#right full-stack development

[thedevolutions]

How to Choose the Right Full Stack Development Company for Your Project

In today's fast-paced digital world, businesses of all sizes rely on robust, scalable, and dynamic web and mobile applications to stay competitive. Whether you are a startup or an established enterprise, choosing the right full-stack development company for your project is a critical decision that can significantly impact the success of your project. But with so many options available, how do you ensure you make the right choice? This blog will guide you through the key factors to consider when selecting a full-stack development company that aligns with your needs and goals.

1. Understand Your Project Requirements

Before you begin your search, it's essential to have a clear understanding of your project requirements. Full-stack development involves both front-end and back-end development, so you need to know what technologies and frameworks are best suited for your project. Are you building a web application, a mobile app, or both? Do you need a complex e-commerce platform, a simple content management system, or a custom solution with unique features?

Identifying the scope, features, and goals of your project will help you communicate your needs effectively to potential development partners. It will also help you narrow down companies with the right expertise and experience in the technologies you require, such as React, Angular, Node.js, Python, Ruby on Rails, etc.

2. Evaluate Their Technical Expertise

Once you know what you need, the next step is to assess the technical expertise of the full-stack development company. A reputable company should have a strong team of developers proficient in both front-end and back-end technologies. Here’s what to look for:

Front-End Technologies: The front end is what users interact with, so the developers should be skilled in HTML, CSS, JavaScript, and modern frameworks like React, Angular, or Vue.js.

Back-End Technologies: The back end powers the application, so expertise in server-side languages like Node.js, Python, Java, or Ruby is crucial. Knowledge of databases like MySQL, PostgreSQL, or MongoDB is also important.

DevOps and Deployment: Look for companies that offer DevOps services, ensuring smooth deployment, continuous integration, and delivery (CI/CD) pipelines. They should be familiar with cloud services like AWS, Google Cloud, or Azure.

Don't hesitate to ask about their experience with similar projects. Reviewing their portfolio and case studies can give you a glimpse into their capability to deliver high-quality products.

3. Check Their Industry Experience

Technical expertise is important, but so is industry experience. A company that has worked in your industry will have a better understanding of your business needs and the challenges you might face. For example, if you’re in the healthcare industry, you’ll want a development company that is familiar with healthcare regulations like HIPAA compliance. Similarly, an e-commerce project would benefit from a team that has experience with payment gateways, shopping cart integration, and cybersecurity.

Industry-specific experience ensures that the development team is well-versed in the nuances of your business, which can lead to faster development times, fewer revisions, and a smoother overall process.

4. Assess Their Communication and Collaboration

Effective communication is crucial in any development project. A full-stack development company should be able to communicate clearly and consistently with you throughout the project. This includes understanding your vision, providing regular updates, and being responsive to feedback.

Project Management: Inquire about their project management process. Do they use Agile, Scrum, or Waterfall methodologies? Agile methodologies, for instance, promote flexibility and continuous improvement, which can be beneficial for complex projects.

Tools and Platforms: Ask about the tools they use for communication and project management. Platforms like Jira, Trello, or Asana are commonly used for tracking progress, while Slack or Microsoft Teams might be used for real-time communication.

Cultural Fit: Consider whether the company’s culture aligns with yours. A good cultural fit can enhance collaboration and make the development process more enjoyable for both parties.

5. Review Their Portfolio and Client Testimonials

A company's portfolio is a window into their experience and expertise. Reviewing their past projects will give you insights into the type of work they have done and their ability to deliver successful outcomes. Look for projects similar to yours in terms of complexity, technology stack, and industry.

In addition to their portfolio, client testimonials and reviews are invaluable resources. They provide real-world insights into the company’s strengths and weaknesses, client satisfaction, and overall reliability. Don't hesitate to reach out to past clients for references or case studies.

6. Evaluate Their Problem-Solving Approach

Software development is not just about writing code; it’s about solving problems. The right full-stack development company should have a strong problem-solving mindset. They should be able to understand your business challenges and offer innovative solutions that align with your goals.

During your discussions, pay attention to how they approach problem-solving. Do they ask probing questions to understand the root of the problem? Do they offer creative and practical solutions? A company that takes the time to understand your business and proactively addresses potential issues will likely be a valuable partner.

7. Consider Their Development Process and Timelines

Understanding the company’s development process is crucial for setting realistic expectations. Ask them about their approach to the following:

Planning and Discovery: How do they approach the initial planning phase? Do they conduct a thorough discovery process to understand your needs?

Development Stages: What are the key milestones in the development process? How do they handle revisions and changes?

Testing and Quality Assurance: How rigorous is their testing process? Do they conduct manual and automated testing to ensure the product’s quality?

Additionally, discuss the project timeline and delivery dates. Ensure that the company can meet your deadlines without compromising on quality.

8. Discuss Their Post-Development Support

The development process doesn't end when the project is delivered. Post-development support is crucial for maintaining and updating your application. Ask the company about their post-launch services, such as:

Maintenance and Updates: Do they offer ongoing maintenance and support? How do they handle updates and bug fixes?

Scalability: Can they assist with scaling your application as your business grows?

Training and Documentation: Will they provide training for your in-house team or documentation to help you manage the application?

A reliable full-stack development company will offer comprehensive post-development support to ensure your application runs smoothly long after it’s launched.

9. Consider the Cost and Value

While cost is an important factor, it shouldn’t be the sole determinant in choosing a full-stack development company. Instead, focus on the value they bring to your project. A higher upfront cost might be justified if the company delivers a high-quality product, meets deadlines, and provides excellent support.

Transparency: Ensure that the company is transparent about their pricing structure. There should be no hidden costs or surprise fees.

Value for Money: Evaluate the overall value they offer, including technical expertise, industry experience, communication, and post-development support.

10. Trust Your Instincts

Finally, trust your instincts. After evaluating all the tangible factors, consider how comfortable you feel with the company. Do you trust them to deliver on their promises? Do you feel confident in their abilities? Your gut feeling is often a good indicator of how the partnership will unfold.

Conclusion

Choosing the right full-stack development company is a critical decision that requires careful consideration of various factors, including technical expertise, industry experience, communication skills, and post-development support. By following this comprehensive guide, you can make an informed decision that will set your project up for success. Remember, the right partner will not only build a great application but will also support you throughout the journey, helping you achieve your business goals.

[cyrsed]

i love when companies frame them wanting to pay fewer people as some kind of personal development opportunity or job title lol. 'we're looking for full-stack developers', 'we're looking for T-shaped developers'

yea ok so you're cutting costs by expecting people to be able to do everything

[m0e-ru]

god made me throw away my chances of being an epic specialist at one thing by giving me a blorbo who is loved only by me where i’m forced to play one million roles and have a fandom community’s effort rested on my back like fucking atlas

[reiding-writing]

Heyy!! i was wondering if you could perchance do a drabble with dad!spencer and mom!bau!reader where they've gotten into the rhythm of calling each other mommy and daddy in front of the kids and one of them accidentally slips up and does it work without realising. And then the team is like "hold on 🤨" (probably morgan) and they have to defend themselves. Just something i've been thinking about and i don't have the artistic ability to right it myself but you do! Thank youuuu! xxx

SLIP UP. /spencer reid/

your at-home naming habits find their way into the office.

bau!mom!reader 1.1k fluff masterlist.

a/n | this is so funny i love it.

The bullpen hums with its usual energy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, conversations weaving through the space.

It’s late, and exhaustion weighs on everyone like a heavy fog. Cases have been stacking up, the paperwork never-ending, and you’re all running on caffeine and whatever sugar-laden snack Garcia has left in the breakroom.

You and Spencer, despite being used to sleepless nights—courtesy of two small children at home—are still feeling the burn.

Parenting while profiling is a delicate balance, and some days, it feels like you barely hold it together. But you've found ways to cope, to slip into a rhythm that works.

Spencer leans over his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he scans a report. His hair is slightly disheveled—likely from running his hands through it—and his tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up. He looks exactly how you feel, drained.

You, seated across from him, are going through another file when you sigh and reach for the next document. “Pass Mommy the file, please,”

The moment the words leave your mouth, the bullpen stills. For a brief second, no one reacts. Not even Spencer, who doesn’t hesitate to slide the file over to you, his tired brain not even registering what just happened.

But then—

“Hold on, what?”

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Across the table, Morgan is staring at you with wide eyes, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. JJ’s eyebrows are raised nearly to her hairline, and even Rossi has paused his paperwork, looking mildly amused.

Hotch looks like he’s trying very hard not to react.

You glance at Spencer, who is blinking rapidly, his brain trying to catch up with what just happened.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh my God.” Your stomach drops. Heat rushes to your face. “I didn’t mean—”

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table, his smirk growing. “Did you just refer to yourself as Mommy?”

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “It’s— It’s not—”

“Because I swear I just heard that,” Morgan continues, clearly enjoying himself.

JJ covers her mouth, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “It’s not what you think,”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly what I think.” Morgan chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Reid, you calling her Mommy at home?”

Spencer makes another choked noise, shaking his head furiously. “No! I mean— yes, but not like that!”

JJ snorts, and even Hotch finally cracks, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s debating whether or not to intervene.

You lift your head, groaning again. “We have two kids under four. There’s a lot of third-person referencing, okay?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, amused.

Spencer, still red-faced, starts rambling. “It’s a psychological phenomenon, actually. When individuals—particularly parents—are frequently addressed in a particular way, their brains develop an associative response, reinforcing the use of the terms even in situations outside the expected context. It’s entirely innocent. Just an unconscious linguistic habit.”

Morgan whistles low. “Damn, Pretty Boy. You really just tried to profile your way out of calling your wife ‘Mommy’ in front of us,”

Spencer groans, burying his face in his hands.

Your face feels impossibly warm. “We’re tired, Morgan. We haven’t had a full night’s sleep in—” You glance at Spencer. “How long has it been?”

“Three years, three months, and sixteen days,” he answers automatically.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn,”

Emily places a hand over her heart. “That’s actually kind of adorable,”

Garcia practically vibrates with excitement. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need to hear more,”

“There’s nothing more to hear,” Spencer says, shaking his head quickly. “It’s just a habit. Strictly innocent,”

“Oh, we believe you,” Rossi says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to let it go,”

“Not a chance,” Morgan agrees.

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This is never going away, is it?”

“Nope,” JJ says cheerfully.

Spencer sighs, rubbing his temples. “Great.”

And just like that, the teasing begins.

For the rest of the day—and likely for weeks to come—you hear variations of:

“Daddy, can you pass me that report?” from Emily.

“I don’t know, Mommy, what do you think?” from Morgan.

Garcia, of course, takes it the farthest, occasionally referring to you both as “Mommy and Daddy dearest,” complete with exaggerated winks.

By the time you make it home that evening, you collapse onto the couch with a groan, Spencer falling beside you.

“I’m never going to live this down,” you mumble.

“At least they think it’s funny,” Spencer says, leaning his head back against the cushions.

You sigh. “This is your fault,”

He turns his head to look at you, eyebrows raised. “My fault?”

“You didn’t even hesitate when I said it. You just handed me the file like it was totally normal,”

His lips twitch. “To be fair, it is normal,”

You nudge him with your foot. “Not at work, it isn’t,”

He chuckles, then tilts his head, considering. “Maybe if we just… pretend it never happened, they’ll drop it,”

You snort. “You really think that’s going to work?”

“…No,”

“Exactly.” You groan again, rubbing your hands over your face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,”

Spencer smiles softly, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “At least we’re in it together, Mommy,”

You open your eyes just to glare at him. “You better not start doing that on purpose,”

He presses his lips together, trying to suppress a grin.

“Spencer,” you warn.

His grin widens. “Yes, Mommy?”

You grab a throw pillow and smack him with it, and his laughter fills the room, warm and familiar.

Exhausted as you both are, you wouldn’t trade this—your life, your family, the teasing from your team—for anything in the world.

[bookshelf-dust]

promise to take care of my heart

carmy berzatto x fem!reader

gif by @emziess

word count: 1,830

warnings: nothing? a little swearing, but this is pure fluff and that’s all

synopsis: carmy wants to cuddle with you for the first time.

a/n: hi! new character, i know. but i’ve become rather attached to carm in the past few months and i had a cute idea for him and here we are. he’s bringing me so much comfort right now and now i’m gonna share that with you <333

————

“Why don’t you pick out a movie or somethin,’ bub?” 

“If I could find your damn remote, Carm, I would.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes on his hands where they sit deep in the dishwater below. Good luck, he thinks. 

You scan the coffee table, the rug below the shabby couch. It’s not like there’s any use checking the tv stand because it’s still a fucking table tray. You know he doesn’t even own the full set of four table trays? He’s just got the one? That knowledge keeps you up at night. Just like how he doesn’t have a ceiling fan pull and has to get tweezers to change the speed.

You find the remote nestled in a stack of freshly organized books. You helped Carmen assemble a very simple bookshelf so that his stash of cookbooks wouldn’t have to live on the floor anymore. 

Just getting to help him turn his apartment into something other than a place to sleep brought you a contagious giddiness. Carmen’s chest aches with how much he’s laughed since he met you. 

Look at all my muscles, Carm. I’m practically ready for my dick now, don’t you think? 

Where’d you even get these? He’d looked down at the little allen wrench in your hand and said I don’t know, they were just here one day. 

Now you have a bookshelf, Bear. What a grown up. 

Carmen wouldn’t let you help him with the dishes after he cooked you dinner. He’d just kissed your shoulder and said, “Let me take care of it, alright?” with that little raise of his brows and quirk of his lips telling you not to argue because you’d never win. 

And when Carmen tells you to let him take care of something, well…you listen. 

You haven’t been dating very long, but it’s been enough that you’ve both developed this rhythm, this way of moving around and with each other and you just…work. 

He doesn’t understand how you can dial his shyness, his hesitance, so quickly, how you can make him feel like a human again so easily. But you do. 

You settle against the back of the couch, flipping through the tv guide (because Carm has never subscribed to any streaming services) until you find something worth listening to. It’s already a few minutes in, but you’ve seen the movie enough times that it doesn’t really matter. 

The overhead light in the kitchen switches off and Carmen pads out to the living room, socked feet dragging on the hardwoods. Your biggest pet peeve is people who don’t pick up their feet, but somehow it’s more tolerable when it’s him. 

He sits down on the edge of the couch. Just sits. On the edge. That means he wants to say something. You give him the time to psych himself up. 

Carmy chews on his thumb nail and rubs his nose before he turns to you, placing his hand on the couch. His blue eyes burn into yours, and the intensity of his gaze, trained on you, makes you feel like the most important person in the world. 

“H-hey, um…can we—could we snuggle, maybe?” He flushes at the fact that he just used the world snuggle. Richie would have his ass so quick if he’d heard him say that. 

Your grin is brilliant. You’ve never cuddled properly with Carmen before. Maybe a head on a shoulder or a leg tossed across another, but never a real cuddle session. “Fuck yeah, we can, Carm.” You giggle and the sound softens that bubble of fear in his chest. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, letting out the barest laugh. 

“How did you want t-to lay, Bear?” You blink at him. “Were you just gonna—” 

He starts to nod. “I was just gonna lay on your chest, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Y-yeah.”

You snort. “Lemme’ stretch out for you and then you can be a teddy bear.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Carmen shakes his head at you. He lets you pull that shit because he likes it. Secretly.

When you have a pillow under your neck and are laid out on your back, Carm slips beside you against the back of the couch and clumsily settles on top of you. He doesn’t want to crush you or anything, so he settles between your legs, only allowing the weight of his torso to envelop you. 

One arm wraps around your back, the other cradling your hip, his curls brushing your chin. He turns his head to face the tv and lets out a satisfied sigh. 

On instinct your hand threads through his tangled hair, scratching at his scalp gently and sorting through any piece that feels knotted. 

“What is this?” Carmy asks, nodding in the direction of the screen. 

“The Wedding Planner. It has Jlo and Matthew McConaughey in it.” 

“Chick flick?”

You hum in agreeance. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t hate it. Jlo’s character is like you but if the restaurant was a wedding planning business and you were, you know, a chick.”

He laughs lightly against your stomach and you can feel the puff of air over your shirt. 

The weight of Carmen’s body on top of yours is easily the most calming feeling you’ve ever experienced. You can’t get enough of him. 

“This okay?” you ask, scratching his scalp a little more for emphasis. This is a new way of showing affection. Uncharted territory. 

“Hm?” He looks up at you briefly, blue eyes fluttering closed. “Oh yeah, feels nice. I like it.”

You grin and continue to play with his hair. He’s right. It does feel nice. It is. 

The next few minutes go by without any conversation, just silence. But it’s so comfortable. Carmen’s tired gaze is on the tv. You can feel him breathing, feel the way he scratches over your back absently. You don’t know if he’s aware he does it, but he nuzzles his nose against the soft of your stomach every now and then like it’s keeping him safe. 

“You know I thought about being a wedding planner?”

Carmy pushes up onto his elbows, looking at you with the smallest smirk playing on his lips. “Really?”

You playfully bat at his shoulder and he moves to lay back down, but not before pressing a kiss to your sternum over your shirt. “Mhm. Still think about it sometimes.” You pause, but Carm doesn’t say anything yet because he knows you aren’t finished with that thought. 

“I guess I just thought it’d be nice to help put things like that together? The organization would make me feel…complete, I guess. And you know I don’t like to help people in such an extroverted way? I like to be behind the scenes.” You laugh, a little self-deprecatingly. “Does that make sense?”

Carmen squeezes your side. “‘Course it does. And then you could come home and tell me stories about all the family drama you eavesdrop on.”

You giggle, and Carmy loves that he can feel it where he lays on your chest. He can feel your joy, and that’s fucking cool. “That I could.”

He rubs your back in small, gentle circles. “And you know, I happen to have some friends who make pretty good food and would be happy to help if you ever needed.”

“Oh, do you? Well, that’s very helpful, Mr. Berzatto. You’ll have to give me their number.”

Carmy laughs into your chest. A pure, genuine laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound, and you truly think you’d have it tattooed all over your body if that was even remotely possible. His glee makes you laugh, and then you’re both snickering like you’re teenagers doing something that’ll get you in big trouble. 

You reach for his hand, the one that’s resting on your hip now, and he lets you lift it towards your face. He bites his cheek, fighting the smile that rises when you press your warm and chapstick covered lips to his knuckles. 

“You have such pretty hands, Carmy.”

He pinches your back. “I still don’t get why you’re so fascinated by them.”

“Because they’re pretty. And, look—” You hold yours up to his. “—they’re so much bigger than mine. And I like your tattoos, obviously. I like that I know how talented you are with your hands and how capable. I’m very lucky to hold such capable hands, Bear.”

“Capable, huh?” He gives you a look, one that makes you want to both tackle him and smack him on the arm. Instead you roll your eyes and he raises up to kiss you. 

“Capable of being the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”

Carmy laughs. It’s that little chuckle, light and airy and like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but he wants to hear more anyway. He flops back down on your chest, making you let out a rather loud oomph. 

You take Carmen’s hand in yours again, rubbing over the dry patches on his knuckles, the scabs on the insides of his fingers, the scar on his palm. His whole life is written in these hands. 

You start massaging the pads of his fingers without even thinking about it. No one’s ever been that gentle with him—definitely not with his hands—and a little part of him melts at the feeling. 

You kiss the tattoo on the back of his hand and just look at his skin. You’re determined to memorize each line and freckle and fucked up cuticle he’s got. 

“At least your nails don’t look like Richie’s, Carm.”

His chest moves with the giggle that travels throughout his body. 

“Trust me, they didn’t look like that when he was still with Tiff.”

You grin, your eyes falling back on the television. Maybe Carm would be open to setting it on the bookshelf? That table tray has put in a lot of work. It deserves a break. 

Carmen can see why you’re so fond of this movie. It’s one of those that doesn’t require much thought, that has humor and feels more human than most. He knows he shouldn’t think it, but you having said what you said before makes him wonder if you’ll plan your own wedding…with him. 

Shut the fuck up, he tells himself. But maybe we’ll get there. 

You catch him smiling when they fuck up the statue in the garden and pretend not to notice. You both keep quiet now, but Carm reaches up and puts your hand back on his head.

Your fingers thread through his curls again, scratching at his scalp gently. Your other hand does the same thing to his back. You know it’s going to lull him to sleep. 

When you say it, he’s already dozed off. But you are so happy that you get to make him feel safe. That he’s comfortable enough to sleep on you like this. Lucky is an understatement. 

“Thank you for letting me in, Bear. I don’t think my life has ever been this beautiful.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

[amourquinn]

( short fic ) everything

pairing : boyfriend!quinn x fem!reader wc. 1.2k

genre : extreme fluff no warnings

summary : you and quinn spend christmas eve together and it ends with a beautiful surprise

the apartment smelled like sugar and cinnamon, warm and inviting. the faint hum of a christmas playlist played in the background, filling the air with soft jingles and cheerful tunes. it was december 24, and your favorite tradition with quinn hughes was in full swing: decorating cookies.

you sat cross-legged at the kitchen island, armed with piping bags filled with brightly colored icing, sprinkles scattered across the counter. quinn stood across from you, wearing an apron he’d claimed he didn’t need—though his flour-dusted hands and icing-streaked cheek suggested otherwise.

“alright, quinn-casso,” you teased, pointing at the lopsided tree he’d just decorated. the green icing was uneven, and the star looked more like a blob.

he held it up, feigning offense. “what? this is art. you just don’t get it.”

you laughed, snapping a picture with your polaroid camera. the flash caught him mid-eye-roll, flour still smudged on his cheek.

“add it to the collection,” you said, shaking the photo and setting it on the counter to develop.

the collection was an assortment of candid photos you’d been taking all month—quinn tangled in christmas lights, the two of you picking out a tree, him wearing the santa hat you’d forced on him. the pictures were scattered on the fridge, a chaotic but charming timeline of your holiday season together.

“fine,” quinn said, grabbing another cookie. “but if you’re going to document this, i’m going to make the best-looking snowman you’ve ever seen.”

you leaned on your elbow, watching him carefully pipe white icing onto the cookie. his tongue poked out slightly in concentration, a detail that made your heart swell.

“not bad,” you admitted as he added tiny sprinkle buttons.

“‘not bad’? that’s perfection,” he said, placing it on the tray with a satisfied grin.

you shook your head, laughing softly. “i guess i’ll give you that one.”

the two of you worked through the tray of cookies, decorating everything from candy canes to reindeer. you captured moments on your polaroid as you went: quinn sticking sprinkles on his nose to make you laugh, you holding up a cookie shaped like a heart, and the tray of finished cookies, a chaotic mix of skill and whimsy.

when the cookies were done, you both collapsed onto the couch with mugs of hot chocolate. the christmas tree twinkled softly in the corner, the ornaments catching the glow of the lights.

“i think we outdid ourselves this year,” quinn said, holding up a cookie shaped like a stocking.

“speak for yourself,” you teased, holding up one of your own. “mine are way better.”

he rolled his eyes, nudging your shoulder with his. “you’re lucky i love you.”

you smiled, leaning into him. “i know.”

⋆˙⟡

as the night wore on, the stack of polaroids grew. quinn had taken over the camera at some point, snapping pictures of you mid-laugh or caught off guard. one photo in particular made you laugh—a close-up of your face, icing smeared on your cheek.

“quinn! i wasn’t ready for that one!”

“that’s the point,” he said, smirking.

eventually, it was time for the part of the evening you both looked forward to the most: exchanging gifts.

“okay,” you said, hopping off the couch and grabbing a small, neatly wrapped box from under the tree. “you first.”

quinn set his mug down, his eyes lighting up as he took the box. “you know you didn’t have to get me anything, right?”

“yeah, yeah,” you said, waving him off. “just open it.”

he carefully unwrapped the box, lifting the lid to reveal a vintage hockey puck encased in glass. his jaw dropped.

“is this…”

you nodded, grinning. “it’s from your first-ever college game. i found it online, and the guy who had it was willing to sell. i thought you’d want to have it.”

he stared at it for a moment, his fingers brushing the glass. “this is amazing. thank you.”

his voice was soft, and when he looked up at you, his expression was full of gratitude. he set the puck down and leaned over to kiss you, his lips warm and lingering against yours.

“alright,” he said, pulling back. “your turn.”

he stood and grabbed a box from behind the tree. it was big, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a perfectly tied bow.

“wow,” you said, taking it from him. “someone went all out.”

“just open it,” he said, his grin mischievous.

you tore into the paper, lifting the lid to reveal… a polaroid camera. not just any camera, though—it was a custom design, your initials etched into the side, and the strap was embroidered with tiny snowflakes.

“quinn,” you breathed, running your fingers over the details.

“i know how much you love taking pictures,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “so i thought you’d like something a little more special.”

you set the box aside and threw your arms around him, holding him tightly. “it’s perfect. thank you.”

for a moment, the two of you just stood there, wrapped in each other. the night felt perfect, like something out of a storybook.

“actually…” quinn pulled back slightly, a nervous edge to his voice.

“what?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

he reached into his pocket, and he took out a neatly wrapped box. it wasn’t the biggest gift, but there was something about the way he held it, his expression a mix of nerves and excitement, that made your heart race.

“quinn…” you started, but he cut you off with a small smile.

“here.”

you unwrapped the box carefully, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate silver ring. It wasn’t flashy, but it was beautiful, a small diamond set into the band, understated and perfect. your breath caught in your throat.

“it’s not what you think,” quinn said quickly, rubbing his left arm. it’s not… you know, that ring. not yet, anyway.”

you looked up at him, your heart pounding. “so it’s—”

“it’s a promise ring,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “i know we’re not there yet, but i wanted you to know how serious i am about us. that i want this—you—for the long haul. this is my way of saying i’m all in, even if we’re not at the finish line yet.”

tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you stared at him, at the boyish grin on his face and the sincerity in his eyes.

“quinny…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“i love you,” he said, reaching for your hand. “and i just wanted you to know that.”

you nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek as you let him slide the ring onto your finger. “i love you too. so much.”

he let out a breath, relief washing over his face as he pulled you into his arms. for a moment, the world outside disappeared, leaving just the two of you wrapped in each other.

when you finally pulled back, you held up your hand, admiring the ring. “this is perfect. you’re perfect.”

quinn smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “i wouldn’t say perfect. my cookies were… mediocre.”

you laughed, swatting his arm. “hey, don’t ruin the moment.”

the night went on, filled with more moments that you knew you’d treasure forever. and as you sat there, leaning against quinn with the soft glow of the tree around you, you couldn’t help but think that this christmas was everything you’d ever wanted—and more.

© amourquinn

[therosebookshop]

An Unhealthy Obsession

͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ ·͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

Warnings/Contains: Dead dove? Yeah, dead dove; yandere, yandere, yandere; not cringy yandere, if you’re looking for yansim type yandere you will not find that here; stalking on both sides; mentally unwell on both sides yeah duh; gender neutral pronouns and reader as always; you’re aware you’re fucked in the head and why, but therapy is expensive; an ‘accidental’ murder; I hc sol to have a tongue piercing because god knows he should’ve had one, that creep from the arcade but this time bbg Sol is there to save you first <3

A/N: um hi I got sucked in by sol and for any followers sorry I’ve been absent I have ✨burnout✨ so

Inspo: a tumblr post and the title came from ‘An Unhealthy Obsession’ by The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra

Yandere.

A mix of two words- yanderu, “to be sick,” and deredere, “lovestruck.” Most of the time, yandere are portrayed to be sweet, caring, and innocent before switching into someone who displays an extreme, often violent or psychotic, level of devotion to a love interest.

You know you have a problem. Something wrong in your brain, having developed from your childhood abandonment and neglect. The need to be loved turned into an obsession with a boy in kindergarten. You’d thought he would be perfect for you, because he seemed so sweet and caring. And well.. that girl you’d pushed into traffic one day after she’d given him a flower and they’d sat together at lunch had been an accident, of course. A horrible, tragic one.

Your obsessions had never been this bad. Of course, some of them had been over fictional characters. Some had been over real boys in school, but they had never returned your feelings. And you’d cried your heart out after the rejections. You simply didn’t understand why they didn’t love you. You’d stalk them to see what they liked, change your clothing and your personality and everything, just for them. To be their type.

But this obsession… had turned so bad.

He plagued your every thought. His gorgeous eyes, pretty hair, nice hands. His lips, his arms, how tall he was. Everything about him was so perfect. He was perfect. The fact that he didn’t seem to have many friends.. well, that was okay. When you finally got him as yours, he wouldn’t need anybody else. He’d have you.

You’d gained a reputation as a weird kid, one that had apparently followed you to your new college. There was a boy at the back of your class, who was nearly always accompanied by a boy who was about a head shorter, blue hair. You were jealous. But you weren’t stupid. No, you had to plan carefully to dispose of the boy.

Years. Painful years, of learning about the object of your obsession. You had a whole wall in your closet covered in Polaroids of Sol, each one neatly dated on the back in a green marker that matched the green in his hair. You had shoeboxes full of Polaroids of him, too, all of those neatly dated in legible handwriting and stacked by date. You followed him home once to set up a camera in his bedroom, complete with a mic, right near his bed to hear him sleep. You recorded it once, for if you ever needed the comforting sounds of your darling to sleep and he wasn’t available. Surprisingly, it was hard to learn anything about him just from searching his name- a lot of the kids here were from richer families, more popular families. So you simply stalked him, learned everything about him you could, and kept note of everything about him in a black hardcover notebook, kept on your person at all times.

Every little tick, nervous habit, anything. Noted. How his tongue prodded at hot food before taking a bite. The absolutely hot looking tongue piercing he had. The cute way he fiddled with his sleeves sometimes, or tapped his foot. When people were being annoying he rolled his eyes, or crossed his arms. He had a sibling-like relationship with his best friend, and you had a few pictures of his cute little pout when he was teased.

You learned from careful observation that he was in the nurse's office every other day, so you started to give yourself little injuries to be in the office too. A cut, a bruise, other injuries.

Little did you know he was obsessed with you too. You'd heard this town could be dangerous for pretty young women at night, but you hadn't ever had any issues. Because he followed you home every night. Why would you need a recording of him sleeping when he climbed into your room through your window and spooned you every night? He knew about all the Polaroids and everything. And it made him more obsessed, that you felt the same way about him.

You started to leave him little gifts- cute ones like a tiny bouquet of geranium blooms held together with twine placed on his desk (he knew about the flower box in your living room), a hoodie casually tossed over the back of his chair (it smelled like you and was oversized, so fit him well). Or bigger gifts- a horse plushie, snacks. All of them were from you, he knew they were. It was obvious, how you'd always be at your desk, which was just a couple away from his so you could inconspicuously look at him, before he was in the classroom. How you'd watch eagerly as he put the hoodie on, or slipped the snacks or plushie into his backpack to take home.

Then came the day in art class- three Expressionism drawings. You weren't an artist in any form (unless taking a lot of photographs of one person counted, and it probably didn't) and anyway, even if you were, you didn't want to spend a lengthy amount of time with anybody but Sol.

Everybody moved around to their partners, and you were the only one left without one. And, as your eyes fastened on Sol... he didn't have a partner, either.

You went over, sliding into the seat beside him. "You don't have a partner, right?"

You'd never spoken to him before. Not once. You'd heard his voice so much, but now, actually face-to-face with the object of your obsessions and sleepless nights, your heart was beating out of your chest.

"No. I don't. He ditched me." He said. And god, is his voice hot.

"Well, I don't either." You have to remind yourself to breathe, even though your knee is bobbing under the desk. "Want to be partners?"

His eyes don't miss the rapid, nervous movement of your knee bobbing, heel tapping against the floor. The corners of his lip twitch slightly. Adorable.

"I don't see why not." He says finally, eyes focusing on yours, and you have to remind yourself again to breathe. His eyes are so gorgeous. Like warm honey. You could fall into them and be trapped, like a fly in amber.

"Great." And the word comes out a little breathless, a little flustered. "I'm (user), by the way." You offer your hand to shake. "What's your name?" Like you don't already know it.

He stares at your hand for a minute, as if contemplating. Then he shakes your hand. "Solvian Brugmansia. Just call me Sol."

His hand is warm and bigger than yours, unsurprising because of his height. You can't help but grin. "Nice to meet you, Sol."

You talk a little, ideas of what to draw. He had a sketchbook open on his desk, and to see it without straining your neck, you scooted your chair over, leaning into his personal space bubble. But for such an introvert, he didn't seem to mind one bit.

He smells so good, you think. Comforting. Like paper and something akin to blood- an irony smell. And something under that, something so distinctly him you want to bury your face in his neck. You want to rest your head against him, maybe put your hand on his thigh for 'balance'. To touch him in some way.

He shifts, clears his throat, and when you glance up at him you realize his cheeks are flushed, and he looks down at you. You realize when you can see the faint blemishes on his face- oh so pretty- that you're very, very close.

You lean away, flustered and embarrased. You don't think you blush- he can see faint pink on your cheeks- but you do grin like an absolute idiot. You've learned this through playing dating games (a way to familiarize yourself with relationships, to be as good a partner as you possibly can for your future darling). You're not grinning as wide as if he had flustered you with his words, but you've still got a smile on your face.

And almost without thinking, his hand squishes your cheeks between his fingers to tilt your face up. You're so pretty, he thinks, those eyes never looking away from his, eyes that he could spend hours staring into. With the faint blush coloring your cheeks and the smile on your lips, you could be a perfect subject to draw.

"Stay like that for me." He murmured softly. "I'm going to draw you for this project."

Your lips parted, cheeks growing red, even if you couldn't feel their warmth. He opened up a page of his sketchbook, releasing your face to start sketching. He tells you how to pose- your chin on your palms, head tilted slightly. You watch him as he sketches, how focused he is, his lower lip caught with his teeth. Your eyes soften. He's gorgeous like this, pretty eyes occasionally flickering between the page and you.

Your eyes unfocus, simply staring at him. When he looks up his eyes lock with yours. He can practically see hearts in your eyes, adoration in your gaze. His cheeks turn red. You're adorable this way, oh-so-pretty. Stunning, really.

There's not enough time to finish the drawing within class, so while everybody files out he makes you stay there, finishing the sketch. When he's done he closes his sketchbook and stuffs it into his bag. "I'll show you when I color it in." He says as you grab your stuff and exit the classroom.

Out in the hallway, the two of you stand off to the side. "Since we're, um, gonna be partners, we should exchange numbers. To keep in touch and talk about projects and stuff." You add.

Please, please, please-

“Yeah. Here, put your number in.” He pulls out his phone and opens the contact app before handing it to you. You couldn't stop grinning as you typed in your number and handed his phone back. Your phone went off- a text from an unknown number, no doubt him.

You changed his contact nickname to 'Darling ♡ ' in your phone, grinning to yourself. You're so much shorter than him, he can easily see your phone screen, and he smiles to himself. He's added your contact name as 'Pumpkin'.

The obsession was so obvious.

Over the next few days of the project, the two of you ended up hanging out a lot. Usually at each other's apartment. You even went to the arcade with Sol while Hyugo went and saw a movie nearby.

It was really a cute arcade date, and you dressed as cute as possible that day- oversized sweater, baggy pants, oversized chunky boots that you sometimes lost your balance in... but it was fine, because you always had Sol to lean into for balance.

At the arcade, you played games together, laughing. Sol went to get more tokens and you insisted on sticking by his side. Somebody brushed past you, and in your horrible balanced fashion, you stumbled.

Sol caught you by the waist, steadying you. "Are you okay?"

He seemed to realize what he'd done and cleared his throat, moving his arm, but you stopped him, lacing your fingers with his, begging he wouldn't freak. His cheeks went bright red but he didn’t pull away, and you grinned to yourself as you went up to the counter with him, giving him a cute little side hug while he bought some more tokens. His cheeks were even redder now. It was adorable seeing him like this.

The cashier smiled at the two of you. "How long have you been a couple for?" You hastily released him. Sure, you knew that could be considered slightly romantic, but-

"Not long at all." His arm loops around your waist to tuck you into his side. Your face flushes a bright red. He looks down at you, noticing your blush, and his cheeks turn a pretty pink.

When you get more tokens you go to plushie machines. One of them has horse plushies. You give Sol, who's at a claw machine with plushies of your favorite animal in it, a quick look before going to the machine and putting in a token.

You're laser focused on it, cheering when you get the plushie. You don't even notice when an unfamiliar man comes up to you with a sleazy look, his two bodyguards in tow. He throws an arm around your waist, and you startle away from him, horse plushie clutched in your arms.

"Hey there, pretty. You alone?" He reeks of tobacco, and your nose wrinkles.

"No, I'm here with my boy-" You try to back up, but you bump into one of his bodyguards that blocks your way.

"What kind of boyfriend would leave a pretty thing like you all by yourself? C'mon, come with me, pet. I'll show you a good time." He starts to try to pull you away, but you stomp on his foot, hard, and run. Sol was nearby, he can protect you-

You collide right into Sol, and he keeps you from falling, eyes darting over your face with concern. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" The cute little pet name slips from his lips without him even realizing.

"This man- he grabbed me- he wanted me to go with him but I ran-" You're shaking, Sol can tell, the horse plushie still clutched in your arms. His eyes literally darken in anger, looking up and around for the man who dared to touch you without your permission.

I'm gonna kill him.

He gives you a hug, and you hug him back tightly, the horse plushie held in your hand, the bag of other prizes you two had collectively won bumping against your back as he held it in his hand. "It's okay, I'm here now."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering. You smell amazing. He should find out what scent you wear, so he can buy one for himself.

But he should focus on the situation at hand. He runs his fingers through your hair. "It's okay. Let's go, yeah?"

So you walk home with him, and he holds your hand, keeping you close. Your hands are cold, and he pauses, setting the bag down at your feet and holding your hand to his mouth. His cheeks redden as he kisses the back of your hands, and you blush too.

He's so pretty. And so, so close. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same sort of adoration and obsession in his eyes that are often in yours when you look at him.

And it makes your breath catch. He feels the same way. That's what that look has to mean.

He holds your hand the rest of the way to your cozy little apartment and you invite him in. He accepts, of course, acting like he's never been inside your apartment- he knows it like the back of his hand.

And maybe you do kiss him that night. Maybe he stays over, cuddling in your bed with you. Maybe more happens. But you're his. And he's yours.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—

[just-dreaming-marvel]

The Librarian & The Wolverine ~ The Library

THE LIBRARIAN & THE WOLVERINE MASTERLIST

Word Count: 5,125ish

Request: Logan x fem!reader. Reader is the school's/mansion's library. She's real smart, educated, knows her way around books and stuff, but is not a mutant - it's more like her power is just her being book smart lol. Logan meets her when he's sent to the library to do research for the class he'll be teaching. He spends a few days there doing his research, she helps him finds good sources for his classes, he helps her move some heavy boxes full of new books. She's a little awkward but ridiculously funny, very quiet, always has her head burried in a book. Logan's grumpy but he's funny when he wants to be, he's helpful, he's curious about her interests and thinks her being all smart like that is kinda hot. They have a crush on each other - which develops once Logan keeps coming to the library for more research and to ask for book recs for fun instead of work. They talk about books, he brings her coffee when he comes over for work, she keeps a table always clean for him in a secluded corner of the library. There's a fire at the mansion and the library is damaged, but no one gets badly injured. She's inside the library with some students, she manages to help them get out and then part of the hallway collapses and she's trapped. Logan rescues her but she inhaled a lot of smoke. Logan visits her in the infirmary and brings her a book (some classic romance novel), they make plans to go get new books for the library once reconstruction is done. They go get new books, get some coffee, set up the new library... it all feels like a big date. So Logan asks if they can do it again but now without a fire and now as an official date. She says yes, they go out, choose books for each other, lots and lots of kisses. They're the cutest couple, everyone at the mansion loves them as a couple and think they're the cutest.

Warning(s): injuries, fire

Notes: The reader does have glasses. Also, I would definitely be down with doing a part two with these two.

“Logan, if you’re going to teach history, maybe make sure you understand it all,” Storm said.

“I do understand it,” Logan huffed. “Hell, I lived through most of it.”

She shook her head. “You understand it from your point of view. You might need to head to the library to do some studying this summer before next semester.”

“Library?”

Storm laughed. “Yes, Logan. The library. It’s on the first floor, it’s like the whole right wing. We have a librarian and everything. She’s really sweet. You might even like her.”

So Logan went to the library for the first time. And that’s when he finally met you. You were sitting cross-legged behind the main desk, glasses slipping down your nose, buried in a stack of books taller than some of the students. You didn’t even notice Logan until he cleared his throat loud enough to scare the daylights out of a nearby student.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, looking up at him, glasses skewed on your face. “Sorry, uh— hi! How can I help you?”

Logan stared for a second, caught off guard by how sweet you sounded and how fast you talked. He glanced at the sign on the desk— Librarian: Miss L/N— then looked back at you. “Uh, Storm said I should do some ‘research for the history classes I’m teaching. Can you point me to those sections?”

“Of course!” You hopped up. “History would be aisles six through seven,” you started walking. “Except…” 

You paused. Then you suddenly shook your head and darted into another aisle. Curious, Logan peered down the aisle to see you grab a book and come back and join him.

“Students,” you mumbled, waving the book. “They do try to test me. Anyway, history is aisles six and seven. But if you want government records, then those are eight through ten. Or there’s the good stuff— the personal accounts, diaries, things that feel like people talking instead of textbooks— I’ve got a stash in the room behind my desk.” 

You stopped in aisle seven, which was labeled on the bookshelf, and slipped the book you found into place. Then you led Logan over to a corner table.

“You can do your research here,” you offered. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Then you were gone.

~~~

That night, Logan caught Storm before she headed to bed.

“Hey, ‘Ro,” he called, “how long as that, uh, librarian worked here?”

“For almost a year,” she replied. “Y/N is her name, if you didn’t ask that today. She sticks mostly to the library and isn’t included on any missions.”

“Why? What’s her powers?”

“You could just ask her, you know?”

“Storm.”

“Fine. She kinda has two powers. First, she’s a living index. She can mentally categorize and track the location of any item in her vicinity. Books, objects, even people if she focuses, but that takes a lot of energy from her. She also has something called bibliomancy. She can instantly understand and retain any written material— in any language— just by touching it. And with some focus, she can even see the emotional imprints left on historical documents. It what makes her the perfect librarian.”

Logan nodded, realizing that he had witnessed come of your power in action today.

“She would be a good resource for your lessons, Logan,” Storm said with a smirk. “Or maybe, good for you.” Then she slipped into her room.

~~~

The next day, Logan found the corner desk cleaned up and left with pencils, pens, highlighters, and various sizes of sticky notes. All neatly organized. There was also a book on the desk with a sticky note on it. He leaned over and read it.

A good place to start your research. - Y/N (the librarian)

Logan couldn’t help but form a small smirk across his lips. That’s how it all started. Logan expected to hate being in the library, but somehow you made it bearable. You weren’t pushy, just passionate and kind of ridiculous, in an endearing way. You talked fast when you got excited. You tripped over your words sometimes, apologized too much, and made strange little jokes under your breath that you didn’t think anyone heard. He heard all of them and they made him smirk when he thought about them later.

The corner desk was freshly cleaned and organized each day before he arrived. So Logan begun brining you coffee. You always took it with both hands like it was an extra special gift.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said bashfully, the third day in.

He grunted and looked away. “Didn’t want you fallin’ asleep on the Dewey Decimal System.”

That made you laugh and your laugh tugged at Logan’s heart.

~~~

Logan continued coming daily as the weeks came back. He always said it was to look for more lesson material, but deep down you knew he was coming to see you. Sometimes you’d sit with him when you had nothing else to do. You’d show him the historical documents you had and allowed him insight into your powers. One day, you started ranting about the emotion you felt in a mutant journal you had in the library. Logan simply leaned back and listened like it was the most important thing in the world.

You, in turned, noticed things about him. Like the way he held books gently, like they mattered. Especially if you’d talked about it before. Or the way he pretended to be gruff, but always checked in on those students who were staying for the summer. You caught him reading a book you recommended in the kitchen once, brows furrowed, so into it he didn’t notice you passing by. You smiled for the rest of the day.

Months went on like that, small moments mostly shared in the library. You had helped Logan create a curriculum for his class, yet he still kept coming. Not that you were going to complain. You begun recommending different books to him— not just history— and it shocked you when he read them.

Sometimes, you caught him watching you from the corner where he ‘worked’— books opened, but barely touched. You’d glance up and find him with his arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed like he was studying you.

“You reading me or the book?” You teased.

“I’m pretty sure the book doesn’t taught when I drop a pen,” he grunted. 

You ducked your head, flushed. “I was trying to laugh quietly.”

One time, you were reaching for a massive volume on the top shelf of the archives— precariously balancing on an old wooden ladder— when Logan walked in and just lifted you down without a word.

“Logan!” You yelped. “I had that!”

“Uh-huh,” he said, effortlessly grabbing the book himself. “And sone strong gust of wind would’ve had you in the infirmary.”

You crossed your arms. “You know, for someone who walks into danger for a living, you’re weirdly obsessed with safety.”

He hands you the book with a smirk. “Yeah. When it comes to you, I am.”

You forgot how to speak for a full thirty seconds.

One late evening, you dozed off at your desk— open notebook beside your hand, glasses askew. He found you like that and didn’t wake you. Instead, he took off his flannel and gently draped it over your shoulders. The next morning, you immediately noted the scent of cedar and firewood surrounding you. You kept the flannel with you for the rest of the day.

~~~

It had been a long day. The fall semester had just started and Logan had spent most of it trying to teach a room full of mutant hormonal teenagers why revolutions started. Most of them couldn’t even spell the word revolution. He was one paper cut away from quitting when he stalked into the library that afternoon. Everything immediately softened.

You were sitting at your desk, glasses low on your nose, a pencil tucked behind one ear, and a mug of some lukewarm liquid forgotten beside you. You were writing notes in a notebook with one hand while the other rested on a leather-bound journal. You looked up when you heard him and smiled.

“Rough day?” You questioned gently, noticed how tense he was.

He grunted. “Understatement.”

You nodded. “You want your table?” 

Logan didn’t answer right away, you were already standing. He watched you, the way you moved— careful, graceful in that absentminded way of people who lived half their lives in their own heads.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Table’s good.”

You walked slightly ahead of him, not pressing him to talk. You placed a fresh copy of The Old Man and the Sea on the table like a peace offering.

“You said you liked the way Hemingway doesn’t waste time on flower language,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “This one’s short. Barely any metaphor.”

He narrowed his eyes at the book. “That code for ‘sad ending’?”

You shrugged. “That’s for you to find out.”

He sat down and you lingered, like you weren’t quite ready to part just yet. And then— out of nowhere— you dropped a little fact like you always did. Something random and useless to most people.

“Did you know Hemingway wrote the last page of this in one sitting?” You said. “He rewrote the rest almost fifty times, but that last page? He never touched it again.”

He stared at you and something clicked inside of him. It wasn’t loud or dramatic or like lightning. It was simply a quiet little truth, settling into place. He was falling for you. For your quiet voice and your messy notes. For the way you lit up talking about old books and dead authors. For your ridiculous facts and your kind eyes and your complete inability to walk past a shelf that’s not perfectly organized. Logan didn’t say anything to you, just looked back at the book.

“You do this on purpose,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Make me care about this stuff. Books. Characters. History.”

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He huffed and opened the book. You didn’t walk away. You sat down near him, grabbed a different book and began reading. The two of you sat like that for almost an hour. There was no talking, just the soft turning of pages. Logan never felt more at peace. He didn’t know what this was exactly between you, but he knew he’d do whatever he could to keep it safe.

~~~

You didn’t notice at first. It happened slowly— like ink spreading across the page. You were resolving poetry books. Logan was at his usual table, pretending to read. He had one leg propped up with glasses (that you suspected were fake) perched on the bridge of his nose. 

Suddenly, he held up a paperback— some beat-up crime novel you recommended— and muttered, “This guy solves a murder in 200 pages and still makes time to fall in love. What the hell am I doing wrong?”

You snorted, not even looking at him. “Being emotionally unavailable and allergic to open communication?”

You meant it as a joke, he knew that. But he still paused.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’m workin’ on that.”

And your heart— your poor, quiet, book-loving heart— did something completely stupid. It skipped. You looked up. His face was open, honest, and vulnerable. You realized that he meant it. He was trying for you.

That night, after he left,, you sat alone at your desk for a long time. You were falling for him. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way you often read about. But in the quiet and comfortable way that has built up over the months since he first stepped foot in the library. You were falling for the man who carried your books without asking. Who somehow remembered your favorite quotes. Who watched you like you were worth listening to. No one had every done any of that. And that scared you.

~~~

It started on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, a few weeks into the fall semester. The library was humming— low voices, shuffling paper, the soft thud of books. It felt safe, untouchable. You were near the back, working with a few students. One was hopelessly lost in MLA citation. Another was trying to translate Shakespeare into slang. You smiled as you juggled questions, your voice calm and steady.

Then the lights flickered. Once and then again. Everything stopped and everyone looked up. And the the fire alarms screamed. It was the kind of sound that split your bones. It was shrill and immediate and telling you that something was very wrong. The students jumped. Smoke began curling out from the air vents— thin at first, but growing fast. You smelled burning plastic, insulation and wires. It was an electrical fire. Fast, unpredictable, and deadly.

You forced your voice to stay calm even though your hands had gone cold. “We’ve practiced this,” you told the students. “Remember what we do. Single file. Stay low. Go.”

You moved quickly, but not frantically. You were steady and in control. You counted heads and kept your voice even. The students needed calm. If they saw you panic, they’d fall apart.

The smoke thickened and something cracked overhead. You heard a distant explosion, the building groaning under its own heat. Somewhere, a student shouted and another screamed.

“Go!” You urged the students. “Jamie, come on!”

But Jamie didn’t move. The boy stood frozen, near the center aisle, eyes wide with panic. Sparks flickered around his fingers— uncontrolled and crackling. He was overloaded, his mutation reacting to his fear. You needed to get the other students out.

“I’ll be back for you, Jamie!” You shouted, ushering the others towards the exit.

~~~

Logan was in the gym. His wrists were wrapped as he used the punching bag. He was trying to turn through the restless energy that never seemed to leave him. Then he heard the alarms and the screaming.

“Fire!” Someone shouted from the hallway. “In the library!”

His heart stopped. He dropped everything and ran. He didn’t wait for orders or to ask who was helping, because you were in there. And he couldn’t handle if anything happened to you.

The hallways were chaos. Smoke filled the upper floors. Students were pouring down the stairwells, coughing and crying. Teachers shouted orders. Storm shot past Logan in the opposite direction, calling for the mutant students who could help calm the flames. Logan sprinted towards the library. He turned the last corner and saw you. You were shoving the last student through the doorway, soot staining your face, with one arm held over your mouth. Your eyes met his, but you were already turning to head back in. The ceiling had already began to collapse between Logan and the library.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice ragged, smoke already eating at your lungs. “Jamie— Jamie’s still in there!”

He didn’t think or hesitate. “I’m comin’!” He yelled. “Just wait!” But you didn’t. “Y/N— damn it!”

Logan’s claws slid out with a sharp shnk, glinting through the dark. He charged in. The heat hit him like a wall. Wood burned, and the walls and ceilings buckled. He cut through his way and found you a second later, kneeling beside Jamie, trying to coax him with a shaking voice.

Logan scooped the boy up in one arm and ordered, “Go. Now!”

You nodded, stumbling after him, one hand against his back to keep balance. You were halfway to the door when it happened. The ceiling groaned. Logan stopped mid-step. A massive beam broke loose from above. Wood and plaster shattered around it. The beam crashed down between you, throwing you backwards and blocking your path to the exit. The shelves near you tipped, collapsing in a chain reaction, pinning you, one leg trapped beneath splintered shelves, the heavy support beam burning at one end. 

“NO!” Logan roared.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice breaking. “I’m stuck!”

Logan shoved Jamie towards the door. “Someone get the kid!” Then he turned back and charged into the fire. He jumped over the beam and crouched beside you. “Don’t move. I’ve got you. I swear.”

You looked up at him— eyes wide and scared and full of trust. “Please… Don’t— Don’t let me die in here.”

“Never.”

Logan wrapped his arms around the beam. It was heavier than it looked and heating up with the fire. It seared his skin where it touched him, but he didn’t stop. He roared and lifted, muscles shaking. With a final, desperate yell, he threw it aside. You practically collapsed forward into him, coughing violently, body going limp in his arms.

“I got you,” he breathed, catching you. “I got you, sweetheart. You’re alright.”

And then, another crack sounded. The entire floor behind you dropped a foot with a thunderous boom. Logan didn’t think. He scooped you into his arms, turned, and leapt just as the last of the ceiling gave way. The world came down behind the two of you. He hit the ground hard, shielding you with his body as flaming debris rained across his back. Pain flared but his healing kicked in and his grip never loosened. 

“Over here!” Scott yelled. “We’ve got them!”

But Logan didn’t move. He stayed on the floor, arms around you, breathing hard.

“Get me a damn stretcher!” Hank shouted.

You stirred. “Lo—Logan?” You whispered, his name barely making it past your lips.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered roughly. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your hand curled weakly into his shirt before your eyes fluttered closed again, body sagging. And Logan— battered, bloody, and breathless— held you tighter.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he whispered into your hair, voice breaking. “Don’t you ever…”

They had to pry you from his arms. He followed behind the med team like a ghost— soot-streaked, jaw clenched so tight his teeth shed. His shirt was burned straight through in places, but he didn’t notice or feel it. He only saw you, laying on the stretcher, limp and unmoving.

“You said she’s breathing,” he growled at Hank once you were in the infirmary. “So why the hell won’t she wake up?”

“She inhaled a lot of smoke,” Hank told him gently. “Her body’s in shock. She just needs rest.”

But Logan couldn’t rest. Not while you were laying there with machines practically breathing for you. Not while your cardigan— the one you always wore that had ink smudges on the sleeve— was cut down the middle and tossed in a bin like it meant nothing. You were always so careful, so prepared and so calm. He should’ve gotten there faster.

~~~

Hours passed. The infirmary emptied. Students checked in, then shuffled back to bed with minor burns or bruises. The library and a few offices were the only parts damaged by the fire, thankfully. Everyone said you were a hero. That you kept your head, got the kids out, and went back for one. 

Logan couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t stand the praise. Not when he had the image of you pinned until the burning ceiling like his worst damn nightmare come true. He paced outside your room like a caged animal. Then eventually, he stepped inside. You looked small in the bed, swallowed by white sheets, wires, and tubes. Not to mention, the cast on your leg from where you had been pinned. He finally sat beside you, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“You should’ve let me get him,” he muttered. “You should’ve run.” 

No answer, just the hiss of the oxygen line. He stared at the floor.

“You weren’t supposed to be in danger,” he continued, voice cracking. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I was supposed to— damn it… I was supposed to protect you.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers digging into his eyes. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things. I’ve seen people die. I’ve killed people. And I’ve walked away from it every time. But I saw that ceiling start to fall and I thought—“ His breath hitched. “I thought, if I don’t get to her, if she dies in front of me—“

Logan couldn’t finish his thought. He looked at you then, really looked. Your lips were parted slightly. Your brow twitched in sleep. Your chest rose and fell so faintly it made his throat close.

“I don’t know was this is,” he whispered, reaching out and gently taking your hand. “You and me. But I need it. I need you.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve lived too long and lost too much to sit here and pretend like I’m not— like you down’t matter to me. You matter so damn much.”

He gave your hand a slight squeeze before standing. He began pacing against, too raw to stay still. 

“I’ve been through wars, Y/N,” he continued. “Literal wars. I don’t panic. I don’t break.” He turned towards you, eyes wild. “But when I heard you scream my name— when I saw you trapped— I didn’t feel like the Wolverine. I felt like a man who was about to lose the best damn thing in his life.”

He paused, letting the silence swallow the confession. Then, slowly, he sat beside you again, taking your hand.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hand twitched, just barely. He froze and watched your fingers curl ever so slightly around his.

Then your lips moved, cracked and dry. “Logan?”

His head snapped up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

You blinked slowly, eyes hazy but warm. “I knew… you’d come…”

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “You’re damn right I did.”

~~~

The first few days after the fire were slow. You drifted in and out of sleep, lungs sore, throat raw, and muscles weak. Logan never left. He dozed in the corner in a chair far too small for his frame, arms crossed like he was trying not to fall apart. He read silently when you slept. Sometimes your favorite books, sometimes books you recommend him. He dog-eared the pages now, though— something you’d once jokingly told him was a criminal offense. You forgave him.

And when you stirred, no matter how late it was, his eyes opened instantly.

“You good?” He would ask, low and gravelly.

You would nod.

Then he’d pour your water, help you sit up, and tuck a blanket around your shoulders like it mattered.

~~~

It took four days before you were allowed to walk with crutches, only for a few feet. Hank suggested that you wait for a nurse. 

Logan shut that down with a grunt. “I’m helping her.”

You leaned on him. You had crutches under your arms and his hand warm and steady against your back. Each step felt like a mile, but he didn’t rush you. He matched your pace without complaint, murmuring encouragement into your head like it wasn’t tearing him up to see you this fragile. 

“You’re doing great, darlin’,” he murmured. “One more step. I got you.”

You did better than expected. Until you caught sight of your reflection in a hallway mirror. You paused and took yourself in. You looked like a ghost of yourself.

“I look awful,” you whispered. 

Logan stepped in front of you immediately. “Hey.” You wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Hey.” He tilted your chin up with two fingers. “You look like someone who ran into a fire to save your students and lived to tell the tale. You look like someone who fought like hell. And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in days.” You looked at him, stunned. “I’m not just sayin’ that to be nice.” You leaned into his chest then, and he held you without hesitation. “Let’s sit for a bit. You’ve earned it."

~~~

When you were strong enough to leave the infirmary, the first place you asked to go was the library. Or, what was left of it. Logan pushed your wheelchair through the blackened archway. Most of the debris had been removed. The air still smelled faintly of smoke. One half of the room was under reconstruction, while the other half was a staging area for what survived. Like your desk. It was charred at the corners, but still standing. 

“I thought it would feel worse,” you whispered. “But it just makes me want to fix it.”

Logan smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Then let’s fix it.”

And you did. Not all at once, but slowly and together. Logan handled the heavy lifting— shelving, building, and hammering. You directed, sorted books, and drafted up a new cataloging system from scratch. You insisted on doing it right. He insisted on carrying every single box, even when it meant trips back and forth for hours.

One day, Logan caught you trying to lift a stack of reference books by yourself.

“What did I say about heavy lifting?” He reprimanded, taking the books from you.

You pouted. “That I shouldn’t do it.”

“Exactly. Now go back to bossin’ me around like you’re good at.”

You snored and flopped into the chair he kept beside your desk just for you. “Fine. But you’re doing the labeling next.”

He groaned dramatically. 

~~~

The library was almost finished. The last shelves had been installed that morning. The paint on the walls was fresh, faintly smelling of cedar and hope. Books were still waiting to be shelved— new, old, and salvaged. But tomorrow, the doors would open again. Students would come back into the space. 

Logan found you sitting in the middle of the library— on the floor, back against the last bookshelf, with a half-unpacked box of hardcovers beside you. You weren’t moving. He hesitated behind a shelf at first. He took in the sight of your shoulders hunched forward, hands gripping your sleeves, face buried in your arms. Then he heart the sound, soft and shaky. You were crying. He crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside you.

“Hey. Hey—“ His voice was gentle. “Talk to me.”

You lifted you head slowly, eyes red and glassy behind your glasses. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “I didn’t want anyone to see—“

“Too late… what’s wrong?”

You looked around the room. At the new shelves, at your desk that Logan had fixed up, and the corner you claimed for him. “I should be happy… I got it back. We rebuilt everything. But I keep thinking about that day. About how close it was. I smell smoke in the carpet still. I still dream about the beam coming down. About not making it out.”

He was quiet for a beat and then, “You almost didn’t… I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t think or stop. Just ran. And I was still almost too late.” Another tear slipped down your cheek, and Logan caught it with his thumb before you could. “I almost lost you. And I never—“ his voice cracked, “I never told you what you mean to me.” 

Your breath hitched.

“You’re the first quiet I’ve ever liked,” he continued softly. “The first calm I didn’t want to run from. I come in here and it’s like… everything in me stops trying to fight… I kept tellin’ myself I’d wait. That you needed time. That maybe I was imagining it. But then I saw you lying there and I realized…” he swallowed. “I love you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “I love you too.” Logan froze. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. It was so good— safe. But every time you walked in with a drink or fixed a shelf without being asked or quote Jane Austen just to make me smile—“ you laughed, “I fell a little more.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the fire. And then he pulled you in. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, just home. His arms wrapped around you, anchoring you in the silence, and you melted into him, face tucked under his chin. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, and then your lips. It was a soft, slow kiss, full of everything you’d both been too scared to say.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your lips. “Always.”

You nodded, arms tightening around his waist. “And I’ve got you.”

~~~

The next morning, you stood at the front desk, one hand wrapped around a still-steaming mug of coffee (from Logan, of course), the other smoothing down the table displays you’d been arranging since sunrise. A small vase of fresh flowers sat in the center, also from Logan though he hadn’t admitted it out loud. Just grunted and muttered something about ‘color’ before setting it down.

Logan came back just after seven, leaning in the doorway with a lopsided grin and another coffee in hand.

“You open yet?” He asked.

You smiled. “Always. At least for you.”

He strode over and set his coffee down, then pulled you gently into his arms. His hands curled agains your back, grounding. You leaned into his chest and closed your eyes. You breathing him in.

“Feels different,” you murmured.

“It is,” he said. “You’re mine now.”

“Took you long enough.”

He chuckled. “Took us long enough.”

~~~

The first few kids trickled in quietly. They looked around with reverence, whispering to each other about how it didn’t even smell like smoke anymore. Then came the regulars. Jamie was the first to say it. He paused in front o your desk and stared at Logan, who was pretending to organize the display table but was actually hanging around way too casually.

“Are you two, like, together now?” Jamie questioned.

You froze, but Logan didn’t flinch.

You cleared your throat. “Jamie—“

“Because if you are, that’s awesome,” Jamie grinned. “You guys were, like, a slow burn romance novel. Everyone knew. You just didn’t.”

Logan gave a small shrug. “Told you we weren’t subtle,” he muttered under his breath.

Jame waved a few other kids over. “Guys! It happened! They’re official!”

Soon, a small crowd of amused, excited students gathered around the front desk. They whispered, giggled, and pointed between the two of you like it was the best gossip of the year. You buried you face in your hands while Logan just crossed his arms and smirked.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, but not unkind. “You got ten more seconds to gawk before I assign everyone a ten-page paper on 20th-century revolutions.”

Groans echoed immediately before they scattered in seconds.

You blinked at him. “You wouldn’t actually—“

“I might,” he shrugged. “But they’re right.”

“About what?”

He reached over and pulled you into him. “You and me? Best damn slow burn I’ve ever read.”

next: The Love >

[evergreenstringbean]

And now, a sad concept that I pondered with friends before and I’m currently turning into a fic:

Darry hides spare cash on the rare occasions he finds it as a backup plan that way Soda and Pony aren’t as caught off guard financially as he was if something happened to him like what happened to their parents because dude cannot stop thinking about how abrupt death can be

He doesn’t tell anyone about it because 1) He doesn’t want to freak out his brothers and 2) While he trusts his friends he also doesn’t trust them enough to tell them about his makeshift life insurance

So one day Ponyboy goes to Darry’s closet to find some clothes that he’d ironed and he spots a beat up cookie tin that used to house their mother’s sewing kit and spare buttons. Out of curiosity he opens it to find it full of bills, mostly ones and fives, some crumpled up and some stacked and neatly folded in half.

At first Ponyboy’s just confused why Darry has money saved up when they’re always stressing out about bills until it hits him: all of Darry’s vague threats that he makes when he’s angry about leaving them and starting a new life for himself aren’t threats anymore. He’s saving up money. He has a plan.

And Pony rightfully panics and out of desperation to keep his older brother there, pushes himself hard than he ever had before. He stresses to get better grades, keeps the house clean, and stays out of trouble as much as possible to try and convince Darry to reconsider and stay.

The gang can tell he’s slipping, though. He doesn’t go out anymore and rarely hangs out with anyone. He’s always either hunched over an essay or reading a textbook while folding the laundry. He doesn’t see movies anymore. He barely cracks open a book that isn’t for school.

Darry can tell something’s off, but he doesn’t know how to broach the subject or ask what’s going on. And the house is clean and Ponyboy’s doing well in school, so it can’t be that bad, right?

Until one night Soda’s got a late shift at the DX and Darry comes home late to the echo of crying in the kitchen, Ponyboy having finally snapped after spilling food on his nearly completed semester thesis after trying to make dinner and do his homework at the same time.

Darry finally can’t take it anymore and has to sit Pony down and be like “You’re pushing too hard, chill out”

To which Ponyboy, still crying, finally crashes out with “No ‘cause I’ll have to do this anyway when you leave us!”

And Darry panics because what the hell is his little brother talking about and Ponyboy finally mentions the cookie tin

Darry finally explains what the money’s for, and has to reiterate that he’s not going anywhere, and he’s not planning for them to need the money anytime soon, but he works a labor intensive job that comes with risks, and anything can happen

Once he’s eventually able to reassure and calm Ponyboy down, they have a heart-to-heart about how Darry really wants Ponyboy to be a kid. That he’s pushing too hard and he and Soda didn’t even need to step up as young as Pony is trying to.

“I do really appreciate all the help around the house. But it ain’t just on you, okay? We might have work, but you got school. We had some time to be reckless kids. You get your time too. Please just let us worry about it.”

Anyway they cook dinner together after and Darry gives him money to go see a new movie since he’d missed so many he’d secretly wanted to see during it all

Cut to a week later and Darry’s explaining the newly developed “Curtis Family Chore Chart” to the gang, to guarantee Ponyboy doesn’t try to do everything by himself again

[slashire]

Tuesday

Summary: you accidentally grab at the same book as another, turns out it's the reason why you look forward to every tuesday. You and Spencer, after meeting, enjoy each other's space in the little bookstore, it escalates to him asking you out to dinner.

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn, a tiny trauma dump from spencer

WC: 2219

an: I'm working on part 3 of the black butler one, but I'm currently in between moving so Idk when I can post it! :(

The first time it happens, it's raining, light, misty rain, the kind that's more whisper than weather. The air smells faintly of damp pavement, crushed leaves, and the orange peel you tucked into your coat pocket on the walk over. You duck into the little bookstore nestled between a florist and a vintage clothing shop, your usual Tuesday sanctuary, and shake the rain from your sleeves as the door swings closed behind you with a soft, familiar chime. The sound feels like punctuation, a gentle full stop at the end of whatever outside noise you've left behind.

Inside, the bookstore hums in its quiet way, old jazz murmurs from a corner speaker, blending into the rustle of pages and the soft scuff of someone moving between stacks. The place is warm with the scent of old paper and wood polish, with something slightly citrusy you've never quite been able to identify. You follow the creaky wooden floorboards instinctively, stepping around a table stacked with faded Penguin Classics, past the fiction aisle, and into the back corner, where Psychology lives, tucked between political theory and poetry like some strange venn diagram of the human condition.

You reach for the book without thinking, Cognitive Development and Psychopathology.  It's dense, unflinchingly clinical in parts, but you’ve been circling it for weeks. There's something in the way it weaves together early development, trauma theory, and behavior patterns that fascinates you, how it reads more like the anatomy of memory than an academic text.

And then, as your fingers touch the spine, another hand reaches for it at the exact same moment.

The contact is brief- cool fingertips brushing yours- but it's enough to make you glance up.

He's taller than you, but somehow he manages to take up less space than he should, like he's trying to shrink himself to fit the bookstores hush. His hair curls slightly from the humidity, soft and unbrushed in a way that suggests he might have run here through the rain without an umbrella. He wears a navy cardigan over a mismatched shirt and tie, the pattern of the tie slightly crooked. He looks surprised, blinking at you with warm, honey-colored eyes behind wire-framed glasses.

He pulls his hand back immediately. 

“I-sorry. You go ahead,” he says, his voice low but clipped, as though he's used to recalibrating mid sentence. “I've read it before. Several times, actually. Though I find I never quite retain the same interpretation twice.”

You pause, glancing down at the book again and then back at him. “Sounds like memory reconsolidation.”

That makes his eyebrows lift, sharply, delightedly, as if you've just said the exact right thing on accident.

“Exactly. Yes. that's actually-well, it's the core of the problem, isn't it? That every time we retrieve a memory, we alter it. It's not like a file you open and close. It's more like…like clay. Always being reshaped. Dr. Vass even argues that therapy, at its best, is just carefully controlled memory destabilization. But of course, her sample sizes were too small and skewed toward outpatient populations, so..”

He trails off, blinking again. Then he lets out a breath and offers a shy, crooked smile. “Sorry. I ramble.”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “It's refreshing.”

He glances at you as if he's trying to determine whether you mean it. Then his smile deepens, just slightly.

“You have good taste,” he says.

“Likewise,” you reply, this time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh, something barely audible but genuine.

He offers you his hand, like the thought just occurred to him. “Spencer Reid.”

You shake it, noticing the precision in his grip, the careful way he measures touch like he's learned to be cautious with his presence in the world. You give him your name in return, and he repeats it softly, almost to himself, committing it to memory.

Something shifts then, something subtle. Like two books leaning gently into each other on a shelf, no longer strangers.

You think that will be it. But the next Tuesday, he's there.

You spot him first, seated in the philosophy aisle, one leg curled under the other on the faded armchair near the back. He's reading again, The Denial of Death by Becker, but looks up the moment you enter, as if he's been listening for the sound of your step.

“Hi.” he says, the word a little breathless, like he didn't realize he'd been holding any until just now.

That day, you talk about Carl Jung. The week after, it's Virginia Woolf. Once, your conversation spirals from Plato to neurolinguistics to the way children invent private languages and how that might intersect with trauma encoding. He speaks in long sentences, hands moving in rhythm with his thoughts, building out entire structures of ideas in the air like he's mapping galaxies. You never feel lost, though. He pulls you into the orbit of his mind with ease, always pausing to check if youre still with him, always listening as intently as he speaks.

He starts bringing you books, ones he thinks you'll like, secondhand copies with his thoughts scribbled in the margins. You bring pastries from the cafe down the block. On rainy weeks, he brings tea. It becomes a ritual. You become ritual.

Sometimes you sit in silence, reading side by side. Other times, the words don't stop until the shop closes and the clerk politely flicked the lights. The world outside shrinks into irrelevance when he's across from you, head tilted, brow furrowed in thought.

You learn how he cracks his knuckles when he's nervous. How he won't interrupt, but his eyes light up when he's holding back a thought. How he listens, really listens, with the kind of reverence that makes you feel like what you say matters, like it's being gently stored away somewhere sacred.

He tells you things you know he doesn't tell most people. That he's been called a genius, but he doesn't always feel like one. That he used to hate silence, but lately, he's been learning how to sit with it. That he never had a favorite place in D.C, not really, too transient, too loud, but this bookstore, he says one day, without looking up from his book, “feels like breathing again.”

You don't answer. You just smile and turn the page.

Five months after that first accidental brush of fingertips, he gives you a book.

He doesn't say anything. Just place’s it on the table between you. A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet, soft-edged and underlined. You open it without thinking, and a folded piece of paper falls out.

Your name is written on the front in careful, narrow handwriting.

Inside the note reads:

I've found a rhythm in these Tuesdays.

A stillness I didn't know I needed.

I used to believe connection was accidental.

Or infrequent.

But then I met you. And it didn't feel

Accidental at all.

I was wondering,

Would you like to have dinner with me?

No pressure.

Just one more conversation.

-Spencer

You sit back slowly, heart thudding in your chest, the soft sound of pages turning somewhere in the store now impossibly loud. When you look up, he's not pretending to read. He's watching you, quietly, hands folded in his lap, eyes full of uncertainty that doesn't match the brilliance of his mind.

You smile, small, certain, and hold up the note.

He straightens, blinking once.

“I'd love to,” you say.

The smile that breaks across his face isn't perfect. It's not suave or practiced or cinematic.

It's real.

And just like that, the story turns another page.

The dinner is set for the following friday. He chooses a quiet, tucked away place, of course he does, a little family-owned bistro with books stacked on its windowsills and flickering tea lights on each table. He texts you the address precisely, three days in advance, and follows up on Thursday to confirm with a slightly self conscious, “Still okay for tomorrow?” 

You reply yes, and he sends a single reply back: looking forward to it. Very much.

The phrase plays on a loop in your head as you dress.

You arrive first. The table is already reserved, near the back, half-shielded by a tall shelf of antique hardcovers. You glance around at the soft lighting, the quiet music playing in the background. It doesn't surprise you that Spencer found this place. It feels like him: thoughtful, hidden in plain sight, full of depth and charm you only see when you slow down.

When he walks in, you spot him immediately.

There's something about the way he carries himself tonight, more upright than usual, but still with that signature nervous energy he never quite masks. He's wearing a dark sweater and blazer, and his hair is a little more carefully styled than usual, though it still curls loosely around his ears. His eyes land on you, and the second they do, his shoulders drop just a little, like he's been holding something in and finally remembers how to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, pulling out your chair for you, and then his own. “Im...Im really glad you came.”

“So am i,” you answer, and his lips tug into a smile that takes its time spreading, like it's blooming rather than appearing.

The conversation is easy. Of course it is. You talk about books at first, he asks if you've started The Body Keeps the Score, and when you say yes, he leans in, visibly excited, launching into a soft but passionate explanation of how somatic trauma therapy has reshaped the way we understand memory storage. He stops himself three times mid-ramble, apologizing with flushed cheeks and glancing down at his hands. You touch his wrist gently once, just to steady him. “I like listening to you,” you say, and he glances up at you like that's something he doesn't hear very often but wishes he did.

Over pasta and shared wine, the conversation deepens.

He tells you about his mom. He doesn't launch into it the way he does with literature or statistics, it's slower, careful, like unwrapping something delicate. He talks about her schizophrenia, about the sharpness of her mind before the illness settled in, about how he used to read her poetry and scientific papers out loud just to keep her anchored. You don't interrupt. You just let the quiet stretch when it needs to, holding space for the weight he's always carried.

“I used to think I had to fix everything,” he says, voice low. “That if I just knew enough- read enough, understand enough- i could make it all go away. But some things aren't puzzles. They Are…ongoing.” he pauses, then looks at you. “You make it feel okay to have some of those pieces still unresolved.”

You say his name then, softly, and his gaze flickers to yours with something unguarded, something that's not just gratitude but recognition. Like he sees something in you he didn't expect to find, but can't quite let go of now that he has.

You talk for hours, until your plates are cleared, until the wineglass between you is empty, until the candle burns low and the lights dim just a little more.

Outside, the air is cool and still. The rain has passed, leaving behind the shimmer of wet pavement and reflections in puddles. He walks you to your car without speaking at first, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. You match his pace naturally.

“I…don't really do this,” he says suddenly, stopping just before you reach your door. “Not just the dating thing. But the part where i…care this quickly.”

You feel something shift again, like the pause before a page turn.

“I haven't either,” you say. “But I do.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, the world shrinks to the narrow space between you. He doesn't lean in. He doesn't rush. He just looks at you, and it feels like a long-held breath finally being released.

“I'd like to see you again,” he says. “Outside the bookstore. Not that I don't love the bookstore- I do. But I'd like to know what your laugh sounds like in other places. What you look like in the morning light. What you think about on a Sunday when no one’s asking you questions.”

The words are so Spencer- half poetic, half exact, more honest than most people are allowed to be.

“I'd like that too.” you say.

And then he smiles, and it's the real one, the one that  starts in his eyes and unfolds all the way through him, like he's not sure what's happening, only that it feels like something he doesn't want to stop.

He brushes your hand with his before he leaves. Just barely. But it's enough.

Enough to know this is only the beginning.

Enough to know the next chapter is already writing itself in quiet, deliberate ink.

[shadesofmauve]

Alliance Normandy SR2 interior redesign: Introduction

The Normandy is a sexy sexy spaceship, but the interior we see is defined by game play: corridors are extremely wide so Shepard doesn't get stuck on the scenery, the crew is sparse because animating crew members takes resources and NPCs are also obstacles Shepard could get stuck on, you need larger spaces for camera angles, etc.

I wanted to see if I could redesign the space to fit a crew of 70–90... ...and I got carried away.

This post covers the rules I set myself and the basic process. Each deck will get a separate post (check back for links):

Intro

Loft

Command deck

Crew deck

Engineering deck

Hangar deck

Design rules

Keep major elements in basically the same places. This is the Normandy as she exists in my fic Sunset & Evening Star, and readers shouldn't have to study a floorplan!

Use only space that's 'available' in the game. If we can access it as the player, it's fair game. If it's a mysterious void in-game, I assume it's full of Important Spaceship Parts and the only access is for ship maintenance.

The elevator shaft is vertical. No Willy Wonka/ST turbo lift shit.

*There are inertial dampeners; if there weren't none of this would work. But as an author I like to imagine that any system can be overloaded.

Step one: Align & scale the deck maps

I aligned the deck maps around the elevator, the only element that shows up on every one. Each is shown at a different scale, so I eyeballed their relationship based on furniture, which is the only thing required to have a relatively consistent size. This is a big assumption; game designers resize whatever they need to! Shepard's bed, for instance, has pillows about a meter square. Presumably they needed room to made the pixel dolls have sex. Shepard's bed can therefore not be trusted, and to a lesser extent neither can anything else.

(There are also floor panels that look a lot like standard 4'x8' construction sheet stock, but A) developers can re-size those as needed without the player noticing, and B) If we're still using imperial units to construct spaceships in 2184 I hope the reapers eat us.**)

**...that said, I used a scale of 1px:2ft to draw this. I'm so sorry. I'm American and I've done construction, it's easy for me to visualize. (The scale was two inches to the pixel, if you're curious.)

Step two: Redesign over the existing space

This is where I saw how much I could fit in the space the game design allowed (given my guesses on scale). Y'know, the fun bit that I thought I'd be spending most of my time doing!

(I was so wrong).

Redesign goals

The Alliance refitted the Normandy for an Admiral. Admirals don't captain their own ships, so I needed to account for an Admiral and their staff as well as the captain and crew.

Align bunks fore-aft, so that the most common major inertial vectors* will hit sleeping crew in the least dangerous direction.

Plumbing should be stacked when possible. (I don't know spaceships but I know about plumbing columns. Glamorous!)

Step three: Adjust to the hull

One modeler figured the ship had to be ~370 meters long to fit the decks as-is, which would leave them using only ~20% of the length. One dev is quoted as saying she's 170m. Fan estimates comparing it with other ships suggest somewhere from 210–230 meters.

The hangar deck is the one*** place the interior aligns with the exterior for certain. The hangar needs to fit two kodiaks in the space between the bay door and the elevator, and each kodiak needs to fit 12 people plus the pilot. Additionally, as the lowest deck the hanger is limited in width by the inward curve of the hull (and that limit changes based on how low you go, which is why the drawing above includes a front elevation).

***Yes, we also see Joker piloting right up in the nose. This is impossible to achieve and also stupid, so I've elected to ignore it.

Sizing it to the smallest reasonable hangar — and after drawing a rather stubbier kodiak — I managed a 194 meter hull; ~217 if you include thrusters. At this size the liveable area takes up just over a third of the hull length. It's still an awful lot of nose, but that nose means 136 meters for the main gun, which for my purposes is still a rail gun (so size matters). Sadly it can't be a hull-length gun; it would run into first the elevator, and then the eezo core.

I did NOT pretend to figure out where the Make Spaceship Go parts are, or the Keep People Alive parts. There's a LOT of 'wasted' space; assume it's all in use and accessible through engineering access-ways, though how comfortable or safe they are is questionable.

———

Thanks to @swaps55 for the amazing high-res screenshots of the game maps, and to @faejilly and @sheepishwolfy for the long-ago talks about crew size that started all this!

[p0orbaby]

We No Speak Italiano

summary: you’ll never miss a day of Duolingo again

warnings: are language barriers and miscommunication warnings?

a/n: based on this request ! also thank you to @onsomenewsht for inflating my ego and helping navigate italian !

word count: 2.1k

-

Alexia looks at you like you’ve just dropped the biggest bombshell in the history of bombshells. Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and she’s got that look, like she’s trying to figure out how to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture with no instructions and half the screws missing.

“Estoy embarazada,” you say again, because you’re pretty sure that’s the right way to tell her you’re mortified after spilling your entire glass of wine on her brand-new sofa.

Your high school Spanish teacher would be so proud.

But instead of the expected response, maybe a nervous laugh or string of expletives, Alexia gasps, and her hands fly to her mouth like she’s just heard the Virgin Mary is back for round two. Her eyes flick down to your stomach and back up to your face. The calculation going on behind her eyes is something like 2 + 2 = 5, but you have no idea why.

“I… Oh my God,” she says, her voice all wobbly, like she’s about to cry. “I didn’t… I mean, this is… Are you okay?” She’s speaking in slow, deliberate Spanish now, like you’re suddenly a toddler and not a grown-ass woman who just spilled wine.

You blink at her. “Sí?”

“Madre mía”

-

It starts with a breakfast that makes no sense.

You wake up to the smell of something cooking in the kitchen, which is odd because Alexia barely knows how to operate a toaster without supervision. You stumble out of bed, groggy, and follow the scent of food.

What you find in the kitchen is nothing short of alarming: Alexia, apron-clad and concentrating so hard that she’s actually sticking her tongue out a little, is stirring something in a pot while a blender whirs ominously next to her.

“Buenos días,” she sings out when she notices you standing in the doorway. She’s all smiles, too bright for this early in the morning, and you immediately get suspicious.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyes narrowing as you take in the sight of an overfull fruit bowl, a plate stacked with multigrain toast, and what appears to be an entire carton of eggs scrambled and ready to be eaten.

“Sit, sit,” she insists, pulling out a chair for you like you’ve suddenly developed a bad back and need assistance. “I made breakfast”

“You… made breakfast,” you repeat, eyeing the smoothie she pours into a glass and slides over to you. It’s an unsettling green color, like pond scum, and you’re not sure it’s fit for human consumption.

“Sí. You need to start your day with lots of nutrients.” She’s practically bouncing on her toes, like a Labrador eager to please.

You blink at the smoothie, then back at her. “Since when did you learn how to use the Nutribullet?”

She doesn’t answer directly, just gives you an encouraging smile that feels a little too close to a grimace. “Drink up. It’s good for you”

You take a tentative sip, and it’s like drinking liquid grass mixed with what you can only hope is kale. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No!” She’s almost offended, but there’s a hint of nervousness in her voice that you can’t quite place. “It’s full of vitamins. Good for… energy”

You stare at her, but she just stares back, eyes wide and almost… expectant.

“Okay,” you say slowly, deciding to let this weirdness slide, for now. Maybe she’s on a trendy new health kick. Or maybe it’s an early birthday surprise gone wrong. Either way, you down the smoothie in a few brave gulps, trying not to think about the fact that it tastes like lawn clippings.

Alexia beams at you when you finish, like you’ve just accomplished something monumental. ��Bien, bien. Now, sit tight. I’ll get the rest”

She practically skips back to the stove, where she starts piling eggs and toast onto a plate. You don’t even bother asking why she’s suddenly turned into Martha Stewart; you’re too busy wondering if you’ve somehow walked into a parallel universe.

It’s only later, after you’ve forced down an absurd amount of scrambled eggs, that she starts talking about how “important it is to stay healthy” and how she’s “going to take care of everything from now on,” which sounds sweet but also vaguely threatening.

You brush it off, chalking it up to some kind of weird phase. After all, everyone gets weird sometimes, right?

-

By day two, you’re starting to suspect that something is seriously wrong.

It begins with a confrontation over laundry, specifically, the fact that you’re not allowed to do any. At all.

“I’ve got it,” Alexia says, practically wrestling the basket out of your hands when you attempt to head for the washing machine.

You try to grab it back, but she holds it over her head like some ridiculous game of keep-away. “What is with you?”

“You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things,” she says, so earnestly it makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“It’s a basket of clothes,” you argue, “not a sack of bricks. And I lift heavier things at the gym every day”

She shakes her head, not budging. “No. Let me do it. Just relax”

You gape at her, watching as she carries the laundry to the washing machine like it’s a ticking time bomb. She’s being weirdly gentle, placing the clothes in like they might shatter if she drops them too hard.

Then there’s the vitamin situation. You’re sitting on the freshly cleaned sofa, flipping through channels, when Alexia plops down beside you with a clatter of bottles and packages.

“Take these,” she says, handing you an array of supplements that looks like it belongs on the shelf of a pharmacy. There are multivitamins, folic acid, omega-3s, and some other pill you can’t even pronounce.

“What is this?” You hold up the folic acid like it’s a foreign object. “I’m not trying to hatch an egg here”

“Just take them,” she insists, pushing the bottles toward you. “They’re good for you”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing these are good for is draining my will to live,” you mutter, but she gives you that look, the one that’s all big hazel eyes and soft smiles, and you end up taking them just to get her to stop hovering.

When you try to go for a run that afternoon, she practically tackles you at the door.

“Maybe you should rest,” she suggests, like she’s trying to steer a toddler away from a busy street. “You know, take it easy for a bit”

“Take it easy?” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not 80. And since when do you care about rest days? You’re usually the one dragging me to the gym at 6 AM”

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again like a fish gasping for air. “It’s important to be careful”

“Careful of what, exactly?”

She hesitates, and you catch a flicker of something in her expression, nervousness, maybe? Fear? Whatever it is, it’s weirding you out. “Just… you know, careful”

You’re about to argue, but she gives you a kiss on the forehead, all soft and sweet, and you end up staying in just to avoid making things even more bizarre.

-

By day three, you’re done. Absolutely, 100% done.

It starts with the breakfast smoothies, again. This time, it’s a vibrant pink concoction that tastes like liquid chalk mixed with berries, and you’re pretty sure it’s the same smoothie you saw in a TV ad for pregnancy supplements once.

When Alexia starts lecturing you on the importance of hydration, while handing you a liter of water with electrolytes, you decide it’s time to get to the bottom of this.

“Alexia,” you say, setting the water down with a definitive thud, “we need to talk”

She glances at you, clearly nervous, and you know you’ve hit the jackpot. “About what?”

“About why you’re acting like I’m a fragile little baby bird that needs to be protected from all the big, scary things in life,” you reply, crossing your arms.

Her face flushes, and she avoids your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I just-, I want to take care of you”

“I appreciate that,” you say, softening just a little, “but you’ve gone full-on helicopter mode. And it’s freaking me out”

She looks at you for a long moment, then sighs like she’s been carrying the weight of the world.

“You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice soft like she’s whispering state secrets. “How long? I mean… when did you find out?”

You stare at her, a mental Rolodex flipping through every interaction you’ve had over the last few days, searching for the moment when you apparently lost your mind. “Find out what?”

“That you’re…” She trails off, wide-eyed, and then whispers, like she’s on a soap opera, “Pregnant”

There’s a beat of silence. And then another one. You feel like someone just turned off the power in your brain. You’re pregnant? No, no, no. Last you checked, you were just really bad at pouring wine.

“Wait,” you finally say, holding up a hand to stop her from offering you yet another pillow or maybe a foot rub. “Pregnant?”

Alexia’s eyebrows are practically in her hairline. “You said you’re embarazada”

Oh. Oh. Oh no.

“Alexia,” you say slowly, enunciating like you’re the one explaining the IKEA instructions now. “I said I’m embarrassed. Not pregnant. Embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated because I thought I ruined your sofa with a ten-euro bottle of red”

She looks like she’s buffering, trying to load what you just said. “Embarazada… means pregnant, in Spanish”

Ah, the joys of faux amis, false friends, words that sound like they should mean the same thing but are actually waiting to sabotage you like linguistic landmines. Your high school Spanish teacher can take a hike.

You wipe away a tear, trying to catch your breath. “Alexia… I told you I was embarrassed. Imbarazzato doesn’t mean pregnant in Italian, it means mortified. Humiliated. Just how I felt when I spilled that wine and thought I ruined your furniture”

“Wait,” Alexia says, her brow furrowing in that cute, confused way you’d normally find adorable if she weren’t in the middle of thinking you’re harbouring a tiny human in your uterus. “So you’re not…?”

“No!” You laugh, a little hysterically because, seriously, how did you get here? “I’m not pregnant. We’re both women. How would that even work? I mean, unless there’s something about human biology I missed in school, I’m pretty sure that’s not in the cards for us”

Her eyes widen as the realisation hits, and then she groans, burying her face in her hands. “Dios mío, I’m such an idiot”

You’re still laughing, but you manage to pat her knee reassuringly. “An adorable idiot, but yeah, kind of”

“Well, you did say ‘embarazada,’” she points out. “How was I supposed to know you just meant you were embarrassed?”

You shrug. “Maybe when I didn’t start eating pickles and ice cream? Or asking for your jersey for when the baby arrives?”

“Touché.” She’s still grinning, that big, beautiful smile that makes you forgive her for thinking you were about to drop a baby bomb on her. “So, you’re just embarrassed”

“Yes. Very. And I’m also very much not pregnant. I’m sorry for confusing you”

She sighs, exaggerated like she’s relieved, and you both start laughing again, the awkward tension from the past few days melting away. But there’s still a mischievous glint in her eye, one that makes you a little wary.

“What?” you ask, knowing full well you’re about to regret it.

“Well, since you’re not pregnant,” she says slowly, leaning closer with that flirty smirk you love and hate in equal measure, “how about we do something about that embarrassment?”

She wiggles her eyebrows, and you roll your eyes. “Oh, so now that I’m not a fragile incubator, you’re all over me?”

“Exactamente,” she says, pulling you into her lap with surprising ease, even for someone who regularly benches more than your body weight. “Besides, I have to make sure you’re really not pregnant”

“Alexia,” you say, trying to sound stern but failing miserably when she starts nuzzling your neck, “that’s not how this works, remember?”

She grins against your skin, pressing a teasing kiss to your collarbone. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You push her back just enough to meet her eyes, raising an eyebrow. “But if you want to keep treating me like a queen, I’m not going to complain”

“Deal,” she says, her voice softening, her hand resting on your cheek. “But next time you’re embarrassed, can you please just say it in Italian, or English?”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Sure, but only if you promise not to freak out the next time I spill something”

“No promises,” she murmurs, pulling you closer, “but I’ll try”

[regressionschool]

MOMMY KNOWS BEST: A NEW APPROACH TO MARRIAGE?

By Emily Dawson, Investigative Reporter

In an era of rising divorce rates and failing marriages, one company believes they have found a radical yet effective solution—one that redefines the roles within relationships rather than dissolving them.

The "Mommy Knows Best" (MKB) program, developed by Pampers Corporation, offers struggling couples an alternative to separation. Instead of counseling or legal battles, the program transitions one partner—typically the husband—into a fully dependent little.

By removing the stress, ego, and responsibility that often cause marital tension, Pampers claims to create a more balanced, harmonious household where the wife assumes a nurturing role, and the husband embraces a simpler, carefree existence.

To its supporters, it’s a long-overdue revolution. To its critics, it’s a disturbing erasure of masculinity.

“A Man Should Be a Man” – A Former Husband Speaks Out

Not everyone is thrilled with the program. Joseph, 38, once a participant in MKB, now lives alone after divorcing his wife of ten years. He remains a vocal critic of what he calls “forced regression”.

“They stripped men of everything that makes them men,” he says, his jaw tightening. “This isn’t love. It’s control.”

According to Joseph, his wife enrolled him without his full understanding. “She made it sound like therapy,” he scoffs. “Like something that would help us communicate better. But the ‘communication’ part? That was just me being told what to do while I sat there in a… in a… damn diaper.”

His fingers twitch on the table as he hesitates on the word, his cheeks flushing slightly, as if the memory itself still holds power over him.

I ask him how long he was in the program. He sighs. “Seven months.”

And when he left?

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding eye contact. “It… took a while to adjust.”

Adjust?

His face darkens. “By the time I got out, I couldn’t even remember how to use the potty—eh, I mean toilet.”

He corrects himself quickly, but the slip is noticeable. A shadow of something uncertain flickers in his expression.

Does he still struggle with… certain habits?

His knee bounces under the table. "No. No, I’m fine now.” But he doesn’t sound convinced.

Though he claims to be fully independent again, he admits that certain instincts—like waiting for permission before making decisions—have been harder to shake.

“They train you to obey,” he mutters bitterly. “And for some guys, I guess that’s fine. But me? I lost everything.”

“He Finally Listens to Me” – A Wife’s Perspective

For Claire, 34, the experience couldn’t have been more different.

Before enrolling her husband, she says their marriage was on the verge of collapse.

“He never listened,” she explains, folding laundry as we talk. “Worked late, ignored housework, expected me to handle everything. It was like having a man-child already, just without the cute parts.”

She gestures toward the living room, where her husband—once a domineering, independent man—now sits in a soft playpen, happily occupied with colorful stacking rings.

He’s sucking a blue pacifier, his thick, crinkly Pampers diaper peeking out from beneath his cozy footed onesie. When Claire strokes his hair, he coos softly, leaning into her touch like an affectionate toddler.

“Now?” she smiles. “He actually listens.”

She explains that, in the past, every conversation turned into an argument. Now, there’s no stubbornness, no backtalk, no stress.

“When I tell him it’s naptime, he lays down. When I say he needs a change, he just giggles and lets me handle it. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly respected as a wife.”

But does he ever resist?

Claire chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh, of course. He still has little moments.”

Right on cue, her husband huffs and crosses his arms. "No change," he pouts, shaking his head. "Diaper fine."

Claire sighs. “Sweetheart, you’re soaked.”

He scowls, his lower lip jutting out petulantly—but when Claire raises an eyebrow, her voice firm yet patient, his resolve wavers.

“If you don’t let me change you,” she warns, “I’m turning off your cartoons for the rest of the day.”

His eyes widen. "Noooo!" He shakes his head frantically, the pacifier bouncing against his chest. “I be good! I be good!”

With a resigned sigh, he clambers onto the changing mat, his thick, swollen diaper squishing loudly beneath him. Claire ruffles his hair affectionately.

“See? So much easier than before,” she says with a smile.

Is This the Future of Marriage?

The Mommy Knows Best program is growing in popularity, with thousands of struggling couples enrolling every year. Pampers Corp reports that over 92% of participants choose to remain in the program permanently, claiming it strengthens marriages, eliminates conflict, and improves household harmony.

Psychologists point to reduced stress, structured routines, and positive reinforcement as key elements of its success.

And, of course, Pampers ensures that no participant ever has to worry about leaks, discomfort, or independence again.

For some, like Joseph, the program represents a loss of identity. But for women like Claire?

She simply smiles. “For the first time in my life, I’m happy. And more importantly?” She glances at her husband, who is now happily sucking his pacifier, waiting to be changed.

“So is he.”

(Sponsored in part by Pampers Corporation. Because a happy marriage starts with a happy little.)

[secretbigboylover]

Buffet Date

CW: Weight gain, rapid weight gain, teasing.

Trevor was trying to ignore how full his belly was and how good it felt. His big belly spilled over his lap and pushed his favorite button up shirt to its limit. It was a sky-blue shirt with yellow rubber duckies dotted all around it. His boyfriend, Max, had picked it out as a gift when they first moved in together. The same Max that confided in him that he liked his men chunky, the same Max that kept buying Trevor’s favorite snacks even though Trevor was on a diet. The same Max that innocently suggested a buffet for their date night.

Trevor knew he’d over eat, but couldn’t help himself and he was sure Max did too. The food just smelled amazing. There were so many options from pizza to pasta, stakes to hotdogs, every fried savory food he could think of, and the desserts were so mouthwatering. Trevor didn’t used to be a big guy, but boy did he have a big appetite. He had played football in high school and in college. Trevor had a wide build that made him the first pick on any team. He even had the good looks to make any man swoon or at least he used to. Now, thanks in part to dating Max, Trevor felt he had lost some of that. He was still broad and tried to be athletic, but had started developing a bit of a gut. Sure, some of his gym buddies when through bulking phases and got a bit chunky before getting ripped, but Trevor didn’t do any body building stuff. He liked to keep a lean muscle look. Now staring at an orb of a gut he groaned. He was so full and the food was so good. Rubbing his taught stomach only showed just how much of a pig he made of himself, but it also felt good. He didn’t want to admit it, but a part of Trevor really liked this feeling of being over stuffed. It was a good excuse to let Max dote on him while he just digested. He knew he should be more active, but Max always looked so happy when Trevor ate too much. Maybe it was time to give in? That though vanished when he looked down at the sad state of his favorite shirt.

The day he had gotten the shirt Max had taken him on a magical date to the winter fare. They had gone ice-skating, Trevor had tried to win Max a stuffed animal, they had hot chocolate, and road the Faris wheel. They had stopped by a little boutique before going home. It was filled with all kinds of crazy and goofy shirts. When Trevor saw the rubber ducky shirt he fell in love and he was over joyed when Max bought it for him. They took it home right away. Trevor was so swept up by how cute it was that he didn’t realize it was a size too big. Max had ensured him that he still looked cute in it and the bigger size only gave him room to grow.

Now diamonds of doughy flesh poked between the buttons. Trevor leaned back and stroke his belly. He couldn’t imagen taking another bite. He had already stuffed himself with four full plates. Trevor vowed this would be the last buffet date for the year. He would get back on his fitness grind and fit back into his favorite shirt. Once Max came back, he would tell him his master plan about getting his summer beach bod ready.

Max came back with three plates, one with a few slices of pizza, one with a slice of cheesecake, and the other stacked with two slices of strawberry cheesecake and warm brownies.

          “Sorry for the wait. I heard they were bringing out a fresh batch of brownies and I know how you love them.” Max said.

Trevor completely forgot about his aching belly the second he smelled the brownies. They were so rich. He could smell the semi-sweet chocolate and could almost taste it. His summer body forgotten he chowed down on the brownies. They were even better than he imagined. So dark and rich, with the perfect smooth fudge texture. They practically melted in his mouth. Trevor inhaled the last few and the cheesecake. Without a second thought he got up and raced towards the brownie station.

They had set out two massive sheets, still steaming. Like a child possessed, he quickly loaded his plate high with brownies. As he walked back to his table he had to peak over the mountain of brownies and had missed Max’s massive grin. Max was full on laughing by the time Trevor came back to the table.

“What, did I take too many?” Trevor said.

“No baby, your shirt.” Max said as he tried, and failed, to keep in his laughter.

Trevor looked down and saw two buttons in the middle of his shirt had popped off, his soft belly exposed to the air. He turned the deepest shade of crimson and hid behind his tower of brownies.

“Aw baby, no need to be embarrassed. I think you look very sexy with that soft belly.” Max said.

“Then why were you laughing?” Treavor said.

“Because I got an email that your new shirt had arrived.” Max said.

This did not quite answer Trevor’s confusion and Max recognized that and continued.

“I know how much you love that shirt and I know it has been fitting a little snug recently. So, I found out that store had a webpage and, on a whim, bought it the next size up. I’m just laughing because right as I got the email your buttons flew off.” Max said.

Trevor was still embarrassed but touched. He looked down at the plate and a had a wicked idea.

“Well let’s see if you can pop the rest of my button’s off.” Trevor said.

Now it was Max’s turn to be flustered.

“Wait what?” Max said.

Trevor wasn’t sure what came over him. He still wanted his lean summer bod, but loved seeming Max flustered and new this would do the trick.

“Yea, just feed me till I pop.” Trevor said as he pushed the plate of brownies towards Max.

Still flustered, but now definitely horny, Max picked up a brownie and popped it in Trevor’s mouth. Instantly Trevor was in heaven. The brownie was still as good, but the extra edge of having his sexy boyfriend feed them too him was doing wonders. Trevor knew in that moment his new shirt wouldn’t last very long.

[womenhoops]

AAU GAME p II

It was game day—and for the first time ever, Azzi was facing Paige in an official matchup.

They’d known each other for years—two, to be exact—but this was their first time squaring off in AAU. Different states, different teams, but the same competitive fire.

Not that Azzi was nervous or anything. Okay, maybe a little. Winning mattered—not just for the scoreboard, but for the bragging rights. So when she spotted Paige during warm-ups, she flashed a quick, confident smile and locked in.

At least, she tried to stay locked in—until the tip-off, when Paige casually strolled over to her side, leaned in, and whispered 

“You look so pretty, Azz. Can’t wait to beat you on the court.” 

Azzi’s eyes rolled so hard she nearly saw the back of her skull, and her stomach did a full somersault. But she wasn’t about to let Paige get in her head. So she hip-checked her, smirked, and shot back: 

“Good luck losing, P.”

The moment the whistle blew, it was war.

Azzi and Paige went at each other like they’d been waiting their whole lives for this—every drive, every shot, every defensive stop charged with something electric. The problem? Azzi’s team couldn’t keep up. Every perfect pass was fumbled. Every set play collapsed. By halftime, she’d already dropped 20 points—and they were still down 15.

Paige noticed.

She wanted to win—badly—but watching Azzi fight so hard, alone, made something twist in her chest. Azzi was having the kind of night players dreamed of, yet the score kept slipping further away.

Paige tightened her defense, face-guarding Azzi as they traded blows.

"Your shooting form is so perfect, Az," Paige teased, sticking to her like a shadow. "Let’s see if you can make it count."

Azzi, breathing hard, shot back, "Keep talking, P. I’ll still drop 40 on you." But she knew that the game was slipping away from her finger tips. 

Their banter was playful, but the tension was real. The crowd buzzed, mesmerized as they went bucket-for-bucket—Paige with the advantage of a stacked team, Azzi with nothing but sheer will. 

The crowd roared as Azzi pulled up from deep - nothing but net. 

Again. And Again. And Again. 

The gymnasium buzzed with electricity as she single-handedly kept her team within striking distance against Paige's powerhouse squad. Every time Azzi scored, the cheers grew louder, the energy more palpable. She wasn't just playing basketball - she was putting on a show, a masterclass in determination against impossible odds.

Paige wiped sweat from her brow, watching as Jason - that obnoxious guy from yesterday who needed to develop a sudden interest in Antarctic exploration - led a new chant: "A-Z-Z-I! Best game! Cutest dimples!" The entire gym picked it up, their voices bouncing off the rafters.

"Seriously?" Paige muttered under her breath, stealing a glance at Azzi, who was trying (and failing) to hide her grin as she backpedaled on defense. That dimpled smile only fueled Paige's competitive fire hotter.

Then came the play that changed everything.

Third quarter. Two minutes left. Paige's team up 28. The game should have been over, but Azzi kept coming, kept fighting. She split the defense with a vicious crossover, driving hard to the basket when-

CRACK.

Paige's teammate - Sarah, a senior with a mean streak and obvious jealousy issues (to be fair, Paige was never her biggest fan, she was not the best player and was definitely selfish which made no sense to a team sport like basketball)  - stepped in late and threw a dirty hip-check that sent Azzi airborne. 

Time seemed to stop as Azzi's body crashed to the hardwood, the sickening thud echoing through the suddenly silent gym.

Paige saw red.

In three long strides, she was in Sarah's face, shoving her backward. "What the actual hell was that?" Paige's voice shook with barely contained rage. "We don't play dirty!"

Sarah smirked, wiping her hands on her shorts. "Someone had to slow her down. She's making us look bad."

"We're up twenty-eight!" Paige's hands balled into fists at her sides. "You're just jealous because-"

"Because what?" Sarah challenged, stepping closer. "Because this whole tournament's in love with her? Including that little boy over there?" She jerked her chin toward Jason, who was looking worried from the stands… 

That girl - that jealous, 18-year-old senior - had just deliberately hurt her best friend. Her Azzi. The one who FaceTimed her every night until they both fell asleep mid-sentence. The one whose dimples appeared even when she was trying to be serious. The one who'd sobbed into Paige's shoulder when Olaf melted in Frozen, whispering "But he was just trying to help Anna" between hiccuping breaths.

And now she was on the ground, clutching her side in pain.

Paige's world narrowed to a single point of white-hot rage. The sounds of the gym faded - the shocked gasps, the concerned murmurs, even the referee's whistle disappeared. All she could see was Sarah's smug face and Azzi's pained expression. Her hands trembled with barely restrained fury as she took another threatening step forward, muscles coiled like a spring-

"Paige."

That voice—Azzi's voice, strained but achingly familiar—sliced through Paige's red haze like dawn breaking through a storm. It had always been her anchor, this connection that transcended distance and circumstance. When they were states apart and Paige's late-night frustration texts came through in all caps. When that careless turnover during the U17 championships nearly cost them everything, and Azzi's quiet "We got this, P" steadied her trembling hands. When narrow-minded whispers about Azzi's skin tone curled through Argentinian gyms like poison smoke, and Paige felt her fists clench until Azzi's fingers laced through hers—wordless, unshakable.

Just one word. Just her name. But it was enough to make the world start turning again.

Azzi was still on the ground, clutching her ribs, but her eyes were locked on Paige. Not the trainers rushing over. Not her own teammates. Paige.

The blonde exhaled sharply, the fight draining from her shoulders as she turned away from Sarah and dropped to one knee beside Azzi. 

"You okay?" The words came out rougher than she intended.

Azzi winced as she tried to sit up. "Oh now you care?" Despite the pain, that trademark smirk played at her lips.

"Shut up," Paige shot back, but there was no heat in it. She slipped an arm behind Azzi's shoulders to help her up. "Can you stand or not?"

Behind them, Sarah's venomous whisper cut through the murmuring crowd: "Unbelievable. Queen Paige bending the rules for her little crush.”

Paige didn't bother turning. Her response came low and dangerous, each word measured like a knife thrust: "It's called sportsmanship. Look it up sometime." Then, barely audible but razor-sharp, she added: "And that's my best friend, you bitch."

Her fingers lingered on Azzi's elbow - a fleeting touch that said everything her words couldn't. The warmth of contact, the unspoken check-in, the silent promise that this wasn't over.

The arena erupted as Azzi waved off the trainer with that stubborn set to her jaw Paige knew so well. When she tested her weight, rolling her ankle with careful precision, that trademark grin flashed - bright enough to make Paige's chest tighten.

"Might wanna leash your attack dog," Azzi teased, eyes glinting with challenge, "before I return the favor."

Paige snorted, the sound equal parts exasperation and reluctant admiration. "Please. Like you'd fight dirty." But her gaze betrayed her, scanning every microexpression on Azzi's face for signs of real pain - the slight tightening around her eyes, the barely-there hitch in her breathing that no one else would notice.

The gym fell into that charged silence unique to crucial free throws. Paige remained rooted, watching with singular focus as Azzi's routine unfolded - two precise dribbles, that steadying exhale Paige had watched her practice a thousand times, then-

Swish.

The explosion of sound was deafening. Jason and his cronies leapt up like puppets on strings, their obnoxious cheers grating on Paige's nerves. (She hated how his eyes tracked Azzi's every move, hated how he reduced her best friend to "hot" when Azzi was so much more - and if that realization made Paige's stomach twist, well, that was nobody's business.)

But all that noise faded to static as Paige watched Azzi's face transform - the way her eyes lit up with that pure, unfiltered joy that made the scoreboard irrelevant, the pain meaningless, the whole world narrow to this moment.

The whistle's shrill note brought them back. As they retreated on defense, Paige caught Azzi's eye across the court and mouthed two familiar words - their words: "Show off."

And when Azzi grinned back - that full, dimpled smile that had been Paige's favorite since they were fourteen - it felt like winning something far more important than a game.

By the fourth quarter, both Azzi and Paige were benched—each on their own team’s sidelines, but their eyes kept finding each other across the court. Paige couldn’t help but watch in awe. Even down by 32, Azzi was still leading. Leaning forward on the bench, calling out plays, clapping for teammates who—let’s be real—probably shouldn’t have been playing competitive basketball. But that was Azzi. Relentless, even in a lost cause.

And when one of her drawn-up plays actually worked, her smile lit up the entire gym. Paige had seen that grin a thousand times—during late-night snack runs where Paige sad she would drive azzi to get her favorite type of ice cream, when they’d FaceTimed each other after stupid fights—but it still hit her the same way every time. 

Like sunlight breaking through clouds.

When the final buzzer sounded, Paige’s team won by 29. But as the players lined up for post-game handshakes, Azzi tugged Paige closer by the jersey, her lips brushing Paige’s ear.

"You won," she whispered, breath warm against Paige’s skin. "But I still dropped more points than you."

Paige’s stomach did a backflip. She should’ve fired back with some cocky remark, should’ve rolled her eyes and called Azzi a sore loser. But instead, she just smiled—genuine, unguarded, proud. Because damn it, Azzi had been unreal tonight.

Then Sarah ruined the moment. Again. 

When Azzi extended her fist for the customary bump, Sarah pretended not to see, walking right past her with a dismissive scoff.  And, Paige’s blood went from warm to boiling in half a second.

Before Azzi could even react, Paige grabbed Sarah’s wrist, yanking her back hard enough to make her stumble. 

"What the hell is your problem?" Paige hissed, voice low and dangerous.

Sarah jerked her arm free, glaring. "You’re really picking her over your own team?"

"I’m picking respect over whatever petty bullshit you’re on," Paige shot back. "Apologize. Now."

The gym had gone eerily quiet. Even the refs were watching.

Sarah’s jaw tightened, but under Paige’s furious stare, she finally muttered, "Whatever. Sorry, I guess."

Azzi, still standing there, just arched a brow. "Wow. That was almost convincing."

Paige bit back a laugh.

As Sarah stormed off, Paige felt Azzi's shoulder bump against hers, their fingers brushing in that silent language only they understood. The contact lasted barely a second, but it carried volumes - admiration, solidarity, something warmer than either would name.

Then came the Fudd family, cutting through the dispersing crowd like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "My two favorite warriors!" Azzi's mom beamed, already raising her phone. "We need pictures - this was historic!"

Azzi groaned but didn't resist as her parents pulled them together. "Mom, we just got our butts kicked-"

"Nonsense!" Her father interjected, throwing an arm around both girls. His coaching instincts surfaced as he addressed Paige: "You played lights out, kid, but..." He tapped his temple knowingly. "Third quarter? Should've forced left more often. Right side was overplaying you all night."

Paige felt her cheeks flush - not from criticism, but from how effortlessly he included her in his basketball wisdom. The way he analyzed her game with the same attentive care he gave Azzi.

"You're absolutely right, Coach," she admitted, rubbing her neck. "I got too comfortable with the cross-court passes."

Azzi's dad grinned, squeezing them tighter. "Ah, but when you two matched up?" He whistled. "Best basketball I've seen all season. Even if someone-" he pinched Azzi's cheek, "-needs to work on her help defense."

"Dad!" Azzi swatted his hand away, but her protest dissolved into laughter when Paige joined in teasing her.

As camera flashes popped around them, Paige caught herself leaning into this moment - into the easy way Azzi's parents folded her into their family orbit. The way Mrs. Fudd fixed Paige's sweaty ponytail without asking, the way Coach Fudd's advice carried both challenge and belief.

Azzi met her eyes over their posed smiles, and in that glance Paige saw understanding. This family wasn't just becoming important to her. They were becoming hers.

"Mom, where are we eating? We’re starving."

Azzi’s voice was half-whine, half-laugh as she tugged at her jersey, still damp with sweat from the game.

Miss Fudd smiled sweetly at Paige—a smile that carried just a little too much knowing amusement—then turned to Azzi.

"Well," she said, tapping her chin, "Paige actually asked me earlier if she could take you out tonight. Just the two of you."

Azzi’s head whipped toward Paige so fast her braids smacked her own cheek. "You—what?"

Paige’s face burned. She hadn’t expected Mrs. Fudd to just announce it like that. She’d imagined pulling Azzi aside later, playing it cool—Hey, there’s this place I found, you wanna check it out?—not having it laid bare in front of her entire family.

“I mean, yeah,” Paige muttered, suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces. “If you want. No big deal.” She kept her voice casual, but the words came out too fast. “Just thought since it’s our last night, and I’m flying back to Minnesota after lunch tomorrow, and we don’t have a game—”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed, stoping Paige’s resembling to remember that Paige had asked her parents permission. "You asked my mom? Like, formally?"

"I was being polite," Paige shot back, defensive. "Unlike some people who just show up at my house unannounced and eat all my cereal."

Azzi opened her mouth to retaliate, but her mom cut in, laughter in her voice. "It’s settled, then. You two go have fun. But, Azzi—" She held up a warning finger. "Phone on. Loud. And back by eleven."

"Mom, we’re not twelve," Azzi groaned.

"And yet," her dad chimed in without looking up from his clipboard, "somehow, you still forget to text when you're running late."

Paige bit back a grin. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of Azzi's ear as she whispered: "Go get ready, princess. I'll meet you in an hour at our hotel lobby."

The reaction was instant—Azzi’s breath hitched, her neck flushing pink where Paige’s words had touched skin. (Totally normal best friend behavior, she told herself.)

"Bold of you to assume I'm saying yes," she muttered, but the way her fingers twitched against her gym bag strap betrayed her.

Paige smirked, stepping back. “You will. And wear something white.” A pause, just long enough to make Azzi’s pulse jump. “So we can match.”

And of course—Azzi did.

——

Paige had changed four times before settling on dark jeans and a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Casual but put-together—the perfect balance between I didn’t try too hard and I absolutely did, but I’ll deny it if you call me out.

(Which Azzi always did.)

Meanwhile, Azzi stood frozen in her bathroom, clutching a tube of mascara like it might bite her. Since when do you care this much? She’d swiped on a little makeup—just enough to make her eyes pop, just subtle enough to play it off as habit. The sweater was fine. The jeans were fine. Everything’s fine.

The elevator dinged, and there she was—soft blue sweater clinging to her shoulders, and white jeans that should’ve been illegal, hair still damp and curling at the ends where it brushed her collarbones. Paige’s throat went dry.

"You’re late," Paige said, checking her watch with exaggerated annoyance.

Azzi rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. "By two minutes. And you’re staring."

"Am not."

"You literally haven’t blinked since the doors opened." Azzi stepped closer, tilting her head. Was the mascara too much? Did she notice? "What, do I have something on my face?"

Yes. Your face. Which is the problem. 

Paige swallowed hard. "Shut up and let’s go. We’re gonna miss our reservation."

Azzi grinned. "Oh, so it’s a reservation now? Not just ‘grabbing food’ like you said?"

"I hate you."

"You love me."

Paige’s chest tightened. Yeah. That’s the issue.

The walk to the place was quick, and in silence. Both teenagers immerse in their own thoughts. Paige had scouted this place carefully—a small Italian spot with dim lighting, great pasta, and, most importantly, atmosphere. Quiet enough to talk, but not so fancy they’d feel awkward. Just… intimate.

Not a date. Best friends can have intimate dinners.

The second they walked in, Azzi’s eyebrows shot up. "Ohhh. This kind of dinner."

Paige’s stomach dropped. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Azzi smirked, trailing a finger over the white tablecloth. "Just… candles? Fancy napkins? You reserved this, didn’t you?"

Paige had. She’d also requested the corner booth and may or may not have Googled best date spots in the city before remembering—not a date.

"Shut up," she muttered, sliding into the seat. "I just didn’t wanna end up at some chain place with your dad’s playbook spread over the table."

Azzi laughed, leaning forward. "You planned this. Admit it."

Paige’s pulse spiked. Azzi was too close, her grin too knowing. "Yeah, well," she deflected, "someone had to. You’d have dragged me to the first smoothie place you saw."

"Damn right." Azzi picked up the menu, then paused. "P… there’s nothing here you’d eat. No fries. No plain chicken tenders. Just… vegetables." She squinted. "Did you pick this place for me?"

Paige’s ears burned. "No. I just… wanted to try something new."

Azzi’s expression softened. "You hate new."

"I don’t hate it."

"You once cried over a menu because they ‘changed the fries.’"

"That was one time—"

Azzi reached across the table, her fingers brushing Paige’s wrist. "Hey." Her voice was quieter now, teasing but tender. "You could’ve just said you wanted to take me somewhere nice."

Paige’s breath caught. Because it’s you. Because I’d sit through a hundred vegetable plates if it meant watching you smile like this. Instead, she shrugged. "Figured you deserved a break from my culinary crimes."

Azzi squeezed her hand. "You’re ridiculous."

Their conversation flowed as easily as it always did—like they were picking up right where they’d left off, like no time had passed at all. Dinner was… perfect. And they’d missed each other so much - being best friends in different states was not for the weak. 

They argued over breadsticks (Paige dunked hers in ranch; which the brunette called it a "culinary crime"). They debated the best NBA players which was not a big discussion given that Azzi had very limites knowledge on the matter (Paige fought hard for Luka; Azzi, predictably, Steph). 

They laughed so hard at one point that the couple next to them shot them dirty looks, and Azzi had to press her napkin to her mouth to stifle a snort. And the blonde found that the most cute thing ever, but she would deny that with her life. 

But then, as the waiter cleared their plates, Azzi grew quiet. She traced the rim of her glass, her voice softer when she finally spoke.

"You didn’t have to do this, you know."

Paige frowned. "Do what, Az?”

"All of it." Azzi gestured between them. "The dinner, the… whatever this is. We could have done something casual. Your company Is more than enough, P.”

Paige’s chest tightened. 

"I didn’t want to," she said instead.

Azzi looked up, holding her gaze. "Why not?"

The air between them crackled. Paige’s mouth went dry. She was not quite sure of the “why”. 

But before she could answer, Azzi’s phone buzzed loudly on the table.

MOM: 30 minutes, Azzi. Don’t make me come find you.

The spell broke. Azzi groaned, flopping back in her seat. "Ugh, kill me."

Paige exhaled, equal parts relieved and frustrated.  "

C’mon, I will ask for the check, and we can still make it on time. Don’t worry princess.“ 

When the check came, Azzi immediately reached for her wallet. "Split it?"

The blonde snatched the bill before the younger girl’s fingers could graze it. "Nope."

Azzi rolled her eyes. "Come on, P. I ate half your breadsticks. Least I can do is—"

"I invited you," Paige said firmly, sliding her card into the leather folder before Azzi could protest. "My treat."

Azzi opened her mouth to argue—then stopped.

There was something in the way Paige said it. Not just stubborn, but certain. Like it mattered to her. Like this—taking care of Azzi, even in this small way—was something she wanted to do.

A strange warmth fluttered in Azzi’s chest.

Oh.

She’d always teased Paige for being competitive, but this wasn’t that. This was… intentional. The way Paige had picked the restaurant knowing Azzi would love it. The way she’d insisted on walking her back. The way she was looking at her now—chin tilted, eyes soft—like Azzi was something precious.

You do this a lot, don’t you?

The realization hit her like a delayed pass, right to the ribs.

Paige always took care of her.

The extra Gatorade in her bag when Azzi forgot hers. The way she’d text "You good?" after a tough loss. The time she’d had sent a care package all the way from Minessota because Azzi had mentioned feeling sick during a FaceTime. All these little things, piling up.

And Azzi—oblivious, glitchy Azzi—had never let herself think about why it made her stomach swoop.

So, she decided to be a little bold:  "You never answered my question," Azzi said lightly.

"What question?"

"Mean Streets," Azzi teased, bumping her shoulder. "You still owe me that movie night."

Paige’s pulse jumped. You have no idea what you do to me. "Yeah, well. Maybe next time we’re in the same hotel."

Azzi grinned. “How about you sneak into my room tonight given that I have no roommate? "

Paige's fingers twitched against her jeans. Just a movie. Just friends. But her throat had gone dry as desert asphalt in July. "Your mom would literally murder me if she caught me sneaking in after curfew."

Azzi's eyes glittered under the hotel's exterior lights, mischief written in the curve of her smile. "Since when do you care about rules?" She stepped closer, the toe of her sneaker bumping Paige's. "Come on. We've stayed up later at tournaments. And it's not like—" Her voice dropped, suddenly shy, "—it's not like we'd be doing anything wrong."

That's the problem, Paige thought wildly. I might lose control if you keep looking at me like that.

The confession nearly slipped out right there between the parked cars and humming streetlights. Instead, she cleared her throat. "What time's lights out?"

"Eleven." Azzi rocked back on her heels, suddenly nervous. "But you don't have to—"

"I'll be there at 10:45." The words left Paige's mouth before her brain caught up. "I can bring the snacks: Sour Patch Kids and those weird peanut butter crackers you like too.”

Azzi's resulting smile could've powered the entire hotel. 

"Deal." 

She turned toward the entrance, then glanced back over her shoulder, damp brunette curls catching the light. "Don't chicken out,  you already know my room number.”

And to be fair, Paige had actually memorized it the second azzi told her. 

10:42 PM - Third Floor Hallway

Paige counted doors with her heartbeat thundering in her ears. 1124...1126... The ice machine down the hall rattled like her nerves. This was stupid. This shouldn't feel so monumental. They'd shared beds before—crammed together in the Fudds' cabin last summer, limbs tangled during movie nights in Minnesota. 

But those times had been easy. Safe.

They were also never actually alone. 

Never after Azzi had looked at her like that over breadsticks.

She raised her hand to knock—then froze. 

She was freaking out because she knew what this meant. It was painfully clear she had a crush on her best friend. But did Azzi feel the same? What would that even mean for them? For their friendship? ? And then there was Jason—the guy Azzi had shut down, but still. He was a boy, and that somehow made it different.

She remembered their conversation last night—Azzi confessing she’d never kissed anyone, Paige admitting her own experiences weren’t as wild as people assumed. The way Azzi’s eyes had lingered when she’d said, "you already know my room number."

Before she could second-guess herself any longer, Paige knocked.

The door swung open almost immediately—like Azzi had been waiting on the other side.

And there she was: damp curls framing her face, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, pajama shorts that Paige was pretty sure were hers (stolen in Minnesota, no doubt).

"You gonna stand out here all night?" Azzi smirked. "Or are you coming in?"

Paige’s throat went dry. "Was working up to it."

"Scared, Bueckers?"

"Of you? Please." 

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the warm, vanilla-scented dark. 

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [16]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: suggestive comments, betrayal.

wc: 4665

Chapter 16: End Of The Beginning

"Alright, girls, get into order."

It was the end of February, and everything felt like it was moving at double speed. My first catalog was due at the end of March, and the fashion show—the one that determined our final standing—was set for mid-April. Deadlines were stacking up, pressure mounting with every passing day.

The studio buzzed with energy as fabric rustled, sewing machines hummed, and voices overlapped in chaotic harmony. My classmates scrambled to organize their models, pin final fittings, and adjust last-minute details. I tightened my grip on my sketchbook, heart racing with both anxiety and excitement.

I glanced across the room at my lineup. My models stood tall in the sample pieces I’d spent the last month agonizing over. Sleek lines. Soft silks. Details that whispered rather than shouted. My signature.

My supervisor came around the corner, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as the room seemed to tense around her presence. She scanned each model with a practiced eye, up, down, expression unreadable. Her sharp gaze sliced through the chatter like a knife.

When her eyes landed on me, my stomach tightened. My heart thudded in my chest like it wanted to escape. She wasn’t the friendliest woman, respected–yes, and feared as well. 

She paused in front of my lineup. Silence stretched.

“Beautiful,” she said at last, the word slow, deliberate, curling into a small, rare smile. “I hope to see these on the runway during the end of term.”

I exhaled—quietly, carefully. A compliment. From her. It was like getting a blessing from a storm.

“Thank you, miss” I said, steadying my voice.

She gave one last approving nod and moved on.

When I left class, I made my way across campus to meet up with Jen. It had been a while since I’d seen her in person—a hot minute, as she liked to say. We’d both been drowning in deadlines and late-night assignments, our friendship lately surviving through texts and voice notes.

I spotted her by the coffee stand near the arts building, already holding two cups. A bright smile lit up her face when she saw me.

“Aurora freakin’ Devereaux,” she called out, arms open for a dramatic hug. “Still breathing?”

“Barely,” I laughed, letting her pull me into a hug. The scent of vanilla latte clung to her hoodie.

“Come on,” she said, handing me a drink. “I need the full breakdown."

 I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at my lips.

"were do I even start?"

“Maybe start with your hot fiancé,” Jen said, wiggling her eyebrows with a mischievous grin.

I laughed, shaking my head. “You freak.”

We didn’t jump into talking about my hot fiance right away. First, we caught up on her life—her new internship, a painting she’d just finished, and, of course, the latest person she’d hooked up with at that one house party I bailed on. The conversation flowed easily, the kind that felt like breathing after holding it in too long.

Then it was my turn.

There was a lot to say. About school, the show, the pressure, and, eventually, about Chris. I tried to keep it light, but truth had a way of slipping through my words.

“So yeah,” I said finally, “I’d say we… touch each other often.”

Jen blinked at me, eyebrows raised. “Okay, but like… no sex?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Why?” she asked, blunt as ever.

I sighed and looked down at the cup in my hands. The lid was warm but not comforting.

“I’ll be honest, Jen. It’s me. I just… I don’t know. I’ve always related sex to like… really deep connection. Like trust and stuff, and with everything going on, I don’t know if I’ve fully let myself get there yet.”

She was quiet for a moment, uncharacteristically thoughtful.

“Wow,” she said eventually. “That’s mature.”

I looked up, surprised. “You’re not going to call me a prude?”

“No. I mean, I could,” she smirked. “But that’d be a lie. You’re in a complicated situation. Honestly, it makes sense.”

I smiled, a soft one. “Thanks.”

“Besides,” she added, “when it does happen, it’s gonna be good.”

I chuckled, but she wasn’t done.

She sipped her coffee, then tilted her head. “Do you think Chris wants to go the whole way?”

I looked at her, the answer already there. “I mean… yeah. I can tell he does. The man had a proper sexual life before me. He’s not exactly shy.”

Memories of Chris not being shy crossed my mind, and I couldn't help but smile at myself.

Jen snorted. “No kidding.”

I smiled softly. “But he’s never pushed. He always says when I’m ready, he’s ready. That he doesn’t want me to feel pressured.”

Jen leaned back against the bench, looking thoughtful. “That’s really… good of him. I know guys like that exist, but it’s rare.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “He’s patient with me, even when I can tell it’s not easy for him, not just in like physical manners.”

Jen looked over at me, her usual playfulness gone. “I think he loves you, Rory.”

My breath hitched for a second, and I stared into my coffee cup like it could offer me an answer. “Chris doesn’t love me,” I murmured. “At least… I doubt he does.”

Jen raised a brow. “Has he ever said it?”

I shook my head. “No. Never.”

She let out a soft hmm and nodded, thinking it through. “Well… to be fair, you two only really started getting close, what—two months ago?”

“Yeah,” I said, letting out a slow breath. “Right after Christmas.”

“Exactly,” she said. “So maybe he does, but he just hasn’t gotten there yet. Or maybe he’s scared to say it first.”

I glanced at her, a little surprised. “You think Chris Sturniolo is scared?”

Jen grinned. “Everyone’s scared when it comes to love. Makes you say and do things you thought you wouldn’t”

She wasn’t wrong.

After we finished our coffee, Jen and I hugged goodbye and promised to hang out again soon. I walked back home with the afternoon sun dipping low behind the buildings, casting long shadows over the quiet streets. The wind had picked up a bit, tugging at my coat as I approached our place.

When I stepped inside, I immediately noticed how quiet it was—too quiet. 

Chris was in the living room, standing near the tall windows, his phone pressed to his ear. His back was to me, one hand in his pocket, the other holding the phone tightly. His voice was low, clipped—tense.

“No, that’s not what we agreed on,” he said, his tone sharp. “I don’t care what he told you, I want everything run through me first. No exceptions.”

He paused, listening, then sighed heavily. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He hung up and let out a loud, frustrated, “Fuck,” running both hands through his hair and gripping it for a second before letting go.

“Chris?” I said gently.

He turned around quickly, clearly startled. But when he saw me, his shoulders eased a little, and his whole expression softened. “Hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you okay?” I asked, taking a step closer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, brushing it off. “I’m fine.”

I didn’t buy it. “What’s wrong?”

He hesitated for a second, then shook his head. “Nothing. Just work stuff. It’s been a long day.”

I nodded, still unsure, but before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. I sank into him without thinking, letting the silence say what he wouldn’t.

His hold was tight, like he needed it more than he was willing to admit.

“You can tell me if anything’s bothering you, y’know?” I said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I just don’t want you to stress about things you don’t need to.” 

I pulled back slightly to look at him. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment, unreadable, like something was fighting behind them. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“I’m gonna head into my office for a bit,” he mumbled.

I nodded, not wanting to push. “Okay.”

He turned and walked down the hall, the tension still clinging to his shoulders. I stood there for a second, staring at the spot he’d just been, before I made my way into the kitchen. The silence in the house felt heavier now.

I opened the pantry, grabbing a granola bar, but my mind wasn’t on food. It was on Chris—his silence, the way he shut down so quickly, how he always said he was fine when it was so clear he wasn’t.

I went into the living room, snuggled into the big armchair, and pulled the throw blanket over me. The cushions sank around me, warm and familiar, and before I knew it, my eyes fluttered closed. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until my body finally relaxed.

I pulled out my phone, midway through drafting a message to the photographer Matt had recommended. She was my age, graduating from photography this year, and her portfolio aligned almost perfectly with my aesthetic I was going for.

Moments later the quiet hum of the house wrapped around me, and sleep came easily.

A couple of hours later, just past eight, the sudden sound of footsteps jolted me awake.

Chris came marching out of his office, his pace fast and deliberate, like he had somewhere to be. His phone was in one hand, coat in the other, jaw set tight.

I sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Chris?”

He turned toward me for a split second, clearly surprised I was awake. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, concern creeping into my voice. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, leaning down to kiss me quickly on the lips. “Everything’s fine.”

I blinked up at him, trying to read his face, but he was already pulling his coat on.

“I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” he added, almost too casually. “Don’t wait up, okay?”

“Wait—what? Chris, where are you—”

“I’ll text you,” he interrupted gently, giving me one last look that I couldn’t quite decipher. 

“I’ll text you, okay? Promise,” he said, already heading toward the door. “Don’t wait up.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I sat there for a second, staring at the closed door, unease crawling under my skin. I didn’t want to overthink it. I trusted Chris, it probably really was just work.

I rubbed my eyes and stood up, stretching a little.

After a hot shower, I changed into one of Chris’s oversized t-shirts and headed down the hall—not to my room, but to his. I liked his bed better. It was bigger, warmer, and always smelled like him.

When I opened the door, I paused.

His room was a mess.

Papers were scattered across the desk and even on the floor. His usually pristine space looked like it had been torn through in a rush. I stepped inside slowly, curiosity getting the better of me. I picked up one of the pages that had landed near the edge of the bed.

My eyes scanned the page. It was a formal wire transfer notice.

“Wire transfer completed: $1,250,000 withdrawn from primary account – recipient: Unknown.”

My brows furrowed. Unknown? That couldn’t be right. For that amount of money, the recipient should be crystal clear.

Curious now, I glanced around the room. More papers were scattered across the desk and floor. I moved slowly, picking up a few more sheets, my fingers trembling slightly.

Each one looked nearly identical.

Date: February 7 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown Date: February 14 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown Date: February 21 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown

Same amount. Same wording. Same unknown account.

I crouched down, reaching for a crumpled page half-hidden beneath Chris’s dresser. The bold header glared up at me as I unfolded it:

August 18 – $1,250,000 withdrawn – Recipient: Unknown.

Another one.

I began gathering more—some from his desk, others tucked between folders, one slipped behind a chair. My heart was racing now as I laid them out on the bed, organizing them by date.

August 18. September 22. November 3.

It had started gradually—once every month or so. But then I reached December’s pile, and everything changed.

December 15. December 22. December 29.

Then January followed, consistent and relentless.

January 5. January 12. January 19. January 26.

Week after week. No breaks.

By the time February rolled around, it had become routine—clockwork withdrawals, like someone draining his account on a schedule.

I pieced it together—this had to be what was weighing so heavily on Chris.

I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Chris was a billionaire, no doubt about that, but losing millions every single week? That had to be rough, no matter how much money you had.

Carefully, I gathered the papers and stacked them neatly, making sure not to disturb anything else. I slid the documents back under a folder on his desk, trying to leave everything as I had found it.

The weight of what I’d discovered settled over me, but exhaustion tugged harder. I needed rest more than answers right now.

I turned off the light and slipped under the covers, letting the quiet darkness swallow me whole. As I closed my eyes, the images of the papers and those endless withdrawals lingered behind my eyelids.

But for tonight, I let sleep take me.

A call came through at 2:07 AM. The sharp ring cut through the silence, pulling me from a restless sleep. I blinked, groggy, my hand instinctively reaching out across the bed, empty. Chris still hadn’t come home.

With a sinking feeling, I fumbled for the phone and answered in a hushed, uncertain voice. “Hello?”

A low, firm voice responded. “This is Officer Ramirez from the Boston Police Department. Am I speaking with Aurora Devereux?”

My entire body tensed.

The air seemed to thicken around me as I shot upright in bed, heart already pounding. “Y-yes, this is Aurora,” I said, my voice trembling.

There was a beat of silence. “I’m going to need you to come down to the station immediately,” the officer continued.

“Your father has been arrested.”

CHRISTOPHER 

Earlier that day…

The city looked cold from where I stood.

One hand in my pocket, the other gripping my phone too tightly, I stared out the window as my voice dropped, sharp and clipped.

“No, that’s not what we agreed on.” I paused, jaw tense. “I don’t care what he told you. I want everything run through me first. No exceptions.”

Another pause. More excuses.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I hung up and let the frustration boil over.

“Fuck,” I muttered, running both hands through my hair, gripping it for a second before letting go.

This wasn’t just work anymore.

At this point, my uncle had been draining $1.25 million every week. Quiet. Calculated. Sneaky as hell.

We’d started tracking the exact times Michael slipped in and out of the storage room—where the real files were kept. Where answers were waiting.

But until then, I was stuck.

“Chris?”

Her voice pulled me back. I turned around quickly.

Aurora stood in the hallway, still fully dressed from coming home. Her voice was soft, worried. My shoulders eased without meaning to.

“Hey,” I said quietly. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping toward me.

“Yeah,” I said a little too fast. “I’m fine.”

She gave me a look—I knew she didn’t buy it.

“What’s wrong?”

I hesitated. Just for a second.

“Nothing. Just work stuff. It’s been a long day.”

She didn’t press. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. I exhaled, letting myself sink into her for a moment.

Her voice was gentle against my cheek. “You can tell me if anything’s bothering you, y’know? I just don’t want you to stress about things you don’t need to.”

She pulled back slightly, her eyes locking with mine. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

God, she didn’t deserve this.

I kissed her forehead, lingering there for a beat. Letting the smell of Roses linger in my nose.

“I’m gonna head into my office for a bit,” I mumbled, after a moment.

She nodded softly. “Okay.”

I turned and walked down the hall, the feel of her still lingering against my skin like an echo I didn’t want to lose. I had to pull away—there were things I couldn’t explain yet. Things I didn’t even fully understand myself.

Stepping into my office, the weight settled back onto my shoulders like it had never left. The air was thick with tension. I moved straight through to my room, barely glancing at the chaos around me—papers scattered across the floor and desk, financial statements, tracking reports, security logs. All evidence points to one person.

We were close. So damn close to catching that bastard.

I ran a hand over my jaw, my eyes scanning the documents. Every page confirmed the same thing—money bleeding out week after week, disguised under false vendors and dummy accounts. I could feel the walls closing in. Michael had been careful for months, but now he was slipping. I was watching.

I waited and waited, until finally, just before 8 PM, my phone buzzed sharply in my pocket. I yanked it out, my heart already racing.

“Yeah?” I answered.

“It’s happening now,” one of my lead investigators said, voice low and quick. “We’ve got Michael on the move. He’s heading to the storage room. You need to get down here—this is it.”

I didn’t waste a second. Everything snapped into focus.

I marched out of the office, phone in one hand, coat in the other, my mind racing. Every second counted. If we missed him tonight, we might not get another chance.

I didn’t expect her to still be up.

“Chris?” she said, her voice soft and drowsy, sitting up on the couch. Her eyes found mine instantly, worry already blooming behind them.

“What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

I paused, just for a second. Seeing her like that—tired, concerned, still waiting up for me—something tugged hard at my chest. I couldn’t drag her into this, not yet.

“Everything’s fine,” I said quickly, leaning down and kissing her lips. I didn’t give her time to ask more. I couldn’t.

“I probably won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” I added, trying to sound casual. Normal. But I could feel her gaze trying to peel back the layers. “Wait—what? Chris, where are you—”

“I’ll text you, okay? Promise.” I was already halfway to the door.“Don’t wait up.”

I shut the door behind me, jaw tight as I headed out. 

I stepped out into the cold night, the city buzzing faintly around me as I got into the back seat of the black SUV waiting by the curb. My driver gave a small nod, but I didn’t return it—I just stared out the window as we pulled away.

The image of Aurora sitting up on the couch stuck in my head. Sleepy eyes. Messy hair. That concerned little crease between her brows. She was worried, and I hated that I had to lie to her.

But what was I supposed to say? “Hey, ma, I think my uncle has been stealing over a million dollars a week from me for the last several months. Gonna go confront him in a shady-ass storage facility with a team of men in bulletproof vests—wish me luck.”

No. She didn’t deserve that kind of chaos. Not tonight. Not ever. 

The SUV’s engine rumbled as we pulled away from the building, the city lights blurring past the windows. 

Matt sat next to me. He told me that as a shareholder now, he wanted to be more involved, I didn’t hesitate—I trusted Matt and Nick completely.

“Nick’s coming too,” Matt added.

I shook my head with a smirk. “Good. He’s sat on his ass long enough.”

I rubbed my forehead, feeling the tension building. 

When we arrived at the location, security moved with practiced silence. The SUVs were parked in the shadows between containers and concrete barriers—hidden from any wandering eyes. Every step was calculated. No noise. No sudden movements.

Victor told us to come over with a hand, and we all split into position.

Matt and Nick flanked me, dressed in dark jackets, eyes alert. My other men moved in from the rear, slipping out of the second vehicle with their weapons holstered but ready. I felt the tension simmering under everyone’s skin—like the whole night was holding its breath.

We moved along the side of the warehouse, boots barely making a sound against the gravel. Victor led the way, checking corners, scanning for motion.

Once we reached the side entrance, he crouched by the keypad and picked the lock in under ten seconds. The door clicked open, and we slipped inside.

The air was stale, heavy with dust and the faint hum of old lights. We crept through the dark hallway, past crates and rusted shelves, until we reached the back storage room—the one we had intel on.

Victor counted down with his fingers—three... two...

He swung the door open and rushed in, gun drawn.

“Don’t move!”

We flooded in behind him—and there he was.

Michael.

My uncle froze mid-step, startled and wide-eyed, a laptop still open on the table beside him. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, hands twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to fight or bolt.

“Chris—” Michael started, his voice shaky as he took a step back.

I stepped forward, fists clenched, fury boiling over. My swat team held him down. 

“Don’t you fucking say my name,” I growled. “You’ve been bleeding me dry for months—months—and you think you can stand there and talk?”

His eyes widened, hands lifted slightly like he thought he could reason with me. Like we were still family.

“You son of a bitch,” I snarled. “I trusted you. You sat at my table, looked me in the eye, and all this time you were stabbing me in the damn back.”

Victor raised his weapon slightly, keeping it aimed without hesitation.

Then—a sudden noise from the room next door. A scuff. Something shifting.

Everyone froze.

Matt didn’t wait. He bolted to the adjacent door, throwing it open and disappearing inside.

“Matt—what is it?” I shouted.

Silence for a beat.

Then I heard his voice, low and shocked: “What the hell—”

I moved fast, pushing past the doorframe. My stomach dropped.

There he was. The last fucking person I thought i’d see. 

My blood ran cold. 

Thomas Devereaux.

“What the actual fuck” 

Sirens blared in the distance, getting louder by the second. Red and blue lights cut through the night like a warning, flashing against the rusted walls of the warehouse.

Police flooded the scene—uniforms, orders, handcuffs.

Michael was silent now, jaw clenched as officers shoved his hands behind his back and read him his rights. Thomas stood a few feet away, cuffed, still expressionless. No struggle. No words. Like he didn’t even care.

They were both marched out and loaded into separate squad cars.

I stood there, unmoving, as the doors slammed shut behind them.

I felt fucking sick. 

Everything in me churned.

Rage, disbelief, betrayal—twisting together so tight I could hardly breathe.

My uncle. Her father.

How the hell was I supposed to explain this to Aurora?

I couldn’t believe my eyes when Matt had grabbed Thomas. I felt like there was no fucking way. 

It all made sense.

The offer. His relentless push for the engagement. The way he always insisted marriage was the only way to secure the merger. It wasn’t a last-minute solution—it was the plan all along.

He’d orchestrated every detail. Like chess pieces on a board, he moved us exactly where he wanted.

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to slow down the storm in my head.

“Mr. Sturniolo,” a voice called. One of the officers approached. “We’re heading back to Boston now. You can follow us, we’ll need your statement when we get there.”

I nodded stiffly, barely able to focus. “Yeah. I’ll be right behind you.”

The ride back was a blur.

By the time we reached the station, it was nearly 12 AM. Questions came at me fast. What did I know? When did I suspect? How much had been taken? Names, dates, documents—I answered everything I could, my jaw clenched the whole time.

Hours passed.

Finally, they told me I could speak to them. First, Michael, then Thomas.

I walked into the holding room, my footsteps echoing. Michael sat at the table, chained to the floor, eyes cast down.

He looked up when I stepped in.

“Chris—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t you dare say a fucking word.”

He flinched.

“I let you in. I gave you everything. And you robbed me blind like some low-level criminal.”

“It wasn’t supposed to—”

“You’ve been hiding,” I hissed. “For months. My father trusted you. You’re were family.”

He looked away.

“Were you just waiting for a chance to bleed me dry?”

Silence.

I slammed the chair backward with my foot and stormed out before I did something I’d regret. 

Next was Thomas.

I just stared at him.

My uncle meant nothing to me after I saw who was helping him. 

Thomas sat at the table like he didn’t have a single fucking worry. Calm. Unbothered. Like getting caught was just a hiccup in his day, like someone would bail him out and he’d be back to sipping bourbon by the end of the week.

Very different from Michael who knew he lost everything.

It made my blood boil.

I didn’t sit. I slammed the door shut behind me and walked straight in, jaw tight, steps heavy.

Thomas looked up. “Christopher.”

“You look way too comfortable for a man in cuffs,” I snapped. 

He didn’t respond. 

“Let me make one thing clear—I’ll make sure you lose everything. Your company. Your money. Your friends. Hell, I’ll make sure even the local shitty bar down the block doesn’t let you through the door.”

He leaned back in the chair like I was amusing him. “You’re angry. Understandably. But let’s not pretend this didn’t benefit you too.”

“Benefit me?” I barked out a laugh. “You think this helped me? You've been stealing from me”

“Chris, you got the merger. My daughter—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t bring her into this.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who agreed, Chris. No one held a gun to your head.”

Thomas’s expression didn’t flinch. “You’re acting like I did something unusual. You’re the one who wanted control of the Sturniolo empire, weren’t you? The merger made sense. We both got what we needed.”

“Bullshit,” I spat. “You got what you needed. I got dragged into an arranged engagement I never even wanted. I didn’t ask for a wife—I asked for peace. I wanted my company intact. Instead, I got some pretty distraction and a fake relationship that did nothing but waste my time.” 

I didn’t stop. The venom was spilling and working in my words more than my head. I wasn’t thinking—just swinging, lashing out, wanting Thomas to feel the chaos he’d created.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice, words sharp like glass.

“I said yes because I was cornered, because you made sure my company was tangled in this bullshit before I could blink. But don’t twist this—don’t act like I wanted it.”

He tilted his head. “So you didn’t want her?”

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.

“I didn’t want the marriage. I didn’t want the fake smiles, the dinners, the ring. I didn’t want to be tied down.” 

Thomas didn’t say anything.

I kept going, too far in, too angry to stop myself. 

“You made your daughter a pawn in all this, and yeah—maybe I went along with it, but that doesn’t mean I ever wanted a wife. Especially not someone so—” I stopped.

Too late. There was a shift. The door creaked slightly.

Then her voice.

Soft. Cracked.

“Especially not someone so what?” 

My heart dropped.

I turned.

Aurora stood just inside the room. Her eyes were wide, brimming with tears. Her hands were shaking, wrapped tightly around herself. 

Fuck, she had heard everything.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: let the angst begin! Don't hate me, ya'll–we needed a climax at some point. Like and reblog! Mwah] – Ceyana

tags: @loser41ifee @bluestriips @mattsfrenchtoast @slvtf0rchr1s @courta13 @emeraldsturns @mattscore @chriss-slutt @chrissturniolodailysluts @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @y3sterdaysproblem @sagesturns @prettyingreen4chris @ilovenicksturniolosblog @lm-a-mirrorball @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @kingofeverythingmb @kitty-meow-meow44

(To be added to the taglist, comment on this post, or message my inbox.)