full pages of messy handwriting and some mistakes you crossed out with the pen—, talks about everything he wanted to hear that day. 

you wondered about his life in spain, you told him some stories he knew already —because you always went to him when you wanted to talk about your day—, and you kept telling him, over and over, how much you had missed for the past four years.

sae chuckles, reading every word with your sometimes excited, sometimes bored, sometimes indignant voice in his head. you are so cute, he thinks, caressing the sheet of paper without realizing it. 

“by the way,” the letter said, halfway through second page “do you remember that time you played against that other team of spain while i was in a sleepover, and i stayed awake just to congratulate you for scoring the winning goal? i was in a friend’s house, and everyone was asleep already but i watched the end of the match on my phone under the blankets.”

a small smile grows on his face. of course he remembers, your friends’ complaints were the background noise of the audios you had sent him after the match. you were, what, fifteen years back then? sixteen, maybe?

“well, the conversation was a bit embarrassing so i’m not going to tell you, but basically, i realized that i like you that night.”

sae stops reading for a second.

what?

the words resonate in his mind, unearthing a feeling whose funeral had already been celebrated years ago. 

he takes a deep breath before continuing to read, but the letter only gets heavier. 

you’re telling him how you realized it, what you liked about him, why you felt this weird feeling —one you would later learn was jealousy—, whenever you saw your friends happy in their relationships. for two whole years before you wrote that letter, you had been carrying the weight of discovering what a first love felt like.

and said first love was him.

sae’s world falls down. 

he doesn’t cry just yet, but he feels himself on the verge of tears right after reading your last sentence. 

“ps: for the sake of my dignity, i really hope you’re reading this in the airplane back to spain, or in your apartment in madrid, ‘cause i don’t think i could stand looking at you in your eyes knowing that you read this. however, please, call me when you read it —it doesn’t matter if you feel the same way or not, you don’t need to mention it. just call me, tell me how your flight was, complain about your manager and everything he’s making you do, if you must. but tell me something, please. 

i missed you, and i love you. and no ocean could ever drown that.”

sae freezes for three long seconds, his body static from pure shock, before practically throwing himself onto his bed, searching for his phone. he feels like he’s dying during the time it takes for the device to turn on, and he types his passwords as fast as his fingers allow before clicking on the contacts app. 

your name shines so bright in his screen he swears he could go blind, but this doesn’t stop him from staring. he gulps, nervous, and presses the call button under your profile pic —still you, when you were seventeen and asleep on his bed with his jersey as a pajamas.

the phone rings three times before someone picks up on the other end.

he doesn’t say anything at first, waiting for you to talk. his heart is beating so hard he can hear it, so loud it’s deafening, but the silence on the other side is even deeper, pushing the sound of his heart to the background. his expectations have never been higher, as well as his anxiety —creeping from his legs to his stomach, his chest, his arms and finally reaching the hand holding the phone.

“hello?”

he almost jumps when a voice that is definitely not yours comes through the phone.

sae hangs up so fast his mind barely processes it before he's staring at your name and your profile picture again. could you have changed your number? no, unlikely. as far as he knows, you still keep in touch with his parents, and his mother would have messaged him in an instant to give him your new number, even if she knew he wouldn’t use it. —she loved you like family; as she used to say when you were younger, you would definitely end up part of it if one of her sons was smart enough to wife you up.

so why did a man’s voice answer his call?

grabbing his phone with both hands, staring so hard it might break from it, sae lets his body fall back onto the bed. he stays there for a few seconds, your peaceful, sleeping face on the screen almost seeming to blame him for disturbing the peace you always had when you were together —by calling a number that was forgotten, forbidden.

when his brother had sent him that picture back then, he had felt a very weird, very unusual feeling forming in his chest. 

jealousy, maybe, because there was nothing he wanted more than being with you and rin right now. hurt, probably, since he had been living in spain for almost three whole years now, and he missed you two a lot. 

love, he concludes now, because he realized long ago that he loved you — he just never let himself think about it long enough to understand those feelings.

you were too far away, he told himself every time he thought of you like that — and there was no point in trying to tie you down when you were living your best life, being everyone's crush, having normal teen experiences with your new friends.

but how did he not know you loved him too?

before letting himself get lost inside his memories and regrets again, his thumb presses the call button once more. this is your number, he’s sure of it, and if he the guy that answered was with you in any kind of way… well, that’s something you would have to tell him yourself.

“hi? yn?”

he finally gathers the courage to be the one to do the talking first, but his voice is almost a whisper when he pronounces your name, each syllable soft after leaving his lips. 

it’s the first time he’s said it out loud in two years.

“hi, uh, sae?”

sae sighs, relieved, and he closes his eyes as he hears your voice. his head rests on one of the pillows, one hand holding the phone, the other on his chest, now breathing at a normal pace. he can’t stop the small grin spreading on his face.

then he remembers: you answered the phone, so it’s his turn to talk.

i missed you, he wants to say first, but discards it —might be too much. i’m happy to hear your voice, is another option, but perhaps too straightforward. how are you? seems right, or so he believes —no one taught him how to start a conversation with his lost childhood best friend before. he wants to appear casual, yes, but he also wants to show that he cares.

he has it all so clear in his head, he surprises himself when he suddenly speaks, his brain too slow to process his words before they spill from his mouth.

“i read your letter.” is what he says instead.

on the other side of the line, you frown, not expecting a call from him at all. not now, at least.

“what letter?” you ask, genuinely confused. you don’t remember sending anyone a letter, much less sending one to itoshi sae. 

he is so famous now, much more than what he was back when you two were still friends. even if you tried to send him something, you doubt he would have ever receive it.

you could have given it to him through his parents, though. through rin, now that their relationship was back to normal —you think, at least. ever since he was signed in the japan’s u20 team, you barely kept in touch.

a little smile grows on your face, not sweet, but bitter. nostalgia tracing your lips, and memories invading your chest.

sae speaks again.

"the one you wrote me two years ago. i never read it until now.”

reality hits you then. oh, that letter. the one you poured your soul and heart into at seventeen, when you thought your life would end if he read it. 

sure thing, you were wrong. your life didn’t end because he read it — it ended because he never did.

you stay quiet, half-hoping your silence is torturous for him. you have no words, anyway —how could you expect to receive the call you dreamed of, the one that kept you up at nights and anxious every morning, two years later?

so sae, desperate to fill the silence, starts talking again —words rushing out so fast you wonder if you’ll even be able to keep up.

"i thought you hated me and thats why you didn’t call or come back to my house after the argument" he says. his voice sounds weird, raspy, like he’s choking in his words —on his feelings, really, the guilt twisting him up inside.

"i thought you got on rin's side after we argued, and i thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore after you left my house crying.” still laying on the bed, his posture the same as minutes ago, sae feels his chest tighten with every word he says. a whirlwind of memories, regrets and nostalgia, and unsaid feelings tearing him apart, from his heart to his head —his rationality, too, as he seems to be unable to stop talking.

“i never took your letter to spain and i never read it till now —didn’t even know it was yours, it got messed up with some of the fan mail. i found it today, in my desk—, and i was so angry back then, because you didn’t come to say goodbye before i went back to madrid after the u20 match.” he speaks in a rush, thoughts unfiltered, pouring straight from his heart to his mouth “it felt unfair, having strangers write me letters, tell me they would miss me, when the only person I wanted to hear it from was you.”

he falls silent after that, expecting an answer.

since you are saying nothing back, he keeps talking. 

meanwhile, you can only think it is so not sae, speaking this much, having the need to explain himself —no one had, never in his life, asked him to justify his actions. so why is he so desperate for you to understand him? 

he feels the urge to say sorry —worse, even. he feels the need for you to forgive him.

so he doesn’t stop.

“i… i’m sorry for not taking your letter to spain. and i’m sorry for not reading it, and not calling you.” he exhales, voice breaking slightly “i expected you to reach out first, but since you didn’t, i thought…”

“that is not your fault” you finally say, cutting him off mid-sentence. 

you hate hearing him like that —so vulnerable, so hurt. you had dreamed of this call for a long time, wanting it, for a while, to be this dramatic and intense. but not anymore. two long years have passed, and your mourning had ended a while ago. 

“i was the foolish one” you say softly “for thinking you would read all the letters and find mine there. but that’s fine now, i was a dumb teenager, in love with a famous football player who lived on the other side of the planet. it sounds like a cliché fanfic trope” you chuckle “what was i expecting?” 

your voice is calm, and even your posture, sitting in the sofa on your living room, is composed too. you are able to control the lump of feelings forming in your throat —you are not lying when saying you were the naive one. yes, it was the most hurtful heartbreak of your life, but you had gotten over it already.

“i am really sorry, yn.” sae sighed, his eyes closed again, tightly pressed together as if afraid of letting a rebellious tear scape. “i’m sorry i disappointed you.” 

and when you hear these words, you know he’s hurting. you know he is because, even though he never got the courage to say it out loud, that’s always been his biggest fear—disappointing people. 

he was scared of not being good enough at football —he was a prodigy in japan, but he had to train for what he thought it would be natural for him once he started playing in spain—. he was terrified of failing at being a good older brother —he had always taken good care of rin. why, when he was just trying to protect him, did he make his relationship worse? 

and deep down, he hated the thought of not being good for you, too —which, he thinks bitterly, he wasn’t, either. he waited for you to come to him and tell him goodbye, waited for you to text him or call him or tell him you missed him instead of doing it himself, when he was the one dying to hear your voice again.

“look, sae, i…” 

you don’t know what else to say, anyway, because he did disappoint you, but you can’t just tell him the truth. he would not be able to handle it —you had always thought that he would, but you weren’t so sure right now.

“it might be a bit late for the call” he says, swallowing hard. the words taste metallic on his tongue, just like blood, and he’s saying them out loud before he can bite his lips and shut up “but i think you have the right to know that i loved you t-“

you cut him off in an instant.

“sae” 

his name in your mouth sounds like a warning, a plea, and a cry all at once. however, you don’t give yourself enough time to analyze each of them —he has, finally, nothing else to say. he’s run out of excuses to tell you, to fix a huge mistake he had made without even realizing it.

you summon the courage to keep talking.

“i have a boyfriend now” 

sae’s chest freezes for a second, his breath getting stuck in his throat after hearing your words. he mutters an oh, but he can’t bring himself to say nothing else.

“that guy from maths, in high school.” you tell him, as if talking could somehow fix the awkward silence between you two “the one who had a crush on me when we shared that class. he’s studying the same degree as i am, and we got paired up for a group project not so long ago. i guess he never gave up liking me, and, well, when he asked me again, there was nothing stopping me from dating him.”

it is not until you finish your last sentence that you realize how cruel you have just been —until now, the only thing stopping your for dating him was precisely sae. and he knows that.

you haven’t said it on purpose, really, but for a moment, you wonder if sae is feeling what you felt the day you two argued. if he is now discovering the effect he has on people when he’s being rude. unintentionally, but rude anyway.

you stay in silence a while longer, waiting for him to say something —it’s not like you don’t care about what he was saying, or feeling, when you interrupted him; but two years later, really? a lot has happened since you two were eighteen, and it is true you have a boyfriend. it doesn’t really matter what he tells you now.

"i'm sorry, yn.” he finally says, voice soft under his, for some reason, shaky and uneven breath —could it be that this conversation is actually affecting him? “i’m sorry for not reading your letter. and for saying sorry now. and for not telling you that i loved you when i should have." 

those last words make you feel your heart break, just a bit, just a crack —only enough for a tear to fall from it through your eyes and down your cheek. 

"im sorry too, sae. but you are late for that”

then there’s silence again. neither of you says nothing for a while, but neither of you hangs up. for a few seconds, him laying on his bed and you sitting on your sofa, it feels like you are together again. rin’s superhero cartoons in the television, sae’s arm over your shoulders and your head against his neck. he would say something about his practice, and you would detangle his dark pink bangs from his long black eyelashes, then laugh at the face he made whenever you touched his hair.

everything was so easy when you were still kids, practically living in the same house three days a week —when his brother and you shared first place on things he loved, alongside football, not after it.

you sigh, escaping the bubble you had gotten in. you couldn’t blame football, practice, or matches at all —it was what distanced sae and rin, but it had nothing to with you. 

it was loving him what changed everything for you two, you think. or, at least, being such a coward you were never able to tell him. or maybe it was nostalgia. or anger. or lack of communication.

you would never know now.

the silence is mortifying. sae is the one who breaks it.

"nothing would have changed, though.” he whispers suddenly. you’re sure he’s holding the phone close to his face, for how his voice sounds, and you are right —still lying on his bed, sae lays on his side, one hand under the pillow and the other loosely playing with the sheets. the phone is on the pillow too, near to his lips, which talk very softly. “you know that, right?” 

you wonder if he’s aware he’s sounding a bit mean again, even if he’s whispering.

“i mean, you were just about to start your dream degree at college and i was centered in my football career in spain, so even if i had read the letter before and i had called you, probably nothing would have changed at all” he’s biting his lip now, curled upon his bed, as if you were kids again, telling each other secrets under the blankets. “maybe it was for the better.”

you can’t help it but chuckle. this is so sae, trying to fix something with the right intentions but the wrong words. 

he was never good at comforting people, honestly, but no one, not even you, had ever told him that —the fact that his words are always true doesn't mean they can't hurt, and that’s something he never understood.

maybe he thinks you are immune to them now, now that you have a new boyfriend and, apparently, your dream life. but it does hurt anyway.

"i would have waited for you" you confess, throwing another sharp truth to him. you hear him swallow the lump in his throat "but it doesn’t matter now, does it?” 

on the other side of the line, sae presses his lips together, and sighs silently. he doesn’t even react to your sarcasm —of course you would have waited for him. of course he would have waited for you, too. 

and well, you have a boyfriend now, but it’s the guy you had been complaining about for weeks on facetime when you were younger, at very late hours in japan and very early hours in spain. and it might be selfish for sae to think this, but you couldn’t like your boyfriend that much if it had taken him more than four years to get a yes from you.

so maybe, after clearing the feelings between you two, you could fix the friendship you had —and had lost— during his time in spain. maybe he could... 

“would you like to hang out sometime?” he asked boldly, voice now louder and less of a whisper. his idea had potential, he thought “my family's moving out, you could come and visit the old house before we sell it, to say your goodbyes —you have memories here too.” 

your heart shrinks a little bit again,

“no, sae, i told you already. it's too late.” you try to portray a composed image, voice calm, but the distress is noticeable in your voice anyway. maybe sae hasn’t done it on purpose, but nostalgia is your weak point, and he knows that. “you are too late.”

so you don’t wait for him to say anything more before hanging up the phone. you were on edge already, a knot tightening more and more around your heart, tears piling up under your lashes. 

he has no idea how hard it was for you to move on, not just because of the distance, but because of the silence. the silence he had left when he left, and which stopped being a painful void only to become a wall between you two.

you throw your phone to the carpet of the living room; your boyfriend, still inside the bathroom, completely unaware of the state you are in —tears falling uncontrollably down your cheeks, breath uncoordinated and hard to swallow, hand covering your mouth as if, just like in a very vivid memory, you were about to throw up your heart.

of course you had spent two whole years trying to get over your first love just because itoshi sae had not recognized the envelope you’d left on his desk the last time you went to his house, and he had mixed it up with his fan’s letters. of course he hadn’t read any of them at all, because he didn’t care about his fans’ thoughts of him the way he cared about your goodbye, which he thought he would never get.

of course he hadn’t forgotten about you, and he didn’t hate you —he loved you, how could he not? and he had been scared of telling you because he thought you were the one angry at him. 

your trembling lips exhale a long sigh, and you wipe away your tears, staining your hoodie with your now-smudged makeup. you can’t help it but laugh at the irony.

of course you forgive him for everything, because you still love him. 

at least a little bit. even if you have a new boyfriend and a new whole life and you've spent drunken nights trying to forget him and rainy evenings missing him like crazy. 

in the end, seems like he loved you, too. you wonder if it was fate what didn’t allow you to be together —sae was right, though, distance was difficult and your lives way too different for a relationship to have worked. but who knows, you think. you had believed, religiously, for so many years, that sae was the one made for you —it doesn’t feel real realizing that he might have thought that about you before, too.

you sigh, closing your eyes and hugging one of your cushions. you have no more tears to cry.

if only he hadn’t read the letter two years late.

masterlist.

tags ౨ৎ @princesssae .ᐟ

pls lmk what u think in the comments, reblogging, through messages, asks or wtv!! feedback is important to me in these first posts and i'd appreciate it a lot 🤲🏼

﹫luvseisagi, april 2025.

[jmkjournalblog]

Sweet thing (Part 1)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

Word count: 2000+

Summary:  A new mysterious girl appears in the Westview, capturing Agatha's attention.

A/n: I couldn't forget this plot that came to me after watching AAA so, here we go. Btw English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Agatha Harkness leaned against her kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee as the morning sun painted the room in soft, golden hues. The house was quiet, save for the faint buzz of magic beneath her skin. It was always there now, a faint hum that had taken root since Wanda’s Hex wrapped itself around the town of Westview.

Agatha didn’t mind the quiet—she thrived in it. It gave her time to think, to observe, and, most importantly, to plan. The game Wanda was playing fascinated her, the raw chaos magic that maintained this picture-perfect suburban paradise a symphony only she seemed to hear. But Agatha wasn’t content to be a spectator.

Her musings were interrupted by a knock at the door, sharp and deliberate. Agatha frowned, setting down her mug. Few people in Westview came calling without reason. The nosy neighbors usually knocked too loudly, their voices pitched with exaggerated cheer. This knock was… tentative.

Agatha adjusted her cardigan and opened the door, her curiosity immediately piqued by the girl standing on her porch.

She was young, with an almost ethereal quality to her—a soft, doll-like beauty wrapped in a modest sundress and wide-brimmed hat. Her hands were clasped in front of her, clutching a basket of baked goods, and she looked up at Agatha with a shy, hesitant smile.

“Hi,” the girl said, her voice light and airy. “I’m Y/N. Wanda mentioned I should… introduce myself?”

Wanda. Of course.

Agatha smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, aren’t you the polite one?” she said, stepping aside to let the girl in. “Come on in, sweetie. Don’t just stand there looking like a lost kitten.”

Y/N giggled softly, the sound almost musical, and stepped inside. She looked around the living room with wide eyes, as though taking in every detail with nervous curiosity. Agatha followed her gaze, watching the way her fingers brushed the edge of a throw pillow, the faint catch in her breath as she noticed the clutter of books and trinkets on the coffee table.

“You’re new in town?” Agatha asked, her voice casual as she gestured for Y/N to sit.

Y/N perched on the edge of the couch, smoothing her dress over her knees. “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Very new. Wanda’s been so kind—helping me settle in, introducing me to everyone…”

Her voice trailed off, and she ducked her head, as if embarrassed by her own rambling. Agatha studied her, intrigued by the girl’s bashful demeanor. Wanda had mentioned her in passing—a "sweet little thing who could use a friend." But there was something about Y/N that didn’t quite fit the mold of Wanda’s usual creations.

“Wanda’s good at that,” Agatha said, her tone light. “She loves playing the perfect hostess. But don’t let her fool you—she’s got a bit of a wild side, that one.”

Y/N giggled again, her cheeks turning pink. “I don’t think I’ve seen that side of her yet.”

“Oh, stick around, honey. You will.”

Agatha leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she observed the girl with casual interest. There was something almost too perfect about Y/N—the way her smile wavered just enough to seem genuine, the slight tremor in her hands as she picked up the cup of tea Agatha had poured.

“So, what brings you to Westview?” Agatha asked, keeping her tone light.

Y/N hesitated, her gaze dropping to the cup in her hands. “I guess… I wanted a fresh start,” she said softly. “Somewhere quiet, where I could figure things out.”

Agatha raised an eyebrow. “And you picked Westview? Not exactly the first place people think of when they’re looking for a fresh start.”

Y/N’s lips quirked into a shy smile. “Wanda said it was… special. And it is. It feels… safe here.”

Safe. Agatha’s smirk widened, though she quickly hid it behind her cup. If only the girl knew the half of it.

“Well, you’re certainly in good hands with Wanda,” Agatha said, her voice warm and reassuring. “And the neighbors will eat you up. They love a sweet, innocent new face.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced up, her eyes meeting Agatha’s for the briefest moment before darting away again.

The girl’s shyness was endearing, almost painfully so. But Agatha had spent centuries honing her instincts, and something about Y/N didn’t quite add up. She didn’t press, though. Not yet.

Instead, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she gave Y/N a conspiratorial smile. “Wanda matchmaking again, huh?”

Y/N’s blush deepened, and she shook her head quickly. “Oh, no! It’s not like that. She just thought I could… learn a thing or two from you.”

Agatha chuckled, her sharp eyes gleaming with amusement. “Is that so? Well, I suppose I can be quite the teacher when I want to be.”

Y/N’s laugh was soft, nervous, and she ducked her head again, hiding her face behind the rim of her teacup. Agatha watched her for a moment longer, the faintest prickle of curiosity tugging at her thoughts.

Whatever Y/N’s story was, it wasn’t as simple as she made it seem. But Agatha could wait.

“Welcome to Westview, sweetheart,” she said finally, her tone warm but laced with subtle intent. “Something tells me you’re going to fit in just fine.”

Y/N smiled, her eyes glinting with a fleeting emotion Agatha couldn’t quite place. For now, the girl was an enigma—a puzzle wrapped in sweetness and blushes. But Agatha would figure her out.

Agatha Harkness prided herself on reading people like open books, but Y/N was proving to be an unexpectedly complex chapter. The girl had a way of weaving herself seamlessly into Wanda’s narrative, her every action a perfect blend of naivety and charm. The neighbors adored her, each interaction reinforcing her role as the sweet newcomer.

Agatha wasn’t fooled, not entirely. There was something there, lurking beneath Y/N’s soft demeanor. Something that kept her watching.

The afternoon sun bathed Wanda’s backyard in golden light as she bustled about, her hands full of gardening tools. The scent of freshly clipped grass mingled with the sweet aroma of cookies baking in the oven. Agatha leaned against the fence, watching as Y/N knelt beside Wanda, carefully arranging a row of daisies in the freshly turned soil.

"You’re a natural at this!" Wanda exclaimed, her bright smile aimed at Y/N.

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Oh, I don’t know about that," she said, her cheeks tinged with pink. "I’m just following your lead."

Agatha arched an eyebrow, sipping from the thermos of tea she’d brought over. The girl’s humility was textbook charming, her every move designed to blend in perfectly with Wanda’s carefully constructed suburban dream.

But there was more to it. Agatha could feel the faintest ripple in the Hex whenever Y/N was near. It wasn’t enough to break Wanda’s illusion, but it was there—a subtle distortion, like a melody slightly out of tune.

"Don’t sell yourself short, Y/N," Agatha called, her voice light and teasing. "You’ve got a knack for fitting right in, don’t you?"

Y/N looked up, her smile shy as she wiped her hands on her apron. "I just want to do my part," she said.

Wanda beamed at her, clearly pleased. "You’re more than doing your part," she said, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. "You’re already a part of this little family."

Agatha’s smirk softened, though her thoughts remained sharp. Wanda’s maternal instincts were in full swing, and Y/N seemed to thrive under her attention. But was it genuine, or was the girl playing her own game?

Later that evening, Agatha found herself on her front porch, nursing a glass of wine as the stars blinked into view. The hum of the Hex was quieter here, its magic settling into a steady rhythm as the town went to sleep.

She was about to head inside when she heard the soft shuffle of footsteps. Y/N emerged from the shadows, her arms wrapped around herself as if warding off the chill.

"Agnes?" she called softly, her voice tinged with hesitation.

Agatha straightened, her brows lifting in surprise. "Y/N? What are you doing out here so late?"

Y/N hesitated at the foot of the porch steps, her green eyes wide and uncertain. "I… I didn’t want to bother Wanda," she said. "I just… I couldn’t sleep."

Agatha gestured for her to come closer, her curiosity piqued. "Well, come on up, then. No sense standing out there in the cold."

Y/N climbed the steps, her movements careful and deliberate. She perched on the edge of the porch swing, her fingers twisting in her lap.

"Trouble on your mind, sweetie?" Agatha asked, her tone casual as she leaned back in her chair.

Y/N shrugged, her gaze fixed on the ground. "I don’t know. I guess… it’s just a lot, you know? Starting over, trying to fit in…"

Her voice was soft, almost fragile, and Agatha felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite name. She studied the girl in the dim light, the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders.

"Fitting in isn’t all it’s cracked up to be," Agatha said finally, her voice tinged with dry humor. "Trust me, I’ve been trying for centuries."

Y/N looked up at her, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You make it look easy."

Agatha chuckled, swirling her wine. "Oh, honey, if only you knew."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the quiet night wrapping around them like a blanket. Agatha found herself relaxing, the usual edge of her thoughts softening as she watched Y/N.

The girl was good—she had to admit that. Whatever she was hiding, she played the innocent act perfectly. But Agatha wasn’t about to let her guard down. Not yet.

"So," Agatha said, breaking the silence. "What are you really running from, Y/N?"

Y/N blinked, her expression startled. "What do you mean?"

Agatha smirked, leaning forward slightly. "Oh, come on, sweetie. Nobody ends up in a place like Westview without a reason. Fresh start, sure, but fresh starts usually mean there’s something you’re leaving behind."

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening in her lap. For a moment, Agatha thought she might deflect, but then the girl sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly.

"I guess… I’ve always been looking for somewhere I belong," she said quietly. "Somewhere I can just… be."

Her voice was so earnest, so raw, that for a moment, Agatha believed her. But there was a flicker of something in Y/N’s eyes—a shadow, fleeting and elusive—that reminded Agatha to stay sharp.

"Well," Agatha said finally, her tone softening. "You’ve got a knack for making people like you. That’s half the battle right there."

Y/N smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Agatha watched her for a moment longer, her thoughts swirling. The girl was a mystery, no doubt about it. But if there was one thing Agatha loved, it was solving puzzles.

"Goodnight, Y/N," she said, standing and draining the last of her wine.

"Goodnight, Agnes," Y/N replied, her smile shy as she rose to leave.

As Agatha watched her disappear into the night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was standing on the edge of something big. Something dangerous.

[aspenmissing]

hi hi !! any chance of a comfort fic (or headcanons) including viktor and someone that's very stressed from life in general ? like, im talking someone who feels like they haven't got any time to themselves anymore and they feel like every day is just them trying to keep their head above water :(( ofc you dont have to do it ! i just love the way you write viktor and your stuff is honestly vv comforting to me 🫶

ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 8499 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡᴏʀᴋᴇᴅ, ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ/ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ(ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ᴍʏ ꜱᴛᴜꜰꜰ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛꜱ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴋᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ! ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ʜᴜɴ! <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

Y/N sat at the edge of the workbench, the dim light of the lab flickering in the background. A jumble of half-finished projects, scattered papers, and tools cluttered the surface. She tried to focus on just one task—just one thing that could make her feel like she was getting somewhere—but the weight of everything seemed to hang over her. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up a small wrench, trying to tighten a bolt, but it wasn’t working. She couldn’t stop her mind from racing.

The noise of the world outside echoed in her mind: the demands, the expectations, the constant pressure to do more, be more, and keep pushing. Her body ached, and her chest felt heavy, as if the air itself had thickened, suffocating her. It was like she was caught in an endless cycle, spinning faster and faster, but never getting anywhere.

Every day felt like an uphill climb. Y/N tried to stay afloat—tried to stay positive, tried to make time for things that made her happy—but it felt impossible. The world had a way of pulling her in so many directions, and in all the chaos, she’d lost sight of who she was. It had been so long since she'd had time to herself, long enough to just breathe and do nothing without the constant shadow of obligation hanging over her. Every moment felt like an urgent race to keep up, to manage everything and not fall behind. The feeling of drowning, of barely keeping her head above water, gnawed at her every waking hour.

=

Jayce’s footsteps broke through the blur of her thoughts, the familiar sound of him coming closer. She barely registered it until his hand gently landed on her shoulder, sending a shock of warmth through her body. "Y/N..." His voice was soft, full of concern. "You okay?"

Y/N flinched slightly at the touch, not out of irritation but because she was so deep in her own head she hadn’t noticed him approach. She looked up at him, her eyes tired and heavy, the exhaustion in them reflected in the small, almost imperceptible slump of her posture. She tried to give him a smile, but it felt hollow. "I’m just... tired, Jayce," she whispered, her voice hoarse. The effort it took to even speak those words made her throat tighten. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately. It’s like... I can’t keep up. Every day, it’s just one thing after another, and I’m trying to stay above water, but I feel like I’m sinking."

Jayce’s expression softened instantly. His eyes, usually so intense with focus, were now filled with empathy, his brow furrowed in concern. He crouched down beside her, making sure to meet her gaze as he gently lifted his hand from her shoulder to cup her cheek. The warmth of his palm felt like a lifeline, grounding her in the moment, in the stillness of the lab that felt so foreign amidst the whirlwind in her head.

"I get it," Jayce said, his voice calm but laced with a quiet sadness, as though he could feel the weight she was carrying. "I see how hard you’ve been working, day in and day out. I know you’ve been juggling so much, and I can tell it’s taking a toll. But Y/N... you don’t have to carry all of this on your own. You don’t have to do it all by yourself."

Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to fight back the tears that suddenly threatened to spill. She hadn’t meant to break down—not here, not in front of Jayce—but the strain of holding everything in had finally cracked her open. The vulnerability she’d been hiding felt almost unbearable.

“I’m scared, Jayce,” Y/N admitted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. I’m trying so hard, but every day feels like I’m losing more of myself. And I don’t even know how to fix it.”

Jayce's eyes softened further, and for a moment, he said nothing. He just looked at her, his gaze gentle and understanding. His hand moved to the back of her neck, rubbing slow, soothing circles, his touch so steady and warm that it felt like an anchor in a storm.

"You don’t have to fix it all," he said quietly, his voice full of warmth and tenderness. "Not right now. Sometimes, all you need is a break. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard, and it’s okay to step back. You’ve done more than enough. But you can’t keep giving if you’re running on empty."

Y/N exhaled shakily, trying to steady her breathing, but she couldn’t fight the lump in her throat. Her heart felt heavy as Jayce’s words echoed in her mind. She knew he was right—had known it all along—but it was so hard to let herself admit it.

"I just... I don’t want to let anyone down," she murmured, her voice breaking as she finally let the tears fall. "I don’t want to disappoint you, or anyone else. I feel like if I stop, everything will fall apart."

Jayce immediately pulled her into his arms, holding her close in a gentle, protective embrace. His touch was grounding, warm, and unwavering, like he was giving her permission to let go of the weight she’d been carrying for far too long.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice firm but gentle, "You don’t have to carry all of this on your own. You never have to carry it alone. And as for disappointing me... I could never be disappointed in you. You’re doing the best you can, and that’s all anyone can ask of you. Including me."

The weight in Y/N’s chest felt lighter in his arms. The world outside—the endless noise, the rush, the pressure—faded to the background, replaced by the warmth of Jayce’s presence. For the first time in what felt like ages, Y/N allowed herself to just be, to let go of the frantic pace she’d set for herself, if only for a moment.

Jayce pulled back slightly, enough to look her in the eyes. "You’ve been carrying so much, love. But you don’t have to keep doing it all. Let me help you, just for a little while. Take a moment to breathe, okay?"

Y/N nodded, her eyes still watery but a small, fragile smile beginning to form on her lips. Jayce’s smile mirrored hers, warm and patient, like he was willing to wait for as long as it took for her to find her footing again.

He reached over and gently helped her sit down in one of the nearby chairs, guiding her like she was something precious, and for a moment, Y/N felt like she could just stop. Just breathe.

The air was still heavy, the world still chaotic, but for the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel alone in it. And for now, that was enough.

"I’m here, Y/N," Jayce said softly, sitting next to her and resting a hand on her shoulder, not to fix anything, but to simply be there. "You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’m here."

And with that, Y/N let her head lean on his shoulder, finally allowing herself the space to relax. The weight in her chest wasn’t gone completely, but for the first time in a long time, she felt like she could take a step back and breathe.

VIKTOR

Y/N sat at her desk, her eyes barely staying open as the pile of work seemed to double in front of her. Her hands, once steady, trembled slightly as she tried to finish yet another task that seemed impossible to complete. It felt like a never-ending loop—wake up, work, sleep, repeat. No moments of rest. No time for herself. Every day she was getting further away from the things she used to love, her passions pushed aside by the weight of everything demanding her attention.

The ticking of the clock felt louder in the quiet room, its sound almost mocking her inability to keep up. The pile of papers in front of her blurred together, her mind constantly racing but never quite finding the right track to focus on. She longed for a moment to herself. Just a minute to breathe, to feel like she wasn’t drowning.

It wasn’t until she felt a gentle tap against her desk that she even realized Viktor had entered the room. She blinked, looking up through heavy eyelids to find him standing there, his cane resting against the floor as he leaned slightly on it. He watched her for a moment, his face soft with concern, before his eyes flicked to the scattered papers and the exhaustion clearly written on her face.

“Y/N…” Viktor’s voice was quiet but firm, the way it always was when he was concerned. His gaze never left her, studying her closely.

She forced a smile, the kind that barely reached her eyes. “I’m fine, Viktor. Just... a bit of a long day.”

His brows furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line. Viktor didn’t believe it. Not for a second. He knew her too well.

“You’ve been working for hours,” he said softly, taking a step closer. “I can see it on your face… You’re barely holding yourself together.”

Y/N sighed, feeling the weight of his words sink in. She glanced at her watch—it was already late. Her body screamed for rest, but the work… the work had to be done. There was always something.

“I just need to finish this,” she muttered, but her voice faltered, her exhaustion clear.

Viktor gently placed his hand on the edge of the desk, his cane tapping softly on the floor as he leaned in a bit closer. “You can’t keep going like this, Y/N. You’re burning yourself out.”

She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that she didn’t have a choice, that she didn’t have the luxury of slowing down. But the look on Viktor’s face, the genuine concern, made the words catch in her throat.

He sat down next to her, his movements careful, as though he was afraid she might break if he moved too suddenly. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You can’t do everything at once.”

Y/N lowered her head into her hands, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water… and everything’s just piling on top of me.”

Viktor’s hand gently rested on her shoulder, his touch grounding her in the moment. “I know it feels like that. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

His words hung in the air, warm and comforting, and for the first time that day, Y/N allowed herself to breathe. Viktor was right. She didn’t have to carry the weight of the world on her own, even though it often felt that way.

“I’ll help,” Viktor continued softly. “Let me take some of this burden from you, miláčku. You’ve done more than enough. Now… let me take care of you.” (Darling)

Her heart fluttered at his words, a mixture of relief and gratitude washing over her. Viktor was always there, steady and reliable, even when everything else seemed uncertain.

Y/N gave him a tired smile, a real one this time. “Thank you, Viktor.”

He smiled back, his eyes warm with affection. “You don’t need to thank me. Just… take care of yourself.”

He helped her gather her things, his movements gentle and purposeful as he quietly nudged her out of the chair. “Come on,” he urged softly. “Let’s go home. You need rest.”

Y/N nodded, her body aching for the comfort of her bed, but Viktor had other plans. He’d never been one to simply let her collapse into the world of sleep without giving her the space to breathe, to let go for a moment.

=

The walk back to their shared apartment felt like the longest part of her day, but Viktor was by her side, always there to steady her, offering quiet words of encouragement and support. Once inside, she shed her work clothes for something more comfortable and sank into the couch, letting her body fall against the cushions in a way that felt foreign—almost like she was rediscovering what comfort truly meant.

Viktor followed, careful not to disturb the peace she craved, and sat beside her. He didn’t rush her or demand anything from her. He simply wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side. It wasn’t much, but the simple act of being close to him—of not being alone—was more soothing than any words could express.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Viktor reach for something on the table—her book. It was the one she had started weeks ago, the one she hadn’t had the chance to finish because work and life always seemed to take priority. She smiled weakly, watching as he gently opened it, his fingers grazing the pages with care.

“Would you like me to read to you?” Viktor asked quietly, his voice soft and comforting as always.

Y/N felt the weight on her chest lift just a little at the offer. It felt good to have him take the lead, to let him guide her toward something restful, something she didn’t have to carry alone.

She nodded, sinking further into his warmth, her head resting on his shoulder as he began to read. The words, though simple, felt like a balm to her worn-out soul. Viktor’s voice was steady and soothing, drawing her into the world of the story and away from the worries that had plagued her mind for so long.

As he read, she closed her eyes, letting herself be enveloped by the sound of his voice. She wasn’t thinking about the work waiting for her or the never-ending list of responsibilities. For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to simply exist.

Viktor continued reading, his arm around her shoulders pulling her closer. The world outside their apartment faded into the background, and for that moment, Y/N allowed herself to rest. She could let go. Viktor had her, and that was enough.

JAYVIK

It had been a long, grueling week at the lab. Y/N barely remembered the last time she had a moment to herself, let alone a decent meal or a full night’s sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, the work piled higher in her mind, like a stack of unfinished reports. It was as if there was no escaping the relentless demands. Each day, she was drowning a little more, struggling to keep her head above the water.

By the time she got home, she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. The exhaustion hit her like a wall. Her body was begging for rest, but her mind wouldn’t let her stop. The moment she stepped inside, Y/N didn’t even bother to take her shoes off. She shuffled into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, already halfway asleep. Papers were scattered across the coffee table, some unfinished reports, others filled with calculations, and a pen still loosely gripped in her hand. It was a scene that was all too familiar—her mind and body just too tired to continue.

When Viktor and Jayce arrived home, they found her exactly where they had expected: completely worn out. Viktor’s gaze softened as he surveyed the scene—Y/N’s sleeping form slumped on the couch, her legs curled up beneath her, her face pinched with exhaustion even in sleep. The faint click of Viktor’s cane against the floor echoed in the room as he stepped closer, his usually steady hand holding the cane as if it grounded him, yet his concern was evident in every line of his face.

“Lásko…” Viktor whispered, kneeling beside her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. His heart ached seeing her like this. He could relate to the overwhelming weight of endless work, but he knew she was pushing herself too far. (Love)

Jayce stood beside him, his brow furrowed. He glanced at Viktor, his eyes full of concern. “She’s been burning herself out. She never gives herself a chance to breathe.”

Viktor sighed quietly, his voice low but filled with understanding. “She believes she has to handle everything on her own. She needs us… and a break.”

Without waiting for further words, Jayce knelt down and gently scooped her into his arms, his hands secure and strong around her. Y/N stirred slightly but remained asleep, her body instinctively curling against him as if she knew she was safe. She let out a small sigh, her muscles relaxing the moment she felt his warmth.

“Come on, let’s get her to bed,” Jayce murmured, his voice soft, almost protective.

Viktor, still kneeling beside them, gently took her hand, his fingers lightly curling around hers. As Jayce stood, lifting her carefully, Viktor followed behind, his cane clicking softly as it tapped against the floor. He stayed close, his presence a steady comfort, and he looked down at Y/N’s sleeping face, his thumb softly brushing over her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin and the steadiness of her breath.

When they reached the bedroom, Jayce laid her gently on the bed, adjusting the blankets around her so she was comfortable. He tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, his expression tender. Viktor moved to the other side of the bed, sitting down beside her, and continued holding her hand as he whispered words of reassurance.

"Rest, Y/N," he murmured, his voice calm and soothing. "Let go of all the pressure. We’re here now."

=

Once they were sure she was settled and asleep, Viktor and Jayce quietly left the room. They worked together to clean up the living room, stacking the papers neatly, organizing the reports, and making the place feel more inviting. The clutter of the day was swept away, and in its place, a calming atmosphere settled in.

Jayce busied himself in the kitchen, pulling out all of Y/N’s favourite ingredients. He moved with practiced ease, preparing a warm meal that he knew would comfort her—her favourite dish, made just the way she liked it. Viktor stood by the counter, helping where he could, but his mind kept drifting back to Y/N, his thoughts focused on her well-being.

“I think she’ll feel better after a good meal and some rest,” Jayce said quietly, glancing at Viktor as he set the table.

Viktor nodded, his gaze distant, yet soft. “She deserves more than just a moment of rest. We need to show her that it’s okay to lean on us. We can’t let her carry the weight of everything alone.”

=

After a short time, the meal was ready, and the kitchen was filled with the mouthwatering scent of Y/N’s favorite dish. Jayce and Viktor shared a look of quiet determination as they made their way back to the bedroom, where Y/N still slept soundly, the weight of exhaustion holding her in a peaceful slumber.

The moonlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting a serene glow over the room. Viktor stood at the foot of the bed, watching Y/N with a soft gaze, his heart swelling with the quiet understanding of just how much she had been pushing herself. He didn’t want to wake her, but he knew she needed to eat and take care of herself.

Gently, he reached out and brushed his fingers against Y/N’s cheek, a whisper of a touch meant to rouse her without startling her. His voice was soft but firm. “Miláčku… It’s time to wake up. We’ve got something for you.” (Darling)

She stirred slightly, a small sigh escaping her lips as the fatigue of the day clung to her. Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, taking in the soft light of the room and the warmth of her surroundings. She blinked a few times, trying to shake off the haze of sleep, but the sight of Viktor and Jayce standing there—looking at her with such care and concern—was enough to ease some of the tension in her chest.

She didn’t say anything at first, just took a few moments to process the quiet comfort of the room and their presence. But when her gaze met Jayce’s, a soft smile tugged at her lips. His features were gentle, and there was something so reassuring in his expression.

Jayce smiled back, his voice warm and steady. “We’ve got dinner ready for you. You’ve been working too hard, and now it’s time for you to rest and enjoy something just for you.”

Y/N's throat felt tight for a moment, emotions swirling inside her. She was overwhelmed by their care, by their willingness to take everything off her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how much she needed this until now. Her eyes drifted closed for a brief moment, letting out a soft, quiet sigh as she let herself fully take in the comfort they were offering her.

Viktor, seeing her struggle to find her words, bent down to her level, brushing a kiss against her forehead. His touch was light, tender, and reassuring, as if grounding her in the moment. “Take your time,” he murmured, his voice low and calming. “You don’t have to rush. We’re here for you.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, and she allowed herself to sink deeper into the bed. The fatigue from the past few days seemed to linger in the air around her, but with Viktor and Jayce’s unwavering presence, she felt it begin to slowly dissipate.

Jayce set the bowl of food on the nightstand next to her, then climbed into the bed beside her. He gently lifted her into a sitting position, making sure she was comfortable. His hand rested lightly on her back, guiding her to take the first bite of the warm meal. It was exactly what she needed—a simple, comforting dish she hadn’t realized she craved until now.

Viktor joined them on the bed, sitting beside her, his hand brushing over her hair, combing through the strands in soothing motions. They both watched her with quiet attention, their eyes soft and filled with affection. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, grateful for the care they were showing her in this quiet moment.

After a while, she finished her meal, and Viktor took the bowl from her, setting it aside. “How do you feel?” he asked softly, his gaze searching hers.

“Better,” she whispered, her voice hushed, but there was a genuine warmth to it now. “I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

Jayce leaned in closer, placing a gentle hand on her knee. “You don’t always have to do everything alone, you know. We’re here for you. Just let us help.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her chest tightening with a mixture of relief and gratitude. She had always carried everything on her own—always thought she had to push through the exhaustion, the stress, the overwhelming demands. But with them here, she realized how much of a burden she had been placing on herself.

VANDER

The day had been a whirlwind, the noise from the kids echoing through the house like a never-ending storm. Vi was arguing with Powder again, Mylo had gotten into something he shouldn’t, and Claggor—well, Claggor just didn’t know when to stay out of trouble. It felt like there was always something to fix, someone to listen to, and the weight of it all was crushing.

Y/N had barely had a moment to herself in days. Every time she thought she might have a second to breathe, something else pulled her back into the chaos. They used to be able to balance everything, but lately it felt like she was barely treading water. The frustration, the exhaustion, it all boiled over when Powder had accidentally knocked over a jar, spilling its contents across the floor.

“Why can’t you be more careful?!” Y/N snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. Her heart sank the moment the words left her lips. Powder’s wide eyes filled with surprise and hurt, and Vi stood frozen, unsure of what to do.

“Y/N, calm down,” Vi said, her tone tense but trying to be gentle. “It’s just a mess.”

“I don’t have time for messes! I don’t have time for anything anymore!” Y/N cried, running a hand through her hair. “I’m the one always picking up after everyone. I can’t keep doing this... I can’t keep going like this!”

Without another word, Y/N turned and walked out of the room, their heart aching as the sounds of the kids murmuring followed behind. She felt the weight of their stares, but she couldn’t stay. Not like this.

Y/N shut the door to her and Vander’s room with a quiet thud, locking it behind her. The silence in the room was deafening. She collapsed onto the bed, her face buried in her hands, and let the tears come. It felt like everything had piled up—her responsibilities, the lack of time, the constant pressure. She felt like she was failing everyone, and worse, she’d snapped at the kids. They didn’t deserve that.

Her chest heaved with each sob, the tears flowing freely as the flood of emotions she had been bottling up finally overflowed. The weight of it all was too much.

A soft knock on the door made her flinch. “Y/N?” Vander’s voice was quiet, concerned. “Can I come in?”

She wiped her face hastily, sniffling. “I... I don’t want to talk about it, Vander,” she whispered.

The door creaked open slowly, and Vander stepped inside, his expression full of worry. He didn’t need to ask what was wrong—he could see it in the way she was curled up on the bed, how defeated she looked. The kids weren’t stupid either; they knew something was off, but he could see the toll it was taking on Y/N.

He walked over and sat beside her, gently taking her hand. “You’re carrying too much on your own, love,” he murmured. “You don’t have to do it all.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, the guilt sinking in as she leaned against him. “I don’t even know who I am anymore, Vander. I’m so tired of always trying to keep up, trying to keep everything from falling apart. I snapped at the kids, and now I feel like I’m failing them... failing you.”

Vander’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “You’re not failing anyone, Y/N. We’re in this together, always. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself. We’re a team, and if it’s too much for you right now, then I’m here. Let me help you.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding, the weight on her chest easing just a little. Vander’s presence was like a lifeline, steady and grounding.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

Vander squeezed her hand gently. “You’re not alone, love. You don’t have to do it all at once. One step at a time. And when you need a break, we’ll take it together. No shame in asking for help. Not from me, not from anyone.”

Y/N closed her eyes, a few more tears slipping down her cheeks as she nodded, letting herself finally lean into him fully. The world outside could wait for just a moment, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to just breathe.

Vander continued to hold her, offering comfort with every soft touch and reassuring word. “We’ll figure it out. One day at a time, Y/N. You’ve got this. And when you don’t, I’m right here with you.”

=

The room was heavy with the silence that followed Vander’s gentle reassurances. Y/N’s sobs had slowed to soft sniffles, and she felt herself drawing a little strength from the steady rhythm of Vander’s presence beside her. He held her close, and for a few precious moments, the outside world ceased to exist. It was just the two of them, holding onto each other, and for the first time all day, Y/N could breathe, even if just a little easier.

But the calm didn’t last for long.

A small creak at the door and then a soft knock interrupted the quiet. Y/N looked up, her red eyes meeting Vander’s, her chest tightening with guilt.

“Mom?” It was Vi, her voice quiet but unmistakably full of concern.

The door opened just enough for the kids to slip inside. Powder, Vi, Mylo, and Claggor, all standing there with wide eyes, their faces uncertain. They had followed her here. Y/N’s heart dropped, the guilt overwhelming her all over again. She’d been so angry with them, so caught up in her own frustration that she had lashed out. They didn’t deserve that. None of them did.

Y/N wiped her eyes, but the tears kept coming. She didn’t know what to say—how could she apologize for snapping at them, for letting everything get the best of her?

Vi stepped forward first, her brow furrowed but her tone soft. “We’re sorry, Mom... We didn’t mean to upset you.”

Y/N swallowed, her throat tight. “No, it’s not your fault, sweetheart. I—I shouldn’t have yelled,” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t deserve that. You’re just being kids. I should have been better.”

Powder’s little face was a mixture of confusion and hurt. “But you were mad at us. We didn’t mean to mess things up, I swear!”

Y/N shook her head, her voice trembling with emotion as she looked at them all. “I know, Powder. I know you didn’t. I’ve just been so... so overwhelmed. And I didn’t know how to handle it. But that’s no excuse for taking it out on you.”

She took a deep breath, her voice breaking as she continued, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt any of you. I love you all so much. Please know that.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Then, without warning, Powder took a few steps forward, her arms opening wide. Without a word, she wrapped herself tightly around Y/N, burying her face into her mother’s chest.

Y/N’s heart twisted at the sight, and she immediately pulled her daughter closer, holding her tightly. "I’m so sorry, blue," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I didn’t mean to upset you."

Powder’s small voice came out muffled against her. “I know, Mom... I just... I just wanted you to know I love you.”

Y/N squeezed her tighter, a wave of relief washing over her as the love she felt for her children flooded her heart.

One by one, the others joined in. Vi, always protective, was next, her strong arms wrapping around both of them. Claggor, more reserved, stood behind her, his hand gently placed on Y/N’s shoulder before he slowly joined in the group hug. Mylo, who often kept his emotions locked away, hesitated for a moment but then stepped forward, his voice softer than usual. "We get it, Mom," he said, his arms finally circling around the family. "You’re doing a lot... We don’t blame you.”

Y/N couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. She held them all, feeling the warmth of their embrace, the weight of her guilt melting away in that moment. “I love all of you so much,” she whispered through her tears. “And I’m sorry for not handling things better. I promise I’ll try harder, and I’ll always be here for you."

They stayed there in the middle of the room, huddled together, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade. The chaos, the pressures of the world outside, the overwhelming responsibilities—all of it didn’t matter in this instant. They were together, and that was enough.

Vander’s hand rested on Y/N’s back, grounding her in the quiet moment of love and connection, reminding her that no matter how hard things got, they were a family—and together, they would always be enough.

SILCO

Y/N sat in her cramped office, the dim light from the single desk lamp casting long shadows across the scattered papers and empty coffee mugs that had accumulated over the past few days. Her hands trembled as they clutched the edge of the desk, her breathing shallow and uneven. Another day of running, of deadlines, of feeling like she was constantly drowning in demands—yet none of it ever seemed to stop.

The clock on the wall ticked louder in the silence, each second a painful reminder of how much time had slipped away from her. She had always been the kind of person who could handle things, keep her composure, but today… today felt like the weight of the world was finally too much.

Without thinking, Y/N’s hands shot out and swiped across the desk, sending papers fluttering into the air like a violent storm. She shoved things off the edge, watching them crash to the floor in a mess of splintering wood and glass. The sound of it echoed in her ears as a sharp, hot pain bloomed in her palm. Looking down, she realized she had cut herself—broken glass had embedded itself into her skin, but the pain barely registered. It was nothing compared to the crushing weight of her exhaustion, her stress, her inability to just breathe.

She stood there, trembling, as a few beads of blood dripped onto the floor.

There was a brief, unsettling silence before she heard the door open.

Silco, with his usual calculated grace, stepped into the room, his sharp eyes scanning the chaos around him. He took in the broken glass, the overturned furniture, the disarray—and then, finally, his gaze settled on Y/N, whose face was pale and flushed with the aftermath of her outburst.

"Y/N," he said, his voice low and steady, almost too calm. "What have you done?"

Her eyes flickered to the shards of glass scattered at her feet, then back to him. The words stuck in her throat. How could she explain? How could she tell him that she was drowning in a sea of expectations, responsibilities, and the constant pressure to keep it all together?

Instead, she wiped the blood from her palm, trying to force a smile, but it only came out as a twisted grimace. "Nothing… Just… Just tired."

Silco took a slow step forward, his expression softening for the briefest of moments. He reached out, his fingers brushing against her injured hand, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the cold edge of his demeanor.

"You’re not fine," he said quietly. "You’re breaking yourself for things that don’t matter."

Y/N met his gaze, the weight of his words settling heavily on her shoulders. She didn't want to break down, not now, not here. But with Silco standing in front of her, offering something she hadn't expected—understanding—she couldn't help but let the dam crack.

"I don’t know how to fix it," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I feel like I’m running out of time… like I’m always falling behind, always just trying to stay afloat. I don’t even know who I am anymore."

He didn’t say anything right away, but instead, he stepped closer, his presence towering over her in a way that should have been intimidating but somehow felt reassuring. His eyes softened as he took her uninjured hand in his, pulling her gently toward him. The tension in her chest loosened slightly as he held her, his grip firm, but not harsh.

"You don’t have to do this alone," Silco said, his voice now barely above a whisper. "I’ve seen what you’re capable of, Y/N. But even the strongest need a moment to breathe. Take it. You don’t have to carry it all."

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his words settle deep in her chest. Maybe… just maybe… she could let go for a while. She could trust that someone might be there to help her back up when she fell.

Her breath steadied, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself to simply rest, letting the chaos fade into the background for just a moment.

=

Silco’s grip on her hand didn’t falter as he gently guided her from the wreckage of the office. Her legs felt shaky beneath her, the exhaustion now fully sinking in, and she leaned into him for support. The pain in her hand was a dull throb, but it was the last thing on her mind compared to the overwhelming sense of relief at simply not being alone with her thoughts.

They reached the door to their shared room, and Silco opened it with ease, ushering her inside. The warm, dim lighting of the room contrasted with the harsh, sterile feel of her office. Silco didn’t hesitate for a moment—he helped her over to the bed, carefully laying her down, the sheets cool against her skin.

Y/N let out a soft sigh, her body sinking into the comfort of the bed, but the weight of everything still hung over her. Silco stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, his gaze fixed on her, his sharp features softer than usual. It wasn’t often that he showed vulnerability, but in this moment, his concern for her was evident.

“You’ve done enough for today,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Let me take care of you.”

Y/N watched as he moved to a nearby drawer, pulling out a small first aid kit. She was vaguely aware of his careful movements, the way he treated each item with precision. His presence was oddly calming, grounding her in the midst of her storm. As he returned to her side, he didn’t speak for a moment, simply taking her injured hand in his. His touch was surprisingly tender, as if he were handling something fragile.

“Hold still,” he instructed softly, his voice a low murmur.

Y/N did as he said, watching him with quiet eyes as he cleaned the cut on her palm with a soft cloth. The sting of the antiseptic made her flinch slightly, but she didn’t pull away. There was something about his care, the way he moved with such confidence and authority, that made her feel safer than she had all day.

Silco worked methodically, each motion deliberate. His gaze occasionally flickered up to meet hers, but he didn’t say much—he didn’t need to. It was clear he was focused on her, on making sure she was alright, and that was enough.

When the wound was cleaned and bandaged, he paused, his thumb lightly grazing over the wrapped hand. “This won’t be the last time you hurt yourself like this if you don’t take a step back,” he said, his voice still quiet, but firm.

Y/N glanced up at him, unsure how to respond. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could see everything she had been hiding from herself—her fears, her doubts, the mess of emotions she had tried so hard to keep contained.

“You don’t have to keep everything inside,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “You don’t have to be the one to carry all the weight.”

She swallowed, fighting the lump in her throat. "I don’t know how to stop. I don't know how to let go."

Silco sat beside her on the bed, his hand still resting gently on hers. For a moment, he just looked at her, his sharp eyes piercing, but there was something else there now. Something softer.

“You don’t have to let go all at once,” he said quietly. “But you need to let someone in. Let me in.”

His gaze softened as he brushed a lock of hair away from her face, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "I won’t let you drown, my darling. Not while I’m here."

Y/N's chest tightened as the words sank in. There was comfort in them, but also a rawness. A weight that she didn’t know how to carry, but didn’t feel quite so heavy with him at her side.

She closed her eyes, letting herself rest in the quiet, in the calm that Silco had offered her—a rare peace amidst the chaos of her mind.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with the weight of unspoken things.

Silco didn't answer right away, but his presence beside her was enough. His hand, still holding hers, was warm and steady—a silent promise that, for once, she didn’t have to fight alone.

JINX/POWDER

Y/N sat in the corner of the small, dimly lit room, her fingers tangled in her hair as she stared blankly at the table in front of her. The faint sound of ticking from an old clock on the wall was the only thing breaking the silence. She had barely slept in days, overwhelmed by everything piling up around her. Life had become a relentless wave, crashing over her with no respite, no time to breathe.

She hadn’t had a single moment to herself in what felt like forever. Every day was the same: wake up, face the chaos, try to stay afloat. And yet, no matter how hard she swam, she never quite made it to shore. It felt like the world around her was constantly spinning faster, while she was stuck in the eye of the storm, unable to move forward.

Jinx, ever perceptive despite her chaotic personality, leaned against the doorframe. Her mischievous grin softened as she saw Y/N’s exhaustion. "Hey, hey," she said, her voice a little gentler than usual. "You look like you’ve seen better days, pal."

Y/N didn’t immediately respond. She simply nodded, her gaze never leaving the table. Jinx padded over, plopping down beside her. The room was quiet for a moment, save for the occasional clink of Jinx’s bracelets or the hum of her wild energy trying to find its outlet.

"You know," Jinx began, swinging her legs back and forth as she nudged Y/N’s arm lightly, "it’s okay to stop sometimes, y’know? You don’t gotta keep running all the time. Life’s nuts, yeah, but you can’t let it steal all your joy."

Y/N glanced at her, trying to manage a smile, but it felt too heavy. “I just… I don’t know how to keep going, Jinx. It’s like... like I’m just treading water and I can’t get out of this cycle.”

Jinx tilted her head, her usual wild energy settling for just a moment. “Sounds like you need a break. Like, a serious one. Not one of those ‘I’ll just close my eyes for five minutes’ things. I mean a real one.”

Y/N sighed, rubbing her temples as the weight of the world seemed to press down harder. “I don’t even know what that would look like. It’s like... everything’s so out of my control. I can’t even find a minute where I’m not thinking about what’s next.”

Jinx reached over, grabbing Y/N’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “You know what I think? I think you deserve a little chaos that’s just for fun. Not the kind that makes your head spin—nah. The kind that makes you laugh, even if it’s just for a second.”

Y/N glanced at Jinx, her expression softening just a bit. “I don’t know if I have the energy for chaos right now…”

Jinx tilted her head, her bright blue eyes studying Y/N closely. For a moment, she was quiet, sensing the exhaustion in her friend’s voice. She could see that Y/N wasn’t up for anything big—not the loud, explosive kind of chaos Jinx usually thrived on. Instead, her grin softened, and she gave Y/N’s hand another reassuring squeeze. “Alright, alright. Maybe we don’t need to go all out. You don’t gotta run at full speed. How about... something small? Just a little bit of fun. Something that doesn’t need all that energy.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by Jinx’s sudden shift. She was usually all about wild, unpredictable adventures. “Small?” Y/N asked, her voice hesitant. “Like what?”

Jinx thought for a moment, her eyes lighting up with a playful spark. “How about we take a walk? Nothing crazy. Just... get out of this place for a bit. I bet we can find something interesting, even if it’s just in the alley or down by the docks. I promise, you won’t have to run around like a lunatic.”

Y/N smiled softly, appreciating the gentleness in Jinx’s suggestion. “That sounds... doable,” she said, her voice a little steadier. “Maybe I just need to... breathe for a moment.”

Jinx grinned widely, her usual exuberance returning in full force. “Exactly! And hey, I’ll make sure nothing too ridiculous happens—no promises about what we find, though,” she added with a wink.

Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle at Jinx’s playful tone. “Alright, let’s go.”

=

With that, they stood up and stepped outside. The cool night air hit Y/N’s face, and she felt a little weight lift off her shoulders as she followed Jinx down the street. The city stretched out in front of them, a familiar mix of shadowy alleys and the neon glow of distant lights. But tonight, it didn’t seem so overwhelming. There was no rush, no pressure. Just a quiet moment between two friends—one who had learned to slow down, and the other who, for once, didn’t need to drag her into an explosion of color and sound.

They walked, side by side, for a while. The pace was slow, almost meandering, and Y/N let herself enjoy the simple act of being out in the world, without the constant pressure of things that needed to be done. She didn’t have to think about the work waiting for her back home, or the things she had been neglecting for weeks. She didn’t have to focus on anything except the sound of her boots tapping softly against the cracked pavement, the hum of the distant city, and Jinx’s voice breaking the quiet every now and then with some random, offbeat observation.

Y/N smiled slightly at Jinx’s ramblings. Despite the madness of the world they lived in, the chaotic moments Jinx often dragged her into, there was something incredibly grounding about her presence right now. She wasn’t pulling Y/N toward a wild adventure or an explosive stunt. Instead, they were just two people walking. And in that simple act, Y/N realized, for the first time in a long while, she could actually take a moment to just be.

The wind carried the smell of old brick and faint smoke from nearby fires. The city always felt like it was half-dreaming, always moving yet always at rest. It was a rhythm that Y/N had grown used to, even if it sometimes felt like it was working against her. But tonight, she let herself flow with it.

After walking for a while, Jinx’s energetic voice broke the calm. She glanced over at Y/N, a sly grin on her face. “Hey, you’re looking a lot less like you’re about to collapse. Progress! But, I think it’s time for a little... treat.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, curious. “Treat? What, like ice cream?”

Jinx shook her head in exaggerated disbelief. “Nah, no ice cream for you! Too cold for that. But I know a place.” She gave Y/N a mischievous look. “It’s weird. You’ll probably never find another one like it.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “Well, if it’s weird, then I’m definitely in.”

The two of them veered off the main street, walking toward a tiny café tucked between two larger, much grittier buildings. The sign above the door was old and worn, and the words were barely visible from age and grime, but there was something charming about it—the kind of place where the inside felt cozy despite its external appearance.

As they stepped inside, the warmth of the café enveloped them, a stark contrast to the chill of the street. The smell of brewing coffee and baked goods filled the air, making Y/N’s stomach rumble softly. The interior was a mishmash of mismatched chairs and old wooden tables, the kind of place that looked like it had been around for ages, catering to everyone from tired travelers to locals who sought out its quiet corners.

Jinx, of course, wasted no time. She walked straight up to the counter, where an older woman with a kind face looked up from behind the counter, recognizing her instantly. “Back again, Jinx?” the woman asked with a small laugh.

Jinx grinned wide. “You know it! And I brought my friend Y/N this time. She’s in desperate need of some weird food.”

The woman raised an eyebrow but nodded, giving Y/N a friendly smile. “Well, you’re in the right place. We’ve got pastries that’ll make you question everything you thought you knew about food.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of a pastry that could be so world-altering. “I’m intrigued. What do you recommend?”

The woman leaned in, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Our special today is something called ‘jelly beans and cheese scones.’ Strange, I know, but it’s a local favorite.”

Y/N blinked, not sure whether to laugh or grimace. “Jelly beans... and cheese scones?”

Jinx nodded enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling. “I told you it was weird! You gotta try it! It sounds insane, but it’s kinda... surprisingly good.”

Y/N hesitated, but then glanced at Jinx. Her energy was infectious, and for some reason, it felt right to just go with it tonight. "Alright, I’ll try it."

The woman smiled knowingly and handed them both a small plate with the strange combo. Y/N took a tentative bite of the scone, and to her surprise, the sweetness of the jelly beans paired with the rich, buttery flavour of the scone worked. It was... unusual, but in a comforting way. She couldn't help but laugh at how ridiculous it all was.

Jinx grinned like she’d just won a victory. “See? Told you it’s a game-changer. Life’s too short to take seriously all the time. Sometimes, you just gotta eat jelly beans and cheese scones.”

Y/N laughed, her heart light. She took another bite, savoring the oddness of it all. It felt good. It felt like a step in the right direction.

They sat there for a while longer, talking about nothing in particular—just letting the quiet moments stretch on, the world outside forgotten. And in that small, cozy café, Y/N felt the tension slowly ease from her shoulders. Maybe it was just a simple walk, a weird pastry, and a bit of conversation, but it was enough to remind her that it was okay to take a pause. It was okay to breathe.

And for the first time in a long while, Y/N let herself feel... at peace.

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Voicemail

A Seams oneshot, but can be read independently of the series

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: T

Summary: You find Joel's old Nokia at the back of a drawer.

Warnings: Angst, description of a panic attack, grief, comfort, no use of Y/N, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has no physical description, definitely incorrect description of how mobile phones work, very lightly edited.

As always, Seams oneshots are set on a relaxed timeline. Voicemail can be considered to take place at an unspecified time after Part IV.

Word count: 1.8k

Notes: I don't know if anyone has written anything similar, but I've always wanted to write something about Joel's Nokia (the idea for Butter actually came from the phone scene in episode 1 - can't you tell? lol). This idea took me by surprise one night and didn't let me go.

Important note: I know voicemails don't work this way, but let's pretend that they are saved onto the mobile phone itself and can be accessed decades later, and that a Nokia can indeed survive the apocalypse.

After the outbreak, after Sarah, after missing his shot - he doesn’t remember much of those early, blurry days. Tommy barely managed to drag his catatonic ass to an abandoned house somewhere on the outskirts of town, where he had to punch him in the face to snap him out of it. 

It being a cocktail of shock, grief, pain and numbness that should’ve killed him, could’ve killed any man. And for the longest time he wished that it did.

It was in the aftershock of that punch, left cheek snapped to his shoulder and his eyes downcast, that Joel saw his Nokia was still clipped to his belt, by some miracle unscathed when everything else had fallen apart.

And he keeps it all these years.

He hadn’t meant to take it with him when he packed up his meagre life to leave Boston behind. But the grubby afternoon light glanced off the screen when he was grabbing maps and hammers from under the dusty floorboards, and with a fuck it, he shrugged and shoved it into the bottom of his backpack. 

If he was being honest with himself, it didn’t feel right leaving it behind.

And so the phone made it to Jackson, and survived the detour to Salt Lake City, largely forgotten. Joel was almost surprised by the sight of it when he finally unpacked his bag in the house that was now his and Ellie’s. 

With a wry smile, he tossed it into a nondescript drawer in the garage, never to see the light of day again.

Until one weekend, Joel asks you to help him find some obscure screwdriver in his garage, not able to get up from where he’s on his back, stemming the flow of the perpetually leaky sink in Ellie’s bathroom.

The space is cool, the shutters down and the air dank from the lack of sun. Under the flickering fluorescent light, you go through a frankly ridiculous number of toolboxes without sighting the elusive screwdriver. With a sigh, you try the middle drawer in the workbench, which is clogged with what looks like everything under the sun. 

Your lips twitch - Joel Miller is a messy man.

Digging around the random clutter, you startle when your fingers brush the long-forgotten, yet instantly familiar plastic case of the Nokia.

Wrapping your hand around the rectangular frame, you smile, in disbelief that you’re holding a mobile phone. You had a similar one that got lost in the confusion of the first days of the outbreak, and you haven’t seen one in the years since. At least not one in such good condition.

Joel’s faraway voice jolts you out of your thoughts. ‘Found it, sweetheart?’

‘Just a second!’ you call back.

Tucking the phone back where it came from, you grab the nearest screwdriver and hope for the best. 

It takes you a few days of asking around town, poking around dusty storerooms and untangling twenty year-old electric cords, but you eventually find what you’re looking for, and there’s a spring in your step as you cook dinner that evening. 

Joel seems to pick up on your energy, and he grins, amused, when he brings in the empty dishes after you eat.

‘You’re buzzin’ out of your skin, sweetheart,’ he teases, grabbing you by the waist. ‘What’s up with you?’

You cock your head to the side. ‘Well, I have a surprise for you.’

‘Is that so?’ he hums, then lets his voice drop an octave in playful insinuation. ‘What kind of surprise, hmm?’

‘Not that kind of surprise,’ you huff with a smile. ‘It’s - it’s hard to explain.’

‘Try me.’

Twisting out of his grip, you open a cabinet and pull out something that fits neatly in your palm. Joel frowns, confused by what looks like - a charger.

When you speak, it’s slow, as if you don’t want to startle him. ‘There’s a whole warehouse of wires and things down by the canteen. A patrol stumbled across an electronics shop in a nearby town a few years ago.’

He gives you a crooked smile. ‘And what am I s’pposed to do with it, sweetheart?’

You take a moment, making sure that his eyes are on you before the words come out. ‘I found the Nokia in your garage the other day, when I was looking for the screwdriver.’

You watch as Joel processes your words, and he goes still, stiller than you’ve ever seen him. 

Then he blinks and shuffles his feet, glancing down at the charger. ‘I - I didn’t expect this.’

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ‘I know. And you don’t have to do anything with it, really, but I just wanted you to have it.’

He nods, slowly. ‘Ok.’

Hesitating, you stutter, ‘So, um, do you - want to take it -?’

Joel holds his hand out, calloused palm quietly upturned. You half expect him to jump at the contact, but he doesn’t move a muscle when the black wire lands in his grasp, and his thick fingers curl around them.

‘I got the dishes, if you want to go first,’ you prompt softly.

Joel swallows, then nods. ‘Yeah, I think I’ll do that. If y’ don’t mind, sweetheart.’

‘Of course,’ you smile, pressing a kiss to his lips.

It’s cold outside, but he doesn’t feel it, not when the charger seems to be burning a hole in his hand. When he gets back to his house - empty, Ellie is at Lucy’s for dinner - he heads straight to the garage, and tugs open the drawer.

The Nokia stares back at him, screen blank.

Flinging the charger into the drawer without seeing where it lands, he shoves the drawer close with a snap.

Weeks pass. It hangs in the back of his mind like a spector, even though you don’t bring it up again, and he doesn’t either. 

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all - hopeful of what he would find on it.

It’s been twenty years. Electronics don’t last that long. It’s gotta be wiped clean.

One Wednesday night, Ellie is upstairs, music blaring, doing ‘homework’ or whatever she does on a weeknight (he doesn’t believe in helicopter parenting), and Joel finds his thoughts drifting to that damn drawer.

Feeling reckless, he reaches for the top shelf in the kitchen, pours himself two fingers of whiskey, and charges into the garage.

Hopping onto a workstool, he takes a big gulp of liquid courage and sets the tumbler on the work surface. Before his resolve slips completely out of touch, he yanks on the handle, and he winces when the drawer yawns open with a screech.

The Nokia feels foreign to the touch, like he’s forgotten how to hold a phone. It was, of course, glued to his ear almost all hours of the day and night once upon a time. He turns the plastic case over and the other way around again, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the buttons.

There’s no putting it off forever.

In goes the plug into the electric socket, and he looks down, phone in the left hand, the end of the charger in the other.

He thinks he’s seeing double until he realises that his hands are fucking shaking.

In one determined motion, he slots the charger into the bottom of the phone and drops it like it’s acid.

Then he downs the rest of his whiskey.

He’s not sure how long he stares, the very air around him as unmoving as himself, and he feels the alcohol spread its warm fingers through his veins. 

Just when he’s about to look away, it happens.

The battery sign appears on the screen.

Joel almost chokes on a chuckle. He can’t fucking believe it. You really can’t kill a Nokia if you tried.

It doesn’t take long for the familiar home screen to pop up, the time on the top right corner, the battery in the bottom right. The bright green glare casts a cool glow in the dim. Joel picks up the phone, only to be nearly knocked backwards off the chair when the words flash across the screen.

1 NEW VOICEMAIL.

He’s sure his heart has stopped, it definitely feels like it, a deadweight in his chest sinking into his stomach. But he hears it, the relentless beat of it, pounding violently in his ears. Too fast. Gripping the edge of the work surface, he tries to breathe, mouth open, but air isn’t getting in.

It could be nothing. Could be a voicemail he missed from a client that night, or a junk call.

He’s not sure if he’s afraid of it, or dreading it, or worst of all -

He’s trembling so badly that he needs both hands to hold the phone steady, just so that his thumb presses the selection key.

He doesn’t hear the pre-recorded message, his brain skips it entirely. Then there’s five seconds of silence, and his life flashes before his eyes at the familiar beep -

Dad, are you on your way home? Please tell me you remembered the cake. Uncle Tommy bet me ten dollars that you won’t and I kinda need that lunch money tomorrow. See you soon, love you dad -

And everything goes white.

When Joel comes around, he’s on his knees, the empty tumbler in crystalline pieces around him. The phone is no longer attached to the charger, clutched so tightly in his hands that he feels the imprint of every button in his palm.

He won’t know that his face is wet with tears until you thumb the streaks off his cheeks on your doorstep minutes later, no memory of how he got there. You draw him into you, but your embrace barely contains his broad frame.

You can’t get him far in his state, whiskey on his breath and shivering all over. You drag him across the living room and onto the couch, where you curl up against him, warming him up with your body heat, cradling his head on your chest. The candlelight bounces off the phone screen, which glows green in his grasp.

It will take him weeks to get his head around what you have given him. And when he does, he will ask if you want to hear Sarah’s voice - shyly - as if you would ever say no. 

Watching him watch you, Sarah’s warm, fun-loving voice in your ear, the seams of your lashes sting with tears as your heart clenches, swells, breaks for him - and then put together again by his hand finding you, fingers filling the gaps between yours.

But for now, he lies prostrate, his weight pinning you to the couch, as you comb soothing fingers through his hair, anchoring him to you.

‘I got you, Joel,’ you whisper in his ear, and his eyelids droop and his breathing evens out, as if he’s run a thousand miles. ‘I got you.’

As he drifts off to sleep - his baby girl's love you dad echoing between his ears - he knows that you do.

More notes: I don't lean too hard into angst in my fics as a rule, so this took me places I haven't been for a while, but it's ok cos Pin's got our man 🥺 Thank you for reading, as always! ❤️

[trulyumai]

the lonely cabin isn’t what it seems

— Pairing: Young!Stanford Pines / Reader

—Synopsis: Lost and confused, a woman spots her lifeline; a seemingly desolate and empty cabin. She meets Ford, pleads for his help and shelter only to find things aren’t as they seem. As the scientist starts to fall deeper and deeper for the woman, he realizes they aren’t alone. He’s watching.

Warnings: none so far!

A/N: I finally got to watch Gravity falls and noticed this was a requested character, enjoy this new series!

Part One: The Unexpected Guest

Stanford Pines had always loved the isolation of his cabin, surrounded by nature’s beauty. But tonight, as the wind howled outside, he found himself feeling a strange pang of loneliness.

He was deep in thought, hunched over his cluttered workbench, examining an intricate device he had been tinkering with for weeks. The cabin was filled with books, gadgets, and the faint smell of pine. Stanford often lost track of time here, but tonight felt different; he could sense a storm brewing outside.

Just as he was about to put his tools down for the evening, a loud knock echoed through the stillness. Startled, he pushed away from his workbench, his heart racing. Who would be out here in this weather?

He opened the door cautiously, revealing a figure shivering on his doorstep. She was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her face, and her eyes wide with fear.

“Uh, can I help you?” Ford asked, his voice a mix of surprise and caution.

“Please, I’m lost,” she said, her voice trembling. “I saw your cabin from the trail, and I just need somewhere to stay until the storm passes.”

Ford hesitated. He was used to solitude, preferring the company of books and experiments over people. “I don’t usually take in strangers,” he replied, trying to keep his tone firm.

The woman looked up at him, and he caught her gaze. There was a vulnerability in her eyes that tugged at something inside him. She was cute, even with her disheveled appearance, and the thought of turning her away made his heart ache.

“Please,” she whispered, shivering violently. “I’ll just stay for a little while. I promise I won’t be any trouble.”

With a heavy sigh, Ford stepped aside. “Fine. Come in.”

As she entered, he noticed her apprehensive demeanor. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to regain warmth. Ford quickly closed the door behind her, the howling wind now a muffled roar.

“you can um, sit by the fire,” he said, gesturing toward the small hearth where flames flickered, casting a warm glow across the room. “I’ll get you a towel.”

While he rummaged through a closet, he could feel her gaze following him. He handed her the towel, avoiding her eyes. “You should dry off.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, smiling as she took the towel. There was something endearing about her shy demeanor, and it made him feel a little flustered.

After a few minutes, the two settled into an awkward silence, the only sound being the crackling fire. Ford couldn’t help but steal glances at her. She was smaller than him, with a kind face, and he noticed the way her eyes sparkled when she looked around the room, taking in his chaotic yet fascinating workspace.

“What do you do here?” she asked, breaking the silence. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I’m a scientist,” he replied, his voice a bit more relaxed. “Researching the anomalies in this area.”

“Anomalies?” Her interest piqued, and he felt a rush of excitement.

“Yeah, strange occurrences, supernatural phenomena,” he said, the words flowing more easily now. “You’d be surprised what’s out there in these woods.”

Her eyes lit up, and he could see her mind racing. “Like what?”

He leaned back in his chair, his passion igniting. “Well, there’s a portal to another dimension not far from here. I’ve seen creatures that defy the laws of physics. It’s fascinating.”

“Really?” she whispered, captivated. “You must have so many incredible stories.”

He chuckled, surprised by her enthusiasm. “You could say that. Most people don’t believe me, though.”

“Why not?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Ford shrugged, feeling a mix of pride and frustration. “People tend to fear what they don’t understand. It’s easier to dismiss it as nonsense.”

“I think it’s amazing,” she said earnestly. “You’re like a real-life scientist. It’s inspiring.”

Her compliment caught him off guard, and he felt a warmth rising to his cheeks. “It’s nothing special,” he mumbled, looking away.

The storm raged outside, but inside, the atmosphere shifted. They began to exchange stories—she shared tales of her life, her shy nature making her adventures sound all the more charming. Ford found himself laughing more than he had in a long time.

As the hours passed, Ford felt a connection growing between them, an unspoken bond. The way she listened, her wide eyes fixed on him as he spoke, made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t experienced in years.

“Why do you live out here all alone?” she asked, her tone softening.

“It’s… complicated,” he replied, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. “I needed a place to think, away from the chaos of the world.”

“You don’t have to be alone, you know,” she said gently. “I’m sure there are people who would love to be around you.”

Ford looked at her, taken aback by her sincerity. “I appreciate that, but people can be difficult. I’m not exactly the most social person.”

“But you’re so interesting,” she insisted. “You have all these incredible ideas and stories. I want to hear more.”

He chuckled nervously, feeling his heart race. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, her eyes sparkling. “I mean it.”

In that moment, he realized how much he had come to appreciate her presence. She had a way of making him feel alive, as if the walls he had built around himself were slowly crumbling.

As the fire crackled and the storm raged outside, Ford found himself wanting to share more of himself with her, to let her in. It felt terrifying yet exhilarating.

“Can I show you something?” he asked suddenly, his heart pounding.

“Sure!” she replied, her excitement palpable.

He led her to his workshop, a room filled with strange inventions and diagrams scattered across the walls. “This is where I do most of my work,” he said, feeling a mix of pride and anxiety.

“Wow!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with wonder. “This is incredible!”

Ford couldn’t help but smile as she inspected his gadgets. “I’ve been working on a new device that could help understand the anomalies better,” he said, gesturing to a complex machine. “It’s still a work in progress, though.”

She leaned closer, studying the intricate details. “It’s so fascinating how your mind works,” she said, glancing up at him with admiration. “I can’t believe you built all of this.”

Her words sent a thrill through him. “Thank you,” he said, feeling a warmth in his chest. “I’ve always loved solving problems, figuring things out.”

“I can see that,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re like a genius.”

Ford laughed, but he felt a blush creeping up his neck. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“But you are,” she insisted, her eyes sincere. “You have this passion that’s just… captivating.”

He felt a rush of warmth at her words, his heart racing as their gazes locked. The air between them thickened with an unspoken tension, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she felt it too.

“Um, I—” he started, but the words caught in his throat.

Before he could continue, she reached out and touched his arm gently, grounding him. “Thank you for taking me in… I know how bothersome it might be but I really appreciate it.” She smiled, light and honest.

The sincerity in her voice struck him deeply. He could feel the walls he had built around his heart starting to crumble. “It’s nothing,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

As the storm howled outside, the warmth of the cabin enveloped them, and in that moment, Stanford Pines realized that perhaps shelter wasn’t just about finding refuge from the storm; it was about letting someone in.

And as they stood there, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the brilliance of each other’s presence, he felt the unmistakable spark of something new beginning to bloom between them—a connection that promised to change his world forever.

[satori-runa]

—A while in eternity

Summary: You reunite with your husband but Sebastian believes it's just another hallucination and gets frustrated.

Tags: Established Relationship, slight angst, fluff, comfort

Words: 2,1k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Time lost all meaning in the depths of the Hadal Blacksite. Your diving suit was torn, exposing your skin to the freezing water that clung to you like a second skin. Cuts marred your arms and legs, the saltwater biting into them with every movement. Yet, you kept moving, slinking through the narrow corridors like a desperate creature in search of survival.

Numbness crept through your limbs, and exhaustion clouded your mind. You cursed yourself for ever accepting Urbanshade's deal—it had seemed like the only option, but now it felt like a death sentence you couldn’t escape all over again.

Three days had passed, or so you thought, though time had become a blur of endless, grueling moments. You’d tried to rest once in a side room, but the lurking threats made it impossible to stay put. The Blacksite was alive with danger, and pausing for too long invited it to find you. So, despite the agony coursing through your body and the weight of fatigue dragging at your thoughts, you pushed forward. There was no stopping. Not yet.

You pressed your hand to the cold, damp wall, wincing at the sharp pain in your side. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you knew you had to keep moving. The Blacksite was an unforgiving place—if the environment didn’t kill you, Urbanshade’s forces would.

Every now and then, distant sounds reached your ears—footsteps, the low hum of machinery, the occasional drip of water. Each sound made your pulse race, a reminder of the threats constantly stalking the halls. You replayed Urbanshade’s offer in your mind, the deal you’d made to come here. It had seemed like a lifeline at the time, a desperate chance for survival. Now, it felt like a trap.

But you couldn’t give up. Not when you were this close.

As you rounded a corner, your blurred vision caught a flicker of movement. You froze, holding your breath as you tried to make out if it was a threat. The movement was subtle—a faint shift in the shadows ahead. Then, a soft metallic clink reached your ears, and your tense muscles relaxed slightly. It wasn’t an enemy, not in the way you’d feared.

A vent cover had come loose, hanging open. Curiosity sparked through your tired mind. There was a chance it could lead somewhere—a way out, or at least a temporary refuge. You approached cautiously, sliding the vent door fully open. The passage beyond was tight, but manageable. Crawling through, you ignored the sharp edges of the metal as they scraped against your already battered suit.

After what felt like an eternity, you emerged into a small room. Your knees buckled as you dropped down, landing hard on the floor. Blinking against the dim light, you took in your surroundings. It was a storage room, but something about it felt different. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with supplies and broken devices. It looked more like a makeshift shop than a mere storage space, hidden away in the labyrinth of the Blacksite.

You moved cautiously, scanning the room for danger. Then you saw him.

For a moment, you thought exhaustion had finally driven you mad. But as your eyes locked onto the tall fish-like figure hunched over a workbench, everything else faded away. His familiar dark hair fell over his face, obscuring his features, but there was no mistaking him. Despite all the…new…parts, you could still recognize the man you loved the most.

Sebastian. Your husband.

Your breath caught in your throat, disbelief hitting you like a wave. You had grieved him, convinced he was dead, killed by human hands after his arrest. But here he was—alive.

You took a shaky step forward, your voice barely a whisper. “Sebastian?”

He froze, his body going rigid at the sound of your voice. Slowly, he turned to face you, but his expression wasn’t one of relief or joy. His now fluorescent eyes, glowing and filled with exhaustion, were twisted with irritation and anger. There was no recognition in them—only frustration.

“Not again,” he growled, his voice rough. He snatched a small tool from the table and hurled it toward you. You flinched as it clattered against the wall behind you, missing you by inches. “You’re not real! I know you’re not real!” His voice cracked with desperation, his hands shaking as he clenched them into fists. “You think I’ll fall for it again? You think I don’t know how this place messes with my head?”

He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, his gaze darting wildly between you and the corners of the room, as if expecting the illusion to unravel at any moment. “It’s not you.” He cried, his voice raw. “You’re not here. You’re gone. I won’t fall for it.”

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of him—this broken, haunted version of the man you loved. He had been alone here for too long, tormented by the isolation and the tricks his mind played on him. You wanted to reach out, to tell him it was really you, but words felt useless in the face of his anguish.

Instead, you stepped forward, wordlessly closing the distance between you. He barely noticed, lost in his own torment. When you reached him, you gently placed your hand on his arm.

Sebastian flinched at the touch, his breath catching. His wide, frantic eyes snapped to where your hand rested on him, disbelief flooding his expression. For a moment, he just stared, frozen. Then, slowly, something shifted in his gaze. The wild panic faded, replaced by confusion and, finally, recognition.

“It’s… really you?” His voice was small, trembling with the weight of his uncertainty. His fingers hovered near your hand, too afraid to believe.

You nodded, tears filling your eyes as you finally found your voice. “I’m here, Sebastian. I’m real.”

The fight drained from him all at once. His form buckled, and he collapsed against you, his head falling to your chest as his hands clung to you as if you might disappear. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, the dam of his loneliness and grief finally breaking.

“I thought I lost you.” He whispered, his voice breaking with every word. “I thought I was alone.”

You held him tightly, your own tears falling as you whispered, “You’re not alone anymore.”

Your arms wrapped instinctively around Sebastian as he collapsed into you, his body trembling with the force of everything he'd kept locked away. His breath hitched against your chest, ragged and broken, and you felt his tears soaking into your torn suit.

For a moment, you just held him, your fingers gently threading through his hair, your own tears slipping silently down your cheeks. The realization that he was here—alive, breathing, and real—settled in like a shock to your system. You had lost hope, convinced that the cruel people had taken him from you forever. But here he was, the warmth of him in your arms dispelling the icy grip of the Blacksite’s horrors.

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened as if he feared you might vanish if he let go. “I tried,” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “I tried to find you, but I thought... I thought it was over. I thought I lost you for good.”

You held him tighter, your own voice still too shaky to form words. You had your questions—how he survived, what happened—but none of it mattered in this moment. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that he was here. Alive.

“It’s me,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m here, Sebastian. I’m right here.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his tear-filled eyes searching your face as if still needing to convince himself that you were real. His fingers brushed against your cheek, a soft, tentative touch. “I thought I was going insane.” He muttered, his voice wavering. “I thought it was just another hallucination.”

You shook your head slowly, pressing his hand closer to your face. “It’s not. I’m real, Sebastian. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since you’d seen him, a flicker of hope passed through his exhausted features. His hand cupped your face fully now, his thumb brushing away a tear. He swallowed hard, trying to gather himself, but the emotion was too raw, too overwhelming.

“I don’t know how you found me,” he whispered, “but I’m so damn glad you did.”

Your arms wrapped instinctively around Sebastian as he collapsed into you, his body trembling with the force of everything he'd kept locked away. His breath hitched against your chest, ragged and broken, and you felt his tears soaking into your torn suit.

For a moment, you just held him, your fingers gently threading through his hair, your own tears slipping silently down your cheeks. The realization that he was here—alive, breathing, and real—settled in like a shock to your system. You had lost hope, convinced that the cruel waters had taken him from you forever. But here he was, the warmth of him in your arms dispelling the icy grip of the Blacksite’s horrors.

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened as if he feared you might vanish if he let go. “I tried,” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. “I tried to find you, but I thought... I thought it was over. I thought I lost you for good.”

You held him tighter, your own voice still too shaky to form words. You had your questions—how he survived, what happened—but none of it mattered in this moment. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that he was here. Alive.

“It’s me,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m here, Sebastian. I’m right here.”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his tear-filled eyes searching your face as if still needing to convince himself that you were real. His fingers brushed against your cheek, a soft, tentative touch. “I thought I was going insane,” he muttered, his voice wavering. “I thought it was just another hallucination.”

You shook your head slowly, pressing his hand closer to your face. “It’s not. I’m real, Sebastian. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time since you’d seen him, a flicker of hope passed through his exhausted features. His hand cupped your face fully now, his thumb brushing away a tear. He swallowed hard, trying to gather himself, but the emotion was too raw, too overwhelming.

“I don’t know how you found me,” he whispered, “but I’m so damn glad you did.”

You didn’t respond with words, instead, you pulled him closer again, feeling the warmth of his larger body against yours. You could sense the weight of his fear and loneliness beginning to lift, replaced by a sense of safety in your embrace.

As you sank to the ground, you drew him down with you, resting against the cool wall of the small storage room. His head nestled against your shoulder, and you wrapped your arms tightly around him, wanting to shield him from everything that had tormented him.

“I missed this.” He murmured, his voice muffled against your fabric. “I missed you... so much.” He began to cry again, soft sobs that reverberated in your chest, each one a release of all the anguish he had endured. “I missed your touch, your smile... everything.”

You stroked his hair gently, your heart aching at his words. “I missed you too, Sebastian. I never stopped thinking about you. I was lost without you.”

He pulled back slightly to meet your gaze, his tear-streaked face showing a mixture of pain and longing. “I thought I’d never feel your warmth again. I thought... I thought I’d have to go through this alone.”

“You’re not alone anymore.” You promised, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “I’m here, and I won’t let you go again. We’ll figure this out together.”

Sebastian closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as if committing your presence to memory. “Just hold me a little longer.” He whispered, his voice trembling.

You nodded, adjusting your hold so he could nestle closer. As you both sat there in the dim light of the storage room, the horrors of the Blacksite faded away, replaced by the warmth of each other’s presence. The outside world ceased to exist, and for that moment, all that mattered was the gentle rise and fall of each other’s breaths.

“I’ll always be here,” you promised, wrapping him in your arms as you both found comfort in each other. “No matter what happens, we’ll face it together.”

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest. It was a soothing melody, one that brought you both peace amid the chaos of the Blacksite. As you held him close, you knew that no matter what lay ahead, you had each other—and that was enough.