#upright script

[chromeography]

1955–56 Buick Special (photo by Elise Carlton)

[goosegooosegeese]

hand lettering practice

rhodia dot pad

[hoshifighting]

idk if someone asked you this but i’m a new reader and I REALLY REALLY LOVE YOUR WORKS!!!

can you please make wonwoo, the nerdy president who u thought was innocent and sweet but he’s the one behind ur fave nsfw audio creator???? AND HE’S A HARDFUCKER.. not what u expected tho..

i don’t know if i make sense but please pretty please 😭☝️

Synopsis: where you discover that the nerdy class president is the one man who creates the most nasty NSFW audios that you spend long nights listening to. WC: 2.8k WARNINGS: smut, audio porn, masturbation, hard fuck, dirty talk (obviously), bad sleeping habits (because of wonwoo), fingering, spanking, dirty talk, pussy eating, penetrative sex, protected sex, wonwoo whining, a lil invasion of privacy.

you’ve been running on fumes all day, the hazy buzz of sleep deprivation clinging to your brain like static. it’s no surprise, really. your night had gone the way it always does: you got home, flopped into your chair, threw on your headphones, and let onyx_lens—your favorite nsfw asmr creator—drag you under with that stupidly deep voice of his.

it was kind of pathetic, actually. you barely remember what the script was about—something about obedience or whatever—but you do remember the sound of his voice sinking into your brain like warm honey, making you cum so hard that you blacked the fuck out right after. now here you were, bleary-eyed and trying to stay upright in literature class, the regret of last night’s poor choices catching up with you.

wonwoo, the class president who was somehow both effortlessly chill and annoyingly observant, had been glancing at you every few minutes. you could feel his eyes on you as your head dipped forward for the third time, only to snap back up like a busted bobblehead.

but, in true wonwoo fashion, he didn’t say anything. no scolding, no judgmental sighs—just quiet observation.

when class finally ended, you were ready to yeet yourself into a nap for a solid 72 hours. you were shoving your stuff into your bag when wonwoo’s voice cut through the noise.

“you good?”

you froze. his voice wasn’t the same as onyx_lens’s, obviously, but it had that same deep, smooth timbre that made your brain short-circuit for a second. it didn’t help that his question sounded so much like something out of an nsfw script. you turned to face him, hoping your face wasn’t giving away how flustered you suddenly were. “uh—yeah,” you said, shaking your head a little too quickly. “just tired.”

wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “not sleeping well?”

your brain screamed. your tired, half-horny brain screamed louder. the overlap of his voice and onyx_lens in your head was un-fucking-bearable. you managed to nod, muttering something about late nights and deadlines, hoping he wouldn’t pry.

he didn’t, but his next question wasn’t much better.

“think you could help me with the sci-fi project? your last lit analysis was good, and i could use the extra pair of hands.”

you blinked at him. “me?”

he nodded, adjusting his glasses. “you. unless you’re too busy with...whatever’s keeping you up.”

oh, you mean my nightly sessions with onyx_lens and my vibrator?

you swallowed hard and tried to play it cool. “nah, i can help.”

and that’s how you found yourself standing outside wonwoo’s apartment later that evening, clutching your bag. his place was exactly what you’d expect from him—minimalist, neat, and smelling faintly of coffee.

“come in,” he said, holding the door open for you. “make yourself comfortable.”

easier said than done. you perched awkwardly on his couch as he set up his laptop on the coffee table, your eyes darting around the room in an attempt to ignore how nice his voice sounded in person.

“so,” he began, sitting across from you, “any ideas for the project?”

you cleared your throat, trying to focus. “uh, maybe something about robots and humanity? like, exploring ethical dilemmas or something.”

wonwoo nodded thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your skin heat. “good idea. we could tie that into the main themes from class.”

he leaned forward slightly, scrolling through a document on his laptop, and you couldn’t help but notice how his glasses slipped down his nose. you were so not prepared for this level of proximity or his stupidly deep voice.

“you okay?” he asked again, glancing at you.

you blinked, realizing you’d been staring. “yeah, just...thinking.”

his lips twitched into a small, knowing smile. “good. let me know if you need a break or...anything.”

the way he said anything sent a shiver down your spine. you weren’t sure if it was exhaustion, residual arousal from last night, or the sheer presence of wonwoo in his element, but your brain was a mess.

you were supposed to be helping him with this project, but all you could think about was the way his voice would sound whispering in your ear, saying things that would make onyx_lens blush.

you were so close to winning the “most pathetic college student of the year” award it wasn’t even funny. after much back-and-forth with wonwoo, class president of your downfall, you somehow convinced him to let you walk home alone. except the man still went all soft and paid for a taxi anyway, which, like… thanks? but also stop being so nice, what the hell.

it was nearing 11 p.m. when you got home, and as if on cue, your phone pinged with a notification: onyx_lens’s weekly live is starting.

you stared at it for a second, blinking in disbelief. today’s theme? "neon circuits and orgasm denial (a cyberpunk experience) 8d audio"

sci-fi-themed. of fucking course.

you almost laughed at the audacity of the universe for this one. was this some sort of cosmic joke? was wonwoo onyx_lens?! no way. no goddamn way. you shook off the thought as delulu nonsense and dragged yourself to the bathroom for a quick sponge bath.

by the time you flopped into your chair, headphones on, the live was already in full swing. that voice—that stupidly deep, velvety voice—flooded your ears as the chat buzzed with unhinged comments. onyx purred, and you were done for.

you couldn’t even focus on the sci-fi plot he was spinning, something about rogue androids, monster cock, neon vibrators and human experimentation. his voice wrapped around you like a silk chokehold, and you were gone—just a vibrating mess in your chair, coming undone embarrassingly fast.

fast forward to the next morning: you woke up feeling like a used dishrag. again. headphones still on, your phone dead, and the memory of last night’s live replaying in your brain like a broken record.

by the time you dragged yourself to class, you were running on fumes and vibes. your hoodie was scrunched up around your face, making you look like a cross between a gremlin and an overgrown baby.

wonwoo noticed. you could feel his eyes boring into you as you tried—and failed—to stay upright. you were so close to just giving in and laying flat on the floor. honestly, it might’ve been comfier than your chair at that point.

wonwoo, sitting two rows away, looked like he was internally debating whether to intervene or let you rot in peace. when the bell rang, you startled awake like you’d been electrocuted, nearly knocking your stuff off your desk in the process.

“you okay?” he asked, falling into step beside you as you shuffled out of the classroom like a zombie.

“i’m fine,” you mumbled, voice muffled by your hoodie. “just need food. like, now.”

you detoured to the convenience store on the way to his apartment, snagging an entire kimbap roll and tearing into it like a starving animal. wonwoo followed behind, holding your water bottle with a look that was equal parts judgment and amusement.

“you couldn’t wait?” he asked, watching as you ate half the roll in one bite.

“bro,” you said around a mouthful of rice, “if i didn’t eat this, i was gonna pass out on the cold asphalt. your problem now, mr. class president.”

he rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, just handed you your water like the reluctant babysitter he was.

this was going to be a long afternoon.

you couldn’t help yourself. the suspicion had been eating away at you for weeks now, ever since you first heard his voice in class and that nagging sense of déjà vu set in. wonwoo had escaped to the bathroom, and you had the perfect opportunity to snoop.

your fingers hovered over his notebook, but then your gaze darted back to your own screen. back and forth, back and forth. his notebook. yours. the coincidences were piling up like a conspiracy wall in your head. the voice, the specific vocabulary choices, even the cadence—how did i not notice this earlier?!

“fuck it,” you whispered to yourself, grabbing his notebook and quickly pulling up the site where you normally streamed your favorite asmr creator. just to check. just to confirm your theory.

your heart pounded as the site loaded, every second dragging like molasses. the channel page opened, and at first, it seemed normal. too normal. you almost clicked away, feeling stupid for even suspecting anything.

but then you saw it: edit profile. analytics.

your breath caught, and a sharp scoff escaped you as you crossed your arms. oh, my god. the realization hit you like a freight train. it’s him. wonwoo. class president. sci-fi nerd. “how the fuck did i not notice?” you muttered, half impressed by his audacity.

you were so lost in your spiraling thoughts that you didn’t hear him return—until his voice, practically kissed your earlobe.

“what. do. you. think. you. are. doing?”

you jumped so hard your knee slammed into the underside of the desk. whipping around, you found wonwoo standing over you, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight.

“uh—nothing?” you stammered, trying to slam your laptop shut, but his hand darted out and stopped you.

“‘nothing’ doesn’t look like you snooping through my computer,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

your cheeks burned. “okay, fine, maybe i was curious—”

“you were curious?” his tone sharpened. “curious enough to invade my privacy?”

“invade your—bro, you’re literally whispering dirty robot sex fantasies to the entire internet. how is that private?”

“that’s different!” his ears flushed a deep red, and you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. “that’s content. this—this is personal.”

you rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “oh, please. you’re mad i figured it out. admit it.”

he leaned closer, towering over you now, his hand pressing down on the desk beside you. “what do you want, huh? blackmail? are you gonna tell everyone?”

you laughed, loud and incredulous. “tell everyone?! dude, relax. i’m not gonna expose your little side hustle. besides…” you smirked, tilting your head to look up at him. “you should be thanking me. clearly, i’m a fan.”

wonwoo’s eyes darkened, and his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. 

“you’re a what?” he asks, your pulse skyrocketing as he stepped even closer, crowding you against the chair.

“did i stutter?” you whispered, the challenge clear in your tone.

his mouth crashed onto yours, teeth and tongue and frustration. you barely had time to process it before he was yanking you out of the chair, his hands rough as they gripped your hips and spun you around.

“you want to act like a brat,” he growled into your ear, his voice so reminiscent of his asmr persona that it made you roll your eyes back slighty, “then you’re gonna get treated like one.”

he bent you over the desk, the cold surface pressing against your chest as he yanked down your college skirt and underwear at once. his fingers slid through your folds, already slick just from being around him.

“so fucking wet,” he muttered, almost to himself. “you get off on this, don’t you? knowing it’s me.”

“shut your mouth,” you gasped, but it came out more like a moan as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them and pressing them hard on your front wall.

“make me,” he challenged, his other hand coming down sharply on your ass. the sting made you gasp, your hips jerking against his hand as you tense on the desk.

the pace of his fingers was relentless, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrusts. every part of your body was starting to be feveirsh, and you hated—hated—how easily he was unraveling you. you spent nights thinking about how it would be if onyx fucked you, and here you are. of course you would be a mess in a second.

“sorry” he mocked you. “am i too much for you?”

you clenched around his fingers, your nails digging into the desk as you tried to hold back a moan. “you talk too fucking much actually wonwoo,” you hissed.

“yeah, that's what's paying me at nights” wonwoo chuckled darkly, pulling his fingers out and flipping you onto your back with his big arms. before you could protest, he was kneeling between your legs, his mouth suddenly hot and insistent against your core, better than any other vibrator you insisted on using at night.

the sounds—the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue—mixed with your whimpers as he devoured you like a man starved. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as you tried to squirm away from the overwhelming sensation.

“stop—”

“stop?” he looked up, his chin glistening. “not until you admit i’m your favorite.”

you glared down at him, breathless and defiant. “you’re such an asshole.”

“and yet…” he smirked, diving back in and flicking his tongue against your clit until your head fell back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

it didn’t take long before you were coming undone, your body shaking as his mouth pulled your clit. wonwoo didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down, dragging out your orgasm until you were a trembling, incoherent chaos beneath him.

wonwoo doesn’t waste a second after pulling back, his hands flipping you over again so you’re bent over the desk, your cheek pressed to the cool surface as he grinds against you. the thick outline of his cock rubs against your dripping folds, still covered by the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants. you gasp, your hips jerking back involuntarily, and his pearly-white smile flashes above you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost smug, as a dark spot begins to spread on his sweatpants from your slick. “you’re soaking me through.”

the way he emphasizes the word makes your back contort in shivers, but you’re too far gone to care. your fingers claw at the desk as he keeps humping against you, his pace quickening. when he finally pulls back, you hear the shuffle of fabric as he yanks down his sweatpants and briefs. the soft clink of a drawer opening catches your attention, and you crane your neck to see him sliding on a condom.

“you’re still melting all over my desk,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your ass. “can’t even wait for me, huh?”

before you can respond, his hand comes down sharply on your ass, the sting making you gasp. he doesn’t stop, spanking you again and again until your skin is flushed and burning.

“you look so pretty like this,” he says, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before gripping your waist and lining himself up. “all messy and desperate for me.”

when he pushes in, stretching you inch by inch until you’re full and breathless, pussy trying to clench at his big grith to adjust. wonwoo groans, his head falling forward as he sinks in to the hilt.

your walls flutter around him, and he moans at the feeling, the sound so real and raw that it sends a jolt straight to your core.

“talk to me,” you manage to gasp, your voice muffled against the desk.

he chuckles, his pace picking up as he leans down to whisper in your ear. “you want me to talk dirty? you want me to tell you how tight you are? how good you’re taking me?”

you moan in response, your hips bucking back against him as his words send you curling.

“yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he continues, his voice thick with lust. your moans grow louder, and he suddenly remembers the videos you must’ve listened to—the whining, the moaning. the thought makes his stomach flip, and he decides to give you exactly what you want.

he starts letting out soft whimpers, his voice breaking with each thrust, the sounds spilling out almost involuntarily. “fuck, babe, you’re gonna make me cum—”

the genuine desperation in his voice drives you wild, and your body clenches around him, pulling him deeper. he groans, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave marks, but you don’t care.

“please,” he moans, his voice high and strained. “let me cum for you. let me—fuck—”

you push back against him, meeting his thrusts as your own climax builds, your breaths coming in short, broken gasps. the room is filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies moving together, and the tension snaps all at once.

you come hard, your body shaking as you cry out, and wonwoo isn’t far behind. his hips stutter, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills into the condom, his body trembling with the force of it.

he collapses over you, his chest heaving against your back as you both try to catch your breath. after a moment, he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck, his voice still hoarse as he murmurs, “guess i’m a little better live, hm?”

you just let out a defeated moan, the coldness of the table soothing your hot cheeks.

“keep quiet about this, and i'll keep giving you more.” well, it's just an excuse that wonwoo said to fuck you over again.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWELVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe rolled over, squinting against the sunlight breaking through the shitty broken blinds he'd meant to replace weeks ago. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and before his eyes were even fully open, he swiped it up.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low growl, all gravel, and irritation.

The voice on the other end was professional. "Mr. Cameron? We’re calling to follow up on your father’s properties. There are a few—"

Fuck off.

Rafe cut them off with a sharp exhale, rubbing his temples.

He didn’t let them finish. "Yeah, I know what you’re calling about. I’m not dealing with that right now, okay? Call someone else."

"Sir, you are listed as—"

"I said call someone else," He snapped, hanging up before they could launch into another scripted response. He tossed the phone onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

It had been months since Ward died, and somehow, his name was heavier now than it ever was when he was alive. Everyone wanted something—answers, signatures, money. All things Rafe didn’t have or didn’t care to deal with.

The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, ready to tell whoever it was where to stick their questions, but it was just a reminder about his plans with Topper. For half a second, he considered texting back: Can’t make it. Something came up.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he shoved himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands.

The dream the call robbed him of was still vivid. For a moment, he forgot where he was—his room felt colder, and emptier, and the bed might as well have been a mile wide.

In the dream, you were eighteen again, and so was he. Back when things were simpler—or maybe just felt that way. Back before he’d ruined everything.

He could see it so clearly: the two of you sneaking out of some party you didn’t want to be at, your hand locked in his as you ducked through the dark streets. You’d been laughing, trying to shush him because he couldn’t stop cracking dumb jokes.

You ended up at the dock by your uncle’s boat. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like a million little promises. He remembered how you’d sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, your hair falling into your face as you smiled at him like he was the only person in the world.

The dock, your laugh, the stars—those were the good parts. But he remembers what you were going through back then, and it hit him all over again.

You’d just lost everything—your parents, your sister, gone in an instant. The private plane went down, and so did the life you’d always known. He remembers the way you’d talk about them—your family—late at night when it was just the two of you. Your voice would crack, and your eyes would shine with unshed tears, but you’d talk anyway. About your dad teaching you how to sail, your mom’s tenderness, the way your sister used to be your role model.

He hadn’t thought about those nights in years, but now they come rushing back, all tangled up with the dream. He still wasn’t strong enough for you back then. He let his own shit get in the way, let his insecurities and his anger twist everything good between you over the years. And when he walked away, he left you to deal with the wreckage of your life and his own cowardice.

He threw on a shirt, and some old shorts, didn’t even bother fixing his hair. No one was going to care—not like anyone was looking to him for anything these days anyway. He stomped down the stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck, pretending like he didn’t spend the night dreaming of your face. 

Wheezie was at the kitchen counter, cereal in front of her, scrolling her phone.

She didn’t glance up when she heard him, "You look like shit."

Aw, nothing like a teenager. 

"Good mornin’ to you too," Rafe grumbled, heading for the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap like it had personally offended him, “You’re really settling in, huh?"

Wheezie snorted, not looking up from her phone. "Rose stuck me here with you. What else am I supposed to do? I’m just trying to survive." 

“It’s two days."

He hadn’t exactly planned on babysitting Wheezie while Rose was out of the country, he hadn’t planned on much lately

"Two days too many," she shot back, smirking. "You going somewhere?" 

Rafe slammed the fridge shut, twisting the cap off his water.

"Why are you stomping around like that?" 

"Not fuckin’ stomping," Rafe muttered, leaning against the counter.

"You are," she scowled, shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "You sound like a baby elephant."

Rafe glared at her, but she just shrugged, unfazed. "You’re up early. What’s the occasion?"

"Just woke up, okay?" he snapped.

"Jeez, someone’s in a mood," Wheezie rolled her eyes. "What’s your deal?"

"No deal." He took a long sip of water, staring out the window.

"Can you drop me off later?" she changed the topic, her tone too casual to be innocent.

Rafe side-eyed her. "Drop you off where?"

"Poguelandia.”

His hand froze halfway to the trash can. "You’re kiddin’."

"Nope," Wheezie said, popping the “p.” She didn’t even look at him, scrolling on her phone like this was just a normal request.

"You know Sarah’s there, right?"

"Yeah, that’s kinda the point," Wheezie finally met his glare. "She texted me. Wants to hang out."

Rafe scoffed, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash. "Since when are you and Sarah talkin’?"

"Since forever," Wheezie pursed her lips, "Just because you two can’t stand each other doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with her. Also," She adds, "there’s a party happening later. Like, nothing crazy, but… y’know."

He hadn’t been around much for his little sister lately—shit, not for a long time, if he was honest with himself. After their dad died, he kind of just… checked out. Too much of his own crap to deal with. But Wheezie didn’t ask for any of that.

"Nothing crazy," Rafe repeated flatly, his arms crossed.

"Relaxxxx,” She shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "Just drop me off. I’ll figure out a ride back."

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Wheeze, do you even know what you’re walking into? Pogues don’t fuck with us."

"I wonder why….” She hummed, waving him off. “I’ll be fine, they don’t hate me."

"Yeah, well, they hate me."

"Good thing I’m not you.” Wheezie fired back, hopping off the stool.

Yeah, good thing.

"And it’s not just a party. I’m visiting Sarah, too."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Rafe rolled his eyes, "Here’s the deal: I’ll drop you off—"

She perked up, her face lighting with hope.

"—but on one condition," he cut in, smirking just enough to make her suspicious.

He hadn’t really spent time with her in ages—not since Ward died. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just…easier not to. Easier to stay away, to let the silence pile up.

The real issue was that, for the longest time, he’s been gone for a reason. He didn’t want to be here. It was easier to be numb by being drunk or high. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his sister—it was just that it was too painful, and complicated.

Yesterday, his therapist had told him to invest time in his sisters. To be there for them, to reconnect, because they were his only real family left. Whezzie he could do, Sarah? 

Only time would tell. 

You have to show up for the people you love. Even if it scares you.

It scared the shit out of him, honestly.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You come with me and Topper on the boat first," he said, folding his arms tighter like he’s already won.

Wheezie groaned, slumping back in her chair. "Seriously? What part of not showing up on a yatch is this?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Why? So I can sit there and listen to you two talk about girls you’ll never get and beer brands you can’t pronounce?"

Rafe glared at her. "It’s not up for debate. You wanna go to fuckass poguelandia? You’re comin’ with us. End of story."

At least he was trying—trying to do something for her, to make up for the time he’d lost, the ways he’d been absent or worse. Even if he still sounded like an asshole most of the time.

"Fine. Whatever. I’ll go with you and Topper. But you owe me big time.”

The whole idea of being present was terrifying, it ruined him when he was a teenager, but he couldn’t keep hiding from it. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“I’ll buy that stupid cereal you like.”

"Lucky me."

"Alright, smartass," He grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, trying to ignore her smug look. "What do you even eat besides cereal? You’re gonna starve or some shit.”

"I’ll survive. You, on the other hand…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his unkempt pantry. "You look like you could use a babysitter."

Rafe let the corners of his mouth twitch. "You’re an asshole, y'know that?"

“You’re my brother, what did you expect?”

It was just the two of them in his big, empty condo. He might not have been much of a role model—or even a decent older brother—but for the next two days, he could try.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbled, grabbing her phone off the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rafe said dismissively, turning toward the door. “Be ready in ten.”

Wheezie, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of her head, stomped back upstairs, probably to change into something less “little sister on a boat” and more “teen rebel” or whatever the fuck kid’s liked these days. She could dress however she wanted as long as she didn’t make him regret dragging her into this.

Rafe leaned against the truck while he waited for his sister. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep in a nervous rhythm. It wasn’t about the boat—he didn’t even know why he’d suggested it. Maybe it was just an excuse to keep her close for a little longer before dropping her into pogue territory. He missed her.

An hour later, he was pulling the truck into the dock’s gravel lot, the tires crunching as he rolled to a stop. Topper was already there, lounging on the boat, a beer in one hand and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

Wheezie hopped out of the truck before Rafe even had a chance to cut the engine. “God, does he ever not look like a wannabe country club poster boy?”

Rafe smirked as he climbed out.

“Rafe! Wheezie!” Topper called out, spreading his arms wide like he was greeting royalty. “What’s up, losers?”

Wheezie snorted, marching toward the boat. “Nice shorts. Did Vineyard Vines have a clearance sale, or did you just raid your dad’s closet?”

“Stop being ruthless,” Topper glanced down at his pastel pink swim trunks, feigning offense. “These are a classic.”

“A classic embarrassment,” she fake gagged, stepping onto the boat.

Rafe followed her, shaking his head. “Play nice.”

“Fantastic,” Topper drawled, “There’s two of you today.”

“You make it too easy.” Whezzie dropped onto one of the cushioned seats and leaned back, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes. “What’s the plan, Captain Douchebag?”

Topper raised his beer in a mock toast. “The plan is sailing.”

“Wow. Revolutionary.”

Rafe chuckled, untying the boat and giving it a shove off the dock. “Just sit back and relax, Wheez. We’ll drop you off later.”

Topper’s head snaps up, “Drop her off where?”

"Where do you think?" Rafe leaned over to check the boat's engine. He didn't bother looking at Topper, already waiting for the inevitable reaction, “Sarah's.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Topper held up a hand like he was stopping traffic. "You're taking her to Poguelandia? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not your problem," Rafe grumbled, starting the engine. The low hum drowned out part of Topper's rant, but not enough to miss the gist.

"Not my problem? Dude, the second you step foot over there, it's everyone's problem. She’s there too, y’know? Stopped by earlier to make peace…She changed her gate’s code. And the lock.”

The gate code. The lock.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

For years, it had been the same—just like the keys he used to have to your place. Just days ago, the gate had swung open just like it always did, the same code he’d memorized like it was second nature.

You hadn’t changed the code, hadn’t swapped the locks. He’d half convinced himself it meant something, maybe you weren’t ready to fully let him go, either.

Rafe’s hands stilled on the throttle. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his jaw tightened all the same. Topper, of course, noticed immediately.

"See? This is what I’m talking about," Topper leaned back in his seat, spreading his arms like he was laying out some grand revelation. "Where do you think she’s staying at? It’s fuckin’ obvious. We show up, and it’s gonna stir shit up.”

It was almost like you’d left the door cracked open for him. Just enough to make him believe there was still a chance. Now he wasn’t so sure. Had his visit been the final straw? Had the sight of him standing on the other side of your door—looking desperate and pathetic—been the thing that made you decide to shut him out completely?

You didn’t let him in, but you’d opened up the door. After everything he’d put you through, it was your way of protecting yourself. Shutting the door so he couldn’t come crashing back in.

Topper’s voice snapped him back to reality, “You even listening to me, man?”

Rafe blinked, forcing himself to re-focus on the boat’s controls.

“Yeah. I heard you. ’m not staying. Just dropping her off."

“We’re dead meat.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Topper knew better than to keep talking, the conversation ended there.

For the next twenty minutes, the boat cruised over the water, Rafe kept on steering, letting Topper and Wheezie chatter away behind him. He wasn't really listening—hadn't been for most of the trip—but every now and then, Wheezie's laughter or Topper's exaggerated storytelling pulled him back just enough to remind him they were still there.

When they finally dropped anchor near the sandbar, Topper leaned back, cracking open another beer as he stretched out under the sun.

"Alrigh’, who wants to make a toast? First outing of the month, gotta celebrate properly!"

Rafe shook his head, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler instead. He twisted off the cap and took a long sip, ignoring the way Topper raised a brow at him.

"Wait a second," Topper said, sitting up slightly. "You're not drinking?"

The fact his best friend sounded surprised was reason enough to stay sober. He didn’t like being scrutinized.

"Nah," He waived off, leaning back against the seat and letting the sun warm his face.

He’d made the choice not to drink before they even left the dock, but it didn’t stop the instinct—the small urge to crack open a beer and let the eventual numbness take over like it usually did.

Topper looked between the beer in his hand and Rafe, "You serious? Could've told me, wouldn’t have brought all this shit."

“Yeah, sure you wouldn’t have.”

"Fair," Topper admitted, "Still, man. That's… good. Like, really good."

Wheezie, who had been scrolling on her phone, perked up at the exchange. "Yeah, Rafe. I think it's awesome."

Proud. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to him. Maybe you, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him and seen something worth being proud of.

He shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

But it kind of was. Because sitting there, sober and fully present for the first time in months, he realized it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. He’d been drinking non-stop—first to deal with his dad’s death, then to quiet the guilt, and then to forget you.

The therapist had called it “self-medicating.” Rafe had scoffed when she first said it, she didn’t know what she was talking about, but the longer the sessions went on, the harder it was to deny. Drinking had become a way to drown out the memories and feelings he didn’t know how to face. 

The therapist had suggested he take a break from drinking, just for a while. “You don’t have to stop forever,” she’d said. “Just give yourself a chance to feel what’s really going on.”

Yeah, because that sounded like fucking fun. Sitting with his feelings. 

But something about today felt different. He couldn’t explain it—maybe it was Wheezie’s not hating spending time with him after all the stunts he pulled, or the way Topper had thrown himself into planning this trip like he was trying to cheer him up—but for once, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in alcohol.

It wasn’t like drinking had helped anyway, if anything, it made it worse. The mornings after, when the hangover hit and he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, let alone call you to apologize for everything he’d done wrong. 

So, yeah. Maybe the therapist had a point. 

He glanced at the cooler full of beers and liquor that Topper had dragged aboard. “Don’t feel like it today.”

Topper was still eyeing him like he was an alien, while Wheezie had gone back to scrolling her phone, but every now and then, she'd glance up at him, like she was checking to see if he was still there—if he was still him.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental shit," Topper declared, "Let’s make this a proper day. Who’s up for some wakeboarding?"

Wheezie groaned, flopping back dramatically. "You two are so predictable. Wakeboarding, really? What’s next, golf? A steak dinner? Gonna break out the cigars and talk about how much you love cripto?"

Rafe snorted, tossing a towel at her. "Wheez, you screamed your head off last time you tried it."

“Yeah, because I nearly died!" she threw the towel right back at him.

"You were fine.”

“You said I was fine while I was choking on lake water.”

Rafe smirked, standing up to adjust the rope for the wakeboard. “Builds character.”

“Builds trauma,” she retorted, kicking her flip-flops off and stretching her legs out over the seat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when I’m suing your ass.”

“Good luck with that.”

She tilted her chin up with a satisfied grin, “I can now, thank you very much. I’m an adult.”

“You turned eighteen two weeks ago. Chill with the big-girl talk.”

Topper cracked up from the other side of the boat, pointing his beer at her like it was a microphone. “She’s got you there, big bro. Maybe let her drive the boat next.”

Wheezie perked up instantly. “Wait, can I?”

“No,” Rafe deadpanned.

“Why not?” she whined, her entire body deflating.

“Because last time you tried, you almost ran over a dock,” Rafe tugged the line to make sure it was secure.

“Okay, that was one time, and I was learning,” Wheezie argued. “You’ve done way dumber stuff.”

Topper leaned over, watching the exchange like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. “This is amazing. You guys should fight more often.”

“Shut up,” Rafe and Wheezie said in unison, which only made Topper laugh harder.

The afternoon passed quickly, filled with sun, water, and Wheezie’s relentless commentary. She refused to try wakeboarding again, opting instead to sunbathe and heckle them from the safety of the boat. Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh so much—or the last time he’d felt this calm.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the water in shades of gold, Rafe slowed the boat to a gentle drift. Wheezie was sprawled out with her headphones in, her phone propped up on her stomach. Topper had passed out in the corner, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. Rafe sat at the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other dangling over the side. The cool water lapped at his fingertips, calming him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about the mistakes he’d made or the people he’d lost. He wasn’t drowning in guilt or regret. He was just… there, present. It didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would

Rafe cut the engine as the boat drifted closer to the dock. The sight of Sarah’s house on the Cut came into view. It wasn’t a kook mansion or some pristine estate—just a house that Sarah and her friends had claimed for herself.

The second the boat bumped against the dock, Wheezie sprang up, tugging her bag over her shoulder. Rafe was quick to follow, throwing the rope around a cleat to tie them off.

“You’re not getting off, are you?” Wheezie asked, looking over her shoulder with her brows furrowed.

Rafe stepped off the boat, sneakers hitting the creaky dock with a purpose. She rolled her eyes when she realized he wasn’t staying behind like she hoped.

“You don’t need to come,” she grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I do,” Rafe said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not letting you walk in there alone.”

“She’s our sister, not some random stranger,” Wheezie stomped down the dock.

She might as well have been.

Rafe grabbed the bag she was struggling with and followed her toward the weathered building at the end of the pier. Sarah’s place wasn’t just a house; it was a business. A small café-slash-bait shop that catered to the locals. The painted sign hanging over the front door read Cut Cafe in faded lettering, with a little drawing of a fish under it. 

He hated it.

Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it wasn’t theirs. It was Sarah’s—a piece of her new life that had nothing to do with him or Wheezie or anything resembling their family. Another reminder of how far he hadn’t gone.

If he was being honest—something he rarely let himself do—he missed her. Not the Sarah she was now, but the sister she used to be, before the huge fights, before she looked at him like he was some kind of monster. Before Ward.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ward had made sure Rafe would never get to have what Sarah did. She was the golden child, Dad’s favorite. And Rafe—he was just there, a constant disappointment.

It wasn’t that he hated her; it was that he hated what she represented.

Approval he’d never get, a life he wasn’t good enough for.

It was ironic, really. He used to resent Sarah for being Ward’s favorite.

Now he resented her for being yours.

Rafe scowled as the sound of the party reached his ears, even from the dock. Music thumped loud enough to vibrate the air, shouted conversations, and the occasional crash of something—probably a bottle—shattering.

Someone let out a loud whoop, followed by the unmistakable sound of people chanting for a keg stand. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning with every passing second. He wasn’t in the mood for this juvenile shit.

“You're way too comfortable here,” he scoffed under his breath as Wheezie marched ahead, her steps confident. It pissed him off more than it should have.

“Maybe because Sarah doesn’t treat me like I’m still twelve,” Wheezie shot back, smirking at him over her shoulder.

Rafe ignored the jab, his eyes scanning the small crowd outside.

A couple of Pogues lingered near the porch, laughing over beers and baskets of fries. Their relaxed, judgmental stares followed him like they could smell the kook entitlement on him from a mile away. He bristled, tightening his grip on Wheezie’s bag.

She bounded up the steps and pushed open the door, the bell above it jingling. He hesitated for half a second before following her inside, knowing he was going to regret ever stepping foot in this place.

The air smelled like beer, fried food, and sunscreen. Behind the counter, Sarah stood with her back to them, her hair tied up in a loose bun.

Wheezie cleared her throat loudly. “Hey, Sar!”

Sarah turned, her smile faltering the second she saw Rafe lurking behind Wheezie. Her expression hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” Rafe said dryly, crossing his arms.

“I told Wheezie to come by. Not you.” Sarah’s eyes flicked to Wheezie, softening just slightly. “You didn’t need to bring a bodyguard.”

“I wasn’t gonna let her wander around here by herself,” Rafe shot back, his voice low and defensive. He hated the way Sarah’s words hurt, hated that her disapproval still got under his skin after all this time.

Sarah rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped out from behind the counter. “Wander? She’s not a toddler. She knows how to get here. It’s safe.”

Wheezie stood between them, looking like she was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes so hard she might fall over. “Okay, can you two stop? It’s embarrassing.”

Sarah sighed, brushing past Rafe as if he wasn’t even there.

“Whatever. You can go now. Wheezie’s fine here.”

He stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed, glaring at the locals who cast curious glances his way. It wasn’t worth staying.

Wheezie was safe.

Sarah would make sure of that, whether she hated him or not.

With a sigh, hr pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the porch, letting the door slam behind him. He took a deep breath of salty air, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’d barely made it to the dock when he spotted someone climbing off the boat—

“Dude,” Rafe’s brow furrowed as his friend stepped onto the creaking wood. “Thought you were scared shitless of this place.”

“I’m not scared,” Topper lied through his teeth.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, “Right.”

“We ran out of snacks on the boat, and I’m starving, figured I’d raid the stash at the party.”

“Snacks?”

“I’m starving!” Topper argued, throwing his hands up. “And unless you brought a secret bag of chips somewhere, this is my best shot!”

He sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to change Topper's mind. “Hurry up.”

“Relax, I’ll be two minutes!"

He watched Topper jog away, sighing and leaning against one of the wooden posts. 

You were probably in there, somewhere. Laughing, maybe, or smiling that smile he used to wake up to, a smile that used to be for him.

Now, it was for everyone but him.

He tried not to think about you, but that was like telling the ocean not to rise and fall with the stupid tides. Therapy had taught him to sit with his feelings, to not let them rot into something worse, but he was just starting and you weren’t just the girl he loved.

You were the only person who had ever seen him for more than his name, his mistakes, or the wreckage Ward Cameron had left in his wake. You didn’t just tolerate him; you chose him, since day one.

He didn’t deserve you, not then, not even now. 

The sound of footsteps broke his focus.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, turning. But it wasn’t Topper.

Sofia stumbled into view, her dark hair wild and face flushed. Her hand gripped the railing for support as she swayed slightly.

He frowned, mildly concerned, “What the f—are you okay?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frantic. “Y-You need to go get Topper. Right n-now.”

His first thought was that she might’ve come here to throw some drunken, slurred insults his way.

The last time they'd spoken, things had ended...He didn’t even know how to classify that mess. But it didn't look like she was there to slam him with any guilt-trips or hurtful words.

She just looked scared.

“What?” His brows knit together as he stepped toward her, “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

Sofia waved him off, her breathing panicked. “The T-thorntons.”

That stopped him cold.

“What about them?”

She tried to grab his arm, her eyes wide, “They’re fighting. It’s bad.”

“Fighting?”

It couldn't be just some random fight; this had everything to do with the bullshit Topper had pulled.

Shit.

Rafe wasn’t even sure if he could fix it. Could he? You hated him too, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like you’d never forgive him for everything he’d fucked up. But Topper—Rafe didn’t even have to think twice.

He knew you, how you were when you’d had enough. You weren’t the type to lose your shit unless it was really bad.

He gritted his teeth, knowing full well that when you finally let it out, it was never just a “throw a drink and move on” kind of thing. Nah, when you lost it, it was like you’d been holding all this shit in for way too long and finally decided you weren’t gonna take it anymore.

He knew exactly what you were pissed about.

Topper. Of course. And him. Fuck.

He hated it.

The way your voice would rise when you finally let everything out.

You weren’t someone who yelled, but when you did? Jesus fucking Christ, it hit different. Rafe could never prepare himself fully for that kind of fury, especially when it was aimed at him. 

He hated seeing you like this, especially when he knew it was because of him. But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

Rafe’s thoughts were a mess as he followed Sofia, who was clearly way over tipsy, stumbling a little, but she was still trying to explain, voice slurring a bit from the alcohol.

“You gotta understand—she was helping me. I wasn’t feeling so great, right? M-my head was spinning, I don’t know… I just needed a little space. But then Topper walked in and he...S-she just lost it.”

He wasn’t even surprised when she mentioned that you’d been helping her out. Of course you would.

You always had that side to you. Even when you were pissed, even when you hated people, you couldn’t help but step in when someone was in need. You hated Sofia, and everyone knew it. You hated the fact that she’d come around right after he’d fucked everything up with you. You hated how fast she seemed to take your place, even though Rafe didn’t want to admit it to himself either.

Still, there you were, trying to make sure Sofia was okay, again. It made him feel like shit. Not just because you were still holding it together when he couldn’t, but because he knew the whole fucking reason you probably didn’t want anything to do with Sofia—because of how it’d felt when he’d jumped into something else so quickly, so recklessly, after breaking your heart.

The sound of raised voices reached him before he even saw you. He could hear the anger in your voice. There was no mistaking it: you were pissed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you this way, and it fucked with his gut. You didn’t lose control easily. You never let anyone see the mess, the shit you were going through.

Now you were ripping into Topper in a way that made his blood run cold. He rounded the corner and saw you, hands flailing, and he couldn’t help but wonder: When was the last time anyone stepped up for you? It certainly hadn’t been him. Not the way he should’ve.

And then, of course, there was Topper. He could see the look on his face—guilt, embarrassment. But it wasn’t going to be enough. You had to work through it yourself.

Your shoulders were tense, the way you stood, like you could snap anyone who walked through that door in half if they so much as blinked the wrong way, was all too familiar.

Your cousin was standing in front of you, trying to apologize like it was gonna fix anything, but you weren’t hearing it. No, you were done with that shit.

Topper wipped his hands down his ruined shirt, green smears of guacamole spreading across the fabric. “I fucked up.”

“No shit,” you hissed, “You don’t get to come back from this. You have no idea how fucking sick I am of you—” Hands shaking as you shoved him back, your words coming out in short bursts, "You're the fucking worst. How could you—"

You were about to throw something—probably another drink—when your eyes snapped over to Rafe.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw your breath hitch. You froze, eyes wide for a second, and then your expression soured.

Your lip quivered before you sucked in a breath and squared your shoulders.

"Not you too,” you sneered, throwing your hands in the air as the world had just dropped another pile of shit on your already full plate. “Oh my fucking god, seriously?"

Your face was flushed with anger, lips twisted in a snarl. You were so fucking beautiful, even when you were fuming. He could see the fire in your eyes, that same spark he’d fallen for all those years ago. You were just... you. And it was killing him.

He was so fucked. 

“All of you—” You spit out, “I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I was stupid. So fucking stupid.”

He couldn’t think straight when you looked at him like that, when you had that look in your eyes. Even in the middle of a fight, it was so goddamn hard to look away.

You weren’t just a memory to him anymore. You were right in front of him, and he couldn’t even breathe straight.

Rafe’s throat tightened, feeling something that wasn’t just anger or regret or confusion. He felt longing. He longed to hear your voice, all the time, longed for those mornings when you’d be pressed against him, all warm, the world outside his shitty room irrelevant.

He missed the simple stuff.

He missed your face, the way you’d look at him with that irritation and affection.

It hit him harder than anything had in months—how much time had passed since he last saw that pretty face smile at him like you used to. Since he last kissed your forehead while you fell asleep next to him, since you last fit so perfectly into his arms that he didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t even know how to start getting that back.

He left. Over and over again.

Rafe registered another drink splashing across Topper’s face a little too late, the sound of the liquid hitting his skin pulling him out of his trance. He blinked a few times, the moment dragging back to the mess in front of him.

You weren’t done, though, as if throwing the drink wasn’t enough, you whipped a bowl of guacamole from the table and hurled it at Topper’s face. It splattered across his shirt, leaving a sticky, green mess in its wake.

He didn’t even flinch, still apologizing, still taking it.

“Sis—”

“I don’t want some bullshit excuse! You were supposed to be my family. You were supposed to—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head because you couldn’t fathom finishing the thought.

And then—slap, slap, slap—you were hitting his arms, frustration flashing across your face as you let him have it. 

Your cousin stood there like a fucking idiot, wiping guac off his face, trying to stammer out some kind of half-assed apology. 

“You had no right,” you spat, voice breaking on the words. “None. You don’t just walk in here and act like everything’s fine after what you—” your words choked in your throat. You threw another plate, “You had no right!”

Rafe saw it all, saw the tears ready to spill as you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. You weren’t crying yet, but he knew that was about to change. And when it did, it was going to hurt worse than the yelling, worse than the throwing.

Before you could even get another word out, Rafe was there, stepping in between you and Topper, his body tense, preparing himself for something, maybe a few slaps across the face, a drink if you felt generous. You didn’t have to say a word, he could sense it in the way your lips quivered, the way your shoulders shook.

“You need to calm down,” He told you tenderly, though it wasn’t a demand—it was more of a desperate plea.

You didn’t listen.

Instead, you shoved him out of the way, the tears starting to slip down your cheeks, but you didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“Get out,” you snapped, "Move.”

Rafe didn’t budge, he was here for you, he never stopped fucking choosing you even when he had no right to. He remained still, staring down at you with those blue eyes that had always known you better than anyone.

“Fuck, not like this,” Rafe muttered under his breath, stepping forward once more, this time blocking your path before you could reach Topper again. His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he held you back, “Please, stop.”

You froze, eyes wide, like you couldn’t believe it—you hadn’t been expecting him to step in, hadn’t been expecting him of all people to be the one to try and talk you out of it. 

Rafe’s heart dropped when he saw the way your body was starting to shake. You were spiraling, he could see it coming—he'd been here before. The way your breath hitched, how your eyes turned glassy.

He still knew the signs all too well.

His hands shot out instinctively, grabbing your arms, trying to hold you still, "Hey, hey, calm down," he muttered, his voice soothing, "You're gonna make yourself worse if you don’t stop."

He could feel the rapid pulse under your skin, the way your body tensed like a coiled spring, and he didn’t give a fuck that you still hated him. 

"Look at me," he coaxed, "Please, just breathe with me. You know this ain't gonna help. You gotta breathe."

Rafe’s heart broke all over again as you crumbled in front of him, damn it, he should’ve been there. He should’ve been there when this all fell apart, when you needed someone to hold you together instead of pushing you away.

He hated seeing you like this.

"I’m right here," he said again, softer this time, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Topper stood there, eyes wide, not sure what to do, his face pale as he watched you fall apart in front of Rafe.

Sofia, still drunk and disoriented, caught the look in his eyes and quietly grabbed his arm, “We need to go," she whispered, nudging him, "T-this isn’t helping her."

Topper’s eyes moved to you, and then to Rafe, you could see it in his expression—the guilt, the regret. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Rafe shot him a look, one that said everything—get out.

Your cousin, wiped his face before he took a few steps back. "I’m sorry," he muttered, eyes darting between you and Rafe.  "I’m so sorry.”

He turned away like a dog with his tail between his legs, Sofia following him without saying much, leaving you.

Rafe barely paid them any mind, his entire focus on you, his hands still holding yours, as he watched you try to calm your breathing.

He pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered again, "Not going anywhere. I’m here, swear to God, I’m here."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him fully, not caring if he was blocking the view of anyone else, not caring if things were a fucking mess—he only cared about getting you back to yourself.

He could feel it in his chest, every shitty thing that had piled up, every moment no one had your back when you needed it most.

You didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the anger finally burning out or the exhaustion catching up to you, but for a moment, you let him hold you. Your chest heaved as you fought for control, but your weight sagged against his hands.

His hands loosened their grip, his thumb brushing against your arm without him even realizing it. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk letting go because God knew if he’d ever get this close to you again.

You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you. 

He didn’t deserve it—not even a little, but he couldn’t let go, you needed someone, even if it wasn’t really him you wanted anymore. 

Rafe could sense the way your breathing came out as almost pants against his chest. Every little tremor sent a pang through his chest, like someone had grabbed his ribs and squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he fought harder? 

Rafe rested his cheek against your hair, closing his eyes as he let himself feel it—the weight of you leaning on him. The smell of your perfume, faint but still the same as always. He felt like a fucking thief, stealing this moment from you when he had no right. You didn’t want this from him, didn’t need this from him.

He wished he could take it all back, erase every mistake, the fight, every stupid decision that had pushed you to this point. If he could trade places with you, take all the pain and carry it himself, he would. In a heartbeat. 

You took one shuddering breath, then another. It was enough for him to feel like maybe he’d done something right for once. Maybe he could—

“Get your hands off me.”

Rafe barely moved. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go, didn’t step away like you wanted.

You pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I said get your fucking hands off me.”

“Not happenin’,” He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming against his throat, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “You’re not okay.”

 “Go fuck yourself. You don’t get to decide that—”

Your voice cracked, and the sound of it nearly knocked the will to live from his body. He’d always known your tells, had always been able to read you better than you liked.

Rafe’s hands twitched, and then he moved them, moving like he was about to let you go—but then you did it.

You curled your arms around yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress, right over your stomach. Protective.

Fuck.

Could it be? It was an unconscious gesture, you probably didn’t realize you’d made, but to him, it might as well have been a fucking confession.

Rafe felt his body lock up, every muscle going rigid as the pieces fell into place. 

Fuck fuck fuck. Topper was right, wasn't he?

His throat went dry, he managed to croak out, “You’re—”

“No,” you snapped immediately, your fingers tightening on your dress, but you wouldn’t look at him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t need you.”

He knew he was losing you.

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to— say shit like that. You don’t get to—” Your breathing hitched, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek.

“To what? To give a shit?”

He waited, watching, hoping, praying—please look at me, baby, please—but you didn’t move.

You scoffed, a bitter sound.

“You don’t care. You just don’t like the idea of—” Your breath caught, but you swallowed it down, pushing past the lump in your throat. “You don’t like the idea of me making a choice that doesn’t involve you.”

He hadn’t breathed properly since he saw your hands gripping your stomach, hiding yourself from him like you thought he was something to be afraid of. Like you thought he wouldn’t love you.

You thought he wouldn’t fucking stay.

“I love you.”

He barely recognized his own voice when he said it, but it was the only thing he could spill out. He swore to God he saw your left eye twitch at the confession, he knew what came next, but he’d never been good at shutting up when he should when it came to you.

“I do,” he insisted, “And I know I don’t—I don’t deserve to say that. I don’t deserve to expect anything from you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I need you to know it.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I fucked up, I know. I fucked up so bad.”

You turned your head to the side, blinking up at the ceiling, refusing to spare him a glance. “I don’t want you to fix it.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, but I can’t—I can’t just let you go through this alone.”

Your chest rose and fell too quickly, your breath uneven, but still—you stood your ground. “I don’t need you.”

“Please don’t say that,” he nearly dropped to his knees. “Please.”

You looked at him, since he’d realized what this meant, you lifted your head, met his gaze—really met it.

And shit—It nearly destroyed him, because he knew that look.

“Where the fuck were you, Rafe? Kissing her two months after we ended? Huh—” Your breath shuddered, and you shook your head, stepping back, “You didn’t even wait. You just—just moved the fuck on like I never even mattered—”

“It wasn’t like that—”

"Did you fuck her?" Your lips curled into a faux smile. "That’s what I thought."

"No,” He added quickly, shaking his head like the thought alone disgusted him, "No, I didn’t."

You chuckled disbelieving. "Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not," he said, stepping closer despite the way your body went rigid. "I didn’t touch her like that. I swear to God."

"But you wanted to, right?"

His head moved so fast it gave him whiplash, "No. The only person I’ve ever wanted is you.”

You scoffed, “That’s real sweet, real fucking poetic.”

“I let my own shit get in the way, and I hurt you. But I swear to God, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? You fucked off to play house with some other girl,” You swallowed hard, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why were you there with her? Why did you let me think—"

"Because I’m a fucking assshole," he admitted, "I was trying to forget you, okay? But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, it was always you."

“Fuck you.” You snickered. “Where were you when I finally got my internship? The one I worked for, the one I wanted so bad?” You shook your head, “You didn’t even text me. Not once.”

His throat was tight, his pulse hammering, because he had thought about it—so many times, so many nights staring at his phone, fingers hovering, but he hadn’t.

Rafe’s heart plummeted.

“I—”

“You what? You forgot?”

His nails bit into his palms, “I—”

“You don’t get to speak,” you seethed, you eyes burning through him. “You don’t get to fucking say you care when you weren’t there, when you didn’t even fucking check if I was okay.

"I'm sorry."

"Where the fuck were you,” you whispered, voice shaking with grief, “when I found out I was pregnant with your fucking kid?”

Rafe froze, his stomach jumped around, violently, his ears started ringing. His brain short-circuited, his lungs forgot how to take in air, his heart fucking stopped.

Pregnant.

Pregnant. With his—

“Oh, right.” Your laugh was venomous, “You showed up at my charity gala.” You licked your lips, shaking your head, “Defending her.”

He never felt so completely useless, completely fucking helpless while you stood in front of him, looking up at him like you hated him.

“I—” He started, but nothing came out. “You—”

There was nothing to fucking say, you were right, he had failed you.

You weren’t telling him this so he could weigh in or because you wanted him to be a part of it. You were telling him so he’d know, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, so he wouldn’t ever think, even for a second, that there was still a version of this where he got to be a part of it.

“How long?” The words were hoarse, hardly audible.

Your lips curled in disgust, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Like you fucking care.”

He did, he did care.

So fucking much that he thought he might fucking die under the weight of it. Except the realization hit him just as quickly—he didn’t get to stand here, wide-eyed and breathless and shocked like this wasn’t the natural conclusion to the shitshow of mistakes he’d made.

“Don’t fucking stand there and act like this is some big revelation. You didn’t spend the last months with your tongue down someone else’s throat while I was home—sick, alone—wondering how the fuck I was supposed to do this without you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, pressing your knuckles to your lips to stop them from shaking.

His gut twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jesus Christ, he’d been so fucking stupid.

“I don’t need you. I never did.”

It was a lie, maybe you even believed it.

But Rafe knew you, understood how hard it was for you to ask for help. Knew how much it had hurt to stand in front of him, admitting the truth. And Rafe—he needed to fix this. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“I should’ve been there.”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Rafe felt his ribs caving in. “I’m here now.”

“That’s not good enough.”

It was a death sentence, it was fair but fuck, he couldn’t accept it.

Rafe stepped closer.

You took a step back.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore, desperate. “I don’t care if you fucking hate me, don’t care if you never forgive me.” His throat worked around the lump in it. “I’m here.”

You were so fucking angry. So fucking hurt. He didn’t blame you for it. But if he didn’t try, if he didn’t fucking show you—prove to you that he was here now—then he’d never forgive himself.

“You think I’m gonna just forgive you for this?” you sneered, arms folded tightly over your chest. “Just because you’re here now, just because you say the words that mean nothing—that’s enough? After everything? After all of it?”

All he could do was look at you—look at the person he had ruined, the person he had loved, and still loved, more than anything. 

“I just—” He sucked in a breath, running a hand through his growing hair. “Tell me about the baby.”

Your expression faltered before you hardened again, lips pressing into a thin line.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.” His voice broke. “Don’t do that—don’t shut me out. Is it... a boy? A girl?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Why does it matter?”

“Don’t—don’t keep me in the dark, please. You’ve felt them move?” 

You looked down at your feet. “No.” 

"Did you—uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, nerves raw. "Do you have morning sickness? I read that happens early on, right?"

You blinked, "What?"

"Like... throwing up and all that? You okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned, but it only made your head spin.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Can we drop it?”

It’s then he remembers the beach cleanup, the memories of that afternoon colliding all at once—the way you’d collapsed into him, pale and unresponsive. The panic that gripped his chest as he carried you to the truck. The fight during the drive, when you told him to leave, your refusal to let him come inside.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You were…” He pratically gasped, “You were pregnant. At the beach cleanup.”

You stiffened, already dreading where he was going with this.

“Don’t.”

His pulse raced, “That’s why you didn’t want me to come inside the hospital, wasn’t it?” His words spilled out, “You were scared they’d tell me. Holy shit.”

“Stop,” you snapped, but he couldn’t.

“You passed out because of—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Jesus Christ.”

“I said stop.”

He couldn’t unsee it now—couldn’t unfeel your dead weight on his arms. He’d been right there, clueless, driving you to the hospital while you were carrying his baby. And instead of being there for you, he’d made everything worse.

“I didn’t know,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Exactly.” Your voice was cold, “You didn’t know because you weren’t there.”

He was going to have to spend that entire fucking inheritance fortune on therapy

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[arayapendragon]

how i shift 🦉

it took me years of experimenting, trial and error to realize i don’t need methods, subliminals and guided meditations to shift. while i do agree that these tools can help you shift, because they do work for many people, my recent experiences have helped me understand that all you truly need to shift is yourself, nothing else. and nothing can ever change that. 

you simply need to have an awareness, which you obviously do ahahaha. to shift, you just need to align that awareness to your desired reality. here’s how i do it:

i decide where i want to shift to, and think about that reality for a while

i acknowledge the fact that my desired reality exists somewhere in the multiverse, and that it is possible to become aware of it

i embrace a “fuck it, whatever happens, happens” mindset and let go. i detach from the outcome (to shift)

i become equally open to both waking up in my cr and waking up in my dr. i put neither event above the other, i am okay with either of them happening. if i shift, that’s great. if i don’t, that’s okay. i can always try again. i have all the time in the world to do so. 

i decide that i will wake up in my dr and fall asleep

i wake up in my dr 

i've noticed that each time i used this technique, i shifted successfully. its helped me with 2 intentional shifts, and several other shifts to one-off dr’s and random realities in the past, so i can assure you that this works! :) this is a simple technique for overthinkers or people who don’t like methods. it helps you embrace your natural talent, and proves how easy, effortless, and natural shifting can be. 

here’s my 2 success stories from using this technique:

last october i was taking an afternoon nap and spontaneously decided to shift to my hogwarts golden trio era dr. i fell asleep while affirming "i am" and woke up on the train to hogwarts, exactly as i'd scripted! i was standing outside the compartment, and all my senses were present in that reality. i could hear the train horn, the sound of the people talking, i could see the interior of the train in front of me, and felt the chugging of the train beneath my feet.

this image is very similar to what i saw during that shift

2. i wanted to shift to my hogwarts legacy dr yesterday night. while falling asleep, i decided that i was going to wake up on the hogwarts express, but was also equally open to waking up in my cr. i didn't mind either outcome. i let go and fell asleep. as i woke up, something felt different. my eyes were closed but i was no longer lying down - i was sitting upright. i was no longer in a still and silent environment - i felt the chugging of the train engine beneath my feet. i quickly realized that i had in fact shifted to my hogwarts legacy dr and was on the train to hogwarts. i shifted back after a minute as i was quite dazed and disoriented, but i shifted nevertheless!

my advice 

don’t try to follow someone else’s steps. do what resonates with YOU, its your journey. 

embrace the process and each step of your shifting journey. demotivation is normal, you’re only human, it won’t stop you from shifting. 

realize that you don’t need anything to shift but yourself. if guided meditations and subliminals work for you, then keep at it! but if you’re not making any progress with them, its time you rely on yourself rather than external aid to shift. the power lies within you, its always been there. 

there's no need to put in effort while doing your method 

simply thinking about your dr and deciding that you want to be there can help you shift

go with the flow, be spontaneous and have fun

stop doing things that aren’t working for you

detach from the outcome of shifting, it will happen eventually, don’t focus on it happening too much

happy shifting! 🩷

[himasgod]

Hi, if you have time I want to make a request about twisted wonderland for the first year boys (just for funnies and giggles)

The reader and the first year spend a great time together (studying, doing tasks or just chilling) and at the end of the day, before the reader goes back to their dorm, the reader said "it's a really great day! I am looking for we always have time like that" and then the boys realize THAT WAS A DATE!

the realization will hit them as a brick, they had a date and don't act like that, they probably did everything wrong and that was the worse date on the story (they will overthink likely) so did they try to make it up? Or pass away when they notice they have a special someone?

Basically the first year realizing they mess up with what should be their date and now SOMEHOW they still have a partner (as you can see I just want to mess with them)

FIRST YEARS X READER

Where they realize they just had a date with you

How would the first years react if, after having spent an incredible afternoon, they found out that what they just had with you was a date?

You and Ace spent the afternoon chilling, which mostly consisted of you dragging him to actually study (while he whined), him dragging you into a prank war with Grim (which you won), and ending it all with snacks on Heartslabyul under the stars.

Just fun. Just casual. Totally not a date

…right?

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” “Yeah, yeah, see ya—”

Ace, 3 seconds after you left:

“...Wait.” “WAIT.” “THAT WAS A—???”

Cue full-on existential crisis.

He’s lying flat on the floor of the hallway outside like he got KO’d.

The line replays in his head over and over: "I hope we always have time like this."

Bro just realized he was on a DATE and didn’t even open the door for you. Or flirt (well, he did tease you a lot—but that doesn’t count if you didn’t know it was a date!!)

He didn’t even dress nice! He wore his basketball club hoodie with cheeto dust on it!!!

Now he's thinking:

“Did I even compliment them??” “Did I make it seem like I knew it was a date?!” “Do I look like a jerk who doesn’t care???” “I told a dumb fart joke. THAT was my big date move???”

Ace is spiraling.

He panics and shows up the next day with the dumbest “apology date” ever—he drags you to the vending and tries to pay for your snack like it’s a fancy dinner. When you ask what’s going on, he’s sweating bullets.

“I’m—I’m just making up for yesterday, y’know. Since I uh… totally knew that was a date. And uh. You deserve a redo. Of the… date. Not that the last one sucked!! I just… you deserve better than THAT.”

He won’t even look at you. He’s blushing. He’s crashing.

Do you tease him? Please do. He deserves it.

Deuce was so proud of himself.

He helped you carry books back from the library, he got your favorite drink from the cafeteria, and you even helped him with homework. You both took a walk through the courtyard in the evening, laughing.

He went to bed feeling like a proper gentleman.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” Deuce: 😊 “Me too!”

Deuce, in his dorm at 2am, staring at the ceiling like a corpse:

“Wait. WAIT. That was a DATE???”

He bolts upright in bed. His face goes red immediately. His heart is racing. He’s pacing the room in his pink pajamas like he’s being interrogated by the Headmage.

“I didn’t open any doors for them… I didn’t even iron my uniform… What would my mum think of me...!”

He writes a WHOLE SCRIPT in his head for how he’ll apologize and ask you out again properly.

The next morning he finds you at lunch and, without even saying hello, slams a little card down in front of you.

“Please allow me to reattempt the previous engagement under official romantic terms. Sincerely, Deuce Spade.”

He’s shaking. You ask if this is a date invitation and he yells “YES!!” so loud people turn around.

You went outside NRC shopping for potion supplies and snacks, mostly. Epel had the chance to show you some hidden spots in the woods nearby, and he even climbed a tree to get you a weird fruit he claimed “tastes better than it looks.”

You ended up sitting on a bench, sharing the weird fruit and people-watching.

He was smug the whole time. He thought he was SO cool.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” “Heh. 'Course ya did. Yer hangin' out with me.”

Epel, two steps into his dorm:

“...Wait. Did they say ‘great day’? And... always?” “....HUH?!”

Epel has stopped working. This poor boy goes from smug to panicked farm boy in 0.5 seconds. He starts talking to himself in full panic accent.

“Did I just make ‘em climb a hill in the mud on our date?!”“No no no no no—did I even brush my hair?? Vil’s gonna KILL me!”“They gave me THE look and I was talkin’ about cow manure like a FOOL!!”

He spends the next hour writing an apology letter in messy penmanship, then throws it out because “no, that’s lame,” then tries to act normal the next day until he sees you again—and completely breaks down.

“HEY—listen, if that was a date, I didn’t mean to ruin it, okay? Let me take you out PROPERLY. I’ll comb my hair! I’ll wear cologne! We’ll eat food that don’t smell like onions!!”

He’s shaking you by the shoulders like the world is ending and you're just laughing, making him go even redder.

It was simple, peaceful.

You helped Jack train in Savanaclaw, he showed you some stances, you gave him water and cheered him on like a personal coach. He even slowed down his reps so you could try a few moves. Afterward, you two cleaned up and walked back together under the sunset. Calm. Comfortable. Quiet.

You gave him a little wave before heading to Ramshackle.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.” “...Yeah. Me too. Take care.”

Jack, turning around:

Hm. That was...

Jack mid-walk pausing in place like he got hit by a tranquilizer dart:

“Wait.” “WAS THAT A DATE.”

He STOPS IN HIS TRACKS and just stands there like a statue. The wind is howling, birds chirping, but Jack?

Dead silent. Mentally imploding.

The spiral begins:

“I made them spar with me. That’s not a romantic activity, is it?” “I was sweating the entire time—ugh, did I smell bad?” “I didn’t even offer to walk them all the way back...” “They deserved a better time than that.”

He sulks all the way to his room. Tries to sleep. Ends up going on a 5km run at 3am to "clear his head."

The next day you find a neatly folded towel, a new water bottle, and a protein bar with a sticky note that says:

“Next time, I’ll plan something more fun for you. Sorry I didn’t realize it was a special day.” – Jack

He’s too embarrassed to say it out loud but yes, he is 1000% trying to plan a redemption date.

You’ll catch him looking up “date ideas” in Magicam.

You offered to help Sebek with his study session in the library.

He was unusually flustered, but he eventually settled down and you two got into a good rhythm—him ranting about Malleus and quietly organizing your notes so they were less of a disaster.

Later, he walked you all the way back to Ramshackle like the knight he is.

You turned before going inside.

“This was a really great day! I hope we always have time like this.”

Sebek (arms crossed, puffed-up):

“OF COURSE IT WAS, HUMAN. ANY TIME SPENT IN MY COMPANY IS—uh—GREAT.”

Sebek, hours later, in his room, gripping his pillow like it's the last life vest on a sinking ship:

“WAIT. WAIT A MOMENT.”

Complete meltdown. He throws himself to the floor like a Shakespearean tragic hero.

“I SPOKE OF LORD MALLEUS FOR TWENTY-TWO MINUTES STRAIGHT…!” “I FORGOT TO COMPLIMENT THEIR APPEARANCE!” “I MADE THEM CARRY THEIR OWN BOOKS!”

He scribbles in his notebook: “How to properly court a human”

The next day, he corners you in a hallway and formally bows, nearly headbutting the wall in the process.

“I—I was tragically unaware that our previous engagement was of romantic nature. Allow me to formally request another, in which I shall behave appropriately.”

He looks like he's facing a military tribunal.

You say yes.

He short-circuits and power walks away at supersonic speed.

[raevalyntine]

what happens when your best friend! caleb catches you playing an otome game?

It begins with you lying on your stomach across the couch, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through the curtains. Your legs sway lazily in the air, your eyes glued to the screen of your phone. You’ve been completely absorbed in a new otome game you downloaded a few days ago. A futuristic romance otome filled with dramatic storylines, compelling choices, and an array of captivating love interests, each more alluring than the last.

You barely register the sound of the door opening or the soft thump of a bag hitting the table behind you. The music from your game hums quietly, wrapping you in the immersive world as one of the characters—a cyborg—leans in to confess something sweet and vulnerable.

A quiet gasp escapes you, barely louder than a whisper. “He’s perfect…” A smile tugs at your lips, warmth rising to your cheeks.

That’s when a familiar voice leans over the back of the couch, teasing and light-hearted, but carrying a subtle edge. “Who’s perfect?”

You jolt upright, yelping. “No one!” But it’s too late—Caleb’s already seen the glow in your eyes.

He reaches down, snatching your phone with practised ease, holding it just out of your reach as he studies the screen. “Wait a second—oh no. Is this another one of those romance games?” He squints mock-dramatically. “Oh my god pipsqueak, it is.”

You lunge forward to reclaim your phone, but he dodges effortlessly, still pressing through the interface with shameless curiosity. “So this guy’s the one, huh?” he says, tapping on your chosen love interest. “Let me guess: tragic past, mysterious stare, says dramatic things like ‘Even in death, we will never be apart’?”

You pout, feeling embarrassed. “That’s… not entirely wrong.”

Caleb laughs, that familiar sound that makes your heart twist for reasons you try not to name. But his teasing fades into something quieter as he slowly returns the phone, still lingering beside you. He settles on the couch, shoulder brushing yours—close, warm, grounding. Despite your heart still racing from the embarrassment of getting caught, you’re immediately calmed by Caleb’s presence beside you.

Then, too casually, he murmurs, “You know… if I was in that game, I’d break every route just to reach you.”

You freeze. Your breath stills in your lungs. You glance at him—but he’s not looking at you, his eyes fixed forward, his voice soft as velvet.

“It doesn’t matter how many times the story resets, or how many challenges stand in my way—I’d fight through all of it if it meant I got to stand beside you at the end.”

The room holds still. You forget how to blink.

Slowly, he turns to you and catches you staring, wide-eyed, lips parted in silent wonder.

A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face. “What? Don’t tell me that pixel cyborg guy didn’t say that to you.”

You shake your head faintly. “No… he didn’t.”

Caleb leans back, stretching out beside you like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down. “Guess he’s not as good as me, then.”

And suddenly, the screen in your hands loses its charm—because no fictional script, no digital romance, could ever compare to the boy beside you who just made your heart skip a beat with nothing more than the truth.

[theballadofharkness]

Going to the Globes

She’s with with the Director Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x FemDirector!reader

Summary: When the Golden Globe nominations come in, your horror film doesn’t just make the list, it dominates it. Best Picture. Best Script. Best Director. Maya, your girlfriend-slash-marketing queen, is the first person to know. She’s never been invited to the Globes before, but when you tell her she’s your plus one, it changes everything.

Word Count: 8K

Warnings: Explicit smut so as always MDNI

A/N: Part 1 of my Golden Globes fic is here!! X it can be read as a stand alone but be aware the actual ceremony and after party will be the follow up! Xx

You’re still in bed when the phone rings.

Silk sheets twisted around your legs. The black-out curtains are drawn, keeping the room dim even though it’s nearly ten. You haven’t checked your phone, haven’t turned on the TV. You’re floating in that warm, suspended space between sleep and thought, your body still loose and boneless from last night, Maya’s hands, Maya’s mouth, Maya whispering something about “kissing her lucky charm” before slipping out the door in a bomber jacket and Balenciaga slides.

The phone buzzes again.

You reach out blindly across the nightstand, knocking over a heavy book and a glass of water in the process. Your fingers finally close around your phone.

<Maya Mason: Incoming Call…>

You answer with a sleepy mumble. “Baby?”

There’s a pause, like she’s trying to find breath, but then she’s there, crackling and frantic and utterly not composed.

“Can you come to the office?”

You blink, pushing yourself upright with a groan. Your hair’s a mess. You’re in one of her old oversized tees with the neckline ripped. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No — I mean yes — fuck, yes, I’m fine, it’s just — can you just come to Continental?” She sounds like she’s pacing. Like she’s mid-coffee, mid-freakout, mid-something.

Your heart kicks. “Maya? What happened?”

You hear her sigh and then go softer, “please? For me?”

You swing your legs out of bed, all sleep forgotten. “Okay. Baby… okay. I’m coming.”

There’s a breath on the other end of the line, like she’s relieved just hearing your voice. “Just get here. As fast as you can.”

~

Matt’s mid-rant, his arms flailing, a mouth full of almond croissant, saying something about needing “more relatability” on the Kool-Aid movie, when the door flies open.

Maya doesn’t knock.

Matt jolts upright behind his desk, knocking over an iced coffee and a stack of scripts. “Jesus Christ! Maya?”

“WE’RE GOING TO THE GLOBES FUCKERS.”

He blinks. “What?”

Maya Mason, the designer whirlwind that she is, is already halfway into the room, breathless, glowing, hair wild from her frantic walk-run across the floor. Her phone’s still in her hand like she sprinted straight from the call.

She repeats herself, slower. “We’re going to the Golden Globes.”

Matt straightens. “Wait… what?”

She grins, all teeth, eyes sparkling like a woman who’s just pulled off the marketing coup of the decade.

“Don’t play with me right now, Maya.”

“It’s confirmed.” Maya presses both palms down on his desk, practically vibrating. “The Witch. Her film. My girl’s film. It’s nominated. For multiple categories. And she…” Maya chokes, then laughs, then says it again like she can’t quite believe it herself, “she’s nominated for Best Director.”

Matt goes silent.

Maya counts them off, fingers shaking with adrenaline. “Best Director. Best Picture. Best Score. Best Script. Best Actress for Tilda.”

A beat.

Matt screams. “I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

He’s out of his chair, knocking into his standing desk controls, sending it up at a weird angle. “This is it. This is our moment. This is my Rosemary’s Baby, you marketing GENIUS! This is our fucking moon landing!”

Maya snorts. “She’s going to hate you for saying that.”

“I don’t care.” He’s already pacing. “We need to do a full rollout. Press, social, that Variety piece she agreed to — fuck, fuck, we’re going to have a table, right? Like an actual table?”

Maya just laughs. She’s flushed. Breathless. Beaming. “She’s gonna be a wreck. She hasn’t even checked her phone yet.”

“She has to win something right?! All those nominations! Fuck horror films never fucking get this level of respect!” Matt was practically vibrating on the spot.

“And she’s the youngest woman ever nominated in both categories.” Maya adds smugly.

Matt grabs his phone, starts firing off voice memos. “Petra. Confirm a table. I want to be in the front. Score guy, Tilda, Patty, me, see who else from the main cast and production can be seated.”

Maya says nothing. She’s still standing by the door. Her hand is clenched around the phone.

Matt looks up, grinning. “You look like you just won something too.”

She shrugs. “It’s her win. And it’s a Continental win.”

“You should be there. Without you, we wouldn’t have this win Maya” Matt softened for a second to give credit where credit is due.

She smiles again, tighter this time. Familiar. A little sad. “No one invites marketing to the Globes, Matt.”

And before he can say anything else, she turns and walks out, already dialing.

~

The champagne’s already flowing.

Matt’s got a flute in each hand. Patty’s sitting on the edge of his desk, kicking her feet in sparkly mules and laughing about something Quinn just said. Sal’s slumped in the armchair, half-celebrating, half-scowling because it wasn’t his project that got five nominations and made the industry wet itself.

The door swings open hard.

Maya strides back in, sleek and flushed and thrumming. She doesn’t wait. She snatches a glass off the tray, tips her head back, downs it in one long pull.

Everyone stares.

“Jesus,” Quinn mutters, impressed.

“She’s gonna be here in fifteen,” Maya announces, setting the empty glass down with a little clink. “I’m telling her then.”

Matt spins. “Wait she still doesn’t know?!”

“Nope.”

Patty blinks. “How?”

Maya shrugs. “She doesn’t do the internet.”

“Seriously?”

“She’s like a cryptid. A sexy, blood-soaked cryptid who only comes out to direct a movie and then disappears back into the mist with a scarf over her face.”

“She’s literally nominated for five awards how the fuck does she still not know?!” Sal laughs.

“I know,” Maya says, eyes shining. “And she probably hasn’t even opened her texts yet. She still has a flip phone somewhere in our underwear drawer. She’s gonna walk in here wearing my t-shirt and Prada sunglasses and act like nothing happened.”

Quinn shakes her head in awe. “She’s a fucking icon.”

“She’s my icon,” Maya says, softer now. “And I get to tell her she just changed her life.”

The room quiets a little.

Even Sal manages a slow clap.

Matt raises his glass. “To the freak in the shadows.”

“To the witch with the camera,” Patty adds.

“To her,” Maya says.

They all clink glasses just as the elevator dings down the hall.

The elevator doors part with a hiss.

You step out like a specter: long coat over sleep-rumpled silk, dark sunglasses, hair long and unbrushed. One hand clutches a tray, iced coffee with too many pumps of vanilla, a warmed muffin tucked into a napkin. The other holds your phone, screen cracked, texts unopened.

You’re not online. You’re not part of the buzz. All you know is Maya sounded off, her voice too high, too breathless, asking you to come in “please, just for me.” So you came. Muffin and caffeine in hand. Worry coiled tight in your ribs.

The office hallway is loud.

You hear the champagne laughter before you even round the corner. A glass shatters. Someone yells. Patty shrieks something about her couture.

You pause, shifting the tray in your hands. “Oh no,” you mutter under your breath. “They’re drunk.”

You nudge the door open with your shoulder.

She turns the second she hears the door click. Maya’s eyes flick to your hands, and something breaks in her.

You don’t even get a word out before she’s striding over.

“It sounded serious so I got the coffee you like,” you say, holding it up stupidly. “And the muffin with the—”

She grabs your face with both hands and kisses you. Hard. Right there, in front of everyone. It’s not a show. It’s not for the room. It’s relief. Euphoria. Pride. Love.

You drop the tray.

The coffee hits the floor.

Nobody cares.

When she finally pulls back, her hands still cradling your jaw, you blink up at her.

“What… was that for?”

Maya’s eyes are glassy. Her voice is soft. “You’re nominated.”

You blink again. “For…?”

She laughs and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your mouth again. “Golden Globes baby. Best Director. Best Script. Best Picture. Tilda got Actress. Score too. Five nominations.”

The world tilts.

You sway slightly, and Maya’s arms are already there. Holding you steady. “Oh,” you whisper.

Behind her, Sal screams, “YOU’RE A FUCKING LEGEND.”

You don’t hear it.

You’re just staring at Maya, lips parted, stunned and still. “Why didn’t you tell me when you called?” you whisper.

“I wanted to do it in person,” she says. “I wanted to see your face.”

You blink once. Twice. Then bury your face in her neck. “Oh my god.”

“I know, baby,” she murmurs, holding you close. “I know.”

You’re still next to Maya. One arm looped around her waist. Your body is humming. Your spilled coffee is forgotten on the floor.

Matt’s in full award show mode. He’s pacing, phone in hand, rattling off strategy like a man possessed.

“Okay. Carpet first. You’ll talk to Vanity Fair mic, E! livestream, the usual outlets with Tilda and Dafoe. You’re gonna be the director they will want to talk to!”

You nod vaguely, still trying to process.

“Then there’s the luncheon thing, you’re gonna hate the luncheon but the food is surprisingly good,” Patty interjects, “and then the red carpet, obviously, then we end up at the table right up front. You, me, Patty, the score guy, Tilda, some of the cast and crew…”

You blink. “Where’s Maya?”

Matt looks up. “What?”

“For the Globes,” you say. “Where’s she sitting?”

There’s a pause.

Matt chuckles awkwardly. “Oh… marketing doesn’t usually go to awards stuff.”

“It’s a very exclusive event,” Patty adds. “It’s producers, talent, and studio heads like Matty. Not marketing.”

You turn your head slowly. Look at Maya.

She’s frozen. Just for a second. Then she laughs. That classic Maya Mason laugh, tight, breathy, self-deprecating. “Yeah, no, I’m not going. I mean, I never go. I’ll be running point from here. Social, press strategy, everything the next morning—”

“No.” Your voice is quiet but sharp.

Matt freezes. “Uh. No to what?”

You look at him like it’s obvious. “Maya has to be with me for all of it. My girlfriend goes or I don’t. It’s that simple.”

There’s a pause.

Matt blinks. “You mean, like… on the carpet?”

You just stare. “Yes,” you say. “On the carpet. At the table. At the fucking afterparty. Maya’s with me.”

Everyone turns to look at Maya.

And Maya? She lights the fuck up.She stares at you, eyes wide, lips parted. The kind of expression Maya Mason never wears. Not in meetings. Not in negotiations. Not even when she’s talking someone into a seven-figure deal with nothing but a smile and a slideshow.

She looks like someone just cracked open her ribs and kissed her heart.

“Wait, wait, wait… are you for real?” she says, eyes wide. “You want me, like ‘with you’, with you? Like, holding your hand on the carpet, getting glammed, ‘who are you wearing?’ energy, next to you at the table kind of with you?”

You nod once.

She gasps like someone just offered her equity in Valentino.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I’m going to the fucking Golden Globes.”

Matt stares. “Okay well I guess we need another seat.”

“She’s sitting next to me,” you say. “Center.”

Sal whistles. “Fuck. Okay.”

And Maya, still blinking, still breathless, leans in and kisses you, messy and fast and grateful, like she’s trying not to cry but maybe doesn’t care if she does.

She turns to you, a little out of breath.

“I get to stand next to you. While you win. I’m gonna be the first person to touch you when you come off that stage. That’s so… I mean that’s so fucking hot.”

You blink, then smile.

She smiles too.

You reach out, hook a finger through her belt loop, and pull her back toward you.

“I want you there,” you say. “You’re the other half of my soul.”

Maya exhales, soft and wrecked. “Damn right I am.”

The next hour passes like a blur. You’re curled on the couch next to Maya, your legs over hers, stealing lazy kisses while she tries to act composed. Matt begins pacing as the calls start rolling in, congratulating him on the nominations, questions about Oscar buzz, various brands reaching out for sponsorships, representatives of the Award Show itself talking logistics. Sal’s taken to sulking upon learning he’d have to fork out $30K for a seat at the back of the room. Patty is regaling tales of her first Globes night to Quinn.

Then Tyler walks in, holding his iPad like it’s a message from God.

“Okay,” he says, breathless. “Maison Margiela, Alexander McQueen, Prada, and Gucci have all reached out. They want to dress the whole ‘The Witch’ team.”

There’s a pause. The room buzzes.

You glance up from your spot curled on the couch, still half-tucked into Maya’s side. Voice low, calm.

“Maya likes dressing up,” you say softly. “She can choose. As long as they agree to dress her too.”

The room freezes.

Maya turns to you slowly.

“Wait. what?”

You blink at her. “You’re coming. With me. So they have to dress you too. If they want me.”

Maya stares at you like you just rewrote the laws of reality. “… I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say?”

Quinn mutters, “Oh fuck, she’s gonna lose it.”

You meet her eyes, deadpan. “Well if they want me, then they have to dress you too.”

Her mouth drops open. “ON GOD?!”

Patty snorts.

Sal chuckles, “Here we go.”

But Maya is gone. She’s up. She’s pacing. She’s vibrating.

“Shut the fuck up,” Maya snaps, eyes still on you. “Are you being serious right now? Are you… you’re telling me that I get to pick any of those designers I spend half my paycheck on, walk the carpet in full glam, next to you, and actually get photographed and credited and tagged and asked who I’m wearing?!”

You nod, amused. “Well yes, that’s the plan.”

“On fucking GOD?!”

She screams. She stands. She immediately circles the room like she’s trying to walk it off but can’t. “Shut UP. Shut the fuck UP. I’m gonna be hot at the Globes?! Me?! In Margiela?? With the winning director of the night?! I’m gonna be someone’s Pinterest board. I’m gonna be on every gay moodboard in the country—” she began to waffle on in pure unfiltered joy.

You smile softly, eyes lowered. “Honey, I haven’t won. I’m nominated, there’s a difference”

Matt watches her spin out and says, “She’s not gonna make it to the carpet.”

Maya turns back to you, breathless. “Are you really serious?”

You nod, smiling at her unbridled joy. “Deadly.”

Maya melts. Fully drops her phone, rushes across the room, and kisses your face, your cheeks, temple, and all the way up your jawline in a blur. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she mutters into your hair. “And I work in marketing.”

You blush, becoming shy. “Love you.”

“I’m gonna fuck you in a McQueen bustier,” she announces.

Quinn cackles.

Patty groans. “Jesus Christ, Maya…”

“No. You don’t get it. You don’t get it. I feel like I’m being proposed to. I’m gonna cry and then ride your face in couture.”

You raise your brows, soft and steady. “So… can we go back home?”

Maya grabs your wrist like she’s about to drag you into a supply closet. “I need you. Now. Or I’m going to black out.”

You can’t help but laugh, letting her pull you toward the door.

Matt yells, “Maya, think of HR … Maya? MAYA!”

~

The door of Maya’s office slams shut behind you.

You barely have time to register the sound before Maya’s mouth is on yours—hot, open, starving. She’s kissing you like her hands are on fire, like she’s waited her whole life for this moment and just realized it’s real.

You stumble backwards with her, tangled in her grip, until your back hits the sleek marble of her desk. Papers scatter. Her laptop slides. You don’t care. Neither does she.

“Baby,” she gasps between kisses. “You just, fuck, you broke me.”

You smile against her lips, smug and breathless. “You like designer dresses that much?”

She moans and kisses you harder.

“You’re going to the Golden fucking Globes,” she pants, hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist like she wants to crawl inside you.

“We” you corrected breathlessly, “we are going to the Golden Globes”

“And you just told four fashion houses to fight for the right to put me in a free fucking gown?! Are you, god, are you trying to kill me?”

You murmur cheekily, “Maybe.”

She groans, attaching her mouth to your throat. “I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life.”

You arch into her, neck tilted, letting her press you flat against the desk.

“You’re gonna win,” she whispers, voice shaking with pride. “You’re gonna win Best Director and look like a fuckin spooky goddess or something doing it. And I get to be there. Next to you. In fucking Prada.”

She kisses you again, messy, desperate, and worshipful, like she’s trying to eat the words off your lips. “I swear to god,” she breathes, “you say one more thing nice to me and I’m gonna—”

You cut her off with a whisper: “You deserve all of it.”

She whimpers. Actually whimpers.

“Okay,” she says, hitching your skirt up to your hips, “I need you now. I’m about to climax just thinking about a Maison Margiela custom glove moment. I’m going to come just from being tagged in a Getty caption next to you.”

You laugh into her mouth. “Maya—”

“No. Shut up. My girlfriend’s a genius auteur witch who gets nominated for Globes and tells Gucci to dress me like I’m a fashion icon. I’m fucking feral, do you understand?”

You nod.

And then you gasp as she drops to her knees.

Your breath catches, your hands automatically go to her shoulders, fingers curling in the soft stretch of her tee. “Maya…”

“No. No talking.” Her voice is low. Dangerous. Reverent.

She looks up at you like you’re sacred. Like you’re art. And you are, pressed against her desk, blouse open, breath coming shallow, eyes glassy and dark.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk in here,” she growls, “casually say ‘Maya can pick the designer,’ like that’s nothing, and not ruin you?”

You tremble. Her hands slide up your thighs, slow and possessive.

“Maya, please…”

“Say it again.”

You blink, breathless. “Say what?”

“What you said that made me drop to my fucking knees.”

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “You deserve all of it.”

She groans, like the words physically affect her. “Oh my god,” she mutters, pushing your skirt up, “I’m gonna be good to you for weeks.”

And then her mouth is on you.

You cry out, a sharp, broken thing, and clutch the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

She eats your pussy like she’s starved. Like you’re a goddess that demands worship through orgasms alone. Like you belong to her.

Her tongue is fast, her grip unrelenting. She moans into you, arms wrapped around your thighs, hands sliding under your ass to pull you closer. She’s possessed, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring her to this plane of existence.

You whimper. Your knees buckle. “Maya… baby, please, please—kiss me?”

She pulls back, lips slick, panting. “You want kisses, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet. “Please. Need you.”

“Oh my fucking god.” She’s up, grabbing your face, devouring your mouth like she’s claiming it. “You sound so pretty when you beg.”

You’re gasping into her kiss, your fingers gripping the hem of her pants, trying to pull her closer, anything, everything.

She kisses you harder. Slower. Deeper.

“I love you,” she breathes into your mouth.

You whimper again. “I love you. I love you Maya…”

She presses you back against the desk again, her hand sliding between your thighs, fingers slick and steady.

“That’s it,” she whispers. “Be good for me. My girl. My babygirl. Gonna come for me?”

You nod, desperate.

And when it hits, when your body breaks open under her touch, she kisses you through it, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your neck, like she’s tasting every part of you, like you just made her immortal.

You slump against her, dazed. Shaking.

She holds you there, her fingers stroking gently over your thighs, her mouth pressed to your hair.

“You just gave me the best gift of my entire life,” she murmurs.

You blink up at her, eyes full of tears. “What, the Globes?”

“No,” she whispers, eyes full of something dangerous and devoted. “You want to tell the world you’re mine.”

~

You wake up sick. It’s not the flu. Not food poisoning. Not anything you can name. Just that slow, steady churn in your stomach. Dread curling under your ribs. Your body feels tight and hollow all at once.

It’s still dark outside.

And you’re still wrapped in Maya.

She’s asleep, limbs tangled in yours, bare skin pressed to bare skin. One arm flung over your waist. Her hand resting just beneath your breast. Her face tucked into your neck like she doesn’t want to miss even a breath of you.

You should feel safe.

But your throat is tight, your skin itches with nerves.

You can’t stop thinking that today is the Golden Globes. Today you’re going to walk a red carpet. Today you might win. Today you’ll be paraded out like a show pony. Fully. Publicly.

And all you want is to disappear.

You bury your face deeper into Maya’s neck, your breath shaking. You try to be still. Try not to wake her. But your hands shake where they grip her waist. You feel like a ghost in your own body.

You whisper, “I don’t want to go.”

She stirs. Not fully awake, just half-dreaming, but her grip tightens around you.

“You cold?” she mumbles, voice wrecked with sleep.

You shake your head.

But you don’t speak again. You just bury closer. Tangle your legs around hers. Press your face into the curve of her shoulder and try not to cry.

You need her. Today. Now. More than ever.

Because if she lets go, even for a second, you’re afraid you might float away.

Maya stirs again.

A soft grunt in the back of her throat as she shifts, adjusting to your closeness. Her nose brushes your hairline. She mumbles something incoherent, fingers flexing over your waist.

Then she stills.

She feels it.

The tension. The way your breath is caught in your throat. The way your body’s curled into hers like a girl trying to disappear. Her brows twitch. One eye opens.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice scratchy and deep, barely awake. “What’s goin’ on, baby?”

You shake your head into her chest, arms clutching her tighter. You don’t answer.

She blinks herself more awake. “Are you—?” She pauses. Then, gentler. “You feel sick?”

A nod. Small. Barely there.

Maya lets out a soft exhale. Both arms curl around you, wrapping you up like you’re something precious. Her lips find your hair. She kisses your temple. Your cheekbone. The top of your ear.

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

You press your face into her skin. You can’t stop shaking. It’s not cold. It’s just everything.

“I don’t wanna go,” you murmur, voice trembling. “I don’t wanna be looked at. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Her mouth finds your jaw, slow and steady. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” she says. “You’re not on a carpet. You’re here. With me. You’re just a sleepy little cryptid in my bed and I’m gonna hold you till you remember how fucking brilliant you are.”

You make a broken little sound.

Maya kisses it away.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” she whispers. “You made something huge. You told the world who you are. And now they’re celebrating you for it. That’s terrifying. But I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Her hand drifts down your back, drawing soft circles into your spine.

“You’re my genius. My scary, spooky little auteur,” she murmurs. “I’m gonna zip you into that dress and stand next to you all night and remind them all who they’re dealing with. But right now? I’m just gonna keep kissing you until you fall back asleep or start complaining about how I can’t wear latex on the carpet.”

You let out a soft laugh. A real one. “It just feels too impractical for an event where we’re will be predominantly sat” you explained softly

Her smile presses into your skin.

“That’s it,” she says. “There’s my baby.”

You don’t say anything.

You just cling tighter.

And let her hold you until the world feels a little less loud.

The sunlight is creeping in now.

It catches in the fine strands of Maya’s hair, paints gold across her cheekbone, her collarbone, the curve of her bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped.

She’s propped up on one elbow, trying to be gentle about it. Trying not to pull away too fast. “Baby,” she whispers, brushing your hair back. “We have to start getting ready.”

You shake your head, face buried in her neck. “No.”

“They’re gonna be here in, like, twenty minutes.”

“No.”

She laughs softly. “Glam team’s gonna break the door down and find us naked and fused together like a two-headed banshee.”

“Good.”

Maya strokes your back, slow and soothing. “Come on. You’ve got a dress that could raise the dead. You’ve got Tilda waiting to take shots with you. You’ve got a nomination for Best Fucking Director.”

You cling tighter, “don’t remind me”

She kisses your temple. “You can do this.”

You just kiss her neck.

Then her shoulder.

Then her mouth.

Soft, needy, warm. Not trying to start anything. Just needing to feel her. Just needing to stay close.

“I can’t breathe when you’re not here,” you whisper. “I know that’s pathetic.”

Maya’s hand finds your jaw. Tilts your face up.

“Not pathetic,” she says. “Human.”

You blink at her, eyes glossy. “Can we just… stay like this?”

She smiles. “We can stay like this for exactly seven more minutes. Then you have to let me put fancy shit on your face and help you into a dress that’s going to make people cry.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Promise you won’t leave me tonight?”

She pulls you closer. “Baby, I’m gonna be on you like a second skin. I am not letting go. I’ll hold your hand on the carpet. I’ll kiss your shoulder if you get nervous. And if anyone even thinks about asking who I am, I’ll say, ‘I’m the bitch she wakes up next to.’”

You let out a broken little laugh. “That’s romantic.”

“I thought so.”

You kiss her again.

And again.

And again.

Until your fingers stop shaking and your heart starts to believe her.

You keep kissing her. Lazy, insistent, endless.

Maya’s half-laughing now, propped up on her elbow as you shift to press your mouth to her collarbone, then her sternum, then her jaw. Each kiss is soft and clinging, more plea than seduction. Your fingers trace her ribs like she’s something fragile. Like she’s your last warm thing.

“Baby…” she breathes, somewhere between a moan and a warning. “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m gonna cancel the Globes.”

You smile into her skin. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Oh my god.” She falls back onto the pillows with a groan. “You’re such a menace.”

You crawl after her, half-draped across her chest, eyes shut, lips brushing her throat. “I just want to stay here. With you. That’s all I want.”

Maya sighs, curling an arm around your waist. “You say that like it’s unreasonable. You say that like I’m not also living for this.” She turns her head, kisses your temple. “But we do need to go. Eventually. Like, very soon. Very awards-season soon.”

“No,” you growled against her throat.

“I love you, but you’re literally the reason they make schedules. The glam team is gonna riot.”

“They can wait.”

Maya laughs. Full-bodied. Real. Her hand rubs your back, fingers lazy. “They’re probably outside trying to break into the house.”

“I have protection spells around the property, I’m not worried” you shrug and kiss her again. And again. Your leg hooks over hers, your nose presses into her neck, and your whole body sighs like it’s finally safe.

“I don’t want to be anyone else’s today,” you whisper. “I just want to be yours.”

Maya’s hand pauses on your back.

Then she flips the blanket higher over both of you, tucking you in like something sacred. She kisses your hairline, long and lingering.

“You’re always mine,” she murmurs. “Whether you’re in a gown or in this bed. Whether you win or not. You’re mine.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

“I’ll be right next to you the whole time,” she adds. “Cameras or not. You just keep looking at me. I’ll do the rest.”

You finally lift your eyes to hers. “Swear?”

“On Margiela. On the Prada. On fuckin Valentino. On your haunted little heart.”

You lean in and kiss her again, longer this time. Less desperation. More knowing.

You’re going to go.

Eventually.

Maya doesn’t force you. She just starts moving slowly, like she’s done it a hundred times before. You feel her shift beside you, warmth leaving your chest as she rises, but her hands stay on you. One trailing along your hip. The other brushing back your hair.

“Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you ready.”

You make a soft noise. Protest. Not quite no, but not yes either.

She leans down and kisses your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the spot just behind your ear. “You don’t have to do anything,” she whispers. “I’ll do it all. Just come sit up for me.”

You blink slowly. Your chest feels full. Heavy. But you nod.

She coaxes you upright with warm hands, murmuring gentle things into your skin as she helps you swing your legs over the side of the bed. The sheet drops away, and the room is cool, but she’s already reaching for the robe draped over the armchair, wrapping it around your shoulders like it’s armor.

“There she is,” Maya says softly. “My scary little director. Sweetest thing in the world after noon.”

You don’t answer, you just look up at her from where you’re sitting on the edge of the bed. Eyes glossy. Lip trembling.

Her teasing dies the second she sees your face. “Oh,” she breathes. “Baby.”

You try to look away, but she’s already kneeling in front of you, hands on your knees.

“I’m okay,” you lie.

She reaches up, brushes a thumb under your eye. “You don’t have to be.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at her, really stare? and it hits you all over again. How she’s always there. How she never makes you feel too much. How she shows up, always, without asking for anything back. And now she’s kneeling in front of you in a silk robe and nothing else, kissing your knees like you’re a holy thing.

“I’m gonna take care of you today,” she promises. “You don’t even have to think. You just let them glam you up, let them put you in that gown, and you keep holding my hand.”

You nod. Barely.

She kisses your knees again. Stands. “Let me do your hair.”

She leads you gently to the vanity, settles you in her lap like you weigh nothing, and starts brushing long, careful strokes down your back, her lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds, just to remind you she’s still there.

“You’re gonna ruin them,” she whispers. “You’re gonna walk in and every exec who passed on you is gonna spontaneously combust. It’s gonna be so hot.”

You let out a broken laugh. She smiles into your neck.

You hear them before you see them.

Laughter. Heels. The rustle of garment bags. Someone’s yelling about steaming silk like the world is ending.

Maya kisses your cheek, still in her robe, her hair pinned up with golden clips. “They’re here.”

You nod, still sitting quietly at the vanity. The robe clutched tight around you like it’s armor. You’re doing better, your hands have mostly stopped shaking, but you still flinch a little when the door opens.

Tyler walks in first. “Okayyyy ladies,” he calls, grinning like he lives here. “Let’s get glam, baby.”

He’s in a blazer over a vintage silk shirt, juggling two iced coffees and an iPad. He hands one to Maya, kisses the top of your head without asking, and offers the other to you.

“Oat milk, two brown sugars,” he says. “I doubled checked with Maya yesterday that this was your order”

You take it. “Thank you, Tyler.”

“No problem, queen of horror.” He leans in, voice soft, conspiratorial. “You doing okay?”

You nod, small.

He squeezes your shoulder. “Cool. We’ll keep it chill.”

And he does.

Even as the glam team floods in, stylists, dressers, a makeup artist with fangs on her necklace, Tyler runs interference like a champ. You sit still, sipping your coffee, letting them work around you. He distracts the loud ones. Gently redirects energy away from you when he sees your hands start to twitch.

But Maya?

Maya is in her element.

She’s standing by the mirror in nothing but her robe, bare leg peeking out, sipping coffee and scrolling through her phone like she’s the main event. Every few seconds she flings off a line like—

“Wait, if I wear the gloves, do I need earrings or is that redundant couture?”

or

“Is it bad if I bring a purse just for lip gloss and a single Xanax? I want to look like I don’t need it but still have it.”

You catch yourself watching her in the mirror.

Lit up. Confident. Buzzing.

And somewhere deep in your ribs, something unclenches. You’re still nervous. But she’s here. She’s glowing. She’s yours. And she’s making sure the world sees it.

Every time she catches your eye, she winks. “Looking good, babygirl,” she purrs. “They’re not ready for us.”

You’re back on the couch, fresh-faced and wrapped in a robe, while the stylists float around you like shadows. You’re not the focus right now.

Maya is.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

She’s standing in front of the full-length mirror, robe half-open, skin glowing under soft ring lights. Her hair is already pinned in place, voluminous, glossy, old Hollywood waves with a modern, streetwear slick edge. Her skin is golden. Lips subtly and strategically glossed.

“Okay, I need the cuff on the left arm, stacked rings on the right,” she says, gesturing toward the tray of jewelry like she’s conducting an orchestra. “No necklace. This neckline’s doing the work.”

Tyler hands her a tray. “Margiela said the gloves are optional but—”

“Gloves are non-negotiable,” Maya cuts in.

You smile behind your coffee cup.

A stylist holds up two clutches.

Maya points. “The smaller one. I don’t need a purse, I need a statement. I’ll shove my ID and a breath mint in my bra like a professional.”

She turns suddenly, locking eyes with you. “Baby, are you watching this? I’m literally manifesting myself into becoming a fashion icon.”

You nod, soft. “You’re doing amazing honey.”

Her grin is crooked, cocky, a little breathless. “I feel like I’m finally able to realise my true potential.”

She steps into the dress, stylists zipping it up in the back. Maya smooths the fabric over her hips, breath hitching. “Okay. Okay. Oh my god, this is dangerous. I’m gonna get arrested. This is red carpet porn.”

Tyler chimes in, totally deadpan. “Your ass should have its own IG.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Finally, someone respects my craft.”

She turns again, checks her profile, lifts one brow.

“You think it’s too much?” she asks you, suddenly quiet. “I mean, I don’t want to outshine you or—”

“No,” you say, and your voice is clear now. “It’s perfect. You look like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Maya stops.

Softens.

Then gives you that smile. The one that means she’s about to either cry or climb into your lap.

But instead, she straightens her gloves. “Okay. I’m ready to make the Globes my bitch.”

Now it’s your turn.

The team moves around you with quiet precision, zippers whispering, brushes sweeping, powder settling like dust on old bone. You sit still. You let them paint you pale, line your eyes dark, twist your hair into something loose and long and dreamlike.

No sharp angles. No harsh lines.

You are not Maya Mason. You are something softer. Stranger. The goal is not to look hot but older than time.

Your gown is dark, sleek in some places, sheer in others, as if the fabric had been conjured rather than sewn. There’s something witchy in the cut, the drape, the way the hem moves like fog over the floor. You look like someone who should arrive at the Globes in a hearse pulled by a murder of crows.

And Maya?

Maya’s staring. From her spot on the bench, already fully dressed, gloves on, lip gloss perfect, she watches you like she’s being haunted.

“Holy shit,” she says, under her breath.

You glance up at her. Your makeup artist gently adjusts your chin. “Too much?” you murmur, self-conscious.

Maya laughs like you’ve just asked if the sun’s too bright. “You look like a bride of Dracula.”

You tilt your head. “Is that a compliment?”

Maya stands. Walks over slowly. “Baby,” she says, low and reverent, “you look like the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on. You look like you’re gonna win Best Director and then ascend into mist.”

You smile, small and shy.

She steps behind you, hands careful on your waist. Her fingers skim the edge of the fabric, her chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “Let them talk,” she whispers. “Let them stare. You’re gonna take their breath away.”

She kisses the space just beneath your ear. “You don’t even have to say a word. They’ll still know who you are.”

You reach up, place your hand over hers. And for a second, the glam team disappears. The camera flashes, the nerves, the noise, it all fades.

It’s just you, her, and the quiet, staggering love between you.

The room is buzzing.Hair is done. Gowns are zipped. A shoe emergency has been narrowly avoided. Tyler is packing backup earrings into a clutch like he’s handling explosives.

And Maya, your goddess, menace, and marketing warlord, is perfection.

She stands by the mirror, hands on her hips, giving angles to no one in particular. Her dress fits like it was born for her. Her gloves are on. Her lip gloss is dangerous. She is peak Mason.

And you? You’re watching her like she’s prey.

“Maya,” you murmur.

She turns, distracted. “Yeah, baby?”

You reach out and tug her hand, just slightly. Just enough. She comes closer without thinking. She always does.

You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her gently toward you. Your voice is a whisper. “I wanna make out.”

Maya raises an eyebrow. “Now?”

You nod. “Right now.”

She glances over her shoulder, Tyler’s muttering something about boob tape to a stylist. The rest of the team is sorting lashes and lint rollers.

Maya leans in, lips already parted, ready to give it to you when one of the stylists shrieks.

“No no no no NO—” she protests, diving forward with a powder brush. “LIP GLOSS!”

Maya pulls back fast, blinking. “Oh shit.”

“I just finished her mouth,” the artist wails. “She’s flawless. She has a perfect lip. You’ll ruin it!”

Maya stares at you. Then at the mirror. Then sighs. “Okay yeah no I do look hot as fuck right now. Baby we have to wait”

But you’re already grabbing at her waist again, pouting. “Just one kiss,” you whisper. “I’ll be good.”

She groans. “Fuck. Don’t do that face.” She leans in an inch. “You’re gonna make me throw this whole look away just to crawl on top of you in custom couture.”

Tyler yells from across the room, “IF YOU MESS UP YOUR FACES I WILL TELL VOGUE YOU USED DRUGSTORE CONCEALER.”

Maya barks out a laugh. “Okay, okay! Baby, you get one kiss. A chaste kiss. Like we’re in a fuckin Austen novel.”

You nod sweetly.

Then pull her down and absolutely ruin her. You kiss her hard, hot, a little greedy. One hand in her hair. Her lip gloss smudges immediately and she lets out a whimper into your mouth.

You pull back, breathless. Smiling.

Maya looks wrecked and radiant. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You’re a menace. And I’m obsessed with you.”

Tyler walks by, muttering, “I swear to god, next time I’m bringing a squirt bottle.”

~

You’re in the backseat of a luxury black SUV.

There’s soft music playing. Everything smells like leather and floral setting spray. Maya’s phone is buzzing with texts from Tyler, updates from PR, a Vogue intern begging for a quote.

You don’t care about any of it.

Because Maya’s sitting next to you in full couture. Hair glossy, lip gloss reapplied to perfection, gloves smoothed up to her elbows. She’s crossed her legs, her slit high and skin golden, and her head is tilted ever so slightly, scanning her texts like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to you.

You squirm in your seat. Not dramatically. Just… a shift. A subtle exhale. A whine caught in your throat.

Maya glances over. “Baby...”

“I can’t wait.”

She raises a brow. “Can’t wait for what?”

You look at her, actually look at her, and you’re down so bad. The gloves. The gown. The smug little smirk she doesn’t even know she’s wearing. You’re not okay.

“I need you.”

Maya blinks. “Oh no.”

You shift again, pressing your thighs together. Your hand lands gently on her knee. She looks down at it like it’s a threat.

“Baby,” she says, voice hushed but sharp, “I am in custom Margiela. You can’t just squirm at me in archival silk.”

You lean closer. Breathe her in. “You look so good. It’s making me crazy.”

She clenches her jaw. “Fuck.”

You nuzzle into her shoulder. “Want you so bad.”

She laughs, nervous, aroused and a little desperate. “I cannot finger you in a moving vehicle on the way to the Golden Globes, babe.”

You pout. Whisper against her neck. “Don’t need that. Just your mouth. One kiss.”

“No, because you say ‘one’ and then suddenly we’re dry humping in designer dresses. You’re literally twitching. You’re like a Victorian ghost who caught a glimpse of bare ankle.”

You groan softly, dragging your fingers up her thigh. “You smell like a hot rich woman who I want to ruin me in a guest bathroom.”

“I am that,” she mutters. “But not in this dress.”

You shift again. She lets out a strangled sound and grabs your wrist.

“No. No no no. You need to calm down. This outfit is structured. There is boning. If you wrinkle me before Getty Images even sees me, I swear to god—”

You press your face into her shoulder, laughing softly, desperate. “But you’re so pretty.”

She leans over, kisses your temple, quick, firm, and breathy. “Five minutes, babygirl,” she says. “Hold it together. When we get through the carpet, I’ll find us a bathroom and ruin your mascara.”

You exhale. Shiver. “Okay,” you whisper.

She pulls your hand into hers, holds it tight on her thigh.

“Deep breaths,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna kill them all. And then you can climb me like a tree.”

The SUV door opens and the sound hits you like a wave of cameras flashing, fans screaming, press shouting names through a blur of lights and microphones.

For a second, you freeze.

And then Maya squeezes your hand. “Hey.” Her voice is low, just for you. “Breathe. You’re here. You’re doing it.”

She’s glowing. Glossed and gilded and impossibly beautiful, like she was made for this night. Her gown shimmers under the lights. Her gloved hand is still wrapped around yours.

You nod. Inhale. And step out of the car. The moment your foot hits the carpet, the shouting begins.

“Over here!”

“Turn this way!”

“Look here!”

You blink under the flashes, but Maya’s there. One step behind you, one arm slipping gently around your waist. “They’re not ready,” she murmurs. “You look like a goddess.”

You let her guide you down the carpet.

She doesn’t try to outshine you. She doesn’t pose too hard or talk over you. She just stays. Steady. Warm. A presence at your side.

Someone asks what you’re wearing. You falter.

“She’s in archival McQueen,” Maya answers smoothly, eyes never leaving you. “And I’m in Margiela. Custom. Obviously.”

The reporter stammers. Laughs. “You look incredible.”

Maya kisses your cheek right in front of the flash. “She is incredible.”

You nearly melt on the spot.

The cameras catch it. Of course they do.

The witch. The marketer. The moment.

You lean in and whisper, “I love you.”

And she says, with no hesitation, with the lights burning down, “I know. Now let’s go burn this shit down.”

You’re halfway down the carpet and the world has noticed.

Not just you, you two. The flashes intensify. Reporters are turning to each other mid-interview. Paparazzi are whispering to assistants. Publicists are scrambling to Google you again, properly this time.

“Who is that?”

“Oh my god, that’s the director of The Witch. And that’s… wait, is that her girlfriend?”

“Are we looking at the lesbian power couple of awards season?”

Maya’s smiling so wide you think her cheekbones might crack. “Oh my god,” she whispers in your ear, “I just heard someone say ‘Sapphic Succession energy.’ Baby we’re going viral.”

You nod once, eyes slightly glazed. “Can’t feel my feet.”

She presses a kiss to your temple. “Slay through it.”

Another reporter approaches. “Can we get a quick quote for Variety?”

You’re about to panic but Maya jumps in, already glowing. “We’re just honored to be here,” she says smoothly. “It’s been such an incredible year for horror, and I’m just thrilled I get to stand next to a genius who’s changing the genre and looks this hot in black lace.”

You blink. “I just want to go inside for the bread.”

The reporter laughs, not realizing you’re dead serious.

Maya’s still riding the high. “We’re doing afterparty rounds. I want to be on at least three lesbian moodboards before midnight.”

“I want mashed potatoes,” you murmur.

She grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles dramatically. “You’ll get potatoes. You’ll get everything. But we have to serve first.”

“Have we not served enough?”

“Not until someone live-tweets your cheekbones and tags it #SapphicSeduction.”

A flash goes off. Someone calls your name.

You try to smile. You think it looks like pain.

Maya leans in. “You are so close to a bread roll.”

You exhale shakily. “Promise?”

She presses her gloved hand to your heart. “On couture.”

[partiallysame]

Hi C! I don't know if you want to but I was wondering if you'd write the 141 boys reaction to the girl flipping the script on them when they're being intimate and wrapping her hand around their throat?

Thank you! -🦝

Yes yes yes yes yes ok ok

Let’s start with Johnny and we all know why. You’re riding him and your hand slides up his chest until your finger wrap around his neck and give the slightest squeeze and the moan that it rips from him surprised both of you. He’s leaning forward ever so slightly to press his neck further into your grip and letting out the most broken “please” and when you squeeze harder he cums instantly but don’t you dare stop he’s been waiting for this his whole life Bonnie keep going.

When your hand wraps around Kyle’s neck you see the look in his eyes change. They darken in a way that makes you almost regret your action. You begin to retreat your hand until his finds your wrist and presses your palm back onto his throat “nuh uh baby. Don’t be shy now” he keeps his grip on your wrist not letting you move while he starts to fuck up into you and your grip on his throat is the only thing keeping you upright

I think for Simon the second your gentle hand did anything other than rest on his neck he would flip you over. One tiny squeeze and now you’re on your back begging for a break from his brutal pace. He never liked how much control you being on top gave you and he’s not going to let you abuse that power. “Who’d you think was in charge here eh?”

And Price would give you this knowing smile when your hand wrapped around his neck. He’d stop moving under you and when you got confused, in such a smug tone he’d be like “you wanted control. Take what you want love” and if you went eyes wide “make yourself feel good hun” and he’s losing his mind watching you try to keep your control as you fuck yourself on him

[sakuraszn]

hey bookie bear I’ve been a silent reader but I just had an idea!!

so here me out on you and fiancé!Bakugo had a plan to “square up” with each other at the alter before the rings are brought down the aisle. Like imagine all the guests laughing in confusion or some being genuinely concerned as to why the bride and groom suddenly squared up at the podium.

lol idk if this made sense but it just came to my brain

-🥭

﹒♡ SQUARE UP, ft. katsuki bakugo

note: hello mlll😚💕!! don’t worry I understand what you meant, hopefully I was able to execute this well for you!

Weddings are supposed to be elegant. Romantic. Sentimental. A once-in-a-lifetime moment filled with love, tears, and gentle smiles.

The grand hall was stunning—white roses, gold accents, and a whole bunch of fancy decorations that probably cost way too much, but you weren’t about to complain. Your friends and family filled the seats, waiting for the big moment.

Apparently, no one told you and Bakugo Katsuki that.

And then—

“Alright. Square up.”

A wave of confusion rippled through the crowd.

Standing at the altar in his crisp black suit, Bakugo loosened his tie, rolling his neck like he was about to go ten rounds in a championship fight. And in front of him? You, standing there in your absolutely drop-dead gorgeous wedding dress, lifting your fists like you were about to make history.

The tension? Immaculate.

The reactions? Priceless.

Kirishima nearly choked on his own spit. “Oh, man. They’re actually doing it.”

Mina gasped, hands over her mouth. “This is the most on-brand thing I’ve ever seen.”

Kaminari, utterly lost, turned to Todoroki. “Wait—this isn’t a normal wedding tradition, right?”

Todoroki, deadpan, replied, “Not unless I missed something in wedding etiquette class.”

Don’t even get started on your mother. She’s in distress. “WHY ARE THEY FIGHTING? THIS IS A CEREMONY, NOT A CAGE MATCH!”

Your father, arms crossed, just shook his head. “I mean… this is kinda how they flirt.”

The priest looked at the two of you, then at his script, then back at you, before sighing in utter defeat. “Should I… continue, or…?”

Bakugo ignored him, his eyes locked onto you. “C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t get cold feet now.”

You scoffed. “Cold feet? Please. I’m just trying to decide if I should humble you now or after the reception.”

His smirk was all sharp edges. “Tch. Try it.”

And just like that—

The moment you took a step forward, Bakugo was already moving, sidestepping with a smoothness that was honestly a little too attractive for a man in a wedding tux. You threw a fake jab, just to mess with him, but he caught your wrist, spun you seamlessly, and then—

He dipped you.

A deep, dramatic, ballroom-style dip, your wedding dress flowing like something out of a fairy tale.

The entire chapel lost their minds.

“A DANCE MOVE FAKE-OUT?!” Kaminari screeched.

Mina wiped a fake tear. “They’re so in sync.”

You, upside down in the dip, burst out laughing. “Alright, alright! You win this round.”

“Tch. I always win,” Bakugo said, but he was grinning, the usual sharpness in his expression softened by pure affection. He pulled you upright, still holding onto you like he had no intention of letting go.

The priest, now sweating profusely, tried again. “So… can we proceed with the vows now?”

Bakugo sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes before lacing his fingers with yours. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with so I can kiss my wife already.”

The guests cheered. The ceremony continued. And for the rest of eternity, people would talk about how that was the day they witnessed the most badass and ridiculously romantic wedding of all time.

2025 © SAKURASZN !

[lokileaf]

Hi! Do you write requests? If so, I just need like a lokixreader fic where they’re having an arranged marriage but they don’t know that they’re soulmates. For context, soulmates in this universe have half a quote written somewhere on them that is important to their relationship. Bonus points if it’s enemies to lovers, with the reader also being witty and having the ability to keep Loki on his toes.

Yes, I love requests! Thank you for submitting! 💚

Tradition

Loki x f!Reader

It was a silly tradition. Nonsensical, honestly. The idea that the Norns could shape his destiny was ridiculous. Fate was a thing for mortals to find comfort in or blame for their bad fortune.

Not determine who he was permitted to marry.

Even prior to the script making its appearance on his skin, he had come to a decision. He would not share it with anyone. His mother and father would never know. After all, it was not unheard of for the tattoos to fail to appear for certain individuals. Surely no one would question his particular lack of writing.

Unfortunately, no amount of planning or plotting could prevent his heart from sinking as the sentence looped its way across the pale skin of his collarbone on that fateful day.

…but it was love eventually.

Loki did his best to prevent himself from attempting to derive any meaning from the unfinished quote. After all, he had already decided it was meaningless. What use was speculation when he had already made up his mind?

A celebration was customary upon the appearance of one’s soul mark. Your parents were elated when yours materialized, inking itself across your ribcage.

It wasn’t love at first sight…

Your heart soared at the potential the incomplete sentence held.

As high-ranking members of the Allfather’s court, it was thrilling news. Lords and ladies made their appearances at the ball put on in your honor, taking the opportunity to consult your parents accordingly. The event buzzed with nobles hoping their son or daughter would be the fortunate individual to complete your soul mark, thus securing an advantageous betrothal.

However, no such arrangement presented itself. As time went on, you began to resent the script. Your continued lack of apparent soulmate became the talk of the court, a stain upon your marriage prospects.

And oh how Loki loved to remind you of this particular shortcoming.

It began with snide comments at your soul mark celebration. Having been raised with one another, you were quite used to his sharp tongue and merciless teasing. You brushed him off at first, sure that your soul mate would would make themselves known before the evening’s end.

By the time your guests had begun to filter their way out of your family’s manor, tears were pricking your eyes with their sharp sting. Loki’s words were needling their way under your skin, taking up residence in the back of your mind.

You sat with your back against the wall of an abandoned hallway, the light dimming as tears forced their way through your closed lids. Your legs were folded up against your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, head bowed to prevent any potential passersby from seeing your now puffy face.

You had finally run out of tears when you heard footsteps making their way down the hall. You jumped, hastily wiping your face as you stumbled up to your feet, your mind scrambling to find an adequate excuse for your distraught state. You had barely situated yourself upright before realizing the footsteps belonged to the younger prince.

“Ah, it’s only you,” you huffed, straightening the rumpled fabric of your formal attire.

“You would do well to address your prince appropriately,” Loki replied pompously, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked you up and down.

“My prince would do well to not stick his royal nose where it does not belong,” you shot back, clearly not in the mood for his attitude.

You caught a glimpse of a smirk making its way across his lips as you self-consciously attempted to smooth your hair back down.

“A bit sensitive this evening, are we? Disappointed with that frivolous little tradition, perhaps?”

You ignored the barb and began to make your way back to the great hall, your solitude thoroughly ruined by the God of Mischief. Your agitation only grew as he followed closely behind, clearly having chosen you as his evening entertainment.

“Surely you can’t be shocked,” he stated plainly, as if it were obvious.

You paused mid stride, turning to face him. Your emotions had already been chaffed raw, leaving you with little patience for mincing words.

“And what exactly do you mean by that, Your Highness,” you snapped. You hated to give in to his ruse but you were in no mood for his backhanded comments at the moment.

“Well, my lady,” he started, “one should not be so surprised that an individual as foolhardy as yourself would not be granted a soulmate of noble standing.”

Your face began to heat with indignation, a flourish of nasty insults rising to your tongue. You glared at him, forcing yourself to retain a semblance of self control.

Despite his endless capacity to annoy you, he really was unfairly handsome. His sharp cheekbones, angular jawline, his pale skin contrasting with his raven hair. And not to mention his substantial height and devastatingly blue eyes.

It was truly unfortunate that he maintained an insatiable need to ruin it all with his loud mouth.

“I supposed one should also not be surprised to learn that an individual as ill-mannered as yourself would have no soulmate at all”, you finally shot back before storming off to your chambers.

He watched you go, rooted to the spot by your quick jab. He would have been impressed had the retort not stung him so unexpectedly. He felt his brow furrow as your fleeing form rounded a corner, disappearing from view.

Is that how his people viewed his alleged lack of a soul mark? As a direct result of his prickly personality? A personal failing?

He supposed he should not have been as offended by this notion as he was. After all, had he not just insinuated the same toward you?

Best not to think about it, he determined.

This mutual irritation continued on throughout your… relationship. If one could even call it that. The years continued to pass and your soulmate had failed to manifest themselves. Additionally, Loki’s soul mark had continued in its failure to appear.

Or so he had you believe.

With Thor earning himself a full fledged banishment from Asgard, the throne found itself with one heir remaining.

One heir with no marriage prospects.

Amidst swirling rumors, the Allfather had summoned your family to the palace to discuss “a matter of utmost importance”, though your father had neglected to inform you of exactly what this meeting entailed.

You waited silently just outside of the throne room, wishing you could be anywhere else. You truly adored the king and queen, but Loki had taken to roaming the palace more freely in his brother’s absence, leaving you subject to his comings and goings.

You jumped as his green and gold clad figure appeared next to you, seemingly out of nowhere, a smirk on his lips.

“Do you ever tire of your juvenile magic tricks?” you snapped at him, your irritation evident. He placed a hand on his chest, feigning hurt.

“As I recall, my lady, you quite enjoyed my magic tricks in our youth.”

You ignored his comment, instead focusing on your attempt to eavesdrop on your parents and the Allfather and -mother. Loki watched in silence as you pressed your ear to the throne room door, your face screwed up in concentration.

He threaded a hand behind your head, cupping it with his palm before you flinched away from the contact, a bewildered expression on your face.

“Relax, my lady, I am only trying to assist you,” he muttered.

He reached his hand out once more, waiting for you grant him permission to touch you. You nodded slowly, allowing him to lace his fingers through the back of your hair, cupping your jaw. He pressed his other hand to the door, using his seiðir to amplify the conversation and direct it straight into your mind. The two of you waited in concentrated silence, anxious to hear what was being discussed.

“-believe this arrangement would be advantageous to both our families. Our children are of marrying age, after all, and the throne requires an heir be betrothed.”

“We quite agree, Your Majesty. I speak for our entire family when I say that we would be delighted to have our daughter betrothed to Prince Loki.

You could no longer hear the exchange over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You stumbled away from the door in shock. Loki released you from his grasp, his eyes wide and staring at the door in front of him. You took a moment to compose yourself before turning on your heel to face him, rage boiling in your blood.

“If this is one of your tricks, Odinson, it is not amusing,” you snapped at him accusingly.

“I assure you, my lady, this development is completely free of my influence.”

Hearing footsteps approaching, Loki darted toward you, swiftly taking you in his arms and spinning you around so your back was pressed against his chest. You thrashed against his hold, your agitation having reached its peak.

“Be still. Someone is coming,” he whispered hurriedly, his lips brushing ever so slightly against the shell of your ear as he pressed himself back against the palace wall. His arms held you firmly in place against him and you looked down to see that your bodies had completely disappeared.

“What is this?” you asked accusingly, voice just above a whisper. An invisible hand shot up to clamp over your mouth, irritating you further. You felt Loki duck his head down to whisper in your ear once more.

“I am preventing us from being discovered in a rather compromising position. And you’re quite loud,” he replied.

Despite your annoyance with the prince, a warmth settled low in your abdomen as his breath caressed the skin behind your ear. Before you could give much thought to your body’s reaction, the throne room door opened, revealing each of your parents.

You felt Loki’s arms tighten around you, pressing you further into him as the Allfather came dangerously close to brushing against your hidden form.

“I supposed we should inform our children of the arrangement?” Frigga proposed to the group, placing a hand on her husband’s arm.

“Indeed… over a feast, perhaps?” Odin suggested, leading the group down the palace hall and away from your current position.

You didn’t bother listening for your parents’ reply, ripping yourself from Loki’s grasp before storming off toward the guest chambers.

“My lady, wait…” Loki started, following closely behind.

You burst through your chamber doors rather unceremoniously, throwing yourself onto the settee at the foot of your temporary bed. You covered your face with your hands, frustrated tears forcing their way out.

“You know, you could have procured a significantly worse betrothal,” Loki stated, breaking the tension.

“Not now, Loki…” you sighed, sounded defeated.

He let the silence continue for a few moments, unsure of how to balance his desire to comfort you and his own shock at the impending betrothal. He quietly lowered himself next to you on the settee, placing a slightly awkward hand on your shoulder. You looked up at him, slightly confused by the uncharacteristic gesture.

“Surely being my bride-to-be is not as devastating as you believe,” he teased gently, his eyes softening as they met yours. You couldn’t help the slight smile that broke across your lips.

“As aggravating as you are, my prince, it’s not that. I simply feel… like a failure, I suppose,”

“Do tell.”

You hesitated ever so slightly, unsure if bearing your soul to the trickster would end well for you.

“My soul mark was supposed to determine who I am to marry. And I cannot find them. I suppose I did not realize how right you were that night when you said I shouldn’t be surprised someone like me would not find their soulmate.”

His chest ached at the sentiment, regret stinging like a blow. He hadn’t thought about your little exchange since that night, didn’t think you would have remembered. Despite the enjoyment he derived from teasing and baiting you, he had never intended to cause you any actual harm.

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then,” he said quietly.

There was not much in the Nine Realms that could make his heart race, but this rare moment of vulnerability was enough to send his pulse pounding in his ears.

You looked up at him, clearly confused by the earnest tone in his voice.

“If I am to inherit the throne, I will require a wife. And I suppose you will do,” he deadpanned. You couldn’t help the laugh that burst from your chest, your previous distress completely forgotten.

To his utter confusion, Loki couldn't help but feel his heart soar at the sound of your laughter echoing through the guest chambers.

“I suppose I could do a lot worse for myself than a prince,” you conceded, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “I just can’t help but feel like I’ve disappointed my parents.”

He nearly laughed aloud at the statement. From his perspective, there was no bigger disappointment than himself.

I could tell her, he thought to himself.

Surely there was no use hiding his soul mark any longer. If you were to be wed, you would discover the truth eventually.

“If that were true, my lady, you would be in good company,” he said quietly, heart beginning to race at the prospect of revealing his long kept secret. Your brow furrowed as you looked up at him in confusion.

“How do you figure?”

A moment of hesitation before his fingers made their way to the collar of his tunic, tentatively pulling the deep green fabric away from his collarbone to expose the thin lettering looping across his pale skin.

The deafening silence rang in his ears as he waited for you to react in some capacity, unsure of what you would say. After a few heartbeats had passed, you cautiously raised your hand to run your fingers over his skin.

…but it was love eventually.

“I thought you didn’t receive a soul mark,” you mumbled, transfixed by the ink.

He sighed softly, unsure if you would understand his quandary with the idea of fated mates.

“I merely… kept the occurrence private. Too many fawning suitors… you understand,” he replied sheepishly, fighting the blush that was making its way across his cheeks. An exasperated laugh escaped your lips, Loki’s revelation easing your prior distress.

“I see… I supposed we are more alike than I thought, my prince,” you sighed, looking down at your hands clasped in your lap.

A moment of silence passed before he gently took your hands in his, your eyes snapping up to meet his blue ones. You felt your heart begin to race at the contact, surprising yourself with the reaction.

"My lady..." he trailed off, letting hesitation get the better of him for a moment. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second.

"Yes, Loki?"

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper as he began to close the gap between your lips.

"And if I don't want you to?" you muttered breathlessly.

A mischievous smirk flashes across his face before his lips claimed yours, your eyes closing as you surrendered control over to him. His hands slid up your body to cup your face, pulling you closer as he pulled your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently. You gasped slightly into his mouth, your stomach erupting with butterflies.

What are we doing? you thought silently to yourself. Can a lifetime of annoyance and irritation be erased by a single intimate moment?

You trailed a hand up his chest and around the back of his neck, sliding your fingers into his hair. You tighten your grip on his raven curls, eliciting a slight groan from the god. Liquid heat began to pool at your center.

Yes it can, you decided.

Loki's tongue trailed the length of your bottom lip in a silent question, his hands dropping to your hips. You granted him access, fighting back a moan as he effortlessly shifted your body onto his lap. Straddling his hips, you pressed your chest against his as his lips made their way across your jaw and down your neck.

His hands found the laces of your corset and he pulled away slightly, looking up at you for permission. You nodded eagerly, catching his lips in another kiss as he skillfully unlaced the constricting garment before pulling it over your head along with your gown.

You became acutely aware of Loki's state of overdress, his tunic remaining in place while you were left in only your thin cotton shift. Without saying a word, you began working on the buttons on the emerald green fabric, exposing his pale chest.

His hands slowly slid up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your shift up dangerously high before settling on your hips. You pushed his tunic back over his shoulders, leaving him shirtless before you. You paused, taking a moment to appreciate his bare upper body. Your eyes made their way down from his collarbones to his stomach, admiring the lean muscle and V-lines leading lower and lower.

He broke you out of your reverie by grabbing the bottom of your shift, pulling it over your head. You let him do so, too lost in the feeling of his body under yours to care about being exposed to him.

You made to lean back down to kiss him when you noticed that his gaze was glued to the spot on your ribcage where you knew your soul mark was located. A shiver raced down your spine as Loki gently traced over it with his fingertips.

"It wasn't love at first sight..." he read aloud, his dark brow furrowed.

"...but it was love eventually," you finished for him, eyes wide in realization. He stared up at you silently, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

"Does the god of mischief have nothing to say?" you asked quietly, attempting to break the tension and settle your nerves.

"Well, my lady, it's not every day that a god finds his soulmate," he replied before pulling your face down to kiss him. He hooked his hands under your thighs, wrapping your legs around his hips and he stands and walks you over to the guest bed.

You smiled into his mouth as he gently lowered you onto the plush duvet. You slid your hands down his torso to his belt, clumsily undoing the buckle before starting on the button of his pants. He chuckled in your kiss and slid out of the remainder of his clothing, pressing himself against your body.

A moan escaped you at the feeling of his hot erection pressing against your inner thigh. You arched your back, pressing your bare chest into his and relishing in the friction of his skin against yours.

Loki trailed his lips down your chest, taking a hardened nipple into his mouth. You involuntarily ground yourself against him as his tongue made slow circles around the sensitive skin, soft sighs leaving your lips.

"Loki," you whined desperately, rubbing your wet heat against his thigh.

"I'm here, darling," he mumbled against your skin, "tell me what you need."

"I need you."

"Where do you need me?"

He smiled up at you as he lowered himself between your thighs, his breath on your heat making you clench around nothing. You slipped a hand to the back of his head, trying to push his mouth down to grant you the relief you needed.

"Ah ah, darling. Say it for me."

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, slightly irritated with the prince.

"I need you to make me cum, Loki," you admitted, lifting your hips slightly off the mattress in an attempt to make contact. He firmly pressed you back down, a smug look on his gorgeous face.

"Patience, my love," he mumbled, pressing hot, openmouthed kisses to your thighs. He continued his ministrations until he reached your soaked center. Your jaw fell open as his tongue licked a fat stripe over your clit, spreading your wetness across the sensitive apex.

"Oh fuck..." you gasped, your hands shooting down to the back of his head and threading your fingers through his hair. His wrapped around your thighs, pulling you closer as his tongue teased your entrance. Letting go of your left thigh, he trailed his hand down to where his mouth met your body, sliding two fingers through your folds.

His tongue made tight circles over your clit as he slipped his digits inside, giving you a few seconds to adjust before slowly pumping them in and out. You gripped the sheets, clenching your thighs around his head as the pressure in your abdomen began to build.

"Loki!" you keened, back arching once again.

He groaned into your cunt, too lost in the pleasure he was giving you to provide a real reply. The vibrations of his voice on your core sent you over the edge, undulating your hips into his face. He continued to make quick, punishing circles on your clit, helping you ride it out as your core clenched around his fingers.

You panted, letting your thighs fall limp to either side of Loki's head. He stood, taking his place on top of you. He gently brushed your hair from your eyes before pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, the taste of your own slick invading your mouth.

Before the kiss could develop into anything more, a knock at the door startled both of you.

"Darling?" your mother's muffled voice came through the locked door.

Your heart lurched, panic quickly setting in. Loki jumped up from the bed, scrambling to dress himself.

"Yes?" you shouted back, scooping your discarded shift off the floor and hastily throwing it on. You grabbed your dressing robe from a hook near the vanity and swiftly wrapped it around you, tying the knot as glanced over your shoulder to tell Loki to hide in your bathroom but was nowhere in sight.

He had completely vanished.

Your mother knocked on your door, pulling you from your thoughts. Undoing the lock, you opened it to see both of your parents standing excitedly in the hallway.

"Yes, what is it?" you asked, trying to smooth your sex-mussed hair down.

"We have a family matter to discuss and we wanted to- dear, are you alright? You look flushed," your mother interrupted herself, pressing the back of a hand to your forehead. You gently brushed her off, fighting the blush rising to your cheeks.

"Yes, I'm fine!" you replied a tad too eagerly. "What is it, what's the matter?"

Your parents shared a suspicious look before your father spoke.

"We have something to discuss. Family meeting in our chambers in fifteen minutes?" he asked plainly.

“Yes, just give me a moment to ah… freshen myself up,” you stuttered. Your mother smiled at you before turning to leave, your father following suit. You closed your door quietly, letting yourself fall back against it and pressing a hand to your face in embarrassment.

You gathered your composer and began making your way to the vanity to assess the state of your hair. As you turned, Loki’s towering figure appeared directly in front of you, causing you to yelp in fear. You lightly slapped his chest as he placed his hands on your hips

“Don’t do that!” you scolded him before allowing him to draw you into a kiss.

“You know you always enjoyed my little tricks, darling,” he replied, leading you back to the bed.

[the-modern-typewriter]

Hiii! Could you please write some hurt comfort hero and villain? Where it has a “who did this to you” vibes! Thanks! No pressure if you don’t want to!

"You look..." The villain's gaze travelled slowly up the hero, taking in the hard lines of them, the uncanny iciness that had replaced a once warm, familiar face. "Different."

"And you look like hell. Let's get you out of here."

Despite the fact that the hero had just blown the villain's chains to smithereens, the villain didn't move. They leaned heavily against the cold concrete wall of their cell, still staring.

The hero's fingers flexed agitated at their sides.

"I can - if you're hurt, I can help you stand. I don't - you're safe now."

It was like an act they didn't know how to play any more. The script was the same, but the tongue behind the words was a sharper thing. A whittled thing. Made hard and venomous with desperation. Like the world had taken an axe to everything that made the hero them and started hacking.

"Who did this to you?" the villain demanded.

"What?"

"You're all..." Their head lolled, as they tried to tilt it customarily to one side. Their broken fingers hurt too much to wiggle them effectively in the hero's direction, but they did their best. "Not you. All..."

"They hurt you," the hero said. Flat. Deadly.

The villain wet their cracked, swollen lips. Their voice came out raspy. "I heard screaming."

"Yeah." Something dark and protective simmered in the hero's eyes. It looked awfully a lot like 'they deserved it'. Like how the villain's eyes used to look, through a mirror darkly, until the pain scorched through everything cold and steely inside them.

"You killed people. You killed...you came for me."

"We need to go," the hero said, through gritted teeth. "We need to get you out of here. Come on." The hero ducked down, only to falter when their gruff tug immediately made the villain's whole world go fuzzy with hurting. The touch turned gentle as the villain flinched. The hero's hands floundered, like they no longer knew the language of caring, but still remembered that they wanted to try.

A stupid prickle of tears stung the villain's eyes.

"Who did this to you? Who-"

"-Please," the hero said. "Put your arms around me. You need to work with me here. Please."

The villain wrapped their aching arms around the hero's shoulders. The hero lifted them up, holding them oh so carefully. Being upright was still enough to make the villain's vision pop and then blacken.

When they regained consciousness, they were walking through a slaughter house. Blood everywhere. As if a hurricane given teeth and claws had ripped through the building.

"Did I do this?" the villain asked.

"No, love."

But that wasn't quite right.

"No, I mean - I was gone," the villain said. Their head felt so fuzzy with everything they had been given, but the sharp edges of the hero were so clear, if only they could find the words to paint the picture half as well, let the knowledge swirling inside them settle. "You were on your own. How long have you been trying to rescue me?"

"It's going to be alright, okay? I've got you. You're alright."

"Are you?"

"I'm not the one who's been tortured!" It came out a snap, and maybe the villain should have flinched after an eternity of raised voices and raised weapons, but they didn't.

"You don't do so well on your own," the villain said instead, softly. "You never have."

The hero's throat bobbed as they swallowed, convulsive, choking something down. "Don't."

The villain raised a hand, rubbing their thumb over the gaunt line of the hero's face.

The hero flinched back.

"It's going to be alright," the villain said. "You're going to be alright. I've got you."

"You -" The hero laughed then, a broken thing. They jerked their head to the side but it didn't hide the tears glinting in their eyes. "Maybe let's not focus on me right now. You were - what they did to you - they told that they - I should have got here faster."

"I'm sorry they used me against you."

"Don't."

"Tell me their names?"

"They're all dead."

"Tell me anyway."

"I killed them."

"I know, love. Tell me anyway."

The hero swore, but the villain could practically watch some life creep back into those icy eyes. Some horror. Some thing that wasn't a stranger. Their hero. The hero held them a little tighter, cradling them a little closer against their chest.

"Just - later. Let me get you help. You need help."

Well, the villain couldn't argue with that. Still. Their own body didn't feel half as perturbing as the way the hero's eyes iced over again, determined to see through the job, to not shatter no matter what they'd done to get to where they were. To get the villain back. To save them.

They tucked themselves closer to the hero's chest, to their heart - thumping proof of life, proof of hope, proof that maybe they hadn't entirely lost the thing they cared about most of all.

Who did this to you?

But the villain didn't really need to ask.

The answer was always their own name.

[goosegooosegeese]

fine lettering

[cosmiclily]

hii - jst wanted to say girl Ur writing is *chef's kiss* okok so i saw requests were open and im a SUCKER for actors au arcane soooo could u write a actor vi x co star!fem reader?? could it be a lil not like enemies but at first their energies don't match, but they soon learn to like eachother. on the premiere they were seen together and get asked questions abt eachother. vi keeps her hand on co star's waist whispering in her ear. idkkk jst some fluff plsss

- btw i was the anon who asked for the domestic vi teehee 🤭

love your work, xx

play pretend

✰ vi x f!reader

wc: 6.2k

notes: (snoopy pfp twins!!!) first of all, thank you !!!!!! and also your requests are so good i always have fun writing them😭😭 second, kinda got a little too excited about the request lol

If anyone watched Complex without doing any prior research, they would undoubtedly say that you and Vi had undeniable chemistry. The tension, the longing glances, the way you played off each other—it was electric. So electric that after the movie was released, the audience wanted more and more from the two of you.

But off-screen? Things weren’t nearly as perfect.

At first, Vi had been thrilled to work with you. She had been a fan for years, and when her manager called her about the role—and, more importantly, who she’d be working with—she couldn’t say yes fast enough. She had pictured smooth sailing, late-night script reads, inside jokes, maybe even the start of a great friendship.

What she hadn’t pictured was the absolute nightmare that was your first meeting.

You were thirty minutes late to the chemistry read, walking in with a sour expression and barely sparing her a glance. No pleasantries, no introductions—you simply read your lines (flawlessly, of course), nodded at the director, and walked right back out. Vi had sat there, script still in hand, completely thrown.

Things did not get better from there.

The two of you bickered about everything. Blocking, line delivery, even what music should play between takes. It was like you had been designed to push each other’s buttons.

And then there was the first kiss rehearsal.

Vi, in all her brilliance, had eaten a tuna sandwich right before the scene.

The second you leaned in and caught the scent, you recoiled so fast you nearly toppled over. "Are you serious?!" you had shouted, fanning your face as if that would somehow make the stench disappear.

Vi? She had lost it.

She laughed so hard she had to physically hold onto the set piece to keep herself upright. It took a full ten minutes and an entire pack of breath mints for you to even consider going through with the scene.

But as much as you bickered, there was no denying it—the chemistry was off the charts. The moment the cameras started rolling and you weren’t Y/N and Vi anymore, something clicked. Suddenly, you were two best friends hopelessly in love, bound by circumstances that would never allow them to be together. It was raw, it was emotional, and it was so frustrating for the director.

"Cut!" Frank shouted, exasperation dripping from his voice. As soon as the word left his mouth, you immediately stepped away from Vi, your longing expression vanishing like it had never been there.

"You delivered your last line too late," you huffed, flipping through your script. "The silence was awkward."

Vi rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "It’s called dramatic tension. Like my character is hesitating before saying it. You don’t know art."

You scoffed. "That’s bullshit."

"Oh my god," Frank groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can’t the two of you just stop?"

Both of you turned to face him, blinking as if you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes arguing.

"If I hadn’t sunk so much goddamn money into this movie," he continued, his face red with frustration, "and if your chemistry on screen wasn’t so damn perfect, I would’ve fired you both by now! This is insane! You can’t go three seconds without fighting!"

You and Vi exchanged a glance—one that probably lasted all of two seconds before she smirked and you scoffed again.

This was going to be a long shoot.

Later, after finally wrapping for the day, you were in your dressing room, peeling off your character’s persona and replacing it with your own. You had just finished touching up your lipstick in the bright vanity mirror when your manager, Mel, stormed in—her expression immediately telling you she did not bring good news.

"Frank is fuming," she announced, crossing her arms. "Livid. He says you're a brat who thinks she runs the set, and that Vi has the humor of a twelve-year-old boy."

You let out a small snort, not even bothering to look at her. "Well, he’s not wrong about Vi."

Mel shot you a glare. "What the hell are you two doing? How are you supposed to promote this movie when you can’t even be in the same room for five minutes without arguing?"

You sighed dramatically, turning back to the mirror as you fixed a stray hair. "Well, if she wasn’t so damn stubborn and stupid, I wouldn’t have a problem with her."

Mel groaned, rubbing her temples as if you were single-handedly giving her a migraine. "You know what? That’s it. I was talking to Vander, and he agreed—the two of you need figure this thing out, go out together or something."

That caught your attention. You turned to her, brows furrowing. "Go out together? Like what? A forced bonding exercise?"

"Yes, exactly," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Then she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at you. "And don’t look at me like that. I wanted to lock you two in a room for the entire weekend, but Vander thought “hanging out” was a better option."

Your lips parted slightly in disbelief. "That was your suggestion?"

Mel shrugged. "It would've worked."

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "What exactly are we supposed to do together?"

Mel smirked. "That’s for you and Vi to figure out."

Mel had given you Vi’s number—which you didn’t have after working with her for more than a month—and told you to text her. She even threatened to call your mom if you didn’t, which, honestly, was a low blow.

Naturally, you did not text Vi.

By the time you got home, showered, and settled into bed with a book you’d been dying to read, you were so ready to ignore the outside world for the next three hours. But, of course, your phone pinged with a notification from an unknown number.

(Unknown Number)

hey

(it’s vi by the way)

vander said i have to text you and we have to go out together ?

You sighed, rolling onto your back before lazily typing out a response.

You:

yeah, mel said the exact same thing to me. not that i’m too excited about it.

Violet Lane:

i know you hate me and stuff, but if we could just get this over with it would be better lol

You frowned.

You:

?

i don’t hate you?

Violet Lane:

you don’t like me either

anyway, we can just go to a restaurant or something, talk this over and “bond” (or whatever)

You stared at your screen for a moment, chewing on your lip. Did Vi really think you hated her? Sure, you bickered—a lot—but that was just how you two were. You pushed, she pushed back. It was an endless back and forth, but hate? That was a strong word.

You hesitated before typing.

You:

fine. tomorrow at 7?

Violet Lane:

cool. see you then.

You sighed, tossing your phone onto your nightstand and staring at the ceiling.

Yeah. This was either going to be a complete disaster or the longest two hours of your life.

──────────────────────

At 6:35 p.m., you were already ready—probably too ready. You had checked and rechecked your outfit, adjusted your hair at least five times, and debated whether your makeup was too casual or too much.

Your stomach was tight with nerves, anxiety creeping up for no reason at all. It was just dinner. Just a casual outing with a coworker who thought you hated her (and who, admittedly, got on your nerves more often than not). You were only doing this because Mel and Vander had threatened you into it.

Still, you found yourself sitting on the couch, staring at the time on your phone like it would magically change.

Should I text her?

Would that be weird?

Would it be even weirder if I just showed up at the restaurant early?

Before you could second-guess yourself, you opened your messages.

You:

i know i said 7, but i finished the things i had to do earlier, so i’m ready. do you wanna meet there or go together?

(Lie. You had absolutely nothing to do today—but Vi didn’t need to know that.)

A response came quickly.

Violet Lane:

i can pick you up, if you want. i’m ready as well.

You blinked. That was… unexpectedly nice of her.

You:

k

[your address]

As soon as you sent it, you tossed your phone onto the couch and exhaled, running a hand through your hair.

Okay. No big deal. You were just getting dinner.

Then why the hell did it feel like you were about to go on a date?

──────────────────────

Vi picked you up, and the drive to the restaurant was… painfully awkward. You slid into the passenger seat, muttered a quiet hey, and she responded with a nod and a simple hey back. And then… nothing.

No music. No conversation. Just the sound of the road beneath the tires and the occasional glance exchanged between you two.

At the restaurant, things weren’t much better. You placed your orders, handed the menus back to the waitress, and then sat there—staring at each other like you were both waiting for the other person to break the silence.

You cleared your throat, shifting slightly in your seat. This is ridiculous.

“Soo…” you started, grasping for anything remotely close to small talk. “Anything good happening these days?”

Vi shrugged, leaning back against her chair. “Nah. Just working, you know.”

Riveting.

“Right. Of course.” You nodded “Me too.”

Another pause.

You took a sip of your drink. Vi did the same.

This was painful.

You were supposed to be bonding, fixing the weird tension between you, but so far, it felt like the two of you were just tolerating each other's presence.

Vi exhaled through her nose, drumming her fingers against the table. “Okay, this is weird, right?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, so weird.”

Vi cracked a small grin, shaking her head. “Alright, let’s just—be normal. For once.”

You raised an eyebrow. “For once?”

“You did spend the first two weeks acting like I personally offended your ancestors.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I did not!”

Vi shot you a knowing look.

“…Okay, maybe I wasn’t the most welcoming.” You rolled your eyes. “But you were annoying as hell.”

Vi smirked. “Still am.”

“Unfortunately.”

And from then on, you actually talked.

Your food arrived, and for the first time since you started working together, the conversation flowed easily. You talked about why you got into acting, your dream roles, the best and worst people you’d worked with, the projects you would never do, and the actors you’d always wanted to work with.

“Well, I always wanted to work with you.” Vi’s voice was softer now, a little hesitant, as she cut into her steak.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged, avoiding your eyes as if embarrassed to admit it. “One of the reasons I took this role was because your name was already on it.”

That was… surprising. Vi, who you were sure couldn’t stand you, had actually wanted to work with you?

“I always admired your work,” she added, still not quite meeting your gaze. “Your performances always felt so real—like you weren’t just acting, you were that person. I thought, ‘damn, if I ever get the chance to work with her, I have to take it.’”

For a moment, you just stared at her, unsure how to respond. This was the same Vi who had laughed for ten minutes over a tuna sandwich before your first kiss rehearsal. The same Vi who had argued with you over every minor detail on set. The same Vi who, up until an hour ago, you were convinced didn’t even like you.

And yet, here she was, admitting that she’d taken this role, in part, because of you.

You swallowed, setting your fork down. “I—wow. I didn’t know that.”

Vi finally glanced up, offering a small, almost sheepish smile. “Well… now you do.”

And maybe—just maybe—you could actually make this work.

──────────────────────

After that dinner, work became bearable.

Frank no longer looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown every time you and Vi were in the same room. You still bickered, but now it was more playful than anything—teasing quips, exaggerated eye rolls, and smirks exchanged between takes.

And, to your absolute horror, you actually laughed at one of her jokes.

“I can’t believe my eyes!” Vi exclaimed dramatically, pointing at you like you were a rare species on display. “She’s actually laughing at my joke! Somebody get a camera, this is a historic moment!”

“Shut up!” you said between chuckles, trying (and failing) to regain your composure.

After that, things just… shifted.

Vi started bringing you coffee in the mornings—because apparently, she noticed that your usual sour mood could be fixed with a large caramel macchiato. She never said anything about it, just handed you the cup with a smirk like it was no big deal.

And maybe it wasn’t a big deal.

Maybe it also wasn’t a big deal that you’d started looking forward to seeing her face every morning. Or that you caught yourself glancing at her between takes, watching the way she effortlessly charmed the crew with her stupid jokes and easygoing attitude.

It was not a big deal.

Until one of your last scenes together.

Vi’s character was leaving. It was an emotional scene—there were tears, there was rain, there was heartbreak. The two of you stood on a dimly lit train platform, the cold air thick with tension, with unsaid words.

And then you ran to her, your shoes splashing against the wet pavement as you grabbed her arm, desperation spilling from your lips.

“You can’t leave me in this town,” you pleaded, breathless, water dripping from your soaked hair. “It’s not fair. They can’t make you do this!”

Vi turned to you, her face half-lit by the flickering station lights, raindrops clinging to her lashes. “It’s not their choice,” she said, voice unsteady, tears mixing with the artificial rain. “I want to leave.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. “I can’t keep living this lie. I can’t be myself here.”

Your breath hitched. You shook your head, your hands trembling as they clutched the fabric of her soaked jacket. “Please,” you sobbed, the cold making you shake, but not nearly as much as the emotions clawing their way out of you. “I—I love you.”

The words came out like a confession, like a wound torn open.

And for a moment—just a moment—you weren’t sure if the silence between you was scripted or not.

Vi’s eyes locked onto yours, her breath shallow, her lips parted slightly. You could hear the rain hitting the pavement, the distant sound of a train horn echoing through the empty station.

Then, she kissed you.

You had kissed before. Countless times, in countless takes. But this? This was different.

Her hands found your waist, pulling you in, grounding you in the middle of the storm. One of them trailed up, fingertips ghosting along your skin before settling at the back of your neck, holding you like you were something fragile.

You melted into her, fingers curling into the damp fabric of her shirt, letting yourself sink into the warmth of her despite the freezing rain.

And then, just as suddenly, she pulled away—her breath ragged, forehead resting against yours.

“I love you too,” she said, softer than she should have. “But not enough to stay.”

And just like that, she was gone.

She turned, stepping onto the train, leaving you standing on that rain-soaked platform, crumbling from the inside out.

When Frank called cut, the entire set fell into stunned silence.

No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the steady patter of artificial rain against the pavement, mixing with the remnants of your ragged breathing.

Then, as if snapping out of a trance, crew members rushed forward, wrapping warm towels around your trembling frame, fussing over you, making sure you weren’t too cold.

But none of it registered.

Because your eyes were still on her.

Vi stood a few feet away, drenched, her chest still rising and falling from the weight of the scene. Strands of wet hair clung to her forehead, rain trailing down the curve of her jaw, but she didn’t move to wipe it away. She just looked at you.

It was a silent conversation, one you weren’t sure you understood.

And then, just like that, someone called her name, and the moment was gone.

──────────────────────

After wrapping up filming and sending the movie into post-production, you and Vi barely kept in contact.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Life simply got busy. You had new projects to consider, meetings to attend, scripts to read. You were thrown back into the chaotic whirlwind of the industry, and Vi… well, Vi had her own life.

But that didn’t stop the weird feeling in your chest. The absence of her was something you noticed, in ways you didn’t expect.

Her face wasn’t the first thing you saw when you walked on set every morning, You no longer groggily accept the caramel macchiato she always brought you with that smug little smirk. You didn’t hear her humming on set, or listen to her dumb jokes between takes.

The worst part? You caught yourself missing it.

You missed the way she’d argue with you over the most insignificant things, how her eyes would light up whenever she got you to crack a smile, how easy it had become to just be around her.

And maybe that was why, after a month of telling yourself you were too busy to reach out, you found yourself sitting in Mel’s office, trying—and failing—to make it sound like you weren’t fishing for an excuse.

“Have you heard from Frank?” you asked, leaning casually against her desk, as if this were just a passing thought.

Mel didn’t even look up from the magazine she was reading—the one that featured an interview you had given a few weeks ago. “About?”

“Post-production for Complex,” you said, picking at the edge of a business card on her desk. “We must be starting promotions soon, right?”

That finally made her glance up, one perfectly arched brow raising as she studied you. The sharp gold liner on her eyelids made her green eyes look even more piercing.

“You know you don’t need an excuse to talk to her, right?”

Your hand froze mid-pick.

You let out a nervous laugh. “What do you mean by that? I’m asking about the movie.”

“Uh-huh.” Mel’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as she lazily flipped another page. “Everything’s on track. Frank said you should hear about it soon. The movie trailer should be out in a week or two.”

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral. That was good. That meant press tours, interviews, red carpets—things that would inevitably bring you and Vi back into each other’s orbit.

You should have been focusing on that.

But all you could think about was your phone, sitting in your pocket. And the fact that nothing was stopping you from pulling it out, scrolling to her name, and just—

You swallowed, pushing the thought away.

You weren’t sure if you were ready for that yet.

──────────────────────

After the movie trailer was released, you filmed a couple of interviews, and suddenly, it felt like you were whole again.

Vi’s presence was there—her lazy smirk, the sarcasm wrapped in dry humor, the way she’d nudge you under the table just to see if she could get a reaction.

It was like nothing had changed.

Like you hadn’t spent weeks pretending you weren’t waiting for a message from her. Like you hadn’t caught yourself missing her laugh in the middle of a quiet afternoon. Like there wasn’t something undeniably different lingering between you, hidden beneath the playful banter and easy rhythm you fell back into so effortlessly.

But it was different.

Because now, every stolen glance lasted a second too long. Every brush of her fingers against yours felt intentional. And every time she looked at you—really looked at you—you swore you could still feel the ghost of that last kiss, the way her hands had held you like she was afraid to let go.

And you didn’t know if you were imagining it, if you were just hoping for something more than what it really was, if you were being downright delusional.

But if it meant she would be around you for longer, you would be the most delusional person in the world.

“Earth to Y/N.” Vi’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you blinked rapidly, turning to face her. She was looking at you with a knowing smirk, her elbow propped on the armrest between you. “You good over there? Looked like you were having a moment or something.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your chair. “Just thinking about how much I regret agreeing to this interview with you.”

Vi gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “And here I was, so excited to see you again.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that.”

The interviewer, who had been watching your interaction with amusement, cleared her throat. “It’s clear you two have amazing chemistry, both on-screen and off. Was it always like this during filming?”

Vi grinned, glancing at you. “Oh, absolutely not. Y/N hated me at first.”

You groaned. “I did not hate you!”

“She totally did.” Vi turned back to the interviewer, ignoring your protests. “She was all serious and broody, barely talked to me for the first couple of weeks. But then I broke her.” She smirked, tilting her head toward you. “Didn’t I?”

You gave her a flat look, but you couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through your chest. “You wish.”

The interviewer laughed. “Well, whatever the process was, it clearly worked, because your performances in Complex are incredible.”

Vi nodded. “What can I say? We’re just that good.”

And maybe she was right. Maybe this—whatever this was—was just the natural result of spending so much time together. Of playing two people desperately in love.

But then Vi glanced at you again, her expression softer this time, her arm brushing against yours on the armrest.

And suddenly, you weren’t so sure.

The next interviews were all like that—her lingering touches, the way her fingers would find the small of your back when she guided you through a crowd, the way she’d stare at you like you were the only person in the room.

It was weird. Even for Vi.

Sure, you were both actors, but she couldn’t be acting all of it. Not when her hand rested on your waist a second longer than necessary. Not when she looked at you like she was memorizing your face.

And yet, you kept telling yourself you were imagining things.

Until one particular interview made it impossible to ignore.

“So, we heard rumors about your interactions on set,” the interviewer, a short blonde girl with an overly cheerful tone, began, her eyes locked onto Vi. “How you bickered all the time and made the director go nuts. What do you have to say about that, Vi?”

She acted like you didn’t even exist.

Almost all the questions were directed at Vi, and even when you did answer something, she barely spared you a glance, her attention fixed entirely on Vi, nodding eagerly at every word she said.

You tried not to let it bother you, but with every passing minute, you felt yourself shrinking in your chair.

By the time you left the studio, you were fuming.

Vi, however, was thoroughly entertained.

She gave you a ride home, and the moment you got into the car, you turned to her with an exaggerated voice.

“What do you have to say about that, Vi?” you mocked the interviewer’s tone. “Oh, I think you’re so hot, and I’m going to ignore Y/N while I talk to you!”

Vi chuckled, shaking her head as she started the engine. “Damn, that’s pretty good. You should do impressions more often.”

You crossed your arms, glaring at her.

“What?” She smirked, sparing you a glance. “Are you jealous?”

Your cheeks burned instantly.

“Of course I am! She ignored me the whole time!”

Vi snorted, her grip tightening around the steering wheel. “Yeah, because she was too busy flirting with me.”

You huffed, looking out the window. “Could’ve at least redirected a question or two…”

Vi was quiet for a moment before she said, voice laced with amusement, “Didn’t know you cared so much about my attention, princess.”

You turned to glare at her again, but she was grinning, eyes still on the road.

“Shut up.”

Vi only laughed, shaking her head.

And when her hand dropped from the gear shift, resting just close enough to your thigh, you didn’t move away.

The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence. The night air was crisp, the windows rolled down just enough for the wind to kiss your face, ruffling your hair as the city lights blurred past.

For a moment, it almost felt like old times—like the months apart hadn’t left a hollow space in your chest, like you hadn’t spent too many nights staring at your phone, hesitating over an unsent message.

And then, just before Vi pulled up in front of your place, she spoke.

“Why didn’t you text me?” Her voice was casual, like she was asking about the weather, like it didn’t really matter. She kept her eyes on the road, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. “Or call?”

Your breath hitched, caught off guard by the question—by the way it hung between you, heavier than it should be.

You turned to look at her, studying her profile, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows across her face.

“Why didn’t you?”

Vi finally glanced at you, just for a second, but there was something in her expression—something unreadable, something that made your chest tighten.

She let out a soft scoff, shaking her head as she pulled the car into park.

“Touché” she muttered.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was charged—like a question waiting to be answered, like a decision waiting to be made.

Then you opened the door.

Pausing for just a second, you glanced back at her. Vi was watching you now, her fingers still drumming against the steering wheel, jaw tense like she had something to say but wasn’t sure if she should.

You offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“See you on the premiere.”

And with that, you stepped out, closing the door behind you.

──────────────────────

On the day of the premiere, a driver picked you and Mel up. She spent the entire drive coaching you—how to answer questions, how to walk, how to carry yourself—but none of it stuck. Her voice was just background noise, drowned out by the only thought looping in your mind.

Vi.

How would she act? Would she pretend like nothing was going on? Would she ignore you? Would the two of you just be professional—smiling for the cameras, standing side by side like coworkers instead of... whatever it was you had become?

The knot in your stomach tightened with every mile closer to the venue. Your palms were damp, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Are you even listening to me?” Mel’s voice finally broke through your daze.

You blinked, turning to her. “Huh?”

She sighed, exasperated but amused. “That’s what I thought.” Then, with a knowing smirk, she added, “She’s probably thinking about you just as much as you’re thinking about her.”

You scoffed, looking away. It was like Mel had a sixth sense.

She just chuckled, shaking her head. “Hopeless.”

The car slowed to a stop, and suddenly, it was time.

Blinding flashes erupted from every direction, a chorus of voices calling your name. You moved with practiced ease—smiling, posing, keeping your posture pristine as you stepped onto the red carpet.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Your eyes scanned the crowd, searching. Looking for her.

If Vi had arrived, you couldn’t see her. And that realization made the knot in your stomach twist just a little tighter.

You spotted Frank mid-interview and took the opportunity to approach him.

“Hii!” You waved, making your presence known.

“Oh, there she is! One of our stars of the night!” Frank beamed, his entire demeanor much warmer than the no-nonsense director you were used to seeing on set. “She’s one of the reasons we’re standing here tonight!”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Don’t flatter yourself, Frankie. Without you, this project never would’ve happened.”

The interviewer smiled at your exchange, clearly entertained. “The chemistry in Complex felt so real—especially between you and Vi. What was it like working so closely together?”

At the mention of her name, you hesitated for just a second—just long enough for Frankie to notice.

“Ah,” he teased, nudging you lightly, “now that’s a question.”

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus. “Vi is... incredible. She’s the kind of actress that makes you better just by being in the scene with you.”

The interviewer nodded eagerly. “And off-camera?”

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything—

“Why don’t you ask me that?”

Your breath caught.

Because there she was.

Vi strolled up beside you, effortlessly charming, effortlessly her—a lazy smirk playing at her lips, the sharp cut of her suit fitting her entirely too well.

And just like that, the entire world shrank down to her.

She stopped beside you, her hand instinctively finding your waist—like it belonged there. A gentle squeeze, warm and grounding, as she turned to answer the question.

“I’m wonderful to work with. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you.” She smirked, her tone playful, but you barely registered her words.

Because damn.

She looked stunning.

The open-back suit she wore left little to the imagination, her toned muscles on full display beneath the flashing lights. It wasn’t fair—nothing about her was fair.

Your focus shattered, your train of thought completely derailed.

The interviewer laughed, oblivious to the way your eyes shamelessly roamed over Vi. “And what about her?” she asked, motioning to you. “What was she like to work with?”

Vi tilted her head slightly, considering. Then, as if she hadn’t just ruined your ability to form a coherent sentence, she murmured

“She makes it easy.”

Your breath hitched.

She wasn’t looking at the interviewer. She was looking at you.

And you felt it—like a spark catching fire, like something you couldn’t ignore anymore.

After countless photos, interviews, and polite smiles, the entire cast finally made their way inside the theater for the screening. But Vi was still glued to you—her hand finding your waist, her fingers brushing against yours, her presence a constant, undeniable force.

So you did the only thing that made sense.

You grabbed her wrist and dragged her toward the nearest bathroom.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Vi chuckled, but followed you without hesitation.

You pushed open the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind you.

Then you turned to her, frustration boiling over. “Okay,” you started, jabbing a finger into her chest, “I need you to be sohonest with me right now.”

Vi raised an amused brow but said nothing, letting you continue.

“Are you being serious or is this just for the movie?” You demanded, your heart racing. “Because I swear to God, Vi, you’re giving me serious mixed signals, and I don’t know if I’m being down-right delusional or—”

And she had the audacity to smirk at you.

That damn smirk. The one that made your stomach flip. The one made impossibly more infuriating by the bold red of her lipstick.

Vi took a step closer, slow and deliberate, her voice dropping into something almost dangerous.

“What if I am being serious?”

Your pulse skyrocketed. The air between you felt thick, charged with something that had been simmering for too long.

“Then we need to do something about it,” you said, inhaling sharply—your lungs burned like you had been holding your breath for weeks. “Because I’m tired of you joking around and then holding me like you want me, looking at me like that…”

Vi tilted her head slightly, her smirk softening into something real. Something that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Like what?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “Like you feel something,” you admitted, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “Like you want this as much as I do.”

She exhaled, long and slow, her fingers twitching at her sides—like she was holding herself back.

Then, so quietly it almost got lost in the space between you, she said, “I do.”

You barely had time to process it before her hands were on you, pulling you in, closing the distance in a way that left no room for uncertainty.

Her lips crashed into yours, and this time, there was nothing to hide behind. No cameras, no script, no excuses. Just her. Just you. And the way she kissed you like she had been waiting for this moment just as desperately as you had.

Your hands went straight to the opening of her suit, fingertips dragging down the exposed skin of her back, desperate, needing to hold her—to make sure she was real and not just another scene you’d have to pretend didn’t mean anything.

Your back hit the door you had locked only moments ago, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat pooling between you. Vi’s hands were everywhere—on your neck, slipping under the fabric of your dress, gripping the back of your thigh as she lifted it around her waist. The only sound in the bathroom was your breathless kisses, the rustling of clothes, the quiet hum of a moment neither of you wanted to end.

Until your phone started ringing.

You groaned against her lips, fumbling for the device in your purse without pulling away completely. Vi kissed down your neck, her lips never leaving your skin as you glanced down at the screen.

Mel’s name flashed on the display.

“Fuck,” you exhaled.

Vi huffed out a breath, her thumb brushing over your hip, her smirk returning. “You gonna get that?”

You hesitated. No, you really didn’t want to.

But Mel was persistent, and if you didn’t pick up, she’d probably barge into the bathroom herself.

With a groan, you answered, trying—and failing—to steady your breathing. “Mel—”

“Where the hell are you?” she hissed. “The movie is about to start! I swear to God, if you and Vi are off somewhere being unprofessional—”

You locked eyes with Vi, her smirk only growing.

“We’re coming” you said quickly, voice slightly breathless.

“You better.” And with that, Mel hung up.

Vi chuckled, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Guess we should go be professional, huh?”

You sighed, reluctantly letting her step back, already missing the warmth of her. But as you looked at her—lipstick smudged, pupils blown, her suit out of place from where your hands had been—you knew there was no more pretending.

Something had changed.

And this time, neither of you wanted to run from it.

──────────────────────

You fixed yourself as best as you could, smoothing out your dress, running your fingers through your hair, and dabbing at your lips to make sure they weren’t too swollen. But Vi—Vi was a mess. Her lipstick was completely gone, her eyeliner smudged just slightly at the edges, and the faint red marks on her back, stark against her skin, were impossible to ignore.

“Why did you wear this stupid suit?” you muttered under your breath, practically dragging her toward the theater.

Vi chuckled, completely unbothered. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

You shot her a glare, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed you.

By the time you slipped inside, the room was dim, the screen displaying the production company logos as the final guests settled in their seats. You spotted Mel near the middle row and made a beeline for her, thanking God that Vander was still across the room, too deep in conversation with Frank to pay you or Vi any mind.

Mel barely spared you a glance as you slid into the seat beside her, Vi dropping into the one next to you. Then, without missing a beat, she leaned in and whisper-yelled, “Where were you? Actually—” she held up a hand before you could answer, “don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting back a smirk.

“Just sit down,” she sighed, adjusting in her seat. “You’re lucky Frank decided to give a speech before it started.”

Vi leaned in, just enough that only you could hear. “See? We are professionals.”

You rolled your eyes, but when her hand held yours on the armrest, when she shot you that look, like this was your little secret, you knew—tonight wasn’t just about the movie.

It was about you and her.

──────────────────────

masterlist

[abbotjack]

At first glance, Jack Abbot’s handwriting looks almost unremarkable — neat, steady, deliberate. The words don’t crowd each other, but they don’t drift apart either. There’s a structure to it, like someone who’s spent a lifetime forcing order onto chaos. Each word stands upright, solid in its own space, but never so stiff that it spills into the next. That control — that quiet refusal to unravel — mirrors the discipline Jack holds in his chest every day, pressing his grief, guilt, and rage into something survivable.

You can see it in the letter he writes to Raymond Orser’s family. Jack’s words aren’t clinical, but they’re contained. He doesn’t stumble into sentimentality or dress up the pain. He offers the truth plainly: I am sorry I could not save Ray’s life. He takes responsibility without dramatizing himself — the way a man who’s seen real battle understands that sometimes, even when you do everything right, it still isn’t enough. His handwriting reflects that same quiet acceptance. It’s not decorative or desperate. It’s functional, clear, pressed so firmly into the page that even if the ink wore away, the shape of his words would remain, cut into the surface.

Physically, Jack writes with a firm hand and a slight forward tilt — always moving, never wasting time. His script is quick but not sloppy, urgent but never panicked. There’s a soldier’s efficiency to it, a medic’s precision: fast because it has to be, careful because it matters. His letters stay mostly upright, bowing just enough to show you something essential — that Jack is always leaning toward action, toward duty, toward other people’s emergencies, never his own. Even the structure of the letter mirrors him: no unnecessary paragraphs, no wandering sentences. Jack writes the way he lives. He makes the unbearable survivable, the unspeakable speakable, using whatever small space he's given. His life has been a constant act of bearing witness — to violence, to love, to failure, to sacrifice. His handwriting doesn’t beg for attention. It stands steady. It says: I was here. I saw him. I tried.

And even though he couldn’t save Ray, he refuses to let him be forgotten.

If you look closer, you’ll catch it — the way Jack’s baseline wavers, just slightly, like a breath he’s trying not to show. His words don’t fall apart. They don’t lose control. But they tremble, almost imperceptibly, under the weight he’s forcing them to carry. In handwriting analysis, that kind of subtle shift says everything. It belongs to someone who’s weathered real storms — who has carried grief, fear, and failure — and still wills his hands to stay steady. Jack’s handwriting doesn’t cry out. It absorbs the cost quietly, the way he carries everything else. It’s the signature of a man who can talk someone back from the edge even when he’s still catching his own breath from standing there.

In a world where Jack has had to document more death, injury, and loss than anyone should, the fact that he still writes with this much care — that he refuses to let his words collapse into detached scrawls — tells you the most important thing about him: Jack Abbot still believes people deserve to be seen. To be understood. To be honored.

Even the way he writes "MD" at the end of his signature tells a story. It’s not a title he lifts up to be admired; it’s tucked into the rhythm of his name, almost thrown on like a quiet fact — not a decoration, but a duty. The same way you can imagine him still wearing his dog tags. The same way he still wears his wedding ring. Jack doesn’t use "MD" to separate himself from the people he treats. He wears it the way he wears everything: quietly, permanently, without performance. That fast, clipped way he writes it says more than a thousand words about him. Jack Abbot didn’t become a doctor for prestige. He doesn’t measure his worth in accolades. To him, "MD" isn’t a crown. It’s a promise. A vow to every person he couldn’t save: that he would show up again tomorrow. That he would keep trying. That no one would go unseen.

[devotionlest]

Helloo!! Hope you're doing fine!! Can I request some fluff drabble of John Doe x Survivor Reader plz??,,,, there ain't many content of him 💔

John Doe actually likes the reader and wants to stay closer to them?👉👈

📟 john doe x survivor reader 💻

your chest heaved slowly, body completely drained of adrenaline as your rush had worn off. now, you struggled to stay standing, knees wobbling with any effort you gave. sweat dripped down your neck despite feeling cold, keeping your hands plastered against the yellow walls of the ball pit to stay upright.

the yelp of a fellow teammate followed by a deafening demonic roar caught your immediate attention, taking that as your cue to get back on your feet.

you sprint down the ramp, cutting around the corner to be met with a very slaughterous john doe and poor elliot hanging on by a thread. it wasn't long before your fists clenched by your sides, feet sliding across the floor as you pounced between the two and took the hit instead.

elliot was quickly shoved out of the path of the attack, not scurrying away without knowing you were able to handle the rest. you gave him a knowing wink, before being knocked onto your stomach by the brute.

"i owe you a bunch, dude!" elliot waved before rushing off to take care of the rest of the team, not before throwing you a fresh slice to pick you up.

a pained groan left your throat as you attempted to turn yourself over, grab the pizza, and prepare to face the worst. your arms weakly pushed off the ground, teeth gritting against each other. throwing yourself onto your side, only to be met with- a very intrusive and dubiously curious john doe..?

instinctively, you reached your arm over your head to block any possible hits, eyes squeezing shut as you were still expecting to be torn apart in that very moment..but nothing came.

slowly, you opened your eyes, lashes fluttering in confusion as the menacingly large creature above you seemed to just be admiring your reactions. it was almost cute, the way his head tilted slightly as if confused as to why you're being so defensive, as if he didn't just try to brutally rip apart the legs from the torso of your friend only a minute ago.

despite the unexpectedly wholesome twist of events, you couldn't help but feel distinctively afraid. part of you still wanted to start swinging, to take advantage of this sudden vulnerability and dash away while he was still dazed. it seems he had caught on, taking a step back from hovering over your trembling body.

he watched intently as you sat up, grinning with your own curiosity. "how.. fascinating." you trailed off, the arm that was previously shielding your head slowly coming down to rest on your knee. he let out a soft, grumbled noise in reaction. it seemed almost as if this were a peace offering.

"what's gotten into you?" your eyes narrowed, bringing your hand to scratch at your chin. another soft growl, that could almost be mistaken as a hum.

silence fell over, except for the usual ringing and constant chimes of computer popups and screeches. it was like an unspoken staring content, except neither of the participants could find the eyes of the other.

attempting to break the silence, you slowly reached your hand out with no initial purpose or plan, but to touch. it was a dumb thing to do, to get so attached to the very thing you were forced to fear. you wonder if he felt the same.

your finger tips grazed faintly across his cheek, earning a disgruntled groan in response. quickly, you retracted your hand, taking that as a sign that he wasn't looking to be touched.

his attitude dissipated just as quickly as it came, the usual lanky smile that he forced across his face somehow widened further as he leaned in closer.

you swore you could hear a purr. almost as if there was still the slightest of sentience beneath this monstrous exterior.

what a peculiar thing.

post script: sorry for the quick ending :( also i didn't spellcheck because i'm always half asleep writing these omg i should lock in. meeop kitty doe maoowww