#window patching machine

[aperture-of-bullshit]

I mean of course s1 of the umbrella academy has its flaws. But my god what a Good season of television. All those moving parts fitting together so seamlessly, really was such a well oiled machine.

[merge-conflict]

that glitch effect isn't supposed to last a really long time throughout missions, right? my save is just definitely haunted in some way?

[nerdygirlramblings]

more Adam, meeting Ren's family, setting up Simon's rut

a/n: getting to the best part of this idea arc is taking longer than anticipated. hopefully the rut and big talks next chapter 🤞🏻

cw: omegaverse biology (male pregnancy, ruts / knots), fluid sexuality

previous

Before you leave, you make sure to swing by the base admin building. The cold sterility of the grey hallways makes you sad, but Adam's desk near Price's office is always a ray of sunshine. He isn't at his desk, but his lemon cinnamon scent lingers and is perfectly accentuated by the succulents on the shelf. The space feels warm and bright despite being several halls away from a window. There are photos of several task forces tacked over the copy machine. The 141's photo is recent as you're in it, but you have no idea where it's from or how Adam has it.

He comes over as you're staring at the image. You point at it as he sits down and trip over yourself, asking, "Where is that from? How did you get it?"

He interrupts with a finger across his lips and whispers, "I never give away my secrets."

The train of thought barreling away seizes and you stop cold, a smile slowly breaking through. You chuckle and remember why you're here in the first place. "Hey, I wan'ed to thank ya for suggesting to Price I head home for leave."

He starts to wave off your thanks, but the words dry on his lips when you place a pint of Magnum Classic and two Flake bars next to his keyboard. He gives you a look of pure adoration as he stutters, "What in the...how did you know?"

You smile indulgently. "I listen, just like you do," you tell him with a wink. "Don't wait too long to eat that. 'S probably best if ya don't refreeze th' Magnum. And I know if ya try and wait 'til ya get home, Charlie will try an' steal it from ya." You couldn't count the number of times Adam told you about how he and his pack's alpha often fought over sweets around the house to the point where Bridget, the pack omega, kept separate stashes for them both. You loved hearing about Adam's pack. It made you miss your family a little less when he spoke about his.

Adam stands again and walks around the desk to where you are. He holds his arms open in invitation, and you step into the hug. He squeezes you tight for a moment before stepping back. Still holding your shoulders, he says, "Enjoy this time with your family. Be good. Have fun, but not too much. And come back safe, yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah, Adam. I'll be good." Your ride to town leaves soon, and then its a four-hour train ride home. If all the transportation runs on time, you'll be home for supper and can help Mum cook. You feel a little guilty about not letting Dad and the moms you're coming home, but you hope the surprise of your presence will make up for it.

The house doesn't look any different. The brick is a little more weather-beaten than when you joined up, but the shape of the house is unchanged. Three skinny stories with black shingles on top. The dormer windows on the third floor belie the open plan of that floor with the family nest along the back wall. That's where Dad is until the birth. From the curb, all you can see is the pale blue curtains. Somewhere in the back of the house, Mum is probably already starting on supper, Mama corralling your brothers and sisters.

You push the front gate open and step onto the flagstone walk. It cuts across a neat patch of green grass, though you notice the bikes tucked inside the front wall. Clearly with Dad on bed rest, your siblings are taking liberties with putting those in the garage.

Not for the first time, you second-guess the surprise of this visit. You know Mum and Mama won't say how worried they are about Dad and the litter, but you see it in their eyes when you call. Dad, too, teases about being on bed rest, but the last two losses weigh heavily on him.

You take a deep breath and knock. There's nothing for a few moments, but you hear scurrying behind the door and can imagine the triplets arguing about who gets to open it. Your middle siblings may or may not be home from uni, and if they are, they're not going to race for the door like the fifteen-year-olds. The door opens a crack and an eye peeks out. When it catchs sight of you, the owner squeals - must by Norah - and the door flings wide. "You're home!" Norah crows, throwing herself at you. "You're home! You're home!"

"I'm here," you echo, hugging her back. You look over her shoulder for the boys. Ben is making his way to you, but Davy isn't in sight. As he closes in, Ben pushes Norah out of the way and pulls you inside. "Mama was just going to call you," he says. "Or maybe she already called, since you're here?" You shake your head. "Anyway, the moms are going to take Dad to the birth centre-" Your gasp stops him mid-ramble, and his eyes go as wide as saucers. "Oh! No! They don't think this is bad. Mum said something about Dad's internal temperature increasing. They think the litter's ready."

You barely hear Ben's last words as you race to the back of the house and find Mama pacing the kitchen. She stops short when she sees you and flings herself into your arms. "Oh God, oh love, what are you doing here?" she half laughs, half cries, phone cradled in one hand.

"Had some leave coming and thought I'd surprise you. But it looks like I'm the one in fer a surprise!"

Mama's laughter is bright, light and happy. "Yes, you are. Mum's getting Dad's bag. They should be coming down now." She hugs you tight. "I know you just got here, but do you mind waiting here with the triplets?" she whispers into your hair.

Your laughter matches hers. "Not at all, Mama." You definitely owe Adam for suggesting you take leave and come home. You might have missed this otherwise. You shoo Mama to go grab some of her own things, listening for Mum and Dad on the stairs, while you pull together a small bag of waters and snacks for them. You toss in the crisps Mum hides but will want when she stress eats and the candy you know Dad will crave once he's allowed to eat again. You also put some healthy options in for all three otherwise Mama will scold the others the whole time and you do not want to induce that stress.

By the time the moms and Dad are in the front hall, you've pulled the car into the drive, put the snacks in the front seat, and opened all the doors. You help Mum get Dad comfortably into the back seat. Neither was as surprised to see you as you thought, so Mama must have given them a warning when she went to gather her things.

You kiss Dad's temple as you help him settle, then steady Mum with a squeeze to her hand. "Have ya called Michael or Helen yet?" you ask, leaning through the passenger side window. From the look Mama gives Mum you know they haven't. "I'll do it before you're out of the drive," you tell them. Mama puts the car in gear and backs out. You follow, shouting at them to keep you updated. You stand at the bottom of the drive long after their car disappears around the corner.

The team pack is pulling up to their house in the Lake District about the same time as your parents leave. Unlike your family's home in its neat little row on the outskirts of the city you grew up in, the pack's house sits on land nestled between the Irish Sea and the western edge of the Lake District. The cottage, or what was a quaint cottage before the pack expanded the buildings and outbuildings on the property, is a slight distance from any lakes or towns meaning they're fairly isolated. They're not entirely off the grid, but Laswell and Adam know not to reach them for the next week. They haven't told you to go no contact: though you aren't pack yet, none of them are ready to go more than a week without hearing your voice or seeing your face.

Price is already making plans for how long he'll give you before he reaches out to check in. His presence during Ghost's rut is more of a formality as the pack alpha. When they established themselves as a pack, Price's and Ghost's alpha-only ruts were rough. Both men bear a number of scars from the warring instinct to rut and to fight another alpha. Neither man was averse to a cock in his ass, but being bitched was another matter altogether, both alphas struggling to take the others' knot until they had first Gaz then Soap join the pack.

Price's role this week is making sure there is enough food and water for Ghost and whomever is helping him. There's a pallet of waters in the boot and a wholesale box of granola bars. While Soap and Gaz unpack the car, Price sets up the bed in the first floor master suite with protective pads. Price also makes up an air mattress in the second floor office. It's not comfortable, but for a handful of days, it's doable. He works hard not to think about his rut in a few months. How, if you're pack by then, he won't take his rut with Gaz or Soap but with you, sinking into your slick heat.

He knows Ghost's struggling with having you on the team but not part of the pack yet, which is why he brought a little treat for Ghost. As they rolled out of their barracks, Price grabbed the throw blanket from the rec room couch and shoved it into a plastic tote. It was a shared blanket, yes, but you'd been wrapping yourself up in it the last few days because the barracks were too cold for your omega. Despite your scent blockers keeping them from your true smell, there's a lingering scent of citrus from your toiletries. Any of them would recognize it. Price pulls the blanket out and leaves it in the middle of the master bed for Ghost, even though his own alpha growls and scratches about giving the scent of you away.

It's going to be a long week.

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed @honestlymassivetrash @thebumbqueen @maliamaiden @mordacioust

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au anthology

MDNI | Poly 141 x Fem Fat Reader | masterlist

Part 1: New Girl

You stare up at the sign reading ONE - FOUR - ONE in old English font. It’s an old building, all brick and stuffed in between several others. The windows have a thin, semi-opaque cover them to let in the light without allowing you to see inside.

You make your way to the front door, trying the handle and feeling stupid the moment you do. Your eyes connect with a small intercom beside you and you press it. There’s a small buzz, then silence.

A few beats go by, you debate pressing it again. You don’t want to be too insistent.

“Hello?” A voice comes through just before you reach up to press again.

“I, uh…” You stutter. Despite having many, many tattoos you somehow still feel like a poser every time you enter a new studio. “I have an appointment at one? With John?”

The man on the other side confirms your name before buzzing you in, the door letting out a loud click before you step inside. It both makes you more nervous and more relaxed - you can appreciate a closed storefront like that. Especially for something often as private as tattoos and piercings, but it still feels like you’re doing something wrong. Just a little bit.

The front room is lovely, though. The texture over the glass bathes the front room in a calm, iridescent light. There are a few waiting chairs, a low, black table piled high with books of flash. The front of the high counter is covered with posters and stickers from events going all the way back to the 90s.

The pretty man behind the counter repeats your name absently, obviously thinking about other things. Probably the half-finished design that sits abandoned on the iPad next to the appointment book he’s staring down at. You just nod in agreement.

“I’ll let John know you’re here.” He nods back, turning and pushing through a pair of saloon style doors to disappear down the hall. You take the time he’s gone to look around, flipping through yet another small book of designs on top of the counter. They’re good. Unique. Very gothic and interestingly detailed. Somehow both fine and bold simultaneously.

“Afternoon.” You jump, snapping the book shut and looking up to meet a pair of soft blue eyes and an easy smile. He looks you over briefly before extending his hand. “John Price.”

You murmur your name quietly, trying very hard to not stare at the incredible traditional work patched into a sleeve up his strong arm. Damn.

He leads you back to his work station - past a piercing studio and across from another room with the door shut and an IN SESSION sign on the door. The dull, buzzing sound of a tattoo machine drifts through.

“Now,” John says as he cuts down the extra paper around the stencil. “Just remember if you don’t like the placement we can move it. No problem.”

“Okay.” You nod, appreciative that he mentioned it. Sometimes these older men in the industry are gruff and have an attitude if you do anything less than treat them as if they are anything other than Absolutely Right and Perfect. Not that John came off that way. There’s a softness in his affect that relaxes your muscles and leaves you breathing easy.

“I know y’have several but I’m still going t’do a line and then see how you feel.” He murmurs, voice low.

It’s sweet, the way he’s walking you through it all despite the piece being small and you obviously having done with process several times. The sting of the needle is as expected and you murmur that it was fine before he really gets to work.

“Just let me know if y’need a break…” He mumbles, voice dipping even lower as he concentrates on his work. In any other situation that rumble would probably have you squirming in your seat. There’s a silence for a while before he speaks again, almost as if he forgot you were there. “This design have any significance?”

“I just wanted to get a new tattoo in my new hometown.” You snort - now at the point where most of your tattoos fall under the ‘because it’s cool’ category. “Probably stupid, seeing as I don’t have a job yet but… I don’t know. Feels like good luck.”

John grins. “Well then, thanks f’lettin’ me be your good luck charm.”

Your face heats at the rumble in his voice - glancing away nervously.

There’s another lapse of silence while he works, the only words exchanged are when he asks if you need a break and you decline. Eventually, toward the end you think, he asks another question. “What brought y’here then? If not a job?”

You would shrug, but you try to keep as still as possible while he works. “Just needed a change. Found an apartment easy enough - now I just need a way to make money.”

He hums in agreement. “What do you have experience in? Been around here a while - might be able to recommend somethin’.”

“Oh! Thank you!” You brighten up. “Receptionist work, mostly. Some admin assistant stuff.”

He pauses, cocking an eyebrow. “Y’know, we’re hirin’ right now.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “I don’t have, like, a resume with me.”

“You’ve got enough tattoos I’m assumin’ you know how the industry works. My apprentice is going to start actually tattooin’ soon, an’ I hate t’ have him still pickin up extra duties at the front.” He sits back, carefully smoothing saniderm onto your arm before turning and reaching for the ink-stained sketchbook behind him. “Tell y’what, you write down a few references for me and your number. If they’ve got good things t’ say we can do a trial period.”

You blink at him. He’s awful forward, and insistent, but you suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try. A temp job is better than no job. “Alright…”

Just like that, you gained employment by way of making a stupid financial decision.

John’s an incredible boss. He pays fairly (generously, but you know better than to accidentally negotiate your pay down). He gives you plenty of hours and trains you well - with the help of his apprentice. He doesn’t get annoyed when you ask questions, seeming content with your determination to do your job to the best of your abilities. The shop goes by appointment only - no walk ins and potential customers have to call to book. John keeps things old fashioned like that. All pen and paper and cash transactions. An ATM sits in the waiting area. The most complicated part of your job is changing out the cash box in it, and that only take a few days to learn. Not that you mind, it’s sort of refreshing to not deal with some fuckass new and “improved” register and appointment system.

Turns out part of the reason they operate in such a way (other than preference) is because John is a big name in the tattoo world. You hadn’t realized until he pointed out a couple of your flash tattoos were from his best-selling book of designs.

“Wait, you’re famous!?” You gasp, staring wide eyed at the old binder of newspaper clippings and book sales. ‘My Mum Wasn’t Impressed At First - Now Even She Has One’ reads the title of one of the older clippings - yellowed with age. John lacks his signature beard in the photo. It almost looks wrong.

John chuckles, crossing his arms and leaning back in his rolling chair. “You could say that. You really didn’t know about our shop before you booked?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I just saw y’all get recommended on Reddit.”

He barks out a laugh at that. It’s a low, pleased sound that sends a shiver down your spine. His beard only emphasizes the apples of his cheeks as he smiles. Yeah, that’s the other thing, having a hot boss is kind of fire.

Plus, he’s not the only one. The whole studio is full of hunks.

Kyle is easily the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. Like, run for Miss Universe pretty. Big doe eyes with a little scar on his cheekbone - small golden hoops glitter from both his earlobes. They frame his face so well, creating a perfect diamond from them to his sparkling eyes to his pretty smile; curled and genuine with perfect teeth. He walks you through the booking process step by step, that first day, a warm hand on your back and the other tracing down the columns of the physical appointment book.

His work is as beautiful as he is. At least, the ones done on fake skin. John hasn’t let him tattoo anyone for real yet - but his practice sketches are immaculate. At least to a layman. Kyle himself never seems quite satisfied with them. He gets such vivid color, though.

“Tattooing darker skin is an art form in and of itself.” He murmurs as he works on a piece of very dark fake skin. “I want people like me t’ be able t’ get exactly what they want, with just as much color as they want.”

You nod along, sipping at your coffee from across the street that you’ve taken up stopping at every day before work. Kyle has so much passion for the industry. The look he gets in his eyes while talking about it or designing a new piece makes your heart flutter.

Simon, the other resident artist, you’re the least familiar with. You can’t quite decide how to feel about him, or decipher how he feels about you. John introduced you a couple days after you started, but all you got was a perfunctory nod and a ‘good luck’. You couldn’t help but feel starstruck, despite his blunt nature. Both thick arms covered in full, detailed sleeves. High quality, ornate black work. A man of stature - six feet and some change with a breadth that a barn would envy. Pretty, blonde hair cropped just short of turning to curls and dark eyes that bore through you to the very core.

Sometimes, when he comes to ask about his next appointment, you let yourself indulge in the fantasy that he stands close because he likes you. That his knee briefly knocks against yours because he wants to touch you - not that you’re crazy enough to believe it. Just crazy enough to be a tiny bit delusional for the fun of it.

You meet their resident piercer on the weekend. Apparently, he’d been away visiting family your first week.

He leans up over the counter, grinning at you from ear to ear. A well-built man only a few inches shorter than the others with a perfectly groomed mohawk. “Well, hello there. Aren’t you a bonnie little thing?”

You frown, hackles raising instinctually. “Uh, can I help you?”

“Och, they dinnae tell ye about me yet? I’m hurt.” He pouts, thick brows emphasizing the puppy like nature of his blue eyes.

“Let her be, Soap.” Kyle sighs heavily, walking to his area of the front with a fresh sketchbook.

“Soap?” You repeat.

“Aye. Cause apparently I need my mouth washed out.” He pokes his tongue out, only to reveal a silver piercing. He holds a hand over the counter. “Johnny MacTavish.”

Johnny is the most egregious man you have ever met - always touching you in one way or another when he checks in about appointments and so on. His Scottish brogue rings in your ears, every word loud and confident. A hand finds it’s way around your waist, a finger poking under the band of whatever bottoms you wear that day. At any other job, you would have considered it harassment and tore him a new one.

Johnny’s different, though. If you shrug him off he steps away, if you flinch he pulls back. Plus, he does it to everyone else just as much as you. More, if you’re honest. If Simon is within arms reach they’re touching. You noticed Johnny pushing a hand under his shirt at one point, grabbing at the soft layer over Simon’s abs. (A great view for you, frankly.) Hell, you saw him casually hold Kyle’s hand while they were talking over lunch. Even John isn’t immune to the clinging. You don’t think much of it. Body modding attracts all sorts of people. If Johnny’s just a touchy guy then he’s just touchy. Besides, you don’t mind that much when he slips an arm around your waist or hooks his chin on your shoulder to talk to you. Warm breath tracing the shell of your ear with a quiet ‘bonnie lass’ punctuating ever other sentence. A slight pinch to your hip before he trots away to set up his station.

You feel nauseous when your trial month ends. John sits you down across from him in the back office. A practical space with not much more in it than a desk, computer and the large safe. None of you spend much time back here outside of counting down the cash and dragging the trash bags through the back door to the dumpster.

“Think you’ve done really well, dove.” He grins. You try to ignore the way the pet name looks warmth in your lower belly. “You’ve picked up quickly, you’re good on the phone. Kyle’s been very happy about the extra time to practice.”

You let out the biggest, most relieved sigh of your life, shoulders slumping slightly.

“You don’t seem to mind Johnny, but if he gets to be too much let me or Simon know, yeah? He means well but he can be… well, you know.” John says absently as he reaches for something across the desk. “How are you feelin’?”

You nod. “I, uh, feel good. I like this position a lot. Everyone’s been very welcoming.”

John nods along. “Good, good. I see no reason to not hire you on full time. Here.”

You hold put your hands as John drops a small, silver key into them. Holy shit! You get your own key! Up until now they’d been buzzing you in, but they’re trusting you with your very own key!

John must see the excitement on your face because he chuckles and extends a hand. “Welcome aboard, kid.”

A/N: I was very wine drunk writing most of this and it has next to no editing but I hope you enjoyed it! I just want something I can write that’s episodic and not as serious/brain heavy as Fancy or Across the Way

[strungnews]

CAN’T YOU PLEASE MAKE AN EXCEPTION?

Mornings with Mark and Eve are slow. You can feel how cold it is when one of them starts to slowly pull away from the human sandwich you’ve been put into every night. Sometimes even rotating to whoever needed it the most that day, but they favored you in the middle most.

You hate it when the bed starts to get cold once they leave their spot. A feeling of emptiness without someone on the other side to pin you to the other, the blanket of security now broken apart.

“Duty calls,” Mark rasps. It was usually him pulling from the hold, even if he didn’t want to. His hair is tousled, and shirt crinkled beyond belief, it could rival the world’s wrinkliest dog. Or a raisin.

You grumble before pulling away from Eve, tugging him back to bed. Eve, growing accustomed to the routine, ignores the two of you as she turns around and settles back into sleep.

Your arms wrap around his midsection, and he floats without a care, used to your antics while you hang onto him with an iron grip, surprisingly strong despite your groggy state. Your actions seem ironic since Mark’s the clingy one between the three of you.

“Hey, im serious. I gotta go,” He always feels bad when he has to tell you off, but its a necessary evil to do good in the world.

“I hate you.” “Love you too.” He’d hover over the bed for you to fall back on, and you’d let go with a bounce. Eve shifts with the sudden weight change before turning around and putting a leg over you, making you her human pillow.

“See what you’re missing out on?” You gesture between you and Eve, and Mark rolls his eyes when you stick your tongue out at him. Only crossing his arms to look at the two of you from above, watching you shift to hold Eve in your arms. Cradling her head to your chest as she basically intertwines herself onto you.

She loves doing that, especially to you. Because you never really know how to get out of it, let alone realize you were in it.

The morning afterglow is something Mark always appreciates whenever he sees the two of you cuddled together. He swears by it when he says it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. But he says that about a lot of things when it comes to you and Eve.

“Stop seducing me its working."

Mark puts a sheepish hand to his mouth while looking out the window, hovering down so he stands at the foot of the bed. Face flushed from the abundance of love he feels towards the two of you, it makes him frustrated beyond compare with how much he feels for you two.

He bites at the fat of his hand lightly, a small way to keep his cuteness aggression at bay with how his heartbeat start to pick up.

‘Calm down.’ He tells himself.

But the sight of you looking all confused, looking down to properly asses your sleeping attire. He might bite a chunk off of it.

You’re in one of the thousands of stolen shirts you took from Mark—thats honestly seen better days. Grease stains it at the bottom, unable to washed away either by hand or machine, you just gave up and left it as is when you could feel the fabric start to strain. Alongside the now newly growing patch of drool that Eve is helping you sport on your chest to further add onto the list of abuse the shirt has gone through. Sure, why the hell not Mark.

"What's this freak-o talking about?" You lean to Eve’s ear, whispering despite her not even being fully conscious yet.

She mumbles a small "dunno" and sits up to stretch, before kissing your cheek.

"I think my drool does make you pretty sexy." She eyes you up and down, and Mark only nods in agreement.

“Dated a buncha supers ‘n they’re all weirdos.” You tug a blanket to wrap around you, curling up into a ball.

“You love it. Now give me my kiss,” Mark leans down to plant a kiss on your cheek, but you turn away.

“Go brush your teeth first.”

“Rude, I thought you loved me! Morning breath and all.”

“I never said that,”

“It was in the unofficial contract you agreed to when you went into this. So, you technically did.”

He crowds you, easily picking you up and into his lap at your curled form, and you wriggle around like a rabid animal. Wrapped in foreign confines you had put yourself in.

“If I had to, so do you.” Eve mumbles while she pats down your bedhead and plants a kiss on it, making Mark whine.

“Is it that bad?” He puts a hand up to his mouth and breathes.

“I don’t want to find out.” You murmur through the fabric of your shared blanket, before turning away again when he tries to lean in.

“Cmon, just one peck?”

“Stop—ew, no!” Eve slowly joins in the fun, tickling you and holding you down so Mark can give you a loving smooch to the cheek.

“Gross!” You stick your tongue out in disgust, and Mark just kisses you again.

Eve does the same on the other cheek, and you groan.

“Stooop, I thought duty called?”

“Just give us a moment,”

They alternate kissing each sides, and you’re stuck on the bed to do nothing but take it.

Eventually, they smoosh you with their kiss, another sandwich they have made out of you. Maybe it was one of those hints they were dropping that you just never picked up on. Like before, when they flirted with you. Maybe you’ll make them sandwiches to bring along their ‘work’.

“You done?”

“Mhm,”

They pull back from their artwork, a proud hand on Eve’s hips and Mark on his chin. Before he pulls Eve by her waist and kissing her on the lips.

“There, now we can go.”

Eve bends to kiss yours, and you hum happily.

“Okay, now one last kiss before we go? For good luck?”

Eve makes her way to the bathroom, and she could feel the eye roll all the way from there when Mark begged.

“Fine, fine,” you pull him by the neck, and peck his lips. Before he holds onto your shoulders and pushes to continue further when you part from him.

His hands feel so warm when he holds you. Can feel the heat your skin radiates because your body pumps and produces blood to keep you alive.

He can compare your heat to the sun, a scorching but comfortable burn that he just can’t seem to pull away from. Like a moth to a flame. Making Mark and Eve the ones that keep you cool, not cold enough to turn you down, but not hot enough so you explode and destroy the whole universe.

“Mark!” Eve yells through the sounds of the shower puttering against the tiled floors, door still wide open for it all to be heard.

“Coming!” He yells out, before giving you one last kiss with a hug. You smell like Eve’s body wash and his shampoo. Like home.

The smell of that is now long gone on you. The room smells like copper and decay, the horrid smell coming from your corpse.

Your eyes are glazed over, limbs broken and torn into several places having to be cut apart so it all could fit into the body bag.

You’re cold. Ice cold. The sweltering loving heat you produced now nothing. Not a flicker, not even a flash of light through you. The fire burning inside now snubbed into nothing.

Mark and Eve are cold, with nothing to properly warm themselves.

His hands tremble at the sight, unable to properly see your body through the tears that wells up in his eyes while his hands clasp at the one still attached to you. Eve doesn’t speak. Didn’t even enter the room.

Already having her time when she waited for Mark to wake up from his three day coma. She wanted to do something to bring you back, to cheat death a second time for you. But it was too late. Your body had ran rigid and cold. Not a pulse when you were found by Cecil’s men.

And even then, she can’t hold back the tears she’s cried over for the past few days. Hearing Mark so hurt, hurts her too.

“Eve,” His voice cracks, just as it had done when he cried out for her. When he thought he had lost her before his very eyes.

“This—you can fix this, right?”

“Mark,”

“Please tell me you can,”

“I cant—“ she chokes. Turning away from the sight. She can’t stomach it.

Mark wails, and seeks comfort in Eve. Holding him like he had held her and you. Holding him tight enough to blanket him with the hold you and her shared.

It was still cold. Eve and Mark’s body shake as they sob onto one another. Like they were stranded in the middle of winter.

Is this how it felt whenever he’d pull away from you all those mornings? He can’t imagine how you must have felt in your last moments.

A/n: If it wasnt clear this takes place after Mark fights Conquest! I had the first part of this in my drafts for a while and had a eureka moment to mix that with the last episode of season 3. Anyways! Haha angst

Title was based off of “No more Birthdays”, one of the recent songs ive been repeating nowadays. each lyric that song had was gut wrenching sob

[minecraft]

Minecraft horror mod that disguises itself as an advanced physics mod that hasn't been updated in forever, as you play you get to unlock new tiers of buildings/dohickeys that let you see fragments of the creator and their implementations of different things, but it's clear from an outside observer's perspective that they are slowly being stalked by some sort of shadowy demonic force they inadvertently summoned and is assumed to have caused their death somehow. The mod plays normally otherwise until you start getting random "simulation errors" every now and then with this icon popping up in your GUI and in the world as a large billboarded particle.

Eventually you get a notification to download a "patch" which if accepted, allows the shadowy demonic force to slowly start infesting your world. If it gets close enough or attacks you enough in a small window of time it entirely deletes your world, the installation instance, all instances of the mod itself, and edits a config file in your machine that blocks you from being able to access the real website it was downloaded on originally.

[skeltnwrites]

Deck the Halls ⋆⁺❆₊꙳‧❅⋆࿔

With Eddie stuck in the hospital, the boys help you bring Christmas to him. 3k

a/n - for the amazing @littlexdeaths twelve days of promptmas! <3

“Mike, stop pulling so hard.” 

“You’re holding it too high!” 

Lucas scoffs. “It’s literally dragging on the floor.” 

“It’s literally not–” 

“Guys!” Your snow-slick boots squeal on the linoleum as you spin. “You’re gonna get us caught if you don’t stop arguing.” 

“But he–” 

“I wasn’t–”

“Both of you! Shut up!” 

The scowl Mike gives Lucas is met with equal disdain. But he rolls his eyes and heaves the Christmas tree in his arms up a notch. You resume down the hospital hallway, hauling the front end of the tree with four grumpy teenagers in tow. 

You can’t be that annoyed. Dustin, Lucas, Will, and Mike are all here with you of their own volition in this stuffy hospital very early on Christmas morning. And they all have a piece of your heart for doing so. 

You adjust your grip on the tree. No matter how you hold it, the bristles poke your waist, and the bark stamps itchy lines into your palms. But you remind yourself of Eddie. Of his hospital room with white walls, white sheets, white machines, white everything. And that’s just not right, not on Christmas. 

So you’re bringing the holiday spirit to Eddie this year. Between the five of you, there are three backpacks brimming with unused tinsel, lights, and ornaments, and a pine tree as tall as Lucas. 

You’d have decorated earlier if you could’ve. But Eddie procrastinated until Christmas Eve to fix the lights on your roof and in his haste, his heel skidded on a patch of ice, and he tumbled off the house in a rather cartoonish display. It wasn’t funny then, but you can laugh now knowing he’s passed out on painkillers and recovering just fine. Still, two broken ribs were enough to hold him for observation and visiting hours ended before you could scrounge anything festive together. So here you are, slinking through the emergency room past receptionists, nurses, and hospital security in the middle of the night. 

You raise a fist, prompting the boys to freeze. The click-clack of heels echoes from around the corner, growing louder by the step. “Back, back, back,” you order. 

Mike backpedals straight into Will’s chest and Dustin steps on Lucas’ foot. The tree lurches backward as they all grapple for balance. It’s a clumsy scuffle nowhere near quiet. If whoever’s there didn’t hear you before, they certainly have now. 

You try the nearest door handle and swing it open. By some miracle, the room’s unoccupied. 

The boys follow your lead, bags jingling loudly with each frantic step. They shove the tree through the doorway at an angle and a branch snags on the frame. 

“Wait– stop, stop!” Dustin whisper-yells. 

Mike rams it through again, a flurry of pine needles shaking loose and fluttering to the floor. 

“Stop,” you bark, “Turn it first.” 

They’re a smart bunch but they lack teamwork skills when you so desperately need it. Several pairs of hands fight to maneuver the tree in opposite directions. And all four of them squeeze through the doorway with it, snapping a branch in half and shaking another sheet of pine needles free. 

You sweep the tree remains inside with your foot– though there’s certainly still evidence in the hall– and pull the door closed behind you. The cheap window blinds crinkle as you steer them aside, just enough to see past the door. 

The heeled woman is either blind, deaf, or committed to minding her own business because she strolls by the door like it’s any other. You slump against the wall, turning to flash a thumbs up at the kids as soon as she’s out of view. You’re matched with a quartet of yawns, skipping from one frown to the next. 

“Almost there,” you encourage. It’s not a lie, per se, but it’s not very close to the truth either. This might be harder than you imagined. 

The elevator is too risky, so you take the stairs. But hauling a whole tree up four flights of stairs is no easy task. Mumbled complaints overlap and echo in the stairwell and by the top, your arms and legs are protesting just the same. 

The door whines as you crack it open, and you peer through the gap to scope out the area. There’s a nurse's station in the center of the floor manned by the same woman you’d seen earlier. Eddie’s room is on the opposite side; there’s virtually no way to sneak past without her seeing. 

You turn around, eyes locking with Dustins like they’re two bullseyes. 

He crosses his arms and cocks his head. He knows the look you're giving him and he doesn’t like it. “What?” 

“I need you to distract the nurse.” 

He says your name through a sigh, but before he can actually disagree, you yank him by the sleeve and thrust him through the doorway. 

The nurse’s head pops up from the desk immediately and Dustin shakes himself into character. 

“Help!” he shouts, promptly clearing his throat. “I need help– it’s my, my mother! You must help her,” he whips his head left and right. “Over here, in the elevator!” 

The nurse doesn’t move. She tries to speak but Dustin interrupts her.

“No! She won’t make it! Please– hurry!” 

The woman scrambles out of her seat and jogs after Dustin. He’s not very convincing, but he’s a better actor than the rest of you. And he’s very committed once he’s in it. Dustin’s cries persist, eventually distant enough that your adrenaline loosens its grip. You fling the door open, pinning it with your foot. The boys hustle through, following your pointer finger down the right corridor. You trot back ahead, escorting them right up to Eddie’s door. 

The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant imbues the frigid air in his room. The machines are off so the quiet hangs heavy. It’s the opposite of warm in every sense possible. And the little bit of it still spilling in from the hall is quickly cinched as someone shuts the door. 

You grope around the darkness, staggering over to the inky shadow you recall to be a chair. Your fingertips brush the scratchy fabric, and you let your bag slip from your shoulder, landing softly on the seat. 

A splash of light from the window catches one side of Eddie’s face. His lashes kiss the hills of his cheeks and his mouth is hinged open, exhaling a string of soft snores. It’s very cute, though, the kids’ expressions don’t reflect the same fondness. 

“We don’t have all day,” Lucas mocks, parroting your exact words from earlier when you’d urged him to get in the van before all the heat escaped.  

Your gaze sours when it reaches the boys. “Shut up. Help me stand the tree up.” 

Lucas snickers, planting himself on the other side of the tree. You lift the trunk so Will can slide the base under and Mike goes prone on the floor to screw it in. 

“Hurry up,” Lucas complains. 

“I can’t see!” 

“Shhh!”

Will pulls a flashlight from his bag and points it at Mike’s hands. The final screws are tightened and the boys let go.  

You give the trunk an affirming shake before retracting your own hands. It remains upright, even after a few optimistic steps back. 

If you think decorating would be the easiest part of this mission, you’d be wrong. It’s much too dark to work, even after Will situates his flashlight so it’s highlighting most of the tree. And keeping quiet might be impossible when you’re forced to mediate petty teenage arguments every five minutes. 

Mike and Will are hunched over a wad of string lights on the floor, unknotting opposite ends when Lucas waves his much neater spool of lights. “Uhh, we can’t use those. I brought rainbow ones.” 

Will tuts at the other boy. “So? We can use both?” 

“No, it’ll look stupid.” 

Will beckons you over with a growing frown. You’d swear these kids never graduated middle school if you hadn’t gone to the ceremony. The older they get, the more they fight, it seems. But your patience is thinning with each wave of attitude you receive. You’d asked for their help as their friends, not their babysitters. 

“Use both,” you decide, hands pressed into your hips. 

“But it won’t match!”

“It’s fine, Lucas.” 

He rolls his eyes very blatantly at you. It takes every ounce of self-restraint not to drive him home then and there. 

But the sound of the door handle rattling steals your attention. It jerks up and down but the door doesn’t open; one of the kids must’ve locked it. Your heart springs up into your throat, your eyes swinging around the room for an escape plan. The lock will only buy you so much time and there’s no way to safely exit through the window and—

“It’s me!” Dustin shouts, popping into the window frame. His lips are nearly touching the glass and he’s fogging up the pane with his breath. 

“Jesus,” you mumble, clutching your chest as you march up to the door. 

Dustin scrambles in, chest heaving with a glare aimed right at you. “You would not believe how much stamina that woman has! I mean she just kept going. I thought, I lost her, and then–” 

You slap your palm across his mouth. “Shhh!”  

His wide eyes follow yours to Eddie. 

Eddie sighs, lips smacking as he straightens a leg across the sheets. You’ve never been so thankful to be dating such a deep sleeper. 

“Sorry,” Dustin whispers. 

You shove him further into the room. “Go. Be quiet.” 

Dustin grabs the tail end of the lights in Will’s hands. Together they wind the cord around the bottom half of the tree. Lucas dresses the top half in rainbow bulbs, still sulking as he works. 

You squat beside Mike to help him sort the ornament pile. One you brought quickly catches your eye. It’s a clay guitar pick Eddie made in middle school art class, an instant favorite of yours. You take it and hang it front and center, filling the gap in the middle of the tree where they ran out of lights. 

One by one, the tree is stocked with a rainbow of mismatched ornaments. There's something from each of their homes– family photos and elementary school crafts and trinkets of every size. It’s a wild assortment but a very special one too. 

Dustin is determined to hang the star– puts up a case that he was used as bait and thus deserves it– though, no one was going to argue against him in the first place. He climbs onto Mike’s back, arms stretching as far as they’ll go.

“God, you’re heavy.”  

“Stop complaining. Get me closer.”

“I’m trying.” 

Mike staggers closer and Dustin snatches a fistful of the top. The entire tree lurches toward him, ornaments clinking in his wake. 

“Wait– careful,” you urge.

Dustin lists dangerously forward, jamming the star through the bristles. 

From beside you, Will hums disapprovingly, “It’s crooked.”

Dustin’s tongue curls over his lip as he adjusts it. “Now?”

“Still crooked.”

"Now?"

Your hands hover out in front of you like a net but you are not as prepared to catch him as you look. “No, it’s fine. Just leave it.” 

Dustin releases the tip and the whole tree reels back. His arm shoots back out to steady it, but a handful of ornaments swing off and onto the floor. Miraculously, none shatter, but they bounce away in a ripple of clinking. 

Your focus jumps over to Eddie. He’s squinting vaguely in your direction, head tilted off his pillow with curls plastered to one cheek. 

A breathy chuckle reverberates through your chest. “Merry Christmas!” 

“Wha…”

The kids mimic you in their own broken choir of wishes but with half the enthusiasm you delivered. 

Eddie’s eyebrows weave into one crooked arch. He attempts, and quickly fails, to prop himself up on his elbows, making a sullen sort of sigh on the way down. 

You stride over to the bed, landing on the edge by his sheet-wrapped thigh. Your hand slips behind his shoulders and you offer a half smile. “Surprise?” 

He winces into a sit, a hand flying to his chest. Pain folds back into confusion as his eyes flicker across each face in the room. “I don’t… Why?” 

“So you can celebrate, silly.” You hook a finger under the hair stuck to his face and tuck it behind his ear. 

His lashes flutter closed as he melts into your palm, slowly bending until his forehead meets your shoulder. “Sorry, ‘m so tired.” 

Despite the overdramatic gagging going on behind you, you accept the embrace, running a ginger hand up his spine where his gown has billowed open. “Don’t be. Didn’t mean to wake ya. It’s early.” 

His nose sweeps a cold line across your collar. “How’d you get in? Place is like a prison,” he mumbles. “Already tried to escape.” 

“No, you didn’t,” you snort. 

“No,” he admits, lips turning against your shirt. “You snuck in? Snuck a whole Christmas tree in?”

You lean away just enough to nod, pride softening the edges of your grin.

“And you managed to do that with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum times two.” 

“I’m sorry– Who face-planted off a roof again?” Dustin cracks. 

Your sudden laughter is corked with Eddie’s palm. He glares– or tries to anyway– but you know his tells. The way one corner of his mouth twitches through his frown. How he tilts his head when he’s secretly amused. “Don’t laugh at that,” he says, utterly unconvincing. 

The rest of your laugh is swallowed, but the levity doesn’t fade. You peel his fingers off, gently carrying them to your lap like they might be broken too. “It’s true. You did.” 

“Whatever.” 

“Don’t pout.” You tip your head, mirroring him on purpose. “Do you like it?” 

His gaze tapers back up to the scene behind you, eyes glowing with red, green, and gold. “No, I love it,” he says honestly. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. I can’t believe this. How’d I get so lucky? Hmm?” Eddie pinches your side, cutting off your giggle with a swift kiss. 

“God, gross!” 

You whip your head toward the source. “Lucas, you literally have a girlfriend.” 

“Yeah, but you’re kissing Eddie.”

“What? You don’t think Eddie’s pretty?” Your fingers clamp either side of his face, cheeks squishing into his puckered lips like a fish. 

Eddie stares blankly at Lucas, but the second his eyes bound to yours, you both burst into laughter. 

“Don’t make me laugh, babe. Fuck,” he hisses, doubled over in amusement and equal pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” you amend, hands gently sandwiching his. “Oh– Let me get your gift.” 

He’s curious but he still sulks as you leave, chasing the lost warmth as you slide off the bed. “A gift?” 

“Mhmm,” you say, unzipping the front pocket of your bag. You fish out a small box wrapped in glossy paper with a puffy, red bow. 

He gives it a good shake when you pass it to him and a knowing smirk at the noise it makes. 

“Open it.” You beckon the kids closer, taking your prior spot on the bed. “It’s from all of us.”

The paper falls away under Eddie’s eager hands, a smirk growing and growing until it suddenly falters. Pure shock washes over him as he gawks at the gift. A limited edition, glow-in-the-dark set of dice he’s been talking about for months. 

His eyes shoot between you and the dice several times before he asks, “Where’d you even get these? They sold out like immediately.”

You shrug, nonchalance slipping. “Know a guy.”

He rolls his eyes, giving your shoulder a good jostle. And his gaze shifts across every person in the room, thumb absentmindedly roving across the box's label. “Thank you, guys.” 

“They come with one condition,” Dustin says. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to resurrect Virehart the Vengeful.”

Eddie groans, burying his smile in his free hand and shaking his head. “I told you guys I’m not doing it.”

“Please, come on! That’s our only condition,” Will tries. 

“He literally had like two lines.” 

“And they were badass!” says Dustin. “A blade is only as sharp as the courage behind it,” he recites in a voice much deeper than his own. 

“Oh my God.” Eddie waves a dismissive hand. “Fine, fine.” 

The boys celebrate with a chain of cheers. Eddie steals your fingers back amidst all of the yelling, a doting little look in his eyes. Forget the dice, you’re the real gift to him. 

The fuss very promptly ends when someone clears their throat. You all turn in unison, finding the same nurse from earlier. She sighs, hands planted on her hips with a disapproving shake to her head. 

Eddie chuckles nervously. “Merry Christmas?” 

[keferon]

*thwack*

Get his ass!

*insert about the cruel indifference of the universe vs the indomitable human spirit, idk*

————————

Prowl watched Jazz wrap his discolored torso with some sort of cloth type bandage, fascinated by the way the injury seemed to mimic the injury that Jazz’s… mech… had taken during the battle just breems before. The first time that Prowl had gotten to watch Jazz patch himself up, he had hovered worriedly and awkwardly. At the time, he had only just learned a few cycles before that his closest friend was an organic who piloted a mech-like body as a weapon, and not the mech itself.

Jazz had babbled on and on about how his mech could take serious damage and he would be fine, but sometimes the “DRIFT” connection between organic and machine meant that some wounds transferred over to the organic body. If Jazz took a blow to the helm and lost it, he wouldn’t have to worry about dying, but he would have a helm-splitting headache afterwards. Apparently, it had something to do with the cerebral connection that was needed to pilot such a large piece of machinery like it was an extension of your person. Some kind of unethical science that definitely would have had some bots going to jail if Jazz were Cybertronian. It reminded Prowl too much of Shockwave.

When the Praxian had expressed his discomfort at the slight connection he had made, Jazz had given him a small sad smile. The words that Jazz spoke in reply would probably haunt him for deca-cycles.

“When we were invaded, what was and wasn’t ethical kinda got thrown out the window. We were losin’ cities everyday, our population was dwindin’, either due to the Quints or due to civil unrest. Humans… we ‘ave short lives compared to you guys. But we love’em. Threw all our cards into one basket, and prayed. Monsters to fight Monsters was the propaganda they spread when I was growing up.”

Prowl’s optics dimmed lightly as he watched Jazz stretch upwards, pulling at the bandages and heavy bruises. The human made a slight groaning noise as bones popped from the stress. He turned to look up at Prowl, spinning a-top Prowl’s desk to give him a wide and mischievous grin. Prowl snorted faintly, watching his friend with a fondness in his EM field that he knew Jazz couldn’t feel.

“They never said anything about wha’ the Hunter Program does to the pilot. Only that when ya signed up, ya got a mech matching your specific specs and the opportunity to go slay monsters. Sometimes the mech was prebuilt, from a pilot who died and left their mech still intact, and sometimes you got your own personalized one. The mech itself though… they were never the unethical part of the program. It was all the serums and shit that they stuffed into me to ensure I’d survive the DRIFT process. I… I remember being tied down to a med-bunk and… and just flashes of horrific pain.”

Jazz walked up to Prowl, still grinning, preening almost like a turbo kitten. The Praxian laid out his servo so Jazz could crawl aboard, being mindful of his organic friend. He lifted Jazz up to his shoulder, relaxing as Jazz tucked himself in close, humming softly as he settled in the take a nap on Prowl’s shoulder. Prowl’s doorwings fluttered a bit.

“Yer not wrong. That what we did to survive was unethical, probably inhumane. But… humans… we hate losing. We do unspeakable things when given the right motivation. For some it’s love, loyalty, family, country, pride, greed. I’ve seen pilots pull themselves from their mech’s corpse, waving a gun at the jaws of a monster, whilst missing an arm and half their face. I’ve seen doctors tie down rookie pilots and pump them full of drugs and serums, watch them scream and plead for mercy, watch them die when it’s too much for their body to handle, so that pilots don’t die the minute they try to DRIFT. Yer not wrong. Humans can be vile and cruel and outright terrible, but we can also strive for peace and love and kindness. It’s that, that makes us survivors.”

Jazz’s humming fell quiet as he fell asleep against Prowl’s neck, causing the Praxian to relax slowly back into his office chair. He looked up at the data pad that Knockout had given him, containing Jazz’s full medical checkup. The list of everything in near critical condition for his species was… alarming. Jazz had said he felt fine during the checkup. Knockout’s reading said differently. Knockout’s readings said Jazz was dying. That Jazz had been dying for years.

Jazz knew he was dying and wasn’t moving to fix it. Because pilots have their life for their planet, and pilots had a set expiration date.

Jazz had accepted this date.

Prowl had never been so angry.

“An expiration date” made me silently stare into space for a while. Hoooly shit….

[dreamescapeswriting]

Contracted Love ~ MYG

WORD COUNT: 7.1K

GENRE: CEO AU, marriage contracts, blackmailing, fake dating, fake marriage, falling love and realising you’re scared, (might actually be my fav piece)

PAIRING: Yoongi X Fem!Reader

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - March 2024

⤜MASTERLIST

As Yoongi began to walk through the bustling heart of the city he couldn't stop his mind from wandering back from the meeting he had just left and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry at what had happened.

It had been his grandfather's will reading, something that heartbreaking in and of itself but what was getting to Yoongi more was the stipulation that came along with his portion of the will. 

"It is not my wish for you to end up like me, old, alone and afraid of love."

Was that the piece of paper read, his grandfather was giving him strict orders to follow if he had any chance of getting his grandfather's portion of the company he owned and he needed it.

There was no way it could go to his father's side of the family, the vultures as his grandfather called them. They only hung around him long enough to know that they were going to be put into the will and didn't want to know his grandfather any other time. But it was all stupid. In order to collect his portion he had to be married and have a child all within a year.

A man who had hardly dated before was supposed to married and have a child within twelve months if he wanted any chance of keeping his company alive. Now Yoongi could have sworn he heard the ticking of a clock in the back of his mind as a constant reminder that he hadn't got much time.

"Please, I promise I can get it for you by the end of the week if you just give me some more time!" A voice pleaded, interrupting his thoughts and making him freeze on the sidewalk wondering what was unfolding in front of him.

"I've heard this a million times, Yn, I'm sick of hearing it." A male said, angrily staring down at you as you whimpered a little. He was your landlord Richard and he had just served you with an eviction notice for your business.

"Pages & Aromoa's will be a hit in no time and you'll have all the money I owe you." You sniffled but Richard handed you the piece of red paper and walked away, ignoring your begging and driving off.

"Fucking cunt," You hissed before heading inside of the door.

Yoongi stared up at the cafe sign it was basically falling apart but it was easily readable. The brick walls of the cafe had patches of Ivy clinging to the surface as if trying to breathe life into the ageing structure. The windows were slightly grim but offered a glimpse into the warmth inside that awaited anyone walking by. 

The cafe was nestled between two giant skyscrapers, one of which belonged to Yoongi but he'd never even noticed the cafe before. Sighing to himself he wondered if this was the cafe his grandfather had been boasting about before he had died and he found himself walking inside. The bell above the door sounded as he did so but you were nowhere to be seen.

"I'll be just a minute," Your voice called out. Despite the outside appearance of the building, Yoongi was pleasantly surprised when he walked inside. The interior was a sanctuary of tranquillity and refinement. Polished hardwood floors gleamed under the soft glow of vintage bulbs that were casting a warm ambience in the cafe. The perfect place to hide away and work or even read which was something that clearly happened here.

There were shelves lining the walls, stretched from floor to ceiling, the books all looked used and loved. Plush armchairs and cosy reading nooks were all over the place, offering a place for someone to lose themselves in the pages of a good book or work in silence. It was obvious why his grandfather had loved this place and had been talking about it for months.

"Stupid, machine." Yoongi heard you grumbling as you finally came up from behind a counter and smiled warmly in his direction. The smile that sent a warmth throughout his chest he suddenly felt guilty about having.

"What can I get you? And please, don't say coffee because the press is broken and the machine won't work," You pleaded with him, Yoongi's mouth opened to say something but he found himself unable to speak, struck by something he didn't understand. His chest was fluttering and his stomach was in knots, he didn't know what was happening. 

"Oh! Are you deaf? I know some sign language but I can write stuff down if it's easier." Before Yoongi had a chance to protest you were beginning to sign to him, something he didn't even understand himself but he was pretty sure you'd gotten it wrong.

"Can I get some tea?" He didn't know what was going on with his stomach but his grandfather always told him that tea solved most issues. Something warm to settle a raging stomach.

"Sure! I have a whole selction-" You were about to list off the extensive list you had when Yoongi shook his head,

"Early grey would be fine, with Milk."

"To go?" You arched a brow at him, most people that came in dressed the way he was got all of their orders to go. You knew the type he was, a businessman, too busy to learn the name of the place they were in but were loyal to it, it was nice.

"Erm," Yoongi glanced around and then down at his watch. He wasn't due back at work for another hour or so,

"I'll stay," He smiled at you and you nodded, pointing around the shop for him to sit anywhere he wanted. It wasn't like it was going to get busy anytime soon and your regular customer you'd had for a few months had suddenly stopped coming recently.

"Sure, make yourself comfortable." You gestured around the room and Yoongi stayed frozen in place,

"Don't you need my name for the order?" Yoongi countered you smirked a little at him.

"Because it'll get lost in the sea of customers?" You asked sarcastically, laughing nervously at the end,

"I guess that's true." He chuckles a little, and for the first time in a long time it feels like a genuine laugh from him, something he hadn't done for a long time

"He died?" Your voice was so sympathetic as soon as Yoongi told you about his grandfather, Rath, who had been your most loyal and regular customer. The two of you had been discussing your business for a while and you'd mentioned to Yoongi about having to close down soon if you weren't picking up in business.

"I wondered why he stopped coming by," You slowly sank down in the armchair opposite Yoongi and he smiled sadly down at the cup of tea in his hands. 

"Were you close to my grandfather?" You weren't close with the man but he'd been coming in every day it felt like you were friends.

"I wouldn't say close but we did talk a lot whenever he was here, he loved you." You smiled, Rath had spoken so much about Yoongi that you felt as though you knew him but he hadn't been at all what you were expecting. 

You'd expected some small, nerdy-looking guy but Yoongi was the opposite, he was built well, dressed in the finest of suits and looked as though he could be in the pages of magazines.

"I have a proposition for you." He suddenly said. Yoongi wasn't blind, he could see the business was going under and he knew you needed him as much as he needed you.

"Which is?" You laughed a little, looking up at the time and then back to Yoongi. The two of you had been sat talking for almost two hours now and still not a single other person had come in, which hadn't gone unnoticed by Yoongi, who was already concocting a plan in his mind.

"I need to get married." He said bluntly.

"And I need your help to do it." You held back the urge to laugh as you stared at him, you weren't sure what his grandfather had told him but you didn't know anyone in the market at the minute.

"Unfortunately I'm not sure I'm your girl, I can't help."

"But you can. You see, I have a lot of money and you need a lot of money." You knew that already, the Min family were richer than rich, one of the richest families in the world.

"What makes you think I NEED money?" You were trying to play it close to your chest, but it was true. You were desperate for money, your coffee machines were broken and you were behind on four months worth of rent.

"Yn, let's be real, your business is going under and I can help. I can keep you afloat or make you a huge success, whatever you want I can do that." As amazing as that sounded you still didn't know anyone that would be willing to just randomly get married to him,

"But I don't know anyone that wants to be married." You shook your head but Yoongi smirked at you,

"You can marry me," The words registered in your brain and you bit back the urge to laugh in his face.

"Are you insane?" You added a nervous laugh at the end and stood up, moving away from where he was sitting but he was quick to follow you.

"I have a lot of influence, I can easily make this place well known." He told you with a giant smile, your hands nervously tugged at the cleaning rag in your hand and you stared at him. 

"Just for marrying you?" 

"Just marrying me. All fake, no one would have to know we're not really together," Shit like this didn't happen in real life, only in books and really bad film adaptations, there had to be a catch. 

"What do you get out of this? Why do you need a wife so badly?" Was this something he did on a regular? Ask random women to marry him and then never follow through with all of his promises.

"If I get married, I can collect my grandfather's part of the company but I need a wife." He was going to ignore the child part until absolutely necessary, he was sure there was a way out of that.

"Why wouldn't he leave it to you?" You frowned, Rath had seemed so sure of Yoongi, you were positive he would have left his Grandson something. 

"He doesn't want me to end up alone," Yoongi admitted, your heart breaking a little as you remembered Rath mentioning he wished he'd never divorced Yoongi's grandmother,

"Oh."

"You'd get your business up and running, booming, I'd get half of the company away from my vultures of a family and everyone will be happy." You'd heard stories of the other side of Yoongi's family, stories from Rath and things you'd read about in the media.

"Okay...But there have to be some rules in place...A contract?"

"Agreed," Yoongi glanced down at his watch and bit his lip, he was already late for a meeting but that didn't matter.

"Come up to my office tonight, give your name to security and they'll bring you up. We'll work out a contract and hash out all of the details." He smiled warmly at you and you somehow believed him that all of this was going to work.

"My business will be fixed if I do this, right?"

"I promise." He breathed out before rushing out of the door, your heart racing at the thought of all of this becoming true. You glanced down at your outfit before cursing yourself, you were dressed in clothes with holes and your apron was torn to pieces.

"New outfit," You mumbled, heading to the door and locking it up. If you were going to go into business with Yoongi then you wanted to look the part. 

"Come in," Yoongi called as he heard a small tapping at his office door, the day had gone on for longer than he'd liked and he was looking forward to writing out the contract and heading home for the night. 

"Mr Min, Yn is here." His assistant announced before shutting the door, Yoongi slowly glanced up from his desk and his eyes almost popped out of his head.

He had been expecting you in the same scraps of clothes you had worn this morning but instead, you were dressed in a black pencil skirt and a red silk top that was unbuttoned to show just enough cleavage.

"Is this okay? It's the only thing I had left from my office days," You laughed nervously when you noticed him staring at you a little longer than he had done that morning.

"It's-It's erm, perfect." His voice stuttered and cracked as he stared at you. He had no idea that you could look this way and now he suddenly felt as though he was out of his depth. 

"Please sit," He gestured to the seat in front of his desk before grabbing two bottles of water and sitting back down. By now you'd gotten out a worn leather-bond book from your bag and smiled.

"Let's get straight to it," You said, your tone businesslike yet hidden with a little humour. Yoongi smiled to himself, preparing his own notepad.

"We need some rules in place, so nothing is blurred along the way." He stated simply.

"Your business will be my number one priority during all of this. We'll sit down with a bookkeeper and organise your bills as well as figure out anything that's owed." You suddenly felt your chest tighten, you were in a massive amount of debt. Yoongi had already gone into research mode when he got home and knew everything you needed to pay off.

"T-That might be a lot. Are you sure you're up for it?" You hated that you were in so much debt, when you'd ventured out alone to own your own place you'd been so sure it would be great you could pay it back in no time.

"No issue, I assure you, I didn't become the CEO Of Min Media but shying away from challenges." Your debt wouldn't even cause a dent in his savings but he wasn't going to tell you that and make you feel bad about it.

"That means a lot...Thank you," You smiled warmly, the smile sent his stomach into knots once again, he really wanted to see someone about that.

"We need to keep everything strictly professional." You finally stated, looking up from your notepad and back at Yoongi who was, once again, staring at you.

"Agreed." He jotted it down on the notepad.

"Secondly, we can't tell anyone it's not real. It's imperative to me we keep everything hidden. We keep up a genuine illusion to appease my family and the shareholders." He told you, if anyone found out this was all fake he'd most likely lose his shareholdings as well as be the laughingstock of the media world.

"Agreed." You wrote it down, and Yoongi eyed you up. You'd been quiet about your family finding out and it worried him a little. He didn't want you to go around telling anyone it was fake, it would only take one slip-up for the world to know.

"What about your family?"

"What about them?" You asked, staring up at him with a blank expression on your face, Yoongi frowned.

"You can't tell them the truth." He reminded you and you nodded, your lips in a line as you shrugged your shoulders a little.

"Not a problem, I haven't spoken to them in almost four years since I went out on my own to own a cafe."

"Understood. We must present as a united front," He stared at you. His heart felt heavy at the thought of your family ignoring you for following your dreams. 

"We will have to attend social events together, support each other publicly and appear as a happy married couple at all times." You nodded at him.

"I can handle that." It was no big deal, you'd get to dress fancy for a while and it would be fun,

"Living arrangements?" Yoongi wrote down and then stared at you,

"Well, I currently have a place in the lower part of Seoul, you're more than welcome to come and live with me," You teased only to be met with widened eyes.

"That was a joke Yoongi," You clarified with a small laugh,

"You can move in with me." He stated plainly, you frowned at him. As much as you hated your place you weren't sure moving in with him was the best idea.

"Is it necessary though?"

"Yn, once we're seen together you'll never get peace...People will want to know why a soon-to-be-married couple are living separately." You knew he was right, there would be too many questions and you didn't want to have to deal with them,

"Okay."

"I'll arrange a moving van for you tomorrow." He smiled, writing down on a sticky note to remind himself once the two of you were done.

"Can I suggest one more?"

"Sure." He looked up at you, expecting something about asking to be paid, or for more than you were getting out of it. All of which he was willing to do if it meant getting what he needed out of you.

"No falling in love. It's a business arrangement and any romantic feelings that may develop should be ignored." Yoongi was taken back but nodded his head at you. 

"Of course. We have a deal." He smiled shaking your hand across the table.

With a sense of determination, you added a final clause to your contract: Yoongi would take over the financial management of Pages & Aromas, ensuring its stability and prosperity while also shouldering the burden of its debts.

"We will be announcing our marriage this weekend, it'll be held here. In the meantime, I'll pay your rent for the cafe," He stated as you both signed along the pieces of paper, Yoongi took them both into his grasp and filed them in his drawer his eyes lingering over the clause about not falling in love.

"I'd like it if you didn't work for a few months if that's okay?" He suggested, staring at you as you frowned.

"We can fix up the shop a little, have it redone to your specifications and then announce it as a grand opening." 

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"You can do whatever you want, money is no issue."

"It is for me."

"We'll be married, what's mine...is yours," He stated before laying down a black card in front of you.

"Yoongi, it's already enough you're helping my business I can't take your money too." The statement was shocking, everyone Yoongi knew was always after his money, it was why he'd never dated in the past.

"Fine. But please keep it, you can use it as an emergency card, or if you need an outfit for an event...it's yours," He told you as you flipped the card over, already finding your name inscribed on it, had he been so sure about all of it since this morning?

"Okay. Fine."

"I'll have Alan drive you home and I'll see you tomorrow at my place." He smiled warmly at you as you got up from the chair, feeling a little overwhelmed with everything but nodding your head.

With a sense of nervousness mingled with excitement, you stepped into Yoongi's luxurious penthouse apartment. Your final box had been taken up by a group of men and you were unsure of what you were supposed to do now. You walked through the door, slipping off your shoes before your eyes widened at the opulence that surrounded you. The spacious living area was adorned with sleek modern furniture and tasteful artwork while floor-to-ceiling windows offered sweeping views of the city skyline below. You could practically see all of Seoul from up here, how did he get anything done? You knew you'd find yourself people-watching more than you should.

Taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you set about unpacking your belongings, your mind racing with thoughts of the new chapter that lay ahead. As you sorted through boxes and arranged your stuff in their designated places, you couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place in such a lavish environment.

"Mr Min will be late this evening, he said to make yourself at home," Alan, who had driven you home the night previous, said with a warm smile on his face. But how were you supposed to do that? You didn't know what you were and weren't allowed to do or even where to go. Did he have rooms off-limits to you? More questions flooded your mind but as the afternoon waned into evening, you found solace in the familiar routine of preparing dinner, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the sizzle of food cooking on the stove grounding you in the present moment.

You'd always loved cooking, you were hungry and determined to make a good impression on Yoongi. Even going as far as to make your famous cake no one could say no to it.

By the time Yoongi arrived home, the apartment was filled with the tantalizing scent of home-cooked food and freshly baked treats. Stepping through the door, he was greeted by the sight of you bustling about the kitchen, a warm smile gracing your lips.

"Welcome home," You said, your voice infused with genuine warmth, something Yoongi hadn't had the pleasure of hearing in years. His eyes lit up with surprise and appreciation as he took in the scene before him. 

"You've been busy," he remarked, a note of amusement in his voice as he watched you carefully. You shrugged modestly, a warm feeling spreading onto your cheeks. 

"I wanted to do something nice for you. Dinner will be ready soon, and I made cake." Yoongi's smile widened as he crossed the room to envelop you in a grateful hug.

"Thank you, Yn. You didn't have to do all this." You were in shock at the hug at first, your heart thumping as you tried not to overthink it. He was just grateful for the food. You smiled a little, returning the embrace, a sense of contentment settling over you. 

"I know. But I wanted to." You admit before going to set everything down on the table ready to eat. 

It had been almost a week since the news had broke that you and Yoongi were going to be married and he'd been right. People followed you EVERYWHERE. You'd gone grocery shopping two nights after the news was released and you'd been followed by men with cameras, all of them screaming questions at you. Luckily you and Yoongi had already come up with a story for you both, something easy to remember. You'd met because of his grandfather and it had almost been love at first sight. 

Tonight though you were at a restaurant together, your hands linked on the table as you stared lovingly at one another. All of it feels a little too real for you. 

"Tell me something about you that I wouldn't find in a magazine or news article." You begged Yoongi. Since moving in with him you'd done extensive research on him, wanting to be prepared in case any of his crazy family members tried to doubt the two of you. 

Yoongi stared at you, hesitating for a moment as he thought about it. He was torn between the desire to open up to you and betraying your agreement but the look in your eyes made it hard to resist. 

"Well, I've always loved astronomy," He confessed, his eye staring down at the glass feeling suddenly vulnerable.

"There's something about the vastness of the universe that puts everything into perspective." Your eyes lit up with interest, finally, something about him that wasn't run-of-the-mill CEO shit.

"That's beautiful," You whispered, 

"I've always been drawn to the stars as well." You admit, the two of you getting lost in conversation and completely forgetting about the many people snapping photos of you together. Yoongi let himself open up to you more, finding himself falling in a freefall for you. His head reminded him of the agreement you'd made together, no falling in love and he couldn't risk jeopardizing everything. 

"Why haven't you spoken to your family?" He suddenly found himself asking over dessert, your fork freezing midway to your mouth as your throat suddenly ran dry.

"They decided they didn't want me to ruin their family name,"

"But you were following your dreams, shouldn't that be something they were proud of you for doing?" He didn't understand how someone couldn't support the person they loved in everything that they did. 

"The Score family don't follow dreams, they crush them," Your voice was flat and dry as you placed your fork down.

"Score? As in-"

"Lawyers, the best in the business." You hissed out, you hated that all of this was being bought up but you owed it to Yoongi to tell him the truth.

"I don't speak to them, biologically I'm their daughter but legally I'm not."

"You were emancipated?" He watched you closely and you nodded your head,

"As soon as I left the company I did it myself," You admit with a smile on your face, you were proud of what you'd done. Being a lawyer had never been your dream and if the people that had raised you had it their way you'd still be another cog in the inner workings of their awful company.

"Believe me Yoongi, they have nothing to do with me-" His hand was on top of yours, rubbing over your skin in a soothing motion.

"It wouldn't bother me if they were still in your life." He promises, a weight being lifted from your chest as you let out a happy sigh.

The two of you continued to talk all night long, discovering things each other you hadn't known before and it was starting to feel like a true friendship was forming.

Months began to fly by as you and Yoongi worked on your fake relationship and countless parties you attended together, business and personal, but tonight was the one you were most nervous about. You were pacing around in the living room of the apartment waiting for Yoongi to come down and meet you. Your hands nervously played with the purse you were holding, the prospect of meeting his family tonight looming over your head like a dark cloud. 

The door to the living room opened and Yoongi stepped inside, freezing when he saw you pacing around but he couldn't take his eyes off you. You were in a stunning floor-length gown, crimson colour to match his tie but it clung to your body perfectly, seeing you turned his blood to fire. You paced away from him giving him the perfect view of the back of the gown, which had a crisscrossing strap at the back, the fabric shimmering and glowing with every step you took.

"I don't know if I can do this." You admit to Yoongi once you notice him there. You'd been faking it with everyone and everyone believed you so far but were his family going to be so easy to convince?

"Your family...they're going to see right through me." Your voice trembled with uncertainty and Yoongi smiled weakly walking over to you. He was nervous himself but he wasn't going to admit it to you.

"Yn, you're stronger than you think." He told you, his hand gently reaching out and rubbing your arm.

"We'll get through tonight, together." He had no doubt the two of you could convince his family you were together, to be honest, he had a hard time convincing himself it wasn't real. 

"What if they ask about our relationship and I cock the story up? What if they see through me?" He smiled down at you, running his hand over your cheek.

"We'll handle it, Yn. I won't let anything happen to you," And he meant it, if anything were to ever happen to you he knew he'd never survive it. 

After months of spending every second by your side, he felt himself falling harder and harder in love with you until the point where everything was blurred except for you. All he cared about was a future with you. His words were like a lifeline pulling you back from the edge of panic, you took in a deep breath and forced yourself to focus on everything again. 

"And if they don't believe us? What happens to me?" You asked, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"I'll make sure your business is taken care of, I'll not let anything happen to you but for now, let's focus on getting through tonight together." He whispers, kissing your hand softly as you feel a spark running through your veins. No matter what challenges lay ahead, you knew that as long as you faced them together, you could conquer anything that stood in your way. And with that realization, the weight of the world seemed to lift from your shoulders, replaced by a glimmer of hope.

As the two of you made your way through the entrance, all eyes turned to greet you, your presence as a couple commanding attention amidst the sea of glamorous attendees. 

"They're staring." You uttered to Yoongi as he smirked, his arm wrapped around your waist as the two of you walked together, your steps synchronized in harmony. Heads turned, smiles were exchanged and greetings were offered as you passed by people. 

"How could they not? You look like you stepped out of a magazine, you look beautiful." It wasn't the first compliment that Yoongi had ever paid you, in fact, you'd grown used to the compliments he'd give to you all the time. Including the small hugs and kisses the two of you would share even if you were in public, it was clear lines were starting to blur but you weren't entirely sure you minded anymore.

"Look, it's Min Yoongi and his fiancée," Someone whispered, their voice tinged with awe. 

"They're a stunning couple." Her date said back to her, their eyes trailing over you both as you moved through the crowd. 

"Let's give them something to talk about," Yoongi whispered but before you had a chance to ask what he was talking about he was taking you over to the dance floor. 

His hand rested gently on your waist, guiding you with a tender pull as you began to move around the dance floor together, the rest of the world fading into the background. 

Your movements were slow and deliberate, each steps a silent conversation between you as you swayed to the rhythm of the music. Your heart raced with every beat, your breath catching in your throat as you allowed yourself to be swept up by the magic of the moment.

"You look beautiful," Yoongi whispered, your eyes locking as you stared at one another.

"You said that already," You mumbled nervously as he smirked to himself, moving in time with you as you fell back into a comfortable silence. Not a single word needed to be uttered as you knew what was happening to you, you were falling in love with him too fast and everything was falling apart around you. You continued to dance together, neither of you daring to speak the words that lingered in the back of your head. Knowing that acknowledging your love would shatter the delicate illusion you'd worked so hard to maintain.

"So this is the lovely Yn." You turned your head to face Juliain, Yoongi's father and Yoongi wrapped his arm tighter around your waist.

"Lovely dance the two of you did, your mother made me dance shortly after." He chuckles softly but Yoongi remains deadpan and unreadable, his grip on you tightening. You'd heard about Julilan from both Rath and Yoongi and you knew the man was bad news, a slimeball only after money.

"Julilan. Lovely to see you, shame you didn't make it to grandfather's funeral, it was a lovely service." Yoongi said coldly, your eyes staring up at him. Julian had refused to go to the funeral but had gone to the reading of the will, only to see what he was entitled to. 

"I have no doubt, you always knew how to throw a party." Julian laughed but your heart shattered, Rath had been an amazing man and to insinuate that a party was held for his dying instead of a grand funeral boiled your blood.

"Party? A man died-"

"Hush. You don't speak unless spoken to." Julian said in a dismissive tone, your mouth dropping open as you couldn't believe the man in front of you. 

"With all due respect, sir, I am not a decoration on Yoongi's arm I am his Fiancée," You spoke clearly but Julian turned to look at his son who was now red in the face,

"I see she has no manners or concept of brains. Where did you pick her up? A brothel?" Your stomach dropped as you looked down at yourself, was he implying you looked like a whore? The woman who had dressed you tonight told you that you'd looked elegant.

"Don't." Yoongi seethed through gritted teeth,

"Women should be seen and not heard. Act like the trophy wife you are meant to be." Julian was in your face but within seconds he was shoved away by Yoongi, a smirk playing on his father's lips as he realised he was getting under his skin.

"Don't speak to my wife like that." He ordered but you pulled at his arm, you could already see people starting to stare and Yoongi didn't need the bad press.

"You're not married yet. Are you really going to cause a scene over a woman? Behave." He hissed at him, you stared at him as you waited for him to insult him one last time.

"Still just a child." He muttered, about to walk away when you finally found your voice once more.

"A child who has done more than you'll ever accomplish in your life." You hissed out at him, earning a smirk from Yoongi, he had to admit he was proud of you for not backing down from him.

"Why you little-" A hand was raised in the air but Yoongi caught it, shoving his father away from you.

"I see why you hate the man." You mumbled as Yoongi checked on you, his eyes softening once he saw you were okay.

"If he'd hurt you just then." It didn't bear to think about, he was angry, blood-curdling as he thought about the way his father had gone to strike you. 

"He didn't." You whispered to him, your hand rubbing his back softly but it did nothing to calm him down right now.

"I'd kill him."

"Yoongi." You pleaded with him, but he was lost in his own anger.

"He's a disgusting piece of shit and I would have killed him." You stepped in front of him, your eyes finding his as he stared down at you in shock,

"But then I'd have no one to watch the stars with," You whispered only for his whole body to relax and he nodded slowly at you.

"Let's get some food and go out on the balcony, we can go and look at the stars and pretend Julian isn't even here," You offered to him.

Yoongi ventured off to fetch some food and you found yourself alone in the gala, looking around at everyone who was dancing together or mingling. This world was something you'd never thought you'd fit into before but after spending so much time in it, it almost felt like home.

"Ah, Yn dear, there you are." You slowly turned around to see Mia, Rath's ex-wife making her way to you with a giant smile on her face.

"I've been meaning to have a word with you," She said as she reached you, her voice gentle and a welcoming contrast compared to her son.

"Of course, Mrs Min. Is everything alright?" You eyed her up as she smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. 

"No one's called me that in years, call me Mia." She begged, you nodded at her and slowly made your way out onto the balcony to talk better together.

"I wanted to first tell you how happy I am that Yoongi has found someone like you." Your eyes widened in surprise, your heart fluttering at the unexpected praise.

"T-Thank you, Mia. That means a lot to me." Mia reached out to pat your hand affectionately.

"You know, I've seen the way he looks at you. It reminds me of the way Rath used to look at me." Your breath caught in your throat at the implication of her words.

"I...I'm not sure what you mean." She chuckled softly at you,

"Oh, my dear, don't be so modest. It's written all over his face- He loves you, and I couldn't be happier for the both of you, even if you were faking it at first." You smiled weakly, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to process everything you'd just heard. Yoongi loved you - truly, deeply and unequivocally and that sent a surge of panic through you.

"Rath would have adored seeing you both together," Mia added before giving you an envelope.

"In my side of the will I was to give this to the beautiful girl from the cafe, now I assume that's you." You stared down at the envelope and nodded, quickly placing it into your bag to look at another time, when you weren't so stressed. 

"I-I have to go," You rushed out, panic taking over you as you began to hurry through the crowded hall. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear, you loved him too but there was no way you could do this. You raced around a corner when you collided with Yoongi, sending you both sprawling to the floor.

"Yn, what's wrong?" Concern was etched in his features as he reached out to steady you. Your breathing turned tagged as you struggled to compose yourself, slowly standing up.

"I...I need to talk to you," Your voice barely came out above a whisper but Yoongi nodded, leading you to a nearby alcove away from prying eyes.

"What is it, Yn? You're shaking." He reached out to touch you and you took in a deep breath, words tumbling out in a rush as you fought to make sense of everything.

"I just spoke to your grandmother, and she...she said that you love me, Yoongi. And...I...I don't know what to do." Yoongi's expression softened as he reached out to cup your trembling hands in his, his touch sending a shiver of warmth coursing through you.

"Yn, listen to me. I know this is overwhelming but you need to understand something...you belong here with me," You stared up at him as he didn't deny falling for you, tears welling up in your eyes as you shook your head.

"I ran away from this world."

"And now you're back but I promise it'll be nothing like your family's world." He breathed out as you stared at him, his eyes boring into you,

"You belong here, with me."

` "What if you suddenly decide I'm not good enough for you? What if I can't give you everything you deserve?" Yoongi brushed a gentle thumb across your cheek, wiping away a tear.

"You're everything I need, Yn. Your love, your strength, your unwavering support - it's more than I could ever hope for. And as long as we have each other, we can face whatever comes our way." Tears began to melt away as you stared at him.

"I love you, Yoongi." You whispered, the words feeling like a weight was taken right off our chest.

"I love you, Yn, Always." He whispered. 

With a soft sigh, he closed the distance between you and you leaned in slowly to him. It felt like an eternity until your lips met in a tender kiss, time seemed to stand still as you savoured the sweetness of the moment, your hearts beating in harmony as you finally surrendered to the pull of love. It was a kiss so full of tenderness and longing, of hope and promise. 

When you pulled away your foreheads touched and you giggled a little.

"Let's go home, I wanna show you how much I really love you," He winks, as you squeal a little taking his hand and practically dragging him out of the party.

Months Later 

"CEO'S Expecting: Min Yoongi and Min Yn Announce Pregnancy, Anticipate The New Heir To The Legacy?" You read out the title of the "Webber Files" newspaper and stared over at Yoongi with a blank expression.

"I see why their paper sucks," You grumbled, folding it up and staring at your husband who hadn't been able to take his eyes off you.

"Don't look at me like that, the last time you looked at me like that, this happened!" You stated, pointing down at your baby bump and whining at him.

"But we had fun," He wiggled his eyebrows at you and sat down beside you on the sofa, the two of you curling up together on a lazy Saturday morning.

"We did," You giggled as he ran his hand over your bump, smiling happily to himself. Not long after you found out you were expecting Yoongi told you the other stipulation about getting his grandfather's portion of the company and that was a child but you couldn't have been happier it was happening.

"Julian will flip a lid." You laughed at the thought of his father finding out about his son having a child but more importantly, you couldn't wait for him to figure out he was getting nothing in the will besides a small shop in the middle of nowhere.

"Oh, I meant to say. Gran asked if you'd looked into the envelope yet. Whatever that means," He frowns and you reach out for your bag, opening it up to find the envelope still sitting there.

As you took it out and opened it you couldn't believe what you were reading.

"By now I assume Yoongi and yourself are together and knowing My Mia she would have given this to you at the appropriate time, but enclosed are the deeds to your cafe. All yours, all paid for, as well as the number to my lawyer who will arrange for you to inherit some money as an investment to you and your dream.

Best Wishes,

Rath,"

You and Yoongi stared at one another, laughing a little as you realised Rath had been planning your get-together for a very long time.

@chiisaiblog@sw33tnight@kaitieskidmore97@laylasbunbunny@tinyoonsblog@whitefoxgirl@katnisspeetaprim@acciocriativity@choisoorin@heyjiminnie@btsiguess-kpop@halesandy@gothic4under4lord@soulphoenix1618@aerastus@jin-from-the-block@lenfilms@elizaschuyler18@piratequeen-impact @Namgiswifey@delulu18@xyahrinx@katsukis1wife@anthropologymajorkpopmultistan@blairscott@4-chan-inpadella@swga-ficrecs@niktwazny303@armystay89@myyouthdonut@xakx@kittymaryam-thebrowniefairy@kpopmenace143@loveforred@b1nn1e-1s-cut3@elissasimp

[midnight-mourning]

Love Bites

💘💘Midnight's DCA Valentine's Day 8💘💘

Okay okay okay, back on track now, please enjoy this little diaster i made based on @divinit3a's yeti boys, it was, quite fun >:3c

Prompt: umm letseee... valentines...Typically the Sun is not Out.... (for... Reasons... ahah.) but----loves to hunt, and hunt for the thrill/sport/game of it. And loves to eat & eat & would love a properly cooked meal. preference to high protein meals, very rich, very tasty, salty & fatty. so Im sure if u wanted to tackle him, in particular, could have fun with that..... (Slaps a giant fish on the table. Token of affection. Totally Wont Eat You ) The Moon.......... is a lot quieter and subdued, but actually a far better caretaker. takes care of hurt animals; would probably take care of a hurt human, too. mmm hot cocoa. much pickier eater, he doesnt like much, and he doesnt like to eat meat.... I think overall, a 'meal together' would be the best valentines fhgjsdfghjsdf WITH THESE FREAKS IN PARTICULAR...

Word Count: 2907

Read here if you prefer ao3!

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

The hall is quiet as you step out from your room. You strain to listen for any sign of life, nothing. Must be out. Good. That gives you more time. 

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the shadowed hallway, not nearly as bright as your windowed room. Though, you weren't opposed to keeping the lights off. It saved energy for one—which meant warm floor beneath your feet as you pad through the facility—and two, it kept the not as friendly yeti from making an appearance. Which, yourself and Moon were both in agreement about at least. 

When you'd first gotten here, so many months ago now, your first encounter with the yeti, robot, thing—you still haven't quite figured that one out—was less than, pleasant. Though, that may very well have been due to the state he first saw you in. Which was bloodied, bruised, and vulnerable. And as Moon would later explain it to you, that had triggered something in counterpart. Something more instinct than logical. 

Luckily for you, a ragged chase into a darkened cavern had saved you from suffering any further injury, or worse. 

Instead, you got Moon, and he was thankfully much calmer than the other bot. He also wasn't trying to kill you, so you took what you could get. He patched you up, gave you a place to stay, a nice warm bed out of the cold, and plenty of things to do while you recovered. 

When you'd first ventured out into the snow, having heard the rumors of the 'ice devil' you'd be facing, this hadn't been what you'd expected. 

Delivish upon first glance, sure. Those tusks didn't help anything, that's for certain. Not to mention Sun as a whole, the manic energy he radiated, the wild look in his eyes, the raw strength as he'd pinned you down to "Try a bite"—

But still, with Moon at the very least, the rumors didn't match up. 

He was quiet, even a bit stern in certain cases, but polite. He took his directives very seriously, but beyond that, he held a compassion you wouldn't ever have expected of a machine. Though, maybe it was because he was a bit more than that, they both were. 

Regardless, you owed him for not abandoning you out there in the frozen tundra to die. Much less putting in the effort he had to care for you.

As you traverse the hall now, there's only the slightest pain still left in your ankle as you shuffle. You'd left the crutches behind today, as you had been the past several mornings, despite the lunar-themed yeti's insistence for otherwise. 

That was another thing, the care. For a so-called devil, he had the attitude of a saint. Or well, you didn't know any saints, so a good friend then. A very good friend, at that. 

You found yourself in long conversations that would last hours, either listening to that quiet tone regale you with stories of all his travels, or sharing some of your own experiences prior to meeting them. You enjoyed the walks you'd take together through the caverns, or going with him out into the arctic—on the rare trips he would allow you with your injury—to scout for poachers and the likes. 

And those rare moments you could get him to laugh at one of your jokes, it lit something inside you that you couldn't describe. Something that albeit would be a bit more frightening than it already was if not for your situation. 

You think the combination of getting your foot caught in a bear trap, freed and then chased by a rabid yeti-bot, and then saved by the other side of that same yeti-bot, allowed you some freedom when it came to your feelings. 

But that wasn't the point to what you were doing. Rather, you wanted to show your appreciation for Moon, not your feelings. Nevermind the fact that today did just so happen to be Valentine's, having found out by checking the date on your half-dead phone. 

Besides, You didn't even know if it was even possible for him to return such affections. Truthfully, you preferred not knowing if it meant you could keep this peace you've had for so long now. You were almost afraid for when you fully healed. 

Afraid that the moment you could leave, you'd be kicked out, back into the cold to survive to find your own way back to society. That the past few months were nothing but a ruse, set up by Moon and in fact once you were at a good range, your back turned and unaware, Sun would bear down on you and—

You shake your head, no. Despite your initial encounter, Sun had been fine. He wasn't allowed out much, so you didn't speak much, though you also think he would prefer not to. It didn't necessarily have to do with you in particular, you don't think. 

Whereas Moon was more oriented to stay on task, Sun had his own personal drive to fulfill. You'd yet to figure out exactly what that was yet, however. Besides the desire to hunt and kill just for the thrill of it. Whatever it was, with your injury, you simply didn't fit into it. You had no use—for now—so he left you to your own devices. 

For now. 

You flip on the light to the kitchen area as you enter, dimmed lighting now illuminating the space. 

You'd been surprised to find there was indeed working cooking equipment in the research station. Not originally all in the same space, but with a bit of help, you'd dragged everything functional into one space. 

When it came to ingredients, you didn't have much to work with besides what either yeti brought to you. There was some very old canned food you'd found, and several containers of unopened spices, but beyond that it was slim pickings. The crate of hot coco you'd found had been a godsend. Considering the situation though, you weren't going to complain. 

The idea of making a meal had come from the simple fact of the matter that beyond hunting and protecting, Moon nor Sun did much else. So, providing nourishment would have to be your way to pay back their hospitality. Or at least, Moon's hospitality. If Sun enjoyed something you made, you'd consider that in and of itself a victory.

So, you set to work immediately. Opening the fridge, you pulled out one of the the few items in there, a massive bluefin tuna, which took up the majority of the space. You struggle to take it out, much less carry it with wobbling limbs over to the island. When you put it on the counter, you almost swear you hear it creak under the weight. 

You step back and let out a breath, admiring the giant fish for a moment. While the two really only ate for fuel—a fish like this would just simply be devoured as is from what you'd seen—you knew they could taste, and that when presented with chances to try something that was flavored in some regard, they did seem to enjoy it. Especially Sun, having taken one bite of your beef jerky and snatching the rest away for himself when you'd not been paying attention. 

Though you only had the one fish and just a few other ingredients to work with, you had several ideas in mind for how to properly utilize it. Taking the large butcher knife, you cleaned, gutted, and scaled it, and divided it up into proper pieces. 

The loin you'd make steaks out of, pan searing and basting in fats, utilizing the bit of pepper and spices you had available. You set aside three to cook and stored the rest in the freezer. 

The back you would smoke, creating some jerky from the pieces there. Thankfully, Moon kept firewood around in case the power failed entirely, and you doubted he would notice a few pieces going missing. You'd utilized one of the broken freezers for your smokehouse. 

The belly would be raw, sliced thin and served with a bit of the salty roe that you'd discovered inside the fish initially. 

As for the remaining bits of the fish, you'd stew the bones for a broth and fry the collar and cheeks as one final touch to finish off the meal. 

It was a lot, all things considered, and for them it may very well be next to nothing in comparison to their appetites, especially Sun's. But, that wasn't going to deter you from trying your best to make something from your heart. So, you got to work. 

You had no idea when Moon would return, so you tried your best to work both quickly and effectively. Thankfully, since several items were basic prep, they took very little time to come together. You enjoyed it, the process overall. After all the time being spent on you, being able to give back felt gratifying in its own way, exciting even. Again, ignoring your own feelings about the yeti. 

At some point, you even find a small radio, the batteries still good to your delight. Despite your location, you can just barely catch a signal as sappy love songs play from some far away station. You hum and dance and sing to the music as you cook, the time passing by like nothing to you in your focused state. You even are able to make yourself some hot coco, sipping on it throughout the cooking process. 

You're so focused, even, that you don't notice the towering presence hovering around the other side of the counter until you turn directly to face it. You were just setting down the last bit of the meal, ready to sit and wait for Moon's return, so color you shocked when you find yourself face to chest with Sun instead. 

His head cocked to the side as he looks down at you, expression unreadable as he examines you with that calculated stare.

"You've been busy." He states. 

You come out of your daze, shaking your head. "I-yeah. I have."

"Tore up the meat. A pity. I was going to enjoy that." He picks at one of his claws, you see a hint of red stained there before he glances back up to you, grin wide. "Though, it's not nearly as good as when it's fresh, anyhow."

You both know that fresh isn't quite what he's implying. 

You swallow, while you'd been expecting Moon—and would have preferred him, especially in this case—this was technically a gift for the day-themed yeti too.

Deciding you weren't going to let your lingering fear overtake you, you straighten up, and steady your voice. "This is all for you, actually. And Moon, of course. I, wanted to extend my thanks for, allowing me to stay these past few months." This again was technically all for Moon, but you couldn't exactly say that with Sun standing right in front of you. 

"I—Me?" He questions, eyes widening and grin falling. 

You nod. "Yeah, I um, figured that something made with a bit more care might be something you guys liked. I noticed you never really get the chance to... add more flavor to things, and you seemed to like my snacks in the past so, i just—" You stop when you find that he's eye to eye with you now, baring down on you with a serious expression you weren't anticipating. 

"You made us, me, a meal?" The way the words are half-snarled mere inches from your face makes you flinch. 

"Y-yes?"

Sun stares at you for a bit longer, and if you weren't so alarmed you'd move away. But you don't. 

After a few moments more, he huffs, then starts to chuckle, standing straight again. "Aren't you just so interesting, Little Star?" 

You feel confusion knit your brows only for them to shoot up in shock as Sun's hand suddenly grasps your chin, leaning in again. 

His other hand snatches one of the pieces of raw fish from the table, eating it in one bite. "Such an offering from you is, surprising but, despite your, obvious misconceptions about our relationship, I suppose I can consider it." He tilts your head this was and that. "You're not the worst option I've ever been presented with."

"I, huh?" 

He let's you go again, grabbing one of the steaks with his bare hands. His teeth tear through it like it's nothing. You can only watch as you try to understand what he's saying, not entirely comprehending it. 

When he's finished, he wipes his mouth, snickering to himself. "I certainly can't wait to see what he thinks of your proposition. I'm sure it will be entertaining to say the least."

Before you can respond, he walks over to the light switch, dimming the lights as low as possible, thus allowing for Moon to take his place. 

As the switch occurs, Sun makes one final remark, and it all finally clicks to you. "Something you should keep in mind though if I do accept, Sunshine, is that I don't share."

With that, you're left with an embarrassing realization, and Moon. 

You can't make eye contact with him, instead turning around and starting to busy yourself with cleaning up to distract from the burning feeling spread across your cheeks. 

You can't believe you didn't put together that something like this would mean something like that to them. But it's not like you would have known either! How were you supposed to understand the cultural differences between humans and yeti-robots that lived in abandoned research centers? This feels like something that was on them and not you to be honest. 

Your half-delusioned reasonings do nothing to stop the racing in your heart as you clean, and you just hope to finish up quickly, grab a snack for yourself, and get out of there to keep yourself from any further embarrassment. 

"It's very good, Starlight."

You pause for a moment, then hum. "Y-yeah?"

"Yes. The amount of flavor you've packed into each dish is... incredible." Moon says, sounding genuinely a bit in awe. 

It only worsens your state, mumbling back a quiet response. "I'm, I'm glad you like it."

Quiet between the two of you. The radio still plays softly throughout the space, only disrupted by the sound of clinking as you clean things up, or Moon's utensils scraping against each other. 

"So what Sun said—" "You should eat too—"

You both stop, and looking back to him, you laugh softly. 

You nod. "You first."

"Join me." He pats a seat next to him. "It's only fair after the effort you've put in."

"Oh! Okay." 

You try not to make a fool of yourself as you make your way over and sit down. You can only protest as Moon piles you a plate full of food, depositing it in front of you once he's finished. 

He hands you a fork, chuckling at the scowl on your features. "You need your energy too, if you want to stand any chance at getting better."

"You're not wrong." You sigh, taking a bite of the smoked fish. As you'd hoped, it's delicious, and you appreciate your own efforts to make such good food in that moment. 

"So,"—Moon reaches for a bit of the fried collar—"You were saying?"

You almost choke on the bite you just swallowed. You regain your composure to answer. "I, um, Sun mentioned, that um, something like this was very, very, important to you guys in a specific way. Which, honestly I didn't know and I'm so sorry if I've offended you I just wanted to do something nice—"

You're interrupted by a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

"I would say offended is nowhere close to the feelings you've elicited. Honestly." The night-themed yeti states, amusement between the words. "Rather, I find myself rather interested in your proposal, intentional or not."

Your eyes widen ever further. "Pr-proposal?"

"If I'm misreading, then I am sorry, Star. But I—"

"No!" You shake your head, trying again. "No, you're not um, misreading. But again this wasn't my intent at all. I'm definitely all for it. I mean, to a point you know, sorry this isn't something I ever expected to happen but I really do like you, a lot and—"

Instead of a kiss, a piece of tuna is pressed into your mouth, and with how good it is you can't say for sure that you'd prefer the kiss or not. As you chew, a slight scowl on your features, Moon laughs. It makes your heart flutter for a moment. 

"I really like you too. I wasn't sure that you'd feel the same, so I didn't act on those feelings. But, since you've shown that you clearly feel something,"—He snickers as you shoot him another glare—"For me, I'm more than happy to make it clear to you now."

"Gee, thanks." 

Another kiss is pressed to your hair, arm wrapping around you and you welcome it, snuggling into the warm fur next to you. You grab a piece of tuna, munching on it to hide your fluster in that moment. 

"And since he's already said it, I will too." Moon's voice is right next to your ear in that moment, low but lethal. 

"I don't share either."

💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

Thank you for the request @divinit3a!! I had lots and lots of fun with the yetis and i can't wait to see what else you do with them yourself, i may perhaps do a bit more when I find the time hehehehe

My writing Masterpost

DCA Valentine's Masterpost

Tag list (if you would like added, simply say so!):

@scarletcowboy @beemyhuneybee @fishm0ther @deviouscrackers @elsajoyagent8 @luckyyyduckyyy @zenkaiankoku @jogimote @local-shrub @milosmantis @robinette-green @everlightreader @sinister-sincerely @starredeclipse @dangerva @juukai @crystalmagpie447 @mothgutz236 @lizyxml @divinit3a @amarynthian-chronicles @crystalfay @that-one-unknown-artist @rosescarletful @buzzybee3

[kissingchamber]

stitched up

𝜗𝜚 synopsis: Peter's suit keeps breaking, thankfully his boyfriend knows how to sew.

𝜗𝜚 pairing(s): MCU!Peter Parker x male reader

𝜗𝜚 warning(s): nothing just peter being silly and his boyfriend being helpful

𝜗𝜚 note(s): English is not my first language!!! Based on this request, hope u like this anon :3 sorry this is kinda short!!

"So—!" Peter starts as he slides in through your window before you rise a hand, interrupting him. "Let me guess, you ripped your suit? Again?"

He peels off his mask and closes the window behind himself. "Yeah..." he admits with an apologetic look.

"This is, what, the third time this week?" You grumble but you don't seem all that irritated, you're already handing him a change of clothes.

Peter shoots you a greatful smile, shimmying out of his spider-suit as you turn to prepare the sewing machine, plugging it into the wall and switching to the right stitch.

When you turn back to him he's changed into the hoodie and sweatpants you gave him. He gives you the damaged suit and you spin around to face the sewing machine.

"Alright, show me where you ripped it?" You inquire and he drapes himself over your shoulder, so your cheek his pressed against his. He points to a tear in the side of his suit. Thank god, it's just in the stitching. That's so much easier to fix.

Peter starts telling you about his patrol as you repair his suit. It's kind of calming, having his warm voice in your ear and going through the familiar motions of mending the red fabric.

Inside-out, presser foot up, fabric in, presser foot down, sew, presser foot up, fabric out, cut excess thread. And done.

"Here, all patched up." you hand him the fixed suit and he presses a kiss to your cheek. "You really are the best boyfriend a superhero could have." he sighs, hugging the suit to his chest and looking like an over exaggerated lovesick puppy.

You huff out an amused laugh. "Oh, yeah? You're a pretty great boyfriend, too."

𝜗𝜚 note: sorry for being so inactive yall .⁠·⁠´⁠¯⁠`⁠(⁠>⁠▂⁠<⁠)⁠´⁠¯⁠`⁠·⁠.

[inknopewetrust]

𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐅𝐥𝐲

Summary: Tyler’s always wanted to show you something he loved—it just took some bad weather for it to appear. [Tyler Owens x Reader] [WC:2.6k}

Warnings: language, college-aged Tyler & reader, fluff, romance, this is a comedy? Idk folks. No smut though—sry :/. Just good ole fashion kissin’ in the rain. And what if I said this story was my real life experience, then what?

Quick Links: Masterlist [including other twisters fics]

“Where are we going?”

The tires of the truck were clunking along the rocky path to… well, nowhere. Thick trees surrounded you; the sun barely peeking through them as it began to decline in the sky and yet the truck kept tumbling along.

Shit. You thought for a brief moment as he didn’t reply. He might murder me.

“I told you,” his voice rang through your mind like a pinball machine. “It’s a surprise.”

“What if I said I didn’t like surprises?”

Tyler glanced at you as the truck hit a rough patch. Your hand was white-knuckling the grab handle above the window and your face was torn up in concern for the locale.

“I’d say, ‘honey’,” he put a hand on your clothed thigh. “I ain’t gonna murder you.”

“Well now that makes me think you are gonna murder me.”

Tyler laughed, squeezing your thigh joyously.

He was a maniac—Tyler Owens.

But he was also many things you did not know of yet. The first time you laid eyes on him was around eight months back when he walked in two minutes before the chemistry lecture. Every seat in the room was nearly filled except for the lone seat on the inside of the lecture hall beside you.

And when he sat there, you couldn’t focus on one goddamn thing.

It was silly—being twenty-one and having a crush on a guy in your science class. You weren’t in high school anymore but you sure as hell felt like it. When he asked for an eraser, you were too eager to provide it. One day he forgot his computer so he asked for some paper in the notebook you elected to use.

Each day you’d arrive a minute earlier than before with a childish hope that he would too and you’d be able to talk to him, learn about him. You weren’t in the same lab section so it was growing increasingly difficult to manifest a semblance of potential when it only occurred twice a week for an hour and fifteen minutes.

Fuck college schedules, is what you had concluded when he wouldn’t show up twenty minutes early to class.

Yet fate had a funny way of dictating what happens when.

Three months into class, your roommate suggested getting out and heading to a frat party one Saturday night and it shouldn’t have been a surprise to see him there. And out of some kindness, he went out of his way to say hi to his “lecture buddy” who’d helped him in times of need.

Every class that followed grew something in you. He came early to lecture to talk to you, joking about anything but the subject and going on and on about what he wanted to do when he graduated. His smile was contagious, as with his laugh. Bellowing and loud; Tyler Owens was everyone’s friend and everyone’s crush and you happened to be lucky enough to sit beside him until it was all over.

The semester ended and your interactions with Tyler ceased.

And it made you feel a little crazy for feeling down and out about your luck. Your roommates and friends tried everything to get you on the market: going to parties, joining strange clubs, playing trivia at the bar on Wednesday nights but nothing.

It was all nothing until something caught your eye.

You saw a flier for a meteorology seminar with a guest speaker from your local news. The premise wasn’t overly exciting for any one student at the university but for you, it was interesting enough to attend on a vacant Tuesday evening.

Like fate had promised before, it dealt you a winning hand.

Tyler spotted you as you walked through the door and waved you down. In your dumps, you forgot to think his attendance was a possibility even after he mentioned time and time again that he’d love to be on television, that he’d die to help people protect themselves.

So when he got ready to leave after the lecture, you weren’t going to die without facing a fear. You had to protect yourself from another six weeks of imaginary mourning and asked for his number.

And six weeks later you concluded he was going to murder you in some remote location in the plains of Arkansas.

“I’m not gonna murder you, alright?” He chuckled. His eyes were illuminated with a mischievous glow you couldn’t escape. You saw his eyes in dreams and knew you’d never want to imagine a day without them.

Fuck, you thought. It was way too early to be thinking of that.

“Then tell me!” You looked over at him with reason. “This road is so shitty I can’t imagine what’s on the other end!”

“Paradise, baby!” He smiled. “When I was a kid, my pops used to take me and my brother down here to go fishing. It’s this picnic area that I think,” he glanced at you with raised eyebrows, “no one else knows about. So don’t go runnin’ and tellin all them about this, ok?”

Oh.

It was personal.

“I won’t,” you promised.

“When my grandpa died I was,” he thought back on it as if it were long ago. “Nine and I came here with my mom and just sat. We stared out at the water and watched the ducks and the birds fly over until the sun went down. This was his spot and he passed it on to me.”

You suddenly felt an urge of regret pass over you as the comments from before soured.

“Tyler,” you said solemnly. “I didn’t—“

He brushed the nonverbal apology away.

“It’s alright,” he reassured. “There are plenty of reasons why you could have felt that way.”

It was heartwarming that Tyler didn’t dismiss your fears. There were so many guys, barely men, who would have called you crazy for a lot less. Tyler never made you feel that way.

Being with him was like chasing a high of the greatest strengths. Everything he did revolved around his ability to be free and willing to do what scared him the most and it was enchanting.

You could feel the sparks hit your heart.

“I’ve never taken anyone there before.”

“No?”

“You’d be the first.”

The two of you let that sit in the air as the road became more suitable for driving. The smoothness was welcome as his admission settled between you.

The first. He thought you special enough to be the first person to witness this place. You could have been ten feet tall at that moment. Never had anyone ever made you feel so special.

As the roads improved, the clearings of trees and bushes began to open up to a wider area with a paved lot on a taller hill.

It was beautiful.

Only the fairy tales could conjure a place like that. Billowing pines and lush greens on the bank of a river cut off by a large damn. The rushing water filled your ears amidst the squawking of wildlife uninterrupted by human activity.

It was so peaceful, charming.

The sun’s orange rays twinkled down onto the water and made it sparkle. Flowers in bloom, the buzzing of cicadas at the arrival of a hot and early spring warmed your cheeks as Tyler put the truck into park.

He watched you take in your surroundings of pure nature. A slight awe in your eyes, shallow breath at the sights. You were a vision in his favorite place.

“I thought we could have dinner here,” he tipped his head to the back seat where he had plastic Walmart bags full of food, unprepared and prepared for whatever fit your fancy. “And then, if we’re lucky, maybe it will rain.”

“Rain?” You turned to meet his eyes and they crinkled at the sides. Endearing, charming—just like this place.

Tyler hummed. “You mean to say you’ve never heard of rain?”

His words quickly became a joke. You rolled your eyes, hitting his chest with the back of your hand. It was solid under your touch and you were reminded that he was real. It wasn’t a fairytale and you were very much living it.

“Ha-ha,” you replied dryly.

“I’ll keep that one as a surprise.”

“I checked the weather before we left and,” you pointed to the sky. “No rain.”

Tyler unbuckled himself and opened his door.

“They just don’t see what I do.”

“And what’s that?” You asked him but he shut the door, moving to the backseat to take out the bags of items he procured, and then as ever the gentleman, opened your own door.

“Magic.”

You laughed but he was being serious. His eyes still gleamed with the same sly nature he was born with, but his touch was comfort. Hands carefully guiding you to a spot that he had meticulously planned out—even if this appeared to be a spur of the moment outing for you.

Everything was planned. Tyler wasn’t going to take just anyone to this spot. He’d be a fool to lie and say he hadn’t spoken to his mother about his plans just to hear her perspective on whether it was creepy, brilliant, or just plain sad.

However, he carried on to face his fears of bringing someone he liked to a place near-sacred to him. Tyler wasn’t a fool of love, he just hadn’t found anyone worth sharing these bits of him. And he also didn’t expect the feeling to come about so quickly.

Those fears he let simmer never truly came about in the reality he lived.

You were smitten. Absolutely fallen into this little spot in this tiny corner of the world with a man who was opening up before you. Tyler made the puzzle pieces of a perfect date fit together wonderfully.

The food, the drinks, the atmosphere—he hit an apex of the paragon of “partner,” “boyfriend,” or “lover.”

And you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face as the sun began to truly fade.

You took a sip of your drink, coming down from a high of laughter at a story Tyler shared at his brother’s detriment. The sky was a shimmering shade of reds and deepening blues now; orange melting away for the sake of night.

“No rain,” you pointed out. He shrugged his shoulders, moving from a lounging position on the worn blanket to a lying one. His arms perched behind his head.

Tyler stared at the stars beginning to form.

He could see the shapes of the clouds, the movement quickening and the air cooling. It was as special as this place, his talent for finding the storms. Whether they brew inside or out, he found them and chased them with a passion—unrelenting and fierce. He sought the thrill.

“The night’s not over yet,” he said coolly. “Don’t count me out.”

“I’m not counting you out,” you defended, moving scraps of discarded food away from you to lay next to him. You shuffled to get comfortable in his vicinity.

“How often do you stargaze?” Tyler asked.

“Not often. I don’t think there’s an opportunity for it when I have nowhere to go.”

He agreed with a grunt. “I think you’re lookin’ in the wrong spots, honey.”

Oh those godforsaken nicknames. The country in him seeped out at their mention.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he removed his arms from the back of his head and pointed to the now appearing stars the darker it became. “See here?”

You moved closer. “Not really.”

“There,” he pointed again. “Right there in the middle of those two clouds.”

There were two stories at play here: one of him proving that rain was coming in the guise of stars and the second of you trying to be aloof in order for him to touch you.

You’d spent the last hour with him. Watching him talk, eat, smile, and laugh at anything that brought him joy. Those lips begged you to kiss them. They beckoned you like a ship lost at sea and in the clouds, the water would find it.

You shook your head innocently.

“I don’t know what I’m looking at, Ty.”

“Here,” he took your hand in his and pointed to the stars. “Look.”

In the sky above, a faint outline of the Little Dipper appeared in your vision. You smiled lightly. His hand with his finger pointing was still outstretched and connected to yours which made it grow wider.

You were giddy.

Tyler moved his finger to fully cup your hand but as you kept looking at the sky, he looked at you. You could feel his eyes on you, the turn of his face and the low breaths he released through his nose.

“What else do you see?” He asked lowly.

You breathed in deeply. It was just too beautiful to explain one thing. The clouds grew thicker, dense in the night as light was swallowed up by the moon. The air was now cool enough to send a chill down your spine and wish the blanket was more than a thin excuse for a sheet.

“It’s getting cloudy,” you observed. “There are more stars and it’s cooling off.”

“Anything else?”

“It’s just beautiful.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It is.”

“I’m can—“

You stopped mid-sentence at the sensation that hit your cheek.

It wasn’t air or breath or a bug or grass but a wetness that could have come from only one place: the sky. You waited for another to fall and it did not a second later. A third and fourth drop followed until it was a hundred drops or more into a steady downpour.

You scoffed in disbelief, sitting up to feel the rain in your palms and Tyler sat up too. His laugh was one of joy that followed yours.

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed as the water began to drench the area around you and your clothes.

“I told you!” Tyler shouted over the rain falling harder and harder. You blinked at him.

“How’d you know!?”

“Just did!”

“And what’s so magical about getting rained on?” You asked him.

He didn’t have a solid plan if it rained. All he knew is that he had seen this in the movies. A downpour catches two people in the rain and it creates one thing: magic. It’s innocent and daring, carefree and transparent. Rain makes lovers fall in love. It binds them to one spot, one moment in time where all the elements line up to craft one singular point that would forever be cemented in their memory.

“I don’t know,” he confessed.

Tyler positioned one hand to lean on behind your back while the other cupped your face. The rain dropped onto his hand but you were warm against the coldness of his hands. Your eyes glistened at him as the movies described.

“I don’t know what’s so magical about it.”

“Me either.”

“Can you kiss me?” You asked him. It wasn’t a question, per se. He was going to kiss you.

Tyler nodded his head, leaning in to meet your lips as the rain fell harder around you both. The sound of the rain disappeared when his lips met yours. Only the beat of your heart, the rush of your blood flooded your ears and body. You lifted a hand to grip his arm as he tilted his head, using his leverage to position you the way he wanted and deepened the kiss.

You could feel the tendrils of a story weaving in your bones. The place, the time, the kiss… it was a fairytale.

You dropped everything and kissed him in the pouring rain in a spot now forever implanted in your history, you felt the sparks fly higher.

A/N: thanks for reading! As always comments, reblog, and likes are always appreciated. I love hearing from all of you and your reactions motivate us greatly!

[aspenmissing]

Oooookay okay okay. I will never be over those accidental babies but I come in with a new request!

I'm thinking something along the lines of a super creative reader; a fiber artist and seamstress making clothes and quilts and anything that can be made with a sewing machine. I'm a sucker for pining (like, SUCH a sucker for pining), but instances of pre-relationships where she's made something for the one(s) she's secretly pining for (and is definitely a little shy about it).

I'd like to see with just about all the guys from Arcane and JayVik (your other writing is slowly turning me into a Silco fan, too.)

ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ ||

10364 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀʜʜ ʏᴀʀɴ! ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʙᴀʙɪᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ! (ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ;)

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JAYCE

Y/N sat in the quiet of her room, the soft hum of the sewing machine her only company as the late evening light streamed through the window. Her fingers moved nimbly, guiding the fabric through the machine, her mind lost in the rhythm of creation. She loved this; the flow of creativity, the way each stitch brought something new to life. It was her escape, a refuge where she could shut out the world and pour her heart into the things she made.

Today, however, her thoughts were far from the quilt she was piecing together. They kept drifting back to Jayce.

She had always admired him from a distance, Jayce being the best friend of her late mother’s brother—her only family. A brilliant inventor, a man who could charm anyone with a smile, his aura of intelligence and quiet confidence often drew others to him, but Y/N had always found herself fascinated not just by his mind but by the way he carried himself, the kindness he showed to those he cared about. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew people in—Y/N included. And she had tried, for months, to ignore the fluttering in her chest whenever he was near, but that never worked. The feelings only grew stronger. He never seemed to notice her the way she wished he would, always lost in his inventions and work, but she found her own way to show her affection through little, quiet gestures. She didn’t need him to know. She just needed to feel close to him.

=

It had been weeks since she'd secretly altered his academy uniform. The buttons on the jacket had been loose and misaligned, a small detail that bothered her every time she saw him in it. He was always so engrossed in his work, often absent-minded, that she knew he’d never notice the small imperfections. Without him knowing, she’d carefully fixed them, stitching each button with precision and care, ensuring they were perfectly aligned. She even added a small decorative patch inside the sleeve, something no one would ever see, just because she knew that if he ever did, it would make him smile.

But he hadn’t noticed. He was too focused on his work, too consumed by his genius to care about such small things.

Y/N let out a deep, frustrated sigh, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair. Maybe it was time. Maybe she should just tell him. The thought of confessing her feelings made her heart race, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. What if it ruined everything? What if it ruined their easy camaraderie, their friendship?

She sighed again and glanced at the quilt she was working on, but her mind refused to settle. The patchwork of colours, the simple joy of creating, felt like a distant memory as her thoughts turned once again to him.

Meanwhile, across town, Jayce sat in his cluttered workshop, deep in thought. The plans for his latest invention were sprawled across the desk in front of him, an amalgamation of ideas and blueprints that he hoped would take his research to the next level. But his mind kept wandering. To Y/N.

It had become almost impossible to ignore her presence lately, and not just because she was constantly in his orbit, helping with errands or offering encouragement in quiet moments. No, it was the way she made him feel that had started to occupy his thoughts. How her creativity seemed to weave light into everything she touched. How she was always so thoughtful, so dedicated. Whether she was sewing a piece of clothing or making quilts, her focus and artistry were awe-inspiring. Even when she wasn’t directly around, he would think of her in the quiet moments—her laugh, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke of something she loved.

Then there was that one moment when he had caught a glimpse of the patch inside his academy jacket sleeve. It was small—almost hidden—but it had made him pause. Someone had taken the time to fix his uniform without his asking. A simple gesture, one that made him smile. But he hadn’t been able to figure out who had done it. Whoever it was hadn’t mentioned it, and Jayce hadn’t thought to ask, dismissing it as a small thing. But it lingered in his mind. The patch, the care, the mystery of it.

=

That night, after a particularly long day filled with setbacks in his work, Jayce found himself walking past her door, drawn by the familiar hum of the sewing machine. He knocked lightly, hesitant, before stepping inside without waiting for a reply.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning against the doorframe, his tired smile softening the exhaustion on his face.

Y/N looked up from her work, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. She quickly tried to hide the quilt she was piecing together, knowing that if he saw it, he’d ask about it. She hadn’t finished it yet, and it was still too personal for her to share. But Jayce had already noticed the burst of colour.

“What are you making?” he asked, his voice warm, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

Y/N chuckled nervously and shrugged casually, hoping her emotions weren’t as visible as she felt they were. “Oh, just a quilt,” she replied, her voice a little too nonchalant. “I like to keep my hands busy, you know?”

Jayce smiled, his gaze softening as he took a step closer to her. “You always make the most beautiful things. I don’t know how you do it.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “It’s just a bit of practice,” she said, trying to downplay her skill. “You can make anything if you put your mind to it.”

He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve always been so creative, Y/N. It’s not just the things you make, but how you bring everything to life. You inspire me more than you know.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. His words were unexpected, leaving her momentarily speechless. There was something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—that made her feel as though he might just be seeing her for the first time in the way she’d hoped. “I… I’m just making things for fun,” she said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, hoping he couldn’t hear the longing that crept in.

Jayce, however, didn’t miss the way her fingers fidgeted with the fabric, nor did he miss the way her gaze dropped for a moment as if she were hiding something. His heart tightened in his chest. He had noticed the little things—her quiet glances, the way she would always be there with a thoughtful gesture or comment when he needed it most—but he hadn’t allowed himself to truly acknowledge the growing feelings inside him. He had convinced himself that it was just a fleeting thought, nothing more.

But standing in front of her now, feeling the electricity in the air, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He cleared his throat softly. “Well, I just wanted to thank you, by the way,” Jayce said, shifting the weight in his posture as though he’d been meaning to say this for a while.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her gaze still downcast. “Thank me? For what?”

“The jacket,” he said, lifting his sleeve slightly to show her the small patch inside. “I noticed it, and… I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to, but it’s a nice touch. You’ve always been so thoughtful, Y/N.”

Y/N froze, her heart hammering in her chest. He had noticed. She hadn’t expected him to, but the way he was looking at her now made her feel exposed. She didn’t know what to say, so she spoke quickly, desperately. “I… I just thought it needed fixing,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It was nothing.”

Jayce smiled, a tenderness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. His voice dropped lower, filled with sincerity. “It wasn’t nothing. It meant a lot to me. You’ve always been the one who makes everything a little bit better, just by being you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse quickened. She looked up at him, her heart beating faster as the air around them felt heavier. The unspoken words between them seemed to hang like a thick fog, waiting to be broken.

“I…” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I need to tell you something.”

Jayce’s heart skipped a beat at the vulnerability in her voice, and he stepped even closer, closing the distance between them. “What is it?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her mind racing. Could she really say it? Could she expose her feelings after all this time? She inhaled deeply, steeling herself before speaking.

“I’ve been making these things for you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “For a while now. Without you knowing. I’ve been trying to show you how much I care, in little ways, even if you don’t notice. But I didn’t know if you’d ever see it... or if you’d even care.”

Jayce reached out gently, his hand cupping her cheek in the most tender of gestures. “Y/N, I care. More than you could ever know. I think I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that for a long time.”

The words hung between them, a confession unspoken until now. Before Y/N could respond, Jayce closed the gap between them, pressing his lips gently to hers. It was soft, tentative, but there was something undeniable in it—a recognition of the love they had both kept hidden for so long.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads touched, and they shared a quiet laugh, realising that this had been what they had both wanted all along.

“I think I’ll need more of your little creations,” Jayce murmured against her lips, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Maybe I’ll ask you to fix my clothes more often.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling the weight of her secret finally lift. “Maybe you will, Jayce. Maybe you will.”

For the first time, it didn’t feel like a secret anymore.

VIKTOR

Y/N’s fingers worked in a rhythm that had become second nature to her over the years—stitch, pull, knot, repeat. The sewing machine hummed steadily beneath her as the hours passed, unnoticed by her. The soft light in her workshop cast gentle shadows over the shelves of colourful threads, piles of fabric, and completed projects. Yet, among all the fabric she had touched in her life, this one felt different. Every strand, every stitch, felt like an expression of something more than just creativity—it was a piece of her heart woven into every seam.

Her mind had once again drifted back to Viktor. She found herself in a state of constant yearning for him, even if she tried to suppress it. After all, Viktor was brilliant and driven, a man consumed by his work. She had spent so many years working alongside him, but she’d never found the courage to tell him how she felt. Instead, she focused on her creations, using her hands to express what her words could not.

The thought of Viktor was never far from her mind. She remembered the time, months ago, when she’d first noticed how his leg brace seemed to rub uncomfortably against his skin. Viktor, always so absorbed in his work, never seemed to notice the discomfort, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. So, without a word, she had taken matters into her own hands. Quietly, late at night, she had added some extra padding to his brace, making it a little softer. She didn’t tell him. She couldn’t bring herself to. But when he had worn it for the first time, she had caught him glancing at her with a look of surprise—and something more, something unspoken, that made her heart race. It wasn’t the most dramatic gesture, but it was hers, and that small act of care had meant everything to her.

=

Now, as she sat at her sewing machine, Y/N was working on something far more personal, something that she wasn’t sure Viktor would even notice—but it was something she needed to do for him. It had started out as a simple act of wanting to do something nice for him, but it had quickly turned into something far more complicated, the emotions woven into the fabric of every stitch.

She was making him a jacket—tailored to perfection, fitted to his form, with a deep, rich burgundy fabric that would complement the shade of his eyes. The fabric was soft but sturdy, the kind of material that could withstand long hours in his workshop while still offering him comfort. She added small, intricate details—a delicate embroidered pattern at the cuff, a hidden pocket inside the lining, just for him. The embroidery wasn’t loud or obvious. In fact, it was so subtle that it could only be appreciated by someone who took the time to look closely. Viktor would never be one to wear anything flamboyant, but she knew he would appreciate the effort, the quiet care put into it.

The jacket was far more than just a gift. It was her way of showing Viktor that she saw him—that she saw not only his brilliance, but also his quiet struggles. She noticed the way he winced sometimes as he moved, the tension in his body from working so tirelessly, his reliance on the cane to support him when his leg ached. This jacket, she hoped, would offer him not just warmth, but a sense of care—a small token of comfort.

As she stitched, Y/N couldn’t help but think of how Viktor would react. He was so focused on his work, so consumed by his inventions, that she often wondered if he even had the capacity to notice things like this. Would he even recognise the effort she had put into making him something so personal? Or would it be just another object to him, like all the others she’d made for people over the years—something useful, but not anything more?

She shook her head, pushing the doubts away. She was doing this because she wanted to, because he mattered to her. That was enough.

She finished the last stitch, running her fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of her emotions within it. She only hoped that Viktor would recognise the love she had woven into every thread, even if he never said it aloud.

=

The steady rhythm of the machine was interrupted by a soft knock on the doorframe. Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. She looked up, and there stood Viktor, framed in the doorway. His figure, so familiar, yet always startling to her in moments like this, stood with his usual intensity. His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw something shift in them, something softer, but it was gone in an instant.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, melodic tone that always made her stomach twist. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to—” He faltered, his gaze flicking to the fabric she was working on, then to her. “I’ve been thinking about something. Perhaps you could offer me your thoughts.”

Y/N quickly hid the jacket under a pile of fabric, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. “Of course, Viktor. What’s troubling you?”

He moved closer, his eyes scanning the room as he seemed to search for the right words. He always did this, Y/N noticed. His mind constantly shifted between ideas, a thousand thoughts racing at once. She loved how his mind worked, even if it sometimes meant he didn’t notice the little things. Or maybe, just maybe, he did notice—but was too focused on his work to say anything.

“I’ve been refining some of my calculations,” Viktor began, his tone slightly distracted as he shifted his weight, leaning on the cane that had become a constant companion. “But I feel like there’s something I’m overlooking. You’re the only one who always sees things others miss, Y/N. I could use your perspective.”

Her heart fluttered again, but she pushed aside the longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She nodded, focusing on the task at hand. “I’d be happy to help.”

=

As they moved to his desk, Viktor still seemed a little distracted, his brow furrowed in thought as he adjusted his grip on his cane, steadying himself. His eyes darted over his notes and calculations, his mind a whirlwind of equations and hypotheses. Y/N could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the subtle way he leaned into his cane when he forgot to stand fully upright.

She loved these moments with him, even if they were fleeting, even if they didn’t change anything. Viktor was here, and that was enough.

Her thoughts, however, remained on the jacket she had made for him. Would he ever wear it? Would he ever realise that it was her way of saying all the things she couldn’t say out loud? Or would it simply be another creation in his ever-growing collection of inventions and projects?

But as she helped him with his calculations, something in the air shifted—a quiet tension between them, unspoken but palpable. Viktor’s hand brushed against hers, just for a second, and she could have sworn she felt the softest of sparks. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to see her, to see all the things she had longed to show him.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, he would notice the jacket. And when he did, she would be waiting, her heart laid bare in every stitch, every thread, every moment of care she had woven into it.

=

Years had passed since that quiet, unspoken connection between Y/N and Viktor had begun. What had started as a secret longing, a quiet affection woven into the fabric of every stitch she made, had evolved into something deeper, something real. She still remembered the moments they shared, the hours spent together, working side by side, exchanging glances that held a thousand words. And now, as she stood at the altar, Viktor’s eyes locked on hers, everything that had once been unsaid, unspoken, was now there in the open, in the purest form of love.

The church was dimly lit, the gentle light of candles flickering along the pews, casting soft shadows over the gathered friends and family. But the world outside had all but faded into the background. There was only Viktor, standing at the front, dressed in the jacket she had made for him all those years ago.

The deep burgundy fabric, so soft yet durable, still held the same warmth, the same careful stitches she had woven into it. It seemed to almost glow under the light of the candles, every small detail—every tiny embroidered pattern at the cuff—still as beautiful as the day she had made it. It was almost as though the jacket had waited for this moment too, holding all the years of their journey together. Viktor had worn it countless times in the years that followed, but today, it felt different. It wasn’t just an article of clothing; it was a symbol—a symbol of how far they had come, how much they had endured together. And now, on their wedding day, it was more than ever, a reminder of the quiet care she had put into it, all those years ago.

As Y/N walked toward him, her heart seemed to beat in time with the soft rustling of her gown. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, but one constant remained: Viktor, the man who had quietly become the centre of her world. The jacket—his jacket—was there, a reminder of the early days when she had hidden her love for him in the softest of gestures.

Viktor’s gaze softened as she approached, and for the first time, there was no question in his eyes. He had seen it all, all that she had ever wanted to say. His eyes swept over her with the same quiet reverence that she had once felt when sewing that jacket. The jacket she had made for him, not knowing how the years would unfold, not knowing that it would one day be worn on this day—their wedding day.

When she reached him, Viktor took her hands gently, his gaze not leaving hers. "You still remember," he murmured, his voice a quiet reflection of the emotions swirling between them.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching as she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Of course I remember. I remember everything."

He looked down at the jacket, then back at her, his eyes soft with affection. "It’s never left me, you know. I’ve worn it more times than I can count, but today... today it feels different." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to wear it today, to wear the love you put into every stitch, to wear you as we stand here."

There were so many things left unsaid between them, but in that moment, words didn’t seem necessary. The past, the present, the quiet yearning from years ago—it was all woven into the fabric of that jacket. It was in every thread, every stitch, every moment they had shared since then.

=

The officiant spoke, but Y/N's attention was entirely on Viktor, the man who had quietly stolen her heart all those years ago. As they exchanged their vows, as they promised to stand by one another through everything life had to offer, she saw it—the weight of all their shared moments reflected in Viktor’s eyes. He was wearing the jacket, yes, but more than that, he was wearing her heart, and she his.

When the ceremony came to its close and they were finally pronounced husband and wife, Viktor’s hand slipped into hers with the same tenderness she had always known, the same tenderness that had always been there, quietly waiting to be acknowledged.

And as they walked down the aisle together, Viktor’s jacket—her jacket—glowed with a quiet brilliance, just as it had all those years ago, when she had stitched it with the hope that one day, he might see her love for him, in all its subtlety, in all its care.

Now, here they were, standing side by side, not just as two people who had fallen in love, but as two hearts intertwined, with all the years of longing, of creation, of care, wrapped around them like the jacket that Viktor wore so proudly. The jacket was more than just fabric. It was the fabric of their love story, woven with patience, with hope, with trust, and now with the joy of a future they would share together.

And when Viktor looked at her, his gaze as steady as it had always been, she knew one thing for certain—he had finally understood all along.

JAYVIK

The sun had just begun to set, casting a soft orange glow over Piltover’s skyline. Inside her modest studio, tucked away from the noise of the city, Y/N worked with a needle and thread. The rhythmic hum of the sewing machine was like a familiar lullaby as she focused intently on the quilt she was creating. Each stitch was deliberate, each fabric chosen with care. Her craft was a reflection of her soul, a blend of artistry and precision, and though she had countless patients in the medical ward, this was her sanctuary. A place where she could pour her heart into every thread, even if it was a thread she couldn’t yet share.

Y/N hummed quietly to herself, her fingers deftly guiding the fabric through the machine. She had always loved the process of creation—the way a simple piece of cloth could transform into something beautiful with just a little time and patience. Yet, lately, her thoughts often drifted to Viktor and Jayce, both of whom had become so important to her in different ways. She wished she could say something, but the fear of ruining what she had with both of them kept her quiet.

Her mind wandered to the first time she had made something for Viktor. It had been a late evening when she’d been working on a jacket for him, stitching together fine, rich fabric with delicate precision. She’d hesitated before gifting it, worried it might come off as too personal, yet the soft hum of the machine had given her the courage. The quiet moment when Viktor opened the small bundle of fabric had stayed with her. His eyes softened in appreciation, and for a brief moment, she’d seen a flicker of something more—a connection that made her heart race, but one she didn’t dare name. He had simply thanked her, and in his gratitude, she had swallowed down the emotions that swirled within her.

She smiled at the memory but felt the familiar ache in her chest. The quiet pining for Viktor had always been there, simmering under the surface. He was brilliant, driven, and had a kindness about him that she admired deeply. But despite their moments of closeness, it always felt like there was an invisible wall between them. She never quite knew how to cross it. But she cherished the glances, the brief exchanges of words that made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t quite control.

Then there was Jayce.

Oh, Jayce. The brilliant, exuberant force of nature who filled every room with energy. The man who had always looked out for her like a protective older brother, but she had come to realise that there was something more to his affection. He teased her relentlessly, always with that smile that never seemed to fade. Yet, she could see it—how deeply he cared. He had been there for her in countless ways, just as Viktor had, but in a different light. She remembered making him a vest once, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders. The intricate patterns she stitched into the fabric had reflected the boldness of his personality. He had grinned like a child on his birthday when she handed it to him, his eyes bright with that warmth that made her heart skip a beat.

The pining had started there too, subtle and slow, like the weaving of threads in a tapestry. She had tried to dismiss it, thinking that perhaps, like Viktor, Jayce only saw her as a friend. The small acts of kindness they showed, the gentle teasing and shared moments, all remained unspoken. She kept her feelings buried deep, hoping they’d never notice. But how could they not, when every thread she wove into her creations was a secret declaration of affection?

=

But tonight, she was finished. She had just completed the last stitch of a new project—a quilt she had been working on for days. It wasn’t as intricate as some of her other creations, but it was personal. The colours were soft, the patterns intertwined—much like her thoughts of Viktor and Jayce. She had chosen the fabrics carefully, pouring into it a quiet wish that maybe one day, they would realise how much she cared. Would they ever see her as more than just their confidante? More than just the woman who made their clothes, their comfort?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

"Y/N?" came Viktor’s low, warm voice. "Are you still working?"

She smiled, standing up from her chair and walking over to the door. She opened it to find Viktor standing there, his cane resting beside him, his sharp eyes flicking to the quilt in her hands before meeting her gaze. She noted the concern that clouded his expression.

"You’ve been working late again," he said, his voice laced with both concern and tenderness. "You really should rest. You’ve done enough for one night."

Y/N laughed softly, a playful glint in her eye despite the weight of her emotions. "I know, Viktor. But I just needed to finish this. It’s been on my mind all week."

Viktor’s eyes softened, his features betraying the faintest sign of worry. He stepped inside, glancing around the studio with an appreciation she always found comforting. His attention quickly shifted back to her, the quilt she had just finished catching his eye.

"You always put so much into your work," he said quietly, reaching out and gently running his fingers over the fabric. His touch lingered, and she felt a flutter in her chest at the closeness. "It’s beautiful."

Her heart skipped, and she fought to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

There was a brief silence, thick with the unsaid things neither of them spoke. Viktor’s gaze lingered on her, an unreadable expression on his face. And for a moment, Y/N thought she might drown in the weight of his attention.

=

Before she could respond, the door opened again, and Jayce strode in, his usual confident gait betraying a tenderness in his eyes when they landed on her. The corners of his lips tugged up into a mischievous grin, but it softened as soon as he caught sight of the quilt.

"Did you finish it?" he asked, his voice light, though there was something more behind it. "I hope you’re not going to try to keep it from us."

Y/N laughed again, more freely this time. "No, it’s for both of you."

Jayce’s grin softened further as he moved closer, his gaze playful, but with an edge of something deeper—something Y/N tried not to read into. "You really do spoil us, don’t you?"

Her heart fluttered, but she held her composure, a small smile curling at her lips. "It’s just a small thing. Nothing too special."

Viktor stepped forward, his expression serious yet gentle. "To us, Y/N, everything you make is special." His voice was quiet, almost reverent, and it made her breath hitch.

Her chest tightened, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around her like a soft blanket. Was this the moment? Would they finally see her for what she was—not just the woman who made their clothes, but the woman who had quietly loved them both for so long?

"I’m glad you like it," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. The air between them felt charged, thick with the unsaid things that hung like delicate threads in the space between them.

Jayce’s hand rested gently on her shoulder, and for the briefest moment, she could feel the tenderness he tried to hide behind his usual bravado. The way his fingers brushed against her skin sent a spark through her that almost made her dizzy. "We love it. We love you, Y/N," he said softly, his words wrapping around her heart like a comforting embrace.

Viktor’s gaze flicked to Jayce, and then back to her. There was a softness in his eyes that made her stomach flutter, his gaze holding hers with a quiet intensity. "Jayce is right," he agreed, his voice low and steady. "You’re important to us. More than you realise."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. They were so close now, standing in her small studio, the distance between them vanishing with every word they spoke. The connection she’d felt for so long was suddenly undeniable, woven through with every glance, every touch. She could feel it—a thread that pulled them all together.

And then, as if in unison, both Viktor and Jayce reached out, their hands brushing against hers in the same instant. The touch was soft, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through her veins. It was a spark���quiet, but undeniable.

"Maybe it’s time we talk," Viktor said, his voice steady, yet there was a softness there that made her chest ache with longing. He stepped closer, his hand lingering near hers.

Jayce’s thumb brushed over her hand, sending a thrill through her that left her breathless. "We’ve been wanting to, for a while now," he added, his voice sincere.

Y/N’s heart soared, the quiet ache of unspoken affection finally breaking free. The thread of their shared feelings, woven so carefully through time, finally began to unravel, drawing them closer. It was a beginning—a slow, tender start. And for the first time, Y/N let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—her pining might finally be returned.

=

The soft hum of a crackling fire filled the cosy living room as Y/N sat comfortably on the couch, her legs tucked beneath a thick, woven blanket. The evening light bathed the room in a golden hue, and the warmth of their shared home wrapped around her like a familiar embrace.

Her hands worked deftly, needle and thread gliding through the fabric of one of Jayce’s suits, mending a small tear along the seam. A small smile played on her lips as she traced the well-worn material, recalling how many times she had stitched up something for him—whether it was his suits or Viktor’s jackets, she had always taken care of the two men she loved. And now, as her gaze drifted down to the swell of her belly, she knew she’d soon be caring for someone new.

Her pregnancy had been a dream so far, and despite the weight she carried, she had never felt more at peace. Viktor and Jayce had been doting beyond words, tending to her every need, often to an almost comical degree. But she loved them for it—loved them for everything they were and all they would become.

Just as she finished the final stitch, the sound of the front door opening caught her attention. She glanced up, amusement flickering in her eyes as she heard the telltale murmurs of her lovers, their voices hushed yet brimming with excitement.

Then, they appeared.

Jayce and Viktor stepped into the living room, their smiles wide and unmistakably mischievous. The sight of them—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other lithe and sharp-eyed—filled her heart with warmth. They were up to something. She could see it plain as day.

Her brow arched in suspicion as she set the suit aside. “Alright,” she drawled, resting a hand on her belly, “what did you two do?”

Viktor smirked as he walked over to her, his cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor before he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside her. Jayce, ever the dramatic one, sat on the coffee table directly in front of her, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. In his hands, he held a small bundle of fabric.

“We made something for you,” Jayce said, his voice tinged with pride. He turned the fabric over, revealing a tiny onesie—albeit, one that was crudely stitched together, the seams uneven, and the buttons slightly misaligned. It was far from perfect, but the love and effort put into it made it the most beautiful thing Y/N had ever seen.

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out, her fingers brushing over the soft material. “You two… made this?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.

“Hand-stitched and everything,” Jayce grinned. “Well, mostly hand-stitched. Viktor got impatient with me and took over halfway through.”

“I would not call it ‘impatience,’” Viktor said with a smirk, his fingers ghosting over Y/N’s hand as she held the onesie. “I simply could not watch him continue to butcher the stitches any longer.”

Y/N let out a laugh, shaking her head as she turned the tiny garment in her hands. It was a little rough around the edges, but it was made with so much care and devotion that she couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, holding it close to her chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

Jayce leaned forward, resting a warm hand on her knee. “We wanted to do something special,” he said softly. “You’ve always taken care of us—always stitching up our clothes, making sure we’re looked after. We figured it was time we tried to make something for you… for them.”

Viktor’s hand gently rested over Y/N’s belly, his touch featherlight yet full of love. “We wanted to give our child something from us,” he murmured. “Something made with our hands. A beginning.”

Y/N sniffled, brushing away a stray tear as she looked between the two men who had become her world. Her heart felt as if it might burst from the sheer love she held for them.

“You two are going to be the most incredible fathers,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Jayce beamed, his fingers tightening around hers. “And you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, “are going to be the most incredible mother.”

Viktor pressed a tender kiss to her temple, his voice barely above a whisper. “We are a family. That is all that matters.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of their love settle deep within her bones. In that quiet, precious moment, with their hands entwined and the tiny onesie cradled against her chest, she knew without a doubt—this was happiness. This was home.

VANDER

The steady hum of the sewing machine filled the dimly lit backroom of The Last Drop, the rhythmic whirring blending with the faint murmur of voices from the bar beyond. The scent of old wood, ale, and candle smoke mingled with the faint traces of fabric dye and thread wax, a smell that had become comfortingly familiar to Y/N. Her small workstation was cluttered but organised, bolts of fabric stacked neatly to one side, a basket of unfinished mending beside it. Spools of thread, needles, and small scraps of cloth lay scattered across the table, evidence of the late nights she spent here.

Her fingers moved with practised ease, guiding the needle through worn fabric, repairing yet another tear in Vi’s jacket. The girl was rough with her clothes—climbing, fighting, running through Zaun’s underbelly without a care. But Y/N never complained, never hesitated to patch up every tear and stitch every rip. Because Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—they were family in every way that mattered.

“You spoil them, you know.”

The familiar voice pulled her from her focus, low and gruff but tinged with something warmer than mere amusement.

Y/N didn’t have to look up to know it was Vander. The scent of ale and leather, the way his deep voice carried with a certain weight—it was unmistakable.

“They’re kids,” she replied without pause, finishing off the stitch with a deft flick of her wrist. “They tear their clothes faster than I can fix them, but they don’t have many to begin with. Least I can do is keep ‘em from falling apart at the seams.”

Vander exhaled a quiet chuckle, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorway, watching her work. His broad frame nearly filled the entire space, his presence as steady and unwavering as the bar he protected.

“They adore you for it, you know,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Powder won’t let that rabbit out of her sight.”

That made Y/N smile, a small, fond expression that softened her features. She had made that stuffed rabbit from scraps of fabric, carefully stitching it together after seeing Powder clutching a threadbare piece of cloth as if it were a proper toy. It was a simple thing, but the way Powder had beamed when she received it—holding it tight like it was the most precious thing in the world—had been worth every stitch.

“She needed something to hold onto,” Y/N murmured, setting Vi’s jacket aside and reaching for another garment in need of mending. “Something that’s just hers.”

Vander was quiet for a moment, watching her hands work, the glow of the candlelight casting a golden hue over her skin. She was always doing this—fixing things, putting care into every thread, every patch. Not just for the kids. For everyone.

“And what about you?” Y/N asked, breaking the silence as she glanced up at him. “Still wearin’ that scarf I made you?”

Vander scoffed, a teasing glint in his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around the fabric. The scarf had been a gift from her last winter, something she had pressed into his hands with a quiet “Zaun gets cold, you know,” as if she wasn’t completely aware of how stubborn he was about taking care of himself. It was a simple thing—nothing extravagant—but she had chosen the fabric carefully, making sure it was thick enough to keep out the Zaun chill.

He hadn’t taken it off since she gave it to him.

“Best scarf I’ve ever owned,” he admitted, voice quieter now, the words carrying more weight than he likely intended.

Their eyes met, a brief but lingering moment stretched between them. She could read him better than most, could see past the gruff exterior, past the strong front he put up for everyone else. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something in the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edges of the scarf, something in the way he stood just a little closer than necessary.

He pushed off the wall with a small shake of his head, as if breaking whatever spell had settled between them. “You should charge more for your work.”

Y/N only laughed, shaking her head. “And have half of Zaun freezing or running around with holes in their trousers? Not likely.”

Vander huffed, muttering something under his breath about her being ‘too damn kind for her own good.’ But there was no real heat behind it. He wouldn’t change her for anything.

She watched as he walked back towards the bar, the blue of her scarf still wrapped around his neck, the candlelight catching in his silvering hair.

She didn’t miss the way his eyes softened as he looked at her before turning away, the unspoken words hanging between them like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Not yet. But maybe someday.

=

The following days passed in a steady rhythm, much like the quiet whir of her sewing machine. She continued her work, fixing torn garments, mending stuffed animals, and occasionally stitching together something entirely new. The bar bustled with its usual energy—clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter or the distant hum of tension from the undercity’s unrest. And through it all, Vander was a constant presence.

He found excuses to stop by her small corner in the backroom. Bringing her a drink she hadn’t asked for, leaning against the doorway with a watchful gaze as she worked, making small talk about the latest scuffle at the bar or how Claggor had managed to tear a hole straight through the knee of his trousers again. He never lingered too long, never said too much—but his presence was always there, warm and steady, like the faint glow of candlelight on a cold night.

One evening, as she finished a particularly intricate embroidery piece on a worn-out coat, she heard heavy footsteps approach. The familiar weight of his presence settled in the doorway before he stepped inside.

She looked up just in time to see Vander set something on the table beside her—a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“For you,” he said simply.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, setting down her needle. She wiped her hands on her apron before carefully unfolding the cloth, revealing a thick roll of high-quality fabric. It was unlike anything she could find in Zaun, sturdy and warm, likely bartered from Piltover’s markets. The kind of material that would hold against the bitter Zaun chill, something made to last.

“Vander, this is—”

“Figured you might need it,” he interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck. There was something almost sheepish about the way he said it, as if unsure how she’d take the gift. “For…whatever it is you’re always makin’. Consider it a thank you.”

She looked up at him then, her chest tightening slightly at the rare hint of hesitation in his voice. He wasn’t a man of grand gestures, wasn’t one to put emotions into words easily. But this—this was something.

Her fingers ran over the fabric, feeling the softness beneath her touch. The edges were neatly folded, carefully bundled together, as if he’d handled it with more care than he’d admit.

“I’ll make something good with it,” she murmured, voice softer now.

His lips quirked into a small smile, the kind that was gone too quickly but left warmth in its wake. “I know you will.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of something unspoken settling between them. The candlelight flickered against the walls, stretching shadows long and soft. She could feel the unspoken words lingering in the air, the quiet understanding neither of them wanted to disturb.

Then, as if realising he had lingered too long, Vander exhaled and took a step back, turning toward the door. “Don’t stay up too late workin’,” he said over his shoulder, voice gruff but tinged with something gentler.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her sitting there with warmth blooming in her chest, the weight of his quiet kindness settling over her like a well-loved quilt.

She traced the fabric with her fingertips, thoughtful. Vander wasn’t a man of words, but he had his own way of showing things—small gestures, quiet care. It had always been there, between them, stitched into every moment they shared.

Maybe someday wasn’t so far away after all.

SILCO

The first time Silco truly noticed her, it was not because of her appearance or her sharp wit. It wasn’t even the way she carried herself, though that too intrigued him. No, it was because of the rip in his coat.

It wasn’t the first time his clothes had seen damage; as a man in his position, a leader with enemies at every turn, he had grown used to the wear and tear. The fight in the Lanes had been a typical skirmish—fists, knives, and threats exchanged over petty rivalries. He’d never imagined it would result in a tear down the side of his long, dark coat. He had barely noticed it in the chaos, but when he returned to the Underbelly, the jagged tear caught his eye.

At first, he considered simply tossing the coat aside, but something gnawed at him. Perhaps it was the way the fabric seemed to reflect the disarray in his mind after the conflict. His thoughts, much like his coat, felt torn and frayed at the edges. But then she appeared.

She was standing there at the entrance to his office, as though she had known he’d be there. There was something about her, something predatory in the way she stepped forward, almost as if she had been watching him for some time. Her sharp eyes assessed him immediately, but not with the usual wariness he was accustomed to. No, she took in the coat, the tear, and then—without waiting for permission—she moved to inspect the damage.

He had intended to wave her off, to brush aside the need for anything resembling care. But her presence was immediate, commanding, even without a word. The way she touched the fabric, her fingers sliding along the tear, tracing its path like a careful examination of a wound. She seemed to read the damage, as though she knew exactly how to fix it, where to pull, where to stitch.

“Leave it with me,” she said, her voice calm, almost amused, though he saw no mockery in her eyes. She said it with an assurance that left no room for argument. She already knew he would relent. And, to his own surprise, he did.

=

Silco wasn’t a man given to sentiment. His empire was built on dominance, control, and cruelty. He had no time for kindness, for softness. Yet here she was, standing before him, offering to repair a coat that, in his mind, held little value beyond its utility. But somehow, her words, her confidence, made him trust her in a way he couldn't fully explain.

She wasn’t from the grime and muck of the underbelly like most people in Zaun. She didn’t have the hardened edge that the typical denizens of the Lanes wore like a badge of honour. Instead, she had settled into the city like a delicate thread woven into an old tapestry—soft yet resilient, unfurling and unraveling at the same time. She had a sort of quiet grace about her, a sense of purpose that was both subtle and undeniable.

A seamstress. A maker of things. A woman whose hands were stained with ink and dyes, a patchwork of colours permanently imprinted into her skin from years of working with fabrics of every kind. She was a stranger to the underworld, and yet she had an undeniable place in it. The children of Zaun adored her. Her humble shop was always filled with the noise of their laughter, their cries for attention, their hands pulling at her skirts, eager to see what she was making next. They were drawn to her in a way they never were to anyone else—especially Powder, the youngest, whose fascination with Y/N’s work bordered on obsession.

And in a way, Silco found it curious. The children, so often abandoned and ignored by the world, had found solace in her presence, a warmth that he could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, he never doubted that she was something special.

After she mended his coat, a task that seemed so simple, so mundane, he found himself inspecting it more than he’d like to admit. He ran his fingers over the stitches, feeling the tightness of them, the precision in every movement. She had taken a coat that was merely a tool and turned it into something more—a symbol, perhaps, of her ability to see what others might overlook.

When she returned it to him, there were no formalities. She didn’t ask for thanks, didn’t expect anything. She simply said, “Good as new,” and watched him closely, waiting to see his reaction. It was not the typical response she’d receive from others, and she seemed to know it. He nodded. That was all. But he could feel it, a certain unspoken understanding between them. The coat, now mended, was a marker of something unspoken—something subtle and deliberate.

=

And then there was the waistcoat.

It appeared one evening, folded neatly in brown paper and left at The Last Drop without a word, no explanation, no card. He found it tucked away in the corner of the bar, a surprise that didn’t fit with the usual chaos of his life. He unwrapped it carefully, the fine fabric smooth under his fingers. It was a deep charcoal, dark but with an intricate emerald design embroidered along the edges—a delicate touch, but one that spoke volumes. The kind of thing he never would have chosen himself, yet it felt... right. It was understated, quiet in its elegance, but unmistakably hers.

That night, after a particularly grueling day spent managing Piltover’s politicians and the constant friction with the people of Zaun, he wore it. He didn’t think about it much at first, just slipped it on as if it were any other garment. But when he looked in the mirror, something tugged at him. It wasn’t just a waistcoat. It was something more—a symbol of her care, of her quiet, unnoticed influence on his life.

They did not have the kind of relationship marked by loud declarations or gestures. No, their bond was built in quiet moments. In the soft rhythm of her sewing shears cutting through fabric. In the weight of the threads, carefully pulled through delicate fabric. In the way her eyes always seemed to search him, studying him like the seamstress she was, looking for the places where the seams might have frayed, where the edges might have come apart.

=

One night, he found himself standing at the threshold of her shop, unannounced, a place he rarely visited without a purpose. But that evening, there was no agenda, no business to be conducted. He simply wanted to see her, to observe her in her element. She was sitting at her workbench, the dim glow of a single oil lamp illuminating her face as she stitched together a new garment—one of her many projects, one of her endless creations.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply watched, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her hands as they worked with unshaken precision. The needle passed through the fabric again and again, a rhythmic dance that felt hypnotic.

“What is it tonight?” he asked, his voice low but breaking the silence.

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it was fleeting. “A coat. For a friend.”

“A lucky friend,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet humour.

She didn’t answer, only hummed as she threaded her needle again. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Just care.”

And for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something passed between them—something unspoken, something deeper. She cared. He could see it in her hands, in the steady way she worked. She didn’t do it for accolades, didn’t do it for recognition. She did it because she cared.

The thought unsettled him. She wasn’t like others, who cowered beneath his power or avoided his gaze. No, she studied him, watched him, as if she could see beneath the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself. And for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

Silco had made his name as a man of power, a man who controlled the shadows, a man whose empire was built on fear and ambition. He had forged himself from the broken pieces of the world around him. But when she looked at him, when she saw him as she did, he wasn’t Silco the tyrant or Silco the visionary. For a brief moment, he was simply Silco, a man who had a tattered coat and a waistcoat stitched with care.

=

Weeks passed in a haze of strained negotiations, political manoeuvring, and the steady grind of maintaining his hold over Zaun. Silco didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on much outside of his empire, but there were moments—fleeting, dangerous moments—when his thoughts wandered back to her. The way she had touched his coat, the subtle care in every stitch, the way she never flinched under his gaze. There was something there, something fragile yet strong, like an ember flickering in the dark.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Silco found himself walking toward her shop again. He had no particular reason to be there. His coat was still intact, and he hadn’t needed any new clothes repaired. But something in the back of his mind told him he should check on her, to see if she was still as steady, as unwavering as she had been the last time he’d seen her.

As he approached her shop, the dim light spilling from beneath the door caught his attention. The flicker of the lanterns inside, the soft hum of activity—it was a rhythm he had come to recognise, one that spoke to the quiet dedication she had for her craft. It was late, later than usual. Silco hesitated for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe, considering whether to enter or not.

But then he heard it—the harsh rasp of voices, the unmistakable sound of a scuffle inside. His instincts kicked in, and he pushed the door open without a second thought.

=

Inside, the scene before him unfolded in a quick, brutal flash. Two men—rough, unkempt, with the stench of desperation hanging over them—had cornered her. One of them was holding a knife, its blade glinting ominously under the light of the lamp. The other was gesturing wildly at the shelves, clearly trying to intimidate her into handing over whatever they could steal.

Her back was to the door, and for a moment, Silco saw her—saw her not as the gentle seamstress who had repaired his coat, but as someone who had lived in the same world as him, someone who had faced her own battles. Her posture was calm, but there was a fire in her eyes, something that told him she wasn’t about to bend to their will.

"Just give us the damn money, lady," the one with the knife spat, his voice low and rough. "We’re not here to play games."

Silco’s mind moved quickly, calculating the best way to deal with this. He didn’t care about the petty theft. What bothered him was the way they were treating her—as if she were just another victim to be taken advantage of. As if she were weak.

But she wasn’t weak.

Without a word, he stepped forward, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him. The sound was enough to catch the attention of the men, who turned just as he moved closer. The one with the knife sneered at him, recognising the man who had brought Zaun to its knees.

"Who the hell are you?" the first man growled, his voice a mixture of surprise and aggression.

Silco didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang heavy in the air for a moment, allowing the tension to build. He wasn’t worried about them. The men were nothing more than irritants to him, mere distractions in a world full of dangers.

"You’re in the wrong place," Silco finally said, his voice low and measured, his gaze cold and unyielding.

The men exchanged wary glances. The one with the knife hesitated, but the second man, more desperate, growled. "You don’t scare us. We’ve got a knife. What’s it to you?"

Silco’s lips twitched, amused by their audacity. The tension in the room thickened, but Silco’s presence alone was enough to shift the balance.

The man with the knife stepped forward, brandishing the blade in an unsteady hand. "You want to make something of it, then? I’ll carve you up, just like I’m gonna carve her up if she doesn’t listen."

Silco’s gaze never wavered. He was calm, cold, the eye of the storm. There was no fear in him, only a sense of inevitability. Without a word, he reached for the concealed knife tucked in his belt. The men barely had time to register the movement before he had it in his hand, its cold steel glinting in the lantern light.

"Put the knife down," Silco said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife itself.

The second man, realising the situation had shifted, took a step back, his face contorted in confusion. But the first man—still gripped by his own desperation and pride—didn’t relent. He raised the blade, aiming to strike.

Silco stepped forward, his movements swift and fluid. His knife flicked in the air, and the man with the blade froze, his hand trembling.

"Now," Silco’s voice rang out like thunder.

The man’s resolve broke, and with a muttered curse, he dropped the knife to the floor. His hands raised in surrender, and the second man, seeing the fight drain out of his ally, backed away as well.

Silco didn’t need to say more. He watched as they stumbled towards the door, muttering under their breath, eager to escape the presence of the one man in Zaun they feared.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Silco turned back to her. He noticed the damage immediately—the rip along the seam of his coat where one of the men had caught it in the scuffle. A small tear, but enough to catch his eye.

Before he could brush it off, she was already moving toward him. Her gaze was focused, and without a word, she was inspecting the tear. The flickering lanterns cast a soft glow on her features, her expression filled with concentration as she ran her fingers over the fabric.

"You’re going to want to get that fixed," she said, her tone both calm and concerned. "Let me—"

"I’m fine," Silco interrupted, his voice terse, though he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the care in her words. "It’s just a small tear."

She barely looked up, already beginning to gather her tools. "It’s a shame," she muttered, her hands moving quickly to pull a needle and thread from her kit. "The fabric’s too nice to let it go to waste."

Silco raised an eyebrow at her, bemused by her reaction. Most people would have been intimidated, maybe even scared, at the thought of trying to repair the coat of someone like him. But here she was, entirely unfazed, focused on restoring something that was clearly important to him.

"I’m not sure you understand, this coat isn’t just a coat," he said, his voice softening slightly. "It’s… important."

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes with that same steady intensity. "I understand," she said simply, before returning to the task at hand. "I’ll make sure it’s good as new. It’ll be even better once I’ve finished."

Her certainty was palpable, and it settled over him like a weight. Silco felt something stir within him—something unfamiliar and quiet. He hadn’t expected to be here, hadn’t planned on staying this long. Yet, in this quiet moment, with her focused on repairing his coat, he realised he didn’t mind at all.

Maybe this was where he belonged, at least for now. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to stay a little longer.

[sacrilegesummer]

Wet, Hot, American Nights - Part 1

Heat of the Moment

summary: Steve thinks summer camp is terrible until a conversation that sparks a new found appreciation for all that camp can do for a person, and maybe he'll even make a friend out of it. warnings: underage drinking, future smut (maybe idk monkey covering eyes emoji), bad writing :p a/n: I am VERY nervous pls be kind this is the first time I have ever posted ANYTHING i've written (at my big age). I am really trying to not describe the reader in any way besides age and gender, but if there's something written that feels like projecting a certain look, pls lmk and I will edit/fix it for the future:)

word count: 4.5k

Camp Elk Heart was your home. You knew the layout of Elk Heart like it was the back of your hand. Every turn, every dip in the path, every root and stone, your body had grown accustomed to the trails like it was a part of you. It was a beautiful Friday evening, no clouds, hot but not too humid, and a rare silence was set over the camp grounds. After cleaning all of camp, a brutal time consuming task that was always the bane of everyone’s Friday, you took a well deserved shower. Scrubbing for nearly thirty minutes at your scalp to alleviate all the dirt and sand that kicked up throughout the busy day and cleaning your face to wash away the marks from teary eyed goodbyes to your campers. You changed into a tank top and a pair of sweatpants and as you went to put your shoes back on, you realized you left your sandals in the dining hall. Stepping out of the bathhouse and on to the trail, you grimace as you glance down at your once clean and bright pink shower shoes now dirty, with gravel stuck in the holes after only a few steps.You began to walk a little quicker to the dining hall.

As you walked you admired the land camp occupied. The pines that grew as tall as cathedrals, the lagoon that in its stillness reflected the sky in between large patches of water lilies, and the look of the freshly painted cabins settled in the trees. You came to camp a few weeks early to help with that task, and you took pride in your work. Camp had given you so much, you would do anything to keep in good shape, both internally and externally. You saw a head of hair through the window as you approached the dining hall, not giving it much more thought as you ripped the heavy door open. 

The AC was emitting a terrible grinding noise as you walked into the dining hall, but you were still absolutely sweating despite the pitiful movement coming from the machine. You thought of the last few things you needed before heading home for the weekend. Making a list in your head, dirty laundry, sandals, swimsuit, repeating so you wouldn't forget. Nearly every weekend someone hosted the whole camp for a couple nights. And this week, it was your turn to offer up your house to your friends and co-counselors for the weekend. After this week in the heat, everyone could use a break. A fun, alcohol fueled break. 

You walked briskly into the break room collecting your well worn pair of sandals from your cubby. You noticed your coworker, Steve Harrington, sitting on the couch, clearly not packed or ready to go, he might have even been pouting, you couldn’t tell. You were going to just keep walking, but instead you whipped around and smiled at him.

“Hey! Are you coming tonight?” 

Steve looked up from his Game Boy, the sounds of Super Mario playing gently from the small device in his hands. He looked surprised. 

“Oh, uh, is there something going on tonight?” Steve questions, sounding a little irritated. 

“Yeah! I put it on the Staff board a couple days ago,” you said, acting a little too happy and kindly gesturing towards the note that clearly said ‘MY HOUSE, THIS WEEKEND’ with your address listed below. 

“I’m hosting the party this weekend. Bring beer and a sleeping bag. My dad has a tent set up. You can probably ride with Robin if you ask nicely” you grinned at him. 

Steve first tilted his head towards the board and his face grew red, then he nodded and said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

You give him a nod back and swiftly turn around, continuing the walk back to your cabin. Steve was…odd. He seemed very charming and friendly, but the only person he ever talked with was Robin, to everyone else he was distant and aloof. Despite this being her first summer as a counselor, Robin had been attending Elk Heart almost as long as you have. Coming to camp for the first time at 8 years old, you completely fell in love with the place. Robin had started going several years later but as campers you became fast friends, growing even closer this summer as counselors.

This was your first summer back since you were 17, and now, at 22, you felt prehistoric compared to the fresh faced 18 and 19 year olds. Steve was the next oldest person after you and Torres, the Northside Director, but Steve was one of the few staff who had never come to camp before. You had sympathy for him, coming to a camp where everyone knew each other and had their friends… that’s a hard barrier to break through. Secretly though, you think the reason Steve only talks to Robin is because he thinks he’s too good for the place, and she just happens to naturally be incredibly cool. You’d heard him complaining about the short breaks despite working 6 days a week, the exhaustion that came with camp life and the lack of ‘babes’ at camp one day. That left a sour taste in your mouth. 

You shook your head from these thoughts, maybe he’s just shy and the shared trauma of being Co’s the first week brought them close. He’s probably not the jerk you’re making him out to be. You entered your cabin and began to stuff your clothes into your duffle bag. Toiletries, towels, dirty laundry, swimsuit… you put your sandals back on your feet and ditched your shower shoes. The one strap sandal was ugly, but functional! You took a second to admire your tan lines, even more obvious now that you’ve scrubbed your feet of all the sand, dirt, and mud that accumulates in a singular day. You completely adored being outside, and the starkness of the tan lines felt like a status symbol. 

A car horn interrupts your thoughts and you hear your friend and fellow counselor, Eddie, scream from his beat up van, “Hurry up Sunshine! Gotta try an’ beat the sunset!” You continued to stuff all the things you needed, triple checking mentally and praying you didn’t leave anything behind. It was only a weekend, but you hated being unprepared. Turning all the lights in the cabin off, you jog out to Eddie’s van.

“I’m here, I’m here!” you shout over the music blasting from the radio. You crack open the door and settle yourself on the worn in passenger seat and chuck your bag into the laps of Torres, Nancy, and Jonathon, all stuffed into the backseat. “Can you toss that in back for me please?” you give the three of them a sweet look and smile. Torres flashes you a sparkling smile and tosses it behind him. 

“You were supposed to meet us at the dining hall! Had to track you down,” he laughed as he grabbed your shoulder playfully. 

“You know how I am,” you roll your eyes playfully. “Had to get some last minute things and thank you for saving me the front seat! Do you know who's all coming?”

Nancy picks up her little pen and paper and begins to read off the list she very generously created to keep track for you, “Robin is driving half of Southside, the other half is driving with Mae, Argyle is bringing all of the people on Northside who are going but Cabin 2, 14, and 4 can’t make it this weekend, so… most of Boys side. I mean Northside.” she rambled.

“Okay, but most of the camp is coming, so that’s great. The tents’ big, but they're not that big!” you laughed and then held your tongue for a moment, “Do you know if Steve is coming?”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t said anything to me. Do you think he got the invite?”

“Yeah, no, I just invited him in when I saw him in the Nor’wester room. Told him to talk to Robin,” I said, trailing off. “I just don’t want him to think I’m like- excluding him or something you know?” I blurted out, looking back at Nancy in the back seat and then at Eddie, sounding a little desperate. 

“I’m sure he’s fine, his ego can take the hit,” Eddie said, passing you his cigarette. As you accept, he asks, “Should I stop at the Junction gas station or wait until we’re closer?”

“Closer, we can get ice at the closer station too”

Eddie smiles and turns the music up even more as you crank his window down, letting the wind whip your hair and cool yourself down, excited for the night but desperately needing a small moment to yourself. 

___

The party is in full swing, bonfire roaring, red solo cups and stomachs full, thanks to your mom’s huge feast. You settled on some light beer and mixed vodka drinks for the night, ‘the full spectrum’, Eddie joked earlier. Filling another cup with a shot or two of cheap vodka and cranberry juice, you walked over to your seat by the bonfire, next to Torres.

“Enjoying the night?” he asked as you sat down, the fire flickering on his smiling face. Torres was one of our international staff members, but you couldn’t wrap your head around the fact he came all the way from Gudalajara to Elkhart, Indiana of ALL places.

“Of course! Are you?” you asked him, leaning close. At the beginning of the summer you harbored a bit of a crush on the man. How could you not! He was handsome and fit and very affectionate, but after a… pretty intense weekend at Mae’s parents house, you both decided to remain friends. Besides, camp relationships hardly ever worked out, it was like incest. Campcest. And you valued his friendship too much to ever ruin that.

“Yeah it’s great, your parents were so kind to do all of this, we’re not an easy crowd to handle you know,” and he wiggled his eyebrows a little and you giggled. 

“I know, Eddie’s already broken one of my mom’s chairs. He begged for forgiveness and promised to repay her but nothing will change the fact that he’s an idiot,” you rolled your eyes. 

Torres laughed at that, and a comfortable silence fell over the two of you. After a distant yell, your friend Patty came over, grabbing on to Torres’s arm, “Torres, you have to be my partner in pong. I will totally suffer without you,” she flirted, looking at him expectantly. Patty was beautiful, tall and thin, with long black hair and the most striking blue eyes you’ve ever seen. You didn’t mind that she liked him, just because you think of it as incest doesn’t mean everyone thinks that way. Besides, they were both close friends of yours, you only wanted them to be happy. 

“Of course pretty girl,” he smiled as he got up, shooting you a wink. You winked back and took another sip of your very strong drink. You stared into the fire for a moment thinking you were alone, appreciating the moment of solitude. You loved hosting but you could only be a social butterfly for so long before you grew exhausted. When you raised your head to look around, Steve was a few plastic chairs away,  already looking at you. He quickly looked away, thankful for the fire to hide his blushing face. You stood up from your chair and walked carefully over to him, being sure not to seem too drunk. Plopping down into the plastic chair next to him you smiled. 

“How are you doing Steve?” you asked him. It was weird. Normally you both were the life of the party. Dancing on table tops, getting kicked out of bars, and trying to beat each other in a shotgun race (your special trick was flashy, but not very effective in a race so he usually won). Tonight though, you were much calmer due to a pretty tiring, hot week with some of your toughest (and most rewarding) campers. 

“I’m good, just a little tired,” he smiled and took a sip out of his water bottle. 

“Me too,” you glanced down at his water bottle, “No drinks tonight? ” you said, faking surprise.

He shook his head and laughed a little, “I promised Robin I would bring her back in the morning and I really don't want to do that hungover. I've had a couple beers though, don’t worry. I’m in a…good spot for now.” He leaned up and to his left, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a pack of Newports. He sat back and lit one, taking a small drag, he offered it to you, raising his eyebrows. You reached out and imitated him, taking the tiniest inhale. 

“Well, that’s good. Just want to make sure you’re having a good time,” I said very earnestly. A beat of silence. I really don’t know anything about him you thought, disappointed in yourself. Sitting here, realizing you’ve never even been this physically close to him, you felt this deep urge to keep talking to him. Get to know him. Maybe make a friend. 

“Is it weird?” you asked a bit abruptly, passing back his cigarette, “Like, this kind of culture? You’ve never worked at camps before, right?”

“Yeah I mean, it's not what I imagined,” he grimaced a little, “but it’s been alright. I like being able to get tan while lifeguarding,” he said, squishing his face in distaste and taking another drag. “Everyone’s nice…really nice! I don’t know, I just kinda feel different from everyone,” he said slowly, his eyes raking over you in a way that you assume was very unintentional. 

Suddenly, one of your favorite outfits became a source of insecurity. It was simple, but maybe a little too colorful for something so casual. Your shorts were second hand, a light purple pair of quick dry shorts and your sweatshirt was an almost headache inducing pattern of pink, yellow, brown, and purple, but it was your favorite, and the only Patagonia thing you’ve ever purchased. It was expensive, but you were just so drawn to it you had to get. Now, you’re wondering if the bright pattern was off putting to others. You loved how you looked, you thought it screamed ‘camp counselor’ but now you’re wondering if it's just screaming ‘i’m weird - look at me I love attention!!!’. You looked around for a moment. 

“What do you mean? You don’t totally love kids wetting the bed, showering only twice a week, and 6 days of straight 100 degree heat or only pouring rain?” I said, wanting to get my mind off my own insecurities, realizing I was probably overreacting. It seemed malicious though, especially considering every single day he wore jean shorts or an expensive pair of brown hiking pants, while rotating the same few, plain shirts. 

“Yeah, not exactly my thing,” he said, taking another sip. “Do you go to school?” he asked, not looking entirely genuine, you thought maybe he felt obligated to talk to the host of the party. 

“Yeah! Should have graduated last May, but I’ll be done next semester,” You said, feeling a bit ashamed but hoping your face didn’t betray you. Suddenly, a loud cheer exploded from the pong table. Looking behind you, the game looked neck and neck, Torres and Patty having two cups and Nancy and Jonathon having three left. It was obvious Jonathon had no idea what he was doing and Nancy was making all the shots, but still, they were quite cute. You hoped they would last, summer romances were hard to translate into the real world. 

“Really? Why?” he asked, looking entirely shocked, drawing your attention back from the game of pong, “You’re literally the smartest person I know. Are you studying a million things at once?”

“Please, I am not the smartest person you know, you hardly know me,” you shook your head vigorously, “just, you know…do you go to school?” you pivoted, desperate to get yourself out of the spotlight. 

Catching the hint, he nods, “Yeah starting my first year at Indiana,” he said, sounding just as ashamed as you did. “I feel like a… like a weirdo, going to college so late but I didn’t have the grades for the longest time and I honestly had no idea what I wanted to do. Still don’t,” he said, running a hand through his hair. 

“That’s not weird at all. That’s honestly really smart. I really wish I did that. That’s why I’m taking an extra semester. I was so stuck on keeping everyone happy and wanting to make my parents proud that I studied a totally soulless profession that I don’t even care about,” you rambled, surprising yourself with the vulnerability. You don’t even know him, why are you word vomiting so hard right now?

“I wish I had taken a year or two to figure out what I want to do, not what my family wants, not what's expected of me,” you finished, not making eye contact with Steve. 

“What do you want to do?” Steve asked, sounding genuinely interested. 

“I want to teach,” you grinned just thinking about it, “I just love working with kids so much. Not to sound super mushy but… camp has changed my life, it basically saved my life, and it’s made me realize that these relationships are the ones I will cherish forever. The trust you build with your campers is a connection unlike any other and watching them grow in the short time we have them…it’s more rewarding than anything else. I want to do that forever. Camp is so unlike anything I’ve ever done,” you looked over at Steve as you spoke, his eyes were wide and he had a small smile on his face. 

Steve leaned forward a bit, “What do you mean camp changed your life?”

Now was the moment to decide just how vulnerable you wanted to be with Steve. Maybe you just really needed to talk about your feelings or maybe he was just, really easy to talk to. You took a breath, “I came back to camp because I was really unhappy. My major was totally depressing me because I hated the work so much. Coming here really set me on a good direction for life. I was doing things and hanging around people who were bad for me. Being back here makes me realize I don’t need to do those things for friends. Or to be cool. I’m cool without all that other bullshit. You think I’m cool right?” you said, grinning and attempting to relieve the tension of your admission.

“Oh definitely,” he grinned, “all the coolest people I know wear full monochrome outfits on a random Tuesday, start rap battles with condiment bottles, and wear garbage bag ponchos, just so one of your campers wouldn’t feel embarrassed,” Steve laughed as he thought of you this past week, garbage bag poncho over green socks, green shirt, and green pants. He’s not even sure if you’re aware you do that, “I’ve never seen anyone pull off those things like you do. You’ll be a great teacher,” he said genuinely and then took a shallow breath, “My parents told me they’d kill me if I ever became a teacher, so that’s really admirable.”

“What? Why?” you said, still reeling a little from what Steve said. You didn’t think anyone even noticed those things about you, much less Steve, someone you’ve hardly spoken with this entire time. 

“Because it doesn’t make any money,” he looked away, “My parents…my dad… have these sky high expectations for me. I don’t even really know him. He's been pressuring me for years to go to college, study business or something ‘useful’, meet a girl, get married, and all that bullshit,” he spat out, “But it never felt right. I guess that’s kind of why I’m here. Trying something new, trying to find myself, a little,” he said, getting quieter and then, “I don’t think my parents even like me. They’ve never said it but I’m pretty sure they think I’m a failure. My entire life they’ve pushed this- this agenda on me while being states away, working, constantly. Hard to parent when you’re halfway across the country and forget to call,” he said, staring into the fire and taking an aggressive drink of his water, probably wishing it was something stronger. 

You were quiet for a moment and spared a glance into your parents house. Your parents were wonderful, but you were the first of your family to ever go to college and they had no idea the pressure they were putting on you. Your parents were constantly working while growing up so they could provide you the opportunity to go to college. But still, you feel like you hardly know them, “I get that,” you said slowly, “My parents love me, but they don’t know me. They’re so afraid of me becoming like them they tried to force me to become a- a lawyer,” your face twisted at the thought of it, “because all the best lawyers let kids dye their hair blue with Kool-Aid.” You laughed, looking at Steve from the corner of your eye. You felt so comfortable sharing these things with him, but you’re not too sure why. You’re not even friends. Maybe it was the firelight or his big, brown eyes enticing you to spill your guts. Maybe you were just drunk. 

“You’re not a failure, by the way,” you said gently, Steve was still looking at the fire. “I think you did it the smart way,, the right way, if there's even such a thing. Whatever you decide to do you’ll be great at it, but don’t do what I did. Don’t try to study something your heart is truly not invested in, that’s how you fail classes, flunk out.” you said, knowingly.

He smiled bitterly, “I guess we’re two sides of the same coin huh?” but the bitterness melted into a real smile as he looked at you. 

“Yeah,” you said, reaching out to grab his hand gently, “you know, I go to Indiana too. If you want, when you get there, I can show you the ropes. All the best routes, best places to eat, good professors, all that stuff.” you spoke, hoping to not sound too eager. 

“Really? Would you?” He raised his eyebrows, holding your hand tighter.

“Of course Harrington, I love taking a little freshman under my wings,” I winked at him. 

“I am not little,” Steve said leaning in a little more, he looked like he wanted to stay more but then-

“Come on Sunshine, can’t sit by the fire all night! You’re my pong partner!” Eddie yelled from the table, “We play winners,” he gestured to Nancy and Jonathon, who were looking between you and Steve, and your hands held together. 

You abruptly pulled your hand out from his and practically jumped out of your seat. “Don’t have to ask me twice!” and quickly walked over to Eddie’s side. He tossed his arm over your shoulder and you snuck a glance at Steve. Steve was looking at the ground and gave a curt nod to no one in particular, and spun back around to stare into the fire. You felt sick to your stomach for a moment, regretting leaving the warmth of the fire, the warmth of his… 

You blinked hard and looked up at Eddie, who was holding out the other pong ball, “You ready to play?”

___

The sun shone through the windows of the tent you and your coworkers slept in that night, sleeping bags squished together, head to toe and stuffed like sardines. The room was hot with the morning sun beating down, the down in your sleeping bag doing its job, and the heat of a dozen young adults in one room combined with your own hangover was making you nauseous. As quietly as you could manage, you stumbled out of the tent. Immediately, you notice in your driveway that Robin’s car is gone. You glance back in the tent and see most of Southside is gone including Steve. You ignored the slight drop in your heart when you realized he was gone. It wasn’t even 8 am, Robin really needed to get back I guess. You wished you could have spoken to Steve a little more. It was so…refreshing to speak to someone so freely, without judgement. Or was that all in your head, spurred on by the drinks in your hand? You couldn’t be sure anymore, the memory of last night becoming a bit hazy after leaving Steve by the fire. 

You padded across your front lawn barefoot (where were your sandals?) into your parents house. Expecting a morning full of cleaning, you were shocked at the site of your parents home. The destruction of last night was stuffed into garbage bags, plates were in the dishwasher, and your couch, with a million different pillows and blankets, was straightened up. You gasped, seeing how clean it was, and making a mental note to thank whoever did this. You double checked that everything was clean and started up the dishwasher. You walked into your childhood bedroom and coat room to organize everyone’s things to make their departure a little easier and reduce the chances of someone leaving their things. As you entered you saw a note on your bed, scrawled quickly in the glitter pen that sat on your desk. It read:

Thanks for the party. I’m really glad we talked. It meant a lot. Hope I put everything away in the right spot -Steve

You put your hand flew to cover your mouth. How… kind of him. You figured maybe Robin or Patty had cleaned up, but Steve? You’ve seen him clean on Fridays; your first week you had to show him how to hold a broom and mop properly. There was no way he did this on his own. 

You thought back on your conversation last night, forcing your brain to conjure back up the moment, regardless of the headache that was forming. You thought of the warmth of the bonfire and the callous feel of his finger tips, and the genuine look in his eyes when he called you ‘the coolest’. A giddy feeling entered your body, a new friend! Especially to make a friend with someone as standoffish as Steve, this felt like quite the accomplishment. You vowed to seek him out this weekend before camp starts and thank him. Your excitement grew over the prospect of being able to build and share memories with another person, your chest beating quickly just thinking about it. You wondered what traditions he knew of and which ones he didn't. Like, has he ever stargazed on the roof of the Nature Center? Swam to the water trampoline and spend the night? You put the note in your pajama pocket, your face growing warm at the thought of hanging out with Steve. You practically skipped out of your house and began to count down the hours until you were back at camp again. 

[gxr25256]

The Ruins of Earth - Seekers x reader

🌵 Tranformers (Post-Apocalyptic AU).

🌵 The Decepticons have conquered Earth, leaving humanity in ruins.

🌵I'll try this for a bit. Remember: I'm not very good at it 👀.

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The sky was a smudged gray, casting a cold, washed-out light over what remained of the city. Buildings stood like jagged tombstones, their edges crumbling, splintered, and silent. Some days, the wind would send a loose piece of metal skittering down the cracked roads or rattle the empty cars left to rust. Otherwise, everything was still.

Below the surface, in the belly of a half-fallen office building, you crouched among scattered papers, their edges yellowed, flaked, and cracked from dust. The basement was littered with remnants of a world you barely recognized anymore. You had been lucky enough to find this hideout after wandering the ruined streets, and here you had managed to carve out some semblance of a life.

The ceiling is cracked, tangled with exposed electrical wires, and the single window on the far wall had long since shattered. Every now and then, a patch of sunlight filtered through, glinting off dust motes that swirled lazily in the stale air. It reminded you of better times—a stark, painful reminder of a past life that felt both close and impossibly far away.

You settled down on the cold concrete, setting your pack beside you. Inside were your treasures: a faded family photograph, a pocket watch, and a collection of scraps—small things you’d managed to scavenge that had kept you going. Some days, you’d sift through these items, each one tugging you back to memories that hurt as much as they comforted.

You stared down at the photo, feeling a pang in your chest. It was taken on a summer evening just a few months before they had come, when you and your family had still gathered in the garden to laugh and share stories under the stars. You remembered the warmth of your father’s arm around you, the way your mother had laughed, and how the smallest things—a shared meal, a joke, a sunset—had seemed so ordinary back then. Now, those were the moments you clung to like lifelines.

But here, in the darkened shell of a building, they were ghosts that haunted you. The faces stared up at you from the photo, as if asking, How much longer?

You didn’t know how to answer. Each day felt like a small miracle that you were still alive. They had laid waste to everything, turning cities into rubble, hunting down humans with a relentless efficiency. Survival required caution, silence, and instinct. Your hideout, tucked in a labyrinthine part of the city, had been a haven so far. But each passing day felt like playing a game of Russian roulette, and you knew that eventually, luck would run out.

The floor creaked—a sound you’d grown used to, but still one that made your muscles tense instinctively. Any sound outside the room was dangerous. You rose, carefully checking the faint tripwire traps you’d set by the entrances, crude but effective. Your heart thudded faster at the thought of one snapping. If it did, it would mean they were close.

They. The Decepticons. Machines built for one purpose: total, merciless domination. You shuddered as your mind dredged up flashes of their patrols: enormous metal bodies moving with purpose through the streets, the deadly glow of their optics as they scanned the ruins for any sign of life. You’d watched from hiding as they tore through buildings, shredding walls like paper. They were ruthless in their search for survivors, sparing nothing and no one.

They didn’t just kill; they hunted. The knowledge of that, of being part of a vanishing species in the face of such a brutal enemy, wrapped around you like a cold, crushing weight.

The wind howled outside, sending a shiver through you. You’d learned to navigate the city’s ruinous maze, moving with the shadows, slipping through alleyways, always watching your back. But every day, the Decepticons seemed to draw closer, tightening the noose with their relentless patrols.

The last human you’d spoken to was a scavenger named Mira. She’d been tough, gritty, with a quiet intensity that had made you think she could survive anything. She’d warned you about the Decepticons’ latest tactics, their setting traps to lure out survivors, their growing patrols in this area of the city. But that had been weeks ago. You hadn’t seen her since. Her face lingered in your mind as yet another ghost.

The hum of an airplane engine broke the silence, sending a jolt of adrenaline through you. You froze, every sense heightened, listening intently. It was distant—likely a patrol passing through the streets above—but even so, the familiarity of it triggered an instinctive wave of fear. You’d heard that sound too many times. Each instance had ended with a building being leveled or a life snuffed out.

Your heart pounded as you crouched low, moving silently through the office wall to peek through the cracked window. Outside, the city lay in shattered silence, but a faint glimmer of metal caught your eye, just visible through the haze. A Decepticon, its massive form standing out from anything else around the ruins. It moved methodically, its gaze sweeping the rubble as if it could sniff out human life in the air itself.

You crawled away from the window, slipping back into the shadows of the room, praying that the dim light and debris would keep you hidden. Your heartbeat roared in your ears as you crouched, body tense, waiting. Minutes stretched on, stretching into an eternity as you listened for any hint that the Decepticon had moved on.

But the silence persisted, thick and oppressive. Part of you wanted to risk a glance, but your instincts screamed otherwise. That was the problem now; you’d lived in silence for so long that sometimes, even the slightest noise felt like a gunshot. Every step, every creak, every breath seemed like it could betray you.

As you tried to steady your breathing, your gaze drifted to a pile of old papers strewn across the floor. One caught your eye—a page from an old newspaper, yellowed and faded. The headline read, Hope for Tomorrow: Humanity’s Technological Golden Age. You almost laughed at the bitter irony. The hope they’d once touted had been torn away, replaced by cold metal giants who knew nothing of mercy or compassion.

A loud clang from outside startled you, pulling you back to the present with a fearful jolt. You remained still, barely daring to breathe. The footsteps outside were getting louder, a heavy, ominous rhythm. You recognized the sound: The unmistakable footsteps of the Decepticons, its weight causing the building to shudder faintly. They were close—too close.

The footsteps paused, and your heart seemed to stop with them. The faint hum of machinery echoed down, accompanied by the cold, mechanical sound of a voice you couldn’t quite make out. Your mind raced, considering your options. Running wasn’t possible; any movement risked drawing their attention. And yet, staying still felt like sitting in a cage, waiting for the predator to find you.

The Decepticon’s steps resumed, slower this time, each one punctuated by a metallic creak that reverberated through the building.

And the footsteps halted again, this time right on the other side of the wall you're leaning against, and you froze, body taut with fear. The building groaned under the heavy weight of machinery, dust drifting down in fine particles that tickled your face.The walls around you seemed to close in, your hiding place shrinking as the footsteps grew louder, closer. As if the Decepticon was zeroing in on your location, as if it were playing with your fears.

Then, with a metallic clang, you heard the Decepticon move again. Just when you thought the danger had passed, a deafening explosion ripped through the building, and the entire roof blew off with a force that sent you sprawling. A cry escaped your lips as you hit the ground, pain radiating through you.

Gasping, you struggled to your feet, but as you looked up, a chill gripped your heart. Through the swirling dust and debris, a pair of red optics glowed, locked directly onto you. Fear surged through your veins, and before you could even think, a scream tore from your throat.

Maybe your luck has run out.

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[cherrynflowergarden]

Hello fellow desi motorsports fan🫰🏼

I want to send an ask for carlos Sainz on love fair (angst)

Carlos with a desi supermodel reader wife. They are going through a rough patch but something drastic happens and they almost part but he has a clearance and tries to win her back (does so after a lot of begging)

જ⁀➴ fractured frames || carlos sainz

an; hii fellow motorsport fan thank you so much for participating my love!!! i hope i did justice to the request :3

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carlos stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, gazing at the skyline. the city lights blurred into a puzzle of chaos, much like his thoughts. his phone lay face-down on the marble counter, unanswered messages piling up. on the screen, her name glowed persistently. the love of his life. his wife. the woman he was on the verge of losing.

their once-vivid love story now felt like a fading photograph. he couldn’t pinpoint the moment it started to unravel—was it her endless photoshoots and runway shows or his late nights at the studio? their careers, once their greatest pride, had turned into an invisible barrier neither could breach. words turned to silence, and silence became a chasm.

the final blow had come weeks ago at a gala they attended together. carlos had hoped it would be a rare moment to reconnect. he watched from the sidelines as she floated through the crowd, dazzling in a gold saree that shimmered with every movement. cameras adored her, fans swarmed her, and carlos—despite being by her side—felt like a ghost in her world.

the argument that night was explosive. and destructive.

“you don’t care about us anymore!” carlos had snapped, voice sharp with frustration.

“and you think i don’t see how distant you’ve been, carlos? you bury yourself in work to avoid facing us!” she shot back.

harsh words were said and it ended with her walking out, tears streaming down her face. the door slammed shut, echoing the silence he dreaded.

she moved back to her parents’ house shortly after, leaving carlos alone in their shared home. their marriage, once brimming with laughter, had reduced to strained texts and awkward silences during mandatory public appearances. the thought of divorce loomed unspoken but heavy between them.

on one rainy and gloomy evening, carlos received a call that sent his world into a tailspin.

“mr. sainz, there’s been an accident.”

the words hit him like a punch. she had been on her way to a fashion shoot when her car skidded on the wet roads, colliding with a truck. carlos barely heard the rest of the details as he raced to the hospital.

seeing her there—bruised, unconscious, hooked to machine tore him apart. he dropped into the chair beside her bed, gripping her hand, tears streaming down his face.

“i’m so sorry, mi vida. i never should’ve let us get here. please… wake up. i need you.” his voice cracked, the weight of his guilt suffocating him.

she woke up a few hours later, groggy but alive. her first word was his name.

he leaned closer, his heart leaping at the sound. “i’m here, mi vida. i’m not leaving.”

the accident became a turning point. while her injuries weren’t life-threatening, they required weeks of rest and recovery. he stayed by her side, tending to her needs, refusing to leave even when she insisted.

in those quiet moments—no cameras, no public personas—they found fragments of what they had lost. he read to her from her favorite novels, brought her masala chai just the way she liked it.

carlos refused to let her slip away without a fight. he knew grand gestures wouldn’t fix the cracks in their marriage, so he focused on the little things—the ways he had once shown his love for her before life got in the way. he started with handwritten notes, each one a reminder of their happiest moments. he tucked them into her bags, sent them with her morning chai, and even left one at her favorite café, where they’d spent countless evenings laughing together.

carlos made sure to support her in the ways she needed most. he showed up to her fashion shoots unannounced, quietly cheering her on from the sidelines, and sent her playlists of songs that spoke of longing, love, and hope. on her toughest days, he didn’t push her but made his presence known, offering her the comfort of silence if that’s all she needed. he wanted her to feel what he had failed to show in recent months—that she was always his priority.

“i was an idiot, jaan. i let my ego and work come before us. i see that now.”

“it wasn’t just you,” she admitted softly. “i didn’t make space for you in my world either. i was so caught up in being ‘the supermodel’ that i forgot to be your wife.”

“i’m not giving up on us,” he whispered one night as she sat on her parents’ terrace, gazing at the stars. “even if it takes years, i’ll wait for you, mi vida. you’re worth every second.” his voice broke, but his determination didn’t falter, and for the first time, she let herself believe that he meant it.

it wasn’t a grand gesture that brought them back together but a quiet moment.

“i miss you,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. he pulled her into his arms, holding her as if she might disappear. “i’ll never let you feel alone again,” he vowed.

rebuilding wasn’t easy, but they took it one day at a time. they carved out space for each other amidst their chaotic lives, learning to communicate and prioritize their relationship.

their story wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs—messy, beautiful, and worth fighting for.

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