#thread. scott summers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

archivegyu · 2 months ago

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masterlist

the softest silence

“anyways, don’t be a stranger” (scott street)

There's a photo in a silver frame on Seungcheol's desk.

It's not particularly striking, no grand event captured, no posed smiles. Just a snapshot from a summer long gone. Three people squeezed into the frame: you, with a sunflower tucked behind your ear, laughing so hard your eyes are nearly closed, the petals casting delicate shadows across your cheekbone. Jeonghan, cheeks puffed in mock offense, his arm flung over your shoulder, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your sleeve like he's afraid to hold too tight. And Seungcheol, in the middle, caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, like the sound had startled even him. A moment of pure, unguarded joy frozen in time.

It's a photo no one meant to take. A moment no one meant to keep. And yet, it sits there, dustless, untouched. As if time itself had decided it should stay. The silver frame catching the morning light that filters through the half-drawn blinds of his office, creating a small constellation of reflections against the wall.

You still remember that day. Not because of the picture, but because of the way the sun hit Jeonghan's hair when he turned to call your name, golden light threading through strands that seemed to absorb the warmth itself. Because of the way Seungcheol looked at the both of you when you weren't looking, eyes soft and wondering, like he couldn't quite believe the three of you had found each other in this vast, indifferent universe. Because you didn't know, then, that it would be the beginning of something beautiful.

And quietly, quietly tragic.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You met Jeonghan when you were fifteen, on a Tuesday that had started like any other. Gray skies threatening rain, the weight of textbooks in your arms, the familiar knot of anxiety that came with being the new face in the hallway. The classroom smelled of chalk dust and floor polish, and you'd chosen a seat by the window, hoping the cloudy light might make you less visible somehow.

He was the first person to talk to you in your new school, sliding into the empty desk beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never doubted his welcome anywhere. Sitting next to you in math class and offering half of his chocolate chip cookie like it was some kind of peace treaty, breaking it with careful fingers that somehow knew exactly where to snap it for equal parts.

"Fresh-baked this morning," he'd said, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "My mom's secret recipe. Well, not actually secret. She got it off the back of the chocolate chip bag, but we pretend it's a family heirloom."

The cookie was still warm, slightly gooey in the center. You'd taken it hesitantly, not quite understanding the easy way he'd decided to include you.

He never really gave you a choice. He just started existing in your life, like a bookmark slipped between pages. There one day and never gone after, marking something important without drawing attention to itself.

"I'm Yoon Jeonghan," he'd said with a grin that seemed to know something you didn't. "And you're my best friend now. Sorry, I don't make the rules."

You had laughed, not knowing how true it would become. Not understanding that some people come into your life with the quiet certainty of seasons changing. Inevitable, necessary, transformative.

Jeonghan was relentless in his affection. He called you at midnight just to tell you dumb jokes that he'd clearly rehearsed, his voice going slightly higher when he reached the punchline. He left sticky notes in your locker with bad puns and little doodles, stick figures with exaggerated features that somehow always looked like the teachers he was mocking. He dragged you into his chaos without warning. Impromptu trips to the convenience store during lunch, elaborate pranks on classmates that never crossed into cruelty, study sessions that devolved into philosophical debates about which cereal mascot would win in a fight.

But he also knew when to be still. He was there when your mom got sick, when the hospital visits became routine and the smell of antiseptic clung to your clothes even after washing. When you missed three weeks of school, he brought you handwritten notes. His messy scrawl somehow more comforting than the typed assignments other classmates had sent. When you needed someone to sit beside you in silence and just be there, he would arrive with a bag of your favorite snacks and a deck of cards, never pushing you to talk, never making you feel like your silence was a burden.

He never asked for anything in return. Never made you feel indebted for the way he held your world together when it threatened to come apart. It was just what friends did, he'd say, as if everyone had the capacity for the brand of loyalty he offered so effortlessly.

And then, two years later, he introduced you to Seungcheol.

It was at a house party Jeonghan had forced you to attend—his words, not yours. The living room was too warm, bodies pressed together in the limited space, music loud enough to feel in your chest but not quite loud enough to drown out the anxiety of social interaction. You were standing awkwardly by the snack table, calculating how much longer you needed to stay before you could politely leave, when he dragged someone over, his hand firm around the wrist of a boy you'd never seen before.

"This is Seungcheol," he said proudly, the way one might present a particularly impressive science project. "He's the only person I know who's more responsible than me. So naturally, I think he should take care of you when I'm not around."

The boy, Seungcheol, had looked momentarily embarrassed, a flush rising from his neck to his cheeks. But then he'd laughed softly, the sound barely audible over the thrum of the bass, and extended his hand. His fingers were slightly calloused, warm against your palm.

"It's nice to meet you," he said, his voice deeper than you'd expected, resonant in a way that made you want to hear more of it. "Jeonghan talks about you all the time. I was starting to think you might be imaginary."

You hadn't expected to fall for him. Not really. But there was something about the way he listened when you spoke, head slightly tilted, eyes never wandering from your face, as if every word you said deserved his complete attention. Something about the way he remembered the little things you said in passing. How you mentioned offhandedly that you loved tteokbokki from that one street vendor near the station, only to have him appear at your door weeks later with a container of it after you'd had a particularly rough day. Something about the way he stood slightly behind you in crowded spaces, quietly protective, never overbearing. A presence that said: I am here if you need me, but I trust you to navigate your own way.

He was the kind of safe that didn't feel suffocating. A quiet strength that reminded you of old trees, roots deep and branches steady even in the strongest winds.

But you were Jeonghan's best friend. And Seungcheol was Jeonghan's.

So you stayed quiet.

So did he.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The three of you became something of a unit. A trinity that others in your social circle recognized and accepted without question: where one went, the others followed, like planets locked in each other's gravitational pull.

Seungcheol drove the both of you home after late-night hangouts, always stopping for convenience store ramen. The fluorescent lights would cast strange shadows on your faces as you huddled around the small table outside, steam rising from your bowls, the night air cool against your skin. Jeonghan would sing badly in the passenger seat while you and Seungcheol harmonized just to annoy him, the three of you laughing until your ribs ached when he'd dramatically cover his ears and threaten to walk home.

Sometimes, Mingyu and Seokmin would tag along, stuffing themselves into the backseat, yelling over each other about snacks and playlists. Mingyu always insisting they needed more protein, Seokmin arguing just as passionately for sweeter options. The car would feel smaller then, warmer with the press of shoulders and knees, the windows fogging slightly with collective breath and laughter.

There were sleepovers where you all ended up on the floor of Jeonghan's apartment. A mess of blankets and pillows in the living room, the television casting blue light over your tired faces as you talked until sunrise. Seungcheol on one side of you, Jeonghan on the other, both too warm, too close, too familiar. Their breathing eventually evening out into sleep while you remained awake, hyperaware of every point of contact: Seungcheol's arm brushing yours, Jeonghan's head somehow ending up on your shoulder. And in those moments, you'd lie awake and wonder what it meant that your heart beat differently for each of them. A steady, warm rhythm for Seungcheol that felt like coming home; a quicksilver flutter for Jeonghan that felt like chasing something you couldn't quite name.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

One night, during your final year of high school, the three of you ended up on the roof of Jeonghan's apartment building. It was autumn, the air crisp but not yet biting, and you'd brought blankets to wrap around yourselves as you looked up at the few stars visible through the city's light pollution.

"We should make a pact," Jeonghan had said suddenly, his voice soft in the darkness. "That no matter where we end up after graduation, we'll always find our way back to each other."

Seungcheol had chuckled, the sound warm in the cool night. "You make it sound like we're going to war, not college."

"Same thing," Jeonghan had replied, bumping his shoulder against Seungcheol's. "People change. They find new friends, new priorities. I just don't want..."

He'd trailed off, and you'd turned to look at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice. His profile was sharp against the night sky, eyes reflecting the distant city lights.

"Want what?" you'd prompted gently.

He'd shrugged, a forced casualness that didn't quite mask the tension in his shoulders. "I don't want to lose this. Us."

Seungcheol had reached over then, his hand finding Jeonghan's in the dark, squeezing once. "You won't."

You'd watched their hands, the easy comfort they offered each other, and felt something twist in your chest—not jealousy, exactly, but a sense of being witness to something intimate and unspoken.

"Promise?" Jeonghan had asked, looking not at you but at Seungcheol, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of traffic.

Seungcheol had nodded, his expression serious in the half-light. "Promise."

You'd reached over then, placing your hand over theirs, completing the circle. "We promise," you'd said, speaking for all three of you, not yet understanding the complexity of what you were vowing to preserve.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Years passed. High school faded into college. The texture of your friendship changed with distance and time. No longer the constant presence in each other's daily lives, but something that had to be maintained with intention, with effort. You drifted, came back together, drifted again like tides. But you always found your way back: birthdays, holidays, lazy Sundays that turned into movie marathons in whoever's apartment was cleanest that week.

And always, always, Jeonghan teasing.

"Still single?" he'd ask with a smirk, nudging Seungcheol as you all sat around a table at your favorite barbecue place, the smell of grilling meat and sizzling garlic filling the air between you.

"Still annoying?" Seungcheol would fire back, expertly flipping the meat without looking away from Jeonghan's challenging grin.

And you'd roll your eyes, but part of you ached, because they felt like puzzle pieces you'd never quite fit between. Their friendship had a shorthand, a history that predated you. Sometimes you'd catch them exchanging glances that seemed to contain entire conversations, and you'd wonder what it was like to know someone so completely, to be known that way in return.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

But one spring, it shifted.

Jeonghan got busy.

New job at a design agency that required late nights and early mornings, new apartment across the city that made spontaneous visits less practical, less time for the comfortable routine the three of you had established. His absence created a space, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, you and Seungcheol began to fill it with something new.

You and Seungcheol started spending more time together, just the two of you. It wasn't planned, not consciously. He helped you move into your new place, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs without complaint, assembling furniture with patient precision long after you'd given up on deciphering the instructions. You helped him pick out a birthday gift for Jeonghan, wandering through stores for hours until you found a vintage film camera that made Seungcheol's eyes light up with recognition

"He's been talking about this model for months," he'd said, his excitement infectious.

You had dinner. Once. A casual thing after settling into your new place, too tired to go home but too hungry to sleep. A small restaurant with mismatched chairs and dim lighting, where Seungcheol ordered for both of you because you were too exhausted to make decisions, and somehow he got exactly what you would have chosen for yourself.

Then again. This time planned, deliberate, a text from Seungcheol asking if you wanted to try that new place that had opened near your apartment, the one with the fusion menu everyone was talking about. You'd said yes without hesitation, ignoring the flutter in your stomach as you changed outfits three times before he arrived.

And then… again. Each time the conversation flowing more easily, the silences more comfortable, the moments of accidental touch lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

And one day, under the soft golden haze of dusk, Seungcheol kissed you.

It wasn't planned. You were walking back from a late afternoon movie, the streets bathed in that magical hour when the sun seems to paint everything in honeyed light. You had made a dumb joke about the film's predictable ending, and he laughed, really laughed, the way he used to back in high school. Uninhibited and genuine, and something cracked open between you. He stopped walking, turned to face you, his expression shifting into something serious and tender and terrified all at once.

He looked at you like he had been holding his breath for years.

"I shouldn't have waited this long," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, one hand coming up to cup your face, thumb brushing softly across your cheekbone.

You never asked what that meant. Whether he was referring to weeks of dancing around each other or years of quiet longing. You just kissed him back, standing in the middle of the sidewalk as the world continued around you, strangers passing by, oblivious to the way your universe had just realigned itself.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The relationship was slow and quiet and gentle. There were no fireworks, no chaos. None of the dramatic declarations of love you'd seen in movies or read in books. Just small things: coffee in the morning made exactly how you liked it, hand squeezes in public that said "I'm here" without words, late-night walks with no destination, just the comfort of shared silence and understanding.

It felt inevitable, like something that had been waiting patiently in the wings of your life, ready to step forward when the time was right.

The rest of your friends found out quickly. You swore Soonyoung had been waiting for it, the way his eyes widened in exaggerated shock before his face split into a knowing grin when you and Seungcheol showed up to a group dinner holding hands.

"Took you long enough," he said, grinning as he pulled out a chair for you. "I've had a bet going with Seokmin since second year of university."

You'd blushed, but Seungcheol had just laughed, his arm secure around your waist, a quiet pride in the way he stood beside you, as if finally allowed to show something he'd hidden for too long.

Even Jeonghan smiled, teasing as ever when you told him. Though you noticed he'd been the last to know, an unusual oversight that neither you nor Seungcheol had acknowledged.

"Guess I was your cupid, huh?" he'd said, raising his glass in a mock toast, lounging across from you in the café where you'd arranged to meet, his hair longer now, tied back loosely at the nape of his neck. "I always knew you two were weirdly in sync."

But sometimes, you'd catch him watching. Just for a second, expression unreadable, a flicker of something in his eyes before he'd blink and it would vanish, replaced by his usual mischievous glint.

You chalked it up to nostalgia. To the natural melancholy of seeing childhood friendships evolve, reshape themselves around new dynamics. To the bittersweet recognition that things would never be quite the same again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Two years into your relationship with Seungcheol, you found yourself alone with Jeonghan for the first time in months. He'd been traveling for work—Tokyo, Seoul, New York—his social media a blur of skylines and coffee shops in different cities. But he was home now, just for a week, and had invited you over to see his new photographs.

His apartment was exactly as you'd expected: organized chaos, walls covered in prints and postcards, surfaces cluttered with books and camera equipment. It smelled like him. Sandalwood and coffee and something slightly citrusy that you'd never been able to identify.

"So," he said, pouring you a glass of wine as you settled onto his couch, "when's the wedding?"

You nearly choked on your first sip. "What?"

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Come on. You've been together for what, two years now? That's practically married in Seungcheol-time. He's never dated anyone longer than six months before you."

You set your glass down carefully, studying Jeonghan's face. "We haven't really talked about it," you said truthfully. "We're good where we are."

Jeonghan hummed noncommittally, taking a long sip of his own wine. "He'll ask, you know. He's been saving for a ring since last Christmas."

Your heart skipped. "How do you know that?"

He shrugged, a casual gesture that didn't quite match the intensity of his gaze. "He tells me things. Some things, anyway."

There was something in his tone, not bitter, but not entirely at peace either. A complexity you couldn't quite untangle.

"Are you okay with it?" you asked suddenly, surprising yourself with the question. "With us, I mean."

Jeonghan looked at you then, really looked at you, his eyes searching yours for something you couldn't name. For a moment, you thought you saw a flash of raw emotion. Pain or longing or something in between. Before his expression settled into a gentle smile.

"I want you both to be happy," he said simply. "And you make each other happy. So yes, I'm okay with it."

He raised his glass, tapping it lightly against yours. "To the people I love most in this world finding each other," he said, his voice steady but soft, like a confession.

You clinked your glass against his, a weight lifting from shoulders you hadn't realized were tense. "Thank you," you said, meaning it more than he could know.

"Just promise me one thing," he added, setting his glass down and leaning forward slightly.

"Anything."

"Don't make me wear one of those awful groomsmen suits. I look terrible in pastels."

You laughed, the tension broken, and the conversation moved on. But later, as you were leaving, Jeonghan hugged you tighter than usual, his face buried briefly in your shoulder.

"Take care of him," he whispered, so quietly you almost missed it. "He deserves someone who sees all of him."

Before you could ask what he meant, he'd pulled away, his familiar grin back in place as he waved you off.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The wedding was in early spring, under cherry blossoms that scattered pale petals like snow whenever the breeze stirred.

A day soaked in sunlight and soft winds. The sky bloomed like watercolor: pinks, golds, and a gentle blue that looked like it had been painted just for the two of you. The venue was simple. An outdoor garden with rows of white chairs and an arch twined with flowers and greenery. Nothing extravagant, nothing that called for attention. Just like your love: quiet, steady, true.

Jeonghan stood beside Seungcheol before the ceremony, both in tailored suits that made them look older, more serious than you were used to seeing them. Through the partially open door of the preparation room, you caught glimpses of them: Jeonghan adjusting Seungcheol's tie with practiced fingers, their heads bent close in conversation, a moment of intimacy that made you pause, not wanting to intrude.

"You're shaking," Jeonghan said, his tone light as he smoothed the fabric of Seungcheol's lapel, fingers lingering just a moment too long.

Seungcheol exhaled, a shaky breath that betrayed his nerves. "You think I'm doing the right thing?"

There was a beat of silence—just long enough for something unspoken to pass between them, a current you could feel even from where you stood, unseen.

Jeonghan paused. Smiled. A smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but tried valiantly nonetheless. "You're doing the only thing that's ever made sense to you." he said, voice steady despite the slight tension in his shoulders.

He meant it. God, he meant it. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, even as something in his expression flickered. A shadow passing too quickly to identify, gone before it could fully form.

You stepped away then, not wanting to witness more of a moment that wasn't meant for you. Your wedding coordinator found you minutes later, ushering you into position for your entrance, fussing with the train of your dress, the placement of flowers in your hair.

You walked down the aisle, and the world held its breath.

Seungcheol looked at you like you were the only thing he'd ever waited for, his eyes bright with unshed tears, his smile trembling slightly at the edges. Jeonghan stood to the side, hands in front of him, heart beating slow and loud in his chest, you couldn't hear it, of course, but somehow you knew, could see it in the careful way he held himself, as if afraid to disturb the air around him.

He watched your vows. Watched Seungcheol tear up when you called him your safest place, your harbor in every storm. Watched as you slipped rings onto each other's fingers, promises made tangible in precious metal.

He laughed with the crowd when the officiant made a gentle joke. Toasted with the rest of them at the reception, glass raised high, smile fixed firmly in place.

And when it was his turn to speak, he stepped forward, raised his glass, and said:

"To the people who taught me what real love looks like. Not just the loud kind, but the quiet kind. The kind that doesn't ask for anything back."

His voice was steady, but something in it made the room fall silent, everyone leaning in slightly, drawn by the raw emotion barely contained in his measured words.

He looked at Seungcheol then, eyes soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"And to the ones who stay… no matter how much it hurts."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Most of the guests smiled, moved by what they perceived as a poetic tribute to marriage's endurance through difficulties. You smiled too, touched by his eloquence, by the depth of feeling in his toast.

Seungcheol's smile faltered for just a second. A barely perceptible crack in his joyful composure, a flash of something like recognition crossing his features before he recovered, raising his glass in acknowledgment.

No one noticed.

Except Jeonghan.

Who had seen everything, always.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Years later. The seasons had softened. Summer easing into autumn, passions settling into comfortable routines.

Your house has grown quieter. The parties less frequent, the messes smaller. You and Seungcheol had fallen into the gentle rhythm of long-term love. The kind of relationship where you could read each other's moods in the set of shoulders, the pace of breathing. Love settled differently after a few years, less like fire, more like gravity. Comfortable, warm. Something that didn't need to be named every day to be known.

You still had Jeonghan over sometimes. Not as often as before. He traveled more now—Tokyo with its neon glow that he captured in stunning night photography, Berlin where he claimed the coffee was better than anywhere else, sometimes just vanished for weeks at a time to go "find himself" in cities that didn't ask questions. But he always came back. Always found his way to your door with gifts from distant places and stories that seemed half-true at best.

This time, he brought orange wine and a new camera, sleek and vintage, another addition to his growing collection. Said he missed your cooking, though you both knew he was the better chef among the three of you. It was his way of saying he missed you, missed this, the comfort of familiar faces and shared history.

The rest of the boys came too, a reunion that filled your home with noise and laughter after months of relative quiet. Minghao and Mingyu yelling over the charcoal in the backyard, arguing about the proper way to grill meat as if their lives depended on it. Soonyoung trying to teach your dog a dance move, the poor animal looking thoroughly confused as he demonstrated what he swore was the next viral TikTok trend. Seungkwan and Hansol screaming in protest as Chan suggested yet another bizarre drinking game he'd learned from his coworkers. It was chaos. It was comfort. It was everything you'd always wanted to keep; This family you'd built, piece by piece, person by person.

You were inside plating dessert, a cake that had taken you hours to perfect, layers of chocolate and cream that you hoped would impress even Mingyu, who had become something of a food snob since starting culinary school. The kitchen was warm from the oven, the open window letting in the sounds of laughter from the backyard.

Jeonghan came in, slipping past the others and settling onto the kitchen counter with a quiet sigh. He looked tired, you noticed, not the kind of tired that came from a long day, but the bone-deep exhaustion that accumulated over years. Still beautiful, still quick to smile, but there was a heaviness to him that hadn't been there in your younger days.

Seungcheol stood at the sink, rinsing glasses, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms wet with soapy water. "You still collect film cameras?" he asked, glancing at the one slung around Jeonghan's neck, the strap worn and fraying slightly from constant use.

Jeonghan nodded, spinning it in his hands, fingers tracing the familiar contours. "They're the only way I remember things right," he said, a note of wistfulness in his voice.

Seungcheol chuckled, the sound low and warm in the quiet kitchen. "You? Forget? Mr. 'I still remember what everyone wore to the first day of high school'?"

Jeonghan smiled. Not quite sad. Not quite anything. An expression that existed in the spaces between defined emotions. "Sometimes the things you remember aren't the ones you want to."

That gave Seungcheol pause. His hands stilled in the soapy water, a glass held motionless as he turned to look at Jeonghan, something unspoken passing between them.

The conversation moved on. You returned from the dining room, handed Jeonghan a slice of cake. He teased you about the uneven icing, the slight tilt of the top layer. You smacked his arm playfully, defending your creation. Everything was normal.

But something about that moment, those words, stuck. A splinter too small to remove but large enough to feel with every movement.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It wasn't until much later that Seungcheol understood.

The evening was winding down. Mingyu and Seokmin had volunteered to drive the more inebriated members of the group home. Joshua and Jeonghan were deep in conversation on the back porch, their voices a soft murmur carried occasionally through the open window. You were showing Hansol and Seungkwan the renovations you'd made to the guest bedroom, their enthusiastic commentary echoing down the hallway.

Seungcheol was in the garage, rummaging through old boxes, trying to find the extra bulbs for the patio lights that had mysteriously stopped working halfway through the evening. The garage was cluttered. Not messy, but full of the accumulated possessions of a life built together: holiday decorations, camping equipment used once a year, tools that Seungcheol insisted were essential despite your never having seen him use them.

The evening sun had already started dipping low, casting gold through the open doorway. Dust floated in the beams as he pushed aside old photo frames and tangled extension cords, the air thick with the scent of cardboard and faintly musty fabric.

Then he saw it. An old, worn photo album, tucked under a pile of forgotten board games. The cover was faded blue fabric, corners frayed from years of handling. He recognized it instantly. Jeonghan had made it years ago, back when the three of you were still inseparable, your lives woven tightly into each other's days. A graduation gift, he'd called it, though it had arrived months after the ceremony.

Seungcheol sat on the step leading up to the house, flipping it open with careful fingers. The binding creaked slightly, pages stiff from disuse.

Page after page, his smile grew: beach trips with sunburnt cheeks and wind-tangled hair, ice cream dripping down wrists in the summer heat. Movie nights on the couch, all of you piled together under blankets, faces illuminated by the blue glow of the television. Jeonghan's questionable bleached phase that had lasted exactly three weeks before he'd admitted defeat and returned to his natural color. Birthdays, holidays, ordinary Tuesday afternoons that had somehow warranted documentation.

A history, not just of events, but of feeling. Of belonging.

And near the back, tucked into the spine, was a single polaroid. Slightly faded, edges curling. Not inserted into the album proper but hidden, as if meant to be found only by someone who knew where to look.

Just Jeonghan and Seungcheol. Sitting on a rooftop; the one from Jeonghan's old apartment, the city sprawled out below them, lights beginning to flicker on as dusk settled. The photo wasn't posed. Just a moment caught by someone passing by, you, probably, though Seungcheol couldn't remember the specific occasion. He was laughing at something off-camera, head tilted back, eyes nearly closed in genuine mirth.

Jeonghan wasn't looking at the camera.

He was looking at him.

Looking at Seungcheol with an expression so raw, so unguarded, that it felt almost intrusive to see it now, years later, preserved in chemical and paper.

And in that stillness, something lodged in Seungcheol's chest. A realization that had perhaps always been there, dormant, waiting to be acknowledged.

Because it wasn't how you looked at Seungcheol. It wasn't how Jeonghan looked at you. It was how Jeonghan looked at him.

The quiet admiration. The ache tucked carefully into the curve of his smile. That same expression Seungcheol wore the first time he realized he loved you.

Everything shifted.

Memories he hadn't questioned suddenly glowed in new light. The way Jeonghan lingered after game nights, finding reasons to stay just a little longer when everyone else had gone. The way he stood beside Seungcheol during your wedding with his hands too still and eyes too calm, a perfect best man except for the slight tremor in his voice during his toast. The trips abroad that always coincided with your anniversaries, the gifts that were always exactly what Seungcheol needed but had never mentioned wanting.

It had never been about you. It was never about you. It was always him.

"Found the bulbs!" your voice called from behind, pulling Seungcheol out of it. You stepped into the garage, brushing your hands on your shorts. "Finally. They were in the kitchen drawer with the batteries, which makes absolutely no sense, but there they are."

You saw the album in his lap. And then the photo, still held between his fingers. "Oh," you murmured, crouching beside him, your shoulder warm against his. "That's from the old rooftop place, right? The one near the station. Before they turned it into those expensive apartments."

He nodded slowly, fingers still touching the edge of the photo, as if afraid it might disappear if he let go.

You looked at him, then back at the picture. A quiet beat passed. Then you reached out, taking the photo from his hand.

"I'll ask Jeonghan if he remembers this," you said gently, perceiving but not acknowledging the shift in your husband's demeanor. "He's upstairs, I think. Said something about borrowing a book from the office."

You didn't wait for an answer. Just leaned over, pressed a soft kiss to his temple, and headed back inside, leaving him with the album and the weight of understanding.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Later that night, the house was quiet.

The others had long gone home, the remnants of a loud evening now settled into silence. Empty plates still scattered across the kitchen counter, half-empty bottles of wine waiting to be corked, the lingering scent of charcoal and laughter hanging in the air. The living room, hours earlier filled with boisterous voices and overlapping stories, now stood in hushed reverence to the night. You had gone to bed after handing Jeonghan the photo, your footsteps fading up the stairs, leaving behind a trail of soft goodnights.

Seungcheol found himself wandering through the quiet house, turning off forgotten lamps, straightening cushions, his mind racing with revelations he couldn't quite process. Each object he touched seemed weighted with new meaning; the mugs Jeonghan always used when he visited, the blanket he'd gifted them three Christmases ago, the collection of polaroids magnetized to the refrigerator. Years of friendship suddenly illuminated by a different light.

He paused when he spotted movement on the balcony through the glass door. A silhouette against the city lights.

Jeonghan was there.

He always lingered.

Cross-legged in the deck chair, beer in hand, gaze unfocused on the skyline. The soft hush of traffic below mingled with distant sirens and the occasional laughter from a neighboring balcony. A breeze smelling faintly of summer rain. The kind of night that hummed with what's left unsaid. His hair, longer now than it had been in their youth, swayed gently, catching moonlight in silver strands.

Seungcheol slid the door open, the sound causing Jeonghan to tilt his head slightly, acknowledging his presence without turning.

"You're still here," Seungcheol said, his voice barely rising above the ambient sounds of the night.

Jeonghan didn't look over. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd steal the view a little longer." He took a slow sip from his bottle, his fingers wrapped around it with familiar ease. "Besides, the city looks different from this side of town. Prettier somehow."

Seungcheol sat across from him, the wicker chair creaking under his weight. Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable, just full, like a book with too many pages to read in one sitting.

Then Jeonghan spoke, voice quieter than usual, almost lost in the night breeze. "She showed it to me. The photo."

Seungcheol's chest tightened, a familiar ache now seen through new understanding. He watched Jeonghan's profile, searching for signs he might have missed all these years. "I found it earlier," he said, because there was no point pretending. "Didn't remember it until I saw it again."

Jeonghan let out a breath that seemed to carry years. "Neither did I. Funny how time makes you forget the things you thought you'd carry forever." He traced the rim of the bottle absently, eyes still fixed on some distant point in the cityscape. "And then suddenly, there it is again. Like it never left."

Seungcheol hesitated, words forming and dissolving on his tongue before he finally spoke. "The way you looked at me in it…"

Jeonghan finally turned to him. And for the first time in years, he didn't hide behind teasing smiles or deflecting jokes. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now held only quiet resignation. "I know."

The words hung there between them, suspended in the balcony air. No denial. No dodge. Just the truth, quiet and steady as a heartbeat.

Seungcheol looked down, his fingers curling against his knees, memories reshuffling themselves in his mind. Every late-night conversation. Every lingering glance. Every time Jeonghan had stepped back, stepped aside, stepped away.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" he asked, the question barely audible above the distant traffic.

"Because you loved her," Jeonghan said simply, his smile small but genuine. "And she loves you. And I wasn't going to be the reason something good broke." He looked back out at the city, the lights reflecting in his eyes. "Some things are worth protecting, even from yourself."

Seungcheol swallowed thickly, his throat tight with words he couldn't form. "You should've told me."

"And what would that have changed?" Jeonghan asked, with the gentlest smile, no trace of bitterness in his voice. "Would you have chosen differently?"

He didn't ask it accusingly. He wasn't trying to wound.

Just… wondering.

Seungcheol didn't answer. The night air filled with possibilities never explored, paths never taken, words never spoken.

Because maybe he wouldn't have.

Maybe he still would've found his way to you.

Maybe Jeonghan still would've stayed by his side, all the same.

"I meant it" Jeonghan said suddenly, softer now, eyes tracing the skyline with practiced care. "When I introduced you two. I thought you'd be good together. And I was right." He paused, taking another sip of his beer, his throat working as he swallowed. "You balance each other. Always have."

He turned then, meeting Seungcheol's gaze with the kind of directness they hadn't shared in years. "You're happy, right? With her?"

Seungcheol nodded slowly, the truth coming easily despite the complexity of the moment. "I am."

Jeonghan smiled, and this time it reached his eyes; warm, genuine, and tinged with something that looked almost like relief. "Then that's all I ever wanted."

He stood then, stretching his arms like he wasn't carrying a lifetime between his ribs, like the conversation hadn't exposed something both of them had spent years carefully avoiding. "I'll crash on the couch. Early flight tomorrow," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Milan this time. Fashion week. Lots of pretentious people." He laughed softly, almost to himself.

Seungcheol didn't stop him.

Didn't ask him to stay.

But as Jeonghan reached the door, he spoke once more, his voice steady. "Hannie."

Jeonghan paused, hand on the door handle, but didn't turn around.

"Thank you," Seungcheol said simply. For what, he didn't specify. For stepping aside, for keeping the secret, for remaining their friend despite everything, for all the years of quiet sacrifice.

Jeonghan's shoulders tensed briefly before relaxing. Without turning, he nodded once and slipped back inside, leaving Seungcheol alone with the night and all its unspoken truths.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

That night, Seungcheol climbed into bed beside you. You stirred faintly, curling closer in the darkness, your hand brushing his chest in your sleep, fingers instinctively seeking the familiar warmth of him. The sheets rustled softly as he settled, your breathing a gentle rhythm against the quiet of the night.

He stared at the ceiling, watching shadows from passing cars slide across it like silent ghosts.

He thought of Jeonghan.

Alone on the couch.

A photo in his pocket.

A thousand miles behind his smile.

And he did nothing.

Said nothing.

Because you didn't know.

And Jeonghan… Jeonghan would never let you know.

He closed his eyes, listening to the soft cadence of your breathing, feeling the gentle weight of your arm across his middle. In the darkness, he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, a different path.

One where he had seen, had known, had understood the look in Jeonghan's eyes years ago.

But the thought dissolved as quickly as it formed. Because here, in this bed, in this life, with you. This was his choice. This was his love. And even knowing what he now knew, he wouldn't change it.

So he pressed a kiss to your forehead and let sleep find him, certain in the knowledge that tomorrow, Jeonghan would be gone again. Off to another city, another adventure, but that he would always return. Because that was the promise they had made without words: to stay, to remain, to preserve this fragile, beautiful thing they had built together, even if it meant carrying quiet heartaches no one else could see.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

So the next time they saw each other, everything appeared the same.

The inside jokes flowing easily between them. The playful teasing about Jeonghan's latest hair color and Seungcheol's growing collection of dad jokes. The way Seungcheol passed Jeonghan his drink without needing to ask, already knowing exactly how he liked it. Two ice cubes, a splash more than the usual pour. The comfortable silence as they sat side by side on the porch swing, watching the neighborhood children chase fireflies across the lawn.

To anyone watching; to you, to their friends, to the world.

Nothing had changed.

But in the moments between laughter, something in their eyes lingered. Just for a breath. A silent acknowledgment, a shared secret held carefully between them like something precious and fragile.

Not regret.

Just memory.

And perhaps, in those quiet moments, a different kind of love than either had expected. One built not on possession or fulfillment, but on the quiet dignity of knowing and being known, of choosing to remain despite everything left unsaid.

Because sometimes, love lives quietly. Between heartbeats, across the years, woven into all the words they never found the courage to say. And sometimes, the softest silence speaks the loudest truth of all.

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uncharismatic-fauna · 2 months ago

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The spinybacked orbweaver (Gasteracantha cancriformis) is a small species of spider found throughout South America, Central America, the Caribbean islands, and the southern part of North America. They can reside in a variety of habitats, but their main home is in woodlands and dense brush. They are mainly solitary, but will sometimes coexist with other colonial orbweaver spiders.

G. cancriformis is notable for its striking appearance. The head and thorax are small and , while the thorax is quite large and lined with six sharp spines. The coloration can vary throughout the spider's distribution; generally the head and thorax are black, while the abdomen can be white, black, orange, yellow, or even blue, and the spines can be red or black. Females tend to be between 5–9 mm (0.20–0.35 in) long, while males are much smaller at only 2 to 3 mm (0.1 in) long.

As an orbweaver, spinybacked orbweavers build large webs to catch their prey-- mainly small insects. Every evening, a female builds a new web and a male hangs by a single thread close by. The following morning, after consuming any insects she has caught, the female will either take down or eat the web so that a new one can be constructed the following evening. Depending on the size of her prey, she may either paralyze it with a mild venom or wrap it in webbing before consumption. There are few known predators of adult spinybacked orbweavers, due to their small size and prickly defense, but the eggs are known to be parasitized by wasps.

Spiny orbweavers only live for one year, and only mate once during that period. In the spring, males court females first by drumming on her web. If she does not become aggressive, he approaches and allows her to strap him down with silk. Following copulation, the female lays an egg sac with 100 to 260 eggs on the underside of a nearby leaf, and then dies. The male typically dies several days later; it is unknown whether he mates with other females during this period. Incubation takes 2-5 weeks, and the young mature quickly over the summer.

Conservation status: The IUCN has not evaluated the spinybacked orbweaver. However, the species has a large, widespread population, and is highly adaptable to living in urban areas, and so is generally considered stable.

Photos

Scott Nelson

Judy Gallagher

Kimberlie Sasan

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pcrdital · 3 months ago

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tobillos descansan apenas toma asiento, exhalando & esperando que calma persista un poco más, al menos allí dentro. no era su primera tormenta de nieve, las conoce bien de ese lado del continente, asumiendo con ello que sus hermanos estén tan despreocupados, además de no ser el centro de atención de acusaciones, la incertidumbre aun perturba su noche . escucha sus réplicas, coincidiendo con las observaciones obvias, pero mohín involuntario es reacción a escrutinio ajeno, casi burlona. ' solo dos segundos, ' entona, exagerando por el tiempo que apenas llevan compartiendo espacio, encontrando mirada ajena para menear cabeza, negandose a sus acusaciones. pero al final, debe dar u propia opinión: ' todos tienen un patrón. pero no, no esperaba que... astor caldwell estuviera muerto. ¿quién será el siguiente presidente?, ¿ava caldwell? ' pensaba en preguntarle a su madre, o su abuelo, como era el proceso para elegir al presidente, ¿era eso lo que el búho quería provocar? ¿era un puesto heredado?, pero duda que vayan a soltar palabra. & eso sin haberlo intentado ya la está hartando, por lo que, cambia de tema, recordando identidad ajena. ' escuché a una cox dentro. lo lamento. ' dice en voz baja, viendole de soslayo antes de ver al frente, brindandole algo de privacidad si era posible. se había topado a jelani antes, una chica joven, parecía aun estar en esa etapa de la vida que era experimentar, mas un suceso así, cambiaba a las personas. ' ¿ella está bien? '

"Ha sido una larga noche". / @pcrdital

Damien dejó caer la cabeza hacia atrás por un momento, cerrando los ojos en un intento fallido de disipar la tensión que se aferraba a sus hombros. Exhaló, largamente, antes de llevarse el vaso a los labios y darle un sorbo corto, lo suficiente para sentir la quemazón del alcohol en su garganta. "ha sido una larga noche, si" murmuró, más para sí mismo que para la joven que acababa de sentarse a su lado. Sus ojos se desviaron hacia ella, estudiándola con la misma mezcla de agotamiento y cautela que llevaba encima desde que la gala había comenzado. "primero, el desastre de San Valentín, ahora esto..." chasqueó la lengua, dejando el vaso sobre la barra con un sonido seco. "empiezo a pensar que es una tradición que cada evento termine en caos." se giró levemente hacia ella, entornando los ojos con cierta curiosidad. "tú pareces demasiado tranquila para todo lo que se ha dicho esta noche." ladeó la cabeza, midiendo su reacción. "¿o ya intuías que pasaría algo así?"

#𓏲⠀⠀🍂⠀'⠀⠀𝗶'𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗿⠀﹕⠀threads⠀.#scott summer is baaack 💐💐💐#con damien.#freejelaniii 🗣

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a-folkwhore · 2 months ago

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Heat Vision

Scott Summers x Telepathic Female reader

Warnings: MDNI 18+, explicit intimacy themes

a/n: pls let me know what characters you want me to write fics of. requests are open !

Minors dont read below the cut !

————————————————————————

The mission had gone sideways, but you and Scott made it out—barely. By the time you stumbled into the hotel room, both of you were bruised, soaked to the bone, and exhausted. You dropped your duffel near the door, your shoulders aching, body buzzing with adrenaline.

Then you saw the bed.

One.

King.

Bed.

“Great,” Scott muttered under his breath, pulling off his jacket. Water dripped from his hair, trailing down his neck. You tried not to stare. You failed.

You could feel his thoughts—the edge of tension in them. He was trying not to think about you. About your wet clothes clinging to your body. About how you’d saved him in the field by forcing your mind into his mid-fight to redirect a blast. Too intimate. Too much.

You turned away to hide your smirk. Too late, Summers. I already know.

“Stop reading my mind,” he snapped—half-hearted, because he didn’t really mean it.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said, voice low. “You’re just…loud when you’re flustered.”

He didn’t answer. Just stripped off his shirt, and God—he was built like a secret weapon. Chiseled, lean, every muscle earned through years of combat and control.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said gruffly, throwing a blanket down.

“No, you won’t.” You met his eyes—well, his visor. Close enough. “We’re both adults. And I’m not letting you wreck your back just to prove how noble you are.”

His jaw flexed. The tension in the room thickened.

You both climbed onto opposite sides of the bed.

Silence.

Then: “Are you always this frustrating?”

“Only with you.”

His head turned toward you slightly, his voice lower now. “Why?”

You hesitated. Then let a thread of thought slip into his mind, just enough to tease.

Because I’ve wanted you for months. And you keep pretending you don’t feel it too.

He inhaled sharply.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growled.

You rolled to face him. “Then stop pretending you don’t want to play.”

His hand was on you in a second.

He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years—because maybe he had. His mouth was hot and commanding, his hands rough on your waist, pulling you beneath him like he couldn’t stand another second of distance. The visor stayed on, glowing red between frantic kisses.

You opened your mind to him and he felt it—your arousal, your need, your pleasure as he ground against you, fully hard through his jeans.

“Jesus,” he breathed against your neck. “You feel everything?”

“Every. Fucking. Thought.”

And he loved it.

His hand slid under your shirt, over your bare skin, and you arched into him, moaning. His thoughts crashed into yours—She’s so soft. So warm. I want to ruin her. It made your stomach clench, hips buck.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice shaking.

“Don’t you dare.”

Clothes vanished. Your body burned. He entered you in one long, aching thrust, and the world narrowed to the way he filled you—deep, slow, perfect. His control was unraveling with every movement, thoughts spilling into yours in broken fragments of need and reverence.

“God, I’ve wanted this—wanted you—since the first time you called me out in training.”

“You’re so tight. You feel so fucking good.”

He buried his face in your neck, groaning, hips moving faster now, chasing the high you both needed like air. You clung to him, minds linked, every moan amplified, every wave of pleasure shared.

You shattered first, your orgasm ripping through both your body and your thoughts—so intense he came right after, whispering your name like a prayer as he spilled inside you.

——————————————————————

Later, after the heat cooled and his breathing slowed, he lay beside you, one hand tracing lazy circles on your hip. The visor was still on, but everything else was bare—raw, real.

“I can’t go back after this,” he said quietly. “Not to pretending.”

“Good,” you whispered, resting your head on his chest. “Because I don’t want anyone else in my bed. Or in my mind.”

His arm tightened around you.

“I guess this means next mission’s going to be hell,” he teased, smirking.

“Maybe,” you murmured, kissing his jaw. “But at least we’ll have one bed again.”

—————-

#xmen x reader #scott summers x reader #scott summers xmen #scott summers cyclops #fanfic #scott summers #smut #x men movies

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kalinara · 4 months ago

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(X-Men #24)

So this was always a really interesting scene to me. It's the last X-Men during the Krakoa era before everything goes to Hell. And honestly, I like this much better than their disagreement about the Brood.

(Surprise, I like the disagreement where my favorite is at least partially right versus the one where he's blatantly wrong.)

Tangentially, I really like the mention that Scott was directly involved in the creation of the Treehouse. I've mentioned it before, but there's this kind of never-directly-addressed thread of Scott just like building bases out of things. The Treehouse, the Summer House on the Moon, Utopia out of Asteroid M, the hideout in Weapons X, the refurbished Sentinel Facility that they're using now, arguably even the spaceship that Jean mentions him giving her in Phoenix.

Maybe that's the career that Scott should be looking into outside of the X-Men: architect. Or Interior Designer. I bet he'd be great, as long as you don't mind that your porches and balconies are also the most efficient height to be used as security turrets.

But anyway, there's a lot to think about here.

a) I think it's fascinating to see how differently Scott and Jean see Arakko. For her, it's an achievement to be proud of. For him, it's a mistake and a weapon for their adversaries.

But it's particularly interesting that the creation of Arakko happened during the first Hellfire Gala. We're leading into the third. I don't think that the Galas are happening in real time, and certainly in a few years, the rolling timeline won't allow them to be. But it's fascinating that for however long the span between Galas was, this is the first time Scott has ever actually talked about it.

Scott hasn't hesitated to be critical of Krakoan policies in the past. But he's kept his mouth shut and just...never went there. And that's a little mind-boggling in its own right when you think about it.

Scott loves space. He built their home ON THE MOON. Mars has now become the nexus point for Earth's diplomatic contact with the rest of the universe. His son is there a LOT.

And we know how he feels whenever Jean does anything particularly goddess-y. So it's a really interesting character beat that Scott has never been there. Especially since Scott being there or not being there would have no effect on whether or not Arakko can be used against them. You'd think he'd rather set up some strategic advantages in case the worst happens.

But then, it's interesting to think about how, as Krakoa continues onward, and the issues become more and more obvious, Scott's detached from all of it. The X-Men are based in New York. Not an island somewhere. Well. I mean, New York IS an island. But you know what I mean.

And I'm reminded of Scott's letter in Fall of House of X, where he reinforces that he IS an American citizen as well as a mutant. And how when it comes time to start the X-Men again after the fall, he bases them in his birthplace.

(Well, some of the events were unprecedented. But they didn't need to resettle the Sentinel Factory. They could have gone literally anywhere else as long as Illyana's still willing to teleport them.)

Scott responds to Krakoa by becoming more entrenched with humanity and Earth, and that's interesting.

b) Jean's side is interesting too. Because on one hand, Jean's articulating the more compassionate and emotional side. Love will find a way.

But at the same time, Jean's the one reinforcing the idea that they're different from humanity. She's the one saying that they've tried pretending to be the same as "them" for their entire lives and gotten nowhere.

And it's particularly interesting that she's articulating this idea while dealing with her perpetual rejection of her Phoenix side (something we won't see resolved until Krakoa's fall.)

To Jean, Arakko is an achievement, and she's understandably hurt that her husband doesn't seem inclined to share in that. (And we know he's not the kind of man who refuses to share in his wife's accomplishments.) But it's interesting that we've never seen JEAN on Arakko either. I assume she's been there since the creation, or she wouldn't be calling him out for never seeing it. But it's not a place that she seems to vibe with.

Though who knows what would have happened when they retired from the X-Men... Maybe they'd have settled in Magneto's old digs.

It would have been really interesting to see Scott and Jean dealing with the particular culture of Arakko. Jean, at least, has the requisite power level to be taken seriously. But her mindset is very different. She'd be respectful of course, but there's no real way that she'd be comfortable there.

And then there's Cyclops. Because he's definitely not an omega mutant as Krakoa defines it - he's a very decorative gun, basically. And he's no more an Arakkan in ideology than Jean is. But, rather like Storm, he's got the ability to assert himself and a morality that's more conventional than the people around him and get results. Though maybe it'd be a challenge better suited to Utopia-era Scott than Krakoa-era.

Missed opportunities maybe.

c) I kind of love how this issue leaves it open what Scott will decide. Of course, the beginning of the Hellfire Gala issue shows us that they apparently continued their conversation and Scott has agreed with her to leave the X-Men. There's no suspense about that decision.

I wonder if it would have worked. I'm guessing not for long, for either of them.

#scott summers #cyclops #jean grey #phoenix

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moonflower-ifs · 1 year ago

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✾ DEMO ⚘ FAQ ✾ CHARACTERS ⚘

The fresh air coming from the sea, the lull of the little crickets singing in the wind, and the smell of flowers growing closer the nearer you are to your uncle's house… Everything is as you remember from all the summers you spent here, in the woods, on the beach, in the nearby town. As if the time has never passed, as if stepped in directly in your memories.

Isn't it quite ironic this almost melancholic feeling, considering how much you didn't want to come here, isn't it? As soon as you got the invitation to his birthday party, you were ready to refuse, to say no. Even Maribel's attempts to convince you hadn't been enough to budge you, until one day you did change your mind… Alas, it doesn't matter the why or the hows: all that's important now is that you're almost there.

In the place where all of your friends await you, maybe this will be an opportunity to mend what has been broken, to restore the threads that have loosened… or to cut them for good. Still, you can almost taste blood on your tongue, or is it in the air?

Moonflower is strictly rated 18+ with horror nuances and mysteries. It will deal with and/or have explicit content and themes (language, sexual, drug/alcohol use, violence, and more).

― FEATURES & MC CUSTOMIZATION

Customize your MC! Choose the name, gender, sexuality, appearance, and more!

Navigate the relationships of your "group of friends" and rekindle old friendships or crushes! Or let them burn to the ground! Maybe you could even play as a matchmaker… who knows?

Romance 5 of the main characters of the game! But be careful: you never know what'll await you.

Investigate and discover mysteries and secrets around you, some more hidden than others.

Who said memories can't hurt you? Probably no one.

But the most important thing is for you to try to survive this party. Don't let the atmosphere get to you.

(With the development, things could be changed, added, or removed.)

― CHARACTERS & ROs

¬ Ashton Moon, the actor ✾ he/him, 30 [RO]

You've known him since middle school and have been friends since, or better: he was your best friend / long-lasting crush. Now he's an acquaintance at best, if not a stranger in your life.

¬ Lucrèce Wray, the heir ⚘ he/him, 32 [RO]

You've always seen him as the long-time boyfriend and then fiancé of your childhood friend, at least until recently. Now he's just the jaded and cynical heir that is threaded in your life, for better or worse.

¬ Hazel Elwyn, the pharmacist ✾ she/her, 33 [RO]

Your childhood friend, who has been with you since you could remember. The constant presence in your life, except that now she's not as present as it used to be…

¬ Zane Scott, the photographer ⚘ they/them, 32 [RO]

They've been friend with Ashton long before being yours, but Zee wormed themselves into your life just fine. As of now, their absence in yours is palpable.

¬ Marilyn Casey, the singer ✾ she/her, 31 [RO]

You've met during a party in your 20s, as a friend of your friends, it was natural for you to see her around. Strangely enough, now she's the one who's more friends with you than others.

¬ Maribel Castillo, the waitress ⚘ she/her, 28

You were the one to introduce her to your group of friends. She saw you as her best friend, and she still does. Even now, she keeps trying to reach out to you, no matter what you do or try to do.

¬ Umberto Coiro, the rich uncle ✾ he/him, 58

Your dear rich and mysterious uncle, from your mother's side, who likes to share his riches with family and friends alike. He's invited you and your friends, to his birthday party, a quite late party, to say the truth.

¬ Camilla Evans, the cousin ⚘ she/they, 35

Your dear cousin, from your mother's side. She's the only other family member your uncle invited to his late birthday party. She might not be his daughter, but Cami is as mysterious as your uncle and as, if not more, enlightening.

― LINKS & EXTRA INFO

Characters References;

Ashton / Lucrèce / Hazel / Zane / Marilyn / Maribel / Umberto / Camilla;

Moonflower's Updates;

Other Ifs;

Normal Asks / NSFW Asks;

If the title wasn't enough: yes, there'll be a lot of flowers on here.

#moonflower #moonflower if #interactive fiction #interactive game #interactive story #twine game #if wip #if game

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melpcmene-arch · 11 months ago

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A groan leaves his lips. This was a tad embarrassing, Scott thought to himself, seeking out the strength to return to his muscles, which were going to be sore since Scott laid out on the pavement. A strong blow that was, and Scott should've considered being more careful and tactic. He hears a voice. Need a hand? The voice says, and Scott could feel something prodding at him; nudging him like how you nudge someone to wake up.

The man moves, groaning once again. "I can hear you..." Scott mutters, now managing to support himself up on his feet. He's not that easily defeated. It takes more than whatever hits him to cease all of his plans. And even then, Scott is constantly pushing himself to fight what matters.

Relieved that his visor was still on, Scott snapped his attention to the other; the quickness of his head movement caused a fracture of a motion-like blur coming from his visor. The redness like a line, a testament of what dangers could lie ahead coming from a man like him; a mutant. Then it stills, the redness staring at the stranger.

"Coming from a stranger like yourself, I assume you have it in you. Plus..." He looks up and down, studying him. "You look familiar. Can I count you in?"

@melpcmene [scott] // starter call

"Need a hand?" Moving past a greeter into a clear offering of aid, his choice in question had felt like the most appropriate option, given current circumstances. Asked of a prone form, he hadn't seen the blow that caused the stranger to kiss pavement, but knew from previous experience that anything strong enough, or bold enough, to lay out a costumed hero was the sort of individual that he ought to investigate.

With such a task awaiting him on the horizon, Miguel turned to more immediate matters, issues that fell within his sphere of influence. Chiefly, that had involved crouching before the stranger, a necessary halving of height that, at a glance, perpetuated a necessary feeling, causing him to seem nonthreatening. "Hey, can you hear me?" Nudging a random limb with a foot, physical contact was kept to a minimum, a quality that increasingly distinguished him from his predecessor, alive and very much thriving in this world of the past.

"I'm here to help."

#[ THREAD ] ── * SCOTT SUMMERS ( 𝘪'𝘮 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳 ; 𝘪'𝘮 𝘢𝘯 𝘹-𝘮𝘢𝘯 )#iobartach #( idk if my scott is gonna be a little ooc 'cos i still gotta watch more and read more dkfdkf )#( but i love him all the same )

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marcyvamp1re-blog · 7 months ago

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I would like to request romantic yandere scott summers x reader where his darling has amnesia. Now I don’t know how they got amnesia but scott brings reader home from the hospital one day and takes reader home claiming the reader is his wife or husband( gender does not matter), even though they were not married before. Scott takes advantage of the fact reader has amnesia, I would also have to assume they are not at the mansion so scott can do his yandere doings

BAG OF BONES

Synopsis. You remembered nothing, not even your name, yet he wove stories with threads of gold and promises. His voice, a refuge; his gaze, a cage. He claimed to love you like never before, like always. How could you doubt someone who swore to be your everything, even if his love felt like a prison disguised as home?

pairing ── Yandere! Scott Summers x Amnesiac! Reader.

Content. MDNI ── Dark themes, violence/death, blood, retrograde amnesia, forced marriage, inappropriate touching, insolation, invasion of privacy, kidnapping?, Slight mention of pregnancy, delusion, Angst, murdering, Disturbing Content, Death of a canonical character, lgbt?, Unhealthy Obsession, Gaslight, Mental Illness, Corruption, Isolation, Paranoia, Manipulation.

A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish— Honestly, I've always been interested in the Yandere x Amnesiac theme. It's really fascinating how the psychology of the characters can be so complex in these types of stories. Also, thank you for being clear and concise in your request, and I hope you enjoy it.

They say one should never try to go back to the past, that the present is where we must live and the future what we must build. But how could you do that when you felt a piercing emptiness in your chest, a pain you didn’t understand? Your heart screamed that something was wrong, that what you were experiencing wasn’t real, that danger lurked closer than you could imagine.

The white glare of the hospital lights blinded you as you opened your eyes. You felt your body heavy, your mind clouded, and an absolute bewilderment that made you tremble. Everything felt strange, as if you were a piece out of place in an unknown puzzle. Then you saw him.

A tall man, with a firm build, wearing burgundy glasses that hid his eyes but not his excited expression. His smile lit up upon seeing you awake, and before you could say anything, his lips pressed against your forehead, your cheeks, your hair, leaving desperate and anxious kisses.

“Thank God you’re okay,” he whispered with a warm, relieved voice.

But you weren’t. You remembered nothing. Not even your name. Confusion filled you, and words wouldn’t come to your lips. He, however, seemed to have all the answers.

“I’m Scott Summers, do you remember me?” he said, taking your hand gently. His fingers were warm, but the way he squeezed them made you feel trapped—“We just got married.”

Married? The impact left you breathless. You looked at your hands, and there it was: a beautiful diamond ring along with a wedding band. Its shine seemed to confirm his words. When you looked up, you saw he wore a similar set on his left hand.

“I... don’t remember...” you started to say, but he shook his head gently.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters. I’ll take care of you.”

His voice was sweet, reassuring, and you decided to believe him. Why wouldn’t you? Everything seemed to fit: the ring, the familiarity in his gestures, the way he looked at you. But deep inside, there was something you couldn’t silence.

There was something in his smile, something in the way his fingers never stopped touching you, that made you feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like you were a butterfly trapped in a display case, admired but with no escape.

How naïve you were to think that warmth meant safety.

When he took you to what he said was your home, the confusion inside you grew heavier, more oppressive. It was a small cabin in the midst of a lush forest, completely isolated from the rest of the world. Scott explained that the distance was necessary, that you had always preferred the tranquility of nature, away from societal judgment, especially for what you were: a mutant.

“You used to say that here you could be yourself,” he murmured with a smile as he parked the car. His words were warm, but they sounded strange.

As he guided you through the house, you noticed how his explanations seemed overly rehearsed, almost mechanical. The master bedroom was cozy, with dark wooden furniture and a large bed, but there was something unsettling in how orderly everything was, as if you had never truly lived there.

“This is the guest room,” he said as he opened a door. The space was filled with tools and paint, as if it were in the process of being transformed—“I’m preparing it for something special.”

You didn’t ask for what. There was something in his tone that dissuaded you from doing so.

The kitchen, however, came with a warning. “Don’t enter here without me, okay? I want to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself?” The phrase hung in your mind as he showed you the rest of the house. Finally, you arrived at the living room, the space that unsettled you the most.

It was a mix of museum and altar. There were photos of you everywhere: smiling, reading, walking in a park you didn’t recognize. Some included Scott, his arm always firmly around your shoulders, and others showed a group of people who seemed unfamiliar yet strangely familiar.

In one of the photos, a group dressed in flamboyant, almost theatrical clothes stood out. It was a mosaic of colors and textures that evoked something lost on the edge of your memory. In the image, you were in a corner, embraced by a young woman with pink glasses who seemed a few years younger than you. On your other side, a brown-haired woman with white streaks smiled subtly, though she didn’t touch you. She seemed close, important.

However, what caught your attention the most wasn’t any of them, but a figure in the background, almost hidden behind Scott. A woman with bright red hair who seemed to look at the man with particular intensity. The photo was slightly blurry, as if someone had manipulated it or neglected it on purpose.

“Who is she?” you asked, pointing at the blurred figure before you could stop yourself.

Scott tensed immediately. His smile vanished for an instant before returning, though more forced. “Oh, just someone from the past. It doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is you and how happy we are together.”

You didn’t press. His response wasn’t enough, but something in his gaze told you that pushing was dangerous.

That night, as you tried to sleep, doubts burned inside you. Who was that woman? Why couldn’t you remember anything about your life, not even the people in those photos? And above all, why did every time you looked at Scott, the weight in your chest grew heavier, as if you were trapped in a gilded cage?

You didn’t love Scott. You couldn’t. Maybe you had at some point, but if that was the case, that love didn’t survive the accident that erased your memories. Now, he was a stranger, and his constant need for contact suffocated you. Scott wasn’t just clingy; he was voracious. Every caress felt like an indelible mark on your skin, every kiss a reminder that you weren’t free.

He adored being glued to you, almost as if he feared you would disappear if he let go. He insisted on bathing you, choosing your clothes and dressing you, his fingers grazing your skin more than necessary. He prepared every meal with devotion and served it to you as if you were a deity to be worshipped. But even those gestures, so carefully disguised as love, carried a shadow you couldn’t ignore.

“I want you to feel cared for, protected,” he would tell you with a smile as he brushed your hair. His words were sweet, but the way he said them was unsettling, as if he were convincing himself more than you.

Days passed in suffocating routines and deafening silence. Scott took you outdoors, around the cabin, making sure not to stray too far. He said it was for your safety, but you knew that wasn’t true. Every time you looked at the forest, so vast and full of possibilities, you felt a growing urge to run, to escape, even though you didn’t know where to go.

And then the flashes began.

At first, they were fleeting images, fragments that emerged when you least expected them. A smile that wasn’t from Scott. A soft laugh. Bright green eyes framed by fiery red hair. The woman from the photo.

Every time those memories surfaced, a sharp pain pierced your head, as if your mind struggled to protect you from something you didn’t want to know. But the most disturbing thing wasn’t the woman, but how you saw her: standing next to Scott, his hand in hers, their lips forming words you couldn’t hear. Happy. United. Almost as if…

No.

The first day you had that memory, you screamed in the middle of breakfast. The spoon fell from your hands as you instinctively recoiled in your chair. Scott was beside you in an instant, his hands firm on your shoulders, his eyes hidden behind glasses but his face filled with concern.

“What’s wrong, love? Are you okay?”

“I... I...” You tried to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was look at his hands, those same hands that in your visions touched another woman with the same devotion as they now touched you.

Scott frowned, his expression darkening for a moment before a nervous smile returned to his face. “It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. It’s normal, sweetheart. Take a moment.”

But it wasn’t. And you knew it.

That night, as you brushed your teeth, the mirror in front of you trembled. Not from any external movement, but because your mind was slowly breaking, releasing pieces of a puzzle you were just beginning to recognize. A flash hit you, as if a storm were dragging you to another time.

She was there, the red-haired woman you had seen before, but this time she wasn’t a blurry image. Her laughter was warm, almost contagious, and you were next to her, shy, with a small smile that barely dared to emerge. Her hand rested gently on your arm while the other figures around you joined in the conversation.

The dark-haired woman with white streaks watched you with a mischievous look, an eyebrow raised as she crossed her arms. Beside her, a young woman with pink glasses laughed loudly, patting your shoulder as if she had known you forever. Nearby, another tall woman, with deep eyes and a majestic demeanor, looked at you with a mix of understanding and affection. They all seemed to encourage something, their animated voices like a chaotic melody you could barely comprehend.

“He’s a good man,” one of them said, her tone firm but kind. “He adores you!” exclaimed the youngest, with a beaming smile. “Just go and have a little fun.”

But not all were so enthusiastic. The red-haired woman didn’t share their laughter or their words of encouragement. Her expression was softer, almost melancholic, and her eyes met yours for a long moment. When the others dispersed, she stepped closer to you.

Her hands took yours, warm and steady, and for a moment you felt more protected than you had in a long time. She didn’t say anything at first, just hugged you tightly, her embrace speaking more than any words. Leaning toward your ear, her voice was a whisper, but her words were etched into your memory.

“You have my blessings…” Her breath was shaky, and you felt her fingers tighten slightly on your back—“And I love you.”

You stepped back slightly to look at her, but her smile seemed like a mask. There was something in her eyes you couldn’t understand at that moment, something that hurt you in a strange way.

The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving you standing in front of the mirror, gasping. You gripped the edge of the sink, your fingers white from the pressure. Your reflection seemed distant, as if it weren’t yours.

Who was she? What did it all mean? And above all, why did her face, her voice, her embrace fill you with a warmth that made Scott’s love feel cold and forced?

The mirror in front of you trembled as you hit it with your hands, gasping, your pupils dilated with terror. Your reflection didn’t look like you. It was a broken version, trapped in a life you didn’t understand.

Scott appeared behind you like a ghost, his hands wrapping around your waist firmly. His warm breath on your neck made you shiver.

“You look tired, love. Let me take care of you.”

The first time you saw him in full clarity was in a dream, or so you thought when you woke up, gasping and with your body soaked in cold sweat.

You were in a dark and damp room, the air heavy with the metallic smell of blood. Your hands trembled as you held a fragile, cold, lifeless body: a woman with red hair, now dulled and stuck to her pale face. Blood stained her lips and flowed from multiple wounds on her chest, as if something had pierced her repeatedly. They weren’t normal wounds; they were small, irregular caves, burned by a heat that couldn’t be human.

Jean. Her name hit you like lightning. Jean. Now you knew, and the weight of that name on your chest made you sob as you held her against you, trying, futilely, to cover the wounds with your hands.

“No... no, please, wake up...” Your voice was a desperate whisper, broken, a lament in the void.

The sound of footsteps behind you made your body tense. You recognized them before turning around. Their walk was unmistakable: confident, calculated, almost victorious.

Scott was there. His figure was silhouetted against the dim light, his burgundy glasses shining with an unsettling glow. His face showed no sadness, no guilt. Only satisfaction.

“It had to be this way,” he said with a calm voice, too tranquil for the scene before you. His tone was gentle, almost kind, as if he were explaining something simple.

You stood frozen, your hands still holding the body of the woman, while your mind struggled to process his words.

“What... what did you do?” you managed to murmur, though your voice was barely a thread.

Scott took another step forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor. He knelt before you, ignoring the blood staining the ground and spreading like a river between you two. His hand rose to caress your cheek, and you flinched, unable to move.

“Now that she’s gone…” he continued, his tone filled with a sweetness that was terrifying—“nothing can separate us. We can be together, just as we were always meant to be.”

Your body reacted before your mind did. You let Jean’s body fall, stumbling backward, your hands still trembling, covered in her blood. “You’re crazy!” you shouted, though your voice broke into a sob at the end.

But Scott didn’t seem affected. He stood up with the calmness of someone who knows he has already won. He took a step toward you, and then another, until you had no space left to escape.

“No, love,” he said, leaning toward you, his breath brushing your ear—“I’m in love.”

The intensity in his voice paralyzed you. It was a declaration, not an explanation. He truly believed that everything he had done was out of love.

The dream, or the memory, ended there, with his face so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his skin. You woke up with a start, a muffled scream in your throat and your heart pounding in your chest.

Your hands continued to tremble as you looked around the room. You were in the cabin, in your bed, but the smell of blood still seemed to linger in the air.

“Are you okay?” Scott’s voice broke the silence. He was next to you, watching you with his typical feigned concern, his hand already reaching for yours.

You instinctively recoiled, pulling away from his touch, but you tried to hide it. Your breathing was ragged, and you forced yourself to nod. “Just... a bad dream.”

He smiled, but his eyes behind the glasses didn’t stop watching you with that intensity that always seemed to hide something more. “I’m here for you. Always.”

That night, you decided you had to uncover the truth, even if it cost you your sanity... or your life.

A/N ── Yes, it’s not a happy ending, but at least it’s an ending that leaves a lot of room for reflection. I wanted to try out a conclusion like this at some point, and I hope it didn’t make anyone uncomfortable. Thank you for reading, and if you want to request something, feel free to do so as long as requests are open. More information in the pinned comment!

Take a bath!

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rei-ismyname · 2 months ago

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Sinister fucking with Scott's head

More accurately, Sinister (the author) fucking with everyone's head. That single letter pluralising 'brother' launched a thousand crack theories and probably even more dropped plot threads. Remember when Gambit was a frontrunner for the third Summers brother, that Claremont actually 'confirmed' in The End in the most comic book way possible? I do.

The beauty of 'brothers' is that it leaves the door open for even more Summers brothers. Given enough time we'll eventually hit double digits, as if the Summers family tree is confusing enough.

I don't remember where I picked this X-Men family tree up from (TVTropes maybe?), but it's pretty out of date. If my dreams come true and we get mpreg Cyclops the whole thing will need to be redone.

#x men #x comics #cyclops #mister sinister #mpreg #vulcan #gambit #Adam x the X-Treme #marvel #comics #phoenix

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mikaylathenerd5 · 2 months ago

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Open Arms + Chapter 5

Previous Chapter ৹ Masterlist ৹ Join My Taglist

Pairing: Roman Reigns x Black Fem OC (Isla Sage Navarro)

Content Warning: The chapters of this story may contain NSFW, profanity, potential violence, age gap, and themes that may be triggering. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Intended for mature audiences only.

Author's Note: Please be aware this is kinda a slow burning romance between Isla and Roman (Joe).

Song Inspo: "Open Arms" by SZA

Word Count: 6.3k

Joe slumped on a locker room bench at the Spectrum Center, black gear stretched tight across his chest, the Undisputed WWE Universal Championship belt heavy beside him, its gold edges dulled under flickering fluorescents, scratched from three years of relentless battles. His phone lay face-down on the bench, Six Flags pics with Isla tucked in the clear case—her shy grin caught mid-laugh under the Ferris wheel’s glow, his smirk softened by the sticky haze of cotton candy, her panda prize clutched in his hands, a fragile thread woven from Atlanta’s fleeting peace. Hair yanked back in a tight bun, he rubbed his hands slow, calluses rasping against each other, dark eyes fixed on the chipped concrete floor, stained with years of boots and sweat. The belt’s weight bore into him—three years of wars, all he had left after Lena walked out two summers ago, her silence a ghost haunting the empty corners of his apartment, a tether he’d bleed to keep from snapping.

Isla lingered near the door, headset dangling loose around her neck, clipboard clutched tight against her ribs, sneakers scuffing faintly against the floor as she shifted her weight, her breath shallow in the thick air laced with leather, sweat, and the faint edge of his sandalwood cologne. Joe’s text—“Locker room. Now.”—had pinged her phone an hour ago, still humming in her chest, a tangled pulse of nerves and a quiet thrill she couldn’t shake. She watched him, his broad shoulders hunched under an invisible load, sweat beading on his neck from a pre-show gym session, a man carrying more than the gold beside him—Jey’s scripted turn, Kyla’s creeping shadow from Atlanta, a reign balanced on a knife’s edge.

“You holdin’ up, babygirl?” Joe’s voice cut through the stillness, rough and steady, a lifeline tossed across the room as he lifted his head, dark eyes pinning hers with a flicker of warmth piercing the strain, his jaw tight but his gaze softening just for her, a rare crack in the Tribal Chief’s armor.

“I’m good, Joe,” Isla said, her voice snagging on the edge of her nerves, heat creeping up her neck as she gripped the clipboard’s edges, its corners biting into her palms. “I’ll be at the monitors, watchin’ your back like you wanted. Didn’t expect you’d pull me in here first—your space, before the storm hits.”

He stood, slow and deliberate, his bulk filling the room as he crossed to her in measured strides, one hand landing warm and firm on her shoulder, fingers curling gently against her jacket, sending a shiver racing down her spine that she couldn’t hide. “You’re family now, Isla,” he said, voice low and gravelly, thumb brushing her collarbone in a steady, grounding sweep. “Out there, I’m the Chief, belt’s mine to defend—but it’s all I’ve got left after her. Keeps me sane, keeps me fightin’ through the noise. Tonight’s heavy—Jey’s script, Kyla’s mess—need you close, keep me from losin’ it. You in?”

“Always,” she said, softer now, her voice finding its footing as she met his gaze, his trust sinking into her like roots cracking through stone, steadying her trembling hands. “What’d she take from you—Lena? You never talk about it, Joe, and I—I just wanna understand.”

He stiffened, jaw twitching, a shadow crossing his face—Lena’s empty closet flashing in his mind, her last cold glance as she walked out—then softened, eyes darkening with a pain he rarely let surface. “Too much, babygirl,” he said, quieter, raw, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he leaned closer, the weight of it pressing the air between them. “Peace I didn’t know I had ‘til it was gone, time I can’t get back—left me with this—” he nodded at the belt, its gold glinting faintly—“and a whole lotta nothin’ else. She gutted me quiet-like, and I let her. But not you—not what we’ve got here.” His hand slid from her shoulder, brushing hers, then locked tight, rough fingers threading through hers, holding firm as he stepped into her space, his breath brushing her cheek, warm and steady. “Stay with me out there,” he murmured, voice a gravel whisper, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her chest ache, his thumb tracing her knuckles slow, deliberate, a silent vow carved into the touch.

“Yeah,” she breathed, squeezing back, her heart skipping hard—Six Flags flashing vivid in her mind, his deep laugh as he handed her that panda under the arcade’s buzzing lights, her fingers brushing his in that fleeting, electric moment, a memory echoing this one, charged and fragile. “More than okay, Joe—I mean it,” she added, a shy smile breaking through, her pulse racing as his grip tightened, warm and unyielding, his calluses rough against her softer skin.

“Good,” he said, smirking faintly, a flicker of relief softening the strain in his eyes as he squeezed her hand again, his voice dropping lower, softer, a thread of vulnerability woven through it. “You’re my anchor tonight, babygirl—don’t forget that. Jey’s storyline’s twistin’ my head, Kyla’s noise is clawin’ at me, this belt’s ridin’ me hard—but you’re here, and that’s somethin’ I can hold onto, somethin’ real.”

“I won’t forget,” she said, voice trembling but sure, her hand still locked in his, his warmth seeping into her as she stepped closer, needing him to hear it, to feel it. “I’m not goin’ anywhere—not tonight, not ever, if you need me. You’ve got me, Joe, all the way.”

“Need you more than you know,” he said, his smirk fading into something real, unguarded, his eyes searching hers for a beat longer, a crack in the Chief’s stoic shell showing just for her, a glimpse of the man beneath the gold. “Let’s roll then—this night’s gonna bleed out there, and I ain’t facin’ it alone.”

He tugged her gently toward the door, their hands still entwined as they stepped into the hallway, the crew’s pre-show chaos erupting around them—headsets crackling with urgent calls, boots stomping past in a hurried rhythm, voices barking orders over the hum of tension. Joe’s stride cut through the bustle like a blade, steady and unyielding, her smaller fingers nestled in his rough palm, his thumb brushing her knuckles in a steady, absentminded rhythm that kept her grounded. Crew guys darted around, heads down, oblivious to the quiet tether between them, but she felt every brush of his skin, every sidelong glance he shot her—dark eyes steady, a quiet promise flickering in them as they wove through the maze of cables and crates toward gorilla position. The roar of the crowd pulsed faintly through the walls, growing louder as they neared, and he held her hand until the last second, the curtain looming ahead like a black void. He let go with a final, firm squeeze, his fingers lingering near hers as he murmured, “Stay close, babygirl,” before stepping forward, his silhouette swallowed by the shadows and the deafening surge beyond, leaving her skin buzzing where his touch had been.

The Spectrum Center erupted as SmackDown kicked off, Joe’s music slamming through the air, a deep, menacing pulse that shook the stands from floor to rafters. Isla stood at the monitors backstage, headset snug over her ears, clipboard gripped tight in her hands, the crowd’s roar crashing over her like a tidal wave—thousands of signs thrusting high, “Acknowledge Me!” clashing with “Yeet! Yeet!” in a loyalty war thick as the Charlotte heat. A crew guy sidled up, voice low under the din, “Press pass chick’s floatin’ around—got a bad vibe, heads up,” and her pulse kicked up, unease prickling her spine like static on a live wire. Joe strode down the ramp, belt slung over his shoulder, gold catching the blood-red lights slicing through the haze, sweat glistening on his arms from the gym, Jimmy and Solo shadowing him with tight jaws and coiled steps, Heyman scurrying behind, his smirk twitching nervous under the weight of the night.

Joe hit the ring, snatching the mic from Heyman’s sweaty grip with a sharp yank, raising a hand slow and commanding, the crowd’s noise choking off into a tense, electric hush that buzzed in Isla’s bones. “Charlotte,” he growled, voice slicing sharp through the arena, thick with menace that reverberated off the steel rafters, “you’re lookin’ at the Head of the Table. Three years I’ve owned this game—every fight, every scar, every drop of blood I’ve spilled to keep this.” He slapped the belt hard, the smack ringing out like a gunshot, gold glinting under the spotlight as he held it high.

Cheers surged, a wave of sound crashing against the boos clawing back from the upper tiers, the air crackling with division, fans leaping to their feet, fists pumping. “Jey Uso thinks he’s main event now?” Joe snarled, pacing the ring, sweat gleaming on his brow under the harsh lights, his voice turning cold, bitter, each word a fist slamming down. “My little brother—runnin’ wild since we were kids—pins me at Money in the Bank for the story, turns his back in the script? SummerSlam, Tribal Combat—I’ll break him down, snap him in half, make him scream ‘Chief’ ‘til his throat’s hoarse and he’s crawlin’. We built this together—beers, late nights, big plans—now he kneels in that ring, or he’s gone.”

The crowd split wider— “Yeet!” chants surged loud from the east stands, drowned by “Tribal Chief!” roars rolling from the west, signs flashing Jey’s grinning face against Joe’s stoic reign, a war of ink and noise splitting the arena down its spine. “Jimmy, Solo—you hearin’ me?” Joe snapped, stopping mid-ring, glaring at his brothers at ringside, their faces stone-still, eyes unreadable under the flickering lights. “Step outta line in the story, you’re next—don’t test me. Cross me—anybody out there—and you’re ash under my boots. This is my ring, my war—nobody takes it, not Jey, not a damn soul.”

The arena quaked, fans split down the middle, Isla’s grip white-knuckled on her clipboard, her heart pounding as Joe’s fury filled every corner, his presence a force that bent the air itself. He paced once more, mic gripped tight in his fist, sweat dripping off his jaw onto the mat, the belt gleaming like a crown he’d kill to keep, his eyes burning with a fire that promised blood and redemption. A monitor flickered beside her—Kyla, pink jacket stark against the sea of faces, smirking from the third row, phone up, filming Joe like a predator sizing up prey, her lips curled in a taunt Isla could feel across the distance. Dread sank cold and heavy in her gut, a chill racing down her spine as Joe’s music dropped hard, the segment slamming shut, leaving the air raw, charged, and teetering on the edge of chaos.

Backstage churned with frantic energy, crew shouting over the chaos—“Cody’s promo—five minutes!”—as gear clattered against the floor, cables snaked across the concrete, and footsteps echoed off the walls like a drumbeat. Isla stood at gorilla, headset dangling loose around her neck, pulse still hammering from Joe’s fire, his words—“my war, nobody takes it”—ringing in her ears like a battle cry that wouldn’t fade. Bayley stormed up, grabbing Isla’s arm with a quick, firm yank, her eyes blazing with purpose, Naomi flanking her, braids swinging as she scanned the buzzing hallway with a predator’s focus.

“I caught her—pink jacket, third row, smirkin’ like she owns the place,” Bayley snapped, voice cutting through the noise like a whip, her grip tight on Isla’s sleeve as she pulled her forward. “We’re not waitin’ around for her to slink closer—she’s not touchin’ the Chief, not after that X post crap in Atlanta callin’ you out. Let’s move, Isla—now.”

“Outshine her ass, Bayley,” Naomi said, smirking, leaning in close, her voice dropping low and fierce as she matched their pace. “Heard her braggin’ to catering staff ten minutes back—divorce dirt, loud and proud, like she’s got gold. Talent entrance—we hit her there, catch her cold.”

“Corner her,” Bayley growled, a dark grin tugging her lips as she released Isla’s arm, her stance shifting like she was itching to lunge, her boots scuffing the floor with restless energy. “Make her spill whatever poison she’s cookin’—every damn word—then she’s gone. I want her sweatin’, trippin’ over her own lies before security drags her out.”

“We’ve got you, Isla,” Naomi said, her hand landing firm on Isla’s shoulder, steadying the jittery shake in her bones, her grip warm and unyielding like steel wrapped in velvet, her eyes locking with Isla’s for a beat. “She’s been too damn close—press pass or not, she’s done slippin’ through. We’re endin’ this tonight, no question.”

“Let’s end it,” Isla said, her voice settling into steel, Kyla’s “sidepiece” jab from Atlanta burning fresh in her mind, Joe’s hand in hers minutes ago fueling her spine with fire that wouldn’t quit. “She doesn’t get near him—not after everything, not now.”

“Bloodline don’t bend,” Bayley said, nudging her side with an elbow, her eyes glinting with a fierce kind of pride, a smirk flashing quick as she straightened. “She’s about to learn—mess with us, you’re dust on the mat.”

“Talent entrance—she was there twenty minutes ago,” Naomi said, voice low, all business, her hand flexing like she was ready to strike, her gaze darting down the hall as she took the lead. “We move quiet, catch her slippin’—no noise, no heads-up, just us.”

A crew guy shuffled past, tray clattering in his hands, muttering under the noise, “Pink jacket—Kyla—laughin’ it up with Wrestling Insider near catering, thick as thieves.” Isla’s gut twisted tighter, the words sinking like lead as they started walking, steps syncing into a steady, purposeful rhythm through the maze of crates and cables stretching down the corridor. Ahead, a flash of pink darted around a corner—Kyla’s jacket cutting through the shadows like a flare—and her laugh sliced the air, sharp and taunting, a sound that set Isla’s teeth on edge, her fists clenching at her sides until her nails bit into her palms. A crumpled note lay half-tucked by a crate, “Joe” scrawled in red ink, jagged and bold, like a threat scratched in haste, its edges curling from the damp concrete.

The talent entrance stretched narrow and dim, crates stacked high along the walls, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, casting jagged shadows that danced across the concrete floor. The crowd’s cheers for Jimmy and Solo’s tag match rumbled through, a low pulse vibrating under their feet, syncing with the tension coiling in the air. Kyla leaned against a crate, pink jacket glaring under the flicker, smirking down at her phone, lip curling as she typed fast with one hand, her posture casual but coiled, a snake waiting to strike, her green eyes glinting cold and sharp in the half-light.

“Well, look at this—press princess herself,” Bayley said, stepping up slow, voice dripping venom, arms crossed tight as she planted herself in Kyla’s path, her boots scuffing the floor with intent, her shadow stretching long across the crates. “Takes some guts showin’ up here, Kyla—real guts after you tried draggin’ Isla through the mud on X. What’s the play—more chaos with that pass, huh?”

“Hey, Bayley,” Kyla shot back, cool and cutting, dangling her press pass between two fingers like a taunt, her smirk widening as her gaze flicked up, sharp and mocking, her voice laced with a smug edge. “Just here for the show—all legal, signed and sealed by management. Joe ghosted me—fan signing, ‘22, walked right past me like I was air, ignored my DMs for months after. Guess I wasn’t hot enough then—now he’s gonna pay for it.” Her eyes sliced to Isla, narrowing cruelly as her smirk twisted tighter. “Still sore from Atlanta, huh, wallflower? Clingin’ to him like he’s yours—he’ll remember my name this time, not yours.”

“Cut it,” Isla said, stepping forward, voice hard as steel, clipboard creaking under her grip as she squared up, her pulse hammering loud in her ears, Joe’s hand in hers a burning memory fueling her spine. “You don’t touch Joe—not after everything he’s carried, not after Atlanta. What’s with the note—why’s his name on it? Talk, now.”

“Caught that little breadcrumb, did you?” Kyla laughed, cold and jagged, leaning closer, her breath brushing Isla’s face, her smirk curling into a sneer that bared her teeth. “It’s a gift for your precious Chief—just wait ‘til SummerSlam. I’ve got somethin’ that’ll hit him where it hurts, and you’re way outta your depth, sweetheart—go back to your clipboard and your sad little dreams.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Naomi snapped, lunging forward, slamming Kyla against the crate with a hard thud that echoed off the walls, her hands pinning the pink jacket tight, eyes blazing like coals in the dim light, her voice a growl that vibrated with fury. “Isla’s us—you’re trash, slitherin’ where you don’t belong, and you’re done.”

“Easy, Nao—hold it,” Bayley barked, grabbing Naomi’s arm, pulling her back with a quick jerk, her voice tight with control, glare locked on Kyla like a hawk sizing up prey. “Let her dig her hole deeper—keep talkin’, princess, let’s hear it.”

“I’ve got Lena on tape,” Kyla hissed, smirk twisting wider, brushing off her jacket like the shove was nothing, her tone dropping low and vicious as she leaned forward, green eyes glinting with malice. “Caught her in Tampa—sobby mess, cryin’ about Joe breakin’, fallin’ apart after she left him. SummerSlam, I drop it—his reign’s done, his whole damn myth crumbles. Got more too—divorce papers, whispers he’s losin’ it—watch it burn.”

“You don’t,” Isla said, voice rising, stepping closer still, heat flaring in her chest as she faced Kyla down, her hands trembling but her stare unflinching, Joe’s “you’re family” echoing loud in her skull. “He’s stronger than you’ll ever know—he’s fought for this, bled for it, carried more than you could dream—you’re nothin’ to him, nothin’ to us!”

“Sidepiece’s got bite now,” Kyla mocked, leaning in, her words dripping venom, green eyes glinting cruel as she bared her teeth in a taunt that cut deep. “Joe don’t care about you, sweetie—you’re a fling, a distraction, just like Lena was ‘til he broke her and left her cryin’. You’re nothin’—a warm body ‘til he’s bored, and I’ll be the one he can’t shake, the one he sees when it all falls.”

“You don’t say that,” Bayley roared, lunging this time, snatching Kyla’s arm and yanking her forward hard, fury sparking in her eyes like a live wire, her voice a snarl that bounced off the crates and filled the tight space. “You don’t know shit about him—or Isla. You’re finished here—done, you hear me?”

“Get your hands off me!” Kyla snapped, wrenching free with a sharp twist, glare darting between them, her cool cracking for a split second, a flash of panic flickering under the bravado before she steadied herself, brushing her jacket again. “You can’t stop what’s comin’—his reign’s ash when I drop this, and you’ll all choke on it, every last one of you pathetic losers.”

“You’re wrong,” Isla said, voice steady now, tears prickling hot but held back, staring Kyla down with everything she had, her spine straight, her fear burning into fire as she stepped into Kyla’s space, close enough to feel the heat off her. “Joe’s tougher than you’ll ever understand—he’s fought through worse than you, bled for this family, this belt, this life. We’re tougher—me, him, all of us—and you’re done breaking anything. SummerSlam’s ours, not yours, and you’ll be the one forgotten.”

A security guard rounded the corner, boots heavy on the concrete, radio crackling sharp in the tight space, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “Trouble here?” he asked, voice gruff, eyeing the standoff, hand hovering near his belt, his bulk filling the hallway like a wall cutting off Kyla’s retreat.

“She’s out,” Naomi said, pointing at Kyla, voice cold and final, her stance rigid, no room for argument, her eyes locked on the pink jacket like it was a target painted in neon.

“This ain’t over,” Kyla hissed, backing toward the exit slow, her smirk strained as a USB slipped from her pocket, hitting the floor with a faint clack—red “K” stark against the black plastic, glinting under the buzzing light like a dropped blade. “He’ll curse the day he met me,” she muttered, low and venomous, her eyes darting to the USB with a flicker of panic before she turned, bolting around the corner, the guard trailing her shadow with a grunt, his boots echoing after her into the dark.

“We’ve got it,” Naomi said, crouching quick, scooping up the USB and turning it in her hand, eyes narrowing at the “K” like it was a loaded gun primed to fire, her fingers tightening around it as she stood. “Lena’s voice on this? We crack it—now, before she doubles back with worse.”

“You held your ground out there,” Bayley said, hand landing on Isla’s shoulder, a firm squeeze cutting through her adrenaline haze, her voice softening just a notch with pride as she gave a quick nod. “You faced her down—damn proud of you, girl. Tell Joe—she’s not sneakin’ up on him, not with us in the ring.”

“SummerSlam’s her move,” Naomi said, slipping the USB into her pocket, voice dropping grim and certain, her eyes flicking to the hallway where Kyla vanished, her braids swinging faintly as she shifted her weight. “She’s got Lena cryin’ on tape, pushin’ Joe’s fall—Joe needs this tonight, before she twists that knife any deeper.”

Joe sat in the locker room, elbows braced on his knees, wrists freshly taped, jaw locked tight as the promo’s high faded into a slow, gnawing unease, the belt a heavy shadow beside him on the bench, its edges scratched from years of battles he’d won and lost. The door swung open with a creak—Isla stepped in, clipboard hugged close, Bayley and Naomi trailing her, their steps echoing sharp off the concrete walls, the air thick with tension and purpose that settled over the room like a storm cloud rolling in.

“Joe,” Isla said, voice low but urgent, stepping closer, meeting his eyes with a mix of fear and fire, her hands trembling around the clipboard as she stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his frame. “Kyla was here—backstage, right under us. She’s got Lena on tape, says it’s droppin’ at SummerSlam—meant to gut you, break you down.”

“What’s her angle?” Joe growled, rising slow, his voice a snarl as he pinned them with a look that could cut steel, hands flexing at his sides as he stepped toward her, his bulk shrinking the room, his eyes narrowing sharp and dangerous.

“Talent entrance, flashin’ that press pass like it’s a damn crown,” Bayley said, arms crossed tight, tone sharp as she leaned against the wall, her boots scuffing the floor with a restless edge, her jaw tight with barely contained fury. “She’s got Lena cryin’—caught her in Tampa, sobbin’ about you breakin’ after she left. Wants to blow it up at SummerSlam—turn your scars into her spotlight.”

“She’s got no damn right,” Joe snarled, fists clenching, Lena’s name hitting like a fresh bruise, her quiet exit two years back flashing in his mind—the empty apartment, the silence that cut deeper than any blade—his voice dropping darker as he glared at the floor, the concrete blurring under his stare. “That’s mine—my life, my pain—not her plaything to twist.”

“She dropped this,” Naomi said, stepping forward, holding up the USB, red “K” glaring under the fluorescent light, her fingers steady as she held it out, her voice grim and unyielding. “Lena’s voice is on it—she’s got Wrestling Insider tied in too, some reporter named Travis ready to run it. She’s loaded, Joe, and she’s aimin’ straight.”

“She’s turnin’ my past into a damn circus,” Joe said, snagging the USB from Naomi’s hand, rolling it between his fingers slow, voice low and dangerous, like a storm rumbling closer, Lena’s ghost twisting in his gut with every turn of the plastic. “Lena on tape? Cryin’ about me? She’s dust when I’m through—dead in the water.”

“I should’ve stopped her,” Isla said, her voice breaking, tears spilling hot down her cheeks as she stepped closer, hands trembling around the clipboard, her eyes searching his, wide and raw with guilt and fear. “Kept her away from you, from this—I let her get too close, Joe, and I hate it.”

“Nah, babygirl,” Joe said, his hand sliding to her neck, warm and firm, grounding her as he pulled her in, thumb brushing her jaw in a steady sweep, his voice softening but fierce, cutting through her spiral. “You fought for me out there—stood up to her, faced her down. That’s more than I could ask, more than enough. I missed her comin’—Atlanta’s on me, her X post, her games—not you.”

“I’m not lettin’ her cut you,” she said, voice trembling, raw and open, gripping his arm tight, her fingers digging into his sleeve, needing the anchor as tears streaked her face, her breath hitching. “Not after everything—the belt, Jey’s story, all you’ve carried—I can’t let her hurt you more, Joe, I can’t.”

“She won’t,” he said, pulling her closer, his hand cradling her neck, holding her gaze steady, his voice a quiet vow in the dim light, fierce and unshaken as he pressed his forehead to hers for a fleeting beat. “We’re locked in, you and me—through this mess, through all of it. She don’t get to touch us—not you, not me, not what we’ve got here.” He pulled back, turning to Bayley and Naomi, tone hardening again, all business. “We break this open—now, together, figure out her whole damn game before she swings again.”

“Nao’ll burn right through it,” Bayley said, smirking, leaning off the wall to cut the heaviness with a quick jab, her arms uncrossing as she stepped closer, her eyes glinting with fight and a flicker of mischief.

“Before you yeet her out an airlock,” Naomi fired back, a quick grin flashing as she crossed her arms, leaning into the banter, her stance easing just a fraction under the tension, her fingers tapping the USB in her pocket.

“Tech guy’s our next move,” Naomi said, voice steady and grim, her eyes flicking to Joe with a nod as she straightened, all focus again. “She’s still out there, reloadin’—we need this cracked tonight, Joe, before she gets another shot off.”

“You good?” Joe asked Isla, voice dropping quieter, stepping back but keeping his hand on her neck, eyes searching hers, checking for cracks under her tears, his thumb brushing her skin slow and steady.

“Yeah,” she said, a shaky smile breaking through, steadying under his look as she wiped her cheek with her sleeve, her voice firming with resolve as she met his gaze. “I’m good—I’m all in, whatever it takes to stop her, to keep you whole.”

“You’re gold, babygirl,” Joe said, smirking faintly, his hand grazing her arm slow as he stepped back, pocketing the USB with a tight grip, a flicker of pride in his eyes that warmed her through. “Tougher than she’ll ever know—tougher than me some days, and that’s the truth.”

In catering, a TV looped Joe’s promo on mute, the “Acknowledge Me” chant a faint hum through the walls, the air heavy with coffee and the faint tang of sweat from passing crew. Isla sat alone at a folding table, laptop open in front of her, USB plugged in, the “Tribal Chief” folder staring back—locked tight behind a password prompt that mocked her every attempt. “Lena_Tape.mp3” glared in red text, “Access Denied” blinking after each failed guess—Reigns2023, Bloodline, Chief, SummerSlam—each miss a jab at her resolve, her fingers hovering over the keys, steady but tense, her glasses slipping down her nose from hours of strain. Kyla’s “Lena’s tears” echoed loud in her skull, a dagger twisting, but Joe’s hand in hers, his quiet trust over diner coffee in Chapter 4, the panda he’d won her at Six Flags—those lit a fire she wouldn’t let die. She’d rip this open for him, no matter how deep it cut, no matter how long it took.

A crew guy shuffled by, tray clattering in his hands, muttering, “Main event’s wrapping—ten minutes,” and she glanced up, the clock ticking past 10 p.m., the night stretching long and heavy over her shoulders. She typed another password—Lena2021—watching it fail, her jaw tightening as she leaned closer, the screen’s glare burning her eyes until they watered, her hands curling into fists on the table, nails biting her palms. Kyla’s smirk from the crowd flashed in her mind, phone up, filming Joe like she owned him, and Isla’s breath hitched sharp, a surge of defiance flaring in her chest—she wouldn’t let her win, not Joe, not the crew, not this fight, not after everything they’d built together.

Production hummed as SmackDown wound down, the main event—Drew, Kevin, Sami vs. Judgment Day—fading out with a roar that shook the walls, crew packing gear into crates with sharp clangs that rang off the concrete. Joe leaned against a monitor, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes distant but sharp, the USB a weight in his pocket, its red “K” a taunt he couldn’t shake. Bayley and Naomi flanked him, quiet but alert, their presence a steady wall against the chaos, their shadows stretching long under the overhead lights that buzzed faintly. Isla approached, laptop tucked under her arm, the USB’s echo heavy in her mind, her steps slowing as she neared him, her throat tight with what she hadn’t cracked yet, her glasses fogging slightly from the heat of the packed space.

“Anything?” Joe asked, voice tight, straightening as she got close, stepping into her space, his eyes locking onto hers with a mix of hope and strain, his jaw clenched under the weight of the night, his breath faintly audible over the crew’s clamor.

“I tried,” Isla said, voice steady now, holding his gaze as she set the laptop on a crate beside him, her hands steady despite the ache in her chest, the sting behind her eyes. “Folder’s ‘Tribal Chief,’ file’s ‘Lena_Tape.mp3’—locked up tight. Need my college tools, more time—couldn’t break it yet. I wanted to hand you something solid, Joe—I’m still diggin’.”

“You’re solid,” Joe said, hand resting on her shoulder, warm and sure, cutting off her doubt before it sank, his voice firm but soft as he squeezed gently, his fingers pressing into her jacket. “You got us this far—put a name to her game, gave us a target. That’s more than I had when I walked off that ramp tonight.”

“Lena cryin’ on tape?” Bayley growled, leaning in, voice low and pissed, her arms crossing again as she glared at the floor, her boots tapping restless against the concrete. “That’s cheap—even for her. What’s she sayin’?”

“Wrestling Insider’s her gun,” Naomi said, arms still crossed, eyes sharp, stepping closer to the monitor, her voice cutting clean through the noise. “She’s got this Travis guy locked in—means she’s loaded, Joe, not just talkin’. Lena’s voice, divorce dirt—she’s got reach, and she’s aimin’ to bury you.”

“She’s turnin’ my scars into clickbait?” Joe snarled, rolling the USB in his hand again, jaw tight, Lena’s exit twisting into a knot he couldn’t untangle, his voice rising with a dark edge that silenced the crew chatter nearby. “Lena cryin’ for her mic? She’s over—done, outta moves when I get my hands on this, and she’ll wish she never stepped in my ring.”

“I’ll crack it at the hotel,” Isla said, stepping closer, resolve hardening in her voice as she met his eyes, her hand brushing his arm, a quiet promise in the touch as she straightened her glasses. “Get my software, dig in—I’ll get it open, Joe, I swear it. Whatever’s on it, we’ll know before she can use it, before she gets another swing.”

“Bet on it,” Joe said, smirking faintly, his hand lingering on her shoulder a beat longer, thumb grazing her jacket as he held her gaze, pride flickering in his eyes like a spark catching flame. “You’re covered—we’ve got your back, babygirl, same as you’ve got mine.”

“Tech queen’s risin’ up,” Bayley teased, nudging her side with an elbow, a quick grin breaking through her scowl, lightening the air for a split second as she leaned back against a crate.

“Who’s feedin’ her—Travis?” Naomi said, voice firm, already plotting, her hand flexing like she was ready to hunt, her eyes darting to Joe with a sharp nod. “Wrestling Insider’s just the mouthpiece—someone’s talkin’ to him, givin’ her this ammo.”

“We’re locked in,” Joe said, voice hard, eyes sweeping them all, landing on Isla last, steady and fierce, a quiet fire burning behind them that made her chest tighten. “She swings at us, she’s hittin’ the ground—hard. We don’t bend, don’t break—not for her, not for anybody, not tonight.”

The Charlotte Marriott room sat quiet, city lights filtering soft through the curtains, casting faint stripes across the carpet that stretched toward the bed, the hum of the AC a low drone against the silence pressing in heavy after the night’s chaos. Isla perched on the edge of the mattress, red silk pajamas catching the dim glow, glasses slipping down her nose as she hunched over her laptop, the USB plugged in, its red “K” a taunt in the corner of her eye that wouldn’t quit staring back. The “Tribal Chief” folder mocked her, “Access Denied” flashing after hours of failed passwords—Reigns2023, Bloodline, Lena, SummerSlam, Chief2021—each miss a bruise on her resolve, the clock ticking past 11:30 p.m., her eyes burning from the screen’s relentless glare, her hands cramped from typing, fingers stiff and aching.

A knock broke the stillness—11:47 p.m., sharp and steady against the quiet, cutting through her spiral like a lifeline snapping her upright. “Isla, it’s me,” Joe called, voice muffled but warm through the door, a sound that pulled her from the edge, her heart tripping over itself. She padded over, barefoot on the carpet, the cool floor a shock against her soles as she cracked the door open—his hoodie hung loose over his broad frame, hair free from its bun, spilling wild over his shoulders, eyes soft but tired, flickering over her silk set with a quick, approving glance that made her flush, heat blooming under her skin.

“Still grindin’ away, huh?” he said, stepping inside, smirking faintly as he leaned against the wall, arms crossing casual over his chest, his presence filling the room like it was made for him, his voice a low hum that eased her frayed edges, cutting through the silence with a familiar steadiness.

“Yeah,” she said, pushing her glasses up, gesturing at the laptop on the bed, voice quieter now, frayed at the seams from hours of failure that gnawed at her. “File’s locked tight—can’t get in yet, no matter what I throw at it. I wanted to crack it for you tonight, Joe—give you something real to fight with, something to hit her back with.”

“Stop that right there,” he said, cutting her off, stepping closer, his hand lifting her chin gentle but firm, thumb swiping a tear she hadn’t felt fall, his eyes locking onto hers with a steady warmth that sliced through her doubt like a blade. “You’re a fighter, babygirl—Kyla’s the rat here, not you. You’re killin’ yourself over this, and you don’t need to—not for me, not for any of it. You’ve done enough tonight.”

“She can’t hurt you,” she said, voice breaking, tears spilling faster now as she stepped into him, her hands fisting his hoodie, dampening it with her fear, her glasses pressing into his chest as she pressed closer, needing his solidity. “Not after everything—the belt, Jey’s story, all you’ve been through—I can’t let her cut you deeper, Joe, I can’t stand the thought of it.”

“She won’t,” he said, pulling her in tight, one hand cradling her head, fingers threading through her hair slow and deliberate, his breath warm against her scalp, his voice a quiet vow that wrapped around her like armor against the dark. “We’re iron, you and me—she don’t stand a chance, not against us, not against what we’ve got goin’. Lena’s on that tape? Let her cry—I’ve carried worse, and I’m still standin’. She’s got nothin’ that breaks us, babygirl—nothin’.”

“Got it,” she mumbled, voice muffled against his chest, clinging tighter, his heartbeat steady under her cheek, a rhythm she could sink into, her hands trembling less with every thump, his warmth chasing the cold from her bones as she pressed her face closer, breathing him in—sandalwood, sweat, safety.

“You’re haulin’ too much on your own,” he said, easing her back toward the bed slow, sitting against the headboard with a groan, guiding her down until her head rested on his chest, silk brushing his hoodie, his arm settling around her, heavy and safe, his hand stroking her back in lazy circles that melted the tension from her spine. “Family’s got you—let it go for tonight, huh? We’ll hit it fresh tomorrow—together, like we said, no rush, no weight you gotta carry solo.”

“Thanks, Joe,” she whispered, her voice fading as her eyes fluttered shut, tension bleeding out under his warmth, his hand steady on her spine, a silent promise in every touch that she wasn’t alone in this, that he wouldn’t let her fall.

“Anytime,” he murmured, voice soft, barely above a breath, his lips brushing her hair as he reached over, sliding her glasses off with care, setting them beside the USB on the nightstand, the red “K” glinting faintly in the dark like a distant warning. “You’re enough—just like this, just you.” He shifted, pulling her closer, his arm tightening around her as they drifted off, tangled together in the quiet, the city lights soft outside, a truce holding them in the dark, the fight paused but burning bright for the morning.

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