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aleksatia · 1 month ago

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💗 Rafayel – Five Years Later

The second in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Trauma & PTSD themes, Implied past abduction, Betrayal / emotional manipulation, Poisoning & near-death experience, Violence (including one execution-style kill), Self-sacrifice, Intense emotional conflict, References to grief, guilt, and long-term separation, Complex relationship dynamics, Themes of forgiveness and healing While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

(He taught himself silence. Learned to paint with absence, to breathe through longing. But when your shadow crossed his path again — living, breaking, real — the stillness inside him remembered how to shatter.)

The thing about disappearing is — if you do it right — no one comes looking.

Not because they don’t care. But because you made it easier to pretend you were never real in the first place.

You left the sea behind. The salt. The songs. The man with sunlight in his laugh and grief in his hands. You traded it all for concrete, steel, smoke. Somewhere between New Madrid and the Eleventh Sector, you stopped being a person and became a profile: Level 3, Tactical Division, Close Range Neutralization. Specializing in high-value body retention.

A shadow with a badge. A ghost on retainer.

It suited you.

You didn’t drink anymore. You didn’t play games. You didn’t say his name.

“Client arrival is in twenty minutes,” crackles the comm in your ear. "Full week assignment. High confidentiality. Zero contact protocol unless engaged."

You glance at your reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

Eyes colder. Shoulders straighter. Gun holstered under a matte jacket that still smells faintly of last week’s adrenaline. You're not the girl who once cried into coral bedsheets. You're her replacement.

The hotel smells like money. That antiseptic richness meant to distract from the emptiness.

You position yourself in the lobby near the marble fountain — half concealed, half obvious. Just enough to look like part of the architecture. Just enough to see everything.

The concierge nods. The manager paces. The staff adjust flowers no one will notice.

Then: the cars. Black, sleek, ghost-silent.

Doors open.

Two assistants spill out first. Press, probably. One on a tablet, one on comms. Then a manager — with a face oddly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. Then—

Your heart forgets how to be a muscle.

He steps out like the city belongs to him. Like time bent itself around his absence.

Still tall. Still too elegant for the world he’s forced to live in. Purple waves of hair tied back. Sunglasses sliding down a nose built for poetry. He’s wearing that long beige coat he used to throw over your shoulders when nights got too cold, and his cologne hits you like déjà vu dipped in seawater and regret.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are ice.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

You do what you were trained to do: you check for threats. Scan exits. Ignore your pulse.

He walks through the lobby as if unaware. As if untouched. But when he passes, just before the elevator closes — he turns his head.

And smiles.

Like sin. Like summer. Like he knew it would be you.

Then—

“Hello again, Ms. Bodyguard.”

***

The suite was silent. Too silent for something this expensive.

No music. No hum of ventilation. Just the hush of carpet under your boots, and the faint, distant rhythm of city breath outside the window.

You stood near the corner, hands behind your back, spine too straight. Default position. Default you.

He was across the room, jacket already off, sleeves rolled. Moving like someone who was used to being observed. Not by the public — by ghosts.

The wine had already been poured. He handed you a glass like it was part of the ritual. You didn’t take it.

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m working,” you said.

He didn’t insist. Just smiled, faintly.

Of course.

He used to fill every room — all noise and color and heat. But now, somehow, he'd grown quiet. Not in absence — in weight. Like a masterpiece in a gallery. Like the only rose in a field of thorns. You could look away, but you’d still feel him. Like a crosshair you couldn’t shake.

The window beside you looked out over the city — not that you were looking. Your eyes were trained on his reflection in the glass. Even blurred by distance and light, you could tell: he hadn’t broken. But he’d bent.

Harder than most things could survive.

His voice came low, like something remembered instead of spoken.

“You weren’t always stone.”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without hurry. You didn’t move.

His eyes found yours — not searching, just… waiting. Like the question wasn’t whether you’d speak. It was whether you still could.

“And yet here you are,” he murmured, “standing in my suite like you were carved to fit the corner.”

You felt the words land somewhere deep in the ribs. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The color of the wine caught in the light — the same shade he used to mix on his palette when painting you in shadow.

“I saw the new series,” you said, voice even.

He glanced at you over the rim.

“Did you?”

“Less gold. More... grief.”

A pause. Then a smile — dry, almost kind.

“I ran out of yellow.”

That made your throat tighten. You looked away before it showed.

He studied you. Not your face — your posture. Your silences. You weren’t hiding emotion. You were holding it.

Like a soldier holding a wound closed with one hand.

“And you,” he said, softly. “Still chasing bullets?”

“I don’t chase. I shield.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that you could feel him again. That impossible warmth, wrapped in restraint.

He looked at you like an old painting. The kind you see once, remember forever, and never find again.

“You followed me,” he said, almost offhand. “Even after you left.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I had to know you were… functioning.”

He laughed — quiet, empty.

“Functioning,” he repeated. “Right.”

You searched his face for anger. You didn’t find it. Only something slower. Older.

Like ash.

“How have you been?” you asked.

It was a mistake. The question hung in the air like smoke from a match — small, stupid, but dangerous.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the glass in his hand cracked. A clean, bright sound. Like winter splitting.

The wine didn’t spill. He didn’t move.

“You left,” he said.

Not bitter. Not accusing.

Just: you left.

“And now you want to ask if I’ve been well?”

You shifted. Just enough to register discomfort. Nothing more.

He looked at the flame creeping along his knuckles — Evol, awake and restless. He closed his fist, and the fire vanished like breath from a mirror.

“What did I do?” he asked, quieter now. “What sin did I commit to earn a silent goodbye?”

You drew breath through your nose. Measured.

“I was tired.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him.

“Of being a story you told instead of a person you knew.”

That did it.

Not an explosion. Not a slam. Just a shift. Like something in his chest cracked, and he had no hands free to hold it in place.

He turned. Slowly. Set the broken glass down. No sound. No shatter.

Then he walked to the adjoining door, pressed it open.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

A simple guest room. Clean, unpersonalized. Quiet.

He didn’t look at you when he added:

“You’re my shadow for the week. No leaving. No exceptions.”

“And if I object?”

He paused at the threshold. Then turned. Finally met your eyes again.

“You won’t,” he said.

Not a command. Just a prophecy.

***

The days blurred.

They stretched long — drawn out by tension and silence — and yet they flew past with the quiet cruelty of something you couldn’t stop. You caught yourself counting minutes. Not until the assignment ended — but until he left again.

You told yourself it was duty. But no. You knew. The closer it got, the more it scared you.

You’d thought you’d buried the past. That five years had been enough to cauterize what you felt. Enough to flatten grief into dull, predictable weight. You’d taught yourself not to cry. Not to ache. Not to wake up reaching for a voice that wasn’t there.

But now—

Now the thought of losing him again bled through you like poison Slow. Sharp. Relentless.

For the first time, you truly wondered — had you made the worst mistake of your life?

You’d always known leaving was cowardice. A reaction. A wound reacting to pressure. You’d told yourself it was necessary — that you couldn’t survive another secret, another lie, another impossible moment in his orbit.

But now, as you stood in his shadow again, you returned to the one truth you kept avoiding. It wasn’t just the secrets. It wasn’t just his careful, curated nonchalance. It wasn’t even the things he didn’t say.

It was that moment — the one you could never forget.

The Nest. The kidnapping. The deal he’d made behind your back.

The betrayal.

The man who once made you feel like a myth had handed you over like a pawn. And you’d left. Because you couldn’t find a version of yourself that could love him and survive it.

But now…

Now you knew. The price you both paid for your fear had been too high.

***

He treated you like a shadow. Professional. Polite. Silent.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t prod. Whatever playful gleam had once lived in him now belonged to the stage.

You watched him wear charm like a costume — perfectly tailored, easily removed.

The real man?

He wore quieter things now. No more garish brands. No flash. Just silk-lined precision. Weight without noise. Like he’d stopped needing to be seen in order to feel powerful.

And yet — you felt it. The way his gaze burned across rooms. The way silence wrapped around you both like a loaded pause.

Something was coming. You didn’t know what.

Only that it would not be small.

***

Then came the reception.

A charity event. Wealth, power, and politics pretending to like each other in the same room. He handed you your role the night before — not as a request.

You weren’t the bodyguard tonight. You were his date.

No one must suspect otherwise. His reputation demanded it.

And so here you were:

Draped in sea-glass velvet, cut to glide and cling. Your hair swept into soft, impossible waves. Sapphires at your ears, your throat. Everything felt too heavy. Too expensive. Even your heels were a weapon you didn’t know how to use. You hated how they made you move — slow, deliberate. Exposed.

The car slid to a stop. He stepped out first — a vision in black and steel. Then he turned, offered you a hand.

You took it. His skin was cold.

But the touch — the touch burned. Like nothing had ever healed.

Cameras. Screams. Flashing lights.

Your instincts screamed — scan the crowd. Find the threat. Always the threat. But his fingers tightened around yours. Hard.

He leaned in, breath against your ear — warm, familiar, furious.

“Smile, for fuck’s sake.”

You did.

Not for the cameras. Not for the cause.

But because you knew — the storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

***

You played the part well.

Neutral. Polished. Cold enough to earn whispers you never heard, but felt just behind your back.

No one dared speak them aloud, of course. They looked at you and said the compliments to him.

“She’s stunning.”

“Such a refined presence.”

“As if she was made to be on your arm.”

As if your face belonged to him. As if your silence was his design.

In some twisted way, maybe it was.

You didn’t remember how you got here. One minute you were cataloguing exits with your eyes, tracking the crowd with practiced ease —

The next —

You were dancing.

His hand on your waist, the other guiding yours. Everything too close, too warm, too practiced.

The chandelier above cast a slow rain of light. The room turned gently, spinning around its own silence.

His touch wasn’t tender. It was intentional.

“Your expression,” he murmured, “is slowly assassinating my reputation.”

You didn’t look at him. “Your reputation as what, exactly?”

He paused. Just a second.Then:

“A man of appetites.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How poetic.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Though the press prefers playboy.”

A beat.

“So you’ve read it,” you said.

“I have someone who clips the good parts.”

“Must be a short list.”

He smiled — not kindly. “Normally, I’m seen with far more… expressive company.”

“Then why break tradition?”

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

“I suppose I wanted something quieter.” A beat. “Something that might bite back.”

Your gaze flicked to him. Just once. A sharpened glance.

“And how does this help your image?”

“It doesn’t.” He leaned in, voice a thread. “But it’s not always about image, is it?”

You could feel it — the heat building between syllables. Not passion. Not yet.

Just tension. Waiting.

You moved together like two creatures pretending not to hunt each other. Each step precise. Each breath withheld.

“You used to enjoy this sort of thing,” he said, voice soft now, too close. “Crowds. Light. Being seen.”

“I used to believe in things,” you replied.

He said nothing. But his hand curled tighter against your spine.

For a second, you let the silence say everything.

Then—

You noticed it.

The way his eyes had started slipping away from you. Again and again — to a single shape on the edge of the room. A man. Grey suit. Clean line. Controlled posture.

You knew that look.

The dance ended, but you weren’t let go. He took your arm, like a gentleman.

But you knew better.

***

The garden was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that wasn’t about temperature — it was about distance. About the way stone walls and sculpted hedges swallowed sound and left only the weight of footsteps behind.

You followed him without a word. Because you already knew.

You’d seen his eyes stray to the man in the grey suit half a dozen times during the reception. Not nervous glances — calculated ones. Not curiosity — confirmation.

And now here you were, walking straight into the web.

The man waited by the marble fountain, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something expensive and unnecessary. His smile was pleasant. His suit was quiet money. His name was carved into memory from the briefings you used to skim with more detachment.

Elias Varrick. Publicly: philanthropist, investor, art collector, father of four. Privately: suspected ties to high-level biotech experimentation, classified marine acquisitions, and several quiet disappearances.

All rumors, of course. Nothing on paper. Nothing proven.

Still — you knew. Your gut always knew.

But you didn’t know what Rafayel knew. Not yet.

They greeted each other like old acquaintances. A handshake that looked effortless. Painless.

“I thought it best to deliver the piece myself,” Rafayel said. His voice had its old rhythm — slow, warm, dipped in charm.

You watched him as he spoke. Not the words — the tone.

Polite. Polished. Performing.

“That kind of personal art,” he added, “deserves a personal hand.”

Varrick smiled wider. “Very kind of you. My family will love it. We’re planning to hang it in the main lounge — the one where we gather in the evenings. My wife, the children, my mother. It’s where we live.”

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t freeze. Not outwardly. But something inside you did.

That phrase. The way he said it — we live here.

You didn’t hear a lie. That was the problem. You heard sincerity.

You saw the portrait — Rafayel’s portrait — hanging above a mantel. You saw children playing on a rug beneath it. An old woman sipping tea in a chair nearby. You saw innocence. Unaware. Wrapped around a weapon.

And suddenly, all the scattered images connected. The rumors. The names. The “environmental” fund. The experimental projects tied to Lemurians. The disappearances.

He wasn’t here for charity.

Rafayel was hunting. And you were holding his arm like a lover while he did it.

It wasn’t the lie that made you pull away. It was the memory of all the ones that came before.

You stepped back. A breath lodged in your throat.

“I need a moment,” you murmured.

He turned. “Wait—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

You turned away.

You needed air. Space. Time. You needed to stop hearing the echo of his voice in your chest, the one that said it’s different now, even when you knew it wasn’t.

But he followed. Of course he followed.

“Let me explain—”

“No,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. “No more explaining. That’s always the beginning of the lie.”

He reached for your arm. You stopped him with a look.

“I want to know one thing,” you said. Your voice was low, barely steady. “That painting… it’s a weapon, isn’t it?”

He hesitated. Just a breath. But it was enough.

“Not here,” he said softly. “Please.”

“There are children in that house, Rafayel. Children. How can you guarantee there won’t be innocent blood?”

His jaw tensed. The silence between you vibrated with unsaid things. Then:

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll explain everything. But not in public.”

“Answer me.”

“I said not here,” he whispered. Not angry. Not cold. Just—desperate. Controlled. And that — more than anything — told you what you needed to know.

And that’s when it happened. The movement was too fast.

You heard it before you saw it — a hiss of compressed air.

Then the glint of metal. Then the needle, already buried in the side of Rafayel’s neck.

Everything shattered.

Rafayel stumbled, hand flying to the injection point. His eyes widened — not with pain. With realization.

Varrick stepped back with chilling calm, adjusting his cuff.

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. “The moment I saw your face, lemurian. I knew you were the one behind Raymond’s death.”

You didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t need permission.

You drew and fired — one shot. Silent. Precise. Varrick collapsed with a grunt of pain, clutching his leg.

You were on him in three strides. Knee in his chest. Barrel to his throat.

“What was in it?” you growled.

His breath rattled, half from the pain, half from the thrill of it all. He was enjoying this — the game, the brink.

“I’m not—”

You slammed the muzzle harder against his neck.

“Tell me. Or I swear, I’ll have your lungs painting that lovely family room of yours by morning.”

He laughed, blood in his teeth.

“Requiem Coral,” he gasped. “Gen-modified. Synthetic compound. It bonds to Lemurian blood — slow neural degeneration. Burns out the body one nerve at a time. Quite poetic, really.”

You stared at him. Then you fired again.

Between the eyes.

No poetry. Just silence.

***

You found Rafayel still upright. Barely. His pupils were uneven. Sweat glistened on his temple. His balance was shot.

You got under his arm, bore half his weight.

“No hospital,” he muttered.

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “We’re going home.”

You drove with one hand clenched around the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around his — clammy now, fingers twitching less and less.

The city blurred past like water through glass, useless. Silent.

He was slumped in the seat beside you, head tilted back, jaw clenched.

“Is this your version of a confession?” he muttered, voice paper-thin. “Waiting ‘til I’m half-dead to finally hold my hand?”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He smiled — barely. “So harsh. Romance really is dead.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. His skin was cold.

“Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t talk like you’re not about to die.”

“I mean, statistically—”

“I said shut up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

The rest of the ride was agony. You didn’t feel the road. You didn’t feel the turns. You felt him — fading beside you. His breath going shallow. His body heavy.

And all you could do was drive faster.

***

Your home wasn’t built for tenderness. It wasn’t a place to recover. It was a place to survive.

The door slammed behind you, and you half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bench. He tried to help. He couldn’t.

He collapsed like a broken marionette, breathing hard, sweat cold on his brow.

You moved by instinct.

Antitoxin. Anti-inflammatories. Burn stabilizer. Anything. Everything.

Tubes. IV. Scanners.

Your hands didn’t shake — until you realized that nothing was working. His vitals dipped. Once. Again.

No improvement. And you weren’t a doctor. You weren’t a biotech. You were a weapon.

You could take a man apart in thirty seconds, but this — this—

You couldn’t fix this.

You hovered over him, swallowing panic, shoving down the scream forming in your throat.

He opened his eyes — only halfway. Saw the mess you were making. He lifted one trembling hand, and caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

You shook your head violently. “No. No, I can— I just need time—”

“There is no time.”

His voice was barely there.

“I don’t— I don’t know how to stop it,” you said, broken. “I don’t know how to fight it—how to save you—”

“Then listen.”

His eyes found yours.

“If this is it…” His breath caught. “If I’m not waking up from this—”

“Raf, no—”

“Then I want the truth.”

He looked at you like a man watching his own shadow disappear. Like someone who knew there was no second chance this time.

“No secrets. No lies. Nothing between us.”

You froze. And something inside you cracked.

The words came out on a sob.

“I know.”

He blinked slowly. “Know what?”

“I know you sold me out. N109 Zone. Five years ago.”

The air stopped moving. His lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked down, ashamed and shaking.

“I found the records. I connected the drops, the timing. You handed me over.”

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly — he laughed. A ragged, broken sound that became a cough.

“Oh, you—God.”

His smile was pained. Too pained.

“You wanted to reach Onichynus, remember?”

You looked up.

“There’s no easy road there. No clean path.”

He coughed again, winced, and gripped your hand tighter.

“I was watching. If things had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in. I wouldn’t have let them break you.”

Your lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself not to stop you. I didn’t want you to look at me like you are right now.”

He coughed again — something wet in the sound now.

“I never betrayed you.”

His hand drifted to your chest, barely touching.

“You were always my heart.” He smiled faintly. “And when you left… you took it with you.”

You crumpled. Your hands went to his face, cold and pale, and your voice shattered into pieces.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I thought— I thought you used me. Manipulated me. Like everyone else.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I would’ve died for you.”

“I know. I know now.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I took your heart, Raf, but mine—” You pressed a hand to his chest. “Mine never left you. I… still love you.”

Your voice broke like a body under fire.

“God, I never stopped loving you.”

You leaned down, kissed his lips — dry, cold, still his. Your tears landed on his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Fight. Just… fight. Tell me what to do. Anything. Because if you die— if you leave me now— I swear—”

“I’m already leaving,” he said.

A beat. A breath.

“I don’t think anything can stop it.”

You shook your head. “No—”

“But there’s something you can do.”

You stilled.

“Take me to the sea,” he whispered.

His eyes were almost closed.

“If I die… I want the ocean to take my last breath.”

***

You helped him into the water, one arm steady around his waist, the other gripping his wrist as if holding on could somehow hold him here.

The sea was cold, even for nightfall. Each wave climbed higher, tasting skin and memory as it came. Rafayel leaned into you, too light, too quiet. His steps were uncertain, but not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. He was done.

By the time the water reached his chest, he stopped.

His breath caught. Not sharply — softly, like a curtain falling.

For a moment, under the pale gleam of moonlight, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed. And it struck you — how little color remained in his face. How glass-like his skin looked. Almost translucent. Almost not there.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words never found shape.

Because he let go.

He stepped back. And before you could stop him, before you could tighten your grip — he slipped beneath the surface and vanished.

No sound. No splash. Just absence.

“Rafayel.”

Your voice wavered, swallowed instantly by the dark. Then louder—

“RAFAYEL!”

But there was only the sea.

You surged forward, boots stumbling, breath catching in your throat as you threw yourself into the waves.

Cold bit into your spine. Your jacket dragged you down. Salt stung your eyes. None of it mattered.

You dove.

Once, five years ago, it had been the same. Different ocean. Same cold. Same fear.

You remembered that too well — sinking below the surface on a job gone wrong, your lungs seizing, your vision narrowing. And just before the dark closed in, it had been him who pulled you out. His arms, his breath, his voice.

Breathe, cutie. Come on. Breathe.

And now—

Now it was your turn to find him.

You kicked downward, deeper, into the black.

You couldn’t see. The moonlight didn’t reach this far. But you didn’t need to see. You needed to find.

The water grew colder the further you went. Each stroke slower, weaker. The pressure in your chest building, blooming like fire. Your hands swept forward, wide, desperate — fingers searching for fabric, for skin, for anything.

You found nothing.

The panic came slowly. Not like a scream, but like a slow tightening, a noose drawn carefully across your ribs. Your lungs began to burn. Your mind whispered it was too far. Too late. But your body refused to listen.

You kept going.

Until your arms stopped obeying. Until your legs stopped kicking.

Until your last exhale slipped from between your lips, and with it, the only word that still meant anything.

“Rafayel,” you mouthed.

And sank.

Everything stilled.

Time, sensation, thought.

And just as the darkness began to take you—

Something changed.

A pulse. Not from the sea. From inside.

Evol. Dormant until now — roared awake. But not with power. With purpose.

It didn’t surge to protect you. It didn’t scream in defense. It answered something quieter. Deeper.

A wish.

You weren’t trying to save yourself. You weren’t trying to rise.

You were trying to give him your heart back. To pour your strength into his veins. To reignite the spark inside him — even if it meant extinguishing your own.

Let me give it back. Let him live. Let me take the weight.

That was the prayer beneath your ribs, and Evol obeyed.

It moved through you like liquid fire, searing down to your bones, pulling from every corner of your being. It hurt. God, it hurt — not like dying, but like unraveling. You were emptying yourself willingly. Not out of fear. Out of love.

And then — resonance.

Not just from you. From him. Like something in the darkness roared back.

No. Not her. Not this way.

You felt it — a pull in the opposite direction. Not rejection. Not resistance. Reciprocity.

His Evol flared back — instinctive, involuntary, desperate. Refusing the gift. Refusing the cost.

He wouldn’t let you die for him. And you — you couldn’t let him die for you.

And so you were pulled. Not rising. Not flying.

Drawn back. Both of you. Together.

Because even now, even here — at the edge of everything — neither of you could bear to leave the other behind.

***

You came back coughing.

The world hit in pieces — salt on your lips, sand beneath your palms, the weight of your own chest struggling to rise.

And then—

Arms.

Not the ocean’s. His.

He was holding you. Soaked. Shaking. Alive.

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, ragged but real. His breath skimmed your temple. His fingers gripped your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor you — or himself.

You opened your eyes. The sky swam above you, vast and starless.

And Rafayel’s face was there. Pale with exhaustion, hair clinging wet to his skin, eyes too bright in the dark.

You reached up, touched his cheek with trembling fingers. He leaned into it.

No words passed between you. There was nothing to explain.

“This,” you whispered, voice torn to ribbons, “is exactly where I want to be when I die.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, “next time we die.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Raf…”

He hushed you with his thumb against your cheek, his gaze steady and quiet.

“It’s over.”

You shook your head. “But how—”

He didn’t answer right away.

Only looked at you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you saw it— light. Faint, buried, but alive in him.

“Cutie,” he said softly, “how could I keep dying when you needed me this much?”

The sound you made was broken, wild — grief and love tangled into one. You folded into him, arms tight around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

“Then you’ll have to live,” you whispered, choked, “for a long, long time. Because I need you. Every day. Every second. Every stupid heartbeat.”

He laughed — quiet and hoarse, and it felt like sunlight after rain.

“Another eternity, then. Sounds like a curse. Or a blessing. Maybe both.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Moonlight caught the water on his skin, and you felt like crying again.

“I was such a fool,” you said. “You shouldn’t have brought me back. I ruined everything. I wasted so much—”

“I’m not arguing,” he cut in gently. “But I figured… maybe you’d want to fix your behavior.”

A huff escaped you. Wet, shaky. Almost a smile.

“Will you let me try?” you asked. “Will you—can you forgive me?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” he said, cupping your face in both hands, “this was never about forgiveness. Not really. Not about second chances or fresh starts.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“We’re us. Flawed. Messy. Brilliant and brutal in equal measure. We hurt each other. And we heal each other.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I was only angry because I didn’t understand. I thought maybe—if I’d been softer. Or warmer. Or better—maybe you would’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“I never left you,” you said. “Not really.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward. And kissed you.

Once — soft and slow, like breathing. Then again — deeper, like memory.

And when you kissed him back, there was no anger left. No questions. Just the weight of five years falling away between your mouths.

You broke away just long enough to murmur, “We almost died.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“We’re always almost dying.”

You laughed, breathless.

“This is a terrible time—”

“There’s no better one,” he said. “You never know which kiss is the last. Which night is the edge.”

He pulled you to him again.

And beneath the moon, on wet sand and shaking limbs, you gave yourselves back — completely. No hesitation. No conditions.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

You loved him like you remembered how. And he held you like he never forgot.

And this time, it didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning.

***

You woke to the sound of brush against canvas.

Soft, rhythmic. A whisper of motion. It tugged at something in your memory, something half-forgotten.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even open your eyes.

There was warmth on your skin — sun, blankets, and something else. You inhaled. Salt. Linens. Paint.

And him.

When you finally blinked into the light, it took a moment to understand where you were.

The room was high-ceilinged, the windows cracked open to the hush of waves. The bed was too big, sheets still tangled, your body aching pleasantly in ways that reminded you — yes, it was real.

Last night was real.

And then—

“Don’t move.”

His voice. Low. Focused. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Rafayel. Sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed, bare feet braced against the floor, shirt half-unbuttoned, canvas before him. A brush in one hand, a palette balanced on his thigh.

You blinked at him. “What… are you doing?”

“I said don’t move.” He didn’t look up. “You’ll ruin the pose.”

“I wasn’t posing,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I was sleeping. Possibly drooling.”

He finally glanced at you. A glint in his eyes — amusement.

“You were beautiful. Are. I wanted to keep this one.”

“Raf,” you said, stretching with a grimace, “I probably look like a tangled sea urchin. There’s still sand in places sand should never be. I need a shower.”

“If you let me finish, we’ll shower together.”

Your brows lifted. “Tempting bribe.”

“I know.” He smirked. “Also—note to self: never again sex on sand.”

“The ocean was too cold,” you teased.

“Not in my arms.”

That stopped you for a breath.

You smiled. A small, stunned thing.

And somewhere in the middle of smiling and remembering and wanting to kiss him again, you noticed something on the canvas. You squinted.

“Wait... is that yellow?”

He flinched. The brush stuttered.

And then—he groaned, deep and dramatic. “Dammit. Now I have to start over.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Was that my fault?”

He stood slowly, brush still in hand. “You moved. You talked. You ruined my masterwork.”

You grinned. “Your nude beach goddess masterwork?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It was going to hang in the Met.”

“Well, in that case—” you started.

But before you could escape, he lunged — grabbed your ankle, yanked you toward the edge of the bed with a playfully feral grin.

You shrieked.

“Raf!”

“You destroyed art!”

“I was the art!”

You kicked. He caught your other foot.

Laughter spilled from your throat — loud, full, aching in your ribs. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this.

He climbed over you, breathless with mock outrage, and you tangled together in the blankets, in limbs, in joy.

You were still gasping when you murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t erase the past. Those five years... they’re etched into us. But I swear, I’ll spend every day trying to heal what I broke.”

His expression softened — all teasing gone.

“Cutie,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “you still don’t see it, do you?”

You stilled.

“Last night,” he said, “you were ready to give everything. Your Evol, your life, your soul — for me. Even when you thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“In that moment, I think even the gods cried.”

You closed your eyes.

“My wounds healed the second you chose to stay,” he whispered. “There’s barely even a scar left.”

Then his voice dropped lower.

“Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Never disappear again. Not without giving me the chance to fight for you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You looked him in the eyes — and felt the weight of every mistake, every mile, every ache that had brought you back here.

And then you said, quietly:

“Even if all the oceans rise, even if this world burns and time eats itself whole — I’ll find you. In every life. I’ll find you, and I’ll stay.”

His lips parted. He didn’t speak.

He just kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t for survival.

It was for everything else.

#love and deepspace #lads #rafayel love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #storytelling #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #hurt/comfort #emotional #trauma #conflict #grief #second chances

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rollingspicevee · 2 months ago

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Which of the beast cookies has the most active sex life, and which has the least active sex life?

Most active… Probably Shadow Milk? He likes to be near his darling at all times. To see them, to hold them, to hear them, to touch them, to feel them… His longing for connection bleeds into his already high libido, so sex is a common occurrence in your life as his darling.

After him would probs be Burning Spice. He gets pent up really easily, and since he doesn’t wanna risk breaking you in a fight, roughly fucking you is the next best thing. And he has no shame about it either.

Eternal Sugar I see somewhere in the middle. She has to be in the mood for it to engage, but she is more needy than you’d think as the Beast of Sloth. If she’s not in the mood but you are, she’s happy to put on a strap and enjoy the view as you ride her though.

Silent Salt would probs be fourth. I feel like sex with them is smth they make special and don’t like to engage in just whenever. They’re romantic with it too. They also try to never use it as a punishment, but they sometimes can’t help it if they need to remind you just who you belong to…

Least active I see as Mystic Flour. Her libido isn’t that high, and she’s content going months without sex. If her darling wishes to engage, she won’t say no, but she’s not nearly as needy as some of the other Beasts.

#Eevee Answers (Spicy)#beast bites and ancient kisses (spicy)#bbaak au (spicy)#beast bites (spicy)#crk smut #cookie run kingdom #cookie run smut #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #burning spice x reader #burning spice cookie x reader #eternal sugar x reader #eternal sugar cookie x reader #silent salt x reader #silent salt cookie x reader #mystic flour x reader #mystic flour cookie x reader

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dreamauri · 29 days ago

Note

If reqs are open we get some more Oscar one shots?? just binged them all lmao 🙏🏻🙏🏻

♪ — 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗪𝗔𝗟𝗞 oscar piastri x girlfriend! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . Oscar Piastri might seem like a stoic Kimi R reincarnation but really, he's a sweetheart who carries you so you don't sand in your shoes (549 words)

( main naster list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

The sky is painted in soft shades of pink and orange, the kind of sunset that makes everything feel a little bit dreamlike. The waves roll onto the shore in a lazy rhythm, brushing against the sand with a whisper. It’s the kind of evening that begs for long walks and quiet confessions, but instead, you find yourself cradled in Oscar’s arms, held securely against his chest.

“You know, I could walk,” you point out, but you make no effort to move.

Oscar glances down at you, his expression neutral but his grip tightening just the slightest bit. “You didn’t want sand in your shoes.”

You huff, both amused and endeared. “That was, like, ten minutes ago. I didn’t think you’d actually carry me the whole time.”

He shrugs, adjusting his hold effortlessly. “Not a big deal.”

But it is, in the way that matters. In the way he does things for you without a second thought, never making a fuss about it. You rest your head against his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of salt and sunscreen clinging to his skin. The gentle rise and fall of his breathing is as steady as the waves.

Eventually, he slows to a stop, setting you down carefully on a patch of sand untouched by the tide. His hands linger for a fraction of a second before he lets go. “Better?”

You nod, slipping off your shoes and wiggling your toes into the cool, damp sand. “Much.”

He watches you for a moment, his lips barely twitching in what might be the ghost of a smile, then extends his hand. You take it without hesitation, fingers fitting perfectly between his as you step toward the water’s edge.

The tide kisses your ankles, cool and refreshing. You hum in contentment, swinging your intertwined hands slightly as you start talking—about anything and everything. About how the sunset reminds you of a painting you once saw, about the funniest thing that happened at work last week, about how you read somewhere that seagulls mate for life and isn’t that kind of sweet?

Oscar doesn’t say much, but he listens. He always listens. His thumb moves idly over the back of your hand, grounding you in the moment. Every now and then, he hums in acknowledgment or squeezes your fingers lightly, little signs that he’s with you, that he’s absorbing every word.

After a while, you stop, tilting your head up to look at him. The golden light of the sunset softens his features, his brown eyes reflecting the sky’s fading hues. “You’re quiet.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I usually am.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. “Yeah, but…what are you thinking about?”

He’s silent for a beat, then, with that same quiet certainty that defines him, he says, “You talk a lot.”

You open your mouth, ready to protest, but he beats you to it, his fingers tightening around yours. “I like it.”

The words are simple, but they settle warm in your chest, spreading through you like the tide coming in. You smile, squeezing his hand in return. “Good. Because I’m not stopping.”

“Didn’t think you would.”

And so you keep talking, and he keeps listening, walking side by side as the ocean sways in time with your laughter.

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andvys · 3 months ago

Text

The edges of your soul (I haven’t seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter three

⭐︎ You're the greatest thing we've lost

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comofort (I guess?), mentions of death, grief, grumpy/mean!Steve

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Summary: Steve allows you to see a glimpse of who he really is, and not only do you get that, you also find out some sad truths.

Word count: 12.1k

Author's note: One of the chapters I was excited for the most was this one, you'll know why when you read it hehe. @hellfire--cult worked on this one with me, and she added a lot (don't listen to her when she will say she didn't, cause she did !) give her some love (or all of it cause she deserves it ♡)

⭐︎ series masterlist ⭐︎ previous chapter ⭐︎ next chapter

☀︎

Steam fogs the mirror in the bathroom, drops of water fall from your hair and down your shoulders, the smell of vanilla and lavender lingers in the room, you are rubbing moisturizer into your skin, enjoying the luxury of it all, a luxury you won’t have much longer the moment you are back on the road again. It’s impossible to find functioning showers nowadays, let alone hot running water. Something that used to be so normal, is something special now and you enjoy every second here in Hawkins, every hot shower, every good night’s sleep, every warm meal, the feeling of safety.

You put a pair of sweatpants on and a sweater to keep you warm, a pair of wool socks that Nancy knitted herself. You brush your wet hair and clip it back.

When you step out into the hallway, silence greets you. Eddie is in his room, he was complaining about a headache after you finished patrolling together after he worked on the RV all morning, you both got caught in the rain and after taking a shower to warm up, he excused himself to lie down. The door to Nancy’s bedroom is closed as well, she must be reading, she always closes the door when she does. The rainy weather allows you all to take everything a bit slower, to rest a little more than usual.

The wind howls outside, thunder striking somewhere far, red bolts of lightning curse through the sky, an image you still haven’t gotten used to.

You make your way down the stairs, it isn’t dark out yet but the grey clouds make it seem like it’s evening already, the golden light from the fireplace in the living room is very inviting in contrast to the darkness outside. You step inside and notice Steve moving around in the kitchen, taking out bowls from the cardboard. A towel is slung over his shoulder, his features are relaxed, no sign of a frown appearing on his face… yet.

You watch him for a moment, not moving away or towards him. You don’t want to disturb him or his peace. He seems to be content by himself and you know that facial expression will change the moment he notices you.

Things have been tense between you after your one and only time patrolling together. He didn’t ask you to join him in anything and you didn’t make the mistake of trailing after him again. You also didn’t make much more conversation with him and he seemed happy about it for he didn’t try either. The only interactions you both have are ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’, maybe a ‘can you pass me the salt’ or an ‘excuse me’ here and there but that’s all.

It’s been eleven days since your arrival here, and you both are still where you started. It saddens you. You tried to get to know him, and you still want to but he makes it hard to.

Maybe if things had been different, you would have gotten the chance to get to know the Steve you have seen in the pictures Nancy had shown you. The guy he once was seemed sweet and welcoming, the one before you is the opposite of it.

You know something must’ve happened to him. Maybe it’s got to do with the scars on his skin, maybe he lost someone you don’t know about, maybe it’s because of Robin but whatever it was that took away the light in his eyes has turned him into this – mistrusting and mean.

A silent sigh falls from your lips, you force your eyes away from his form and turn away, ready to make your way back up the stairs but his voice makes you halt in your tracks.

“Hey…”

A lump grows in your throat, a nervous feeling settles in your chest, you swallow and take a deep breath before you turn around, facing him again.

He is looking right at you, an awkward attempt at a smile pulling at his lips.

“Hi… I uh, Nancy and Eddie are in their rooms and I didn’t want to disrupt their peace but uh I also don’t want to disrupt yours so–”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts you, not even letting you finish your sentence. “Would you like to help me?”

You blink.

Did you hear him correctly?

He presses his palms against the counter, raising his eyebrows at you, like he waits for you to say yes.

Steve notices your uncertainty, the knit between your brows, the pursed lips, the confused look in your eyes. You are pulling at your sleeves, looking a little lost, looking a little intimidated. You are not like this with Nancy and Eddie, you are comfortable with them – but not with him, and he can’t blame you for that.

“I could use a hand.”

You nod slowly, licking your lips, “yeah, I uh, sure!”

You can’t help but feel a giddiness inside of you. He never asked you to join him before, he never asked for your help.

“What do you need me to do?” You ask as you make your way over to him, standing across from him now, on the other side of the kitchen island.

“Butter for now.”

“Butter?” You tilt your head.

He hates it when you do that, every time you ask a question, every time you are confused about something, you tilt your head to the side.

“We received a ton of milk, but we have to make our own butters and cream,” he explains as he gestures to the cans of milk on the table.

“Oh…”

“Wanna give me a hand? It’s a lot of stirring.”

You nod, following him to the small, round kitchen table.

“Here,” he murmurs, gesturing to the wooden jar, “this is a butter churn.”

“This is what they look like?”

Steve nods, “yeah, what’d you think they looked like?”

You shrug, picking up the stick, “I dunno, this thing looks like something straight out of the 1500s.”

Steve snorts, “maybe it is, we found it in Miss Keller’s house, she’s basically from the 1500s with the dresses she always wore.”

You fake a gasp, bringing your hand up to your mouth, “you stole Miss Keller’s butter churn? Bad Steve.”

He rolls his eyes at you and turns away, but you see the way his lips curl upwards, even if only a little. – A small victory on your part.

“So… how do I use this thing?”

He pours some milk into the jar and takes the stick from your hands, putting inside the jar before he covers the sides with a towel so the milk doesn’t splatter over you both.

“Here, you just… do these motions,” he explains, twisting the stick from side to side as he raises it up and down slowly, “you churn it slowly, you don’t want the milk to get all over you, it may take some time until you see some progress, you just gotta be patient.”

You hum, moving a little closer to him, invading his space, you smell his shampoo, his body wash, a hint of oranges and apricot, the sweet and soft scents surprise you, most men opt for masculine scents, strong and overpowering ones. You prefer this. You like this, you like this a little more than you should. You watch the way his hands move as he shows you the motions, you focus on his voice when he gives you the instructions and then you take over when he hands you the stick before he steps away from you rather quickly.

Unbeknownst to you, he too liked the scent that lingers on your skin a little too much. The sweetness of it, the softness of your hand when it touched his own, the closeness and the heat of your body – he doesn’t like you, how could he? His body reacts to your scent, feminine and soft. It’s been a long time since he felt the touch of a woman, and you are the first to graze his skin, that’s all. He wouldn’t think anything of it, he wouldn’t react to it had there been other women around.

To his surprise you stay quiet, focused on the task before you, you don’t speak or ask any questions for a while, it’s almost odd to him, you are talkative, never missing the opportunity to open your mouth and ramble about something completely random and unimportant. Then again, things have been tense between you both. He knows it’s his fault, he also knows that it’s for the better, yet he can’t help but dislike this silence right now, he doesn’t know why.

He tries to focus on his own task, pouring milk into a pot to make cream.

The crackle of the fire, and the sound from the butter churn fill the silence between you both. A few minutes pass before you finally speak up.

“What are we using the butter for?” You ask, feeling the soreness in your wrist already.

“For the meat. I use it to make it tender. The meats are not as good now that the cows are not properly cared for. They’re just cows from the wild and the few from the barn here.”

“Oh, so they don’t get all the needed supplements and stuff?”

“Exactly,” Steve nods, reaching for a spatula, he starts stirring the milk, “I mean, we do our best but you know…”

You look over at him, surprised to find him looking back at you already, you didn’t realize his eyes were on you. You nod your head slowly, not moving your eyes away from his, you don’t break the contact just yet, looking into his hazel eyes that are always blazing with anger or annoyance, right now it’s neither of those emotions, it’s something else, something you can’t read, something you can’t make out, something you haven’t seen in his eyes yet, a look yet to be unlocked.

He blinks, shaking his head, he furrows his eyebrows and looks down at your hand, “how does it look?”

You breathe out and force your eyes away from his as well, you stop your movements and lift the towel off the jar, “uh, I think it’s solid now.”

“Great, now pour it into the bowl,” he gestures to the bowl with the cheesecloth inside.

You fall quiet again and follow his instructions, his voice fills the space between you as he gives you a step by step on what to do but when you’re as good as done, the silence between you is almost deafening, almost awkward, especially to him, the need to fill it is so strong.

He swore to himself that he wouldn’t talk to you if not necessary, that he wouldn’t ask questions. He doesn’t want to know anything about you, he doesn’t need that in his life, but this moment right now is killing him. He is done cooking the cream, and he is now working on making dinner, cutting vegetables. He tries to distract himself with that but to no avail.

He glances at you. It’s dark out now, the only source of light coming from the fireplace and all the candles set up because he likes to save up on electricity by keeping the lights off. The golden light touches your skin so softly, your hair shining from it, the smell of your body wash lingers in the room. You look relaxed, you look content despite being here with him. The sweater you are wearing is too big and it slipped down your shoulder from all the movements, exposing the scar that has formed on your shoulder. It was fresh when you came here, and he never found out how you got it.

He clears his throat, swallowing the lump that grew from nervousness, he speaks your name, which it’s almost foreign on his tongue.

You look up at him, “yeah..?”

“What uh,” he pauses, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly before he points to your shoulder, “what happened?”

You need a moment to follow what he is pointing at. You are surprised, almost taken aback to hear a question coming from him, a question directed at you. Slowly, you look down, only now noticing that your sweater slipped. You put down the paddle that you used to form the butter and pull your sweater back up.

“Uh… I fell onto broken glass when a sick person snuck up on me.” You explain, scrunching your nose, “I was distracted, I never am usually but I was hungry and looking for food and I found something I’ve been looking for, for months!”

“Oh,” Steve mumbles and looks down. “What was it?”

“...Kit Kat’s.”

Steve raises his eyebrows at you, lip curling up a bit, “you almost got yourself killed because of Kit Kat’s?”

You shrug at him, “they’ve always been my favorite! And I haven’t had any since the day the world went to shit!”

He chuckles a bit but he doesn’t comment on it further, just looking back down, giving you the opportunity to look at him closer, at the scar around his neck, you never asked how he got it, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

He looks up to find you staring at his neck. He knows you are curious, you have been from the start, he always caught you staring at it.

“I was dragged by a demo– a bat.”

He sees the way your eyes widen, how surprised you are by his explanation, “huh?”

He points to his neck, “it choked me, leaving a mark, while two others bit my flesh off.”

Steve used to cringe every moment he spent thinking of that night, of when they dragged him across the floor, leaving marks on his skin. He used to have nightmares of it, until those nightmares were replaced by new pictures, worse ones.

You nod slowly, looking him up and down, there are no other visible marks for you to see, except for the one on his neck.

“Where?”

He sighs, not wanting to look into your eyes, not wanting to see the sadness flashing in them. He looks back down at the carrot he was cutting, picking the knife back up again, he continues.

“My abdomen, my sides… but Eddie had it worse.”

You quickly realize what he is doing, steering the topic away from him again, thinking he doesn’t deserve sympathy for what he went through.

You have seen the scars on Eddie’s skin, the deep and gnarly marks, he briefly told you what had happened but you never pushed the subject, you never tried to find out more.

“You mean the scar on his lip…?”

Steve nods, “his chest, abdomen, arms, legs… They’re all scarred. They bit off chunks of flesh.” He says, his voice sad, almost haunted.

Your shoulders drop, the look on your face too, sadness flushes through you and you look down at the table, at nothing in particular.

You can’t imagine how it happened, the pain he was in, the fear that took home in all of them when Eddie was bleeding out and fighting for his life.

Steve turns around when he registers your silence. He sees the worried, sad look on your face, how your lips curl downwards and your shoulders are dropped.

“But we’re okay now, he is healthy as you can see… and annoying.”

At that, you smile a little, lifting your head back up to look at him, “yeah, but he’s adorable.”

Steve draws back a little, raising an eyebrow at you, “you crushing on Munson or something?”

Your eyes widen and you flush all over, shaking your head quickly that your hair falls out of your clip.

“What, no! Ew! He reminds me of my brother! People that are just like my brother ain’t my type!” You scoff, shuddering a little. You pick up the paddle again and continue forming the butter into the shape you want to have it.

Steve can’t help but smile, amused by the look on your face. He gets a little curious though.

“... And what is your type?”

You hum, taking a moment to answer his question.

He doesn’t look away from you just yet, he watches you.

“Mmm… As long as he makes me smile when I need it the most… that’s all I need.”

Steve nods at your words, humming.

You look up at him, surprised to see him still watching you.

“What about you? What’s your type, cowboy?”

He flushes a little, cheeks warming under your eyes. He hasn’t talked about women in years, and hasn't thought about this either.

He shakes his head, lifting his shoulders up and down, “I uh… I honestly have no idea.”

He is not the guy he used to be, the one who was flirting freely and taking out one girl after the other – even that guy didn’t know his type. He was searching for something in every girl, and he never found it.

“Oh come on!” You scoff, looking at him in disbelief, “what type of women did you go out with?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know, they were always… stereotypical girls that always talked about the latest trends and stuff.”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you look down.

“Ah right… Prom King. I can guess which type of women you’re into–”

He quickly shakes his head at you, “no… no… I went out with them to have fun, it was just physical. Those girls weren’t my type.”

You frown at his words and sigh.

For some reason your reaction makes him think that you’re done with this conversation, but then you look back up and turn towards him completely.

“Okay… then, when you’re with a woman, what is attractive to you?”

“... Real answer?”

“Sure…” You murmur.

A smirk tugs at his lip when he notices how flustered you are getting when his eyes move up and down.

You notice how he stops at your chest in particular and you can’t help but groan and shake your head in disappointment.

“Booo…”

“No!” Steve raises his hands up in surrender, chuckling.

“I was gonna say eyes.”

You roll your eyes, snorting, “right… I didn’t mean physically, Steve. I meant what is attractive to you when you’re on a date with them? What do they do that is attractive to you?”

Your words wipe the small smile off his face again, and he stands there in silence, getting lost in his thoughts, getting lost in the past, reliving every date, every moment that should have excited him but didn’t. He realizes that there was not a single date that is worth remembering, not a single girl who made him smile genuinely. Sure, he had fun the moment he was in pleasure but that’s all, the girls were attractive physically but emotionally? They all sucked, none of them cared about him, all they wanted was a piece of King Steve.

And even when he thought he found something genuine, someone to love him, someone to care for him, it turned out to be a show, it was just as genuine as the interest all those girls had in him. It was all a lie.

There is no love in him for her anymore, no feelings, no desires, nothing. But those words still hurt and sometimes they still haunt him because he believes it. Those words echo in his head, just like all the other hateful things others have thrown at him. But one in particular remains,

‘Bullshit’

“I… I don’t know…” He whispers, letting his facade fall for only a moment. “I guess someone who doesn’t see me as a failure.”

You are taken aback by his words, a weird feeling settling in your chest at the confession.

When Steve realizes what he said, when he notices the look in your face, when he notices his mistake, he immediately draws back.

“W-What… Failure, why?”

He shakes his head, turning his back to you again, “doesn’t matter, um… the butter should be done, wanna give me a hand cutting the potatoes?”

You hesitate, staring at the back of his head. You want to know more, you want to know why he said that, you want to know why he feels like this, who made him feel like this.

A sigh falls from your lips, loud enough for him to hear.

“Sure…”

You leave it alone, not wanting to risk getting on his bad side again, you bite your tongue and do as he asked. You clean up the kitchen table before you walk over to him, getting your own cutting board, and you start peeling the potatoes.

You work in silence for a while, just like before, but this one isn’t as uncomfortable, even though his words still echo in your head and you wonder about his past. You don’t want him to close up on you again, not when he just started to open up, so you don’t press the subject further.

It’s too silent though and you can barely handle it. You let go of the peeler before you started peeling the potatoes, taking Steve aback, his eyes already glaring at you as you turned and walked away.

“Really? You don’t want to peel potatoes?”

“It’s too quiet!” You leave the kitchen, leaving Steve stunned as he looks back at the door. It was quiet but he didn’t think you were going to have a breakdown because of it. He doesn’t know you and that is being a little obvious by now. Maybe you don’t do good with silence and he just doesn't know that side of you. If he knew, maybe he could have talked about something else, or try.

But not two seconds later, he starts hearing the radio turning and then static. He doesn’t remember when was the last time they turned on that radio. He can hear you changing the channels of it, the static growing and lowering, and he wonders if you're crazy. There is no music being played. Who would operate a radio station in the middle of the apocalypse–

His eyes widen when he starts hearing ‘Hound dog’ by Elvis Presley. It is static, yet it is still there. There is music. Somewhere in Indiana, someone is operating a radio station. Someone is trying to keep people in a good mood despite it all. He never knew. Nancy never knew. Eddie never tried. The three of them thought that the only music they could have was Eddie’s guitar.

He hears you humming to it, walking back into the kitchen and placing the small radio on the far corner so you two can have the music to yourselves. He is still staring at the radio, completely stunned, his eyes wide. You turn to look at him when you grab the peeler, noticing the look of surprise.

“Why do you look so stunned?”

“I– I didn’t know they played music…” Your eyes went to look at it and you smiled, nodding at him.

“Yeah, I had one back at camp too… Did you know radio signals can travel from 50 to 60 miles away? Some AM stations up to 100 miles!” He is still surprised there is music, yet you are talking away facts to him about radio signals. But that actually caught his attention. There are others, not an hour away from him. It has to be the WSQK watts station. It has to be.

“There’s… a radio station near… like thirty or forty minutes away from here…” You turn to him, surprised as well now.

“Really? Well… there’s people operating there… Probably also sending out news and messages to people.” Your attention turns back to the potatoes, starting to peel away, leaving the peeled skin scraps in a mountain on the counter.

“That’s… good to know.” It actually is good to know. They thought that the only radio signal they could ever get for news was Mr. Clarke’s transmitter that is in the library. That’s how they got contacted by Hopper when the others arrived in California, and now he is finding out that maybe some radio stations are still transmitting. They are probably using some kind of solar panel to make energy because–

“This potato has a worm.” He snaps out of his thoughts immediately at your words, frowning as he looks down at it.

“There’s no worm there.” You slowly look up at him with a cheeky smile, only to look back down, leaving that peeled potato aside to grab another.

“You were thinking too much. Just enjoy the music, you can think later.” You reply and he blinks for a few seconds as the song keeps playing. He looks back down to his carrots, grabbing the knife he left on the side to keep cutting. The minutes pass, the songs changing, songs he knows. Songs that remind him of when the world didn’t simply go to shit.

And there’s some kind of comfort in that.

“Did you know Marvin Gaye was shot by his own father?” You have been spitting facts and news to him that he either knew or never knew, and he didn’t notice he found himself talking back at you, even giving a fact or two of his own.

“I did, that was crazy as shit.” The song ‘Sexual Feeling’ was playing, that’s why you started talking about that with him. Each song that passed, you said something about it. You were stirring the vegetables in the boiling water while he sauted the meat in the pan, with the butter you made. He threw some rosemary in it too, for extra flavour.

One other thing he didn’t notice was that he had been humming along all this time.

He had two pans where he was cooking four pieces of meat, while you worked on making sure the vegetables were properly boiled. You had added some garlic in the pot because you claimed it’s good for the overall health. He almost chuckled at that because it was just because garlic is delicious. There was no need to put garlic on boiled vegetables.

You two didn’t even notice that even in the silence of conversation, where just the music played, there was no more awkwardness. There was no tension. There was nothing that could make you think he didn’t like you anymore.

“Is that Marvin Gaye?” The sound of Nancy’s voice makes the two of you turn around, and she is surprised to see you working together. It’s been days since you two last had a proper conversation, and– “Wait… music?”

“Yeah. She kind of discovered it. Nance, we didn’t know the radio station was still functioning, for a whole year.” Steve’s voice makes you feel proud, knowing you helped and that he was actually surprised by your discovery. Nancy blinks a few times, not believing her ears.

“Wait, so it means we can use that to receive news…” Steve’s eyebrows meet in the middle for a second, only to then nod slightly.

“I bet they’re not different from the news we get from the transmitter in the library, Nance.” His head turns back to the meat, while you grab four plates, stacking them next to him. “Thanks.”

You try to tone down your giddiness, not wanting to show him you are really happy he is being civil and friendly with you, “No problem.”

Nancy’s eyes travel back and forth with the two of you, wondering what had changed, but it is better not to ask. Seeing Steve putting steak on each plate while you grab a colander from the cupboards below the sink. You are about to grab the pot yourself, grabbing kitchen clothes to not burn yourself on the handles, but Steve grabs them from you.

“Let me.” You see how he grabs the pot, not letting you do it, not letting you carry the heavy weight yourself.

“Um–” You don’t know how to react or say, kind of confused at his action, but you don’t dislike how much of a gentleman that move was. Nancy hums a bit to herself, clearing her throat before yelling out.

“Eddie! Food’s ready!” Your head turns to look at her, and you snap from your thoughts, not noticing you had been looking at his arms as they strained a bit when pouring the water into the colander. You quickly move to the cupboards to start setting up the table with Nancy as Eddie walks down the stairs.

“Oh, shit, we eating Steve’s delicious steaks?” Steve rolls his eyes but he’s proud of his cooking. It’s one of those things he knew he was good at, and he never received any complaints.

“Just set the table up, Munson.” He replies and Eddie immediately moves to grab the water out of the fridge and set it on the table. You go back to the counter, next to Steve, and grab a big scooping spoon. Steve hands you one plate, with a steak on it, and you just add some boiled vegetables on it before placing it in front of Nancy as she sits down.

Once you are all seated, Eddie doesn’t even wait a second before he shoves a piece of meat into his mouth, moaning as if he’s in a porn movie, making the other three of you cringe.

“Do you have to do that everytime you eat his steak?” Nancy asks as she cuts herself a little piece, Eddie turning to look at her, with his mouth full.

“Its’ ‘fee biss’ stek’ i’ve evur’ haf.” You snort into your water at the nonsense he just mumbled because of his mouth full of food. Steve holds in a chuckle as he grimaces in disgust.

“Can you chew and swallow before you talk?” And Eddie glares at him only for his eyes to widen up as he looks around, a frown in his eyebrows. He chews quickly, swallowing where he almost choked.

“Is that– ‘Take on me’? Is that fucking music!?” Nancy snorts as you all realize that Eddie hadn’t even noticed the music playing because he was more focused on Steve’s steaks.

You explain that you have found a few channels over the months every time you come across a radio somewhere, though none of them have played metal music.

“Maybe you gotta do the heavy metal channel,” you shrug.

“Huh, you know what? Maybe I will, once I figure out how to, I fucking will,” he nods happily before he takes another bite of his steak.

Steve chuckles a little to himself, though he keeps his eyes trained on the plate before him. Nancy and Eddie share a look of surprise, it’s been a while since they saw him so… relaxed.

For the first time in a while, he joins in on the small talk during dinner, commenting and nodding along to the things you talk about. A sparkle of hope is inside of both Nancy and Eddie, hope that maybe there is still something left in him wanting to try, wanting to live, wanting to fight for something better.

Maybe he is ready to leave now, maybe he is learning how to let go.

Eddie wastes no time in wanting to find out, because the moment you are all done eating and he pushes the empty plate away from him, leaning back, he stuffs his hand into the pocket of his jeans, fishing something out.

You all watch curiously.

Eddie flashes you a smile when you lean closer, trying to peek over the table. He lifts his arm up and throws something over to Steve, the unmistakable sound of jingling keys passing by you, a flash over silver before your eyes before it lands in Steve’s hand.

Steve looks down, feeling the metal in his palm, his fingers are closed around it. He doesn’t need to look to know what it is, the happiness in Eddie’s eyes and the dreadful feeling in his stomach tells him exactly what it is.

With furrowed eyebrows, he stares at nothing in particular.

“What is it!?” Nancy asks, impatiently.

Eddie looks at the both of you, unable to contain the smile on his face as he starts jumping up and down on his chair.

“I finished it,” he explains proudly, though neither of you understand what he means by that as you both give him questioning looks, to which he sighs. “The RV! It’s up and running! We can finally get out of here!”

“Seriously?” Nancy nearly squeals, her eyes lighting up at his words, she nearly jumps from her chair, almost knocking it over.

You know that she’s been waiting for this, waiting to be reunited with her family again.

“Yeah! We’re going to California, baby!” Eddie exclaims, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. “So you better start packing your bags.”

You smile, sharing their relief as well. You've been waiting for it too, waiting to finally see your family again, though in this moment, you fear looking over at Steve, knowing how he feels about leaving Hawkins. You still turn your head, daring to take a glance and you find exactly what you thought you would.

His features are no longer relaxed, his lips are no longer curled into a smile, his eyes aren’t soft like they were before. A mixture of sadness and anger lingers in them, and when he looks at you, meeting your eyes, you feel a shudder running down your spine, he no longer is the one from before, the one that laughed with you, the one that talked with you like you were his… friend.

He clenches his jaw and he turns away again, throwing the keys back to Eddie who catches them with one hand, the smile falling from his lips when he finally notices the frown on Steve’s face.

You all flinch a little when the chair scrapes against the hardwood floor and the brunette picks his plate up angrily before walking over to the kitchen.

Nancy’s smile falls and her shoulders slump, helplessly she looks at Eddie.

“Dude, you know we can’t stay here,” Eddie states carefully, with a soft and gentle voice. “We’re gonna run out of everything someday, you can’t prevent–”

“We won’t run out if we go hunting,” Steve grumbles.

“There’s nothing left here for us, man. We got people waiting for us–”

Suddenly, Steve turns around, with his eyes angrier than before and his cheeks burning red, “you got people waiting for you! Leave me out of this!”

Nancy frowns in disbelief, as well as Eddie who gets up from his chair as well, throwing the keys on the dining table.

“Seriously? You’re telling me that the kids aren’t waiting for you? That they haven’t been asking for you every time Dustin radio’d us and you’ve been acting like a complete asshole, refusing to speak to him – to them?”

Steve scoffs loudly, turning back around, he makes his way over to the sink.

“We’re not leaving without you, Steve,” Nancy speaks. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

“That’s rich coming from you, Nance.”

She falls silent after that, opening her mouth and closing it again, she looks a little taken aback, guilt flashes in her eyes.

Eddie only sighs, looking down with a defeated look on his face.

You don’t know what his words mean, you don’t know why she gives up after that. Many questions run through your head but you mostly wonder what he meant by that.

“Steve,” Eddie tries again and you can hear the desperation in his voice, you can see the sadness in his face, he doesn’t want to leave his friend behind but he doesn’t want to stay here either, he never wanted to, least of all now. “There is nothing left for us here, there is nothing left for you here, you know that, man. Robin is–”

You flinch again when he throws the plate into the sink, so hard it must’ve splattered in half. He turns around, throwing a finger at Eddie, “I told you I’m not leaving! If you wanna go, feel free to get the fuck out of here, all of you! But leave me alone!” He yells, glaring at the both of them before he storms out of the room, passing by you and out into the hallway, not bothering to grab a jacket or an umbrella before he rips open the door and leaves the house, slamming the door so harshly that you wonder if it’s still in tact or not.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, adrenaline kicking in when you notice that Eddie and Nancy aren’t moving, not planning to follow him out.

They know him better than you do, they know not to touch him now, he won’t listen, he won’t compromise, he will do more damage than anything else at this moment but you don’t know that.

Worry settles deep in your gut, the urge to go after him growing stronger each passing second. You get up and push the chair back, leaving them no time to react before you rush out of the room, quickly throwing on your old pair of sneakers, not wasting any more time to follow him out.

You hear your name being called before you slam the door shut, but you don’t bother to turn back around, you run straight into the storm, not caring about the rain you ran from earlier.

You rip open the gate and close it behind you, looking around you as you try to spot him in the darkness, you squint your eyes when lightning strikes through the sky. You see his silhouette, three houses down the road.

The rain runs down your face, soaking through your clothes already, the coldness of it clinging to your skin and making you shiver already, even as you start running after him, following him wherever he is going. You pick up the pace when he gets further and further away from you.

Worry still gnawing at you, not knowing how he will react to you following him but you can’t just let him go like this, you know that he is angry but you also know that the anger is a mask for something else. He is sad, he is broken because of things that happened to him. You may not be the person he wants him to follow, but you just can’t let him go like this.

You slow down when he rounds the corner of a house, disappearing behind the wall. The rain paddles harshly against the floor, thunder crashing through the sky. You almost slip on the muddy ground when you step into the grass, you halt in your tracks when you notice the surrounding bushes, somehow still full and alive, unlike most other things in Hawkins.

You lost him after he disappeared into the garden of whoever lives or lived in this house. The white picket fence has no gate, and you can just walk through it. You follow the footprints in the mud, feeling grateful for the lightning for once. You push your wet hair out of your face, as you inch closer and closer to where he ran off to.

You take deep breaths, trying not to shiver from the cold. Thunder makes you flinch again, though the loud crash is not what makes you halt in your tracks, nor is it the red lightning bolts in the sky that illuminate your surroundings, allowing you to see better, allowing you to take in the view before you.

For a moment, you stop breathing, you stop moving completely, you are sure that even your heart stopped beating. You can only raise your hand to your lips as your eyes widen in horror.

He is here, he is standing in this garden, only a few steps away from you. He is standing there with his head hung low, looking down at the grave before him, wilted flowers on it, a necklace dangling from the cross, a necklace that once dangled from her neck.

Robin Buckley.

The name engraved into the wooden cross, is the name you have heard so many times, the name of his best friend.

So many feelings run through your veins but mostly shock and confusion. He talked about her like she was alive, they talked about her like she was alive, there was no sign of this. You could have never guessed. Every time he left the house saying that he was gonna visit Robin, you thought he was actually seeing her, you could have never imagined that he meant visiting her grave.

Your heart breaks when the realization of it all begins to sink in, why he is the way that he is, why he doesn’t want to leave, why he is so filled with anger and rage.

You swallow the sickening lump in your throat. You don’t know what to say or do, a part of you wants to walk away and leave him be, the other wants to comfort him, and the stronger part wins.

“Steve…” You call out softly to him, your voice reaching him despite the raging storm.

He tenses up, you can see it, it takes him a moment but when he finally turns around, you realize what a mistake it was to follow him. Even through the darkness and the rain, you can see the glistening tears in his eyes, the angry ones, the scowl on his face directed at no one but you.

“I-I’m sorry…”

“Don’t!” He snaps loudly. “Don’t say anything right now!”

You press your lips together, taking deep breaths as you look at the intense emotions in his eyes, and his anger makes you cower away. Shivers run down your spine, not from the rain, but from how he looks at you.

You shake your head slowly, digging your nails into your palms. You don’t know what to do, so you just stand there and watch him. Behind the hatred in his eyes, you see pain and sadness, you see how hard he is holding onto this, you see how it is driving him crazy, how it’s ripping him apart.

“I-I didn’t know…” You say softly.

Steve can hear the sadness in your voice, the gentle tone in it, the warmth in your eyes – he can’t stand it, he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t deserve it.

“That she’s dead? You didn’t know that my best friend is dead?” Steve scoffs as he slowly starts to make his way over to you, inching closer carefully, staring at you like you are his prey that he is ready to rip apart, right here, right now. “Well, now you fucking do, she’s dead, Robin is dead just like most people are, just like you will be the moment you step out there!” He throws his hand up, pointing at nothing in particular. His voice is trembling, the rain streams down his face.

You wince at his words.

You know what’s waiting out there, you know the dangers of this world but that doesn’t stop you from finding your family, from keeping hope alive.

You understand him now, more than anything. You don’t know how you would be if you lost someone you loved so dearly but he still has people he loves, people that love him.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I really am, I’m sorry that you lost her,” you start, your own voice trembling, out of nerves and out of fear. “But she is gone, a-and you staying here won’t change it! It won’t bring her back, it won’t fix anything! I understand your pain, I really do… but– you have people who care for you, Eddie and Nancy. You have other people who are waiting for you… Dustin?” You say despite the shock that still curses through you.

You don’t know whether it’s tears running down his cheeks or if it’s just the rain, but his eyes are glassy.

“Don’t bring Henderson into this! He is alive and well and that suffices!”

“Does it really?” You ask, tilting your head to the side. “Because you look miserable most of the time, and you will end up all alone once Eddie and Nancy are gone!”

Steve takes another step closer to you, looking down at you with nothing but hatred in his eyes.

“I know you feel like your life is over but it’s not, I–”

“You’ve known me for two weeks. Two fucking weeks. I don’t care about your optimistic hopeful bullshit. When you find your parents and your brother dead, you will wish you never had it to begin with.”

You draw back, straightening your back, you stare at him, speechless and stunned. The words are caught in your throat, your chest aching more than ever.

You know he is hurt and angry, and now he is trying to hurt you back. You know that they’re alive, you know that your parents are fine, you know that your brother is well.

“They’re… they’re not–”

“You saw the world out there, open your eyes for just a second!” He snaps at you, getting closer and closer, allowing you to see him and his anger better. “You are leading my friends to their death! You are helping them leave! I-I thought you would want to stay once you realized you were safe here, that you’re all fucking safe!”

You shake your head at him, growing angry too for the things he said about your family.

“Why wouldn’t I want to leave!?”

“Cause you are literally driving into hell! There are things you haven’t encountered there!”

“I want to see my family! Nancy and Eddie too! You have family waiting for you!”

A humorless laugh falls from his lips, he brings his hand up to his face, pressing his knuckle under his nose as he closes his eyes for a moment before he opens them again, looking at you again, “family? My family is here, six feet under!” He yells, pointing at the grave. He is blinded by rage and sadness. “The one person I had in my life that cared for me like no one else had is gone! And I’m not leaving her here!”

You know there is no getting through to him, not when he is like this.

Steve would rather chase after a ghost for the rest of his life.

“Leave her here?” You whisper. “She’s not here anymore, Steve! Do you really think she would want this for you? She wouldn’t! You were family, you were her best friend, she would want you to leave, to find a better place, to live!”

If the look in his eyes could kill, you’d be buried under this ground right now. You can see that it’s getting worse, that his eyes are burning, that his chest is heaving.

“I know what danger is out there, but I need my family–”

“Smell the fucking non-existent sunflowers, they’re dead by now!”

Steve tries it again, to hurt you, to harm you where he knows it hurts the most but you shake your head, trying not to let his words get to you, trying not to let his words touch your heart. You take a step away from him, shaking your head.

“No–, no they’re not,” you whisper, feeling the familiar lump in your throat, the painful throbbing in your heart, the hotness in your eyes.

He scoffs at you, looking you up and down in disbelief, “you think you’re going to find your house surrounded by a gate of protection? You’re fucking delusional if you think so.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, taking a step back further. You hesitate, feeling intimidated by his presence all the sudden but he only follows, looking right into your glassy eyes.

He is guided by hatred. He can no longer see clearly, the pain has turned him into this, the pain has made him cold. He doesn’t care about the tears in your eyes, about the trembling in your bottom lip, about the fear and the sadness in your eyes.

“My family is alive, I-I know they are–”

“Smell the decay of the corpses around you, and tone down that hope of yours before you end up even more hurt than you thought you could ever be. Open your eyes for once and stop acting like an immature little girl.”

His words feel like a blow to your chest, stealing the breath from you and replacing it with pain. The colors vanish before your eyes, a darkness you never allowed to enter, blurring your vision and crawling into your veins, threatening to take over.

The tears no longer stay in your eyes, they start falling freely as your bottom lip trembles, a sob threatening to escape you though you push it back down, not wanting him to see just how much his words have hurt you.

You see nothing in his eyes, no remorse, no guilt, nothing but this – grief has turned him cold.

Your sniffle breaks his anger a little though, the blaring redness that flashed in his eyes just seconds ago, dimming just a bit when he begins to see the damage he has done. He sees the way your chest is rising up and down heavily, the way you're blinking quickly like it would stop your tears from falling, he sees the pain in your eyes that he had caused.

You are crying, he made you cry when he once swore to himself to never do this to anyone ever again.

“You’re…” Your voice breaks and you wipe your tears, as though it would change anything. “You’re a douchebag.”

The tension in his shoulders leaves him, and regret starts sinking in.

Robin thought that of him before she got to know him, before she became his friend. He changed, even more so when he found her.

Has her death made him turn back around?

Has it changed him this much?

She would be disappointed, she would kick his ass for what he did just now, for what he said, for how he made you feel, for making you cry when all you wanted was to help. He knew where it would hurt the most and he chose to hit you there exactly, not caring about what it would do to you.

You tear your eyes away from him, sniffling quietly as you walk away from him, leaving him in the rain.

His fingers itch, his hand moves forward as though to stop you but he quickly clenches his fist and breaks his eyes away from you, looking down at the muddy ground. He closes his eyes, shutting them tightly as he holds back tears. His heart is aching more than ever.

He knows you’re right, deep down he knows.

He knows it’s only fair for Eddie and Nancy to leave, he knows it all, he understands it all.

He knows that she would want him to go with them, that she would force him to if she could. He knows she’s gone, he hasn’t felt her presence since the day a bird had sat down on her cross, she is gone and there is no bringing her back, not even if he stays.

But how can he leave when all that is left of her is this?

Everywhere he turns there’s a reminder that she was here, every good memory he has of her would be abandoned and he can’t do it, he just can’t.

With trembling lips and tears now streaming down his cold cheeks, he turns back around, looking at her name on the cross, at the reminder… that she is gone, forever. His knees almost buckle, a sob threatens to rip from his lips but he doesn’t let it, he doesn’t allow himself to break down, even as the sadness and the guilt begins to consume him.

“Robin,” he whispers, shakily. He knows he won’t get an answer, he knows he won’t get the sign that he’s been begging for, he knows he won’t hear her voice calling back to him, the only thing he hears is the rain, the rustling trees and his own heartbeat. He tastes the saltiness of his tears, he tastes the bitterness. “Birdie…”

She is gone and she’s not coming back.

He lost her, and soon he will lose more.

Soon his biggest fear will catch up to him.

Being left behind, being all alone.

It was bound to happen.

Right?

Steve didn’t come out of his room all day.

You haven’t seen him, haven’t heard from him, haven’t heard his voice in the hallway or anywhere else.

He came home shortly after you the night before, you heard him talking to Nancy, heard her asking questions that he didn’t answer. You know she told him that you’re leaving today, told him to pack his bags and be ready by night. It’s getting dark out now, your bags are in the RV, as well as Nancy’s and Eddie’s, along with a box of pictures and other things that they refuse to leave behind.

You are all ready to go, all except for him.

Eddie is giddy, excited to finally hit the road, though you can also see his jumpiness, how he can’t seem to sit still, the anxiety of having to leave Steve behind is eating at him.

Nancy is distracting herself, sitting at the dining table, her guns and knives sprawled across the table, a cloth in her hand as she cleans her weapons.

You’re sitting by the window, looking into blank space. Sadness lingered in you all day, and it didn’t change throughout it. He planted thoughts into your head that you refused to think about or even consider, though now a part of you can’t help but feel anxious because what if… what if there is some truth to it? What if you are being a little too hopeful? What if you are being ignorant and foolish?

You know he was hurt, and that hurt has triggered the anger, anger that he directed at you – he wanted to hurt someone and you were there, the perfect target, you are the reason why his friends are leaving now.

You didn’t mention what you found out last night, not to Eddie nor Nancy. It only really sunk in this morning, when you woke up with a headache after crying yourself to sleep.

You don’t know how he lost her but something tells you that she didn’t go peacefully. He blames himself, you saw it in his eyes.

“We should go soon.” It’s Nancy who breaks the silence in the room, a determined look on her face. You can sense her hesitation, her nervousness. She doesn’t want to go without him, you saw the way her eyes kept flicking to the staircase waiting for him to come walking down the stairs with bags in his hands, he never did. She told him to be ready by 7pm, it’s 8 now.

Eddie told you that Steve said goodbye, that he hugged him and Nancy, and prepared food and snacks for the road. No matter how much they begged and tried to convince him to come with them, it was to no avail. He never planned on leaving, not then, not now.

A part of you wants to try, to go up to his room and talk to him again but you doubt he wants to see you, especially after last night. He hates you, you saw it in his eyes. He won’t change his mind, not for you. He hurt you, but you still don’t want him to stay here, to be alone, to be left behind.

Eddie stops pacing around, he watches Nancy as she gets up from her seat, putting the guns and knives away into her backpack.

“Nance,” Eddie hesitates, looking at her in uncertainty.

She throws her backpack over her shoulder and shrugs at him, trying to look tough, trying to mask the worry on her face.

“He made his choice, he wants to stay. I won’t force him to come with us.” That is all she says before she leaves the room, taking you by surprise with her sudden coldness. She walks out of the house without another word.

Eddie glances at you, taking in the frown on your face, the sadness behind your puffy eyes. He knows that something happened between you and Steve when you followed him out into the rain, last night. He suspects that he threw unkind words at you – you didn’t tell him anything, neither did Steve but Eddie knows it crashed between you.

Now all he sees is hesitation in your eyes, despite the hurt written across your face. He can tell you don’t want to leave him behind. Eddie noticed that you had developed some kind of attachment to Steve, despite his constant cold shoulder.

You keep your eyes trained on the ground, blinking rapidly as you get up, not moving away from the window just yet though.

Eddie sighs, he walks over to the desk by the window, opening one of the drawers, he picks out a map he kept hidden, a copy of the one already in the RV. It’s marked up just like the other one, the town in California circled in a red color. He carries it over to the dining table, “in case he changes his mind,” he tells you.

You furrow your eyebrows as you look between him and the map, “I thought you didn’t have a copy?”

He makes his way over to you, a small smile grazing his lips, he places his palm on your shoulder, “guess I lied a little.” His brown eyes are sad, not matching the smile at all. He squeezes you, nodding softly before he steps away, looking around one more time, even though he’s done it a few times already today. “I’ll be outside.”

“Yeah…”

He closes the door behind him, leaving you by yourself.

You can’t say that you’re surprised by their sudden decision to leave today, but then again, they have been waiting for this moment for a long time. They’ve been waiting for it for a year, waiting for him to be ready. He never will be.

You take a deep breath as you look around the house you found shelter in, found new friends in. You wouldn’t have been here if you didn’t follow him that day. You tug your jacket closer to your body, gripping it tightly.

You don’t want to leave without him.

But you are the last person to change his mind.

You have known him for a few days only and yet he managed to crawl under your skin. You got used to him, despite his rough demeanor, despite yesterday.

You make your way upstairs, you can’t leave without saying goodbye.

But when you knock on his door, he doesn’t respond or open the door – not that you expected him to. You lean against the door frame, keeping your knuckle against the wooden door.

“Steve?” You whisper shakily, hoping to hear his voice. “I uh… I just wanted to thank you, for letting me stay, I know you didn’t want to but still… thank you.”

You hear nothing on the other side, no shuffling, no footsteps, no sighs, nothing.

A sigh falls from your lips, the sadness in you spreading further.

“Despite everything, it was nice meeting you… Goodbye Steve.”

You finally pull away from the wood, looking at the door one last moment before you head back downstairs and grab the backpack you left on the floor. You look around the house one last time and you can’t help but imagine him walking downstairs, where his friends once were, and see them all gone. Just himself and the ghost of what once was and never will be again.

It hurts to leave him behind, and you can’t even imagine how Nancy and Eddie feel. You have your answer once you head out and towards the back where you see Eddie wiping his cheek away while making sure the tires are all set, and how Nancy has her back towards the two of you, and her legs are slightly shaking as she looks at stuff into her weapon bag.

They are hurt from leaving him behind, way more than you are. You had to reassure them that even in loneliness, Steve will be safe. He is inside a community, guarded even if little, but he is still with people and in safety.

“Okay ladies, I think we are good to go.” Eddie says finally and you head over to Nancy, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, Nance.” You see her looking at the distance, towards the same way you followed Steve the night before. You see her gulp tightly, nodding at you before turning around and heading inside the RV first. You turn to see Eddie giving you a small comforting smile as he looks at the house one last time.

He sighs as he turns towards you, bowing down as he points with his arm towards the open door of the RV. You can only smile so little at the theatrics, and you take a deep breath before you step inside, surprised to see just how well equipped it is. Two big seats at the front, driver and passenger, then followed by counters on the side, and then a couch on the other. A pull out couch. Then at the end of the kitchen counter sat a small booth, with a small table in the middle.

You see there is a small little hallway, which has the door to the toilet, and then at the very back end you can see the big double bed. It has a sliding door to close it from everyone else if needed. You are amazed by it, a small and nice motorhome for the three of you. Eddie enters the RV as Nancy starts the vehicle. He closes the door behind him and he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“You like it? I installed the pull out couch myself. We have enough gas till the next possible gas station, and hopefully there’s still some left, so we need to make sure to not run out before that.” Nance only nods as you look up and open the bag cupboard at the top of the couch, putting your bag inside as well as Eddie’s and hers. You close it and you three hear the RV coming to life finally.

“Good job Eddie.” Nancy finally smiles his way, and Eddie puffs out his chest as he sits in the passenger’s seat, pulling the map out of the glove compartment in front of him. He had marked down all possible places they could stop at to look for more food and gas. Even toiletries. He also marked all possible gas stations, and you realize they had been planning this for a very long time.

“Okay… goodbye Hawkins you piece of shit.” Eddie says, making you hum as you take a seat on the couch. Your body suddenly sways as the RV starts to move slowly, and the excitement starts to come back to you as well as the fear of what you might encounter. You are going to your family. You are going to find your family and you will be safer this time. You have people around you, armed and willing to protect you as much as you would protect them. You won’t sleep in the mud, looking for cover under the cup of the trees. You will be sleeping either on a nice couch, or the bed whenever available.

You see how Nancy turns the lights on and off quickly, just enough to mark her way through the trees, not following the main road so no one would stop you all. Your hands were gripping the couch tightly, not wanting to look out the window, not wanting to look back, but you were itching to do so.

It takes time because Nancy is going as slow as possible so the motorhome would not do that much of a sound thanks to the engine. You know that people are already sleeping by now, except for the guards at the front gate, and you are taking the closed off one. The one in all chains.

Once you reach it, Nancy stops the RV right in front of it, Eddie getting up from the passenger’s seat to walk towards the cupboard underneath the sink of the kitchen, taking out some bolt cutters. Your eyes widen as he pulls those out and you turn to look at Nancy.

“Hang on, you are cutting those open– you are going to leave the gate open for all the community inside here!” Nancy sighs at your outburst and you hear the clanking of chains, you turn your head to see Eddie holding a new pair in his hands and a lock.

“We are not that reckless and selfish. It took me some time to find a spare pair of chains this size, and a lock, but– It’ll endure.” With those last words, he jumps off the RV, and you rush to the passenger seat to see him get into action, grabbing the cutters and start snapping the chains away.

You’re biting your lip as you see the metals falling piece by piece. Eddie hesitates for just one second before he snaps open the last chain. He pushes one of the doors open slightly and Nancy turns on the bright lights instantly. You see how he pulls it open even more and you see how there is nothing out there, giving you guys the green light to go. He gives a nod towards the two of you and pushes the first gate open and then the next one.

His eyes widen when one bright light shines your way, the guard light tower pointing your way. The sound of a loud siren blasting suddenly and you realize you’ve been caught. Nancy and you motion Eddie to leave the chain behind, that people will put it back together instead of him.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Nancy curses loudly.

Eddie snaps out of it as he rushes to the doors of the RV, the motorhome starting to move forward as you hear the screams of people, telling you to stop, to turn back, that it’s dangerous out there. The front of the vehicle is out and you’re almost passed the gate when Eddie’s head turns to his left, his panicked face falling as his eyes widen.

“Eddie, get in!” You yell, trying to snap him out, and Nancy groans loudly.

“Munson, I’m stepping the gas whether you get fully inside or not–”

“It’s Steve!” Her eyes widen as well as yours. She doesn’t stop moving, instead slowing down.

You rush towards the window, popping your head out and sure enough, you see him.

He is running fast even with a bag hanging on his back, two duffel bags on each side of his hips, his bat in one hand, the other gripping a flashlight tightly. You hear Eddie egging him on, to keep running because Nancy is not stopping, she can’t. You see the flashlights of people running towards you, right behind Steve, ready to stop you all from stepping into the danger zone.

He can’t feel his limbs anymore from how much he ran, from how dumb it was to not tell the three of you that he had actually packed, leaving the bags in his room. Dumb to tell you that he left to give his last goodbye to Robin’s parents and Robin herself. He spent all day with her. Had breakfast, had lunch, and finally dinner.

He lost track of time, and when he returned to the house, none of you were in it. His heart had crumbled to the floor, but it was just a few minutes late, so if he had any luck, you three were still near. He grabbed everything as fast as he could, rushing into the kitchen to shove one last thing into his duffel bag, and then run out. He ran through the woods with his flashlight, following the broken bushes and the tire trails the vehicle left.

As soon as the RV came into view, the lights from behind him turned on, his panic rising as he didn’t have a chance to even catch a breath. He saw how the officers and the guards started running towards him with their flashlights, and he took off. He ran as fast as his feet could take him, trying not to think of all the weight he was also carrying. He could hear Eddie calling for him, his hand reaching out already for Steve to grab.

He knew that the moment he grabbed Eddie’s hand, Hawkins would be a thing of the past. She would be the past. Everything would be the past. But Robin would have wanted him to move forward. She would have wanted him to keep on going. She would have kicked his ass if she found out he was willing to throw everything away just for her. She would have wanted him to actually live.

So he grabs onto Eddie’s hand.

Eddie pulls tightly with a grunt, using all his strength. Nancy picks up the speed and throws her foot onto the gas when Steve manages to put one foot on the first step of the RV. Eddie drags them both inside, falling onto the floor with Steve.

You are stunned as you stare down at them both. You snap out of it when you feel the cold wind, you run towards the door and shut it, locking it.

Steve is panting, no, heaving as he tries to recover his breath on all fours, staring at the floor. Eddie is sitting up, his hand coming to rest on Steve’s back. The three of you are silent, not having expected Steve to appear out of nowhere at the last minute.

“What… What happened?” Eddie asks, his own breathing heavy from the whole ordeal, and you can just stand over them both, looking as Steve starts to shake, your eyes coming to meet in the middle in worry.

“I– I was saying goodbye– I forgot to tell you, I’m so sorry–” And you can hear the choked up voice, your heart turning with sadness as Eddie’s eyes glistened, looking at his friend. Nancy couldn't stop driving, but she turned her head for just one second to look and you saw how a tear was running down her cheek, her gaze turning back to the road.

“Steve…” Eddie’s voice is low, a whisper and it was the key that opened the gate to Steve’s emotions. Through his heavy breaths, you start hearing his sobs. Choked up sobs that he wanted to swallow down, but it was impossible. Soon, his tears were hitting the floor as he stared down at it, his fingers digging into the carpet as memories flashed in his mind.

He could almost picture Robin waving at him from the gate that people were already closing. He could almost picture how she would be smiling and jumping happily the more the RV drove away. How she would be cheering him on. His cries were loud, knowing there is a part of him that was being left behind, a part that he will never in his life get back.

You could hear the sniffles coming from the driver’s seat as well, quieter than Steve’s cries of pain, and you saw how Eddie was keeping a strong face for both his friends, especially Steve who was still trying to breathe through his sobs.

You just stood there as you waited, wanting to comfort the man that was on the floor, but you knew better. It was a moment that he needed to have with his friends, with his family. You felt your own tears flowing down your cheeks. You didn’t know Robin, but from the cries of your new found friends, you realized she was loved. She was very much loved.

The road ahead was uncertain, but in Steve’s mind, only one little thing resonated, one little voice that he could hear despite the dark clouds inside it, and the screams coming out of his mouth. If he was imagining it, he hoped it would never leave him. He might have gone crazy, but he was so happy to hear her voice, at least one last time.

‘Goodbye, Dingus.’

☀︎

taglist: @prettyboyeddiemunson @thecreelhouse @tvserie-s-world @thesickestqrmydcll @crispystarfishhottub @sophal22 @definitionwanderlust @talkativecarnation @mysticalwoolenfroglegs @ariesandwolves @mortqlprojections @sattlersquarry @sherrylyn0628 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @micheledawn1975 @keepingitlokiii @littleromanoff2005 @sunshine-mrk

#the edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet)#chapter three #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #stranger things angst #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington blurb #grumpy x sunshine

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burningcheese-merchant · 3 months ago

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"You and I... We are meant to be together." okay everyone pack it up. go home. it doesn't get worse than this. I fear all other ancient x beast is #cancelled forever because how the utter fuck do you compete with that. My god. Dark Cacao would die on the spot, his old fucking heart would give out processing a sentence that romantic. Golden Cheese would choke and die from the physical manifestation of her own pride and ego before she could ever utter a sentence that open and honest. Hollyberry is choosing to laugh it all off and pray she can drink away and not think about it. White Lily would fall into another witch pot of bubbling goo before confronting said feelings. Only Pure Motherfucking Vanilla is that clincally batshit and unburdened to spout his feelings 1000% unfiltered to a guy who just killed his friends and got his rocks off psychologically torturing him.

Mystic Flour being utterly repulsed by such naïve, meaningless sentimentality, still clinging to the remains of the apathy she so cherishes and champions even as it slips through her fingers like flour through a sieve; hating herself to her very core because somewhere within it, she KNOWS her heart beats and aches for that ridiculous man, but she would end her own suffering before she allowed the truth to poke its head out from the shadows of her subconscious for even a single second

Burning Spice knowing how he feels for Golden Cheese, reveling in it, LIVING for the way his heart thunders in his chest and his breath hitches at the mere thought of his little bird. Never being afraid to tell her so, to pour out the contents of his dark heart without any filter (and Witches know he needs one at times...), either through his mouth or through the blade of his axe. But... still knowing that it isn't quite enough. Not for her. Because there's still something missing from his confessions. That soft, sugary sweetness that took away enough of the edge to his overwhelming spice that even he himself noticed it. That raw honesty - a different kind than he's used to, not quite what he employs. The kind that well and truly leaves him vulnerable and open to judgment; things he hates himself for fearing, even if it's only in relation to her and no one else. The kind he simply cannot have, that he cannot carry out. He tells Golden Cheese how he feels for her the way he WANTS to, not the way he NEEDS to. For that, he must change. And damn it, he can't handle any more change. It'll kill him, and he doesn't want to die anymore. Not while she's there to make his life fun again

Eternal Sugar sighing, rolling her eyes before letting them flutter shut again, because she knows this song and dance. She once helped countless others perform it; such was her lot as Happiness. And she chooses to ignore it, tuck herself back into bed and retreat into the world of dreams once more. Letting laziness govern her actions, like always. Running away from everything again - including her feelings for Hollyberry, and the fears and doubts that shroud them. Choosing to do nothing with the fact that Hollyberry is a runner and a quitter just like her, instead of taking initiative with her life and emotions for the first time in ages and telling Hollyberry point-blank that they could run away from the world together if she truly wanted

Silent Salt secretly lamenting his condition more than ever before, for now more than ever can he truly say that it is a hindrance, a curse, a stain on the tapestry of his life. Because no matter how well he's trained himself to express his thoughts and feelings through his actions, he knows that there are times where words really DO speak louder - and he can't speak them at all. He can never look White Lily in the eye and open his mouth and allow his praise and adoration to leap freely from his tongue. She will never feel the warmth of his tone as his words embraced her. She will never shiver and swoon at the joy and passion that dripped from every single letter - and there would've been many, there would've been more than could ever have been recorded, for he would've sung his feelings from every rooftop on earth until his lungs gave out. But he can't. He never will. Does he try to pretend it's better this way? Does he try and fail to cope with his lovesickness like his comrades do with theirs? Or does he accept the bitter reality for what it is, no ifs, ands, or buts, only hiding the gloom and doom he knows is written all over his face behind his helm just so he doesn't have to see it for himself?

And, above all of these things, bundling up the other 4 Beasts' feelings and tucking them away... Above all else, they are angry. They are angry at Shadow Milk. Because he achieved what none of them could. He got everything he wanted. His Ancient admitted his love for him, with all of the raw sincerity one could possibly afford another. The other Beasts would do ANYTHING to hear their Ancients speak to them in such a way. To acknowledge and embrace their connection, to confess to loving and longing for them; for their countenance, for their voice, for their touch, for their very souls. Shadow Milk got to reunite with his other half - who chose him willingly, wholeheartedly.

And Shadow Milk chose to throw it all away in the end. Let it all go to waste.

If any of them ever see him again, they're going to let him know EXACTLY how they feel about it all. Maybe it can count as practice towards crafting a proper heartfelt confession.

#did i understand the assignment 👉👈#also fuck you! you will NEVER cancel BurningCheese! over my dead body! BurningCheese 5ever!!!#cookie run kingdom #burningcheese #goldenspice #pureshadow #shadowvanilla #mysticcacao #hollysugar #silentlily #mute silent salt striking again lol #merchant asks

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killa-cookie · 3 months ago

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Temperance . The 6th

Beasts x Beast ! Reader

Cussing , Violent themes

Edited because I made spelling mistakes.

✦ "Have you ever heard of the 6th beast, the greatest of the beasts, the one who made balance, the one who kept those in a straight line to the most purest of futures... TEMPERANCE

- Their self-disciplined behavior kept every cookie in their place, even when the other uncorrupted beasts had gone out of control. Legend states that they had resisted corruption due to their self controled and balanced nature, and is now somewhere, resting on earthbread.

- The witches had begged Temperance to go out and fight for the nation, but Temperance refused. The nation did need their own consequences to their arrogant actions. No matter how much they tried, Temperance never budged.

- Temperance once did try to fight off the corruption of the beasts. But inevitably failed due to being outnumbered, they had barely escaped the temptations. "

" Waiitt— so Temperance could be anywhere on earthbread right now!? "

–Gingerbrave interrupted Pure Vanilla's story, only to be met with a glare from wizard cookie.

——— THE DAY OF CALAMITY

Terror was everywhere, fires spreading all out, screeches of pain. Your environment was surrounded by calamity and...unbalance.

You were weakened, your dough crumbling by the second. And worst of all, your comrades have fallen into corruption, into sin. You were also— outnumbered.

" Cmon softiieeee just join us, give in to temptationnnn—" Shadow Milk hummed at your pathetic state.

" plus— We would LOVEEE to have you here!!"

"NEVER WILL I GIVE INTO— *cough SIN. "

You practically yelled at Shadow— no..Blueberry Milk, he was taken aback to be honest. You had never yelled at them like that, more importantly him.

"Friend, it is best to join us rather than resist."

Mystic flour cookie spoke softly, her head tilted down your crouched figure.

" You're already crumbling— HAHA! I don't think you would want us to turn you into ashes now, sweets? "

These weren't your friends anymore, they were BEASTS.

`I have no choice. ` you thought, your breath hitching as all of those beasts stared down at you.

` this is my last resort. `

With all of the power you had harnessed from them being distracted by your position on the ground, a gust of strong wind surrounded you like a shield.

"AGH WHAT THE FUCK—" burning spice screeched as his eyes were shut closed with leaves that surrounded the wind, gaining some laughter from Shadow milk.

" ...... " Silent salt watches as the huge gusts of wind carried even trees around it.

BANG

The shield then exploded with all that harnessed wind, pushing the beasts back. You were gone, no trace of you left.

"They... Escaped? " Eternal sugar cookie muttered in surprise, but she expected as much from the virtue of Temperance.

" Well, as much as I am angered by their escape... I feel glad that they are at least alive. "

Mystic flour proclaimed, she didn't want you to turn into crumbs yet.

"Well chop chop comrades! We must find them."

Shadow milk hovered off the ground, a grin of excitement across his face.

"Agreed." —all the other beasts spoke in agreement.

- but before they could even begin searching, the witches had punished them greatly for bringing mass destruction, and possibly almost crumbling one of their greatest creations.

- but The Virtue Of Temperance could be anywhere right now, and to be honest... It would be my greatest honor to meet them in person

—

"Wait- they could be anywhere right now!? Even in front of us!? "

"Now gingerbrave, that's a possibility but still silly. There's no chance that they're with us right now, no one here could even be THE virtue of Temperance. Right ______? "

You stared at them both in silence, Pure Vanilla's staff looking at you eagerly.

"Right..... ______? " Wizard cookie repeated, but more in an astonished tone. He did find it weird that you were always fully cloaked, never showing your face. Kind of like Healer cookie when he was actually pure... Vanilla..

"....." You only let out a hum, sweating and shaking a little. Clearly nervous...

"_______? Do you have something to... Tell us? "

"Well.... About that... " you lifted up your cloak a bit, revealing your soul jam that was found in the crook of your neck. ( kind of like shadow milks but a little on the side. )

"N-NO WAY!"

#crk x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #x reader #crk #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #shadow milk x reader #mystic flour cookie #burning spice cookie #shadow milk cookie #silent salt cookie #eternal sugar cookie #gender neutral reader #crob x reader #crob #killaswork

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lacamorte · 10 months ago

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~ notice me

Where Shen Yuan managed to strike a perfect balance between caring teacher and strict, distant immortal, and Binghe grows into his demon heritage and acquires his harem, but has no interest in revenge and has no feelings for his former Shizun besides warm affection and kinship for one of his best friends. However, somewhere along the line, SQQ figures out that he has feelings for LBH, and kinda just resigns himself to his pining and tells no one. Instead, he writes an awful lot of poems and songs — pieces so beautiful that word of them reaches past Cang Qiong. Some say the songs were so lovely that they quelled even the worst qi deviations. Some say that an ordinary human couldn't withstand them without weeping inconsolably. Some even tell of cultivators visiting the mountain just to be graced by Shen Qingqiu's soulful melodies.

Eventually rumors of Qing Jing's lovelorn Peak Lord reach Binghe's ears. In true best friend fashion, he visits and makes SY breakfast and drags him out of bed to eat, before asking about the rumors.

SQQ looks at him quietly, before putting his head on the table and watching him silently. Binghe sees the melancholy in his eyes and assumes someone broke SQQ's heart. So he spends a lot of time trying to get a name, because gasp!!! Who dares break the Demon Emperor's best friend's heart? His gege is a catch, and he'd gouge out the eyes of anyone who dared to disagree. He asks Shang Qinghua, but even the squirrelly man refuses to tell him anything, insisting that it's not his secret to tell.

So LBH resolves to come back every day to badger SQQ (and feed him). SQQ stubbornly tells him nothing, of course.

Until one day, LBH is a little late for their little appointments and looks for SQQ. He finds him in the bamboo forest, seated on an elevated ledge overlooking the rest of the Peaks. He's playing a song, a guqin perched in his lap, delicate fingers strumming the strings as gently as one would skim the surface of water.

LBH doesn't realize he's crying until he tastes salt on his tongue.

#mxtx svsss #svsss #shen qingqiu #bingqiu #scum villian self saving system #shen yuan

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lazyjellyfish300 · 5 months ago

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12 𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 ~ 𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝑻𝒘𝒐

Synopsis: It's the classic Hallmark tale: what happens when you, a business woman from the city, arrives at the family owned O'Hara Christmas Tree farm your greedy boss wants to demolish, and finds much more than you bargained for that fateful night you get snowed in?

CW: x FEM!READER, SMUT(unprotected p in v ,oral (f receiving), creampie, breast play, touch of mirror kink) enemies to lovers ish, DUBCON?(You're both a bit drunk), alcohol, touch of angst, mention of pregnancy

Words: 4.4k

A/N: a little late, mb but I hope it's worth it!😩 I'm on vacation rn but I'm dedicated to making this happen even if I'm a lil behind lolol

Dividers: @/saradika-graphics

12 Days of Smutmas Masterlist 🎄🎁

You certainly weren't in Kansas anymore. Or so the saying went. This time you found yourself somewhere in the Catskills outside of Nueva York. Your high heels crunched on the gravel as you stepped out of your Uber, taking in the grand Christmas tree farm in front of you.

"O'Hara Ranch" was welded in iron lettering on a black sign above the entrance. You whistled as you took in the expansive acres of balsam fir trees, dusted in a thin layer of snow straight out of a painting.

It was no wonder your boss was so dead set on this place. You became keenly aware of the biting chill of the countryside as you huddled your arms closer around you, your pink blazer doing little to keep you warm as you started to quake in your Jimmy Choos with your laptop case and singular carry-on in tow.

----

Miguel grunted, scratching his lower back as his large, sturdy boots squeaked a little on his kitchen floor, eyes almost as dark as the warm beverage in his mug, looking out in silent disapproval at the black Escalade that pulled up, dropping off what he was certain was another employee from that pesky developer.

Some poor soul who had to be the shot messenger for a CEO who never strayed out of the wealthy privileged fairytale land they lived in, thinking that multiple commas would be enough to get him to sign his life away.

When would they ever learn? He thought. He puts down his mug on the counter then strides over to the door, placing one of his hats on his head before he goes outside to greet this new imposter.

---

You shuddered as you reached inside your pocket, taking out the flimsy scrap of paper that contained the phone number for the ranch and dialing it again, hoping to reach this Miguel, or whoever it was you were supposed to meet.

"C'mon..."

You shouldn't be surprised if he didn't pick up again. It was no secret that you were the bad guy in this situation straight out of a Hallmark film.

Corporate business lady visiting a Christmas Tree farm that's been in the same family for decades, beloved by all the locals, who forced them to sign over their American dream to a greedy land developer and demolish it to the ground for a lavish mountain resort, and 2 weeks before Christmas no less.

Just as the call goes to voicemail, a four wheeler's engine interrupts your train of thought. Just like out of a movie, you take notice of the very tall, dark haired, very handsome rider who sat astride it.

His long sleeved grey shirt did nothing but accentuate his rippling arm muscles, layered underneath a Carhartt vest, complete with a baseball cap and salt and pepper five o clock shadow on his sharp, steely jaw. His lips were plump and relaxed into a subtle frown, complete with thick brows and dark wavy hair that complimented the pair of rich brown eyes he possessed that compared to the slice of Earth he owned.

"Miss...?" He asks your name with an equally deep beautiful voice to match in slightly bored formality. You could tell it was painful for him to be polite to you like this, if you were the corporate imposter like he thought you were.

"Yes, hi! You're...M-Miguel, right?"

His expression remains unmoved. "That would be me."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Gorgeous property by the way! Really, it's much much better in person than the pictures-"

"Right." He replies stiffly. "There's really no need to be so gracious. I figure you're here for one thing and one thing only."

"Uh-" you reply, a little thrown off by what he means.

"And the answer is no. I understand you've got a job to do, but I've told your boss over and over again: no. Five years ago, it was a no. Last month, also no. Come back in a week, my answer will still be no. Thank you."

He revs the engine, getting ready to speed away.

"Wait! I really do need you to sign this! From the mayor?" You waved a pink colored document which caught his attention for once.

Miguel turned off the engine, hopping off the four wheeler and strode towards you. He shoots you a superstitious glance before his eyes flicker to the paper, slowly becoming more enraged as he scanned along the fine print:

Notice of Eminent Domain.

That bastard. There was a reason Miguel didn't vote for this prick. The new mayor was part of this recent wave of money hungry idealists in power who wanted to turn the humble town he grew up in into another rich touristy playground.

Usually, these folks couldn't wait to sign the dotted line, get their check, and be on their merry way, but this Miguel was taking his time reading every last stipulation in the document. You notice the snow is coming down harder and harder, your teeth chattering wildly as you did your very best to stay calm as the relentless cold tested your endurance. Finally, Miguel hands you back the paper with a sigh,

"Still not signin'. Sorry for wasting your time."

"Miguel." You felt your patience snapped in half by now. Between traveling all morning, your boss's incessant emails, and the cold ass weather, you had just about had it up to here.

"I'm sorry. But any complaints you have will just have to be taken up with the big man later. I came with a job to do and I have every intention of doing it."

"That so?" Miguel straightens up, flexing his height over you.

You were emboldened by this point through all the bullshit you had endured. "It is very much so. I'm not leaving this damn farm without a signature, and that's final."

"Hm." Miguel nodded his chin, as though he was calling your bluff before he swiftly turned around, walking back towards the awaiting four wheeler.

"Oh no you don't!" You huffed as your icecubes for feet magically thawed off of pure adrenaline and spite as you began to sprint.

"What the-" Miguel looks at you quizzically then his brow furrows when he sees you darting towards his four wheeler. "The hell you think you're doing??"

You ignore him and climb on, Miguel snickering a little bit at the prim and proper lady from the city now straddling his seat, slightly disheveled with a wild look in your eye from dealing with corporate messes all day.

"Get down." Miguel says sternly, coming up to stand next to you.

"No." You answer simply, smoothing your blazer.

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be." Miguel's tone becomes more warning now. "Get off my property, woman."

"Sign my document, then." You fold your arms.

"You're a brat, y'know that?" Miguel folds his arms too, incredulous at your undying persistence, more like annoyance. "So childish."

"Name calling? And you say I'm the childish one." You turn your nose up at him.

"I'm not the crazy lady jumping on a stranger's four wheeler that she doesn't even know how to drive." Miguel grumbles.

"You'd be surprised." You glare.

Both of you just sit there in silence, the snowfall has escalated to just short of a blizzard by now. You're trying but failing to conceal just how damn cold you are as you shiver and shudder. Miguel's mind brews with some ideas before he speaks.

"Alright." Miguel sighs "I'll sign your damn document. But I need to show you the place first. Just so you can get an idea of just how sick and twisted you people truly are: tearing down a place like this that's been in the family for generations."

"What?" You blink, not expecting this change of events. "But I mean- but..." You glance at your wrist watch. "It's almost 4 pm. I was supposed to be on the road a half hour ago."

"Not in this storm you're not." Miguel tsks his teeth. "They always close the canyon when it snows. You won't be able to go anywhere until the morning. But hey, if you wanna call an Uber and wait four hours for him just to be turned around at the bridge, then be my guest."

"You-" You shuddered and groaned, exasperated at the fact that Miguel appeared to have the upper hand this time. You were stuck playing by his rules.

"Fine." You resign, throwing your hands up.

Miguel smirks at this surrender in you, getting on the four wheeler behind you. He's aware the space between your bodies is now very thin, his chest just barely grazing your back as he leans forward, placing his hands on both handlebars.

You try not to make it obvious that you can't breathe and realize you might be in way over your head being stuck overnight with a man four times handsome as he was stubborn as Miguel drives you rapidly towards his ranch.

----

"Home sweet home." Miguel hums halfheartedly as you enter the elaborate living area of Miguel's mountain home. Several brown and white cowhide rugs were spread over the polished wooden floors, a large pair of antlers hung over a luxury stone hearth, with an inviting leather couch in front of it.

A short time later, you're absentmindedly staring at some photographs on the wall when Miguel's voice startles you.

"Had enough snooping?"

"I wasn't snooping!." You whirl around, pretending to avert your gaze. "I was admiring the antlers."

Miguel scoffs. "You're a terrible liar, you know."

"Who is that?" You ask, voice a little more gentle. You kind of wish you never asked when Miguel's eyes soften with the slightest tinge of melancholy.

"My daughter." He answers then clears his throat. "She passed some years ago."

"Oh..." You look at him then back at the photograph of the cheery bright eyed girl in it. "I'm so sorry."

"Thanks." Miguel answers shortly, crossing over to the bar on the far side of the room.

"I can see why you don't want to leave." You admit, crossing your arms and running your palms up your arms as the glow from the fireplace worked quickly to rid you of any lingering chill from outside. "For what it's worth..."

Miguel scoffed again. "You don't need to play the sympathy card to win points with me."

"I- No Miguel! Of course not!" You look at him in horror. "Really, you think I take pride in doing these things to folks like you? You think I'm some souless corporate ghoul that drinks blood of the innocent?"

"Yes." Miguel stays deadpanned, with the faintest glimmer of amusement.

"Oh shut up." You blow air through your lips and stride over to where he's standing by his bar. "What do you have to drink around here anyways?"

Miguel smiles, the bourbon in his glass had made him feel a little more comfortable by now. He glanced outside, eyes slightly widened in surprise at the complete blizzard that was unfolding outside the frosty window.

"You might wanna go for something a bit stronger than that." Miguel nods in the direction of the window.

Your fingers move away from the canned margaritas in the mini fridge. You realize bourbon is also the answer tonight when you lay eyes on the absolute winter wonderland outside.

You had never seen so much snow in your life, as a seemingly infinite stream of snowflakes littered the staggering blankets of pure white that would be nearly waist deep should you venture back out.

Even though the night was completely black, the shimmery powder stood out, illuminating the December night among the silent and formidable evergreens.

"Damn..." You whispered.

"Damn is right." Miguel polishes off his bourbon. "Another round for me too, when you get a chance." He slides his glass towards you across the polished wood.

"Please?" You quirk a brow at him.

Miguel chuckles, the sound deep and a little breathy. The feeling it left you...quite unexpected. "Yes, please."

You hum and fill his glass a quarter of the way after you pour your own into one of the small shot glasses you spied below the countertop, throwing the liquid fire back in one ragged gulp.

Miguel laughs at the face you make and little cough you let out as your eyes water. "Miss Corporate can't handle a little country bourbon?"

"Miss Corporate can handle herself just fine." You give him a small harrumph. "Miss Corporate wishes to remind Mr. Country Man that she is still here strictly on business and she has no problem decking him in the face should he continue to mouth off."

"Hmmm business, eh?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh, I think we're way past that." Miguel smirks as he leans forward a little closer towards you. "You're having a drink with your evictee. Can't imagine that's not frowned upon."

"I've had drinks with clients before." You huff, hastily grabbing the bottle and pouring another shot as if to prove a point. This one went down with less resistance, albeit still just as fiery as the one before.

"Cálmate."(Calm down) Miguel goes to grab the bottle from you just as you're about to pour a third when the sudden move causes the bourbon to splash a little, ending up on your thousand dollar blazer.

"You... idiot." You roll your eyes as Miguel snorts.

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry." Miguel steps towards you, trying to help.

"Nope, you've done quite enough." You huff, trying to disguise the warmth the alcohol was quickly dispelling all over your body.

"I insist."

"Miguel, fuck off!"

"Come here, dammit..."

And you're not sure exactly what happened, but in that moment his body was pressed up against yours and your faces were mere inches from one another.

This was dangerous now. You knew it, and he knew it, but for Miguel, he was at risk of losing everything anyway. Who could blame him if he wasn't going to make the most of this...convenient situation that presented itself to him. It didn't help that you were quite easy on the eyes as well.

He pauses as if holding his breath, those deep, deep eyes completely swallowing you up where you stood, the faint sting of the bourbon you can detect on his lips that he wet ever so slightly.

"M-Miguel, I really shouldn't, I-"

And you can't remember exactly what drove your lips to meet in that heady first kiss, or how his touch moved from your face, to your neck, whether you were the one who guided him, or his hands wandered on their own accord to the sensitive swells of your breasts, but here you were, up against this tall, rugged farmer you thought you hated only 20 minutes ago, breathing and panting into his mouth and kissing him like your life depended on it, completely contradicting everything you ever said.

He began to rock his hips against you, hands now on either side of your head, caging you against the wall. You could tell he loved being bigger than you, finally something he had to humble all the sass you loved to throw at him earlier. A not-so-secret attraction you had for him all this time you feebly tried to disguise with disdain.

Miguel felt it too, and God, right now he couldn't get enough of all the little whines and sounds you were making. How desperate you got just from a little deep conversation and bourbon. This night was swiftly traveling in a more heated direction, and if he wasn't mistaken by the subtle rolls of your body against his aching bulge in his jeans and the hunger laced in your fingers as they tangled in his hair, you had no intention of stopping.

"Not so feisty now, are you?" He groaned as he started leaving heated kisses along both delicate junctures of your neck. "Sure you're not gonna change your mind and go back to stealing my farm, hermosa?" He teased.

"Oh, fuck off..." You grumbled and then bit your lip, back arching involuntarily when you felt him just barely tug your delicate nipple with his teeth. "Aaah Aahhh, Miguel..." You threw your head back.

Miguel smirks and takes that as permission to lay you back completely on his bar, gently tugging the waistband of your business slacks while he switched between both tits and lapped them with the pointy tip of his tongue, until both buds of your nipples were bumpy and hard from all the attention. "You can still stop at any time..."

"N-No more asking..." You managed to sputter out as you felt his fingers begin to wiggle against your clothed heat that was steadily soaking from the inside. "Just- fffuck, Miguel, so good...just fuck me..."

"Mmmm..." Miguel groaned in satisfaction and yanked off your pants, followed by your panties without another word.

Pure ecstacy rolled off the tip of his tongue and dripped between your warm folds as he began to slurp your pussy up like hot cocoa. Miguel strategically left your high heels on, smirking as he glanced over at the mirror on the wall, seeing the pretty businesswoman half naked and back arched so beautifully, moaning as he ate you out on his bar.

Despite never knowing your body before, his tongue just seemed to find and hit all the right spots, even the ones you were too impatient to look for when you laid in bed all alone. He sucked, and he spit, rolling your clit so perfectly between his lips and leaving no inch of your pretty pussy unbathed by his tongue.

He alternated between tongue fucking you where his thick nose squished against your clit, hands slinking up the soft flesh of your hips, encouraging you to grind on his face. When he paused and brought his face up to look at you, you swore he was never more handsome than when his face was shiny with your slick, dripping with the evidence that he could make you wetter than any man you'd ever been with.

And other times, he loved to just stare into your eyes with that same, beautifully mesmerizing gaze that was almost too intense to where you'd have to turn away, only for him to whisper, "ah, ah, mirame..." (Look at me) , while his thumb slowly rubbed over your swollen clit, and his middle and ring finger noisily and wetly massaged your squishy walls.

"Miguel, baby, so good..." You moaned and you sighed, face twisting into a smile as you bit your lip. It felt so shameless to indulge right now. Your career hit the road the second you decided to kiss him but right now you weren't complaining. Logic took a permanent vacation leaving you with nothing but raw, carnal need. All that mattered right now was spreading your legs for this man, being his whore, riding his face and taking his cock every which way he'd have you tonight.

Your eyes watered as you felt that familiar feeling swelling in your belly, thighs shaking more unsteadily than before. Your back slightly arched from where you laid on his bar but the pleasure Miguel kept injecting into you with his sinfully delicious tongue kept you right there.

"M-Miguel...I'm gonna cum."

Miguel went even harder, nuzzling his nose even further into your dripping heat, savoring the dribbling honey running between your thighs and dripping into his mouth. He added his fingers again, fingers normally rough and taut and calloused from all that work he did on the farm became soft, intentional, sensual, and deliberate as he coaxed your pussy closer and closer to releasing all over for him.

Your thighs began to quiver around his head, clamping down, however Miguel would gladly suffocate every time for the cause.

"R-right there, Miguel..."

"Right here, baby?" He groans, swirling his finger in circles over that tried and true spot on your clit, another gush of your juices wetting his fingers before the flood, and Miguel leans over to clean it up with his tongue.

Every touch now feels amplified in electricity, bordering on overstimulation as his tongue glosses over your soaked folds, something changing in your brain chemistry as he licked up every bit of your arousal as though it were frosting from a bowl.

"Still with me?" Miguel whispered, leaning in and making out with you as he scooped you into his arms, leading you over to the couch, the entire room painted in an alluring orange glow from the fire next to the warm yellow lights from the tall Christmas tree.

You groaned as you tasted yourself on his soft, messy lips, the ember of desire burning hotter than ever in both of you. "Y-yeah..."

Miguel smiles as he sets you down next to him, reaching over and pulling a fleece blanket over your shoulders. His thumb gently brushed the corner of your mouth as he took you in. The most sobering moment between you all evening. One where the alcohol had some time to sink in and both of you were riding out the end of your high together. A new kind of closeness beginning to set itself alight between you as you wordlessly began stripping off the rest of your clothes and you reached for his.

"Can I?" You asked and a low groan rumbled from his chest.

"Please."

You weren't sure, but somehow despite his sass, his generosity and sole focus on making you cum with no assumption on his part that you would be obligated to do the same for him made you even more determined as you peeled back layer after layer, until he sat there in all of his naked glory in front of you.

He was absolutely beautiful. The salt and pepper pattern from his stubble on his jaw was repeated in his happy trail, leading to a nice, thick, bush around the base of his thick, veiny, cock (More fun for you when you'd be riding him into next week later on).

The tip was just barely a hint of red as it bloomed with precum. His legs and arms were hairy as well, stomach soft with just the right amount of pudge but everywhere else was solid pure muscle that could only be found on a man who worked hard in the elements, dark hair tousled a bit that fell in his eyes from your passionate fingers earlier.

The throbbing ache pounded, the glistening sheen between your thighs was all the lube you needed as he pulled you into his lap. Miguel's eyes remained completely locked on you, softening a bit as he felt himself start to push inside you.

He had suspected sometime around while you were moaning his name and he was lapping up your arousal like an oasis that this whole encounter was deeper than a hookup, and now, he realizes he's sunk: hook line and sinker as your pussy just grips and squeezes him. He sighs as his hands find residence on your hips, taking pleasure in kneading the soft fat.

"Take your time...." He whispered as he noticed you struggling a bit under his sheer size, his girth slowly spreading you more open. Somehow though, the stretch felt more rewarding, more sinful as you became fuller and fuller of him as you just allowed yourself to relax.

Miguel's cock bottomed out inside of you, an experimental twitch of his cock reminded you on all fronts that you were stuffed to the brim. He adored this, he loved being so close to you like this, loved the satisfaction that the woman who supposedly hated his guts at first was now completely putty in his hands as you wrapped effortlessly around him.

"So damn warm..." Miguel purred as he began bouncing you in a slow rhythm. "Ah, ah, mas despacio, por favor(more slow please)..." He teased, grip tightening as he slowed your hips. "I wanna enjoy you like this for a while." He grunted and groaned, loving the way you just responded with more dripping slick around his base as he leaned in to suck on your tits while keeping himself buried inside. "If I'd known you felt this good I would've dragged you out of that fucking snow a lot earlier." He murmured before his lips puckered over your nipple.

"Please, Mig..." You rolled your eyes but returned a chuckle with a sigh, gently rolling your hips while his cock remained warm and snug inside you. "I'll admit when you pulled up on that four wheeler, it was kind of hard not think about you bending me over the seat.."

"Yeahh?" Miguel groaned as he churned his hips, drawing his cock in and out of your sea of wetness. "Shouldn't have told me that, now I might need to make that happen..."

As he spoke, his pace increased faster and faster.

"Aaahh, Miguel...Miguel!" Your threshold was being tested on how much you could take, but nearly fell apart altogether when he added his thumb back to your clit while continuing to fuck up into you ruthlessly.

"Come on baby, with me...let go."

And your highs came in waves, yours first followed by his like a bursting dam. His cum overwhelmed your tight hole, causing it to dribble down the sides in filthy display but you loved it, shoving yourself back down on his cock with naughty enthusiasm. Miguel smirked at you, eyes still slightly dazed from euphoria.

"Good to see you're not wasting any, baby."

And before you knew it he picked you up, yelping slightly then giggling when you took the initiative of squeezing your thighs tighter around his waist, cock still softening slowly inside your silky pussy, but beginning to pulse back to life as you and Miguel began making out passionately while he took careful steps with you cradled in his arms to his bedroom.

Perhaps by now you didn't have a job anymore, the future of Miguel's farm was still uncertain, surely you'd be the talk of the entire town come a few months later when your tummy would be swelling with the evidence of every steamy thing that took place tonight inside this snowed in ranch. But, for now, you had much harder, longer, thicker things on your mind as round two became three, then four, with a surprise fifth in the middle of the night and a sixth in the morning.

When all is said and done, you could always just blame it on the snow.

#jelly's 12 days of smutmas ✼ ｡ﾟ･ྀི𓈒 ݁⋆#from my trees . ˚ 𖧷 ·𓇥 ° . ♡#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel x you #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman 2099 x reader #smutmas #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #tw dubcon #cw dubcon #dividers by saradika

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xiepheer · 3 months ago

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Hey this is just something for fun but I was wondering if you could write beast cookies with a reader who has a fat pet raccoon and that pet is basically like there kid ^^ (sorry for any spelling mistakes it’s late)

Beast cookies and their s/o with a fat pet racoon

Reader can be any gender!

Now being with all of them all together, they have realized something.

You have grown overly attached to the pet fat racoon you have.

They don't understand your tactics with this creature of yours but they think they could handle it.

They think.

They thought wrong and right.

Now all of this fight started when Burning Spice cookie was about to throw the thing out the window but you stopped him in time.

"Burning Spice cookie!!!?" You yell out which made him freeze his tracks before turning around with a angry expression.

"What?! This puny little thing scratched my soul jam gem!!" He yelled out loud.

"There's no need to be all angry and throwing him out! Give him!" You yelled back, snatching the big fat racoon into your arms and snuggling it to your chest.

"I'm gonna destroy that puny little thing!!! Just so you wait and see!!!" he yelled.

You carried the racoon back to your room and pet it all day meanwhile Burning Spice cookie was all upset and was trying to get the scratch off.

He does NOT understand why you treat the racoon like your kid when you can actually have some with him (😳 whoops).

Over time, he eventually got used to the racoon and even petted it sometimes if he wasn't out there destroying villages.

The beef with Mystic Flour cookie and the racoon started when it jumped on her and scratched her silky veil.

You immediately jumped in and grabbed the racoon.

She was heavily offended at the tear.

She even tried to turn the racoon into flour and that's when she realized.

The racoon isn't baked with flour.

So she couldn't do anything to it.

"Why must you keep such a strange creature here?" She asked. She clearly looks frustrated and upset at the fact that her veil was teared.

"Because eve he's so fluffy and such a stress reliever! Pet him!" You said, handing it out to her.

She eventually gave up on the idea of trying to make it turn into flour and let it rest on her lap.

Now she did gain relief upon time and got used to it being everywhere.

She just doesn't understand why you treat it like your own child.

Now her petting it is a VERY rare sight but you only catch her in her room when you're trying to find your pet.

Now you find Shadow Milk cookie trying to strangle the racoon to death but couldn't because of how fat it is.

"WHAT!? HOW!!? EUGHHH!!" He grunted as he tried. Burning Spice cookie and Mystic Flour just watched.

"Yeah I tried that before, didn't work." Burning Spice cookie said.

"MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE!!! IT'S MADE OUT OF FLOUR ISN'T IT?!?!" Yelled by Shadow Milk cookie.

Mystic Flour cookie simply turned her head to Shadow Milk cookie and "No"

"What's up with you and that racoon anyways" Burning Spice cookie asked.

"IT RIPPED MY FAVORITE BUNNY PLUSH TOY'S HEAD OFF!!!!" He yelled

"Bunny... Plush... Toy?" Burning Spice snickered.

"WHAT. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO I DIDINT MEAN THAT!" Shadow Milk cookie exclaimed

"What's going on here?- NO NO NO!!" You exclaimed. Running and pushing Shadow Milk cookie off your fat racoon.

Shadow milk cookie slammed onto the wall like a cartoon did with a splat sound (I like this headcanon)

You carried the racoon to your lap and gave it the affections like how a parent would to their child.

Shadow Milk cookie tried many ways to get rid of it but he gave up 4 months later.

He would have it on his lap. Which was a relief and not trying to kill it.

Apparently you find out that the racoon was too fat that his strings couldn't find the nerves imbeded in the fat and couldn't control it.

So he basically gave up.

Eternal Sugar cookie and Silent Salt Cookie are still somewhere cuz they haven't gotten home yet.

Hey guys ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

Sorry if the post felt a little something but I felt autistic and tried to make this funny.

So sorry if this isn't Canon or if you don't like it! I'm so so SO SORRY 😭 😭 🙏

#burning spice x reader #burning spice crk #burning spice cookie #mystic flour x reader #mystic flour cookie #mystic flour crk #cookie run fandom #cookie run kingdom #shadow milk crk #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie #x reader #beast cookies x reader #beast cookies

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brittle-doughie · 1 year ago

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This can be a situation of 'what if' since the five beast were the first ones then what if they would be the first who began with this whole yandere chaos like- they are the ultimates obsessive over y/n cookie the fallen heroes have the first and high level O_O

-🧁 anon

What If: The First.

Something has to start somewhere. Y/N Cookie is a figure beloved by all, sometimes even a little too much from certain, no wait, a large majority of the cookie population on Earthbread.

They’ve seen a lot from what levels of obsession could offer from simple clinginess to the alters and shrines many create amidst their sickly love.

Y/N Cookie was surprisingly no stranger to these gestures. After all, they’ve seen these similar types of obsessive love elsewhere.

Long ago, many years back….you were a Primordial Cookie alongside your long lasting companions, the Five Beast Cookies.

You remembered all the times you’ve had with them.

The times you laughed. Shadow Milk Cookie would tell you many things about this world, but he also liked to sprinkle in some humor too. He’d even do a sort of jester act by using a puppet show, it never failed to make you chuckle at least once…

The times you chose to help others that made Mystic Flour Cookie warm with you. Your choices to make decisions that befitted your Virtue of Compassion was something of a spectacle for her. She adored that you did not question anything about showing compassion for others, some things don’t always have to come down to choice.

The times you felt safe. Red Spice and Silent Salt Cookie were your protectors. You were a cookie of compassion, but that shouldn’t mean that cookies should push you around. It made the two cookies unhappy and advise the perpetrator to back off. Red Spice was all show while Silent Salt was all quiet, but both make sure that you wouldn’t get harmed under their watch.

The times you loved. Eternal Sugar Cookie was always happy to see you. Compassion and Happiness always worked well together, so it only made sense that you were the closest to her. She’d let you join her on her cloud as you two talked the day away, Eternal Sugar being happy that she got to spend time with you in any form.

Oh, how things went south when power corrupts.

One by one, their will crumbled under the weight of their own strength. The Five became twisted apostles of evil and brought forth darkness and devastation.

This corruption had also brought upon unfortunate side effects to their love for you, twisting and change until it’s nothing but sickly and dark.

Shadow Milk Cookie embraced deceit into his heart, controlling and manipulating the cookies around you. His plan to make you belong to him would be to drive everyone you knew away from you whether it be by his twisted mind tricks or more lethal methods. You’d have no one left but him…

Red Spice Cookie only brought nothing but destruction to whoever dared to challenge his sick obsession with you. No cookie could ever survive an encounter with him, only reduced to smoldering crumbs on the ground. No cookie has ever loved you like he has, because there’d be no one left that could…

Silent Salt Cookie’s protectiveness reached insane levels you’d never expect from them. Cookies that so much as raise a hand in your presence are swiftly cut down by Silent Salt. Cookies can’t even look at you without Silent Salt putting an end to their existence. Their worry for you, and you overall, was worth the lives they stomped on.

No other cookie mattered to Mystic Flour Cookie anymore that wasn’t you. She just didn’t see why you should care for any of these insignificant specks of grain as she casually waves her arm, reducing the whole landscape around her into nothing. No longer did choice matter to her, the decisions she once valued mean little to her if it didn’t help you or her out.

What was once happiness has now turned into a deadly and sickly obsession with you. Eternal Sugar Cookie’s mind hazed with nothing but thoughts of you, unable to get you out of her mind. NEVER wanting to get you out of her mind. Only you could get her off her cloud, she’ll simply yawn and turn away anyone else. She believes her love for you triumphs above anyone else, gleefully obliterating anyone who thinks could challenge her…

You can still hear their screams and shocked gasps when the Creators locked them away, their pained cries and shouts all becoming static in your head.

The Ancient Heroes…

They’ve done well in resisting the temptation of power unlike your former comrades, their affection remaining moderate as a result.

Though, one of them have your doubts..

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kleftiko · 6 months ago

Text

❦ GUYS MY AGE

“guys my age don’t know how to touch me, don’t know how to love me good”

cw: mature, age gap, oral fem!receiving, cowgirl, slight spanking, daddy kink

the speaker was broken. music that pulsed through the summer night bar was half static—you couldn’t figure out what song was supposed to be playing, but it didn’t matter much when your attention was across the room. you had come here just for him.

lounging casually, half slouched against the rickety chair that could barely support his large body, pint of beer in his one hand that was nearly about to spill as he waved it around, too engrossed in his story to notice. His shirt was open, as usual, tendons and muscles flexing ever so easily as he bellowed out a deep laugh. And that damn smile of his; that carefree, sultry smile surrounded by stubble that so effortlessly had your thighs rubbing together. His eyes caught yours, enchanting grin being directed towards you as he called your name. You were shocked, as if you didn’t expect this to happen, despite your consistent staring. But you grabbed your drink and made your way over at his beckoning.

“sweetheart, don’t you look good tonight.” he called as you approached.

“she always looks good, captain.” lucky’s voice piped up from somewhere, but shank’s eyes were glued to your figure.

“that she does.” he answered, taking a swing of his beer as he watched you sit down in front of him. “little present for your boy?”

your jaw clenched slightly.

“don’t have one anymore.” you took a sip of your own drink, wondering why you would order something this nasty.

it’d been a few months since you last saw shanks, and at that time you had a boyfriend, so he was used to you shaking off his playful advances and harmless flirting. but now that you were single, you felt you could indulge a bit. it didn't matter that nothing would probably come of it; shanks was almost 15 years your senior, but you just wanted to enjoy the attention and the feeling of being desired for the first time in a long time.

"what happened to the poor bastard?" he asked.

you shrugged, "i guess we just... grew apart."

shanks nodded, his eyes still fixed on you with that familiar twinkle of mischief, as if he could see right through you. “well, you can’t expect a boy to know how to properly treat a lady.”

you didn't have to explain yourself any further, it was as if he knew. you're sure he'd seen you and your ex together; saw how he treated you—or lack thereof. but he never said a word about it, even now, he silently held out his pint, clinking it with yours as the two of you downed your drinks.

you put up with the burn of the liqueur down your throat, trying not to make a face in front of him. you wanted to show off your best side tonight. low cut shirt and a flirty attitude that you could finally give rein to, you weren’t about to mess that up by making it seem like you can’t handle your alcohol.

if you could get the emperor of the sea to blush even once tonight, you’d leave a happy woman.

“next round on you?” you asked, mustering up the courage to be bold.

which seemed to work as the captain’s crewmates ooo’ed around you, and shanks himself blessed you with that cocky grin of his.

“of course, sweetheart.” he said.

his arm reached towards you.

“if you grace me with your company,” he grabbed at the seat of your chair, and effortlessly dragged you right up beside him. you were engulfed by the scent of him—sea salt and booze—as he leaned to whisper in your ear. “i’ll buy you drinks all night long.”

~*~

you stumbled into your bedroom, shanks hot on your tail as you threw your keys somewhere unknown.

his stubble scratched at your cheeks as you made out, hand selfishly grabbing at your body as you led him to the bed. your own fingers raked across his exposed skin, feeling the hot flesh as you pushed off his shirt.

your knees catch the corner of the bed—shanks caging you against the sheets—his fingers and mouth undressing you til you’re bare. and you knew instantly that you were stone cold sober; your mind could never have imagined something this erotic. the jolts of pleasure shocked your nerves, pulling your body magnetically closer to the large man above you. the skin he exposed burns like the sun on a hot day, and you can't help but yank him closer, like you were begging to be scorched.

he licks a long stripe up your unclothed cunt, and you let out a heavy sigh, half recovering your breath from shank’s tantalizing lips, and half unbothered. you’d been eaten out dozens of times, and you couldn’t say it was your favourite, especially when the guys between your legs didn’t even know how to get you off. you were prepared for this, lips already parting to let out a soft and inauthentic moan, ready to put on a pathetic performance until he finished in a minute or two, when the breath in your lungs is stolen, a meek cry instead slipping out as shanks flicked your clit.

“stay with me, doll,” he said, bringing you back to reality.

and he didn’t say anything else as the pad of his tongue swipes along your bud again, eliciting another provocative sound from you.

seems your noises did the trick, because in the next second, shanks is attacking your cunt. sloppy, drooling licks, sucks, and assaults on the most sensitive parts of you have you nearly shaking, back arching off the sheets in an attempt to get away from the overwhelming pleasure.

only for shanks to lay his heavy arm across your stomach—trapping you against the sheets—as he makes a beeline for your clit once again. his focus on your pleasure is unwavering, his movements becoming more urgent and precise as he brings you closer to the edge. your body responds eagerly, every touch sending waves of ecstasy through you. it couldn't be more clear that shanks is determined to drive you wild with desire, leaving you no choice but to surrender to the overwhelming sensations. you can’t help but to grip his auburn locks in an attempt to ground yourself, your fingers twisting in his hair, tugging harshly at every jerk and wince shanks elicits from you. his sinful groans underneath you at your own assault on his hair drive you to push harder, wanting to provoke more of those delicious sounds from his lips.

but shanks has the upper hand in this situation. within a moment he has you tumbling into your orgasm. it’s the first time a guy had ever made you cum with his tongue, and you don’t know why, but that makes it so much harder as you cry, fingers tangled in his hair yanking him towards you and suffocating him between your legs.

you don’t even get a chance to calm down from your high when shanks is crawling back above you, tongue flicking out and swiping against the cum you left coating the bottom half of his face.

“ready for another, sweetheart?” he asks your dumbfound face.

your haze riddled mind can’t comprehend what the man is asking you, and you can only manage a weak, “huh?” before shanks is grabbing at your body, so easily flipping you two over and seating you on his lap, his hard cock pressing into your ass. shanks smirks at your confusion, his hands gripping your hips firmly as he positions you exactly where he wants you.

"i'll take that as a yes," he almost growls, before sliding into you with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

"fuck!" you nearly screech, the angle of his cock perfectly hitting that spot inside you.

"that's it, baby, let it out." he bucked his hips. "lemme hear how good you feel."

there was no need to tire yourself out bouncing; shank's hips and arm around your waist kept you at a steady pace while he continued to thrust into you.

"shanks—please." you gasped, your voice catching as the pleasure grew more intense.

you felt his hand leave your hip, only to feel it smacking against the flesh of your ass a second later, tearing a yelp from your throat and toppling your balance forward, falling into shank's chest.

"c'mon, pretty girl, what do you really wanna call me?" he tempted you, not easing up on his thrusts into your wet pussy.

you whined into his chest; how could he possibly have figured you out? were you that easy to read?

but when you wouldn't answer him, his hand came around to rub at your already sensitive clit.

you gasped.

"daddy!" you said in a breathless whimper.

"there we go, sweetheart." shanks picked up the pace, fucking up into you with a newfound urgency. "who's making you feel this good?"

at this point, you can't say anything other than that godforsaken title. chanting it like a mantra as shanks quickly brought you to your next high, all too fast. you vaguely hear him tell you to cum with him as you throw your head back like a woman possessed. you reach the peak and release a primal scream of ecstasy, feeling his own cum fill you up.

after a moment, you collapse against him, exhausted and more satisfied than what you thought was possible. as you catch your breath, shanks holds you close, leaving half-baked kisses against your skin as you both bask in the afterglow of your shared passion. the intensity of what just happened lingers as you realize that this is something better than you could have ever found.

you push your hand against his chest, only lifting yourself enough to look him in the eyes.

"we're definitely doing that again."

#one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece smut #shanks x reader #shanks smut #shanks x y/n #akagami no shanks x reader

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goldfades · 17 days ago

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someone told me / there's no such thing as bad thoughts / only your actions talk | joe burrow⁹ (part 3/4)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 11k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | the next morning saw her return to miles's desperate apologies and attempts at reconciliation. for weeks, miles tried to win her back with performative gestures, while joe remained a silent presence in her memory. her birthday arrived, a stark reminder of the disconnect in her relationship with miles, culminating in a disappointing night out. now, she's left navigating the familiar ache of her relationship with miles, the memory of joe's quiet solace lingering, and the unspoken questions of what could have been hanging heavy in the air.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | mentions of infidelity, emotional distress, unhealthy relationship dynamics, gaslighting (implied), alcohol consumption, potential for codependency, internal conflict, feelings of isolation.

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya! it's finally out after 2 months LMAOO, but this one may be a bit heavier so be warned!!! anyways, hope y'all enjoy!

The warmth of Joe’s house envelops you the second you step inside, a stark contrast to the cold night air clinging to your skin. It smells like him—like fresh laundry, a faint trace of cologne, and something warm and familiar, like home. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed that warmth until now.

Joe doesn’t say much as he locks the door behind you, just glances at you out of the corner of his eye before motioning for you to follow him into the kitchen. The house is dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls from the soft glow under the cabinets. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floor beneath your feet.

He moves with purpose, barefoot on the tile going straight for the cabinets like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“I’m making you some hot cocoa,” he says, his voice softer than usual. Not pitiful. Not patronizing. Just… gentle. Like he knows you’re barely holding yourself together and doesn’t want to push.

You blink at him. “Hot cocoa?”

Joe glances over his shoulder, catching the confusion on your face. “Yeah.” He pulls down a container of cocoa powder and sets it on the counter with a quiet thud. “It’s medicine for anything.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, but you can tell it’s mostly for your sake. He’s watching you closely, probably trying to gauge just how bad it is, how deep the damage runs.

You lower yourself onto one of the stools by the island, arms wrapping around yourself. Your body still feels like it’s vibrating with the remnants of adrenaline, your heart lodged somewhere between your ribs.

Joe moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature, grabbing a saucepan, filling it with milk, setting it on the stove. His hands are steady, controlled, like he’s done this a million times. You watch the muscles in his back shift beneath his hoodie as he reaches for a whisk.

“My mom used to say that,” he says suddenly, voice even, but there’s something in the way he says mom—soft, almost reverent. “Whenever I was sick, or upset, or just having a bad day—she’d make hot cocoa. Said it could fix anything.”

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your sleeves.

Joe doesn’t talk about his family much. You know bits and pieces, things you’ve picked up over time, but he never really shares like this.

Something about that makes your throat tighten.

“Did it work?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean for it to be.

Joe glances at you as he stirs the milk, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What, the cocoa?”

You nod.

His smirk fades into something softer. “Yeah,” he admits, eyes flickering back to the pot. “It always helped.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just watch as he adds cocoa powder, sugar, a pinch of salt. He doesn’t use a mix. He makes it from scratch, and for some reason, that makes your chest ache.

Like this is something real. Something safe.

Joe doesn’t rush. He takes his time, whisking carefully, watching the milk thicken into something rich and dark. He’s doing this for you, you realize—not because he particularly needs hot cocoa at two in the morning, but because he’s trying to distract you. Trying to ease whatever storm is raging inside you without prying.

And for the first time since you walked out of that house, since you left Miles standing there with rage in his eyes and another woman’s perfume clinging to his skin—you feel like you can breathe.

Joe moves with the kind of quiet confidence that makes it feel like he’s done this a million times—like it’s second nature for him to take care of people, even if he doesn’t always show it. You watch as he pours the cocoa into two mismatched mugs, one of them a little chipped at the rim. He doesn’t use any fancy toppings, just a careful swirl of the spoon before he sets the mug in front of you.

“Drink,” he says, nudging it toward you. His voice is still low, calm—like he’s handling something fragile. Like you are fragile.

You wrap your hands around the ceramic, letting the warmth seep into your skin. Your fingers are still cold from gripping the steering wheel so hard, and you only realize now that they’re trembling. Joe doesn’t say anything about it. He just leans against the counter, sipping from his own mug, watching you over the rim.

The first sip is rich and smooth, the perfect balance of bitter and sweet. It spreads warmth down your throat, settling deep in your chest.

Joe raises an eyebrow at you. “Told you. Medicine.”

You exhale a quiet laugh, but it barely reaches your eyes. “Guess your mom knew what she was talking about.”

“She always did,” he says, his lips twitching slightly, but there’s something distant in his expression, like he’s somewhere else for a second.

You let the silence stretch between you, thick but not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled, that lets you just be without expectation. The kind of silence you haven’t had in a long, long time.

Your eyes drift around the kitchen—homey in a way you didn’t expect. There are little signs of life scattered throughout: a pile of mail on the counter, a half-empty water bottle by the sink, a jacket slung over one of the chairs. It doesn’t feel like a place that’s trying too hard to be lived in. It just is.

You swallow hard and stare into your cocoa. “I don’t know why I came here,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Joe tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering that. “Yeah, you do.”

You look up at him, throat tightening.

Joe doesn’t press. He doesn’t push you to say anything you’re not ready to. He just looks at you, steady and patient, like he’s giving you the space to figure it out for yourself.

You shake your head. “I feel pathetic.”

“You’re not.” His response is immediate, firm in a way that makes your chest ache.

You let out a breath, your grip tightening around the mug. “I don’t have anyone else,” you murmur.

Joe exhales sharply through his nose, setting his mug down with a quiet clink. His jaw tightens, his hands bracing against the counter like he’s keeping himself from saying something he shouldn’t.

Finally, he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something that makes your stomach twist.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well. It is what it is.”

Joe frowns, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You can stay here tonight.”

You hesitate. “Joe, I don’t want to—”

“I want you to.” His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. There’s no expectation in his gaze, no ulterior motive. Just quiet certainty, like he’s already made up his mind.

Something inside you unravels just a little.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

Joe doesn't even give you a chance to argue.

"You’re taking my room," he says, already moving toward the hallway, his tone leaving no room for debate.

"Joe—"

He turns back, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised. "Look, I just got those new mattresses in. Supposed to be top-of-the-line or whatever. You’d be doing me a favor, testing it out." His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.

You stare at him, unimpressed. "Did you really just use mattress quality as an excuse to kick me into your bed?"

His lips press together like he’s holding back a laugh. "Just go, alright?"

You exhale a breath that almost, almost sounds like a laugh. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the absurdity of the situation. Maybe it’s just Joe, in the way he doesn’t make you feel like a burden, even when you know you are.

Still, you hesitate in the doorway, glancing toward the guest room. "Where are you gonna sleep?"

He shrugs. "I’ll take the guest room. It’s not a big deal."

"Joe—"

"You gonna argue with me all night or you gonna let me sleep?" He raises an eyebrow, and you realize he’s not going to budge.

Your shoulders sag, and with a quiet sigh, you step inside his room. "Fine."

He nods, satisfied, before disappearing down the hall.

The room smells like him—faint traces of cologne and something warmer, something distinctly Joe. The bed is neatly made, the nightstand bare except for a glass of water and an old book with a cracked spine. It’s… simple. Lived-in.

You sit on the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of everything settle in your bones. The moment you’re alone, it all presses down on you again—the fight, the screaming, the smell of perfume that wasn’t yours.

You press your hands into your lap, fingers curling against the fabric of Joe’s oversized hoodie that he must’ve thrown over the chair at some point. The silence is unbearable.

And before you can even think about it, your feet are moving.

Joe looks surprised when you appear in the doorway of the guest room. He’s standing next to the bed, pulling the blanket back, but he stops when he sees your face.

You hate how small your voice sounds when you say, "I don’t wanna be alone."

Joe exhales, the fight leaving his posture instantly. He watches you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. And then he just nods. "Alright."

You shift awkwardly in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest. "I feel pathetic."

"You’re not," he says without hesitation, but you shake your head.

"Joe—"

"You're not," he repeats, quieter this time, but just as firm.

There’s a long beat of silence before he steps past you, heading back toward his room. "Come on," he says over his shoulder.

You don’t question it. You just follow.

Back in his room, he grabs an extra pillow and tosses it to the floor before settling down against the hardwood.

"You don’t have to—"

"Not a big deal," he says simply, folding his arms behind his head.

You hesitate. "Isn’t the couch more comfortable?"

"Probably." He shifts slightly, getting comfortable. "But if I go out there, you’re just gonna overthink and feel bad about it."

You hate that he’s right.

You crawl under the blanket, curling into yourself. The mattress is ridiculously comfortable, but it doesn’t do much to quiet your mind. The room is dark, save for the faint glow from the streetlights outside, and for a few minutes, neither of you speak.

But Joe must hear the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still too tense.

So he starts talking.

And Joe isn’t a talker. Not like this. Not when he’s tired, when he’d probably rather just close his eyes and go to sleep. But he does it anyway.

He starts with something stupid—some half-remembered story about his rookie year, about how he tripped over his own feet in front of the entire team during practice and tried to play it off like it didn’t happen.

You let out a quiet, barely-there laugh, and it’s enough to keep him going.

So he talks about anything and everything—how he used to hate tomatoes as a kid, how he swears his mom makes the best apple pie in the world, how he used to be terrible at math.

Some of it makes you laugh. Some of it makes you hum in acknowledgment. But all of it keeps you from drowning in your own thoughts.

And that’s all he wants.

Eventually, your breathing evens out. You don’t say anything, but he hears the shift, the way your body finally relaxes.

He doesn’t stop talking just yet.

Not until he’s sure you’re asleep.

The morning air is sharp against your skin as you step outside, the sun barely cresting over the rooftops, casting everything in pale gold. The world feels too still, too quiet, like it’s waiting for you to do something, to make a choice. But you already have—because you shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

Joe is still asleep when you leave. You make sure of it.

His house is warm, still wrapped in the quiet hum of early morning, and for a moment, you linger in the doorway of his bedroom, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looks peaceful, his face relaxed, his breathing steady. It makes you feel worse.

You shouldn’t have dragged him into this.

You swallow past the lump in your throat and force yourself to move.

Your footsteps are light as you make your way to the door, slipping into your shoes as quietly as possible. The keys to your car are cold in your palm. For a second, you hesitate. You could leave a note. Something small, something that says thank you or sorry or I shouldn’t have come, but what good would that do?

Joe would understand. He always understands. And that only makes you feel smaller.

So you leave without a sound.

The drive back home is suffocating.

Your hands grip the wheel tighter than necessary, your jaw locked, stomach twisting with every mile closer you get. It’s stupid. You shouldn’t feel this way. You shouldn’t be scared to go back to your own home.

But when you turn onto your street and see his car still sitting in the driveway, your stomach lurches.

He’s home.

You clench your teeth and tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

You tell yourself you don’t have a choice.

You tell yourself to suck it up.

Your fingers tremble when you turn off the engine, and your breath is uneven as you step out, walking up to the door like you're approaching something dangerous.

Inside, the air is thick, heavy, like the remnants of last night are still clinging to the walls.

And then you see him.

Miles is on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. His head snaps up the second the door clicks shut, and the sight of him knocks the breath from your lungs.

He looks wrecked.

His hair is a mess, his face pale and hollowed, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. There’s a glass of water on the coffee table, untouched. His hands are shaking. His eyes—bloodshot, puffy—lock onto yours like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

And then he’s moving.

Before you can react, before you can decide if you should step back, he’s on you, pulling you into his chest with a desperation that makes your ribs ache.

"Baby—" His voice cracks, his grip tightening as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear again. His entire body is trembling, and when he buries his face in your hair, you feel the wetness of his tears against your skin. "I love you. I love you so fucking much, I’m so sorry, I swear to God, I swear on everything, I’ll never—"

His words dissolve into a sob.

Your hands remain frozen at your sides, your entire body stiff in his embrace. He’s crushing you against him, squeezing you like he can force everything back to how it was before, like he can press your shattered pieces back together with his touch alone.

You should push him away. You should say something. But your mind is a haze of white noise, drowning in the sound of his ragged breaths, his desperate apologies.

He pulls back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, over your lips like he’s trying to memorize them. His eyes search yours, frantic and pleading. "Please don’t leave me."

And then he says something—something that makes the air shift, something that sells it again.

Something that makes the cracks in your resolve split wide open, dragging you under.

And suddenly, you’re back.

Miles guides you through the house like you’re something fragile, something delicate. His hand is firm on your lower back, his fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt, as if he's scared you’ll slip through his grasp if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

You should stop him.

You should tell him that you don’t want this, that you don’t want to just slip back into place like nothing happened, like last night wasn’t the final crack in something that’s already been broken beyond repair.

But you can’t.

You’re exhausted.

Bone-deep, soul-crushingly exhausted.

You feel it in every step you take, every breath that drags in and out of your lungs. Your body is heavy, weighed down by everything you don’t have the energy to carry anymore.

So you let him lead you.

He doesn’t speak as he brings you to the bedroom. He just moves with purpose, like he’s following a routine he’s gone through a thousand times before. When you step inside, everything is the same—the bed is still unmade from the morning before, one of your sweaters is draped over the chair in the corner, a book sits on your nightstand, marked at the page you never got to finish.

It feels like a time capsule.

Like the past twenty-four hours haven’t happened. Like last night never happened.

You don’t resist when Miles pulls the blankets back, gesturing for you to get in. His touch is gentle when he tugs at your sleeves, silently urging you to lie down. You do. Because it’s easier. Because you can’t fight anymore.

The mattress dips beside you as he kneels down, his hand smoothing over your hair, his fingertips ghosting across your temple. His eyes are still wet, rimmed with red, and there’s something raw in the way he looks at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time in a long time.

"Sleep, baby," he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost pleading. "I’ve got you. You’re home. Just sleep."

Your body obeys before your mind does, sinking into the mattress, muscles loosening as the weight of everything presses down on you. Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion, and as you start to drift, memories seep in—soft and golden, untouched by everything that’s happened since.

You remember the beginning.

The way he used to look at you like you hung the stars in the sky. The way he would always keep an arm wrapped around you in public, pulling you into his side like he was proud to have you.

You remember the first time he told you he loved you.

It was raining—pouring—the kind of rain that blurred city lights into watercolor streaks on the pavement. You were running, hands linked, breathless laughter escaping your lips as you darted into the nearest store for cover. It had been a little convenience store, nothing special, but it had smelled like cinnamon and coffee, and the cashier had barely spared you both a glance as you tried to shake the rain from your clothes.

You had been shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, your hair dripping onto your shoulders. And then Miles had taken off his hoodie and pulled it over your head, fussing over you like you’d catch pneumonia if he didn’t.

"You’re gonna get sick," he had muttered, tugging the hood up for good measure.

And then, so casually, so naturally, like it was the easiest thing in the world, he had said it.

"I love you, you know."

You had frozen, staring at him through damp lashes, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

Miles had just smiled, like he wasn’t even scared of what you might say back, like he was sure about you. "I do. I love you."

You remember how safe that moment felt.

How sure you had felt.

The memory shifts.

A different moment, a different version of him.

You remember movie nights. The way he always let you pick the film, even if he had no interest in it, even if it was something he would rather not watch. You remember curling up against him on the couch, his arm around your shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

You remember the little things.

The way he used to send you good morning texts every day without fail. The way he’d bring you coffee exactly the way you liked it, just because. The way he’d pull you onto his lap when you were stressed, rubbing slow circles into your back, pressing soft kisses against your hairline until your breathing evened out.

You remember the way he used to be.

The way you used to be.

And it hurts.

God, it hurts.

Because you miss it. Because part of you still aches for that version of him.

For the version of you that loved him without hesitation. Without fear.

But the thing about memories is that they aren’t real. They’re echoes. Shadows. Things that used to exist but don’t anymore.

And yet, as sleep finally drags you under, you find yourself clinging to them anyway.

For the next two weeks, Miles does everything right.

He wakes up early to make you breakfast, even though he was never a morning person before. He leaves little notes for you on the fridge, things like "Hope you have a good day, baby," or "Miss you already." When he's home, he makes a point to sit next to you, to touch you—his hand on your knee, his fingers brushing your wrist, his arm draped over your shoulders like it’s second nature.

He kisses you more.

Long, lingering kisses before he heads out to practice, soft pecks on your forehead when he comes back, murmured "I love yous" in between. It should feel good. It should make you feel wanted.

But it all feels performative.

Like he’s reading from a script.

Like he’s trying to convince you that things are different now, that he’s different, that the way he broke you down piece by piece never actually happened. And maybe he even believes it. Maybe, in his head, this is redemption.

But you feel the disconnect.

You feel it in the way he never actually acknowledges what happened. The way he sweeps it all under the rug, like if he just loves you enough now, he won’t have to answer for the past. He won’t have to sit with it.

And maybe you’re guilty of the same thing.

Because you let it happen. You let him kiss you, you let him hold you, you let him say all the right things. And some nights, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself close your eyes and pretend that it’s real. That the past few months were just a bad dream, and this—this—is how it’s supposed to be.

But then reality sets in. And the reality is that you’re not sure if you even recognize him anymore.

And Miles is happy.

Not just with you—with everything. The Bengals are having their best season in years. They’re winning games, their chemistry is clicking, and every sports analyst is saying the same thing: they have a real shot at the playoffs this year.

And Miles is thriving in it.

Football has always been his world. His purpose. It’s where he shines the brightest, where he feels the most himself. And when they win, when the entire stadium erupts into cheers, when his name is flashing across the big screen—he’s invincible. Untouchable.

And you’re watching it happen in real-time.

You see how his mood is tied to the team’s success. After a win, he’s on top of the world. He’s all smiles, buzzing with energy, high off the adrenaline of it all. He comes home with that glow, and he kisses you like he’s weightless, like he has everything he’s ever wanted.

But when he loses—if he loses—he’s a different man.

His words are short. His temper is sharp.

He never takes it out on you, not physically, but you feel it. The way he pulls away. The way his patience runs thin. The way you suddenly don’t exist when he’s pissed off, when he’s lost in his own head.

You know where you stand.

When things are good, you are good. When things are bad, you don’t matter.

You realize what would happen if you did leave him. And the idea terrifies you.

Not because you don’t think you could survive without him—of course you could. You’ve done hard things before. You’ve been on your own before. But because the thought of stepping into a life without him, without the rhythm and routine of him, feels like stepping into nothingness.

With Miles, at least you know what to expect.

You know how the mornings will go—he’ll hit snooze at least twice before finally rolling out of bed, rubbing his hands over his face as he mumbles something about hating life until he’s had his coffee. You know that if he has an off day, he’ll spend it on the couch, watching game tape with a notebook in his lap, barely looking up when you pass by. You know that he needs his routines, that he gets grumpy when things don’t go exactly the way he planned.

You know that when he’s happy, when the season is good and his stats are better, he’ll be the man you fell in love with. The one who kisses you just because, who plays with your fingers when he’s lying next to you, who talks about the future like it’s something bright and promising, something meant for both of you.

And you know that when things are bad—when he loses, when the pressure gets to him, when the weight of being Miles fucking Johnson feels too heavy—he’ll pull away. He’ll get sharp around the edges. He’ll make you feel like you’re grasping at nothing, like the man you love is there, but just barely, like he’s slipping through your fingers no matter how hard you hold on.

But at least you know.

At least it’s predictable. At least it’s something.

Because what happens when you leave? Where do you go?

Do you pack a bag and find a new apartment, a new city, a new life? Do you wake up one day in a bed that isn’t yours, in a space that doesn’t feel like home, wondering if you made the biggest mistake of your life?

Do you regret it?

Do you sit in the quiet, in the loneliness, and realize that even with all the bad, at least with Miles, you were something to someone? At least with him, there was always someone waiting for you at the end of the day, even if they didn’t always see you.

And then there’s the fear—the real fear.

That maybe you’re not as strong as you think.

That maybe the reason you keep going back isn’t just because you love him, but because you don’t know how to function without him.

Because who are you if you’re not his?

Who are you if you’re not the one he comes home to, if you’re not the one in the stands, if you’re not the person he’s always tethered to, even when he hurts you?

That kind of love—it becomes you. It weaves itself into your identity, wraps itself around your heart so tightly that even if you wanted to pull away, it would take pieces of you with it.

And maybe you’re scared you won’t survive that.

Maybe you’re scared that if you leave, you’ll be left standing in the wreckage of it all, trying to put yourself back together, only to realize you don’t even know where to start.

So you stay.

Because it’s easier. Because it’s safer.

Because being with him—even when it hurts—feels less terrifying than being without him.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

Joe hasn’t reached out.

Not once. Not since that night.

Not since he opened his front door at two in the morning and saw you standing there, drenched in moonlight and heartbreak, looking like you had nowhere else to go.

Not since you left before he even got the chance to say goodbye.

He should have called you. He should have at least checked in. But he didn’t.

Ja’Marr told him not to. Told him it wasn’t a good idea, that it would only make things worse, that you needed to figure it out on your own. That if Joe pushed, if he inserted himself where he didn’t belong, it wouldn’t help you—it would only complicate things even more.

And Joe hates that Ja’Marr was right.

But he still resents it.

He resents Miles more.

Every time he sees him on the field, every time he watches him celebrate another win like his life is perfect, Joe’s hands clench into fists. He thinks about you. He thinks about the way you showed up at his house that night, the way your voice shook when you asked if you could come inside.

And now, you’re back with him.

Like it never happened. Like Joe imagined the whole thing. And it makes him wonder—did he?

Did he just see what he wanted to see? Did he misread everything? Was he just projecting his own feelings onto you, searching for something that was never actually there?

Or are you just too far gone to see it yourself?

He doesn’t know. And that might be the worst part.

Miles told you he had something planned for your birthday three days in advance, which already felt like a red flag. Not because you wanted anything extravagant—you didn’t. You just wanted to feel thought of. Considered. Seen.

You had hinted a few times, gently, the way someone tests the temperature of water before stepping in. A casual mention of that new Italian place that opened downtown, the one with the wine bar and soft lighting. You brought it up once while scrolling your phone beside him on the couch. You even sent him the link the next day, just in case he didn’t catch it the first time.

He left you on read.

When he finally told you he had a surprise planned, your stomach sank in a way you didn’t fully understand until later. You knew what his surprises usually entailed—something loud, public, performative. Something that had nothing to do with you.

Still, you smiled and nodded and told him you couldn’t wait.

The night of your birthday, you took your time getting ready. Not because you were excited, but because you were delaying. You slipped into a black dress that made you feel like yourself—simple, flattering, elegant. Something with sleeves, because the February air was still sharp. You did your makeup with care, even though a quiet part of you wondered if it was worth the effort.

When you walked into the living room, Miles didn’t even look up from his phone.

“You ready?” he asked, keys already in hand, like he’d been waiting on you.

You blinked. “Yeah. Where are we going?”

He smirked. “It’s a surprise.”

You followed him out the door, biting back the instinct to ask if you needed a reservation. You already knew the answer.

When he pulled up to the bar, you didn’t even recognize the place at first. It was tucked between a pawn shop and a gas station, with flickering neon signs in the window and a chalkboard outside that read: “Karaoke Night!!! $2 shots!!!”

Your stomach dropped.

Miles parked, grinning like he’d just brought you to the Eiffel Tower. “Figured this would be fun. Laid back. Chill, y’know? Everybody's gonna be there.”

You hesitated. “Everybody?”

“Yeah, Tee and Ja’Marr said they’re pulling up. DJ might come too.”

You stared at the building. You didn’t like this place. You didn’t like the sticky floors or the blaring speakers or the way the bathrooms never had soap. You didn’t like how you always had to shout to be heard, how the girls at the bar always looked you up and down like you were wearing the wrong thing. It wasn’t a birthday spot. Not for you.

But Miles looked proud. Pleased with himself. Like he genuinely thought he did something special.

So you swallowed it down. Again.

Inside, the bar was already full. Loud music throbbed through the walls, and the smell of tequila and beer clung to the air like a second skin. A few heads turned when you walked in—probably because of the dress—but no one said anything.

Miles ordered a round of shots for the table without asking you what you wanted. He handed you one with a wink, already on his second before you could even lift it.

“To my future wife,” he said, loudly enough that people turned. “The realest one in the room!”

You gave him a hollow smile and threw back the liquor. It burned. Everything burned.

An hour passed. Then another. You sat in the corner booth as the guys talked football and girls flirted near the bar. Miles barely looked your way unless it was to slide his hand around your waist or kiss your cheek when people were watching. You felt like a prop. A doll. Something he posed beside to make himself look better.

Someone passed you a microphone at one point, encouraging you to sing. You laughed it off, shaking your head. You didn’t want to perform. Not tonight. Not like that.

“Aw, come on,” Miles said, draping an arm over your shoulder. “Don’t be shy.”

You forced another smile. “I’m good.”

He shrugged, already distracted by his phone.

The cake never came. There was no toast, no candles, no “Happy Birthday” song. At some point, someone bought a cupcake from the bar and stuck a cocktail straw in it. You took a picture with it to be polite, but you didn’t post it. You didn’t want to remember this night.

At the two-hour mark, your head started to ache. The lights were too bright, the music too loud, and every laugh from across the bar made your nerves flinch. You were tired. Not just physically—but emotionally. Spiritually. Soul-tired.

You glanced at Miles, who was laughing with Ja’Marr about something, a drink in hand, his attention miles away from you. The ring on your finger suddenly felt heavier than usual.

And all you could think was: this is it. This is what it always is.

You’d given him so many chances. So many quiet pleas for softness. For attention that wasn’t for show. For love that wasn’t filtered through his ego.

But here you were again. At a bar you hated. In a dress you picked for a night he didn’t plan for you. Watching your own birthday play out like someone else’s life.

The next time he turned to you, you didn’t smile.

You just looked at him.

And he looked back, confused, like he couldn’t quite understand what you were trying to say.

Because you hadn’t said anything. But you knew he heard it anyway.

The bar had already numbed you by the time Joe walked in.

You were sitting at the edge of the booth, half-listening to Ja’Marr talk about a new car he was thinking of getting, your elbow propped against the sticky table, head resting on your hand. Your drink—something too sweet with barely any bite—had gone watery in front of you. Miles was off laughing near the pool table again, talking loud enough to dominate whatever conversation he was in. You were pretending not to notice.

The room smelled like beer and cheap cologne and sweat. Your makeup felt heavy now. You weren’t even sure what time it was anymore—just that it was still your birthday and you wanted it to be over.

And then—

The door opened. Cold air spilled in from the outside. You heard it first, the creak of it swinging, the hush of a few heads turning. But you didn’t look up until you felt it. That shift.

That quiet tension in your chest—like a string pulling taut beneath your ribs.

Joe.

He was wearing a black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and a pair of jeans that weren’t trying to be anything. No fanfare. No announcement. But his presence still bent the room somehow. People noticed him. Not because he wanted them to, but because he just had that gravity.

And when his eyes found yours?

It was like the rest of the bar faded out for a second.

You sat up straighter without even realizing it, brushing your hair behind your ear like it would make any difference, like the last few hours hadn’t already melted your mascara at the corners. You blinked, and for the first time all night—maybe the first time in weeks—you smiled without forcing it.

Not wide. Not loud.

Just that quiet, blooming kind of smile that starts in the eyes.

Joe walked over without hesitating. He didn’t wave from across the bar like everyone else did. He came straight to you. That part of you he always saw. The real you. The tired, aching, soft-lipped version that didn’t have to perform.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Rough from the cold maybe, or from not saying much at all before now.

“Hey,” you breathed.

And Miles saw it.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him watching. Jaw tight. Beer in hand. The way his brow lifted in that passive-aggressive kind of way, like he was pretending not to care—but he always cared. Especially when it came to Joe.

But Joe didn’t even look at him. He just reached into the inside pocket of his coat and handed you a small, wrapped box. Clean paper. Neat folds. Tied with black twine. Simple but thoughtful. So unlike the world you’d been living in.

You blinked down at it, your fingers brushing his as you took it.

“You didn’t have to…”

“I wanted to.”

You stared at the wrapping for a second too long before untying it gently, carefully peeling the paper back like it might matter. Inside was a hardcover copy of a book you’d once talked about—offhandedly—months ago. One you said you always meant to read, but never got around to.

You felt your throat tighten.

Your fingers ghosted over the cover like it was glass. You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Joe just shrugged. “Saw it in a shop. Thought of you.”

You wanted to cry. Not because of the book. Not even because of Joe. But because of the contrast—how stark it felt. How the simplest thing could undo all the pretending you’d been doing for hours. For weeks. For months, maybe even years.

Miles was suddenly back beside you, sliding into the booth with a loud scoff. “You’re getting books for your birthday now?” he said, laughing like it was a joke. “You’re such a nerd.”

You laughed too. Or at least made the sound. But your hand stayed on the book, and you didn’t let go of it.

After that, the night shifted.

It didn’t fix itself—it never did. But something in the air changed. Miles tried harder. Put his arm around you more, ordered another round of drinks, made a toast you didn’t ask for. You went along with it. You always did.

But you kept catching Joe’s eyes across the room. When you tilted your glass back. When you danced a little in place. When you let yourself laugh—not the hollow kind, but the real kind that cracked through once you had enough liquor in your blood to stop caring.

He smiled at you once.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t heavy with expectation.

It just looked like he was happy to see you happy—even if only for a moment.

By the end of the night, your heels were in your hand and your cheeks were flushed and the jukebox was playing something familiar and loud and stupid. The kind of song you scream through, not sing.

You turned to Miles, tugging on his sleeve with a grin. “Come do karaoke with me.”

He barely looked up from his phone. “Nah,” he said, brushing you off. “I don’t do that shit.”

You paused. Still holding his arm. Still swaying a little from the tequila.

“But it’s my birthday.”

“Exactly,” he said, standing to talk to Ja’Marr instead. “Go do it.”

You blinked. Let go.

And then—quietly, from behind you—you heard, “I will.”

You turned.

Joe stood there, beer in hand, head tilted slightly. Tired eyes. Crooked smile.

“I’ll do karaoke with you.”

And you smiled. For real. Just you and him, and nothing else for that small second.

The karaoke machine was glitchy, half the lights on the board blown out and buzzing like a dying bug, but you didn’t care. The mic in your hand smelled faintly of beer and lipstick, and your voice shook as you stood beside Joe, who was reading the list of available songs like he was scanning a football playbook. His brows were furrowed, but his lips were curled—he was already smiling and didn’t even realize it.

You leaned into his side, tipsy and emboldened. “What if we do No Tears Left to Cry?”

He raised a brow. “Ariana?”

“You told me you saw her in concert once,” you reminded him, nudging him with your elbow. “Don’t think I forgot.”

His laugh broke through—soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect that memory to live in your head. But it did. He’d told you months ago during a boring party, confessing that Ja’Marr had dragged him to the show and that he actually ended up loving it. Said her live vocals were insane.

You remembered how his face had gone a little pink admitting it, like he was waiting for you to tease him. You didn’t. You told him it made you like him more.

And now, he looked at you, shaking his head slightly, defeated in the best way. “Alright,” he said. “But only if you promise to carry the high notes.”

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him up onto the little makeshift stage, giddy. The mic cords were tangled, the screen was cracked, and there were about thirty drunk people watching—but for some reason, it all felt like it mattered. Like this was a moment.

Miles was slouched at the back of the room, arms crossed, a bottle of something brown in front of him. He watched with a flat expression. Stone still. Ja’Marr leaned toward him to say something, but he didn’t react.

You didn’t notice.

Or—you did. But you didn’t care.

Because Joe was standing beside you with the mic in his hand, head bowed slightly as the opening notes started to play. You saw the way he tapped his foot off-beat, like he was trying to anticipate the rhythm. The track played low at first, and your voice took the lead. A little shaky. But you kept going.

And then—

Joe joined in.

He started quiet, a little hesitant. But with each word, he leaned into it more. His voice wasn’t perfect, but it was real, and it was loud. When the chorus hit, he threw his head back and let it rip.

“I’m pickin’ it up, pickin’ it up, lovin’, I’m livin’, I’m pickin’ it up—”

You screamed into your mic, doubling over laughing. “YOU SOUND SO GOOD.”

The whole bar burst into cheers. Someone banged their beer on the table in rhythm, and someone else stood on a chair. The place was alive with it. Alive with you two.

Joe danced—danced. Like, full-body, arms-in-the-air, didn’t-care-who-was-watching danced. You followed, twirling under his arm at one point, practically glowing. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your chest ached from laughing. You were singing into each other’s faces like kids on a sleepover. Like you weren’t pretending anymore.

When the song ended, people clapped. Not just polite claps—real applause. Whistling. Shouting. Even the bartender hit the little bell on the counter.

You looked at Joe and laughed breathlessly, hands on your knees. “You were amazing.”

His eyes were already on you.

And not in a teasing way. Not the way Miles usually looked at you after karaoke, like he was waiting for you to embarrass yourself so he could make it a joke later. No—Joe was looking at you like you’d just stepped into the sun.

Warm. Bright. Unreal.

The kind of look that made your breath hitch.

You didn’t even know what to say. You didn’t want to say anything, really. You wanted to live in that look. You wanted the world to stay small and golden like this. Just the two of you, tangled in warmth and laughter and bad pop music.

But of course—

“Might wanna tone it down,” came Miles’ voice, sliding between you like a blade wrapped in velvet. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even sound mad. Just loud enough to make sure you heard him. “You’re not single yet.”

You blinked.

The spell broke.

Joe stepped back almost instantly. His hand, which had hovered near your waist, dropped to his side. He cleared his throat. Smiled politely.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

The warmth still bloomed in your chest, but now it was twisting into something sharp. Embarrassment. Guilt. Rage. You weren’t even sure. You just knew you didn’t want to be here anymore.

“Relax,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

Miles only raised a brow. “I am relaxed.”

But the way he looked at you after—like you were property on loan—made your stomach twist. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. The message was clear. You were his. And any version of you that shone brighter when Joe was around? That was a problem.

Joe stepped down from the stage. Said thanks to someone who complimented his performance. He didn’t look back at you.

You stayed there, under the harsh bar lights, skin still flushed from adrenaline and liquor. The room felt too loud now. Too bright. You clutched the mic loosely in your hand, heart pounding like it didn’t know which direction to run.

And for a second, just a second, you realized something.

You had felt alive up there. With Joe.

And now? You just felt small again.

The air outside the bar is thick with humidity, clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. Your heels clack unevenly on the sticky pavement as you trail a half-step behind Miles, trying to reason with him as you descend the back stairs toward the parking lot. Music and laughter still spill out from the cracked door behind you, a cruel contrast to the tension between you—stretched tight like a wire about to snap.

"This was supposed to be my night," you say, your voice still breathless from karaoke and liquor, but sharpening with frustration. "And I didn’t even get to choose it. You planned everything around what you like—"

“Oh my God, again with this?” Miles spins around, now walking backward, his eyes wide with anger. “You’re mad about a bar? You’re seriously starting shit over a venue?”

“No, I’m mad because you didn’t even ask! You never ask!” Your voice cracks, both from emotion and from the sting of bourbon still sitting in your throat. “You picked a place I hate, didn’t even let me talk about what I wanted—"

“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry I didn’t let you hold a candlelight vigil for your own birthday.”

You stop short.

That one slices deep. Too sharp. Too low. It lands right in the soft spot beneath your ribs, where all the things you’ve swallowed live.

Your mouth opens to respond—you’re not even sure what you were going to say—but you don’t get the chance.

“Hey!” Joe’s voice cuts through the night air like a cold wind, steady and sudden. He steps out of the bar behind you, bounding down the stairs two at a time, his eyes flicking between you and Miles as he instantly gauges the situation. “Chill the hell out, man. Don’t talk to her like that.”

Miles turns toward him, neck taut, cheeks flushed, lips curling into a sneer. “You think I give a shit what you think, Joey?”

Joe steps closer, calm but firm. “I think you should lower your voice.”

“I think you should mind your own fucking business.”

Joe doesn’t flinch, even as Miles squares his shoulders. “You’re making a scene.”

“Oh, I’m making a scene?” Miles barks out a bitter laugh, arms flung wide like a performer onstage. “You show up late, make her all gooey-eyed with your little gift and karaoke, and now you’re out here playing knight in fucking shining armor?”

“I’m out here because I care about her,” Joe says, voice still calm, but colder now. “Something you clearly forgot how to do.”

And that—that—is what snaps it.

Miles lunges forward. Just half a step, but it’s enough. Your body locks into panic mode. You react without thinking, stepping between them, your palms pressed hard against Miles’ chest, eyes wide.

“Stop it!” you cry out, breath catching. “Miles, stop. Yell at me. Not him—me. This is my fault, right? This is about me.”

But he doesn’t look at you.

“You think you’re better than me?” he growls, staring Joe down. “Is that what this is? You think because you’ve got a better stat sheet and a fucking GQ spread you’re more of a man?”

Joe shakes his head slowly, jaw tight. “This has nothing to do with that.”

“You’ve been sniffing around my girl like I don’t fucking see it. Like I haven’t seen it since last year.”

“I’m not your fucking girl,” you snap, but Miles is too far gone to hear it.

“You always wanted her, didn’t you?” he spits. “Back at camp, on those long-ass travel weekends? Is that when you started jerking off to the idea of her crying to you instead of me?”

Joe takes a step forward then—not with his fists, but with something sharper. His voice, low and steady, cuts cleaner than any punch could.

“Get out of my face.”

“Oh, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Miles shouts, jabbing a finger into Joe’s chest. “You’d love it if I just walked away so you could swoop in and pretend you’ve been waiting in the wings this whole time.”

“Stop it!” you scream again, your voice raw now, throat tight and burning. “This isn’t about him! It’s about us! It’s always about us—why can’t you focus on me?”

But he’s not listening.

His eyes are locked on Joe, his mouth still moving, spewing venom and insecurity and whatever fear he’s been bottling for months. Joe looks like he’s holding back every instinct to swing. You can see it in the way his fists clench, in the twitch of his jaw. He’s trying so hard to stay still.

And you—

You’re still standing in the middle of it.

Trying to be loud enough to pull their attention back. Trying to be brave enough to shatter the rhythm of male pride unraveling in front of you like a fuse. Your hands are shaking. Your chest rises and falls like you’ve just run a marathon.

Still, neither of them really looks at you.

Not really.

Until Miles snaps.

“You want to keep babysitting her, Burrow?” he snarls, shoving past Joe. “Fine. I’m done.”

Then he grabs your wrist.

Tight. Too tight.

“You’re coming with me.”

You stumble forward, your heel catching on the concrete. “Miles—”

He doesn’t let go.

Joe yells something, but you can’t hear it over the rush in your ears. The world narrows to the pain blooming in your wrist and the hot flush of embarrassment crawling up your throat.

“Miles, let go!” you cry, trying to twist free.

“I’m not leaving you with him.”

And that’s it.

That’s when it all fractures.

This isn’t love. This isn’t safety. This is control. Possession. The sick, festering thing that’s been growing between you for months, finally showing its teeth.

And you—

You feel like you’re underwater.

Joe’s voice echoes somewhere behind you. Footsteps. A second hand grabbing Miles’ arm.

More shouting.

Chaos.

But you don’t speak anymore.

You don’t even cry.

Not when he gripped your wrist so tight it made your bracelet bite into your skin. Not when he yanked open the car door and shoved you inside—not hard enough to bruise, but rough enough to feel it in your ribs. The kind of push that knocked the air from your lungs more from shock than force. The kind that wasn’t just physical—it was loud. It said: Sit down. Shut up. You're mine.

And maybe that’s what broke you.

You barely registered the bark of tires on gravel or the jarring slam of the passenger door closing. What you did register—what you’ll probably remember forever—was Joe. The flash of him, like lightning. The sound of his voice cracking through the humid night air like a whip.

“The fuck is wrong with you?! Don't push her like that!”

You blinked. Your heart didn’t even get a chance to keep up before the driver’s side door swung back open and suddenly Joe was on him. It wasn’t just a shove. Joe’s fist connected with Miles’ mouth like it had been waiting. Like it was made for that one moment. Miles stumbled back, caught off guard more by the audacity than the punch itself.

And then you screamed. Not because you were scared—God, maybe you should’ve been—but because you were done.

“Joe! Are you serious right now?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Your voice was sharp and panicked, slicing through the chaos as you climbed out of the car. You were shaking—like trembling head to toe kind of shaking—but you didn’t stop. You rushed toward them, and Joe was already grabbing Miles again, ready to go for round two like he hadn’t thought this through at all.

“Stop it! Both of you, what the fuck is this?!”

But they didn’t stop. Joe was riled up, breathing hard, jaw clenched. He kept yelling about how you weren’t some object, how Miles needed to learn how to treat a woman, and you wanted to scream back that this wasn’t his place. That he couldn’t just step in now and swing punches like that fixed anything.

So you did.

“Joe! You don’t get to do this! You don’t get to act like some knight in shining fucking armor! This isn’t yours to fix!”

He froze like you’d hit him. His chest was rising and falling, fists still balled, but his eyes snapped to yours like he was finally hearing you for the first time all night.

And Miles. Oh, Miles. Blood on his lip, fury in his eyes, spitting venom at the both of you like it wasn’t his fault any of this happened.

“You think you’re better than me, huh?” Miles growled, advancing again, even though Joe wasn’t touching him anymore. “You think she wants you? You think she’s gonna run off into the sunset with your sorry ass?”

You flinched. Your head was spinning.

And then—like divine timing—the bar doors banged open.

Ja’Marr was the first to spot you. Then Tee. They froze for half a second as they took in the scene: you, standing between two men like some twisted love triangle come to life. Joe with blood on his knuckles. Miles swaying slightly with rage, and you… looking like you’d just seen the inside of your own heart.

“What the fuck is this?” Tee laughed, half in disbelief, stepping out into the parking lot.

“Is this for real?” he added, eyes wide like the absurdity of it all was just too much.

Ja’Marr wasn’t laughing. Not even a little.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he muttered, storming forward, slipping between them before another punch could be thrown. “What the hell is wrong with y’all?”

Joe immediately took a step back, breathing hard. He ran a hand over his face like he was trying to wake up from something. Miles didn’t move.

“This is embarrassing,” Ja’Marr continued, voice low but furious, addressing all three of you. “What is this? A romcom? You think this is cute? You think this is normal?! We are grown-ass adults acting like high schoolers in a CW pilot.”

Tee, still amused, just shook his head and leaned against the car, muttering something about how he wished he had popcorn.

“No, but seriously,” Ja’Marr said, turning on Joe now. “You? Swinging? That’s your solution? And you?”—his eyes shot to Miles—“I know you're not completely innocent in this, Joe wouldn't have thrown a punch unless you said something crazy.”

You stood there, shaking, the summer air suddenly feeling like a cold shower. You couldn’t tell if the heat on your skin was from embarrassment or leftover adrenaline. Maybe both. But you were silent. You weren’t sure what words even fit anymore.

You looked at Joe. His jaw was set, but there was shame in his eyes now, soft and real and a little bit broken. He was breathing hard through his nose, blood drying on his hand.

Miles was pacing in a small, angry circle like a lion still ready to pounce, too proud to admit anything but too shaken to keep pretending this was nothing.

And Ja’Marr kept going.

“This ain’t a movie,” he muttered. “You don’t get to fight over her like she’s a prize. This is real life. This is your job. Your team. Your reputation.”

You hated that word. Reputation. Like it mattered more than the raw wound splitting your chest in two. Like all this wasn’t happening inside your life. Not just some image to protect.

“I don’t care what’s going on between y’all,” Ja’Marr said finally, tone clipped. “But you better figure it out without turning the parking lot of a dive bar into a fuckin’ WWE ring.”

Silence followed. Tee blew out a low whistle and nudged Miles with his elbow.

“You good, man?” he asked, a little too light-hearted for the situation.

Miles didn’t answer. Just wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand and glanced sideways at you, like somehow you were to blame for all of this. Like your silence was a betrayal.

But you didn’t look away.

You were still shaking. But you didn’t cry. Not even now. Because the whole thing had gone so far past pain it just felt… stupid. Like a play with the curtain ripped open.

And the worst part?

You still didn’t know who you were supposed to be mad at.

The man who shoved you? The one who punched for you? Or yourself—for letting it get this far.

The Uber headlights cut through the parking lot a minute later, and none of you said a word.

Not even goodbye.

The silence in the car stretches so long it feels like it could snap.

The hum of the engine is the only thing holding the moment together, this low, constant buzz that fills the air between you and Miles like static. Outside, the city is still buzzing with leftover noise from your ruined birthday, but it feels muffled—like you’re watching it from behind glass. Red lights pass over his face in flashes, like a warning you can’t read fast enough. Your hands are folded in your lap, tight and trembling.

Miles hasn't said a single word since he shoved you into the passenger seat.

Your jaw aches from how hard you're clenching it. You don't even realize your nails are digging half-moons into the skin of your palm until the pain spikes and forces your hand open.

You try to focus on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

But it doesn’t help.

Because the second your breath evens out even a little, it happens again.

The memory.

Joe’s voice. His tone, firm but not unkind—“Don’t raise your voice at her.”

The blur of motion. Miles turning to him with that same simmering rage he always thinks he's good at hiding. And then Joe’s fist, so fast and clean and sudden. The crack of it against Miles' mouth—God, you can still hear the sound of it, sharp and guttural, like it knocked the oxygen out of him.

And then chaos. You, screaming. Joe, yelling back. Miles lunging forward again. And somewhere in all of it—Ja’Marr. Tee. The absurdity of the night swallowing itself whole.

And now here you are. In the car. Sitting in silence next to the man who’s supposed to love you.

You glance over at him. His grip on the wheel is so tight his knuckles are white. His jaw is still clenched, and you can see the faint outline of a bruise already blooming under the stubble along his cheekbone and his mouth. You don’t feel bad.

You’re not even sure if that makes you a bad person. You just know you don’t feel anything for him in this moment. Nothing except a mounting, spiraling dread. And exhaustion. A kind of bone-deep tiredness you didn’t even know was possible.

Because the worst part is that you’re not even surprised. You’re not shocked that he threw you into the car. You’re not shocked that he screamed at you in public. You’re not shocked that he made the whole thing about Joe. You’re just tired. Tired of being in rooms where the air is so thick you can’t breathe. Tired of loving someone who only seems to love the version of you that makes him feel good.

Your fingers twitch in your lap. You look out the window. It’s raining now—soft, quiet. The kind of rain that makes you want to pull over and just sit for a while. Be still. But Miles doesn’t slow down. He just drives, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely keeping it together.

Your thoughts won’t stop circling.

You keep seeing Joe’s eyes—right after the punch, before everything spiraled. The look in them. Like he couldn’t believe it either. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment. You hadn’t even had time to register it then, but now it plays in your head over and over. The way his eyes softened when they met yours. The way his voice cracked, just slightly, when he tried to apologize before Miles barked at him to fuck off.

And you—you didn’t say anything back. You didn’t defend him. You didn’t even say thank you. You just climbed into the car like a coward. Let Miles drive you away like you were his to own.

You swallow hard. Your eyes burn.

You feel sick.

You’re not even sure what hurts more—how low you feel right now, or how used to it you’ve become.

The car slows as you turn onto your street. That familiar ache curls in your chest, a kind of silent mourning for all the versions of yourself you’ve had to bury just to survive this relationship.

You used to be someone with opinions. Preferences. A spine.

Now you’re the girl who lets her boyfriend pick the bar, the music, the mood. You’re the girl who shrinks herself just enough to fit inside his shadow. You’re the girl who smiles when he’s charming and stays quiet when he’s cruel, and you don’t even know when it started.

You just know that somewhere along the way, you stopped recognizing yourself.

The car jerks to a stop in the driveway. Neither of you move.

For a moment, it feels like the whole world is holding its breath.

Then he grabs the keys, shoves open the door, and slams it behind him.

You stay seated.

It’s pathetic, how much you don’t want to go inside. How badly you want to disappear.

Your fingers hover over the door handle. You count to ten. You make yourself move.

The rain has picked up now. It hits your skin like pins, cold and sharp, and it wakes something up in you. You shiver as you cross the driveway and follow him into the house.

The door swings shut behind you and then—

The box flies past your head and lands at your feet with a thud.

The gift. The same one he pretended to give you with care. Now thrown like it’s trash.

Your chest tightens. You look up.

And he’s already yelling.

“You let it happen,” Miles spits. “You stood there and let him touch you. Let him act like you were his. You wanted it.”

You stare at him. Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You think I don’t see it?” he says, voice rising. “The way you look at him? Like you’re just dying for him to say something? Like you want him to rescue you from your terrible boyfriend, right?”

He’s pacing now, rage boiling. “You love it, don’t you? The attention. The drama. All of it.”

You still haven’t spoken.

Because something in you is crumbling. Quietly. Completely.

And the thing is—you don’t even want to fix it this time.

You want it to fall apart. You want it to burn.

Because for the first time in a long time, you know what this is. And more than that—you know what it isn’t.

It’s not love.

It’s not care.

It’s not what you want. Not anymore.

“You love the attention,” he says again, voice sharper now, like he’s trying to carve it into you. “You fucking love it. That’s the real problem.”

You blink at him, and for a second the whole room blurs. There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, swelling into your throat, choking out any words that might’ve come before. But you still don’t say anything.

Miles keeps going.

“You think I didn’t see it? You were smiling at him. Laughing like some drunk little groupie while he made a goddamn fool out of me. You think that’s cute?”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your breath catching in a way that makes you feel stupid. Fragile. Small.

“And then you stood there like a goddamn victim,” he spits, “like you didn’t just stand by and let him fucking swing at me—on your birthday. At your party. And you wonder why I didn’t want to be there in the first place.”

You swallow. Hard.

It feels like he’s getting louder, like the room is shrinking with every word.

“I planned that night for you. I did. And still, still, you manage to turn it into some pathetic sob story for Joe fucking Cool to swoop in and save you. Jesus Christ. You don’t even know how obvious you are.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your throat feels raw, dry like sand. You realize your hands are shaking.

And that’s when it hits you.

The tears start falling before you can stop them. Quiet at first, then faster. You’re not sobbing—not yet—but the heat in your chest is rising fast, seeping up into your face, your scalp, until it feels like your skin might split open from the pressure of holding it all in.

You cover your mouth with your hand and stare at the floor.

And Miles sees it. He sees the tears.

But he doesn’t soften.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pause.

He scoffs—actually scoffs—and throws his hands up.

“Oh, great,” he mutters. “Now you’re crying? Perfect. Right on cue.”

Your breath hitches, and something inside you stutters. Not just your heart. Something deeper.

You look up at him, and it’s like you don’t even know who you’re seeing anymore.

His face is red, flushed with rage, hair wild from pacing, his chest still heaving like he’s gearing up for more. And for the first time, it doesn’t scare you. Not in the way it used to. Not in the way it should.

It just exhausts you.

Because he sees you crying, and he doesn’t care. He sees you hurting, and it only makes him angrier.

And that… That’s the moment something in you breaks.

But not in a loud, dramatic way. Not in the way it always used to.

It breaks quietly, like glass cracking beneath snow. So soft no one notices it at first. Not even you.

You just feel it—this deep, bone-deep stillness. A silence blooming inside your chest.

Miles is still yelling, still pacing, but the words are starting to fade into static.

You take a step back. Then another.

You reach up, and your fingers graze the delicate silver band on your left hand—the one he gave you months ago, before things weren't so bad, before the screaming became routine. Your thumb runs over the huge gemstone. You remember the way he’d slipped it on so carefully, the way he’d kissed your hand after and said, “Now everyone will know you’re mine.”

It had sounded okay then. Like fate, almost. Now it sounds like a fucking warning.

You slide it off.

Your fingers are trembling, but you keep your grip steady. You walk over to the coffee table, ignoring the shards of glass from a picture frame he must’ve knocked over earlier. Your bare feet crunch softly over it, but you don’t even wince.

And without a word, you place the ring on the table.

It makes the softest sound as it lands—tick—like punctuation. Like an ending.

Miles pauses mid-sentence.

His eyes lock on the ring.

For a full second, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares. Then?

He snaps.

“What the fuck is this?!” he roars, storming toward the table. “You think this is some kind of power move? You think you get to walk away from me like that?”

You say nothing.

You turn around.

You start walking toward the bedroom.

And that’s when he completely unravels.

He sweeps everything off the table with one arm, sends a stack of books flying, the glass of water shattering against the wall. You flinch but keep walking.

“You don’t get to just leave!” he screams after you, voice cracking. “You don’t get to play the fucking victim when you caused this!”

You reach the closet. Grab the overnight bag. Start shoving things inside. Whatever you can reach—your charger, a hoodie, your toothbrush. You’re not thinking in complete thoughts anymore. Just get out. Just move. Just breathe.

Behind you, Miles is still ranting. Still breaking things. A lamp crashes. The sound makes you jump, your heartbeat hammering now, not from fear but adrenaline. You zip the bag and sling it over your shoulder.

You feel lightheaded. Like your body hasn’t caught up to the moment yet.

You step into the doorway of the bedroom.

Miles is standing in the middle of the living room, chest heaving, hair a mess, veins visible in his neck. His eyes are wild. Red-rimmed. He looks like a stranger.

He opens his mouth to say something else—another dig, another insult—but then he sees your bag.

And for the first time tonight, he freezes.

You don’t wait for him to stop you.

You just say, calmly, with the quiet you fought so hard to reclaim:

“I’m done.”

His mouth moves, like he wants to argue. But no sound comes out.

You turn around. Walk to the door.

And behind you, he screams your name. Like a curse. Like a prayer.

You don’t turn back.

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